Waves of Mercy Page 6

  I close the diary, unable to read any more. The sun is growing very warm, so I rise to my feet to walk back to the hotel. My mother and Mrs. Stevens are sitting on one of the side porches, their heads bent close together like conspirators. They don’t see me, so I wait at the bottom of the steps, peeking through the bushes rather than interrupting them. I know it’s impolite to eavesdrop, but Mrs. Stevens speaks so loudly that I can’t help overhearing her.

  “I found out that my husband has been seeing another woman on the side,” she tells Mother.

  “Oh, you poor dear!”

  “I gave him an ultimatum, then told him I was coming here by myself to give him time to think.” She dabs her eyes with her lace handkerchief as Mother murmurs in sympathy. I know I should leave, but I can’t tear myself away.

  “This must be so painful for you, Honoria. But if it’s any consolation, I’m told that these little affairs are quite meaningless.”

  “That’s what Albert said—but it isn’t meaningless to me!”

  “I understand. . . . But the hard truth is, your husband isn’t the first gentleman to have a little fling, nor will he be the last. It’s much more common than one might imagine. The husband of an acquaintance of mine had an affair with their Swedish parlor maid.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise. I try to figure out which of Mother’s friends she might be referring to, but many families in our social circle have Swedish servants—including my own family. Our lady’s maid, Sophia, is from Sweden.

  “What if—heaven forbid—the woman has Albert’s child?” Mrs. Stevens asks.

  Mother holds her hand, patting it gently. “I’ve heard of that happening, too, Honoria. Usually the girl can be paid off and convinced to give up the child for adoption. The stigma for a single mother and a bastard baby from any social class is too great to bear.”

  “I still don’t know if I’m ready to forgive Albert.”

  “And yet you must. A divorce is ruinous for women of our standing.”

  I finally slip away, already wishing I hadn’t eavesdropped. I know I’m very naïve when it comes to worldly matters because my parents have sheltered me all my life. So it has never occurred to me that my father—or William—might have a dalliance with another woman, or that Mother—and I—would be expected to forgive him and look the other way. I hurry around the building and run up the steps into the lobby, wishing I could simply disappear, and I nearly collide with Derk, who is coming toward me with a suitcase in each hand.

  He does a double take, then grins and says, “I almost called you Elizabeth again!” I push past him and hurry up the stairs to my room.

  As I fumble to fit my key into the lock, tears of shame burn my eyes. I was adopted. My real mother gave me away. I have always known this was true, but after overhearing Mother and Mrs. Stevens, I wonder if I might be the product of an illicit liaison. Is this why Mother doesn’t want me to question Father about it?

  I finally get the door open and rush inside, closing it behind me as if I’m being pursued. I sit down on the edge of my bed, feeling sick. Our young Swedish lady’s maid is as blond and fair-skinned as I am. So are both of William’s Swedish maids. My chest hurts so badly I can barely breathe.

  Chapter 7

  Geesje’s Story

  The Netherlands

  50 years earlier

  Against all reason and common sense, I fell in love with Hendrik. He had been sent to our home to punish us, yet I thought about him nearly every minute of the day and dreamt about him at night. I made excuses to talk to him whenever I could, even though we were never really alone. And the more I got to know him, the more I longed to be with him all the time. He was a wonderful storyteller, and my family often gathered in our sitting room in the evenings and listened as Hendrik told us about all the places he’d been stationed and all the adventures he’d had. He could describe a scene so vividly that it was as if we’d traveled there with him. One of his ancestors had sailed to the East Indies on a spice ship, and he kept us enthralled for hours as he retold tales that his family had passed down, tales of exotic islands, pirate ships, terrifying storms at sea, and of long days waiting in the doldrums for the wind to rise. I listened to Hendrik spellbound, studying his handsome face. I loved the endearing way he raked his fingers through his fair hair until it stood on end. I wondered what it would be like to feel his arms around me. Or taste his kiss.

