by Debby Lee
Abe glanced at Millie. “We haven’t had much opportunity to speak.”
“Mildred may like to take a walk on this grand evening.” Father slapped him on the back. “I wonder, would you be so kind as to escort her?”
Abe offered Millie his arm. She looped her arm through his and offered him an encouraging smile.
They walked out of the tenement and onto the cobblestone sidewalk.
“Thank you again for testifying and bringing more witnesses,” Abe said. “What you did on the steps of the courthouse was very brave.”
“Thank you for your dedication to the cause.”
They walked in silence for several minutes. “Millie.” Abe cleared his throat. “I hope you can forgive me for walking away from you and saying there was no future for us. It was impulsive of me. I will forever regret it.”
“I also have regrets. I hope you don’t think it forward of me,” Millie said, “but I pray you’ll forgive me and offer to court me again. That is, if you’re interested.”
He stopped walking then turned to face her.
She touched his cheek. He clasped her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one.
“I’m more than interested.”
A sliver of moonlight stretched across Abe’s bedroom, enough for him to see his father sleeping in his bed. Not that he cared. He changed into his nightclothes and eased onto the pallet in the corner of his room. Sleep evaded him. His mind, abuzz with the possibility of a future with Millie, kept his eyes wide open.
How had he been so fortunate? He had a job he was proud to do, a woman he loved, and a family that embraced him.
He murmured prayers of gratitude until sleep finally claimed him.
Abe’s bedroom door creaked. He raised his head. His father was not in the bed. The earthy aroma of morning coffee had likely drawn him to the kitchen.
Abe stretched and anticipated his day. He and Sam would meet with Mr. Crane this morning to discuss ways to keep up the momentum of identifying garment factory bosses who ignored safety regulations. Later, he’d join Millie’s family for supper and take Millie to an ice cream parlor. Last evening he’d learned her favorite dessert was vanilla ice cream, her favorite color sky blue, and most importantly, she’d forgiven him and asked him to court her.
He dressed in brown linen trousers and a freshly pressed beige shirt. He reached for his pocket watch from his dresser. In its place was a note scrawled on a scrap of paper.
Abraham,
I can’t stay where I can’t make money, so I’ve moved on. I borrowed your pocket watch, a few dollars from your wallet, and a blanket. I will repay you when I can.
Your Father
Abe opened his wallet, peered at the empty space where his spending cash had been, and confirmed without question what he now knew to be true.
He wasn’t at all like his thieving father.
Summer was a flurry of designing custom-made hats for high society ladies to wear to their parties. Wide-brimmed styles reigned as New York City experienced a heatwave that kept fashionable ladies fanning themselves and drinking cold lemonade. By the end of the season, Mother’s tin overflowed.
Father graduated from his wheelchair to a cane and took a walk with the twins every day. Before bedtime, he read to them from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden or a tale from Aesop’s Fables, then tucked them in, kissed their cheeks, and told them both how much he loved them. Babi hummed her way through the day, and Millie and Abe spent most evenings together. Rose and Yuri were best of friends and often sat with their heads together giggling and embroidering. None of the young women worked in factories. The millinery business provided more money than they’d ever made.
The first Sunday in September, Abe borrowed the bread truck and drove Millie’s whole family to church. The men were in especially good spirits. During the fellowship hour, Abe and Father talked with hands cupped over their mouths and mischief dancing in their eyes. Millie delighted in the camaraderie between them.
On the drive home, Abe parked the truck in front of a two-story redbrick building with a large plate-glass window next to the entrance door, presumably a former mercantile. Abe and Father quirked their brows and beamed as they assembled the family on the sidewalk.
Abe asked Father, “Ready?”
Father pulled a key from his trouser pocket and presented it to Millie.
Abe opened the back door of the bread truck and unveiled a simple wooden sign, PULNIKS‘ MILLINERY.
Millie tilted her head and stared first at the key and then the sign.
Abe hustled her to the door and urged her to try the key. Inside the shop, Millie admired the rich maple wood of the display cases along one wall. Rose stood behind the sales counter that ran partway down the middle of the room, and Babi ran her hands over the worktables on the back wall. A cloth-covered object sat on one of the back tables. Father asked Celia to pull off the cloth to expose the surprise.
Eyes wide, the women gathered around an electric sewing machine.
A full minute passed before Millie stammered, “Oh Father … Abe … how?”
Father stood tall. “Abe and I pooled our resources and rented this building for your business.”
“And the rest of the building?” Babi asked.
“Our quarters. Come with me.” Father led them through a storage room, and behind that to a tenement with two bedrooms, a large kitchen, an indoor privy with a bathtub, and a parlor.
“We have electricity and running water.” Father knocked on a large table in the kitchen area. “Sewing and business in the morning and lessons at this table after lunch. It’s time to teach Celia and Paul how to read and do arithmetic. Rose can take her lessons in the evening, and Yuri asked me to teach her to read and write.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Millie placed her palm over her heart. “You’ve considered every detail.”
Abe regarded Millie and added, “Upstairs is a smaller apartment where I will live.”
