Legacy of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  Overwhelming is more like it. I can’t imagine presiding over a roomful of Mrs. Wilkinson’s pompous acquaintances, especially without Oma by my side. I take both of William’s hands in mine as I look up at him. “William? Your mother doesn’t want my grandmother from Michigan to attend our wedding. And while I understand her point of view … I-I really want Oma to be here.”

  “Mother is the consummate expert on Chicago society, Anna. I trust her judgment and so should you. She has excellent instincts when it comes to things like this, and she’s as determined to launch my political career as my father and grandfather are.”

  I know I should nod and be agreeable and remain silent. But I recall how Derk once advised me to stand up to William and speak my mind. “It’s just that … I already invited my grandmother to come, long before all those nasty rumors ever got started. It would be rude to tell her that she can’t come now. Besides, I want her here on our special day.”

  William frowns and releases my hands. “I have enough to worry about without this, Anna. You need to talk to my mother about it, not me. You’ll have to work something out with her.”

  That will never happen. I’m terrified of his mother.

  William finishes our tour back in the stately foyer, and I can see how proud he is of his home, how important it is to him. I recall Oma’s advice about letting William know how important my faith is to me, and I send up a quick prayer for the right words to say. “William? I-I think you should know that my faith means everything to me. If you marry me, it will be as though … as though you’re marrying Jesus, too.”

  “What? Marrying Jesus … ?” He gives a short laugh, as if I’ve said something ridiculous. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I read a Bible verse the other day that said when we place our faith in Christ, it’s as though we’ve died and now Jesus lives in us. From now on, I’m determined to live by His teachings and follow what He says is right and wrong, instead of going by what other people say and think. That’s why I had to speak up when the other ladies were gossiping. The Bible says gossip is wrong, and I needed to remind them.”

  “Aren’t you being a little extreme, Anna?”

  “I don’t think so.” I can see by the way his shoulders have tensed that I’ve upset him. But I’m determined to remain strong.

  “Are you going to that radical church again?” he asks, making a face.

  “Of course not. I promised you I wouldn’t, and I’ll keep my word. But I thought you should know how important my faith in Jesus is to me. It’s the one thing I’ll never compromise.”

  I have never seen William at a loss for words, but he is now. He looks around at the ornate walls, the marble floor, the grand staircase—anyplace but at me. “Thanks for telling me,” he finally says. He makes it sound like I’ve just given him terrible news. “We should go.” He speaks a few words to the butler, who opens the grand front door for us. I’m relieved to be outside in the fresh air again.

  Later that night I’m lying in bed, trying to fall asleep and failing as thoughts swirl through my mind. William barely spoke on the way home, but that’s not what’s keeping me awake. Everyone says I should forget about my real mama, forget about the past, and look ahead to the future. But I can’t. According to the caretaker, Mrs. O’Hara, Mama struggled and worked hard to provide for me. She worried that I wasn’t getting enough to eat, so she swallowed her pride and decided to return to Michigan. She thought it was the best thing she could do for me. She loved me, and she died trying to save me. And while I’m curious to know who my real father is, I want to know for Mama’s sake as much as my own. I want to clear her name and prove that she didn’t behave shamefully, because I don’t believe that she did. If she insisted that Jack Newell marry her after running away together, I believe she would have insisted on marriage the second time, too.

  I can’t stop thinking about the mounds of trash in Mrs. O’Hara’s horrible storage room. What if there is something buried beneath all that garbage that could clear Mama’s name? It would be well worth the trouble of digging through musty crates of trash if I could find Mama’s belongings. Maybe I’ll ask Lucy and one of the stable boys to help me. Lucy might know which boy I could trust to be discreet. I fall asleep, dreaming of spiders and rats and dark family secrets.

  Mother and I spend Wednesday morning with the dressmaker to be fitted for our new winter gowns. The seamstress shows me the beautiful bolt of fabric that will become my wedding dress as I try on the muslin pattern she has created to see how it fits. “Have you lost weight, Miss Anna?” she asks as she adjusts a few dressmakers’ pins.