  I had no idea if Hendrik felt the same way about me until one afternoon when I was hanging clothes on the line in our tiny backyard. I heard the back door squeal open, but I didn’t turn around, thinking it was Mama. When she didn’t speak, I finally turned and saw that it was Hendrik. The moment our eyes met, a wave of heat seared through me. My heart started beating faster than it ever had. I couldn’t draw my gaze away from him. Hendrik didn’t look away, either.

  “Geesje . . .” he said. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He took a step closer, and I wanted him to kiss me. “Geesje, I don’t know what it is that I feel for you, but I know that I’ve never felt this way before. You are such a beautiful person and . . . and I want to be near you all the time.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Hendrik usually wore a confident grin on his face but not that day. The expression on his lean, handsome face was somber, his pale brows arched above his gray eyes as if asking me a question. I had never seen him so tongue-tied before.

  “I-I know that your father could never allow me to marry you,” he continued, “because I don’t belong to your church. But the months that I’ve lived here have been the happiest ones of my life.” He swallowed and took another step closer. “I wake up in the morning to the sound of your singing. Your smile is more beautiful to me than the sunshine. I just learned that I may be transferred out of Arnhem soon, and I’m terrified because I don’t think I can live without you.” His face blurred as tears filled my eyes. “Geesje . . . please say something.”

  “I love you,” I said.

  “You . . . you do?”

  I nodded. Hendrik quickly glanced all around, then pulled me to himself, clutching me tightly as we hid behind the line of flapping towels and aprons. The top of my head barely reached his chin, and he rested his cheek on my hair for a long moment. The warmth and strength of his embrace was everything I had imagined it would be. And more. “Geesje, tell me what I need to do so that I can hold you this way for the rest of my life.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I only knew that I wanted the same thing that Hendrik did. And that I would dream of his wonderful embrace for many nights to come. Much too soon, he released me. I felt shaken, as if I stood out in an open field during a powerful storm. I bent to finish pinning the laundry on the line, worried that my mother would peer out of the window to see what was taking me so long. “The man I marry must be a Christian,” I finally said.

  Hendrik lifted the basket for me so I wouldn’t have to bend. “Ya, I understand how important your faith is to your family. I have been listening from my bedroom on Sunday mornings whenever I’m not on duty. The dominie’s words are very moving, and I want to live like you and your family do. I have been bringing my questions to Maarten, and he has very kindly explained everything to me. I want to become a true Christian, if God will have me. Even before I knew that I loved you, I wanted this.”

  Against everything I had been taught, I threw my arms around Hendrik again, the basket crushed awkwardly between us. “That’s wonderful, Hendrik! I’m so glad! We can be together for the rest of our lives if you make a profession of your faith as a Christian!” Everything was falling into place. When I pulled away again, I said, “I’m sure Dominie Van Raalte will be happy to talk with you and welcome you into our congregation. After that, nothing will stand in our way.”

  He smiled his dazzling smile, then grew serious again. “My faith will have to remain a secret for now. The captain and the other soldiers can’t find out that I’ve become a Separatist until after my term of duty is over.”

 
“When will that be?”

  “Not for another year and a half. Pieter and Kees are already suspicious of my interest in your meetings—and in you—but I don’t think they will give me away.”

  Once again I returned to the mundane task of hanging laundry as if my world hadn’t just changed completely. My mind spun in a dozen directions, and I could barely make my fingers work. I had never felt so happy.

  “There is just one thing,” Hendrik said, and the solemnity of his voice made me afraid. I stopped pinning laundry. “Maarten has been a very good friend to me. I have known from almost the first day I moved here that he is in love with you. He says there is an understanding between him and your father and that if you agree, the two of you will be married one day.”

  I looked away, knowing as Hendrik did, how deeply hurt Maarten would be. Gentle, patient Maarten. “Ya, he has been part of our family ever since he became Papa’s apprentice years ago,” I said. “I know he cares for me. And I’ve always been fond of him. But I’m not in love with him. . . . I’m in love with you.”

