Legacy of Mercy Read online

  William seems to sense my hesitation. He takes my hand in his and begins leading me through the rooms on the first floor, each more elaborate than the last one, with carved walnut paneling and stained-glass windows. They’re all furnished in the newest European fashion and decorated with exquisite paintings and statues. One of the formal dining rooms could seat fifty people at its enormous table. “What do you think?” William asks. “We could move right in, and we wouldn’t need to change a thing. Do you like it?”

  I weigh whether or not to tell him my true feelings—that it is too flamboyant and overdone for my taste. Too big, too cold. He’s clearly enthralled with the house, and I would hate to hurt his feelings. “It’s a beautiful house. But do we really need so much space for our first home? And so many huge rooms? I’m afraid I’ll feel lost inside it.”

  “You’ll soon get used to it, I’m sure.”

  “Shouldn’t we start with something smaller? We’ll need to buy so much furniture!”

  “I understand that most of this furniture will be sold with the house.”

  I can’t begin to imagine what all of this would cost. As we continue to wander through the rooms, I keep hoping that he has brought me here to glean ideas for our own home and not because he truly plans to purchase this mansion. It’s a showpiece, a work of art—not a home.

  We end up back in the main foyer just as I begin to fear that we’re lost. I’m certain we haven’t seen everything on the main floor, but William leads me up the imposing staircase to the second story. I quickly lose count of the numerous bedrooms and sitting rooms and bathrooms. I fumble for a way to tell William that it’s all too much for me. “But … but won’t we need an army of servants to take care of all this?”

  He laughs again. “You let me worry about hiring servants.”

  I am reminded of my mama, who went to work as a servant after leaving her husband. Did she work in a house as huge as this one, or something much smaller like my parents’ house? “I want to know if you like it, Anna,” William says as we descend to the foyer again. We never made it to the third floor.

  “Who wouldn’t like it? It’s magnificent!”

  “Good. Then I’ll tell my grandfather you approve. He wants to help us purchase it as his wedding present to us.”

  “Oh, my.” I feel weak for some reason, and since there are no chairs nearby, I take a step backward and sink down on one of the steps.

  “Anna, what’s wrong?”

  “You’ve truly surprised me, William. I can’t … I can’t imagine living here.” Nor can I imagine Oma Geesje ever feeling comfortable if she came to visit me. Her entire house in Michigan would fit inside this grand foyer.

  He offers me his hand to help me stand, then takes me into his arms. “I would be happy to live anywhere, as long as it’s with you. You deserve a palace like this one, Anna. And if the paperwork goes through as I hope, we can hold the wedding reception for all our guests here.” He cups my face in his hands and bends to kiss me. I feel weak all over again, but this time it’s from his kiss. “We can come back and finish exploring another day,” he says when our lips part, “but I need to return to work now.”

  We board his carriage, and the bits and pieces of everything I’ve heard today begin to fall into place. George Kirkland went bankrupt, and the bank foreclosed on his home. A very large, extravagant home. William’s grandfather founded the bank where William and his family work. “Did … did the Kirkland family live in that house?” I ask as our carriage splashes through the rain-soaked streets.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the rumors going around?”

  “Gossip is more like it. People are saying that George Kirkland went bankrupt, and his family was forced to leave town in shame.”

  “It’s true. Kirkland did go bankrupt. Unfortunately, these things happen in the business world. Fortunes can be made or lost overnight.”

  “I knew his daughters, Lavinia and Emeline. It seems like such a tragedy for the entire family.”

  William squeezes my hand. “That’s one of the things I love about you, Anna—you have such a warm, tender heart. But I hope you won’t allow others’ unfortunate circumstances to spoil your enjoyment of our home. Think of the happiness that we’ll be able to bring back to those rooms.”

  I don’t reply. In truth, I don’t know how I could ever enjoy such an overwhelming house. It’s too much for a newly married couple. In fact, it could serve as a small hotel. “Were the Kirklands really forced to leave all their furniture behind, too?”

  “I’m afraid so. George Kirkland’s creditors might repossess some of it to cover his debts, but our bank is his biggest creditor. If you and I buy the house, we can go through the rooms and choose which furnishings we want to keep and which will be replaced. I’m sure Mother and her decorator will be happy to help you.”

  “That would be very kind of her.” I wish I knew how to convince him that it’s too much for us. But William isn’t asking for my opinion. In his mind, the decision has been made, and we will live in this house after we’re married in a few short months.

  William’s driver takes me home after dropping William off at work. I arrive with plenty of time to spare before the detectives are expected. My parents’ home is large and very tastefully decorated, but it could fit inside the house William wants to buy two times over. I find myself hoping that the deal will fall through and William’s grandfather won’t buy it after all. My lunch lies in my stomach like a brick as I wait in the parlor, watching for the Pinkerton agents to arrive. I have stopped worrying about the house and have begun to worry about what the detectives have discovered.

