by Lynn Austin
I recall her words just now—“the first time I ran away”—and feel a chill. Is this a pattern with her? Do I need to stand guard over her night and day as Marinus seems to think? I whisper another prayer for wisdom—I’ve been doing that a lot lately—and ask God to have mercy on all of us.
“Do you know how to knit?” I ask Cornelia as she continues to tempt the cat with the strand of yarn. She shakes her head. “Would you like to learn? Because winter is coming, and there are a few more families here in town who could use warm mittens.”
She shrugs. A hopeless gesture. “I guess I could try.”
It’s a place to start.
Chapter 17
Anna
Chicago
According to my Literary Club directory, Mrs. James Blackwell and her daughter, Florence, still live on Lakeshore Drive, possibly in the same house where Mama once worked. It’s not far from where I live, so I can walk there. I have tried in vain to think of a legitimate reason to speak with James Blackwell, who is now a judge like his father once was. I would like to ask him if he remembers helping my mama with her lawsuit, but I haven’t come up with any excuse to see him. Surely he must remember her, since it was his first big case after becoming a lawyer. I decide to talk to his servants instead, in the hope that one of them will remember Mama. I will need to avoid Mrs. Blackwell and Florence, however. They will certainly recognize me, since I’m still the main subject of gossip.
Once again I ask Lucy to come with me on my secret expedition. I borrow a shawl and a plain straw hat from her. It isn’t much of a disguise, but no one will be expecting a young woman of my social stature to arrive at the servants’ entrance. “The best time to talk with the household staff,” Lucy tells me, “is early in the afternoon. Everyone is in a rush in the morning when the gentlemen leave for work and the ladies are preparing to make calls. Then it gets busy again around suppertime, especially if they’re expecting guests or getting ready to go out for the evening. But it usually gets quiet for a little while after lunch.”
I take Lucy’s advice, and we knock on the Blackwells’ back door just after one o’clock in the afternoon. It’s opened by a housemaid who is younger than I am and couldn’t possibly have known Mama. “Good afternoon. Is Mrs. Philips still the housekeeper here?” I ask. My heart speeds up when the girl nods. It’s too good to be true! “May I speak with her, please?”
“Who should I say is calling?” the maid asks.
“Um … Anna Nicholson.” I can only hope that my so-called scandal hasn’t filtered down through the servants’ quarters, too. The girl leaves us standing outside and disappears. She returns a few minutes later and leads us to the housekeeper’s room. I hide a smile when I meet Mrs. Philips, recalling Vera’s apt description of her as a little hornet with a pointy nose and a sharp tongue. She is seated in a comfortable chair in front of her fire, and she tidies her white hair as if she has been napping.
“We’re not hiring any help,” she says when she sees us.
“We aren’t looking for work, Mrs. Philips. I’m trying to find information about my mother, who once worked here as a housemaid. It was back when this house was newly built.”
“Twenty-five years ago? We’ve had a lot of servants come and go in the years since then. I can’t possibly remember them all.”
“I understand. But my mama passed away not long after she worked here, and it’s very important that I learn more about her for her family’s sake. Her name is Christina de Jonge.”
I watch Mrs. Philip’s face, and I’m certain I see her react to Mama’s name—a slight widening of her eyes at first, then a frown and pursed lips. She looks me over from head to toe, and since I’ve been told that I resemble her, I’m hoping Mrs. Philips sees the likeness, too. “If you know anything about her or where she went after leaving here, it would be a great help to me. Or perhaps I could ask one of the other longtime servants about her?”
“I don’t encourage gossip among our employees.”
“No, of course not. You’re right. But I’m here because of the terrible rumors that are circulating about my mother. I’m trying to clear her name, and the trail has led me here. I’ve learned that Judge James Blackwell once helped my mother win a lawsuit after her husband died in a railroad accident.” Again, I watch Mrs. Philip’s face, and she is unable to disguise her unease. I’m certain that she knows exactly what I’m talking about. It would have been highly unusual for the family heir to become involved in a court case for his servant. Mrs. Philips probably remembers the incident as clearly as Vera did. “Is there any way I could speak with Judge Blackwell to see if he remembers?” I dare to ask.