  “I may have.” Not only have I gone a week without petit fours during my enforced isolation from society events, but I’ve been much too upset by the scandal to eat much.

  “Don’t alter the size,” Mother says. “I’m certain Anna’s appetite will improve soon.”

  I’m not so sure. I’m having lunch this afternoon with Clarice and two other ladies from the Literary Club, and my stomach already feels like I’m onboard the Ironsides again, right before it sank.

  “I’m so happy that Clarice and the other girls have welcomed you back,” Mother says as she and the carriage driver drop me off at the Beachams’ house for the luncheon.

  No other carriages are in the driveway. The house is quiet as the butler shows me inside. He escorts me all the way to the conservatory at the rear of the house, and there is no one else in sight, not even another servant. The conservatory is fragrant and green and filled with plants, while the trees beyond the windows look like bare sticks. The sky above the glass ceiling is wintery gray. It’s about to rain. I find Clarice seated at a small table in the center of the verdant conservatory. I seem to be the first guest to arrive. She beckons me over, and I notice that only two places have been set at the table—hers and mine. “Where are the other ladies?” I ask.

  “It will just be the two of us, Anna. Please sit down. We have some important things to discuss. In private.”

  I feel sick to my stomach. I should turn around and walk out, but I don’t dare. Clarice takes her time unfurling her napkin, waiting for the footman to fill our water glasses, ordering him to bring the first course. Hours seem to pass as we wait for him to return with two small bowls of fish chowder and a basket of oyster crackers. Then we wait again for him to leave. I can feel the blood rushing to my face, and I see Clarice’s delight in my discomfort. I’m unable to speak, even if I knew what to say. I pray for help.

  At last Clarice picks up her soup spoon and takes a taste. “Last week must have been so difficult for you, Anna, enduring the scandal and feeling banished.”

  I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reply. My food sits untouched. My hands are trembling so badly, I don’t dare lift the spoon to my mouth.

  “I would hate to see you and your family suffer through that experience again,” she says, “not to mention William’s family.” She enjoys a sip of soup between each sentence, dragging everything out. “Mrs. Wilkinson and my mother have always been close, so I know firsthand how upset she was by it all. It would devastate her if an even bigger scandal were to surface.” She takes a few more spoonsful.

  “Were you the one responsible for starting the gossip, Clarice?” I’m dismayed that my voice is unsteady.

  She smiles her dazzling smile. “Your mother created the scandal by the way she lived, Anna. I’m not to blame for that. And now it has come to my attention that there is even more proof that your birth was shameful.”

  I’m going to be sick. I swallow bile and push away the bowl of soup as the fishy aroma reaches my nostrils. Clarice seems to enjoy my distress.

  “It seems a witness named Vera can testify before a court of law that you couldn’t possibly be Jack Newell’s child. Your mother was not pregnant when he died. But I wonder who your father is, then?” She pauses, smiling. I can’t breathe. “And another witness named Mrs. O’Hara can testify that your mother was already pregnant when she moved into the
tenement building. Christina was all alone, with no husband in sight. Your mother even lied to the landlady, claiming her baby’s father had died in a railroad accident. But you were born a little bastard in that disgraceful place, weren’t you, Anna?”

  “Stop it, Clarice. Just stop.” I see her smile of victory through my tears. The only way she could have learned all this information is from Lucy—whom I trusted! The cruelty of Lucy’s treachery makes everything worse. I feel stupid and naïve and horribly betrayed. I’m deeply sorry that my search will put Mother and Father through another painful ordeal once Clarice tells everyone what she learned. “Why are you trying to ruin me and my family?” I ask. “My adoptive parents never did anything to harm you. What do you want from us?”