  “How will we ever explain to him that the soldier he has befriended and the woman he loves . . . ?”

  “Neither of us meant to fall in love, Hendrik. But I feel certain that God meant for us to be together. I believe that’s why He brought you here to live with us.”

  “Really? . . . How do you know?”

  “Because my heart tells me it’s true. Maarten will be hurt but he’ll understand. Besides, he deserves to have a wife who loves him fully and truly. I’m not that woman.”

  “So what should we do next? Will you wait another year and a half until I’m discharged?”

  “Ya, of course I will! Go talk with the dominie, Hendrik. Tell him everything we talked about. He’ll tell us what to do next.”

  Hendrik promised that he would as soon as he found a way to do it without his fellow soldiers finding out. He would face very stern discipline if it was ever discovered that he’d joined the enemy.

  After that magical afternoon in our backyard, Hendrik and I looked for ways to be alone for a few minutes nearly every day, sometimes in the open, sometimes in dark hallways and back stairwells. We held each other close whenever we could, and a few of those times he kissed me. It was the most wonderful sensation I had ever experienced. One afternoon we arranged to meet in the backyard again, hiding behind a clothesline full of bedsheets so we could kiss. Then a gust of wind blew, uncovering our hiding place, and when I looked up Maarten stood in the back doorway, watching. Hendrik called to him, but he disappeared inside.

  “Oh, no,” Hendrik groaned. “I don’t want you to get into trouble, Geesje. Do you think he’ll tell on us?” At that moment, I didn’t care if my parents were angry or even if they punished me. Hendrik’s kisses made any punishment worthwhile. I had never felt so happy in my life.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should go talk to him,” I said.

  “No, I’ll do it.” Hendrik gave me a quick hug, and I watched him cross the yard to the house in a few quick strides.

  In the end, Maarten never told Papa what he had witnessed. But before Hendrik had a chance to talk to the dominie about becoming a Christian, before either of us had a chance to take another step toward spending the rest of our lives together, two terrible blows struck our community. The first blow came when the potato blight destroyed all the crops yet again. The blight affected everyone. Thousands of farmhands were out of work with no way to support their families. Wealthy landowners lost an important source of income. The poorest people in our nation faced starvation. Papa’s printing business barely had been able to pay the rent, much less feed us and four hungry soldiers. Now the blight would cause the price of everything to go up, including the taxes Papa was forced to pay. The men in our congregation began holding worried meetings as they prayed for guidance in this worsening crisis.

  The second blow came within days of the first. Hendrik and the other three soldiers left our house as usual right after breakfast, then returned barely an hour later. I was sweeping the walkway in front of the print shop when I saw them coming back. Hendrik looked worried, and he touched my arm briefly as he walked past me. I followed them into the shop and heard Pieter tell Papa, “We were told to pack our gear and prepare to move to Utrecht.”

  “Utrecht?” Papa asked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I stood frozen in the doorway of the print shop as their footsteps thundered up the stairs to my old bedroom. I was stunned by the news and too upset to finish sweeping. I heard the floorboards creaking above my head as they moved around, hastily packing their things. My world was coming to an end. I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from Papa’s desk and scribbled our address on it. Within minutes, the footsteps thundered down the stairs again and the men trooped back through the print shop.

  “Wait a moment, please,” Papa said as he paused from his work. “Before we say good-bye, I would like to pray for you, if you would allow me to.” All four men bowed their heads while Papa prayed for their health and safety, and for God’s blessings on their lives. The steady thunk and swoosh of the printing press rumbled in the background. I saw Hendrik wipe his eyes when Papa finished.

  Mama hurried in from the kitchen with a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. “Here’s some bread and cheese and a few apples for you to share on your journey. We will miss you.”

  Maarten shook Hendrik’s hand. “I wish you Godspeed,” he said.

