Legacy of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  I have no idea what to think.

  Dear Diary,

  The new maid that Mrs. Philips hired has moved into the bedroom with me. She is very young and seems homesick as she sits on the bed across from me, sniffling as she pretends to read a book. I know I should befriend her and make her feel at ease, but I have been moving in a daze all day, still devastated by the way James reacted to my news last night. And now that I have a new roommate, we won’t have a chance to talk about the baby again until my half-day off next week. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe James needs more time to decide what we’re going to do.

  Dear Diary,

  I have been waiting all week for an envelope to arrive from James, telling me where to meet him. When it finally came this afternoon, I thought I was going to be sick. The note said, “I’ve been called away to New York on business. I’ll be gone at least two weeks.” I don’t know if the terrible nausea I’m feeling tonight is from my pregnancy or from fear.

  Dear Diary,

  It has been nearly two weeks, and James hasn’t returned from his trip. But today a plain white envelope came in the mail for me. The note inside was typewritten: “Union Station. Sunday. 2:00 p.m.” Maybe James has returned to Chicago but doesn’t want his parents to know. Maybe he went to New York to find a new job and a place for us to live so we can start all over again in a city where no one knows us. Maybe we’ll leave everything behind and get on a cross-country train on Sunday afternoon when we meet at the station.

  I’m so eager to see him, so anxious to hear what he has planned for us, that every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire. For the first time since coming to work here, I dropped a tray I was carrying in my unsteady hands and shattered a crystal wineglass.

  “The cost of the glass will be deducted from your pay,” Mrs. Philips told me. It was all I could do not to laugh in her face.

  Dear Diary,

  I want to curl up and die. The only reason I don’t is because of the baby I’m carrying—this child who is part of me and part of the man I love. I’m writing this now for my baby’s sake, so there will be a record of what happened, and he will know why his father is gone.

  I went to Union Station on Sunday like the note said and wandered around the cavernous hall for what seemed like hours searching for James. At last I decided that he may not have arrived yet, and I sat down on a bench to wait, close to the stairs that led down to the tracks. I was seated for only a few moments when a bearded gentleman in an expensive suit approached me. “Miss Christina de Jonge?” he asked.

  “Yes.” My heart raced so fast that I feared it would burst. James had sent him! He was going to give me a train ticket so I could go to New York to be with James. The man sat down and rested the briefcase he was carrying on his lap.

  “I’m here on behalf of Mr. James Blackwell. He has recently become aware that he has made a foolish mistake, as youths often do, and he has hired my law firm to help him clean it up.”

  His words hit me with the force of Jack Newell’s fists. “A mistake?”

  “Yes. Mr. Blackwell now realizes that his relationship with you simply isn’t worth the loss of his family’s sizeable fortune.” The man reached into his briefcase and handed me a small pile of papers. “He asked my law firm to take the necessary steps to have the marriage annulled.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “What does that mean?”

  “It means the marriage is over, Miss de Jonge, as if it never occurred in the first place.”

  I wanted to stand up and run, but I knew my legs would never hold me. “I don’t believe you,” I finally said. “James would have come here and told me himself.”

  “This is his signature on the annulment papers, Miss de Jonge. I’m sure you’ll recognize it.” I did. I had seen it dozens of times on the many documents James had filed during my lawsuit. “Since the vows weren’t spoken before a clergyman,” the lawyer continued, “and you haven’t lived together as husband and wife or established a legal household, sufficient grounds exist for an annulment.”

  The stunned blow I felt was the same as when Jack Newell used to knock me to the floor. A dull pain in my chest grew and swelled. Yet, hadn’t I worried all along that this would happen?

  “Neither your fellow servants nor Mr. Blackwell’s family know anything about your affair,” the man continued. “And Mr. Blackwell doesn’t wish for them to ever find out. He is offering you a very fair sum of money to leave quietly.” He pulled a thick, unsealed envelope from his briefcase and set it on my lap. It was filled with cash. “You have the rest of the afternoon to make travel plans. Then Mr. Blackwell would like you to return to the house, pack your things, and give Mrs. Philips notice that you’re quitting as of tomorrow morning. It would be best if you left Chicago altogether.”

