by Lynn Austin
“But I’m curious about my father, too. If he really is Jack Newell, I would like to know what happened to him and why I don’t remember him at all.”
“You may learn something very unsavory. It’s a stone best left unturned.”
“I can’t leave it. I want to know.”
“Listen to me.” She grips my arm again and hushes her voice as if she doesn’t want anyone to overhear, even though the only person near enough is our driver—and he would never tell family secrets, would he? “It’s entirely possible that your parents never married, Anna. If that turns out to be true, we would be obligated to make William and his family aware of it.”
“Of course I’ll tell William. He’s going to be my husband. He’ll want to know who I really am as much as I do.”
“That isn’t true. You are the only one who is obsessed with this. William and his family would prefer not to know.”
I stare at her in surprise. “Did they tell you that? William never mentioned it to me.”
“His mother let me know in a very delicate way that they would be happier not to have the past exhumed. Most of Chicago society has no idea you’re even adopted, let alone what your background is, because frankly, it’s none of their business. William’s mother and I both feel that the past should remain buried. As William’s wife, you must be above reproach. We cannot allow any unsavory details about your parents to taint your reputation.”
“I promise that no one outside our family will ever know what I discover. But I have to keep searching until I learn the truth.”
“Once it’s out of the box, the truth can rarely be concealed. The harder one tries to hide it, the juicier the gossip becomes. And you also must think of your children. Anything you learn about your past becomes part of their past, too.”
“I’m not ashamed of my mother. She died saving me.”
“And your adoptive father put himself in danger to rescue you. Don’t forget that. You owe him a measure of discretion, too.”
I know she’s right, but I still can’t contain my curiosity. I remain silent for the rest of the drive home, promising myself that I will listen to the detectives’ report and let that be the end of it. When we arrive home, a small carriage is parked out front, and our butler tells me that the two Pinkerton agents are waiting in the front parlor. I pluck off my hat as I hurry inside to greet them. After the preliminary niceties, Agent Albertson hands me a typewritten report, and we take our seats on the sofas to settle down to business.
“We found a record of marriage in your mother’s name. Christina de Jonge married Jack Newell in October of 1871.”
My heart leaps in my chest. “They did get married!” I look up at Mother and can see that she is relieved to learn that my birth was legitimate. I’m relieved, as well. I silently rehearse my real name—Anneke Newell. “Were you able to find any more information about Jack?” I ask.
“We’re following up on some possible leads. You told us he was a laborer, so we’re searching through membership lists of various trade unions for his name. I’ll let you know as soon as we find something.”
I look down at the report again. “According to this, they were married two weeks after the Chicago fire,” I say. “That’s two weeks after running away from home in Michigan.”
“Yes. The ceremony was performed by a justice of the peace in the village of Cicero. Since the fire destroyed central Chicago and all of the city records, most legal transactions in the city were disrupted. That’s why we decided to comb through the marriage records in neighboring towns, which is where we found it. You told us that Christina and Jack came to Chicago to find work, and there were plenty of construction jobs after the fire, but housing was scarce. You’ll see that Christina listed an address in Cicero as their place of residence.”
“Did you go to that address? Is the house still there?”
“We did. It’s a boardinghouse that has been in operation for some thirty years. We spoke with the landlady, Mrs. Marusak, and from our description, she thinks she may remember your mother.”
I leap up from the divan, too excited to remain seated. “I want to talk to her. Can you take me there?”
“Certainly, if you’d like.” Agent Albertson rises, as well.
“Anna, dear. Are you forgetting that you have plans this evening?” Mother asks, pretending to be calm. “I’m afraid there won’t be enough time for my daughter to travel all the way to Cicero and back with you this afternoon,” she explains to the agents.
“How about tomorrow?” I ask.
“That won’t be possible, either,” Mother says. “Your calendar is quite full, dear, for the remainder of this week.”
“But there must be an afternoon when I can get away. Can’t we cancel something?” After consulting the calendar that she meticulously keeps, Mother informs me that with our multiple social engagements and two important dress fittings, the earliest opportunity to travel to Cicero will be a week from tomorrow. I don’t know how I’ll be able to wait that long. I remember my silent vow to abandon this search, but my curiosity outweighs any fear I have about what I might discover about my parents in Cicero.
I show William the typewritten report when we meet for dinner later that evening. “It was such a relief to know that my birth wasn’t disgraceful,” I tell him. He nods but shows little enthusiasm, briefly scanning the page before folding it in half and laying it aside. We are in the elegant dining room of the private men’s club that he and Father belong to, in the only area where women are allowed. The plush surroundings and hushed atmosphere make me feel as though I must whisper.
“Shall I order for both of us?” William asks when the waiter appears.
“Yes, but nothing too heavy. Your mother hosted a luncheon for me today.” William orders, and the waiter leaves. “Some days it seems that all I do is climb in and out of my carriage, change from one dress to another, sip tea, and politely nibble my way through a series of extravagant meals. When I stayed with Oma Geesje in Michigan, we once ate a dinner of fresh tomatoes from her garden with cheese and bread. It was a wonderful meal.”
