by Lynn Austin
“Then why are they all dead and I’m alive?”
“We may never know the reason until we get to heaven. But I’m certain that God isn’t punishing you for not wanting to take care of those children. Our heavenly Father isn’t like that.”
“He isn’t good and loving like people say He is, either. At least not to me.” The bitterness in her voice makes me cringe.
“Please give Him another chance to show you His love, Cornelia. Let Him show you that you’re wrong about what happened. And in the meantime, please don’t try to end your life again.”
A shudder rocks through her. “I’m tired of talking,” she says.
I swish my hand through the water to test the temperature. “Yes, your bathwater is growing cold. It’s time to get out.” I hand her the towel, and she stands to climb out. She is alarmingly thin.
When she’s dressed in clean clothes again, she comes into the front room where Anneke and I are talking and sits on my sofa. I bring her an extra shawl and another warm blanket, but her lips still have a bluish tinge to them. I pick up my tabby cat and place her on Cornelia’s lap.
“I’m going to ask you a question, Cornelia, and I would like you to think about the answer. If you could talk to your mama and papa right now, do you think they would wish you had died in the fire that night along with them? Or do you think they would be happy that you lived when everyone else was lost?” Cornelia closes her eyes as if the light in my front room is too painful to bear. I wait a moment, then say, “I know I would gladly give up my life if it meant that my children or grandchildren had a chance to live a long, full life.”
She opens her eyes again and begins stroking the cat, making him purr like a little motor. “I’m sorry Derk had to jump into the water for me. Will he be all right?”
“I’m sure he will be. He’s young and strong. But do you think he would have risked his life to jump in and save you if he didn’t believe that you were worth saving?”
“I’m sorry I ruined your visit with Anneke.” She looks over at Anneke, then quickly looks away.
“You didn’t ruin anything, lieveling.” I take Cornelia into my arms, but she doesn’t return my embrace.
“I think I’ll rest now,” she says, pulling free.
Anneke and I go into the kitchen, and I get out flour and eggs to mix up a batch of pannenkoeken for our supper. Tomorrow is Anneke’s last day with me, and we talk about what we would like to do together before she has to leave. I can tell she is worried about Cornelia and disturbed by what she witnessed. “Do you need to talk about what happened today, lieveling?” I ask her.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says. “Do you know why Cornelia did it, Oma?”
“I don’t know all of the reasons, and there’s not much I can say without betraying Cornelia’s confidence. But I’m very sorry she put you and Derk through that. It wasn’t fair of her to involve you. Even so, I’m glad you were there to rescue her.”
“Are you going to tell Derk the truth?”
“When the time is right, yes.” I recall Marinus’s plan for Cornelia to marry Derk, and I feel angry with the dominie all over again. As if marriage and a houseful of children would make all of Cornelia’s problems vanish. How little he understands her.
Later that night I lie in bed, trying to put all the pieces of Cornelia’s story together, and there is one piece that doesn’t seem to fit. Her grandfather called her rebellious and unruly, but nothing in Cornelia’s story confirms that. She is obviously angry with God, but she sat quietly beside me in church last Sunday. Marinus said they had to leave the Netherlands because of the gossip, but were people talking about her suicide attempt? How did they learn about it? And why didn’t she mention her first suicide attempt when she told me her story?
Marinus abandoned his calling as a minister to immigrate to America, and I wonder if he was trying to make amends for ignoring Cornelia’s grief and pain for so long. Yet if he’s trying to show his love to her now and convince her of God’s love, he certainly isn’t doing a very good job of it.
I can’t talk to him about any of this because then he’ll know that Cornelia broke her promise not to tell me about her past. But should I tell him what she tried to do today? He has a right to know that she is still thinking of killing herself. Yet I fear what his reaction may be. I’m alarmed that Cornelia sees death as the only way to end her pain and guilt.
I asked Cornelia to give God another chance, but I have no idea what part I should play in the process. I fall asleep praying for wisdom.
Chapter 14
Anna
Chicago, Illinois
Our carriage and driver are waiting for me at the train station in Chicago when I return. I’m weary from traveling, but at least some of my questions and concerns have been laid to rest after talking with Derk and Oma. Cornelia’s brush with death continues to haunt me.
“Thank you for understanding that I needed to get away for a few days,” I tell my mother. I find her sitting in our little morning room with our social calendar and a pile of correspondence spread out on the table in front of her. She has drawn the curtains closed, shutting out the sunlight on this lovely fall afternoon. “I’m ready to resume all my social engagements this week. Don’t we have a Literary Club meeting tomorrow? I was catching up on my reading for it on the train and—”
“Anna, sit down.” From the expression on Mother’s face, I can only assume that someone has died. My heartbeat throbs in my ears as I perch on the edge of a chair.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Some disturbing rumors are being circulated about you, and your hasty trip out of town has only added fuel to the fire.”
“What rumors? I haven’t done anything wrong. Whatever it is I’m being accused of has to be a lie.” I can’t remain seated as my anger rises. “Clarice and those other women started it, didn’t they? They’re being spiteful because I scolded them for gossiping.”
“The rumors aren’t about your behavior, Anna. The scandal is about your background.”