  The cobblestone street is slick with rain, and it sprays up behind the carriage wheels as vehicles roll past. At last, one of them halts in front of my house, and I watch the agents get out and come to our door. Our butler leads them into the parlor. Once again, Agent Albertson hands me a typewritten page after we’ve greeted one another and taken our seats. My heart is racing.

  “I’m sorry, but we learned that Jack Newell died in a railroad accident in November of 1872. We found union records of the incident, as well as a newspaper account.”

  I take a moment to scan the written report, feeling shocked. Jack died only a month after Mama left him. Now I know for certain that he couldn’t be my father, unless I am older than everyone thought. Our family’s doctor examined me after the shipwreck and guessed by my height and weight and baby teeth that I was approximately three years old. While I’m relieved to learn that Jack isn’t my father, this news opens up a new set of problems.

  Agent Albertson hands me a second page. “According to the records we found, his widow, Christina de Jonge Newell, successfully sued the railroad company for causing his death and was paid a small sum of money in a legal settlement.”

  She knew she was free from him. Did she remarry? And if so, to whom?

  “We have started looking for a second marriage certificate,” the agent says. “And we’ll continue searching for a record of your birth. But keep in mind, there was a great deal of chaos and confusion as Chicago was being rebuilt after the fire.”

  I read the second page, noting the modest amount of money Mama was awarded after her husband’s death. She couldn’t have lived in Chicago for very long on such a sum, but it would have purchased a steamship ticket home to Michigan. Oma would have welcomed her with open arms. I lay the pages on my lap when I finish. A cold chill shivers up my spine when I remember how many details of my story Clarice and the other women knew. I must make certain that they never learn about this. Didn’t Mother warn me that once the truth is uncovered, it seldom remains hidden?

  “Listen, I’ve decided not to continue searching,” I tell the agents.

  “That’s entirely up to you, Miss Nicholson. But let me add that we have spoken with Mrs. Marusak’s niece, Vera. She thinks she may remember working with your mother. We’re willing to make arrangements for you to meet with her, if you’d like.”

  I stare do
wn at my folded hands, trying to decide what to do. So far, the only gossip that my parents and William and everyone else knows about is that Mama married Jack. They believe I am his legitimate daughter. If I bury these latest reports and end the search right now, the truth will stay buried. The gossip I listened to today was disturbing, and I would never want to subject the people I love to such wagging tongues.

  “I don’t think I care to meet Vera,” I say at last. “You may stop your investigation for now. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.” I rise to signal that the meeting is over. “Thank you for the work you’ve already done, gentlemen. Kindly send my father an invoice for your services.”

  As much as I would love to know more about my family’s past and who my real father is, I believe it’s wrong to unearth information that could fuel gossip. I need to marry William in order to help Father with his financial problems, or we could end up like the Kirklands. The truth about my real father—whoever he is—must remain buried.

  I rise to see the men out and am surprised to find Lucy standing just outside the parlor door. “Oh, Miss Anna! I was waiting to see if you and your guests needed anything.”

  “No, thank you. They’re just leaving.” I’m tempted to scold her and explain that I would have rung the bell to summon her if I needed anything. Besides, it’s the butler’s duty to stand at the ready, not hers. But Lucy is new and still learning her way around. I know how eager she is to win my favor. A scolding would only make her more nervous than she already is.

  I have trouble falling asleep that night, thinking about everything I learned today. One question haunts me: Why didn’t Mama go back home to Holland after Jack Newell died? She would have had enough money from the settlement. I climb out of bed and take the copy of Oma’s story from my desk drawer. I turn on a light so I can read it, then scurry back beneath the covers where it’s warm. I page through it until I find the part where Mama said she was unhappy and wanted to leave tiny Holland, Michigan.

  “Church is boring,” Christina told her parents. “I’m tired of all the rules and laws, I’m tired of being told I’m a sinner just because I can’t possibly obey all of them. Nobody lives a perfect life, and if anyone says he does, he’s a hypocrite.” I skim ahead to where her parents asked to meet Jack. Mama refused to introduce him. “I know you would judge him and condemn him and try to make him feel guilty because he isn’t religious like you. You would start preaching to him and telling him he was a sinner.” When asked if Jack believed in God, Mama replied, “Of course he believes in God. But he thinks it’s wrong to scare people into conforming to a bunch of old-fashioned rules and morals with stories of floods and whales swallowing people alive. Especially when the people who teach those rules are such hypocrites. We can live good lives without all the false guilt the church tries to scare into us.”

  Mama’s words and her attitude toward Christianity must have broken her parents’ hearts. But after hearing the gossip today at my club meeting, I wonder if Mama was afraid to return home for the same reasons that the Kirkland family left Chicago. Maybe she feared the gossip and condemnation she might face after running away with a man who wasn’t a Christian.

  I close Oma’s memoir and lay it aside, chiding myself. Once again, I have been obsessing about the past after deciding to let it go and move forward with my future. I reach for my Bible on the nightstand instead. It falls open to a marker I placed in the Gospel of Matthew. I have marked the verse where Jesus said, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” I remember reading that verse during the summer, and it made me determined to let Christ’s light shine in my life once I returned home to Chicago. I’m ashamed that I haven’t done that. I should have walked away today when the other women began to gossip, refusing to take part in it.