They toured the whole of it together, one big family. Afterward, they stood in a circle in their new shop while Father led a prayer of gratitude. God had answered Millie’s prayers and restored her faith.
On the drive home, the women and little Celia talked about how to prepare their new store for a grand opening.
Abe held Millie back while her family entered the Blanch Building. He took her hand and knelt on one knee. “Mildred Pulnik, your father gave permission for us to marry. Will you trust me to love and care for you for as long as I live?”
She knelt beside him, her heart full, while joyous tears fell to the cobblestone. Millie held Abe’s hands in hers, locked her gaze on his, and kissed one palm, then the other.
“Abraham Skala, my heart is forever in your hands.”
Jacquolyn McMurray writes both contemporary and historical romance and has published two novella-length romances. She and her husband live on a macadamia-nut farm on the island of Hawai’i where they feed a clowder of cats and a flock of hodgepodge chickens. Jacquolyn is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the Greater Seattle Romance Writers, and American Christian Fiction Writers. When she’s not writing, Jacquolyn enjoys spending time with her family, reading, sewing, and solving crossword puzzles. In her past life, she was an elementary school teacher. Keep connected with Jacquolyn at www.jacquolynmcmurray.com.
Dedication
To my precious friend, prayer partner, and encourager—Jeni Koch. I could never adequately tell you how much you mean to me, but this will hopefully give you a little piece of my heart.
Thank you for your friendship and support, your love and prayers, and all the laughter, hugs, and smiles. I’m looking forward to decades more with you.
Give Gary a hug from his favorite bell-ringing ding-a-ling, and tell him how much I love it that he reads my books too.
Love you dearly,
Kimberley
Note to the Reader:
What an exciting time in our history to write about—1911.
For this story, I used some real people, but since this is a work of fiction, their personalities are contrived in my imagination.
It is important to note that Alva Vanderbilt Belmont was a huge supporter of the suffragette movement and extremely wealthy. Adding this historical figure to A Language of Love along with Carrie Astor Wilson—great-granddaughter of America’s first millionaire, John Jacob Astor—was so much fun and I think an interesting addition to this story.
While the New York Giants were a real team in the National League in 1911, our hero is not real. He’s completely fictional. The team played at the Polo Grounds (III) in Coogan’s Hollow, which actually did burn down on April 14, 1911, and was rebuilt—Polo Grounds IV—by June 28 of that same year. (Today, the Polo Grounds Towers stand on the location with a plaque on the property marking approximately where home plate was originally located.)
Some of my favorite attire is from this Edwardian era. The “big hat” time period is actually my favorite and so I truly enjoyed having Jeni be a designer and milliner.
What was even more fun was researching linguistics and accents for this story since my heroine is Irish and my hero is from Brooklyn. Because it’s a novella, there’s not a lot of room to get to show you the uniqueness and fun of these two characters’ speech, but prayerfully, you get a snippet and see what a challenge it would be to try to change your “accent.”
Let’s head back to 1911 in A Language of Love.
Enjoy the journey,
Kimberley Woodhouse
Chapter 1
Manhattan, New York
Monday, February 27, 1911
Yer gonna do what, lass?” Auntie Bridget’s voice screeched into an upper octave only a soprano could manage.
Jeni O’Brien felt the heat in her face grow as her ire built. Placing her hands on her hips, she took a deep breath. “Exactly what I said, Auntie Brig. I’m gonna take linguistics lessons.” She turned toward the mirror and patted her hair before putting her latest creation—an incredible design if she did say so herself—in place and securing it with a pin. She wanted to look her best for today. Nothing like a new hat to make a woman feel beautiful.
“Why on earth do ya need linguistics lessons? Ya speak jest fine.”
“Because we’re not in Ireland anymore. Because I’m tired of NINA. The No Irish Need Apply groups are still around. They’re condescendin’, ridiculin’ us just because of how we speak. And frankly, I’m tired of everyone lookin’ at me when I speak and peerin’ down their noses at me because I’m Irish. I’m not a lesser person just because I speak differently.”
“But ya are Irish. And ya should be proud of it.” Auntie Bridget’s Irish brogue thickened. On purpose, no doubt. “Come here to me, you’ll be regrettin’ this for sure.”
“Oh stop, Aunt Brig. No bodge tryin’ to convince me otherwise. I’m just as proud of my heritage as you are—”
“No, yer not. I can’t believe ya would do this to yerself. And to me. Ye are Irish and yer heritage is everything.” Her aunt took a deep breath. “All this will do is lead ya down a rotten path. That’ll lead to conversations with non-Irish men. Non-Irish people of all sorts. And all they will want is for you to become like them. That’s not why we came to America. We came to be free. To be who we are.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doin’, can’t ya see that?” Softening her tone, Jeni knew the only way to convince her aunt was to plead with her Irish practicality rather than get into one of their heated arguments. “By workin’ on my speech, I’ll have even more of a chance to own me own shop one day. How many times have you told me that ya hate the fact I create the best hats for all the wealthiest of New York City and yet absolutely no one knows my name? Mr. Crawford keeps me in the back all the time. Another point on which yer disdain has been made clear. But why does it happen? Because I’m Irish. I would think you would want me to succeed, rather than be hidden in the back like a slave.” So much for keeping her temper at bay. Her voice had risen in volume the more she talked and brought up all of her aunt’s points. Which would probably work against her.
