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AMERICAN PIE
By
Maggie Osborne
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
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The year is 1899
The kitchen stove burns wood or coal. Clothes are scrubbed on a washboard. Soap costs four cents a bar, coffee retails at twenty cents a pound and a plain gold wedding band can be had for $1.50.
The eighteen-inch waist is the ideal for women, whose corsets are made of canvas and steel. Men use petroleum jelly to mold their handlebar mustaches and keep their hair in place.
Suitors escort their ladies fair to nickelodeons for an evening's entertainment. And chaperons cool the fires of young love.
It is a slower time, a time almost vanished from memorypreserved only in sepia-toned photographs and the treasures of Grandma's attic.
It is a time of gaslightof grand dreams and great loves.
It is the time of Lucie Kolska and Jamie Kelly
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MAGGIE OSBORNE
is the bestselling author of nearly sixty category and historical romance novels. A former National President of the RWA, and a co-founder of Novelist's Inc., she is regularly featured in the Doubleday Book Club and is published all over the world. She has also been featured in audio and large-print editions, as well. Maggie has won many awards including a RITA® Award (she has been a finalist seven times) from the RWA, Best Category Novel of the Year from Romantic Times (for Love Bites , American Romance) and the prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award from the RWA. Maggie enjoys working with aspiring authors, and is a popular speaker at writer's conferences all over the country. She lives in the Colorado mountains with her husband and way too many animals.
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More than twelve million immigrants entered America through Ellis Island. Many of them passed through New York City's lower East Side. They lived, died, loved, despaired and labored to create a better life for themselves and for those who would follow. Their hopes and dreams helped build the America we love and cherish today.
This book is dedicated to those courageous men and women. We have not forgotten your struggle. We remember.
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ISBN 0-373-51282-1
AMERICAN PIE
Copyright © 1990 by Margaret St. George
First published in 1990 under the name Margaret St. George
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks Indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Visit us at www.eHarlequin.com
Printed in U.S.A.
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Chapter One
Seen from the water the main building on Ellis Island resembled a sprawling red-brick palace replete with soaring turrets and sun-tipped domes, a formidable island fortress guarding the portals to America. Those immigrants standing at the ship's railing swallowed hard and gripped the rail in mounting anxiety. What occurred on this small island and within that intimidating, authoritative-looking building would decide whose dreams came true and who would be denied entrance to the world's depository of hope.
Lucie Kolska, pale and trembling with nerves and trepidation, followed her cousin Petor up the wide sweep of the grand staircase and finally into a cavernous hall with a ceiling so high that two trapped birds darted and swooped beneath the arches. Hundreds of people milled about in confusion until a uniformed official herded them into the famed Ellis Island pens. Like cattle, they entered a tortuous maze defined by iron pipe rails that wound toward the front of the enormous hall.
Though the din in the room was thunderous, Lucie imagined she could hear the fearful pounding of her heart. From this day forward she would never hear mention of the Tower of Babel without remembering Ellis Island. Fretful voices called and shouted questions in a dozen languages. Uniformed men yelled instructions. Hawkers from the booths near the door screamed enticements to visit the money-changing booth, the job-placement counter, the transportation center. If the noise wasn't enough to cause a headache, the odors were. The smell of nervous perspiration and closely bunched humanity overhung the packed lines like a sour miasma. As Lucie inched through the pens toward the medical examiner and the immigration authorities, she smelled urine, sweat, soiled clothing and occasionally the sharp fatty pungency of sausage.
One hour passed, then two, and still the line stretched in front of her, moving forward at a snail's pace. Heat mounted in the room and an elderly woman to Lucie's right fainted. And with each step forward, the level of anxiety increased. Lucie wet dry lips, then touched her glove to the numbered tag pinned to her coat. It would have been comforting to know what to expect. The medical examiner did not frighten her too badly; she knew she was strong and in good health. She didn't cough or limp as some did; her eyes were not red or crusted. She had no unusual growths, no skin eruptions.
But just thinking about the infamous twenty-nine questions raised a tremor of apprehension and caused Lucie's lips and hands to shake. Everyone knew the twenty-nine questions must be answered correctly but no one knew what those questions were. Everyone was terrified they would fail and be turned back.
"Stop biting your lips, it makes you look suspicious," her cousin Petor advised from directly behind her. "They'll think you're an anarchist."
"Me?" The idea was absurd but her heart lurched. Here was one more thing to worry about. Instead of chewing her lower lip, she twisted her gloves around the rope handle of her reticule.
"Number four hundred and eighty-two," a uniformed official called a moment later, screaming to be heard above the pandemonium roaring through the hall.
Lucie started violently, then stood paralyzed with fear and dread, her eyes as wide as daisies. She felt as if giant fingers squeezed her chest and she could not breathe, could not step beyond the iron pipe rails. Petor gave her a gentle push breaking her paralysis, and she stumbled forward.
