The Faith of a Dove

By Helen Mitchell

As an 1840s Boston socialite, Cordelia Endicott’s life is full of dreams for a bright future. But in the twinkling of heaven’s eye, her world changes dramatically when she meets Redmond, a handsome Irishman. Eloping after a whirlwind courtship and romance, the star-crossed lovers are heartbreakingly ripped apart by unseen forces at work. Unaware of God’s plan for them, the pair travel separate pathways over a span of forty years, all the while deepening their faith in God. Through the Civil War and beyond, their stories of personal tragedies and triumphs will intertwine, leading the couple down the path God has chosen for them, unaware that two heavenly messengers are keeping close watch over them. Will they ever be reunited in their love for one another and for God? The answer to that question can be found only by having the faith of a dove.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636308982

Book preview

1

If I take the wings of morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;

Even there shall thy hand lead me.

—Psalm 139:9–10 KJV

1849

Cordelia, will you please stop your incessant fidgeting? Mr. Reynard will not be able to complete your portrait with you constantly thrashing around.

Cordelia sighed at her mother’s reprimand. "But Mother, this is so tedious. Can’t he simply paint me from memory?"

Mr. Reynard chuckled at the growing impatience of his young subject. My dear child, you have the face of an angel, but every angel, I am told, has a beauty unlike the others. I want to capture that unique loveliness on canvas. For that, you must remain still a while longer.

Cordelia sighed again loudly and struck her pose once more, and what a striking pose she made. At the age of seventeen, Cordelia Rose Endicott had grown into a stunningly beautiful young woman. Her green eyes sparkled; her cheeks and lips were the rosy hue of youth and innocence. She was dressed in a white imported hand-made lace blouse with tiny sequins sewn into the material giving the blouse a glimmer to it when the light struck them just right. A dark blue band of silk above a smaller band of pink accentuated the blouse at her throat. Lustrous white pearls adorned her neck as well, which she also held in her hand close to her face, a pose considered to be quite fashionable for the time.

Her silky auburn hair was swept back and up from her face, save for a few rogue curls dangling on each side. But perhaps the most striking embellishment of her ensemble was her hat. This magnificent creation was pink overlayed with more of the shimmering delicate lace matching her blouse. Perched on top were several roses of different sizes and hues of pink mingled with lilac freesias and delicate blue Canterbury bells.

To commemorate her birthday and last year’s debutante ball, Cordelia Endicott’s parents had arranged to have their daughter’s portrait made—a lasting tribute to youth and beauty, they told her.

But try as she might, Cordelia could not sit motionless for hours. Her youthful body wanted to talk, wanted to move, wanted to live life to its fullest. Besides, of what importance could a portrait have to her future? Years from now it would only serve to remind her of how beautiful and energetic she had been. Though she tried her best to behave and remain still, it was to no avail.

Finally Mr. Reynard threw up his hands in frustration. I can do no more for today. Miss Endicott, you are free to go. It is obvious your heart and spirit lie elsewhere.

Cordelia let out a squeal of joy and jumped up, excited to be released from her wearisome prison.

Thank you, Mr. Reynard. I promise to do better next time. She reached over and kissed the old man on the cheek. He blushed and chuckled.

There now, be off with you. Such youth and vitality should not be wasted sitting inside on a lovely day as this.

Alice Endicott frowned at her daughter as Cordelia raced to the door to make her exit from the little studio. I do apologize for my daughter, Mr. Reynard. She can be most obstinate at times.

Reynard shook his head. No bother. I have enough to finish without her being here all the time. I will send you word when I need her presence again, Mrs. Endicott.

Both Reynard and Alice Endicott looked around, but Cordelia was already out the door, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. She was inhaling the fragrant scent of the roses that lined the walkway as her mother caught up to her.

Really, Cordelia, why must you be so restless? You are so unladylike at times. Young ladies never do anything so improper as to venture outside without a chaperone and a parasol.

Cordelia took a big whiff of the pink tea rose she cuffed in her hand. I am sorry, Mother, but isn’t it a beautiful day?

Cordelia Endicott was the epitome of affluent American youth in the mid-1800s. Born into a life of luxury and wealth in Massachusetts, her parents were like many elitists of the era, in that they could trace their lineage to the first English settlers aboard the Mayflower. For many families during this period in American history, bloodlines leading back to England meant the difference between marrying well and not marrying at all. Like other young women her age, Cordelia had been presented to society the year before. Soon after, a noticeably large number of suitors began calling upon her, hoping to win her hand.

