by Lynn Austin
“That he loved you?”
She nods and blots the tear from the paper. “After he died, there was nobody to hold me anymore.”
My heart breaks for her. I crouch beside her chair and enfold her in my embrace. Silent sobs shake her body, and I hold her tightly until they stop. “When I go into the water,” she says, her voice muffled against my shoulder, “it’s very cold, but I can feel it surrounding me. Holding me.”
“I’ll hold you whenever you need me to, Cornelia. But even my arms will never be enough. You need to feel God’s arms around you the same way you felt your papa’s arms—surrounding you, holding you tightly. Will you give Him a chance to do that?”
She pulls away and leans back in her chair, wiping her face. “How?”
“Start by opening your eyes to all the little ways that He shows you His love. Like that sketchbook. It gives you joy, doesn’t it?” She tilts her head, a grudging yes. “It didn’t come from me, it came from God. He’s the One who urged me to buy it for you.”
She picks up her pencil again, toying with it. What I need to say next will be risky. The last thing I want to do is turn Cornelia any further away from her grandfather. But she needs her vision restored. I decide to take a chance.
“Please don’t picture God like your grandfather, standing in angry judgment over you. Imagine Him like your papa—loving you even when you misbehave, taking delight in you, wanting what’s best for you. Will you try to do that?”
“My grandfather is a dominie. He must know all about God.”
“Yes, but perhaps he hasn’t seen God’s love in a while. He lost his wife, all of his children, and his work as a minister. I think he’s angry with God, but he hasn’t admitted it yet. Or else he’s afraid to admit it. I believe that he loves you, but he just doesn’t know how to show it.” I pause to give her time to think about my words. She brushes her hand across the paper. “God shows us His love wherever we look, Cornelia. Only a loving God would think to create a tabby cat so we could enjoy the softness of its paws, the warmth of its fur, and the delight of its purring. Your life is also a gift from God. You’re His beloved child. Please don’t throw that gift away.”
I have talked enough for today. Cornelia needs time to think about what she has heard. Marinus has allowed her to share her secrets with me now, but I need to be patient and wait until she’s ready. And I’ll need wisdom once she does.
The next week, Cornelia goes to work at Van Putten’s Dry Goods store for the first time. She seems excited about it in her quiet, nearly invisible way. I give her a hug and whisper “good luck” as she leaves to walk there with her grandfather. I have something important to do while she’s gone. I have invited three of my closest friends from church, including our pastor’s wife, to come for coffee so I can ask for their help. We gather around my kitchen table, taking time to laugh and catch up on our lives before we get down to serious business.
“I need you to pray with me for Cornelia Den Herder and her grandfather Marinus,” I tell them. “Not just today, but in the days and weeks and months to come. I won’t go into their specific needs—not because I don’t trust you, but because God already knows them, and that’s all that matters. Both Marinus and Cornelia are far away from God right now—in different ways, perhaps—and I know God wants to draw them back. And we all believe that it’s the church’s job, our job, to help people find their way back to God. We can do it by praying, of course, and we will do that in just a minute. But in this particular case …” I pause as my tears well up. “In this case, Marinus and Cornelia see Him only as a God of wrath and judgment. We need to show them His love in every way that we can, every chance we get.”
“Cornelia seems very shy,” the pastor’s wife says. “She barely responds when I speak to her after church, even if I speak Dutch.”
“She is shy, yes. But her response also comes from shame. She feels as though she isn’t good enough to face people. As if everyone else has led a perfect life.”
We share a little chuckle at that idea, and one of my friends says, “If she believes that we’re perfect, then it’s our fault for giving a false impression by smiling and pretending everything is fine on Sunday mornings.” We all agree that she is right.
“The few times I’ve tried to talk to Dominie Den Herder,” another friend says, “his response has been cold and abrupt.”