“I don’t think yer being treated like a slave. For heaven’s sake, yer paid more than triple of all the other girls, ain’t ya? Isn’t that special treatment enough?” Auntie Bridget crossed her arms over her chest and stomped her foot. “The fact of the matter is yer doin’ this so people won’t know that yer Irish. Not that ya want them to know yer heritage. Yer ashamed and want to become American. I’ll have none of that. I’m ashamed of ya. Yer a good Irish lass, why do you want anythin’ more than that?” The look on her face told Jeni all she needed to know.
The scolding from Aunt Bridget just about did her in. If she wasn’t careful, words could be said that neither of them could take back. Jeni kept a firm tone as anger bubbled inside her at an alarming rate. All this time, she’d been too timid to move forward. Little did her fiery aunt know that the very words she used to try to change her niece’s mind only proved to give Jeni the stubborn bravery she needed to move ahead with her plan. “Auntie Brig, you can’t talk me out of this.” She lifted her shoulders. “I pay all of our bills. I pay for our housing. I pay for our food. You should respect the decision that I’m making. It’s the best thing for us.” She put on her gloves and grabbed her purse. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“We are not finished, lass. Yer parents left ya in my care, and I won’t stand for—”
Jeni walked out and closed the door on her aunt’s words. “Aye, we are.” Whispering to the wood that separated them, she turned and walked down the hall. She’d never done anything quite so callous, even though they’d had plenty of knock-down drag-out arguments over the years. Before they’d come to America, they’d even had a couple of donnybrooks in the street outside their home. Two stubborn Irish women didn’t make for congenial conversation when they both had ideas of their own. Especially as Jeni became an adult and started to earn enough money for them to live on. As soon as she felt like she should have an opinion, Auntie Bridget had tried to make sure that she remembered who was the elder and who was in charge.
As Jeni walked to the professor’s office, she looked around at the streets and shops of New York City. She loved it here.
Never would she tell her aunt this, but she had no desire to return to Ireland. Too much heartache remained there, and she had no reason to go back to her homeland, even though it was a beautiful country. Auntie Bridget often talked of returning one day. When things were better. But Jeni held no such desire.
For years she’d worked her way up in millinery. In fact, it was true, the owner of the shop where she worked was known as the best milliner in the city—all because of Jeni’s designs. He paid her a pretty penny because he knew that if he lost her to another shop, he’d lose the majority of his business. But so far she hadn’t had the gumption to do anything more than threaten to leave. So he just raised her pay and she stayed hidden in the back.
Something that needed to change. And soon.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful. She was. But what she lacked was confidence. If she could simply get rid of her strong Irish accent, she could be accepted among society as a valuable contributor. Despite her aunt’s opinion, Jeni truly was proud of her heritage. Even though attitudes weren’t as intense now against the Irish as they’d been at the turn of the century and decades prior, there was still discrimination—especially among some of the elite. The very people who were her clientele. So what was the problem with her improving herself so that she could be a respected business owner? Couldn’t God honor that desire?
Her dream was to one day own her very own shop and serve the wealthiest women in New York City. The latter of which she already did—not that any of her clients knew it. Jeni wanted to do it out in full view. Not hidden behind the curtain.
Deep down, she longed to be a part of them one day. Oh, she didn’t have to be extraordinarily rich, but she would like to at least be in their social circles. They carried themselves differently. Had
money to help the poor, and were well respected.
Some of the ladies she’d seen on the streets had been people she desperately wanted to speak to. After all, they were wearing her hats. But it hadn’t been her place. At least not yet. She’d have to earn it.
Why was class such a big deal anyway? Why did it matter the color of someone’s skin or the color of their hair, the land of their birth, the accent of their speech, or how much money they had? This was supposed to be the land of the free and the home of the brave. A place where all men were equal.
If only that were true for women.
And women who were Irish.
As she entered the building that housed the professor’s office, she took a deep breath. This would be a lot of hard work, but it was time. Maybe it took Auntie Bridget’s arguing this morning to get Jeni’s ire up enough that she’d have the gumption to follow through with her dream. Whatever it was, she was ready.
God, help me to do my best and to honor You.
Knocking on the door, she put what she hoped was a confident smile on her face. Her dress was of the highest fashion, and of course so was her hat. If she could simply impress the professor and get through this first lesson. Everything would be wonderful. She hoped. One step at a time. That’s what Da used to always say.
Even though this first step was a doozy, it was one she needed to take. And then after that, maybe each step would be a little easier. Each step, that was, that didn’t include dealing with Aunt Bridget, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to deal with her later. Much later.
Several seconds passed and only served to increase the racing of her heart. What on earth could be taking so long? She looked in her purse to make sure she’d read the number on the paper correctly. Sure enough, the door number matched. Checking the watch pinned to her shirtwaist, she noted she was a minute or two early, but wasn’t that proper etiquette?