While most young women were content to enjoy the attention received from so many young men, Cordelia understood early on that she was only a secondary prize. For the most part, it was her father’s lucrative business that attracted so many suitors. Endicott Financial Services was a rapidly expanding business, growing substantially over the years, with branches in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. Charles Endicott, Cordelia’s father, was a respected member of Boston society with interests ranging from banking and investment to politics. Her mother, likewise, was well known in the social circles of New England, hosting memorable events and volunteering at the local charities. It was easy to see why interest in Cordelia not only centered on her great beauty; she was an only child and whosoever married her stood to be quite wealthy and powerful.

Her carefree spirit did not always allow Cordelia to be as serious and as grounded as her parents had hoped. Time and again she refused to allow herself to be bogged down in tradition and stuffiness. Once completing finishing school, most young ladies of Cordelia’s status began preparing for a future as wife and mother. This young lady, however, found little interest in adult pursuits. She loved to dream, fancying herself in one spectacular adventure after another.

Charles Endicott had chosen Mt. Holyoke Female Seminary in Massachusetts for his daughter to complete her education, after being tutored by a governess who she had shared with her best friend, Charity Pentworth. Though she did not realize it at the time, Cordelia was among the few fortunate females of this era in history to be exposed to so much more; most women of the period rarely received any tutoring beyond the manners decorum and domesticity of the day. Several of the teachers at Mt. Holyoke had encouraged Cordelia and their other pupils to broaden their horizons and to even think for themselves, a novel idea for the times. While it was important to let the men make the major decisions, one of the teachers advised, women must also seek their own answers to questions. In some parts of the country, she was told, women were property owners, business owners, and some were even the sole providers for their families. Years later she would learn to appreciate the practicality of such thoughts. However, for the time being, Cordelia fantasized about her future in other ways, creating magical stories of a prince wooing her and dancing at one ball after another.

One instructor, a Miss Rebecca Thatcher, continually challenged Cordelia to think about her future. Perhaps she saw something different in this particular student. What if—God forbid—her future husband died at a young age, Miss Thatcher asked her student. What if she had children for which to care? What if she had to take over her father’s business? Cordelia frequently dismissed these muses, preferring to believe such disasters would never befall her. She refused to allow herself to think about such somber issues and trusted that she would not have to deal with pressing matters like these. After all, her father was quite healthy and would live a long life. And she would eventually find the perfect mate who would, in turn, take care of her and treat her as royalty.

Once she returned from school, she made it a habit of visiting her father at the bank. On the pretense of delivering messages to him, Charles Endicott sought to educate his daughter in the banking business. As Cordelia was his only child, he reasoned that it would not hurt for her to know a little about the business. He hoped she would marry well, and his son-in-law would one day take over the business upon his death. But in the event that Cordelia’s future husband lacked the necessary skills to run his empire, perhaps his daughter could step in and keep the business solvent. She was very bright and observant for a female, but her flippant and carefree attitude worried him. And so he made plans to prepare for such an event, devising a way for her to learn the tricks of the trade without consciously knowing what he was doing. He asked his workers—the tellers, loan officers, and the accountants—to talk to her about various business matters. Giving her conundrums and puzzles under the guise of needing her help to resolve a problem, the employees taught Cordelia valuable information, for which she was thankful later in life.

Charles was correct in regards to his daughter: She had a frivolous side to her. Many were the times she laughed with her friends as young men fawned all over her. She thought nothing of encouraging them, then curtly dismissing them. It seemed that not one of the male species could capture her heart. This boy was too tall; this boy was too short; this one’s nose was too large. Her best friend Charity was always scolding her for acting so fickle and inconsiderate.

Cordelia, must you be so rude to Tobias? she said, scolding her close friend. It is obvious he is interested in you. Why do you treat him so unkindly?

Cordelia rolled her eyes at Charity. And why are you so concerned about Tobias? He is practically a grown man and, I am sure, can handle rejection. Besides, I enjoy flirting with him. He reminds me of one of father’s dogs at the sight of a treat.

Charity frowned at her dearest companion. My dear friend, I do care about you, but sometimes you display a sarcastic streak in you, especially where men are concerned. You should count yourself fortunate to have so many suitors. I think it would be nice to have a large selection of men from which to choose.

Charity, you know full well that most of these ‘gentlemen’ are after one thing and one thing only—my father’s money and estate. Do you have any idea how many times the subject of my wealth comes up in conversations with these individuals? When I do select my future husband, hopefully he will not be a fortune hunter and will love me for who I am, not for how much money is in my dowry and inheritance.