“My background?”
“It’s all over town that your mother was a harlot who gave birth to you in disgrace.”
“What?!”
“They say there is proof that her husband died a few years before you were born.”
I sink down on the chair again as my knees go weak. “But … but no one knows about that except me.”
Mother catches her breath. “The rumors are true?”
“Well, yes… . Jack Newell died in a railroad accident and probably isn’t my father. But how did everyone find out?”
“I tried to warn you not to dig up the past. I knew something like this would happen.” The color rises in Mother’s cheeks. She picks up an envelope to fan her face. I’ve rarely seen her this upset. “Mrs. Wilkinson is appalled, as she has every right to be.”
“But I didn’t tell anyone what I’d learned—not even you or William or Father.”
“Your father doesn’t know anything about the rumors, nor do I want him to find out. He has enough to worry about without this.”
“I don’t understand how this could have happened unless the Pinkerton agents told somebody.”
“If you could hire them, someone else could, too.”
“Who would be spiteful enough to do something like that?” As soon as I ask the question, I think of Clarice Beacham. William’s sister warned me that Clarice would do anything to win William back.
“What difference does it make where the story came from?” Mother asks. “Everyone has heard it by now, and the fact that we can’t deny it makes it even worse. The Wilkinsons were hoping we could disprove the rumors.”
“My mother was not a harlot!”
“Can you prove it?”
“No, but maybe if we rehired the detectives, they—”
“And let even more rumors out of Pandora’s Box? Absolutely not!”
I take a deep breath, struggling to calm myself. “Is William
angry with me? Is he calling off the engagement?”
“I haven’t talked to William. But his mother is demanding to know if there will be any more revelations that could taint his name, and this time she wants to hear it from you before the rest of society learns about it.”
“But I don’t know anything else! I did what you said and called off the search. And I never told a soul what I learned about Jack Newell’s death. I still don’t understand how someone found out about it.”
“You can explain that to Mrs. Wilkinson when she pays us a visit tomorrow. You need to apologize to her for stirring all this up. In the meantime, you and I will be staying home for the rest of the week until this blows over. Let’s hope people lose interest or that a better scandal comes along before it’s time to send out the wedding invitations.”
I go upstairs to my room, angry and frustrated and sick to my stomach. I wish I never had to see those other women again or attend another silly event with them. How small-minded of them to spend time and energy trying to ruin me when there are so many more important problems here in Chicago.
I do my best to offer my sincere apologies to William’s mother the next day, as Mother advised me to do. It feels like I’m apologizing for the circumstances of my birth, even though Mrs. Wilkinson must realize that I had no control over it. I tell her how sorry I am that I went against everyone’s advice and raked up the past. And that I’m sorry the news was leaked—even though I still can’t understand how it could have happened. Mrs. Wilkinson graciously accepts my apologies.
“Is William angry with me, too?” I dare to ask.
“You’ll have to discuss that with him, dear. But he agrees with me that the two of you shouldn’t be seen in public together until this blows over.”
I fight back tears. William should be over here consoling me and letting me weep on his shoulder after my reputation has been tarnished so unfairly. Even if my birth does turn out to be shameful, I have never behaved disgracefully. What do my birth parents’ actions have to do with me? They weren’t the people who raised me. If William truly loved me, he should be taking my side, standing up to Clarice and anyone else who would dare to spread gossip about me. Instead, he’s distancing himself from me as if his good image matters more to him than my feelings. I find myself hoping he does call off the wedding—that is, until I recall Father’s financial problems.
Once my apologies have been offered and accepted, Mrs. Wilkinson says, “We feel it would be best if everyone forgets that you’re adopted, Anna. It’s already unfortunate that so much information is known about your background—which is one of the reasons why most adoptions are kept secret. Since we would rather not remind everyone at your wedding about your circumstances, we won’t be inviting your birth mother’s family to attend.”
“But … but my grandmother—”
“We feel it would be best if she doesn’t come. It would be difficult to explain to everyone who she is and how you are related to her. Besides, from what I understand, she doesn’t have the means to buy a suitable gown for the occasion.”
I’m so stunned I can’t speak. Tears sting my eyes. They’re telling me I can’t share one of the most important events of my life with my dearest Oma?
“I agree with Mrs. Wilkinson,” Mother says. “You have allowed enough unsavory information to be leaked already.”
“But I didn’t—!”
“We can’t take a risk that your grandmother or any other relative will provide even more fodder for gossip.”
“Oma would never do that!” The two women exchange looks.
“Do those people in Michigan know how wealthy William is?” his mother asks.
“They don’t care about money.”
“Don’t be naïve, Anna. Anyone can be bought if the price is right.”
I don’t believe it for a moment, and I’m furious that they do. But what if William also believes it and refuses to allow me to see Oma after we’re married? Fear makes me desperate. “Listen, let me rehire the detectives to find out who my real father is. It’s possible that Mama remarried and that my birth was legitimate after all.”
“Absolutely not!” Mother says. “This ends here and now.”
“Who knows what else they might turn up?” Mrs. Wilkinson adds.
