Legacy of Mercy Page 6

  I awaken later that night to an odd sound. I listen in the darkness, my heart pounding, before I realize what it is. Through the wall that separates our two bedrooms, I can hear Cornelia weeping inconsolably. I get up and go to her door, fearing she is having a nightmare. As I stand in her doorway, wondering what to do, she sits up in bed.

  “Go away and leave me alone!”

  I hesitate, then take a step toward her. “I can’t do that.” I slowly cross the room and sit down on her bed. After a moment of hesitation, I wrap my arms tightly around her and hold her close.

  “Go away,” she says again, but softer this time. She doesn’t resist my embrace.

  “God hears you weeping, Cornelia. He counts every tear that falls. He longs to comfort you, and the only arms He has are mine.” She leans into me then, accepting my embrace. I stroke her soft hair and gently rock her in my arms as she sobs.

  When she finally runs out of tears, I hear her say softly, “Tante Geesje?”

  It’s the first time she has called me by that name, which is an encouraging sign. “Yes?”

  “I ran away before because I wanted to die. I tried to end my life. Grandfather is afraid I will try again.”

  I’m so stunned I stop rocking her for a second. “And do you still want to end your life?” I ask.

  “I don’t know… . Some days I do.”

  I can think of nothing to say. I pull Cornelia into my arms and hold her tightly while she weeps.

  Chapter 6

  Anna

  Chicago, Illinois

  I wake up to a cold, gray morning that perfectly matches my mood. I reach behind me to pull the cord, signaling the servants downstairs to bring up my breakfast. My room is so dark and dreary that I rise and open the curtains myself to try to dispel the gloom. Below my window, the leaves have lost their color, and they lie on the branches and along the road in soggy, wet clumps. Rain slides down my windowpane like tears. I’m deep in thought when I hear a light knock on my door. It’s the new maid, Lucy, with my breakfast tray. “Put it on my desk for now,” I tell her.

  “Yes, Miss Anna… . Oh, and another note arrived for you.”

  I recognize the imprint of the Pinkerton Detective Agency on the envelope she holds out to me. I have forgotten to notify the agents of my decision to abandon my search.

  “Wait a moment, Lucy, while I see if I need to reply.” I slit open the flap with my letter knife and read the memo:

  From: The Pinkerton Detective Agency

  Agents R. J. Albertson and M. Mitchell

  To: Miss Anna Nicholson

  We have found additional information concerning Jack Newell that will be of interest to you. Please advise us of a convenient time to call upon you with our findings.

  I back up a step and sink down on the edge of my bed, wondering what to do. I’m not sure I want to know anything more about Jack if it’s bad news. On the other hand, maybe they’ve learned whether or not he is my father. I don’t want him to be, but the alternative seems even more upsetting.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Anna?” the maid asks.

  “It’s nothing. Is the courier who brought this still waiting downstairs?”

  “I believe so, Miss Anna.”

  “Then wait a moment. I’ll need you to deliver my reply.” I sit down at my desk and pull out my stationery. Several minutes pass as I decide what to say. The smell of the steaming, soft-boiled egg on my tray makes my stomach turn. My mouth has gone dry. I lift the teacup and take a sip, then scribble a reply, inviting the agents to call today at three o’clock. I am meeting William for lunch, which should only take an hour or so. And Mother has an afternoon appointment that should keep her away until after the agents have gone. “Take this down right away, Lucy.”

  “Yes, Miss Anna.”

  I’m just finishing my breakfast a short time later when I hear another knock on my door. “Come in.”

  It’s Lucy again. “I gave the messenger your note, Miss Anna. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Not at the moment. I’m nearly finished with my breakfast, but the chambermaid will collect the tray when she comes up to make my bed. You’re excused.” Lucy backs up a few steps but hesitates in the doorway instead of leaving. “Was there something else?” I ask her.