Well, just the same, you could be a little more civil to them. Only last Sunday the good reverend said that we should be kind toward others, especially those less fortunate than we are.

A look of puzzlement appeared on Cordelia’s face. I thought he was talking about animals, such as dogs and cats. I assumed it was in reference to that Billingsley boy that was caught torturing some animals a month ago.

Cordelia Endicott, you should listen more closely in church, scolded Charity. "He did not mean animals. He said it is our Christian duty to be charitable and kind to everyone. That includes Tobias and all the other men who clamor for your attention. She looked at her friend, narrowing her eyes. I think you are making excuses to keep them from courting you. Don’t you wish to be married?"

Of course I do, but not just yet. I am still young. I wish to have fun in my life—travel, see exciting new places and people. I cannot do that if I am ladened with a husband who works all the time and a houseful of children.

You, my friend, are going to end up a spinster, like old Mrs. Easterly. Is that what you want—to be left all alone one day with no one to love or care for you except cats?

Mrs. Easterly was known as the local cat lady in the Quincy Bay area. Various types and colors of cats could be seen at any time on her property.

Cordelia laughed at her friend’s image of their neighbor. "Charity Pentworth, I believe you exaggerate way too much! I have no intention of never marrying. I simply want to enjoy my freedom for a while longer. Besides, I rather like cats. I wish Mother would allow me to have one."

You will change your mind one day, of that I am sure. Still, you should not be so careless with their feelings. It simply is not right. Until then, you could let some of them know your friend is quite available. I do not mind castoffs.

As the seasons flew by, Cordelia contented herself with tea parties and other social events. Her home, Rosewood Manor, was at the center of many such galas, providing Cordelia with seemingly endless possibilities for suitors. Her mother was determined to make the Endicotts the talk of Boston society.

Alice Endicott was an expert in such matters. She had made their home, Rosewood Manor, into one of the most beautiful houses in Quincy Bay, south of Boston. The home, situated high on a cliff at the end of the lane, had a breathtaking view of the ocean in the background. Charles Endicott had purchased the half-completed home from a business associate and cousin, John Putnam, who had died before completion of construction on the mansion. He then put thousands of dollars into finishing the building, including the generous use of rosewood, a rare, light colored type of wood imported from Brazil; hence the name of the mansion, Rosewood Manor, which later became simply Rose Manor. Cordelia’s mother had been behind much of the landscaping details as well, adorning the house with numerous window boxes full of flowers. Floral shrubs all around the abode gave the house a colorful look while the scent of roses, lilacs, and other fragrant plants enticed visitors to linger. Against the backdrop of Quincy Bay, the pale pink Victorian mansion was an opulent sight to behold. The result was a house that was meant to impress the people of affluence in the Boston area. It worked; a dinner invitation to Rosewood Manor was considered a social highlight for many.

The essence of success surrounded the Endicott family, making them the envy of all who knew them. Yet even the most exquisite and fragile glass ornament can shatter in a moment’s misstep. So, too, a young girl’s vision of her future.

2

A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you.

—Ezekiel 36:26 KJV

Life was indeed wonderful for a young woman who had her whole life ahead of her, one that most certainly prophesied love, marriage, children, and equally important—a spotlight in the social circles of Boston. Wonderful, that is, until a life-changing event marred the rosy surface of her life.

Coming home from a day of shopping, preparing for a spring ball, Cordelia, Charity, and Charity’s mother, Edith Pentworth, were alarmed by the number of carriages and people in front of the Cunningham home. Glendora Cunningham was a friend of Cordelia and Charity’s, though her status in society circles tended to be much lower than many of her peers. Her father, Reginald Cunningham, was a poor relation who inherited his great uncle’s marginal wealth by being the only surviving heir in the family. Though Glendora was given the same privileges accorded her wealthy peers, she never quite fit into the social cliques. Many of the more prominent young ladies of Boston refused to associate with her and literally shunned her from their activities. Charity and Cordelia always tried to include Glendora in their social events, though it was obvious the girl felt uncomfortable at these engagements.

As Charity peered out of the carriage, she asked, What do you suppose all those people are doing at the Cunningham house?

Edith Pentworth shook her head. I do not have the slightest notion, dear. But it does appear serious. The authorities are there as well. All three occupants of the carriage fell silent as they passed by the house.

Mother, asked Charity, a lump in her throat. Was that the coroner’s wagon?

