I had a feeling that my parents didn’t really believe that things would work out for Hendrik and me. They hoped this was a girlish infatuation that would fade once Hendrik and I were separated by thousands of miles. I knew it wouldn’t.
I stayed up late into the night writing Hendrik a frantic letter, explaining what my parents and the others had decided, explaining that I had no choice but to go to America with them. I told him that he was welcome to immigrate to America, too, when he was discharged. I mailed the letter early the next morning, and for days I couldn’t eat or sleep while I waited for his reply. What would he say? Was Papa right in believing that Hendrik would soon forget all about me? I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to defy my parents and run away to Utrecht if Hendrik asked me to join him there, but that’s what I longed to do. Yet if I did that, I would not only be defying Mama and Papa, I’d be defying God.
That Sunday as people crowded into the print shop and stood outside near the windows and doors, I listened to the sermon from the kitchen, sitting beside Mama and a handful of other women. Dominie preached about the great heroes of our faith and how God worked in the lives of those who believed. Too restless to stay seated, I stood and moved to the window as he spoke about the faithful ones like Abraham who never lived to see the fulfillment of things that he’d hoped for in this life. Outside in our tiny yard, the sun shone on the clothesline where Hendrik had held me in his arms, and as I listened to the sermon, I knew that my faith wasn’t strong enough to trust God’s plan for me.
For the first time in my life, my heart was pierced by doubt. I had lived with my parents’ example of unwavering faith in God and thought I believed everything they’d taught me. But now I began to wonder if what I’d learned about God was really true. With a huge, wide world to run, why would God even care if I followed my heart and married Hendrik? Why would He bring Hendrik into my life in the first place and watch us fall in love, only to cruelly decide that we shouldn’t be married? Were we like insects to God who hovered over us, watching our every move, prepared to squash us and our dreams if we didn’t follow His will?
Mama glanced at me with a worried look, but she was quickly drawn back to the sermon. Papa had said I must decide if I was going to obey God or go my own way. But did God really direct our lives if we prayed for guidance? How would I hear Him speaking? I felt as though we were all on a ship and God was our captain, standing at the rudder, choosing our direction and destination. We had no choice but to hang on to the rails as He took us through storms or allowed us to wallow in the doldrums—unless we decided to leap overboard and start swimming in our own direction. I knew enough to fear the chaos of the unknown deep.
My doubts widened and spread like the killing blight until I not only doubted God’s goodness but also Hendrik’s faithfulness. What if Papa was right and Hendrik’s feelings for me began to change now that we were apart? Utrecht was filled with women who were much prettier than I was. And why would Hendrik even want to become a Christian knowing that he would have to submit to God’s will and live by the Bible’s strict rules and be persecuted for his beliefs?
Papa said I should trust God and put the matter into His hands. I wanted to do that, I really did. I wanted to believe that everything I knew about Him was true, and that He was a loving God who wanted only the best for me. Because if that wasn’t true, then nothing in life had any meaning. If He didn’t love us and have a plan for each one of us, then why bother living at all?
I didn’t think I could ever be happy without Hendrik—but I knew that I couldn’t endure life without God. When the sermon ended and it was time for prayer, I sat down at the table beside my mother again and bowed my head. I prayed, like everyone else, for God’s guidance. I told Him that I wanted His will for my life, not my own will. I whispered Amen.
Then I held my breath and waited for Hendrik to answer my letter.
Chapter 10
Anna
Hotel Ottawa
1897
We’ve been at the Hotel Ottawa for nearly a week. It rained all day yesterday, keeping us inside the entire day, so today I’m eager to get back outside for my morning walk. I can tell that Mother misses her social life in Chicago and would like to return home, but I still need more time. “How much time?” she asks over lunch. I don’t know the answer. Nor do I know the answers to the dozens of other questions that fill my head: Why am I so lonely and unhappy? Why was the life I had with William so unfulfilling? And did God truly have a different purpose for me?