  “What if I refuse to do what you’re asking? If I refuse to sign your papers?”

  He smiled as if indulging a naughty child. “You don’t have the resources or the know-how to fight the Blackwell family. We will have you arrested for harassment and blackmail if you try to make trouble. May I remind you that Mr. Blackwell’s father is a judge here in Chicago, with the means and the legal connections to keep you in prison for a very long time? Cook County Jail is a terrible place, Miss de Jonge.”

  I couldn’t imagine receiving worse treatment in jail than the way James was treating me now.

  The lawyer hadn’t said anything about our baby. Surely James would want to provide continued support for his own child. How else would we live? He had to be aware of the shame and scorn I would face as an unmarried woman with a baby. Yet I remembered his unusual reaction when I told him about our child. It was as if the game he’d been playing suddenly had unexpected consequences, and he’d decided to end it.

  My hand shook as I signed the annulment papers. The man closed his briefcase and left without another word. I don’t know how long I sat on the bench in the train station, waiting to summon the strength to stand. When I did, I ran into the ladies’ room and was sick.

  I didn’t count the cash inside the envelope until later that afternoon when I gave Mrs. O’Hara, the woman who manages this tenement house, my down payment for a month’s rent. I gave Mrs. Philips my notice and moved out.

  I think I knew all along that this day would come, but I still wasn’t prepared for it. Or for the cruel way James rid himself of me, sending his lawyer to end our marriage instead of being courageous enough to face me himself. I feel battered and beaten down. The pain is far worse than any of the physical blows Jack Newell ever gave me.

  Anna

  Chicago, Illinois

  1897

  That is the last entry in Mama’s diary. After rereading the page for a second time, I still can’t imagine the terrible pain she must have felt at such a cruel rejection. Was I the reason that my father, Judge James Blackwell, deserted her? Did fathering a child make the future too scary for him as he realized what he would be giving up for Mama and me? Had his little diversion with the chambermaid been nothing more than a lark all along?

  The only way I’ll ever learn the answers is if I ask him. I’m determined to find a way to do that. I need to confront him with the truth and ask him why he acted so cruelly—but first I need to figure out a way to meet him. I add James Blackwell to the growing list of people I hate along with Clarice and Lucy. I didn’t know I was capable of such strong, dark emotions. I find myself wishing I could plot a means of revenge that would be worthy of what they’ve done to me and to the people I love. Yet I know that God would not be pleased with the hatred that’s in my heart. “Love your enemies,” Jesus said. “Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.”

  I can’t do it. Was it only a week ago that I wanted so badly to follow Jesus?

  I now have a weapon I can use to defend myself against Clarice’s blackmail. My mama was married. My birth was legitimate. But if I use this weapon, I will destroy innocent lives just as Clarice is threatening to do, including Ja
mes’ daughter, Florence. And in the end, my father and mother may still end up ruined and bankrupt.

  I am back where I started. I have no idea what to do.

  Chapter 24

  Geesje

  Holland, Michigan

  Dominie Den Herder knocks on my front door on this dreary, fall day, arriving to walk with Cornelia to work. “She is nearly ready,” I tell him. “Come inside. It’s too damp to stand outside.”

  “Thank you.” He offers me a rare smile. “I hope it does not rain as we are walking,” he says in English. He and Cornelia have been practicing their new language and are coming along nicely. Marinus has been more sociable lately, spending time visiting with his granddaughter at my house in the evenings. I have offered to let them be alone, but he insists that he wants me to join them. I do most of the talking. It’s as if neither of them can summon enough warmth for the other to thaw the wall of ice that stands between them. Even so, it’s encouraging that they both seem to be trying. Maybe our prayers for the Den Herders are beginning to be answered.

  “I want you to know, Mrs. de Jonge,” he says to me now in Dutch, “that I have been looking for a place to rent. We have already stayed longer than I hoped to and have presumed too much on your hospitality.”