Yes, I believe so, was all she replied, her face ashen from the sight. Nothing good came from seeing an undertaker’s conveyance.

I do hope nothing bad has happened. Mother, may we say a prayer for Glendora and her family?

Of course, dear, that would be a proper thing to do, don’t you agree, Cordelia?

Yes, of course, answered Cordelia. But as the other two prayed, Cordelia leaned forward out the window and stared back at the house. Her attention, however, rested upon a single bird that was perched on the white picket fence surrounding Glendora’a house. The bird, she noticed at the time, seemed to be watching the carriage and her in particular. Or was that simply her imagination? She quickly bowed her head as she realized the women had finished praying. A sense of foreboding suddenly enveloped Cordelia, though she was not quite sure why.

Later that evening unexpected visitors arrived at Rosewood Manor. Already retired for the evening to her bedroom, Cordelia heard a knock at her door; her mother entered the room, a look of worry on her face. Alice seldom, if ever, came to her room at night anymore, now that she was on the verge of adulthood.

Cordelia, would you please get dressed and come downstairs immediately?

Cordelia could see her mother was very upset, fighting back tears and speaking in a shaky voice. Of course, Mother, but what is wrong? Has something happened?

I am not at liberty to say what, but yes, something is terribly wrong.

At this point Rachel, Cordelia’s maid, entered the room, having been summoned. I will help her get ready, ma’am. Miss Cordelia will be down promptly, she said to Alice.

Thank you, Rachel. Turning back to Cordelia, Alice said, Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. With that she walked quickly out of the room.

Rachel rushed to the wardrobe and withdrew a dress that could be quickly put on Cordelia.

Rachel, do you know what is happening? she asked the maid. She knew the help sometimes were privy to information even before members of a household were. It was a known fact that household staff gossiped.

No, miss, I don’t. All I know is that the police are here with Mr. Cunningham.

Glendora’s father? Why would he be here at this hour? Has something happened to her?

I cannot say, Miss Cordelia.

Cordelia quickly dressed and rushed down the stairs to the parlor. Entering, she saw two policemen and Mr. Cunningham talking with her father. They all turned their heads and looked at Cordelia as she entered the room.

Papa, what has happened? she asked, suddenly very alarmed and a little bit frightened.

Sit down, Cordelia. I am afraid there has been some bad news. These gentlemen are here to ask you some questions.

Cordelia obediently walked over to a chair and sat down. The ominous feeling she had earlier was now pulsing throughout her entire body and soul. Question me? Whatever for? Have I done something wrong?

The older of the officers looked at Cordelia. Miss Endicott, my name is Officer Peyton, and this is Officer Styles. We are here in the hope that you have answers that will help Mr. Cunningham. I believe you know Miss Glendora’s father, do you not?

Cordelia simply nodded, fearing the worst for her friend. The pained expression on Mr. Cunningham’s face both frightened her and enhanced her feeling of dread.

Officer Peyton continued. I am going to ask you some questions, and I want you to be truthful. Can you do that for me, Miss Endicott?

Yes. Does this have to do with Glendora? Is she all right?

Miss Endicott, are you and Miss Cunningham close friends? Did she ever confide in you?

We were friends. I often invited her to our social gatherings.

When was the last time you were with her?

I believe last week, at a tea.

Who was with you?

Cordelia thought for a moment. Let me see—Charity Pentworth, Erica Robinson, Angelica Morrison, and Beatrice Smithton were all there.

At any time, did she appear unhappy? Did any of the girls say inappropriate or unkind things to her?

I believe she was not comfortable around certain girls, but I would not say she was unhappy, nor were any of them unkind to her. She had just recently told us that Bentley Palmerston had shown interest in her and had called upon her several times. I believe she was quite delighted with the prospect.

Were any of you young ladies jealous of her and Mr. Palmerston?

Cordelia looked at her father. He nodded, a look of encouragement on his face.

I certainly was not. But I believe Beatrice might have been. She said once she did not understand why Bentley would be interested in a girl like her. I think she was a little sweet on him.

What did she mean by ‘a girl like her’?

Cordelia felt very uncomfortable, lowering her head and looking down at her hands in her lap. She never liked repeating gossip.

Cordelia, Charles Endicott intervened. It is all right to tell what you know. This information will not leave this room. Is that not correct, Officer Peyton?

We are merely interested in knowing if your daughter has information as to why Miss Cunningham acted as she did, he replied.

Cordelia looked up, puzzled by what Officer Peyton had said. Sir, what do you mean by ‘acting the way she did’? Has something happened to Glendora?