  I followed the men out the door and into the street with my broom, not caring who saw Hendrik and me together. We barely had time to say good-bye as we stood outside on the busy street, longing to hold each other one last time. “I love you, Geesje,” he said. “I want to marry you if you’ll wait for me.”

  “I’ll wait forever if I have to. I love you, too.”

  Hendrik glanced at his three friends who had started walking without him as if unwilling to risk being late for duty. “I promise to come back for you the moment I’m discharged. I’ll save every cent of my pay until then so we can be married right away.”

  “We can write to each other until then. Here’s my address.”

  He took the paper from me and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll write as soon as I get to Utrecht and let you know my address.”

  “It’s going to seem like an eternity until we see each other again.” Hendrik’s friends had reached the corner and were crossing the street. I wiped the tears from my eyes so I could take one last, lingering look at the man I loved. “You’d better run,” I said.

  Hendrik nodded. Tears filled his eyes, too. “I love you, Geesje.” Then he turned and sprinted down the street without looking back. A feeling of dread crept over me as the space lengthened between us. I wondered if I would ever see him again.

  Chapter 8

  Anna

  Hotel Ottawa

  1897

  Today is Sunday, and it seems odd not to attend church. Last night I dreamt once again that Mama and I were sitting together in a church service. I must have been very young in the dream because my feet stuck straight out from the pew instead of touching the floor. When I looked over at Mama, she was crying and wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. I thought it odd that it wasn’t one of the Belgian linen and lace ones she always carries, but a plain square of white cotton, hand-embroidered with blue flowers. Her tears frightened me. My mama shouldn’t be sad. I patted her arm to soothe her, and she smiled at me through her tears and pulled me close. “It’s all right, darling,” she said. “These are happy tears.” Then she took a white peppermint from her bag—my favorite candy—and placed it in my palm, folding my fingers around it. “Here, darling.” I put the candy on my tongue and let it dissolve slowly in my mouth so it would last longer. When I woke up, the dream had left behind a lingering sadness.

  I get dressed and eat breakfast, then walk down to the pier and sit on the bench, watching the Sunday fishermen lined up along the dock with their poles jutting out over the water. I have my diary wi
th me, and I’m still reading through it, slowly reliving the events of the past five months. I see a pattern emerging. I have been unhappy for quite some time, even before William ended our engagement. Shouldn’t the months before my wedding be the happiest days of my life? Shouldn’t the glorious excitement of being loved by someone and loving him in return fill my days with laughter and joy? Instead, I’ve felt a deepening loneliness, even when surrounded by people—and especially when I’ve attended Chicago’s genteel social events. I have written again and again in my diary that I feel as if I don’t belong there, that I am somehow different from the other young women in my crowd.

  Ever since that first January day when my driver took a wrong turn and ended up on the corner of Chicago Avenue and LaSalle Street, I have been inexplicably drawn to the castle church—as if hooked by a fisherman reeling in his catch. Was that the church in my dream last night, or am I only imagining that it was now that I’m awake?

  I am still sitting by the water’s edge when a steamship arrives from the town of Holland, which is only a few miles away at the eastern end of Black Lake. The quiet morning is suddenly filled with excitement as picnickers and bathers disembark to spend the sunny summer day here at the beach or along the shores of Black Lake. Many travelers are dressed in their Sunday best, and my attention is drawn to a woman who steps off the ship with her little boy. He is wearing a white sailor suit and blue cap, and he lets go of his mother’s hand the moment he reaches the end of the gangplank, eager to run. His mother grabs him and pulls him back. “Wait, lieveling! Don’t run near the water,” she says. “Hold my hand, lieveling.”

  A shock tingles through me at the foreign-sounding word. I know that word. Mama spoke it in my dream last night after I’d noticed her tears: “It’s all right, darling.” But she hadn’t said darling, she’d said lieveling. Somehow I know that it means the same thing. I watch the little boy, and I can almost feel the peppermint in my palm as Mama curls my fingers around it. “Here, lieveling.”