Chapter 6
Anna
Hotel Ottawa
1897
I rise early, before breakfast, so I can take a walk outside before the sun grows too hot. I love this time of day when the air is fresh and clean and the dew still twinkles on the grass. Today the sky is dotted with high, gauzy clouds and the waters of Black Lake are a lovely silvery blue. I sit on my favorite bench, near the water where Derk mistook me for his friend Elizabeth the first day, and watch the family of ducks swimming near shore. I have seen Derk only from a distance since then, when he is taking care of the rowboats or toting trunks and suitcases for hotel guests. Today I watch him load a picnic basket onto the hotel’s small sailboat as he prepares to take passengers on an excursion. Advertisements and flyers in the hotel’s lobby advise guests that we can sign up to go sailing at the concierge’s desk. I watch until Derk’s passengers—a young couple who can’t seem to take their eyes off each other—are seated in the boat and Derk sets sail out onto the lake. Their laughter carries across the clear water. I can think of nothing I would hate more than stepping onto another boat.
Mother has news for me later as we sit across from each other at breakfast. “A letter from your father arrived in this morning’s post,” she says. She pulls it from the envelope and reads part of it aloud to me. “‘Tell my dear Anna that I saw William at the club the other night, and we spoke briefly about their broken engagement. He told me he would be open to further conversation regarding a reconciliation but perhaps at a later time.’”
I could easily imagine William sitting in an overstuffed club chair in his starched white shirt, holding a fragrant cigar between his fingers and frowning at the very mention of my name. But Father is an important client of the bank that William’s grandfather founded, so William wouldn’t dare shout at him the way he shouted at me, especially in the hushed tranquility of their private men’s club, where the servants whisper and walk on tiptoe.
“What do you think, Anna? That’s good news, isn’t it?” Mother asks.
“I don’t know . . . can we talk about something else? I still need more time to think.”
Mother honors my wishes, although I can tell she is biting her tongue. When we finish eating, she runs into a guest from Chicago she has befriended named Honoria Stevens. They decide to sit on the hotel’s wide veranda and leaf through the latest copies of Vogue fashion magazine, planning the gowns their seamstresses will create for the fall social season. I’m sure they’ll also spend a good deal of time complaining about their servants back home and the hotel’s untutored staff. “You’re welcome to join us, Anna,” Mother says.
Nothing would bore me more. “Maybe later,” I tell her. “I want to walk to the beachfront on Lake Michigan this morning.”
“In that case, why not invite one of the nice young ladies we met at the piano recital last night to go with you?”
I give a vague nod in reply, but I have no intention of asking anyone to join me, least of all those giddy girls. I already know that their conversation will be superficial and boring, like the idle conversations I’m forced to endure when paying social calls and receiving visitors back home. Such visits rarely ease my loneliness or fill the longing I have for a close friend. I haven’t had a real friend to laugh with and confide in since my school days. The girls I knew at school are all married now, and I’m practically an old maid at my advanced age of twenty-three. But it took me longer than the other girls to overcome my shyness and to grow up enough to begin courting and become engaged. Father sheltered me as his little girl, and no suitor was ever good enough in his eyes until William came along.
“Well, be sure to wear a hat when you’re on the beach,” Mother cautions. “And long sleeves so the sun doesn’t darken your skin.”
I do as I’m told and return to my room for my sun hat. I still haven’t worn the new bathing costume I purchased before leaving home, nor do I want to wear it now. I have no desire to dip so much as a toe into either lake. As I’m leaving my room again, I decide to bring my diary along—not to write in but to read. Perhaps I can discover where things went wrong between William and me. And maybe I can decide if I still love him.
The short walk to the beach takes me along the channel that connects Black Lake to Lake Michigan. Several small boats are sailing through it this morning, taking advantage of the calm water to venture out onto the big lake. A handful of fishermen try their luck along the edge of the channel, casting their lines into the glittering water. I stand and watch the activity for a while before pulling off my shoes to walk barefoot in the warm, sugarlike sand. A group of children play in the water nearby, squealing with delight as the waves wash over them and destroy the sand castles they’re building at the water’s edge. Another young family has brought along a picnic lunch, and as they spread it out on a blanket, a trio of bold seagulls inches closer.
At last I sink down in the sand and open my diary to the first entry:
I attended a New Year’s Eve party with William last night in the ballroom of his family’s mansion. Everything was dazzling—the decorations, the food, the ladies’ gowns, the orchestral music. William stole my breath away in his tailored black evening suit and tailcoat. We danced until my feet ached and the champagne I sipped made the room begin to whirl. William was by far the handsomest man in the room with his wavy dark hair and neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes are the same rich mahogany color as the woodwork that decorates his mansion. I saw the jealous looks in the other girls’ eyes, knowing that I was the lucky one who had won William’s heart. After midnight we snuck down to the servants’ hallway, and I let William kiss me when no one was looking. His kisses made me even dizzier than the champagne. Oh, how I long for the day when we are married and we can be together all the time, holding each other much closer than we are allowed to now.