The officer looked at Cordelia, sadness in his eyes. Miss, I am sorry, but I must give you some grave news. Miss Cunningham passed away early this afternoon in her bedroom.

Stunned by the news, Cordelia meekly asked, Why? And how?

We are trying to determine the why, Miss Endicott.

Cordelia’s face paled. No. Is that why we saw so many people at your house, sir? She looked at Reginald Cunningham, whose face was as hard as stone.

So you happened to drive by? Why? So you could be sure that she was dead? he blurted out.

Mr. Cunningham, sir, I believe that will be enough. I must insist you leave the room, commanded Officer Peyton.

Charles Endicott stepped over to Reginald. Reggie, you are in shock. Here, take this glass of brandy and wait in the parlor across the hall. Reginald accepted the glass and left the room with the other officer.

I would never hurt Glendora! exclaimed Cordelia in protest. I had gone to Boston with Charity and her mother to do some shopping. Coming back, we saw all the people gathered around the house. I did not know—none of us knew that she had died. How? Did she have an accident? Was she ill? Please, I must know. She was my friend. Tears streamed down Cordelia’s cheeks.

By her own hand, miss, said the officer.

Glendora killed herself? No, she would never do such a thing.

The officers finally left Rosewood Manor, satisfied with Cordelia’s answers. Standing on her bedroom balcony, Cordelia looked at the stars in the sky, wondering why such a horrific thing could happen. Never before in her young life had she experienced such sorrow or loss. The reverend said there is a God in heaven, she said aloud to no one. Why, then, would he allow Glendora to die? Why did he not save her? She stood for a moment, listening, half expecting God to answer her. If you are really there, why won’t you answer me? she asked. In the distance, she heard a solitary bird call out into the night. It sounded soothing, comforting. Entering her bedroom once more, she lay down across her bed and cried herself to sleep over the loss of her friend. She did not see a dove land on the balcony banister and watch her as she fell into a fitful sleep.

It was not until after Glendora’s funeral that Cordelia and Charity learned what had happened to their friend. Glendora had left a note behind, claiming that one of the girls, Beatrice Smithton, had been jealous of her and Bentley and had begun circulating gossip. Apparently Bentley had called upon Beatrice prior to his courting of Glendora. When Bentley broke off the relationship with Beatrice, the scorned young woman vowed revenge at any cost. She began spreading vicious rumors that Glendora had been intimate with Bentley, thus soiling her reputation. When these rumors reached Bentley, his family insisted he end his relationship with Glendora, though both young people denied anything improper.

Young men may sow their oats where they may, Bentley’s father told him. But they do not marry such women.

Brokenhearted and utterly destroyed emotionally, Glendora sought relief the only way she knew how—she hanged herself in her bedroom. The maid had found the young lady’s lifeless body the afternoon that Cordelia and her party had driven by.

I do not understand why people can be so mean to each other, said Charity, as they sat comforting each other after the funeral.

Nor do I, said Cordelia. Beatrice barely knew Glendora. What prejudice and hatred she must have harbored for Glendora. Cordelia stopped for a moment, a look of remorse on her young face. Charity, please forgive me for my own flippant attitude toward others. You were right to challenge me on it.

Whatever are you referring to? asked Charity, unsure of what her friend had meant by that declaration.

The way I have treated some of the young men who have called upon me. I flirted with them shamelessly and then cast them aside as if they were nothing more than brackish water. I shall be more kind to them, though I still do not wish to marry any of them.

Miss Endicott, I do believe there is hope for you after all, said Charity, smiling at her.

3

But avoid worldly and empty chatter, for it will lead to further ungodliness, and their talk will spread like gangrene.

—2 Timothy 2:16–17 NASB

Charles Endicott took a drink of his bourbon, thinking about his daughter. Why is she being so obstinate? I see nothing wrong with the young men who are showing interest in her. Alice certainly was not a hard trophy to win. How do I make Cordelia understand the importance of choosing a husband?

He took another drink, continuing his thoughts. Perhaps I have not impressed enough upon her the significance of such a match, not only to her but to this family. If only Alice had given me a son…

His thoughts were interrupted by a fellow financier and friend, Dorian Winchester. Charles, you appear to be deep in thought, and not a pleasant one at that, judging from the frown manifested on your face.

What? Oh, sorry, Dorian. I was thinking about Cordelia. She has had a multitude of suitors but seems to scorn every one of them. I do not know what to think.