  I don’t reply. I worry that he will be making a mistake if he uproots Cornelia again. It has been less than two weeks since she tried to end her life, and she still seems very fragile to me. “There’s really no hurry,” I say. “I enjoy having her live with me.” Cornelia hurries into the front room as I’m speaking and takes her coat from the hook. I turn to her and say, “You’re part of my family now, and I’m going to miss you very much when the time comes for you to move. I hope your new home is close enough that we can still visit.” She smiles at me. I should mark this day on my calendar—a smile from each of them, and on the same day!

  My house does feel very quiet on the days Cornelia is at work. She has been a big help to me around the house, and I’ve enjoyed having someone to talk with while doing my chores. I spend the morning making a pot of soup and baking bread for a woman from my church who has been unwell. Cornelia can help me deliver it when she comes home. The pleasant aromas fill my little house with warmth. After lunch, I sit down at my desk to write a letter to Anneke. I haven’t heard from her since her visit, and I want her to know that I’m thinking of her. I have just taken out my stationery when I hear pounding hooves and the sound of a wagon thundering up my quiet street at breakneck speed. I jump up to look out my front window and see the delivery wagon from Van Putten’s store screeching to a halt in front of my house. My heart pounds like the horses’ hooves. Mr. Van Putten leaps down from the wagon and runs toward my door, calling, “Geesje! Geesje!”

  I throw open the front door and hurry out. Dread washes over me when I see the frantic expression on his face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Is Cornelia here?” he asks.

  My dread turns to panic. “No. Is she missing?”

  Mr. Van Putten turns to the woman seated on his wagon and shakes his head. “She’s not here!” he tells her.

  The woman cries out and scrambles down from the seat. I recognize young Lena Visscher from church as she races toward me, her face white with fear. She is breathless as she asks, “Where’s Cornelia? … She took my baby … She has my baby!”

  “Your baby? I don’t understand. Isn’t Cornelia at the store?”

  “I want my baby!” Mrs. Visscher lets out a heartrending cry, and I reach to catch her as her knees go weak.

  “Tell me what happened, Lena.”

  “We’re wasting time! We have to find them!” She is becoming hysterical. Mr. Van Putten takes over. “Lena was shopping at my store when her baby started to cry. My wife lifted him from the carriage and asked Cornelia to hold him for a moment. When we went to fetch the baby a few minutes later, Cornelia had vanished with him. Can you think of where she might have gone? We don’t know where to look.”

  I cover my mouth as I envision Cornelia jumping into Black Lake with Lena Visscher’s baby in her arms. I’m going to be sick. The town of Holland hugs the shoreline of Black Lake just a short walk from the store. I know I need to remain calm, but my heart races with fear. “How long has she been gone?”

  “Maybe five or ten minutes. She couldn’t have gone too far on foot, but we just don’t know where to look.”

  “Let’s try searching near Black Lake. Cornelia is fascinated by the water. I’ll come with you.”

  Mrs. Visscher pushes free from me. “No, no! We need to spread out! We need to search in all directions!” The little town must seem enormous to her with her tiny baby missing.

  “Take the carriage and head down to the lake, then,” I say. “I’ll run over to the church and get more help.”

  They climb back into the delivery wagon and head toward Black Lake at a gallop. I stumble up the steps into the house to fetch my coat, my feet clumsy with fear. I’m responsible for this mess. I never should have let Cornelia out of my sight. And I shouldn’t have pushed for her to work in the store. Please, God! Please! I silently pray as I run out the door again, heading toward Pillar Church. Please help us find Cornelia and the baby before it’s too late!

  As I’m praying, I suddenly think of the cemetery. Might she have gone up there? I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should go get more help or search up there first. The idea of Pilgrim Cemetery tugs at me. I quickly change direction and lift my skirts to race up the hill as fast as I can, praying all the way. Please, heavenly Father. Please help us find her. Please let them be all right.