William offers me a patient smile and reaches for my hand. “I wanted to dine alone with you tonight because we have so much to talk about. It seems there is very little time to converse about important things when we’re together at social functions.” I glance at the detectives’ report that he has set aside. That is what is most important to me at the moment, but I can see that William isn’t interested.
“You’re right,” I say. “We hardly ever dine alone. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“We still haven’t chosen a date for our wedding. Mother tells me that you ladies need plenty of time to make all the preparations, but how much time, exactly?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never gotten married before,” I say with a teasing smile.
William leans forward to cup my face in his hand, caressing my cheek with his thumb. “I want so much to begin living my life with you, Anna—not the two separate lives that we live now, lives that barely intersect. I need you as my partner and my most charming asset in this crazy world of finance that I’m part of.”
I think of how tightly Mother currently controls my social calendar, filling it to the brim with activity, and I wonder if my obligations as William’s wife will keep me even busier. I begin to feel trapped—which is silly, since my life has never been my own to do with as I please.
“In fact, I would be happy if we could be married tomorrow,” William says. “Is four months enough time? We could be married as we usher in the New Year.”
I reach to take his hand, squeezing it. “We can get married whenever we want. It’s our wedding, after all. Our life. Starting the New Year together sounds wonderful.” My words please him, and he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.
“You’re so beautiful, Anna.” I know he means it, but I can’t help picturing Clarice Beacham and her glorious auburn hair. Compared with her, I am merely pretty.
T
he waiter returns with William’s drink and the first course of our meal—asparagus soup. For some reason, I think of the Dutch pea soup that Oma Geesje made, and I remember how Derk and I had laughed and laughed as we ate it—although I can’t recall why. I miss Derk. He and William are as different as salt and pepper. William is handsome and elegant, a proper gentleman in his tailored suit and starched white shirt. He keeps himself as tightly locked as his father’s bank vault, and it would be so out of character for him to laugh out loud over a bowl of soup. Derk, on the other hand, is as simple and unsophisticated as salt, as honest and open as the blue sky above Lake Michigan. It’s as natural for him to share his thoughts and feelings as it is to breathe.
“We need to decide where we’ll live after we’re married,” William says, breaking into my thoughts. I scold myself for comparing the two men. After all, I’m going to marry William. “We need to decide if we’re going to build a new house or renovate an existing one. Either way, it will take time and planning, so the sooner we begin the process, the sooner our home will be ready. Although I doubt if any home will be ready by the time we marry in January. What do you think?”
Some women may care about details like silk draperies and Turkish carpets and crystal chandeliers, but I’m not one of them. The very thought of deciding how to fill room after room of an enormous mansion with furnishings makes me feel as though I can’t breathe. I lay down my soup spoon and push away the bowl. “I think … I think I would prefer to let you make all the decisions about the house. I trust your judgment completely.” I hope my answer pleases him, but I can tell by his furrowed brow that it doesn’t.
“I thought choosing a house was something we could do together.”
I search for the right words and get a reprieve when the waiter appears to remove our soup bowls and serve the fish course. The fillet has a strong, fishy smell that catches in my throat. “It’s all too much for me to think about right now,” I say when the waiter leaves again. “I have so many wedding plans to make, and I’m right in the middle of learning about my real parents’ past and finding out who I am.” I gesture to the detectives’ report.
“Is your past as important as who you are right now? And who you’re going to be very soon—my wife? Why should the past matter at all when we’ll have our entire future together? Besides, it isn’t even your past. You grew up here in Chicago, with the Nicholsons—the parents who raised you.”
I can see he is growing irritated, as Mother had earlier today. I need to be careful not to allow this obsession, as Mother called it, to come between me and the people I love. “You’re right,” I tell him. “If you already have some houses or building lots in mind, maybe we could drive past them on Sunday afternoon and at least see them from the outside.”
“I would like that,” he says, smiling. I’m struck all over again by how handsome William is, and I recall Clarice Beacham’s remarks from this afternoon. She might still be scheming to win him back, but William is mine and I am his. The thought brings a smile to my face.
William wraps his arms around me on the carriage ride home and holds me close. Did my mama feel happy and content when she was with Jack Newell? She loved him enough to run away from home with him and marry him. Once again, my thoughts turn to the landlady who thinks she remembers my parents. How will I ever wait until next week to meet her and learn more?
Chapter 2
Geesje
Holland, Michigan
I don’t know how to answer my son Jakob. I’ve been digging in my flower gardens all morning on this warm fall day, cleaning out the dead leaves and vines until next spring, and his question has taken me by surprise. I wipe sandy dirt from my hands as I ponder how to reply. If I say yes, my quiet, contented life will be tossed upside-down. I’ve already weathered enough changes during my sixty-seven years to make another one unwelcome. Yet I have no reason to refuse his request except pure selfishness. I don’t want my life to be disturbed; it’s as simple as that. It’s not a very Christlike attitude, I know.