Dorian chuckled. Ah, women, the bane of our existence. I suppose I was fortunate in that department. Both my girls chose quickly and wisely—well, on second thought, I am not sure Francesca made the best decision. But at least they are both married and out of my house. They now belong to someone else who must make them happy. What seems to be the problem? Is she too indecisive or perhaps she is immature, meaning that she is not ready for matrimony? My son Albert always says Isabel was much too young emotionally to wed him, though they have managed to produce five young upstarts.

Charles smiled and looked at Dorian. Probably both and add a little too picky to the ingredients. Hopefully she comes around soon before I have to choose for her.

Yes, that is not always the best solution. But I cannot say I blame you. You are an intelligent man. If she cannot find a choice from the heart, then I am sure you will make a most wise choice for her. Good luck with your quest for a son-in-law, old man.

I may need luck where Cordelia is concerned.

Gentlemen, a voice boomed from the entrance to the room. Charles and about thirty other men from various professions were gathered together at the Gentlemen’s Club in Boston to discuss an urgent issue that had arisen.

I am glad most of you could come to this meeting, though I wish it were under better circumstances, said Bartholomew Grisham, a Massachusetts appellate court judge. Some of you know what has happened. For those of you who do not, Collier Benson, our police commissioner, is here to fill you in on the details of why this meeting was called. He motioned to a man in uniform standing next to him.

Thank you, Judge Grisham. Let me begin by saying that, unfortunately, each and every one of you in this room could have your loved ones placed in the same situation if nothing is done to stop this onslaught of horrible events.

By now Collier had the entire congregation at attention.

"Yesterday, Mrs. Anthony Fletcher and her daughter were solicited by several vagrants while walking in Boston Garden. They were accosted by these men who attempted to seize their purses. When Mrs. Fletcher refused, they put their filthy hands on her and her daughter, causing some slight injuries to their persons. One of them tried to grab the daughter as if to take her with him. Both women were able to scream loudly and attract the attention, thankfully, of some men nearby who came rushing to their aid. The cowards ran away; however, the women were able to give descriptions of those animals. My men are currently looking for them, and you can rest assured we will find them and see that they are punished.

Did I hear you correctly, sir? Boston Garden? My family uses that park frequently—we all do, for that matter, exclaimed one man.

Gentlemen, that is precisely why I have called you here today. I fear it is only the beginning of a very serious problem we have.

Commissioner, did the women recognize the assailants? asked one of the men.

No, not personally. But they were most definitely immigrants. Both women verified the men spoke with broken English in accents with which they were not familiar; however, Mrs. Fletcher said one of the men had an accent similar to a maid working for one of her friends. The maid is from Germany, she believes. We are attempting to verify that fact. Their clothes were patched and dirty. The girl said the one who touched her had black, sooty hands.

Could be a coal laborer, volunteered one man.

Or a chimney sweep, ventured another man.

Those are genuine possibilities. Poor Miss Fletcher also said that she could smell alcohol on his breath in addition to his stench.

That could be a Scot or an Irishman. They both drink to excess, said one man.

That could also be you and I, Robert, laughed another, though the mirth from the joke died very quickly in light of the seriousness of the situation.

Are the women all right, Commissioner? Were they hurt badly?

Physically, they were not harmed severely, though both had some scratches. One of them slapped Mrs. Fletcher when she would not give him her purse. The rapid response of several men in the area of the crime most likely prevented the women from being hurt or killed. They are, however, emotionally distraught, a most understandable condition. As we speak, they are under the watchful eye of a doctor.

What can we do to prevent this from happening again? asked Dorian.

The judge and I have called you here to talk about that very matter. However, I am going to let someone else speak to you first. He stepped out of the doorway and motioned to someone who had been waiting in the hallway. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Arnold Fletcher. He asked if he could say a few words to you.

The men gasped and murmured under their breaths as a pale, middle-aged man stepped into the room. Looking around the room, Charles could see mixed looks of pity and anger on the other men’s faces.

My colleagues and acquaintances, I wanted to be here today so that you would believe what Judge Grisham and Commissioner Benson have told you as the absolute truth. The injury to my wife and daughter is unfathomable. I am asking for your help. We must stand as a united front against the rising tide of immigration. This vermin that is entering our fair city is bringing disease, corruption, and God knows what else. It is bad enough that we must share parts of the city with them, but now they are bold enough to come into our residential areas. What is next? Entering our homes? God forbid, but whose wife and daughters may be next?