  “If you please, Miss Anna,” she says with another little curtsy. “I noticed that you share a lady’s maid with Mrs. Nicholson, and I-I would be very pleased to help you the way Sophia does—making sure your dresses are laid out and pressed and your silk gloves are clean and your shoes all polished. I’m good at pinning up hair, too. I used to be a lady’s maid like Sophia in the last house where I worked.”

  “Why did you leave?” I ask.

  “Well … because I heard that your mother, Mrs. Nicholson, was hiring help and—” Lucy curtsies again. “If you please, Miss Anna, she pays more money than my last employer.”

  “Doesn’t our housekeeper need you as a maid downstairs?”

  “I can do both jobs, Miss Anna. That is … I would like to try doing both.”

  I don’t know why, but I want to give Lucy a chance. Maybe it’s because Mama was once a housemaid, or maybe it’s because Mother can be so demanding with our servants. Either way, I decide it can’t hurt to give Lucy a chance. “I’ll speak with our housekeeper about borrowing you as my lady’s maid from time to time. I’ll let you know what she says.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Anna,” she replies, and curtsies twice.

  I turn away to hide a smile. “You don’t need to curtsy to me, Lucy. I’m not a queen. You may go now.”

  The rain is coming down hard by the time Mother and I leave home for another Literary Club meeting. Our carriage drives along the lakeshore, where the water is the same smoky gray color as the sky. More than a week has passed since I visited Mrs. Marusak and learned Mama’s story. The knowledge of how Jack Newell abused her has settled on my heart like a heavy stone. I go through my days finding no joy in the routines of a wealthy woman’s life—the hours of dressing and primping, the endless social functions where it seems as though all we do is gossip about the women who aren’t there. No one dares to miss an event for fear she will be the next subject of gossip.

  We arrive at the home of Chicago’s former mayor, George Bell Swift. “I’m surprised Mrs. Swift offered to hold the meeting here after so recently losing the election,” Mother whispers as uniformed footmen race to our carriage, bearing umbrellas. I was aware that both Father and William were upset with the recent election results, but I pay little attention to politics since women aren’t allowed to vote. Mrs. Swift greets us in her foyer and directs us to her spacious drawing room, where extra chairs have been set up. We take our seats after everyone arrives and, just like last time, I can think of nothing but my afternoon appointment with the detectives throughout the entire ninety-minute meeting. The poetry readings are uninspiring, but at least today’s presentation on ancient Greece is a little more interesting than the last one. Even so, it’s at times like this when my days feel so meaningless that I can’t help wondering what God’s purpose is for my life. I’m wealthy and have everything a woman could wish for—yet I feel restless and dissatisfied. I long to use my position in society to serve Him, but how do I do that?

  When the presenter finishes, we are assigned our reading selection for next time—a Greek tragedy by Euripides—and dismissed for refreshments. “Anna,” Clarice calls to me. “Come and join us.” She has gathered near the buffet with a group of six other young women my age to nibble on refreshments. She looks stunning, as always, with her auburn hair piled high, and she’s wearing the very latest fashion accessories—a pleated frill on the front of her gown and a pleated belt and bow around her narrow waist. “How is your search going with the Pinkerton detectives?” she asks without preamble. Since they have been on my mind all morning, it’s as if she has been reading my thoughts. I have forgotten that I foolishly confided in Clarice. But why would she speak about such a private matter in
front of all the others? She promised to keep my search confidential.

  I am speechless as the women await my reply, so Clarice fills the silence. “The last time Anna and I spoke,” she tells the others, “the detectives had just found a record of her real parents’ marriage. Have you learned anything more about your real family since then?”

  “Um … I believe the detectives have reached a dead end,” I mumble.

  “I didn’t know you were adopted!” someone says. “How interesting!” The ladies move closer as if expecting me to divulge secrets. My cheeks feel warm, betraying my embarrassment as I fumble for something to say. Why, oh why didn’t I heed Jane’s warning not to trust Clarice? I feel foolish and naïve.

  “I heard that you’ve recently recalled some memories of your real mother,” one of the women says.

  My heart races. I am stunned that my private life is common knowledge. “Only a few,” I reply. “I was very young when she died.”

