Grace's Pictures

Visit Tyndale online at
www.tyndale.com
.

Visit Cindy Thomson’s website at
www.cindyswriting.com
.

TYNDALE
and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Grace’s Pictures

Copyright © 2013 by Cindy Thomson. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of woman taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of sky copyright © by Alloy Photography/Veer. All rights reserved.

Cover frame art copyright © by Ozerina Anna/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of bushes copyright © by Zen Shui Photography/Veer. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of water copyright © by matteo festi/Veer. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of Statue of Liberty copyright © by Edward Murphy/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

Designed by Beth Sparkman

Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

The author is represented by Chip MacGregor of MacGregor Literary Inc., 2373 NW 185th Avenue, Suite 165, Hillsboro, OR 97124

Scripture quotations are taken from the
Holy Bible
, King James Version.

Grace’s Pictures
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Thomson, Cindy, date.

  Grace’s pictures / Cindy Thomson.

    pages cm. —  (Ellis Island)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-6843-6 (sc)

1. Young women—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. Irish—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 4. Nannies—Fiction. 5. Christian fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.H7447G73 2013

  813'.6—dc23 2012045030

ISBN 978-1-4143-8597-6 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8394-1 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8598-3 (Apple)

Build: 2013-05-08 10:36:11

To my mother, Golden Peters, and my mother-in-law, Eileen Thomson.

Voracious readers and cherished supporters.

Contents

1. Acknowledgments
   
2. Chapter 1
   
3. Chapter 2
   
4. Chapter 3
   
5. Chapter 4
   
6. Chapter 5
   
7. Chapter 6
   
8. Chapter 7
   
9. Chapter 8
   
10. Chapter 9
    
11. Chapter 10
    
12. Chapter 11
    
13. Chapter 12
    
14. Chapter 13
    
15. Chapter 14
    
16. Chapter 15
    
17. Chapter 16
    
18. Chapter 17
    
19. Chapter 18
    
20. Chapter 19
    
21. Chapter 20
    
22. Chapter 21
    
23. Chapter 22
    
24. Chapter 23
    
25. Chapter 24
    
26. Chapter 25
    
27. Chapter 26
    
28. Chapter 27
    
29. Chapter 28
    
30. Chapter 29
    
31. Chapter 30
    
32. Chapter 31
    
33. Chapter 32
    
34. Chapter 33
    
35. Chapter 34
    
36. Chapter 35
    
37. Chapter 36
    
38. Chapter 37
    
39. Chapter 38
    
40. Chapter 39
    
41. Chapter 40
    
42. Chapter 41
    
43. Chapter 42
    
44. Chapter 43
    
45. Epilogue
    
46. A Note from the Author
    
47. About the Author
    
48. Discussion Questions
    

Acknowledgments

I AM SO GRATEFUL GOD LOVES ME
and embraces me as I am, working in my life day by day.

I feel very blessed to have had the help of a multitude of people while writing
Grace’s Pictures
. Foremost the folks at Tyndale, who were gracious, patient, and incredibly nice to work with throughout the process. Many thanks to editors Stephanie Broene, Kathryn Olson, and Sarah Mason.

Thanks also to my agent, Chip MacGregor, for steering me toward writing about immigrants and for rooting for me along the way. While it was always a requirement that my agent be a baseball fan, I’ve been fortunate in so many ways to have Chip on my side.

To my fellow writers, many of them ACFW members. Thanks so much for sharing and caring. Specifically, I’d like to thank my blog team over at Novel PASTimes and a group of ladies we call Writer Sisters: Jenny B. Jones, Nicole O’Dell, Cara Putman, Kim Cash Tate, Marybeth Whalen, and Kit Wilkinson. Your prayer support and writing advice kept me going. I cherish you and look forward to your e-mails.

I’m so grateful to the Etna UMC prayer group for supporting me and also for these prayer warriors via a Facebook group: Scott and Dawn Brown; Cris Mantia Carnahan; Diane
DeGonia; Sandy Beck Drodge; Diane Harper; Robin Kane; Joyce Trowbridge; my sister, Beverly Wallace; Cindy Zudys; and Debbie Steele Woods (who knows a lot of interesting words for Bananagrams, like
yourn
).