“I don’t make appointments for the judge.” Mrs. Philips stands, clearly agitated now, and I fear she is about to throw me out. Instead, she asks Lucy to leave, then closes the door behind her. My heart races. We are alone. “I know exactly who you are, Miss Nicholson, so let me ask you—would you want your servants whispering about your family and your hired help to anyone who asks? Or sneaking in through the back door trying to get an appointment with your father?”
“I’m asking for my parents’ sakes, Mrs. Philips. The gossip has affected them, too, and I’m trying to clear their good names as well as mine. I need to find out where my mama went after leaving here, and who she married. I would greatly appreciate any help you can give me.”
Mrs. Philips seems torn. I pray that I haven’t reached another dead end. “Christina left without giving a reason,” she finally says. “She didn’t ask for references. However, I always ask for a forwarding address in case someone needs to get in touch with one of my people after they leave.” She goes to a small desk and searches through the cubbyholes until she finds a notebook, old and wrinkled, the spine broken. Smaller pieces of paper are stuffed inside it. I hold my breath as I watch her page through it. At last she finds what she is looking for, and she turns the notebook around and hands it to me. “Christina gave me this address when she left. It’s the best I can do.” She offers me a pencil and a piece of paper so I can copy it down.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Philips.”
“I don’t know what you’ll find there after all these years. It’s not in a very good part of town.”
“I’m grateful for your help.”
“Don’t come back here again, Miss Nicholson. I’m going to warn the other servants not to speak to you or let you in. And since you know what it’s like to be the brunt of gossip, I’ll thank you to keep this family’s good name out of the mud.”
Lucy and I pass through the servants’ dining room and the kitchen on our way out, and I try to imagine Mama working down here in the dim light, drying dishes and polishing silver and maybe wringing out laundry the way Vera did. What did Mama dream of back then after her failed marriage to the man she once loved? Did she miss her family in Michigan? Did she wish she could return home? She could have afforded the boat fare with the settlement money she received from the railroad. I wish for her sake that she had gone home.
“Now what, Miss Anna?” Lucy asks when we are back outside on the street.
“I don’t know. Let me think.” We should walk home again. I’m emotionally drained from the conversation, and I would like to lie down. Yet I need to follow this next clue while I still have the courage. “Would you mind hailing a cab for me, Lucy? I don’t want to take public transportation today.”
I show the cab driver the address Mrs. Philips gave me. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.
“Yes, and I would like you to wait there for me while I go inside. I’ll pay you very well for your time.” Twenty minutes later, we halt in front of a ramshackle, three-story tenement on a street that is filled with them. The wooden building seems vaguely familiar to me. Is it possible that I remember this place from when I was a child, or am I only imagining it? There are twelve apartments inside, four on each floor. Lucy and I climb to the top floor to work our way down, knocking on every door. Most of the people open their doors a mere cra
ck and peer out at me through the tiny space. When I ask them if they lived here twenty years ago, they shake their heads. A few slam their doors in reply. The people in two of the apartments don’t understand English. And one man on the second floor is so wild-eyed and scary-looking that I mumble, “Never mind, wrong apartment,” and quickly retreat.
There are only two apartments left on the first floor when we meet a friendly young girl about ten years old who is carrying a child on her hip. “You should ask the O’Haras,” she says. “They’re the caretakers. Their apartment is in the basement.” She points to a dark staircase leading down. I feel the chill of the dank basement as I descend. If the O’Haras have been living down here for the past twenty years, I pity them.
