by Lynn Austin
“I’ll teach you. It’s easy. Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, and she didn’t dare refuse. Nor did she want to. I watched them move around the floor in each other’s arms, laughing as Christina kept stepping on his toes until she got the hang of it. Once they got started, neither of them seemed inclined to stop. Mr. James held her closer and closer as the evening wore on, and when they finally grew tired of dancing, they sat down at a table all by themselves. I saw them whispering and laughing and felt sick inside for Christina’s sake. And more than a little jealous.
Mr. James drove both of us home in his carriage when the dance ended. The driver had been waiting outside for him all that time. Christina and I bid Mr. James good night by the back door, and I quickly pulled her by the arm all the way upstairs to our attic room so she wouldn’t be tempted to linger with him. She had made a huge mistake when she married Jack Newell, and I needed to convince her not to make another one.
“You’re playing with fire,” I said as we got ready for bed.
“It was just a silly dance. One night of fun. It doesn’t mean anything.”
And maybe Christina was right. I don’t recall seeing Mr. James at any more dances, nor did he spend time hanging around downstairs with the servants after that night.
Anna
Chicago, Illinois
1897
As Vera tells her story, Lucy and I follow her out of the basement and into the weedy backyard where the clothesline is. The weak fall sunlight feels good after the damp cellar, but I want to cover my mouth and nose with my handkerchief to block out the overpowering odor of cattle drifting on the breeze. Vera doesn’t seem to notice it. She continues talking as she pins clothes on the line to dry.
“Christina never came to another dance with me again, but I met my husband there on one of those Saturday nights and married him a few months later. Christina stood up with me before the justice of the peace, and I know she was happy for me. We hugged and said good-bye and promised to visit each other, but we never did.”
“Did she keep working for the Blackwells after you left?” I ask.
“She did. She had worked her way up from scullery maid to parlor maid by then.”
“Do you know when my mother stopped working there?”
“No, we lost touch. I was a giddy new bride, and Christina insisted she wanted nothing to do with marriage after what happened the first time. I offered to set her up with one of my husband’s friends, but she wasn’t interested.” Vera pauses and looks me over from head to toe as if seeing me for the first time. “So, you really are Christina’s daughter. I can see the resemblance. I guess she found someone and got married after all. Who was the lucky man?”
“That’s just it—I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me. My mama died when I was three years old, and I was adopted by a wealthy family. I don’t have any information at all about who she married. Is there anything else you can recall that might help me find my father?”
Vera shrugs. “I told you everything I can remember. It all happened more than twenty years ago, you know.”
I feel even more frustrated than when I arrived, and I have even more unanswered questions. Did anything ever come of her brief attraction to James Blackwell, or is that another dead end? “Do you know of anyone else who worked for the Blackwells who might remember Mama?”
Vera thinks for a moment. “The housekeeper, Mrs. Philips, might. But who knows if she still works for them after all these years. She would be in her seventies by now.” The back door to the saloon opens, and a man hollers Vera’s name. “Coming,” she calls back. She pins up the last few clothes, hanging her wet apron on the line last of all, then bends to lift the empty laundry basket. “He needs my help in the saloon.”
“I appreciate your taking time to answer my questions,” I say as we walk across the tiny yard.
“Not at all. It was fun remembering those days before marriage and children and all this hard work.” Vera smooths back her hair and reties her scarf. “I’d invite you in, but the saloon is no place for the two of you. It fills up pretty fast once the whistle blows and the men at the stockyards get out of work.”
“Thanks again for your time, Vera.” I hand her one of my calling cards. “If you remember anything else that might help me find my father, please let me know.”
The trains and trolleys are crowded on the way back, the streets bustling with workers on their way home. I’m tempted to hire a cab rather than squeeze in alongside dozens of sweaty men, but I need to return home through the back door, not the front, so Mother doesn’t see me. I stop Lucy as we finally reach the alleyway behind my house and say, “Please don’t tell anyone where we went today or what you heard.”
“Oh, I would never do that, Miss Anna. You can trust me.” Lucy pretends to fasten an invisible button on her lips, sealing them closed. The gesture makes me smile, and I feel some of the tension from today’s events begin to ease. I’ve learned some interesting things about Mama’s life, and I’m starting to picture what those years must have been like for her after she left her home in Michigan. But I’m no closer to learning who my real father is. Tomorrow I’ll pay a visit to the Blackwell mansion and see if Mrs. Philips is still the housekeeper there. Maybe she can point me in a new direction.
Chapter 16
Geesje
Holland, Michigan
Cornelia seems listless after her ordeal at the lake on Saturday. I have been praying about what to do to raise her spirits, and one detail of her story keeps coming to mind—the fact that she once enjoyed drawing. Maybe tomorrow we’ll walk over to Eighth Street and buy a new sketchbook and some drawing pencils together. But right now, the warm afternoon is beckoning to me, and I think it would do Cornelia good to get out of the house.
“You and I are going for a walk,” I tell her, not giving her the option of refusing. “The fall afternoon is too beautiful to miss.” She puts on her shoes and jacket without complaint. I stop in my backyard to snip off the last of my hydrangea blooms, which have dried to a lovely shade of dusty rose on the bushes. She helps me carry the bouquets as we head up the hill to Pilgrim Cemetery. I’m out of breath when we reach the top.