The official inspected the tag pinned to her coat, requested her name, then placed a check mark on his list. "In there," he said indifferently, jerking his head toward a door behind him.
Lucie swallowed hard, pressed both hands over her thudding heart, and glanced back at Petor hoping for a nod of encouragement. But her cousin's expression indicated he felt as worried as she about being returned to Poland. Please, God , she prayed silently before she drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and timidly stepped into the medical examiner's room.
"Over here," someone called. Ordinarily Lucie considered herself a capable young woman, able to contend with life's exigencies, but these were not ordinary circumstances. So much depended upon the next moments.
The examination room was larger than she had expected, partitioned into cubicles created by cloth hung over lengths of rope. While the arrang
ement allowed adjustment for greater or lesser numbers of cubicles, the cubicles provided scant privacy as the fronts were open for all to see into. When her summons was repeated in French and German, Lucie started and hurried forward, murmuring apologies and averting her eyes from an anxious-looking man disrobing in the far corner. A large dark growth covered the upper portion of his chest.
"Doctor John Waithe with the United States Public Health Service." After introducing himself, a balding man beckoned her forward with an impatient gesture. He matched the number on her coat to the papers he held, then ordered her to walk back and forth along the wall, watching to see if she limped. "There is nothing to fear," he said in a voice that sounded tired. He studied her closely, then made a series of rapid checks down a form. "Sit down, please."
Dr. Waithe's expressionless assurance did nothing to calm Lucie's racing heart, and her mouth was so dry she swallowed repeatedly. While he peered into her eyes, checking for trachoma, and examined her ears, throat and teeth, Lucie tried to see what was happening to the man with the growth on his chest. When the doctor instructed her to rise, she turned toward the cubicle opening and saw the man in the corner had dropped his head in his hands and was sitting in silence as his wife screamed and wrung her hands.
"You may go." Not looking up from his forms, Dr. Waithe waved toward a door she had failed to notice until now.
Clasping shaking hands against her quilted skirt, Lucie swallowed a lump the size of a biscuit. She could not speak above a whisper. "Are you turning me away?"
Now he glanced up and managed a weary smile. "No, Miss Kolska. You appear to be in excellent health."
Relief weakened her knees. Then she remembered the questions and a fresh onslaught of anxiety overwhelmed her. Inside the second room a half dozen officials directed questions at a half dozen trembling respondents. Lucie thanked heaven a stool had been provided. Her shaking legs could not have held her upright throughout the ordeal.
A man with a thick dark mustache pointed to a stool before him. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes, sir," she whispered, averting her eyes from his uniform. Petor had insisted no one in America feared uniforms, but old habits were hard to break. At home a man in uniform could conscript a brother or father into the army, could seize a wife or daughter for an hour's pleasure, could take the winter's food from the cellar. And one could do nothing but smile and bow and push the hatred deep inside.
"Can you read and write?"
"Slowly, but yes, I can." The official murmured a word of approval and placed a check mark on his papers. Feeling bewildered Lucie's dark eyes widened. Was it possible she had already answered two of the dreaded questions? Surely not.
"What kind of work do you do?"
"Farm work. Women's work."
He wrote on his papers. "Where are you going?"
"Here. To America." She bit her lip in fright when he frowned and it appeared she had answered incorrectly. "I'm going to live in New York City of America."
He nodded. "Is someone meeting you?"
She didn't understand. The questions were so simple there had to be a trick she was too nervous to comprehend.
"Are you a polygamist?" When Lucie didn't respond, the official glanced at her over the top of his papers. "Do you believe in having two husbands or two wives?"
Her mouth dropped, then she laughed aloud, something she had not dreamed she would do during the questioning. "No!"
"Do you plan to overthrow the government of the United States of America now or in the future?"
Did anyone ever answer yes? Suddenly she understood the questions were not a trap for the unwary, not devised to turn people away. Her shoulders sagged with relief, and confidence flickered in her gaze. She identified the same expressions on the faces around her, suspicion, disbelief, then dawning elation.
Finally, it was over and the official smiled. "Welcome to America, miss. You may remove your tag now. Here is your landing card." She accepted the card with dazed pride and carefully slipped it inside her shirtwaist for safekeeping. "Collect your baggage outside, then take the number three ferry to the city."
"I'm an American!" she whispered, hardly daring to believe. Tears of elation brimmed in her eyes. Because Petor had told her people shook hands in America, she thrust out her hand, caught the official's glove and pumped his arm up and down until he smiled and protested. "Thank you," she murmured enthusiastically. Shaking his hand wasn't enough, she wanted to shout and run and dance and jump in the air. "Oh, thank you, thank you!"