  “But now you’ve met your real grandmother—an immigrant!” Clarice says. “What was she like?”

  “Um … She’s a lovely woman.” How do they know all of this? And how do I make them stop questioning me? I don’t have the nerve to tell them to mind their own business and then walk away. Besides, that will make it seem as though I’m hiding something.

  “What about your father?” Clarice asks, pretending to whisper. “Do they think he might still be alive?”

  “I-I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible, but I—”

  “If he is, maybe the detectives will able to locate him. Then you would have two fathers.” Two of the other women begin to giggle. They couldn’t possible know about Jack, could they?

  I clear the knot from my throat and hope they don’t detect a tremor in my voice. “As far as I’m concerned, I have only one father—the one you all know, Arthur Nicholson.”

  “Is it true that he rescued you from a shipwreck?” one of them asks.

  “Well, yes …”

  “Tell us what that was like!”

  “It … it was horrifying, as I’m sure you can imagine. It’s not something I care to relive by talking about it.” I am desperate to change the subject. I reach for another tea cake and say, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Clarice, how does your lady’s maid manage to dress your hair so beautifully? I would love to wear mine like that, but I fear that my hair is much too curly.”

  She smiles, and I can tell by the look of satisfaction on her face that she knows I’m embarrassed and uncomfortable. “It takes hours,” she says. “And there are hundreds of hairpins holding it in place. It’s such a bore to sit still for so long every day.”

  “Well, it looks lovely on you, Clarice.”

  “You’re kind to say so. By the way, have all of you heard the latest about the Kirkland family? It’s turning into quite a scandal. Lavinia’s fiancé has called off the wedding.” Her face is alight with glee.

  “No!”

  “Did he really?”

  The women huddle closer, talking in stage whispers, but it’s clear from their expressions that they find the scandal a delicious source of gossip.

  “Why would he end the engagement?” someone asks. “It’s not Lavinia’s fault that her father went bankrupt.”

  “Didn’t you hear? The authorities are talking about filing criminal charges against Mr. Kirkland. Something to do with some shady investments he made. The shame of something like that reflects on his entire family, so naturally Lavinia’s fiancé was quick to distance himself from the whole affair.”

  “I heard that Mrs. Kirkland has already left town with Lavinia and Emeline and their two younger brothers.”

  “Well, of course they had to leave town after the bank foreclosed on their house,” Clarice says. “They aren’t allowed to live there anymore.”

  “Poor Lavinia,” I say. “Is there anything we can do to help her and her family?” Everyone ignores my question.

  “It was bound to happen,” Clarice says. “Mr. Kirkland was always buying something new and showing it off. He spent well beyond his means, especially on that enormous house.”

  “Emeline and Lavinia are part of our circle,” I say, trying to halt the slaughter. “They seem like such sweet girls. They did nothing to deserve this.”

  “What’s it to you, Anna? You weren’t close friends with them.”

  I decide to close my mouth. Over the summer I overheard Father talking about the financial problems he was experiencing and how he needed me to marry William in order to secure a loan from William’s bank. If I had called off the wedding, these women might be gossiping about my family. My home might be the one that was in foreclosure. My parents would never survive such a scandal. Now, hearing about the Kirklands, I am more determined than ever to help Father by marrying William.

  The women continue their malicious gossip. “The Kirklands always acted as though they were too good for us,” someone says. I feel sick inside and long to leave and go home, but I can’t. I have a luncheon date with William at his club, and it would take too long to go all the way home and then turn around and come back. Besides, Mother has a luncheon date someplace else, and we are sharing a carriage. I have no choice but to stay a little longer. I don’t dare to walk away as the ladies continue gossiping, fearing they will misjudge my motives and begin gossiping about me. For the second time that morning, I find myself wondering if this is how God wants me to spend the rest of my life.