“He pushes everyone away,” I reply. “He had a very bad experience with gossip in his church in the Netherlands, and he pushed his congregation away instead of allowing them to help him and Cornelia through their grief. I agree that he seems unlovable. But it’s the unlovable people who need our love the most.”
We take time to pray. I know that my friends will not only pray for the Den Herders in the days ahead, but will invite them to Sunday dinner and do other acts of kindness for them. By the time my friends leave, I already feel the weight of my burden being lifted from my shoulders, knowing that the load is being shared.
Chapter 21
Anna
Chicago, Illinois
I can’t sleep. I spend the night tossing in bed, worrying and praying about what to do. Clarice has given me an impossible choice. Either way, my engagement to William will end. Clarice will win. And my father will lose everything. I decide it will be better if I end the engagement rather than expose my family to further scandal. I will need to give William a reason for calling off the wedding, but right now I’m too distraught to think of one. And deep inside, I suspect that even if I do call it off, Clarice won’t keep her word.
I’ve walked around this dilemma a thousand times, viewing it from every angle. There’s only one very slim hope of escaping from Clarice’s trap—and that is to find my real father. If Mama were legally married to him, there will be no scandal, no need to break the engagement. If she wasn’t, then all hope is truly gone. I could rehire the Pinkerton detectives to find him now that I know they weren’t the ones who betrayed me, but that would take too much time. I don’t know how long Clarice is willing to wait. And the wedding invitations will go to the engraver next week.
I try to get out of bed but can’t do it. My bones ache. My body feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds. I continue to cry off and on, unable to stop. I want to burrow beneath my covers and stay there forever. The most I can manage to do is to ring for a maid.
The girl who comes is one I’ve never seen before. Is she another spy, sent to replace Lucy? I can barely control the rage that boils up inside me. I hate Clarice with an intensity that shocks me. And I hate that sneaky little traitor Lucy just as much. I want revenge.
“Yes, Miss Anna?” the maid asks. “Would you like breakfast now? A cup of tea?”
Jesus’ words swirl among my vindictive thoughts like wisps of smoke: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” Impossible.
“Nothing, thank you. Please tell my mother that I’m feeling ill. I won’t be able to make any social calls with her today.”
“Yes, Miss Anna.”
Mother comes in a few minutes later wearing her dressing gown. “What’s wrong, dear? The maid said you were unwell.” She presses her hand against my forehead to see if I’m feverish.
“My stomach has been upset all night. I don’t feel well enough to go with you today.”
“Did you forget that William’s sister is hosting a tea this afternoon?”
Tears fill my eyes at the thought of sweet Jane being poisoned by Clarice’s gossip. “Please offer Jane my sincere regrets. I’m just too ill to go.”
Mother looks as though she wants to say something but changes her mind. “Very well, dear. I hope you’ll feel better tomorrow.”
I try to pray, aware of how desperately I need God’s help. Then I manage to doze for a while, catching up on my lost sleep. I’m awakened by a knock on my door. It’s the new maid again. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Anna, but there’s a gentleman downstairs in the kitchen who’s asking to speak with you. He says it’s important. We
told him you’re indisposed, but he keeps insisting.”
I can’t imagine who could be at our back door. Nor can I bear more bad news. “Did he tell you his name?”
“Yes, miss—Derk Vander Veen.”
I scramble to sit up in bed. Derk? Here in Chicago? Impossible. Someone is playing a cruel joke on me. “What does this gentleman look like?” I ask.
The girl gives a shy smile and her cheeks flush. “He’s tall and fair-haired, miss. With blue eyes. Very nice and friendly. But he wants to speak with you and says he won’t leave until we tell you he’s here.”
Derk is here. I don’t know why he came or how he got here, but I know he’s the answer to my prayers. “Have him wait in the morning room… . And ask if he would like tea or coffee or … or something to eat. Tell him … tell him I’ll be down shortly.” I dress as quickly as I can and brush my hair into a loose bun, too anxious to wait for a maid to pin it up. I waste several minutes searching for my shoes before recalling that I ruined them in the rain yesterday. My legs feel shaky as I make my way downstairs.