I can’t stop thinking about the woman I saw on Sunday with her little boy, the woman who had hair just like mine. I need to know what language she’d spoken. I’m not at all certain what difference the answer will make, but it somehow seems all wrapped up with who I am and who I’m really meant to be. As I walk along the pathway near the water, skirting the sandy puddles of rainwater, I’m wishing I had stopped the woman and talked with her. I spot Derk striding toward the dock with an armload of gear. I watch him for a few minutes as he walks out onto the pier, his steps bold and certain as the wooden structure bobs up and down beneath his weight. The waves are choppy today after yesterday’s downpour. Derk climbs aboard the hotel’s sailboat, and I see that he’s getting it ready for another excursion, checking the ropes and sails and all the other incomprehensible parts that make the ship sail. I’ve watched from the shore as he’s taken guests on voyages around Black Lake, and as the boat glides across the water on the wind, the huge triangular white sail unfurled, Derk makes sailing look so simple, so gracefully beautiful, that I’m almost tempted to try it. Until the boat changes direction and tilts sideways, that is. Sailboats always do that, which is why I will never, ever set foot in one.
I watch him work for a few minutes, then eventually grow brave enough to walk out onto the pier and stand beside the boat. Several minutes pass before Derk finally notices me. “Good morning, Miss Nicholson. Have you signed up to go sailing today?”
“No, no. I just wondered . . . I wondered if I might ask you a question.”
“Certainly. Ask away.” He moves across the deck of the boat to stand closer to me, the ship rocking beneath him. I don’t know how he can keep his balance, but he does.
“I–I don’t want to get you into trouble if you have work to do.” I am losing my nerve. It occurs to me how ridiculous my question will sound, especially if I mention my dream. “I can come back later if you’re busy.”
“I’m not. The boat is all ready to go, and I have a few minutes while I wait for my passengers. What’s your question?”
I take a deep breath. “You mentioned the other day that you thought I looked Dutch. And that your own ancestors were Dutch.”
“Right.”
“Do you speak that language by any chance?”
“A little bit,” he says, showing me an inch of space between his thumb and forefinger. “I used to be able to understand what my grandparents were saying, but I’ve forgotten a lot over the years. And I never spoke it very well, myself.”
“Have you ever heard the word lieveling?”
His face brightens, as if I’ve said some magic word. “Sure. It’s something you’d say to a loved one. Something like darling, I suppose.”
“How did I know that?” I murmur. The dock feels unsteady beneath my feet, and I suddenly need to sit down. I feel myself swaying, and Derk leaps across the gap from the boat to the dock and grabs my arm.
“Are you all right, Miss Nicholson?”
“Yes . . . well . . . no, not really.” Derk helps me off the dock and lowers me down onto the nearest bench. It’s still damp from the rain, but I welcome the chance to sit. He looks concerned as he sits down beside me.
“You aren’t going to faint on me, are you, miss? Shall I get some smelling salts?”
“No . . . but thank you.” I’ve always disdained fragile women who swoon and reach for the salts at every minor disturbance. Yet I remember William’s accusation, and at this moment I do feel as though I’m los
ing my mind. And yet I’m not! “I’m not crazy,” I say aloud. “I did know what it meant. But where did I learn that word?”
I look up at Derk. He has a puzzled expression on his face. Perhaps he also believes I’m crazy. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Miss Nicholson, and—”
“It’s Anna. Please call me Anna.”
“Anna, then. I can see that you’re upset, and I’m willing to listen if you’d like to tell me what’s troubling you.”
Derk isn’t classically handsome like William, and certainly not as fashionably dressed. But I see so much compassion in his blue eyes and in his expression of concern that it makes him seem handsome. “That’s what ministers do, I suppose. Console people.”
“Well, I’m not ordained, yet,” he says, smiling. “But you look as though you could use a friend.”