“I always enjoy the view from up here, especially when the leaves begin to change colors. It’s lovely, isn’t it?” I turn to Cornelia, but she isn’t looking down at the town. She’s staring at all the gravestones. The sorrow in her eyes tugs at my heart. Have I made a mistake in bringing her here? Is she seeing herself in one of these graves? I try to distract her by pointing out where the Log Church once stood. “We worshiped here every Sunday until Pillar Church was completed, and—” She isn’t listening.
“Who are these flowers for?” she asks.
“My loved ones are buried here. I’m going to put the bouquets in the urns on their graves.” I quicken my pace as I walk through the graveyard to our family plot. I usually like to linger and recall happy memories of my loved ones, but I’m regretting my decision to bring Cornelia here. I point out the gravesites, as if offering a quick introduction to my family. “My mother and father are buried right here, side by side. This is my son Gerrit’s grave—he died while fighting in the Civil War. My daughter, Christina, is buried here—she’s Anneke’s mother. And this one …” My breath catches. “This is where my husband, Maarten, is buried.”
Cornelia looks at me, and the only way I can describe her expression is that it’s one of sympathy and kinship. It’s as if she finally believes that I understand and share her loss. “May I put the flowers on them?” she asks.
“That would be very sweet of you.” She crouches down to arrange her bouquets in the urns, then takes mine and adds them, as well. Before I can thank her, she drops to her knees and curls forward, weeping as if she may never stop. Her primal cry of grief shudders through me. I kneel beside her with my arm around her huddled body and let her sob.
As I close my eyes and pray for her, I realize that Cornelia never had a chance to mourn at t
he graves of her parents and two brothers. The day after their funerals, she moved away from the village where they were buried to live with her grandfather. There was no opportunity to put flowers on their graves and honor them by remembering. No chance to mourn and grieve. Now, in the shared kinship of our losses, it’s as if the graves of my loved ones represent her own. I don’t coax her to stop crying. She needs to weep.
When her grief is spent, we sit on the grass and hold each other for a long time. “Jesus promised that if we believe in Him we will live, even though we die. Death isn’t the end, Cornelia. We’ll see all of our loved ones again.” She leans back and wipes her tears with her fists, drying them on her skirt. “We’ll come back again soon,” I tell her. She helps me to my feet and holds my hand as we walk home together.
I’m puttering around my kitchen after supper that evening when Derk comes through my back door. “Hello, dear,” I say as he kisses my cheek. “I’m happy to see you haven’t suffered any ill effects from your plunge into the channel on Saturday.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Is Anneke still here?” He looks around with a hopeful expression on his face.
“No, she left on the train yesterday morning.”
His shoulders slump, and his grin disappears. “We hardly had a chance to talk.”
“I know. Her visit was a quick one, but she seemed more at peace by the time she left than when she arrived. With all the excitement, I never asked if the two of you had a good visit.”
“We had just started talking about serious things when Cornelia had her accident. I was really hoping to spend more time with Anneke.”
“She leads a very busy life.”
Derk releases a sigh. “How is Cornelia doing?”
“Why not go into the front room and ask her yourself? I’ll translate if you need me to, but she needs to practice her English.”
“Thanks. I will.”
But before Derk gets to the door it occurs to me to speak with Dominie Den Herder about buying the sketchbook. It would be much better if he gave it to Cornelia as a gift, instead of it coming from me. The story she told me about their relationship was a sad one, and they could use a chance to heal. “Is Dominie Den Herder over at your house right now?” I ask Derk. He nods. “Will you keep Cornelia company for a minute while I go over and talk to him?”
“Sure.” He continues through the door, and I hear them greeting each other in Dutch a moment later. I feel nervous as I shove my arms into my coat sleeves and walk the short distance to the Vander Veens’ house. I’ll need to be careful not to betray any of Cornelia’s confidences, yet I believe her grandfather has a right to know that she tried to end her life last Saturday.
Marinus is in the kitchen adding wood to the stove, and he answers my knock. “Could we talk for a few minutes, Dominie?”
He opens the back door for me to come in. “Is this about what happened on Saturday?”
“Well, yes—”
He gives a grunt of disdain. “I was wondering when you would get around to telling me about it.” He folds his arms across his chest as if preparing for a fight.
I’m taken aback by his gruffness. “What do you mean?”
“Derk told me about the incident but only after I saw his wet clothes all piled up, waiting to be washed. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Cornelia had fallen into the lake and nearly drowned. And that it had happened two days ago!”
“I wasn’t there at the time, I’m sorry. But I thought—”
“Does the fact that you weren’t there excuse you from telling me what happened to my granddaughter when she was in your care? Or at least sending Cornelia over here to tell me herself? Surely you found out about it on the day it happened, didn’t you?”
“Cornelia asked me not to tell you. She was afraid you would worry.”
“And her wishes are more important to you than mine? Even though the child is my granddaughter and my responsibility? It makes me wonder what other secrets the two of you are keeping from me.”