Derk looks out of place in our overly furnished morning room. I resist the urge to run into his arms when I see him. “Hello, Derk. What are you doing in Chicago?” I can’t control the smile that spreads across my face. He grins in return, but he appears nervous as we both sit down. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, and he wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers.
“I needed to see you. We never had a chance to finish talking after Cornelia’s accident, and there are so many things I still need to say. Is … is this a good time? Can you talk?”
Derk is solid and real, like one of the tall, white pillars that hold up the roof of his church in Holland. I’m so relieved to see him that I have to cover my face as I burst into tears. How I’ve needed someone strong to lean on! Derk jumps up and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Anneke, what is it? Have I done something wrong?”
“No, not at all! It’s just that I needed a friend, and I prayed for help—and here you are! It seems like a miracle!”
He pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to me. His eyes are as blue as the lake on a summer day. “Tell me everything,” he says as he sits on the sofa beside me.
I tell him about my search for my real father and how I learned that Jack Newell died long before I was born. I talk about meeting Vera and Mrs. Philips and seeing the Blackwell mansion where Mama worked. Then I explain how the trail came to a dead end with Mrs. O’Hara at the tenement house. “My mama gave birth to me all alone in that awful place. She told the caretaker that her husband had died in a railroad accident—but Jack isn’t my father. That means Mama may have been unmarried.”
“I can see why you’re so upset.”
“But that isn’t the worst of it. I trusted one of our maids to go with me while I was searching, and all along she was spying for a woman named Clarice Beacham. Clarice wants to ruin William, so she is blackmailing me. She says the only way I can avoid a huge scandal about my birth is to end my engagement to William—but then my father’s finances will be ruined and Mother will never survive the disgrace. Besides, I don’t trust Clarice. I think she’ll destroy my family and me even if I do call off the wedding.”
“There’s no way out for you? You’re at this woman’s mercy?” I can tell by the way that Derk’s eyes flash that he’s furious.
“I’ve been stewing over it all night, and the only possible way out of this dilemma is to find my real father. But even that would be risky, because he and Mama may not have been married after all.”
“Then you have nothing to lose. If you find out who he is and that he never married your mother, you’re no worse off than you are now. But if you can prove that they were legally married, then there’s no scandal for this woman to use.”
“But how do I find him? I’ve reached a dead end. My only hope is that Mama left a marriage license or my birth certificate among her belongings before she died. The caretaker says her things might be in the basement storage room at the tenement house, but I saw that storeroom, Derk. It would be like digging through a garbage heap.”
“Even so, I think you should try. I’ll help you.” He stands and offers me his hand to help me up.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“Yes, I do. I’m helping a friend who needs me.”
We gather up two kerosene lanterns from the carriage house and a pry bar in case the crates are nailed shut, and I ask one of our drivers to take us there. It no longer matters if he or any of our other servants are spying on me.
Derk appears moved when we pull up in front of the tenement house. “I can’t believe that people are forced to live in such dreary places,” he says. We tell the driver to return in a few hours, and we go downstairs to Mrs. O’Hara’s apartment. She smiles when I introduce her to Derk.
“What a handsome couple you two are!” she says.
I feel my cheeks growing warm. “You did say I could come back and look for my mama’s things?”
“I did. I’m glad to see you brought help. I don’t think anyone has been in that storeroom in years, especially with my husband as sick as he is.”
She gives us the key, and Derk lights our lanterns. I lead him through the basement to the storage room door. Shiny, dark insects skitter beneath the boxes as light enters the room. “Wow!” Derk breathes when he sees the task we’re facing. “It’s packed solid in there!”
“I know. Where do we begin?”