  I’m staggering from exertion by the time I reach the top. My chest aches with pain from my pounding heart. I weave through the gravestones instead of taking the road, and when I finally see Cornelia, I nearly collapse from exhaustion and relief. She is sitting on my parents’ graves with her back to me, rocking the bundled baby in her arms. “Thank God! Thank God!” I whisper as I approach her.

  Cornelia is singing a lullaby, so softly I mistake the sound for weeping at first. The baby is asleep in her arms. “Cornelia?” She stops singing. I kneel down beside her and caress her back. “Cornelia … everyone is looking for you, lieveling. Mrs. Visscher is worried about her baby. We need to take him back to her now.”

  She nods and wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry, Tante Geesje… . I just needed to hold him.” I wait, sensing she has more to tell me. “They didn’t let me hold my own baby, not even once… . My grandfather made them take him away from me right after he was born.”

  I cover my mouth to hold back a cry as my soul wails in grief for Cornelia. “You … had a baby,” I say when I can speak. I make it a statement, not a question, struggling not to betray my shock and surprise.

  Cornelia nods and holds the child closer. She is little more than a child herself. “They didn’t even let me see him.”

  “Oh, lieveling.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her close. “That was very cruel of them to take away your baby. Your arms must have felt so empty.”

  “Not just my arms … I felt empty everywhere. Especially my heart.”

  “You poor sweet child. I understand. I do. But this isn’t your baby, Cornelia. You must know that. And now Lena Visscher’s arms are empty. We need to bring him back to her.”

  “I know… . I’m sorry. I just needed to hold him for a little while.”

  I stand, my legs cramped and aching. Cornelia doesn’t resist as I help her up. She clutches the sleeping baby against her chest as we start walking home. “I brought him here so I could say good-bye… . Like I said good-bye to my family.”

  “I understand. And I’m glad you had a chance to do that.”

  As we walk, I silently praise God for answering my prayers, grateful that I found her and that they were both safe. I thank God that Cornelia went up the hill to the cemetery instead of down to the lake. This day could have ended in tragedy.

  When we reach my street, I’m not sure what to do. I’m uneasy
about leaving Cornelia at home all alone, yet I hesitate to bring her back to the store to face all the nosy questions and stares—not to mention Lena Visscher’s understandable anger. In the end, I gently take the baby from her arms and say, “Why don’t you wait for me at home, Cornelia? I’ll take the baby back to his mother, okay? We’ll have some tea together to warm up when I get back.”

  She nods and bends to kiss the baby’s forehead before I go. “Good-bye,” she whispers.

  My legs ache as I hurry to the store on Eighth Street, my skirts hindering my steps. The baby grows heavy in my arms. A crowd has formed in front of the store, but Lena breaks free and runs to me, snatching her son from my arms. “Thank God! Thank God!” she says as she clutches him to her heart.

  People are shouting questions at me. “Where did you find him?” “Where’s Cornelia?” “Why did she kidnap him?” I ignore them.

  “Let’s go inside and sit down,” I say. I steer Lena toward the store, but she is weeping so loudly I’m not sure she hears me. “Please send everyone else away for now,” I tell the Van Puttens. “Mrs. Visscher needs to sit down in the back of the store where it’s quiet.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Van Putten replies. “Follow me.” I hear her husband thanking everyone for their help and saying that the baby is just fine as I lead Lena inside to the storeroom. It’s blissfully warm from the potbellied stove, and I sip from the glass of water Mrs. Van Putten offers me while we wait for Lena to stop crying.

  I rest my hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry that this happened. But I hope you know that Cornelia never meant to worry you or to harm your baby. She was very gentle with him.”

  “Then why did she steal him and run away with him?”

  “That was never her intention.” I choose my words carefully. “Not too many people in Holland know Cornelia’s story because her grandfather wanted to avoid gossip and give her a brand-new start here in America—but she has had a very tragic past. I’m telling both of you because I know I can trust you to keep it confidential.” I pause and sip more water, considering how much to share. I decide not to mention Cornelia’s baby, since I don’t know the story myself yet.