“I wasn’t keeping it a secret. I merely thought she should be the one to tell you about it when she was ready.”
He huffs again. “Did Cornelia really slip and fall, or did she jump?”
“You should ask her that question yourself.”
“Send her over, then. Good day, Mrs. de Jonge.”
“Wait. I’m not finished talking with you.” I have been standing all this time, since Marinus hasn’t asked me to sit, but I pull out a chair and sit down on it now. The kitchen has become very warm, so I unbutton my jacket. “I came over because I want to help Cornelia, and there are some things I think we should discuss. She is still grieving the loss of her family and—”
“Nearly five years have passed. It’s time she stopped dwelling on it.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to blow up at this man. “Kindly stop interrupting me and let me finish.” I pause a moment. “You can’t put a time limit on grief, Dominie. The fact that Cornelia may still want to end her life must surely tell you that she hasn’t recovered from the loss of her family. What she needs more than anything else right now is a reason to go on living.”
“She has a new life here in America. She will get married and have children. Those are reasons enough.”
“That may be what you want for her, but do you know what Cornelia wants?”
“I’m sure you can’t wait to tell me.”
His sarcasm threatens to ignite my temper. I struggle to tamp it down. “I don’t have any idea what Cornelia wants. She hasn’t told me. And you made it very clear that you resent me for prying into her life.” I pause to take a breath and lower my voice. I don’t wish to get into a shouting match with him. “What I’m trying to say, Dominie, is that you need to talk to your granddaughter and really listen to what she has to say.”
“And you need to stop being a meddling busybody and mind your own business.”
I swallow my pride and ignore the name-calling for Cornelia’s sake. “I care about Cornelia, and I will gladly listen to her hopes and dreams if you aren’t interested in hearing them. But you ordered her not to confide in me, so the only person she has is you. Please talk to her. Let her know you love her.”
“How dare you lecture me about what I should do?”
I don’t answer his question as I hurry to finish. “I know you’re working at the newspaper part of the time now, but I would like to invite you to come over for dinner sometime this week or in the evening if you wish, so you can spend more time with Cornelia. Find out what her interests are and what she wants for her future. She needs to know that you love her, Dominie. How will she believe that God loves her if you don’t show her your love?”
“Show her my love? I gave up everything! My country, my work—everything!”
“Did you do it for Cornelia or because of her? There is a difference.”
“Get out!” He points to the door, then turns and strides from the kitchen. I scramble to my feet and follow him.
“One more thing, Dominie. I understand that Cornelia once loved to draw. I think she would be very grateful if you bought her a new sketchbook and some charcoal pencils as a gift.” He walks straight through the living room and starts up the stairs. There is a door at the bottom of them, and he slams it behind him.
I let out my breath with a sigh as I stare at the closed door. I think I understand a little of how Cornelia must feel when she’s with him. When Marinus doesn’t reappear, I retrace my steps to the back door. The cold air knifes through me after the warmth of the kitchen stove, but I pause on the step for a moment, berating myself for not handling the conversation better. Nothing has gone the way I had hoped—to say the least! And while I didn’t lose my temper and shout at him, even though I was sorely tempted, I did make him angry enough to shout at me, which almost seems worse.
Is he right? Am I a meddling busybody who should mind her own business? Perhaps. Yet I can’t escape the conviction that out of all the homes where Co
rnelia could have stayed, God sent her to mine for a reason.
I return home to find Cornelia and Derk stumbling along in a mixture of English and Dutch. Cornelia has a piece of yarn and is trying to get my lazy tabby cat to play with it. We chat for a few more minutes before Derk returns home to study.
“Did you tell my grandfather about what happened?” Cornelia asks when he’s gone.
“He already knew about it. He saw Derk’s muddy clothes, so Derk had to tell him about the accident.”
“Is my grandfather mad?”
“Not at you. He’s mad at me for not telling him sooner.”
“Then why hasn’t he come over to see me?”
I can’t answer her question. The man baffles me. I can only hope that when his anger at me dies down a little, he will think about some of the things I tried to tell him and reach out to Cornelia. She needs his love.
“Grandfather will know it wasn’t an accident,” Cornelia says. I wait, giving her time to find the words. “The first time I ran away from his house, I was gone for three days. I walked for hours and hours and caught rides on passing wagons and slept beneath haystacks at night until I reached Rotterdam. I followed the road right through the city until I came to the dock where all the ships were anchored. I reached the end of the road, but I just kept on walking into the water until it was over my head. One of the sailors saw me and jumped in to rescue me—like Derk did. Grandfather had people searching for me all that time, and when they found me in Rotterdam and he heard what I’d done, he was very angry.”
I pray for the right words to say. “Cornelia, sometimes when we love someone our worry and fear come out as anger. But we don’t really mean it—”
“Nay. He meant it.” She sounds very certain. I remember today’s confrontation with him, and I believe her. He asked me to send Cornelia over to talk to him, but I can’t do it. Not when he’s angry. Besides, he needs to take the first step and reach out to Cornelia, not summon her to stand before him in judgment. It occurs to me that even if Marinus does buy a sketchbook for Cornelia, I don’t think she could bring herself to use it.