The men shook their heads in agreement, as Fletcher continued. There are shiploads of immigrants arriving every single day. We must put an end to it. We must contact our congressmen immediately and have our government enact laws forbidding any more immigration. Those that are already within our borders should be lawfully rounded up and put back on ships. Send them back from whence they came! Fletcher’s voice resounded across the room while the men applauded fervently.

It’s that blasted gold rush in California territory that has them coming. They think they can come here and be one of us without working a day in their lives! shouted one of the men from the back of the room.

It is the factory owners, John. They have been recruiting them. They keep building those revolting tenements closer to our neighborhoods. They smell and are positively disgusting!

These suggestions and others were voiced around the room. Judge Grisham finally held up his hand for quiet. Men, we need to get a man in the White House who shares our sentiments. We need congressmen who understand and share our frustrations. We need statesmen who will vote to rid this country of its rats and lice. We need an association that honest, hardworking, fine citizens like us can join. The American Party is just that, and it needs our support. What they have started we can finish. We are not the only city that is experiencing problems with immigrants. Let us work hard to bring us all together. As one, we can halt the flow of iniquity and immorality to this great nation! Are you with me?

A chorus of yes reverberated. One of the loudest voices was that of Charles Endicott.

4

I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.

—Philippians 1:3 KJV

The death of her friend had greatly affected Cordelia, bringing about a great metamorphosis within her. She had never experienced a loss of this nature before. For the first time in her short life, Cordelia opened her eyes to the evils of the world—discrimination, hatred, verbal and physical violence. A sense of seriousness possessed her, or possibly it was maturity. Either way, as Cordelia neared her eighteenth birthday, she began to grow weary of the constant social engagements as well as the company of many of her acquaintances.

Did you notice what Erica was wearing last week at the Tanner’s ball? quipped Alexandria during a tea. Why, I believe she was wearing the same dress she wore at the Haltons’ festivities last spring.

The girls gasped. Juliet leaned forward and whispered, Are you sure? I heard her father is on the verge of bankruptcy. Father said he has been going around to all the banks trying to get loans. Poor thing, she cannot even afford a new dress. How very sad for her!

How very droll this discussion is, thought Cordelia. These tepid subjects of conversation always produced the same result for her: it made her uncomfortable. Torching someone else’s reputation never felt right to her, especially when the young lady in question could not help the circumstances into which her family had fallen. Besides, she genuinely liked Erica. She tried to change the subject, hoping to keep her sanity in check.

Ladies, could we talk about something more pleasant? Cordelia intervened. Erica is not responsible for her predicament, and I think it rather mean-spirited of us to talk about her as such, especially since she is not here to defend herself.

Her friends looked at Cordelia in disbelief.

You cannot be serious, Cordelia. Whatever would you like to talk about then? asked Angelica.

Maybe she would like to discuss Mr. Polk’s war, like my father was doing last night at dinner, quipped Lilith.

For once, Lilith, you have made a good suggestion, Cordelia fired back, though she had no idea what Mr. Polk’s war was all about.

Why on earth would we be concerned about a war? That is for men to worry about, snipped Juliet.

Angelica nodded her head. I agree. Why should we feel the necessity to learn about something that does not affect us?

Cordelia thought for a moment, wanting to sound knowledgeable and make the other girls feel inferior. I do wish I could control my sarcasm, Cordelia thought. And I do wish I had paid more attention in school.

Before she could reply, Lilith spoke. Think of all the new citizens that will be added from Mr. Polk’s war. Some of your fathers or future husbands may benefit from the business that will develop as a result of new lands acquired in Texas and California.

Alexandria glared at Lilith. Business is for men, my dear. Besides, most of those ‘citizens’ you refer to are Mexicans and Indians, neither of which benefit us; unless of course, they can be used for slave labor, like the Africans.

My father said they were no better than those immigrants that have been flooding the country. He said the Irish, Scots, and Germans in particular have no value to this country’s welfare, and they should be shipped back to wherever they came from, added Juliet.

And where is that, Juliet? asked Cordelia. What have I done? This is no better than the idle gossip. She was starting to tire of this pointless conversation.

Juliet shrugged her shoulders. How should I know? It certainly is not from here or England. Papa said we are from England and, therefore, of superior stock.

Ladies, should we not treat them as we wish to be treated? That is the Golden Rule, you know, said Charity, who had been quiet up until now.

I agree with Charity. Just because you are from a country other than England does not make you a bad person. At least I do not think so, added Cordelia.

You two are beginning to sound like that stuffy old Reverend Pike. Soon you will be telling us to say a prayer for all the downtrodden like Erica, laughed Lilith.