The tiny, wrinkled woman who answers the door looks like a character from a storybook. Her shaggy, gray hair spills from beneath a kerchief, and she’s wearing several layers of clothes and shawls and socks. Her hands are gnarled with rheumatism, but the pleasant smile on her face gives me hope.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. O’Hara. I’m Anna Nicholson. I’m looking for information about my mother, who lived here more than twenty years ago. By any chance, were you and your husband the caretakers back then?”
“We’ve been here since the place was built, right after the fire,” she replies.
My hope rises. “I imagine you’ve seen a lot of tenants come and go since then.”
“Oh yes. This isn’t the sort of place where people stay very long. Although we’ve had to get the authorities in here to evict a few of them.”
“Is there any chance at all that you remember my mother? Her name was Christina Newell, but she may have used her maiden name, de Jonge. She would have been in her early twenties, and I’m told I resemble her. I would have been a baby when we lived here.”
My heart races as Mrs. O’Hara studies my face. I can tell she is searching her memory. But twenty years is a long time. “You’d better come in,” she finally says, opening the door. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light inside, but when they do, the apartment is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I recognize a sagging table piled with dishes, an ancient wing chair with a man asleep in it, and a bed layered with quilts. Narrow pathways lead to each of these destinations, but every square inch of space in between is stuffed with tottering piles of boxes, mounds of clothing and rags, and stacks of yellowing newspapers. The smell of mold and decay is appalling. I am about to excuse myself and leave when she says, “I think I remember the girl you’re talking about.”
She offers Lucy and me the only two empty chairs. It’s like sitting in the middle of a garbage heap. I keep my eyes focused on Mrs. O’Hara, afraid I’ll grow faint if I dare to look around. Mrs. O’Hara sits near me, perched on a pile of newspapers. If there was ever an avalanche from all this junk, no one would find her. Or Lucy and me, either. The man in the chair snores on.
“As I said, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go over the years, but if it’s the young woman I think you mean, she was hard to forget. Sweet young girl. Told me her parents were Dutch. Hardworking. And very pretty. I was with her the night her baby was born. I sent for the midwife, but … what did you say her name was?”
“Christina.”
“Yes. Well, Christina asked me to please stay with her, too. You say you’re that baby?”
“Yes.” My eyes swim with tears as I picture Mama giving birth to me in one of these dreary apartments with the little caretaker as her only friend. “Mama died when I was only three years old, Mrs. O’Hara.” I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “Was my father here with her, too?”
“She told me her husband was dead. Railroad accident, I think she said. Such a tragedy. I asked if she had family she could turn to, but she said no. She was all alone.”
I struggle to hide my disappointment and shame. If Mama had married again, she surely would have referred to him as my father instead of implying Jack Newell was. My hopes for clearing Mama’s name—and my own—grow dimmer.
“Can you remember anything else that might help me? Do you know where she worked? How she supported herself?” It’s a risky question to ask. What if it turns out that she really was a harlot?
“She had some sort of factory job when she first arrived, but they let her go when it became obvious that she was expecting. After that, she couldn’t go out to work with a baby to look after, so she took in piecework from the garment district to make ends meet. But she was barely making a living, and she worried about her little girl getting enough to eat. That’s when she told me she was going away.”
“Do you recall where she went?”
“She didn’t say. Just packed a bag, took the little girl, and left. I never saw her again.”
“Mama was taking me home to Michigan, where she grew up, Mrs. O’Hara. But our ship sank, and she drowned trying to save me. Another family adopted me.”
“Oh my! I’m sorry to hear that. So sorry. No wonder she never came back… . Well, it’s a real shame. Your mother was so young and pretty. I held the room for her until the end of the month and the rent came due, but then I had no choice but to clear out all her things and make way for another boarder. She didn’t have very much.”
“Do you remember what happened to her belongings?” The question makes Mrs. O’Hara bristle, so I quickly add, “It’s understandable if you got rid of it all, it’s just that I would love to have a picture or some other memento from her.” I try not to imagine Mama’s things buried in one of these piles beneath twenty years’ worth of other tenants’ abandoned belongings. From the look of things, Mrs. O’Hara never throws anything away.