A friend. I have been longing for a friend. I take a deep breath to steady myself and let it out with a sigh—something Mother would abhor. “When the steamship from Holland docked here yesterday I overheard a woman talking to her little boy. She called him lieveling. Somehow, I knew what that word meant, yet I didn’t even know what language she was speaking until you told me just now. The woman’s hair looked very much like mine, and you said that I looked Dutch, and so I thought maybe you could tell me . . . I’m sorry. I’m probably not making any sense.”
“Yes, you are. Go on.”
“You’ve confirmed that it is a Dutch word, but I have no idea where I could have heard it or how I would have learned what it meant. I had a dream the other night that I was very young, like the little boy I saw yesterday, and Mama called me lieveling in my dream, just like the little boy’s mother did. But I’m certain that my mother doesn’t speak a word of Dutch.”
“Hmm. That is a puzzle.” Derk rests his hand on his smooth-shaven chin, massaging it as he thinks for a moment. “It’s obvious that you and your family are people of means, so do you suppose it’s possible that you had a nursemaid or a servant who spoke Dutch to you when you were little?”
I stare at him in surprise. He’s brilliant. “Of course! That must be it. Thank you. I’ll ask Mother about it as soon as I return to my room. Thank you.”
He gives me a wide grin. “I’m very glad I could help.”
“I was afraid I was losing my mind, you see. William told me to stop going to the castle church because it was making me crazy, and with all the dreams and nightmares I’ve been having lately, I was starting to wonder if he was right. But of course there’s a simple explanation for it. Of course there is. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Neither of us makes a move to leave even though Derk has answered my question. “Is William someone special?” he asks.
“He’s my fiancé . . . that is, he was my fiancé until he ended our engagement.”
“I’m sorry . . . But I think I might understand how you feel. There was someone I loved very much and wanted to marry, but she turned me down. She said she didn’t want to be married to a minister, and that’s what I’ll be in another year.”
“How odd,” I say. “It seems that religion has played a role in ending both of our engagements. You see, I’ve been attending a church in Chicago these past few months—I’ve felt drawn there, in fact, as if by ropes and pulleys and—”
“Which church?”
“It was started by the famous evangelist D. L. Moody.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him. Sorry for interrupting. Go on.”
“The way they talk about God there and about the Christian faith . . . they make it seem so real. The minister is always telling us how much God loves us, and that He has a plan for us, and I feel so peaceful whenever I go there. The church William and I attend isn’t like that at all. Our minister makes God seem cold and distant, and there are a lot of dos and don’ts and ‘Thou shalt nots.’ I feel tied up in knots simply trying to remember all those rules. I have too many regulations in my life as it is with all the strictures of social etiquette and proper manners I’m required to follow. I know I can never measure up in God’s eyes, and I certainly never felt that He loved me—until I found this new church.”
I’m aware that I’m prattling on and on—and to a stranger, no less—but I can’t seem to stop myself. Derk sits perfectly still and attentive as he listens, and I realize that William never truly listened to me. He never seemed interested in what I was feeling or thinking.
“I tried to talk to William about the differences between the two churches,” I continue, “but he refused to listen. He told me to stop going to the castle church—that’s what I call it—and when I didn’t stop, he said I had chosen the church instead of him, and he ended our engagement.”
“That doesn’t sound very fair. But again, I think I know how you feel. Caroline gave me an ultimatum, too. I could marry her or I could be a minister. I couldn’t do both.”
“How selfish of her to demand her own way! She must not have loved you very much if she let you walk away from her.”
For a moment, Derk looks as though the thought has never occurred to him. “Yes . . .” he says, nodding his head. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. She didn’t love me—at least not as much as I loved her. And the same things probably could be said about your fiancé. It was very selfish of him to give you that ultimatum. If going to a certain church makes you happy, why force you to stop?”
“William thinks they have radical beliefs at the castle church, but they don’t.”