  “It’s simple. No one will ever need to know what I’ve learned, dear little Anna, on one condition.” I wait, certain I know what she’s about to say. “You need to call off the wedding. Now is the best time, before the invitations are engraved and delivered.” I close my eyes to erase the sight of her smug smile. “If you don’t break your engagement, the next scandal will be even bigger than the last one, and I know for a fact that the Wilkinsons will call off the wedding themselves when they hear about it. After all, William has political ambitions. He can’t be married to a little bastard wife.” She pauses, and when I open my eyes again, I see a smile of triumph on her beautiful face. “Either way, you and William are finished. The choice of whether you end the engagement quietly or it ends in your disgrace is yours to make.”

  “And you think William will marry you instead?”

  “I don’t want William. He hurt me, and now it’s my turn to hurt him back. This isn’t about you, Anna. I have nothing against you.”

  “Yet you’re trying to destroy my life!”

  “Not yours—William’s. I’ll never understand why he wants to marry you. But he stole my happiness, and now it’s my turn to steal his. He’ll find out what it’s like to be jilted.”

  “If I tell William what you’re trying to do and that you’re behind all the gossip, he won’t let you get away with it.”

  Clarice laughs. “You underestimate how important William’s reputation is to him. And to his mother.”

  I recall how William treated me last week and suspect she is right. I’m astonished at the measures Clarice went through to get even with William, going so far as to hire my maid to spy on me and report back. Clarice must hate William more than anyone imagined. “How do I know you won’t create a scandal even if I do break off the engagement?”

  “Because you have my word.”

  It isn’t enough. Clarice is as phony as this beautiful conservatory—seemingly green and lush and fragrant, when the cold reality beyond the glass is startlingly different. “I need a few days to think about it,” I tell her. I won’t leave here letting Clarice believe she has won. “I’ll let you know what I decide.” I push back my chair and walk out.

  “Don’t take too long,” she calls after me.

  It has begun to pour rain outside, and I’m soaked by the time I walk to the main street a few blocks away to hail a cab. The streets are jammed from the lunch hour rush, and by the time I finally find a cab and climb inside out of the rain, I’m shivering. My shoes and hat are ruined and probably my dress, as well. I close my eyes to stop the dizziness, still fighting the urge to be sick.

  I’m in an impossible position. What Clarice doesn’t know is that Father may lose his fortune, just like George Kirkland did, no matter who calls off the wedding. Mother will no longer be accepted in the Wilkinsons’ social circles, which will devastate her. My parents will be ruined, and all because I couldn’t let go of the past and stop searching for my real father. My foolish actions are about to cause a lot of suffering to two dear people who don’t deserve it. I think about the elaborate wedding dress being sewn for me, the huge reception Mrs. Wilkinson is planning, the enormous home William has chosen. I once complained about all those things, but now they will be lost to me. I’m sorry for being so ungrateful. Who could have imagined that Clarice Beacham, a jilted lover, would devise such a wicked plan?

  I struggle to compose myself on the ride home in case I run into Mother before I can retreat to my room. Thankfully our carriage is still gone, which means Mother is still making afternoon social calls. “Are you all right, Miss Anna?” the butler asks after opening the door for me. He appraises my ruined hat and soaked jacket.

  “Yes. I got caught in the rain. Kindly send Lucy up to my room to help me.” I intend to tell her what a horrible person she is for betraying me and then fire her on the spot.

  The butler’s face turns hard as he says, “Lucy no longer works here, Miss Anna. She walked out without so much as a thank-you or a good-bye.”

  Of course she did. Her task of spying on me was finished. I recall how timid and fearful she seemed at first, and how I felt sorry for her. It was all an act.

  I’m trembling so badly as I ascend the stairs that I have to keep a tight grip on the railing to maintain my balance. Once again, I fear I’m going to be sick. I kick off my soggy shoes and sink down on my bed.

  What am I going to do? What in the world am I going to do?