Outside the main building she stopped abruptly and breathed deeply of the bright June air, joyfully filling her lungs with an American breeze. Overhead the sky was clear and bottomless, as dazzlingly blue as the harbor waters rippling between Ellis Island and the towering city of New York. This was her home now, she thought, stunned by the idea of it. She had succeeded; she was an American.
Throwing out her arms and laughing aloud, Lucie spun in a circle that sent her skirts billowing and turned her toward the city skyline. Amazingly, some of the buildings appeared to be ten or even eleven stories tall. They scraped the very sky. The vision was so stupefying that she shifted her gaze, seeking a moment of perspective in the ordinary sight of gulls swooping above the docks. Dizzy with happiness, she wrapped her arms around her short dark jacket and hugged herself, feeling the landing card safe and real against her heart.
When she could bear another burst of excitement, she rose on tiptoe to see above the throngs of people jamming the grand staircase, shouting in excitement or confusion. Yes, there it was. Lucie could glimpse the crown and torch of Lady Liberty above the turrets and domes of the main building. Moisture dampened her eyes and her heart swelled with pride. Life was going to be wonderful here.
"I've found our baggage," Petor said, appearing at her side. After dropping their knotted bundles at her feet, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and smiled. "We're Americans now, ja?"
All trace of timidity and nervousness had vanished from Lucie's expression. Her dark eyes glowed with excitement. "I can't wait to see Stefan! Have you found him? And your brother?" Rising again on tiptoe, she tried to peer above the mass of people pushing and shoving around her. Although Petor stood beside her, she had to shout in his ear to be heard. An elbow knocked against her shoulder, a swinging bundle struck her hip and she clasped Petor's arm to steady herself. "Oh dear. We'll never find Stefan in this crush!"
"I'll search for them," Petor shouted near her hat brim. "You stay with our baggage." Leaning forward, he tapped the shoulder of a man who was trying not to be pushed into the bundles at Lucie's feet. "Sir, could I impose upon you to protect my cousin while I search for our party?"
The stranger turned and his warm dark eyes settled on Lucie in a look of unabashed admiration. "I would be honored to serve your cousin, sir."
Lucie gazed into those eyes, the color of freshly turned earth, and a tiny shiver ran through her body as if lightning had struck nearby. Something tightened inside and suddenly she couldn't breathe properly. Her lips parted and her eyes widened. The handsome young man standing before her exuded a sense of confidence she had not observed today, his self-assurance stood out like an island of calm amidst the chaos surging around them.
Aware that her steady gaze was immodest, Lucie tried to look away from him, but she couldn't. She watched him remove a tweed cap to reveal a thatch of auburn hair that glowed as warmly in the sunlight as did his smile. When Lucie realized he was staring at her as intently as she stared at him, a rush of confusion heated her cheeks and she hastily ducked her head, concealing her blush beneath the brim of her straw hat.
At home in Wlad if a man stared at a woman the way this man stared at her, as if he were enchanted, the villagers said he had been struck by love's elbow. The blush deepened on Lucie's cheeks and her heart skipped a beat. No man had ever looked at her this directly, as if he were seeing something hidden from the rest of the world. The experience was thrilling and confusing, a strange, wonderful way
to begin her new life in America.
"It isn't true, you know," her protector said after Petor had plunged into the shouting crowd rushing and pushing past them. Bending slightly, he peered beneath her hat brim to examine her face. "American streets are paved with mud and horse droppings just like anywhere else."
"I know," Lucie murmured, startled that he had read her mind and also feeling a twinge of disappointment. She hadn't believed the streets of America were paved with gold, not really, or that shopkeepers dined on silver platters. But it had been exciting to imagine.
She dared another look and bit her lower lip. As he was still bending near her, she inhaled the sunshiny scent of his tweed jacket and the pleasing male scents of hair oil and a faint underlying hint of clean, honest perspiration. Unsettled by her response to his attention, by the peculiar turmoil his nearness caused, Lucie pressed her hands together and ducked her head again. Never before could she recall being this intensely aware of a man. She felt as if five hundred people had faded away leaving only the two of them standing at the base of the grand staircase.
"As there's no one to introduce us I'm Jamie Kelly, recently of Dublin, Ireland."
"Were you aboard the Poutansia ?" Lucie inquired, peeking up at him. She did not recall any Irish on board. Certainly she had seen no man as handsome as this one.
Jamie Kelly turned the full force of his gaze on her and for an instant Lucie could not breathe. Above his waistcoat, his collar and shirtfront looked freshly starched, and his dark trousers and coat were a higher quality than any she had observed during the voyage. Moreover, he was clean shaven whereas the fashion of the day decreed mustaches and beards. His smooth jaw indicated a man who was unafraid to proclaim his individuality, a man who danced to his own music.
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