  I allow my thoughts to wander to last Sunday’s church service. I always draw comfort from worshiping in God’s house, but the sermon subject reminded me that I have been neglecting my Bible since returning home from Michigan. I did manage, however, to read a little from the Gospel of John on Sunday afternoon before William arrived to take me for a drive through the park. William and I have been together three times since my trip to Cicero, and it occurred to me as we drove last Sunday that he never once asked me about my interview with Mama’s landlady. Did he forget? Was he uninterested? Or was he being sensitive to how morose I’ve been and didn’t want to upset me further? Perhaps he is waiting until I mention it. I can’t complain because I decided not to tell him, my parents, or anyone else what I learned about Jack Newell. At the same time, holding such a terrible secret inside makes me feel ill. I long for someone to talk to about how brutal my father was—that is, if Jack Newell truly is my father. But the only friend I’ve ever been able to share my heart with is Derk Vander Veen, and he lives far away in Michigan.

  The interminable socializing finally ends, and I leave the former mayor’s home. William is waiting to greet me at his club downtown. He smiles and kisses my cheek, but my thoughts are miles away, worried that everyone in Chicago is gossiping about my personal business with the Pinkerton detectives. What new information have they discovered about Jack Newell? “You seem very glum, Anna,” William says as we sit at a quiet corner table. “You haven’t changed your mind about marrying me, I hope.”

  “No! Not at all! Please forgive me for being moody, William. This weather is so cold and dreary. It seems as though the sun hasn’t shone in days.”

  “Well, I have a surprise for you after lunch that should cheer you up.”

  I chastise myself for not giving him my full attention and say with a smile, “How can I wait that long? Can’t you give me a teeny hint? Does it have something to do with our wedding?”

  “No hints, my dear. You’re much too clever for me. You’ll guess it right away.”

  The waiter arrives, and as William orders for us, I notice Clarice Beacham enter and sit down at a table on the other side of the room. She is with her father and another man his age that I only vaguely recognize. I watch her from where I’m sitting, and she is so beautiful and graceful that I’m mesmerized. I can’t imagine why William or any other man isn’t completely entranced with her. I turn my attention back to William when the waiter departs, and for the life of me, I can’t think of a single thing to say to him.

  “What have you been up to thi
s morning, my dear?” he asks before I can think of something.

  “Oh, you know … just the usual ladies’ events. Today it was a meeting of the Women’s Literary Club. Your mother kindly arranged for Mother and me to become members. Today’s meeting was held at the mayor’s house.”

  “Mayor Swift?”

  “Yes, but I understand he’s no longer the mayor.”

  “True. And that’s extremely unfortunate. Carter Harrison is certain to bring trouble as our new mayor.”

  “Why is that? Didn’t we used to have a mayor named Harrison?”

  “That was Carter’s father. The new Mayor Harrison and his brother used to run the Chicago Times, the only newspaper in the city that came out in support of the Pullman strikers a few years back.” William continues talking about his displeasure with the election results, and two things occur to me as I listen: the first is how little I know about politics; the second is that men seem to have their own pet topics of conversation and gossip just as women do.

  The lunch is much too filling, especially after tea and refreshments earlier this morning, and I leave the club feeling like an overstuffed chair. William and I pause to speak briefly with Clarice and her father on the way out, and I sense William’s coldness toward her. Then he calls for his carriage, and we’re off to see his surprise. We cuddle close together as we ride through the chilly rain, and William feels strong and warm beside me. After a few minutes, we halt in front of an enormous three-story building made entirely of stone, facing Lake Michigan. “Is this an apartment building?” I ask.

  “No,” William says with a laugh. “It’s all one house. The owners built it right after the Great Fire, and no money was spared to make it fireproof.” His driver helps us from the carriage, and William walks with me to the front entryway, taking a key from his pocket. The main hall takes my breath away with its marble floors, columns, and graceful statues. Everywhere I look I see intricate woodwork and plasterwork. Paneled ceilings soar above me. I glimpse extravagant rooms on each side of the hall, but I’m so overwhelmed by it all that I’m afraid to move. I have visited some very beautiful homes in Chicago, but this … this is simply too much!