I can’t recall ever being angrier. I return to my room after Mrs. Wilkinson leaves, and I’m too furious to even weep. I pace the room, then pull off my shoes and throw them across the room at my wardrobe with all my might. I hear a knock on my door a moment later and fear it’s my mother. I don’t want to talk to her right now. When I don’t reply I hear a second knock.
“Miss Anna? It’s Lucy. I-I heard a noise and I wondered … is there anything you need?”
“No. Just go away.”
When I’ve calmed down enough to think clearly, I realize that the only way to resolve this mess so Oma will be welcome at my wedding is to clear Mama’s name. But I will have to find another way to do it besides rehiring the Pinkerton detectives. Could I search by myself? After all, I have nothing else to do all week, since I’m banished from society until the scandal blows over.
I retrieve all of the agents’ reports from my desk and pore over them for any details I might have missed, looking for a place to start. The reports raise more questions than they answer. According to the last one, Mama sued the railroad and was awarded a sum of money for her husband’s death. But how did she learn that Jack Newell had died if she was hiding from him? How did she know that she was entitled to compensation as his widow? And where did she find the legal help she needed for a lawsuit? Hull-House didn’t exist back then to help women like her. I study the report again and see that she was assisted by an attorney named James Blackwell. Might he have more information about Mama in his files and records?
The name Blackwell sounds familiar to me, and I recall that one of the wealthy young women in the Literary Club is named Florence Blackwell. I’m fairly certain that her father is a judge. Aren’t judges usually attorneys? If Florence’s mother is also a member of the club, I can find out what her father’s given name is. I rummage in another desk drawer for the club directory—and there it is. Her mother’s name is Mrs. James Blackwell. My heart skips a beat. Could he possibly be the same attorney who once helped my mother?
A small voice inside me tells me to let it go before I make everything worse. Florence Blackwell and her mother have surely heard the rumors about me by now, along with the rest of society. And how would I go about making an appointment to speak with Judge Blackwell? I put all the papers away and pick up my neglected Bible and try to read.
But I can’t let it go. If I can find out which wealthy family Mama went to work for after she left the boardinghouse, maybe one of the servants there will know if she ever remarried. That’s when I remember that Mrs. Marusak from the boardinghouse mentioned her niece—what was her name? I dig in my drawer again and find the paper Mrs. Marusak gave me with the name and address of her niece, Vera. I need to pay her a visit. She might know if Mama was pregnant with me at the time she left her husband, and then we could prove that Jack really was my father. Perhaps I’m older than everyone thought. Vera’s address is in Chicago, but I have no idea where her street is located. I’ll ask our driver to take me there tomorrow. Or perhaps I should take public transportation to avoid being recognized and stirring up even more gossip. I’m hesitant to go by myself, yet I don’t want to involve the Pinkertons again. Could I ask one of our servants to accompany me? A very discreet servant?
I will be disobeying Mother’s orders if I start digging for the truth again, but I need to clear Mama’s name and salvage my reputation. I close my eyes and whisper a prayer, then ring the bell to summon Lucy.
“Do you know your way around the city?” I ask her after closing my bedroom door behind her. Her eyes go wide as if I’m locking her in jail.
“Most parts of it. Yes.”
“And do you know how to use the public streetcars?”
�
��Yes … I guess so.”
“Would you be able to help me find my way to this address tomorrow?” I show her the paper, and she studies it for a moment before nodding.
“I think so.”
“Good. I could use your help. But you can’t tell anyone—especially my mother.”
We leave through the rear servants’ door the following afternoon while Mother is resting. She is so distressed over this scandal that she is eating and sleeping poorly. I hope to discover some good news today for her sake. Lucy lets me borrow a shawl so I won’t look too conspicuous, and we ride a streetcar and then a train. Mrs. Marusak’s niece, Vera, lives in a working-class neighborhood near the stockyards. The air reeks of manure, and I can hear the distant lowing of cattle. Vera’s apartment is above a saloon, but we find her in the basement scrubbing laundry. She is a frowsy-looking woman in her early forties who might have been pretty at one time. I’m surprised to realize that Mama would be about the same age if she had lived. Vera’s fading brown hair spills from beneath her kerchief, and the front of her apron is damp and stained. She tells me that her husband manages the saloon and that she sometimes works there, too.
“Would you be willing to answer a few questions about my mother, Christina de Jonge Newell?” I ask her.
“As long as we can talk right here,” she replies. “I need to get this laundry washed and hung up to dry, and it’s already late in the day.”
“Yes, of course.” I pull Lucy’s shawl a little tighter around my shoulders. The basement is damp and cold and smells of lye soap and bluing. There is no place to sit down.
“Christina and I were good friends, right from the start,” Vera begins. “You resemble her, you know. She had the most beautiful golden hair I’ve ever seen. Like yours.”
“Is there any chance that she was expecting me when you met her?”
“No.” Vera snorts as if my question is ridiculous. I glance at Lucy, wishing she wasn’t overhearing this. “Christina had just left her bum of a husband and was hiding from him. I helped her get a job in the same place I worked, and we shared an attic bedroom in the servants’ quarters for over a year. I would have known about it if she was in a family way.”