  I also recall Oma’s words of advice to me before I left Holland. She believed I could do a lot of good for women like Mama who were being taken advantage of and had no place to turn. Might that be God’s plan for my future, rather than attending silly meetings or wasting time and money chasing shadows from my past?

  I shut off the light again and try to sleep. But something else Oma said pricks my conscience as I think of the extravagant home William plans to buy for us. She said that if I continued to draw close to God, my faith could have a good influence on William. Then she said, “Imagine all the good that a wealthy man like William could do if his heart was surrendered to God.” At the very least, he would see what a waste of money it is for us to buy a house like that.

  I think about our wedding in a few short months and remember how Oma cautioned me not to rush into marriage. She advised me to talk to William about my faith more often and see how he responds. I haven’t done that, either. I finally drift off to sleep, aware that I need to make some important changes in the way I’m living my life.

  Chapter 7

  Geesje

  Holland, Michigan

  I returned to bed last night after Cornelia cried herself to sleep in my arms. But I lay in the dark worrying about her for quite some time before I finally had the good sense to pray for her and entrust her to God’s care instead of worrying. Now it’s morning, and the gloomy sky seems to be raining tears along with Cornelia. I’ve just finished my breakfast and am sipping my tea when Cornelia wanders into the kitchen. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed from crying. She hasn’t yanked her hair back into a bun yet, and it hangs around her pale face in soft waves, making her look like the child that she is.

  “Good morning, dear. What would you like to eat?” I rise to get a cup and pour her some tea. She drops into a kitchen chair as if she has just walked a hundred miles.

  “I’m not hungry.” It occurs to me that not eating might be another way to try to end her life.

  “How about a little porridge? It’s what I like to eat on rainy days like this. I left some for you in the pot. Shall I fix you a bowl?”

  She doesn’t answer my question. Instead, she gazes up at me with a pleading expression. “I want to stay here, Tante Geesje. I don’t want to go back to the hotel. Will you please talk to my grandfather and ask him to let me stay with you? Please?”

  I bend over her chair and give her a hug. “I’ll do my very best, lieveling. Your grandfather and I got off to a bad start, I’m afraid, but I’ll do what I can to make things right.” I add some honey, cinnamon, and chopped apple to the porridge, hoping to tempt Cornelia to eat. I serve it to her with thick cream. She has just taken the first meager spoonful when through the kitchen window I see Dominie Den Herder standing in the Vander Veens’ backyard. “There’s your grandfather,” I tell Cornelia. “Finish your breakfast while I go talk with him.”

  It’s raining lightly outside, so I grab my coat from the hook by the back door and put on the hat I wear when working in the garden. The dominie stands like a statue, staring at nothing, the rain shining in tiny beads on his dark wool coat and cap. He is such a handsome, distinguished-looking man that I can easily picture all of the widows in his congregation bringing him pots of soup after his wife died—unless he was as gruff with them as he has been with me. He strikes me as a very unhappy man. But he has also suffered loss. When Cornelia’s family died in the fire, he lost his son, daughter-in-law, and two grandsons.

  The dominie was as much to blame for our argument yesterday as I was, but as I approach him, I’m determined to make amends for Cornelia’s sake. “Dominie … may I have a word with you, please?”

  He turns as if startled. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I want to tell you how sorry I am for arguing with you yesterday. You were concerned about your granddaughter, and I spoke out of turn. Please forgive me.”

  He grudgingly accepts my apology, so I muster the courage to continue.

  “I feel as though we haven’t gotten off on the right foot. Can we begin all over again? If you haven’t spoken to my son yet, about making other living arrangements, I hope you’ll reconsider and
allow Cornelia to stay with me.”

  “I haven’t spoken with him. I expect to see him this morning.”

  “Cornelia told me that she likes living with me, and she begged me to ask you about staying. Please allow her to, Dominie. She and I are just becoming friends, and I feel that I am winning her trust.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” His anger erupts so easily it startles me. Is he this quick-tempered with everyone, or do I especially irritate him for some reason?

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that Cornelia is starting to feel comfortable with me. I heard her weeping in the middle of the night, and when I went to comfort her, she told me that she once tried to end her own life. If only I had known about it when she asked to go for a walk yesterday, I never—”

  “I knew this would happen!” he shouts. “How can we ever get a new start if everyone knows our private business? No, Mrs. de Jonge. No. This arrangement will not work.” He turns and heads toward the back door, but I chase after him. Once again, after only a few short minutes of conversation, he has caused me to lose my temper.

  “Wait just a minute, Dominie. I would never dream of sharing the things that Cornelia tells me in private with anyone else. It’s insulting that you assume I would! I’ll excuse you this time because you don’t know me very well, but how could you even think that I—”

  He whirls to face me. “This is what always happens when church women meet together! Oh, sure, it’s veiled behind a screen of concern, and the need to pray for the poor soul. But those prayer concerns always become fodder for gossip, plain and simple. Women love to spread news like this until the entire community knows!”