Cordelia was about to lambast her snooty friends’ comments when Charity interjected her thoughts. There is nothing wrong with saying a prayer for someone, Lilith.

At this point, Angelica, intent on picking up the former conversation, said, Now, where were we? Oh, yes—did you see Catherine Place’s shoes? And she danced with that Rutherford boy—how disgraceful.

Cordelia sighed and counted the minutes until she was free to leave society behind.

Later that evening as she sat at her vanity staring into the mirror, Cordelia began to realize something. She no longer enjoyed the company of her so-called friends, save for Charity. They seemed so cold-natured to her now and so flippant concerning issues that were of importance. Had she been like that, not caring how much others were hurt by her words? She could not explain it, but since Glendora’s death, she had somehow changed. Was she simply maturing, as a caterpillar morphs into a butterfly, or was there something deeper at work here?

5

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.

—Proverbs 16:9 NLT

Redmond O’Clarron wiped his sweaty brow and took a deep breath. ’Tis a warm day, he thought. But still the work is steady, and there are worse places for employment. He glanced over at his brother, Sean, who was sitting down, a troubled look on his face.

What is wrong with ye, Sean? Redmond asked, concerned over the pensive look his brother displayed.

Sean looked up, his thoughts broken by his brother’s voice. Nothing…and everything. Clayton’s accident has got me thinking.

Clayton McCreery, a fellow worker, had been injured a few days ago, when a rope holding a large and very heavy wooden crate broke, with the crate falling directly on the man, breaking his back. Their employer had been sympathetic; however, the bottom line was, If a man can’t put in a full day’s work, then I’ve no use for him.

The realization that at any time he or Redmond could be permanently disabled or killed weighed heavily upon Sean.

Ye thinking about Clayton again? asked Redmond, though he already knew the answer. Sean had been restless before the accident, but now it was reaching its peak.

Yes, I’ve been thinking about him and this job. I don’t know that I can continue working like a dog and not even earning enough to properly feed a mongrel.

Let’s talk about it when we get home. I’ll buy you a drink on the way.

Sean merely shook his head.

He’s right, thought Redmond, this job does not suit him. I wish we still had the bakery.

Sean and Redmond O’Clarron were brothers, grandsons of Donald and Rowena O’Clarron, two of the many Irish immigrants to arrive in America. His grandfather had been brought to the United States as an indentured servant in the late eighteenth century. The British, who were in control of Ireland at the time, had resorted to transporting hundreds of Irish men, women, and children to America to pay for their debts or as punishment for disobeying the British crown. Starting out at the time of colonial expansion, this practice had continued even after the American Revolution.

Donald’s father, Redmond’s great-grandfather, had participated in the Irish Rebellion against British dominance, culminating in his death at the Battle of Knightstown Bay in County Meath, Ireland. Taken prisoner by the British, Donald and his siblings were placed on a ship to America. Once arriving in the western hemisphere, Donald had the good fortune to be apprenticed to a baker in Boston, while Rowena, a girl who shared the same fate as Donald and would become his future wife, became a maid for a wealthy New England family.

Once Donald worked off his debt, he married Rowena paying off her debt as well. Together they opened their own bakery on the outskirts of Boston. As the years went by and the city grew in size, the bakery soon became surrounded by other businesses and residences. Donald’s business thrived during those early years. Together he and Rowena had three sons. Only one son, Seamus, continued in the bakery business, and he proved to be a skillful baker. His reputation continued to grow as people flocked to the shop to obtain all sorts of breads and pastries. Seamus’s baked goods were served at some of the finest balls and dinners in New England. Seamus married; his union with Maolisa produced three children—Redmond, Sean, and a sister, Eileen. If one were to imagine the American dream for the son of an Irish immigrant, then Seamus would have been the embodiment of that dream.

But the tide of American attitude toward immigrants in general began to change in the 1830s and ’40s. Thousands of Irish, Germans, and Scots fled to America to escape famine, war, and persecution in Europe. Most of these immigrants came to Boston and New York, settling in the growing tenements and working in the factories produced by an industrial boom. Unskilled and poor, these people would be singled out as a major problem. They were considered by many to be dirty, unintelligent individuals who drank all the time and were practitioners of the Catholic faith, which, for some ardent Protestants, was akin to Satanism. For those in the cities who were educated, wealthy, and Protestant, these people were seen as undesirables.

In the 1830s, a new political party was formed in opposition to immigration called the American or Know Nothing Party. Before long, protests by