Tears fill my eyes at the memory of that evening and the stolen kisses we shared. We had gazed at each other the same way the young couple had when I watched them this morning, climbing into Derk’s sailboat.
I skim a few more diary entries, remembering the wedding preparations Mother and I had begun to discuss—the guest list, the wedding dinner, the gowns and other clothes for my wedding trip to Europe. William and I hadn’t chosen a date yet, but he did decide to hold the reception in his family’s ballroom since his home is larger and more opulent than ours. We would live with his parents at first, until our own home could be built. William knew exactly what he wanted our mansion to look like and how every room would be furnished. The thought of planning and furnishing an enormous home on my own seemed overwhelming to me at the time, so I was quite happy to leave everything in his capable hands. William is very decisive, while I’m terrible at making up my mind. Little did I know that he would take over all of the other important decisions in my life as well, including which church I should attend.
My stomach rolls like the nearby waves as I turn back to my diary.
January 7
It finally stopped snowing this morning, and by the afternoon I longed to get out of the house. I summoned our driver and asked him to take me for a carriage ride, wishing I had a friend to join me—someone who would enjoy a brisk winter ride as much as I do. The city looked like a fairyland with a new coating of snow sparkling on all the trees. The frigid air blowing off Lake Michigan made my nose hurt when I breathed it in, but I felt so alive!
On my way home the driver came upon a carriage accident that blocked the way, so he turned down a side street, then another and another until we ended up outside a church on the corner of Chicago Avenue and LaSalle Street. I have been to that church before, I am sure of it, but I can’t remember when or why. The entrance, which faces the corner, is through a round, brick tower that resembles a castle turret. Parked in front of the door was the Gospel Wagon that I’d often seen around Chicago during the World’s Columbian Exposition three years ago. The music and singing were so festive that I asked my driver to stop for a moment. When we did, a woman ran right up to my carriage and handed me an advertisement inviting me to come inside and hear a world-famous evangelist. I instructed my driver to wait, and I stepped out of the carriage.
The moment I walked through the doors, I knew I had been inside before. Everything was so familiar! I lingered in the rear of the church and listened for a moment. The minister talked about Jesus as if He was his best friend. Then he described the loneliness and emptiness we all feel, and said that Jesus could fill that empty place. “God loves you,” the minister said. “He has a plan and a purpose for your life.”
The sermon wasn’t finished, but I knew my driver was waiting for me, so I slipped outside again. But the minister’s words remained with me all the way home, warming my heart like a tiny candle in the snow.
I asked Mother if we’d ever gone to the church at that address when I returned home. “Certainly not!” she replied. I questioned if I might have gone there with Father, but Mother simply stated that our family has attended the same church our entire life.
It’s late now, and I need to turn out the gaslight and go to sleep. But I still can’t shake the eerie feeling that I’ve been to the castle church before. Nor can I forget the minister’s words. Does God really have a plan and a purpose for my life?
January 9
I dreamed about the castle church last night. Mama and I were there together, listening to a sermon. Then I awoke to a dreary, gray day with nothing to do. Mother is in bed with a cold, so I bundled up in my warmest coat and boots, intending to walk down our street and back again. But on a whim, I hailed a passing cab and asked the driver to take me to the castle church. I had no idea if there would be a service there in the middle of the afternoon, but it turned out that there was. The same preacher from a few days ago was speaking, and this time I stayed for the entire sermon.
I look up again, gazing out at the thin line on the horizon where water and sky meet, remembering what happened the following evening. William and I had been on our way to the theater together, and I was excited to tell him about the sermon I’d heard. I had barely begun speaking when he interrupted me. “What were you doing in a place like that, Anna?” His voice was as cold as the January night.
“What do you mean? It’s a church, William. A Christian church.”
“Places like that attract the very lowest sort of people. The ministers are often charlatans who like to bilk innocent people out of their money.”
“No one asked me for money—”
“Even so, stay away from there.” It was an order. He spoke to me the way he might speak to a servant or one of his employees at the bank. I tried to explain how something seemed to be missing from my life, and he grew angrier still, saying I was insulting him and my parents when I spoke that way. Then he smiled and said, “Let’s talk about something else.” He was very sweet to me for the rest of the evening, holding my hand and stealing kisses and telling me how beautiful I am. “Your hair is the color of spun gold,” he said. “I can’t wait to see it hanging loose around your beautiful face.”
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.