Thanks to editor and friend Jamie Chavez, who helped me in numerous ways. Thanks also, Jamie, for consulting your Irishman Gerry Hampton when I had questions.

Several organizations and individuals helped immensely with my research: the National Library of Ireland; the New York Public Library; the Columbus Metropolitan Library; the Bowery Boys website and podcast; Eric Ferrara, executive director of the Lower East Side History Project; and Jeannie Campbell, LMFT, “The Character Therapist,” who helped me better understand Grace McCaffery.

Finally, to my family, not only for your prayer support, but also for being the best cheerleaders ever. I’m so proud of my grown-up kids: Dan, Jeff, Kyle, and Kelsey. And the biggest thanks of all goes to my husband, Tom. Without his encouragement, support, tremendous cooking skills, emergency computer help, and occasional laundry duty, this book would truly not have been possible. I love you!

Seek his face evermore.

PSALM 105:4

1

DECEMBER 1900

“May I take your photograph, miss?”

Grace McCaffery spun around. She had passed through the inspections without a problem and was on her way downstairs, where she would meet the aid society worker. What now?

“A photograph?” A man stood smiling at her, next to a large camera. She’d only seen one of these machines before, and that was on the ship.

“Why?” She bit her lip. Was everything about to fall apart now?

“For prosperity. It’s your first day in America.” He handed her a small piece of paper. “My name and address, should you later wish to see it. It will only take a moment of your time, and then you are free to continue on.”

Free
sounded good. “What do I do?”

“Stand under that window—” he pointed toward one of the massive windows—“and look this way.” Streams of late-afternoon sun shone in through the ornamental ironwork, tracing odd shapes on the tiled floor.

She did as he asked.

“Now look up, miss.” He snapped his fingers. “Look toward the camera.”

Her eyelids were iron weights, but she forced herself to look his way, wanting to get it over with.

After she heard a slight pop coming from the camera, he dismissed her. “Welcome to America!”

America!
Ma should see Ellis Island and all the people milling about. Grace sat down on a bench just to the right of the stairs to collect the thoughts rambling around in her head like loose marbles. Imagine, a girl like her, now free in America. She would not have envisioned it herself a few weeks ago. Exhausted, she dropped her face to her hands as she relived what had led her here.

“Must go to the workhouse.” Huge hands snatched wee Grace from her bed. “Your da is dead. Behind in your rent and got no means.”

Grace kicked with all her might. “Ma!”

An elbow to her belly. Burning. She heaved.

“Blasted kid!” The policeman tossed her onto a wagon like garbage.

“Ma!”

“I’m here, Grace. Don’t cry.” Her mother cradled her as the wagon jolted forward. “Oh, my heart. You are special, wee one. So special to God.”

Heat emanated from the burning cottage, the temperature torturing Grace’s face. She hid against her mother’s shoulder.

Later, they were pulled apart and herded into a building.

A dark hallway. The sound of water dripping.

Stairs. Up the stairs. Following other children. So many children. Was her mother dead?

The sound of heels clacking down steps brought Grace back to the present. She sat up straight and watched hordes of people march down the stairs. They were divided into three groups according to destination.

She knew her mother had loved her, but God? Her mother had been wrong about that. God loved good people like Ma. Not Grace. Grace knew she was not good enough for God.

So many of the people passing in front of her were mere children, most with parents but some without. Grace wondered if they were as afraid as she had been when she was separated from her mother in the workhouse, the place Irish folks were taken to when they had nowhere else to go. All these people now seemed to have a destination, though. A new start. Like her. In America she hoped she could mend her fumbling ways and merit favor.

A wee lass approached the stairs with her hand over her mouth, the registration card pinned to her coat wrinkled and stained with tears. Grace was about to go to her and tell her everything would be fine. After all, this great hall, this massive building, was not in Ireland. They were in the land of the free. They’d just seen Lady Liberty’s glowing copper figure in the harbor, hadn’t they?

But the lass, obviously having mustered her courage, scrambled down the steps and into the mass of people. Would the child be all right? No mother. No parents at all. It had happened to Grace. Free one day, sentenced by poverty the next.