Jakob’s buggy is tethered out front, and the mare stamps the ground impatiently. She and her owner both want to be on their way, with many other tasks to accomplish before the day ends. “I thought the girl, Cornelia, could stay in your spare room, now that Anneke has returned to Chicago,” Jakob says, filling the silence. “Anneke isn’t coming back for a visit anytime soon, is she?”
“No …” I say with a sigh.
“I’m sorry to impose on you, Moeder, but I’ve asked everyone in my congregation that I could think of, and no one else is able to help. So many people are already sponsoring friends and relatives from the Netherlands, and every spare room in the village is filled. My parsonage is filled, too. Besides, neither Cornelia nor her grandfather, Marinus Den Herder, speak English. You’re one of the few people able to converse with them and perhaps teach them some English.”
“How old is Cornelia again?”
“I think they said she’s seventeen. She lost her parents and two brothers in a house fire, and the only family she has left is her grandfather. She could use some motherly care.”
Jakob is making it harder and harder for me to refuse. I was also seventeen when I left the Netherlands to settle here in Michigan with my parents. They died of malaria less than a year after we arrived, leaving me as alone as this poor girl. “What about her family back in the Netherlands? Was there no one there she could turn to?”
“Her grandfather, who is a widower, wanted to give Cornelia a new start in a new land, away from the painful memories.”
“Where is he going to stay? I don’t have room for him here.”
“I know you don’t. Pieter Vander Veen offered to let him stay next door with him and Derk until he can find a place of his own. Pieter knows what it’s like to lose his wife, and Derk lost his mother at an early age. I thought of you as soon as Pieter offered Mr. Den Herder a place. It would be perfect if Cornelia could stay right next door with you.”
“For how long?” I ask, scraping some of the garden dirt from beneath my fingernails.
“It’s hard to say. We’re taking a collection at church to help pay for their board. And I’m sure Cornelia will be willing to help you out with cooking and cleaning and so forth. We’re trying to find Mr. Den Herder a job, but it’s difficult. He’s sixty-eight and doesn’t speak any English. Once he finds work, we’ll help them find a place to rent.”
“So this arrangement will only be for a short time?”
“That’s the plan. Just until they get settled. Mr. Den Herder is very protective of his granddaughter and didn’t want to be separated from her at all. This arrangement is the best I could come up with. Few people have room for one boarder, let alone two.”
I know Jakob wouldn’t ask such a favor of me if he could find another solution. With more and more immigrants arriving in America every day, many of his parishioners’ homes are crammed with relatives who are making a new start. It’s exciting for little Holland to be growing this way. When the town was first being settled, it was common for two or more families to live together in a tiny one-room cabin until more housing could be built. Then after the malaria outbreak that took my parents, we were left with so many orphans that we had to build an orphanage for them all. It was never put to use, though. We all opened our hearts and adopted the little ones as our own. My husband and I adopted two young brothers, Arie and Gerrit. It’s what any good Christian would do. So is it just my age that makes me hesitate now?
“I know I’m asking a lot of you, Moeder,” Jakob says. “But—”
“But you also know I won’t refuse you… . Ya,” I say with a sigh. “Ya, Cornelia can stay with me.”
“Thanks, Moeder. They’re currently staying at the hotel. I’ll bring them over to meet you later this afternoon.”
“Tell them they’re welcome to have dinner with me.”
And just like that, my life has changed. I watch Jakob drive away, marveling at how much he is like his dear father. Maarten wou
ldn’t have hesitated for a moment to help Cornelia and her grandfather.
I see the mailman coming up the street and wait to see if he has brought me anything. He hands me a letter from my granddaughter Anneke in Chicago. I tear it open and start reading as I return inside.
Dearest Oma Geesje,
I have wonderful news! The Pinkerton detectives who have been searching for more information about Mama gave me their first report today. They found a record of Mama’s marriage to Jack Newell! They were married in a town near Chicago two weeks after they ran away together. I know you’ve always wondered, as I have, if Jack took advantage of Mama, but it seems he did the right thing after all. Which means I have a legitimate father.
The detectives also found a former landlady of theirs at a boardinghouse who may remember Mama. I’m going to talk with her next week to see what she can recall. I’ll write again when I have more news.
That’s all for now, but I knew you would be happy to hear what I have learned so far.
All my love,
Anneke
I am so excited to learn that Christina was legally married when Anneke was born that I walk all the way downtown to share the letter with my son Arie at his print shop. He and Christina had always been close, and he was as devastated as the rest of us when she ran away twenty-six years ago. “I can’t even describe how happy I am to know that she stayed true to our Christian principles about marriage,” I tell Arie.
“Doesn’t Scripture say, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it’?”
“Yes. But I think that proverb is meant to be more of a wise observation than a promise from God. He also gives us free will, ya?”
“And Christina had a very strong will.”
“That she did!” Arie has never married or had children, so he can’t know the guilt and sorrow I’ve wrestled with over the years, blaming myself for making mistakes while raising my daughter. Was I too strict? Too lenient? Could I have done something different to keep Christina from running away with a man who wasn’t a Christian? Arie can’t know how much I treasure each little nugget that I learn about Christina. She was married! Perhaps I didn’t do such a terrible job as a mother after all.