Derk gives a short laugh. “It seems like nothing ever changes. I’ve been reading my Tante Geesje’s memoir about emigrating from the Netherlands, and she says that the divide between the churches was what brought my ancestors to this country fifty years ago. She says her family broke away from the state church because it was too cold and lifeless—just like the one you described. And her ancestors were persecuted for wanting to worship differently. They made a lot of sacrifices in order to settle here in Holland and enjoy religious freedom. And it sounds to me that all you want is a small measure of religious freedom, too.”
“Yes! That’s exactly how I feel when I go to the castle church—like I’m finally free!” I stop and cover my mouth for a moment, ashamed of what I have just confessed. “I sound so spoiled and ungrateful,” I tell Derk. “I have a wonderful life in Chicago with everything I could ever need or want. I’m not held captive in any way.”
“I understand. But there’s a difference between our physical well-being and our spiritual contentment.” Derk’s gaze is so intense and so sorrowful that I realize I’m showing no concern for him even though he shared the story of his heartbreak with me.
“What about your girlfriend—Caroline?” I ask. “Does she attend a different church than you do?”
“No, they’re the same. But her father is a minister, and she says that he always puts his congregation before his family. He sometimes leaves in the middle of dinner or a celebration if a parishioner needs him. Caroline doesn’t want to share her husband the same way she’s been forced to share her father.”
“But isn’t that part of your job, comforting people when they need someone to talk to?”
“Yes. That’s why we broke up. I couldn’t promise her that I would never do what her father did.”
The walkway in front of us is growing busier with guests coming outside for a stroll or to enjoy the beautiful summer day. I’m shocked to realize that I’m telling this stranger all the personal details about my breakup with William, details that even my parents don’t know. Although, if Father has been talking to William, he has probably heard all the details by now.
“I should go,” I say, rising to my feet. “Your passengers will be here soon, and I’m keeping you from your work.”
“Wait. Do you have to go?” Derk asks, rising as well. “I feel as though we’re just becoming friends. We have something in common, even if it is a broken engagement.”
Again I realize how much I’ve been longing for a friend. But the social divide between Derk and me is
too great. Mother would think it scandalous for me to befriend a hotel employee. “Yes, I’m afraid I must go. Thank you for your time, and for answering my questions.”
“Not at all. You gave me a new perspective about Caroline. I enjoyed talking with you, Anna.”
I walk back to the hotel porch where Mother sits with her friend Mrs. Stevens. I give a little wave and turn away from them, unwilling to overhear another embarrassing conversation about unfaithful husbands. Then I halt in midstride as another thought occurs to me. If Derk is right and it was a servant who called me lieveling as a child, might that servant also be my real mother? Since my parents adopted me as a newborn, might they have allowed my birth mother to stay as my nursemaid? And if that servant was Dutch, it would explain why I resemble Derk’s friend Elizabeth and the Dutch-speaking woman I saw with the little boy yesterday.
I want to question Mother, but she spends the entire afternoon with Mrs. Stevens. We share a table with her and two other couples at dinner, and it would be impolite to casually raise the matter of my birth in conversation over the glazed ham and buttered peas. I ignore the boring chitchat and try to devise a crafty way to raise the matter later when I’m alone with Mother without arousing her suspicion. Or her defenses. My chance finally comes when she sits down in my room with me for a few minutes before we retire for the night.
“I’ve been thinking about my old nanny all day, for some reason,” I say offhandedly, “but I can’t recall her name.”
“You mean Bridget? Bridget O’Malley?”
I have to hide my frustration at the obviously Irish name. “But I was old enough to go to school when Bridget took care of me, wasn’t I? Didn’t I have a nursemaid before her? When I was a newborn?”
“Bridget was with us for years. Until you turned eight, I believe.” Mother might have fooled me into believing she was telling the truth if she hadn’t looked away quite so quickly—or hurried to change the subject. “Oh, I nearly forgot, Anna. Your father tucked a letter for you in with the one he sent me today. Let me fetch it for you.” She disappears into her room and returns a moment later with the letter. “Here, dear. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner.” She gives a phony yawn and excuses herself, insisting that she’s sleepy. I unfold the paper, dreading what I might read.