He exhales. “How about if I pull out the boxes, one by one, and put them here by the coal bin so you can search through them?” He finds two nails to hang up the lanterns. The rafters above our heads are covered with cobwebs. Derk lifts the first box from the top of a pile and sets it down in front of me, raising a cloud of dust. The lid opens easily without a pry bar, and I crouch down to riffle through it.
“I can barely tell what these contents once were,” I tell him. “Old papers and matted, moth-eaten clothing, it looks like.” I glance up and catch him staring at me. The expression on his face makes my heart race. It’s the same expression William wore the first time we toured his enormous mansion. Derk blushes and turns to reach for another box. He passes down one after another, prying open the ones that are nailed shut. It’s my job to search through the contents. I have never done such hard, disgusting work in my life, but desperation propels me to keep going. My skirt and shirtwaist will be ruined. I don’t know how the servants will ever get them clean. Derk’s shirt and trousers are being coated with filth, too. I hope he brought a change of clothing.
“We should have worn gloves,” I say when I see how dirty and black our hands have become. “I don’t know how I’ll ever get the grime out from beneath my fingernails.”
“Too late to worry about it now,” Derk says with a grin. Our gazes meet and hold. I see the warmth and love in his eyes, and I can’t look away. I don’t want to. The powerful emotions I felt for him over the summer, the feelings I fought so hard to ignore, come rushing back in a huge wave, overwhelming me. I want nothing more than to run into his arms and lose myself there. “Do you need to take a break?” he asks, his voice soft.
I force myself to turn away. “No. We’ve barely begun.” We return to work, searching through crate after crate, hauling each crumbling box out to the area in front of the coal bin and prying it open. We find nothing but broken, useless belongings, old papers, and worn-out clothing—items that should have been thrown into the garbage to begin with. It’s grubby, disgusting work.
“Anneke, you have to come here and see this,” Derk says when we’ve tunneled halfway into the room. His hand is warm and strong as he helps me to my feet. He takes down one of the lamps and shines the light between the boxes. “Look—it’s a nest of baby mice.”
“Mice!” A shiver runs up my spine. My instinct is to back away, but he tightens his grip on my hand to hold me in place.
“No, don’t run. They won’t hurt you. Aren’t they beautiful?” I don’t know how to
tell him that I find mice repulsive, not beautiful. I’m also worried that their mother might crawl up my leg any minute. “Come take a closer look, Anneke.” He tugs my hand, pulling me into the storeroom. Nestled in a bed of fur and shredded paper are six tiny, pink-skinned babies, their eyes still sealed shut. “Look how delicate and perfect they are,” he says.
With my hand in his, I am able to see what he sees. “You’re right. Thank you for showing me.” Once again, I look up at him and feel an overwhelming urge to move into his arms. I long to kiss him.
This time Derk breaks the spell first by letting go of my hand. “Back to work,” he says.
“What are you going to do with the nest?”
“I’ll leave it. I can work around it.”
I return to the piles of boxes, searching each one, finding nothing but trash. I can no longer deny my feelings for Derk, and I find myself staring at his broad back and strong arms as he works. He has rolled up his sleeves, and the golden hairs on his arms gleam in the lamplight. I will need to store away my feelings for him after we’re done; they will have to remain hidden like the contents of this dark storeroom. I am watching Derk lift down another box when he suddenly gives a shout of surprise and backs up a few steps. I scream as I glimpse a huge brown rat slithering out of sight. I scramble on top of a wooden crate as fast as I can move.
“It’s okay. It’s gone,” Derk says.
“It’s not okay! That rat is still in the storeroom somewhere, isn’t it?” Derk laughs, a glorious, uproarious sound that brings a nervous smile to my face. “What’s so funny?”
“I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as you did just now. Look at you, balancing on top of that crate!”
“Well, you should talk! You jumped straight up in the air!”
He laughs again as he offers me a steadying hand so I can climb down. “Do you want to take a break and sit outside for a few minutes? I can keep searching by myself.”