“Well, time passed, you see. When she didn’t return, I kept anything I could use and pawned the rest. But I may have boxed up her personal stuff in a crate, just in case she returned. If so, it would be in the storage room. You’re welcome to see what you can find, if you want to have a look.”
I tell her I do, and she lights a small kerosene lamp to light the way. It gives off a foul, smoky odor, and the glass is so grimy it doesn’t offer much light. Mrs. O’Hara leads the way to a cold, windowless room next to the coal bin. The wind makes a whistling sound as it blows through the chute. Cobwebs dangle from the rafters above my head, sending shivers down my spine. I worry about spiders. And rats.
When Mrs. O’Hara unlocks the door to the storage room and opens it, any hope I had of finding something that belonged to Mama vanishes. The space is packed with junk, just like the O’Haras’ apartment. It’s stuffed from wall to wall, all the way to the rafters, without any passageways between the piles. I feel sick inside. It would take days and days to sort through everything. I hear Lucy groan.
“You know, it’s getting late,” I say, glancing at my little watch brooch. “I don’t have time to search through all these boxes today. Would you mind if I came back another day?” I take a few dollars from my reticule and slip them into Mrs. O’Hara’s hand as I ask the question, and she nods with enthusiasm.
“Oh yes. You come back whenever you want to, dear.”
The sunlight and fresh air outside revive me. Thankfully, the cab is still waiting for us beside the curb. I give the driver my home address, and we climb in. “Are you really going back there to look through that mess, Miss Anna?” Lucy asks.
“I don’t know. It would be such a daunting task. And who knows if I would even find anything.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before, Miss Anna.”
“Me neither. But please, please don’t tell anyone where we went today or what we saw and heard.”
“Don’t you worry, Miss Anna. You can count on me. Shall I draw you a hot bath when we get home?”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Alone in the tub, I finally allow my tears of disappointment and shame to fall.
Chapter 18
Geesje
Holland, Michigan
Cornelia and I walk to Van Putten’s Dry Goods, and I let her choose a few draw
ing supplies. She is so grateful that she manages a rare smile. I leave her to browse through the ready-made clothing that has just come in while I pay for the supplies and speak to Mrs. Van Putten. “I noticed you have a Help Wanted sign in the window,” I say. “What sort of help do you need?”
“We’re looking for someone to restock the shelves, sweep the floors, and straighten up. Maybe take money and make change if it gets busy. It’s only a few hours a week. And I can’t pay very much.”
“I will need to ask Cornelia’s grandfather first, but would you consider hiring her? Her English is getting better all the time. She’s a good housekeeper, and I know she’s bright enough to count money and make change.”
“I could give her a try. It’s been hard to find someone for only a few hours a week.”
“Good. I’ll talk with Cornelia and her grandfather about it.” I dread the prospect of facing Marinus again. I don’t enjoy being shouted at and called names. I decide to wait until after supper to visit him, and Cornelia and I walk up to the cemetery together instead. She doesn’t sob as hard as she did the first time, and I can see that remembering her family and acknowledging her grief has brought healing.
We have just returned home from the cemetery when the dominie surprises me by knocking on my front door. “May I have a word with you in private?” he asks.
I send up a silent prayer for patience and wisdom. “Yes, of course. Let’s sit out here on my porch.” I choose one of my porch chairs while he perches on the railing. Anyone who saw him sitting with me—and who didn’t know him as well as I do—would think he was a dignified, distinguished-looking man of God who had come to pay a pastoral call. But I have seen the man behind the façade, and I brace myself for what he might be about to say.
“I have come to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday, Mrs. de Jonge.” My mouth drops open. I can’t disguise my surprise. He hurries on. “I was upset to learn that Cornelia tried to kill herself again. I thought she was past all of that. I shouldn’t have yelled at you or said the things I did. I’m sorry.”