  Chapter 20

  Geesje

  Holland, Michigan

  When I return home after talking with Derk, Cornelia and her grandfather are sitting in my front room. I feel a chill from the wall of ice that seems to stand between them. Both sit with their arms folded tightly across their chests. Cornelia had been sketching when I left, but I see that she has hidden her notebook and pencils beneath an afghan on the sofa beside her. The scene brings tears to my eyes. If I filled the stove with a forest full of trees, it wouldn’t thaw the iceberg between them. And yet I do believe that Marinus cares for his granddaughter. She is all he has left.

  “I’ll make tea,” I say. But Marinus rises from his chair.

  “I can’t stay. But thank you.” He moves toward the door.

  “Dominie, wait.” I look from him to Cornelia and back again, trying to gauge if I’m interfering or helping. “I’m wondering if you had a chance to talk to Cornelia about the job down at the store, and if she made a decision.”

  “We didn’t discuss it.”

  “Would you mind if I asked her?”

  Everything about his rigid stance and thunderous expression tells me that he does mind, but after pausing for several tense moments, he surprises me by saying, “Go ahead.”

  “Cornelia, Mrs. Van Putten is looking for someone to help out in her store for a few hours a week. She’s willing to hire you, if you’re interested.” Cornelia looks up at her grandfather. I look to him, too, giving him a chance to ask her about taking a job as a mother’s helper.

  He clears his throat. “You could try it. See if it works out.”

  “There’s no need to decide right now, Cornelia,” I say when I see the wary expression on her face. “Take time to think it over.”

  She looks visibly relieved after her grandfather leaves, and I have to admit that I breathe a little easier, too. “Let’s go have some tea in the kitchen,” I say. “It’s warmer and brighter in there. This front room always seems dark to me, especially on cloudy days, because the porch blocks off so much light.” She follows me to the kitchen and sits at the table while I stoke the fire and move the kettle to the warm side of the stove. I notice that she has brought her sketchbook with her. “May I see what you’re drawing?” I ask.

  She opens the cover and shows me a sketch of my tabby cat. Even half-finished, the picture is skillfully drawn and shaded. “Cornelia, it’s wonderful! You’re a very good artist.”

  “It isn’t finished yet.” She bends over the picture and continues sketching while I prepare the tea and add a spice cookie to each of our saucers. “Grandfather says I can talk to you now,” she says without looking up.

  “I’m glad. We all need someone to talk to and share what’s on our heart. I’m very grateful for the dear friends I have.” I watch her darken th
e cat’s eyes, leaving a tiny spot of white to make them seem alive.

  “He’s upset with me for … for last Saturday. He says it’s a huge sin against God to try to end my life.”

  I squeeze my hands into fists in anger. I would like to shake some sense into that man. “Sin doesn’t come in sizes, Cornelia. Suicide is no worse than any of the dozens of other sins we all commit every day—pride, gossip, unforgiveness …” And anger, I add to myself. “But it would be a terrible tragedy if you killed yourself. I know that God has a purpose for creating you. He designed a special place for you to fit into, just as all the different pieces of a blouse pattern each have an exact place and a purpose. The blouse would be incomplete if one of the pieces was missing. You can’t see God’s purpose right now because you’re angry with Him for everything that happened, and that’s understandable—”

  “What about my parents? Was it their purpose to die?”

  I release my breath with a sigh. My certainty wavers. “Only God can answer that, Cornelia. I was your age when my parents died. You’ve seen their graves. We were all sick with malaria, but they died and I lived, just like you. My parents loved God and believed that He wanted them to move to America. So they followed Him here to this dangerous wilderness where they died only a few months later. My mother trusted God right up to the end, even when she knew she was dying. She believed that He is completely loving and good. And so she trusted His will for her as she took her last breath. I miss my mother and father. And I know you must miss yours, too.”

  A tear rolls down Cornelia’s face and drops onto the page. “My papa used to give the best hugs. I felt safe when he held me. And I knew …” She can’t finish.