home, and then you can return with him from the village later after your meeting when you are ready.”
“But—”
Dorthea flipped her hand. “He has things to fetch for me and is going the same way.”
“Thank you again for your generous hospitality.”
“Certainly. We will take good care of your friend.”
They walked outside. Dorthea stood on the front steps and waved as Clara climbed onto the wagon. Clara was not ready to tell her new friend what she was doing in Berg, that she suspected a witch-finder was coming there and needed to prepare to defend the village if and when he showed up. Lives depended upon it.
She was glad Dorthea had not called for someone from the village to check on the young woman. Clara had heard about a barber-surgeon who frequently visited the little town, a trickster who, apart from trimming hair and beards, also pulled teeth and performed leeching and bloodletting. Clara had much more confidence in the treatment provided by a cunning woman with knowledge of plants and herbs, but the latter was often mistaken for someone who dealt in witchery. There was a line finer than a spider’s thread, and the fewer people who knew about the young woman hidden away in a guestroom at Ivershall, the better.
Thoughts of the young woman plagued Clara. After giving the driver directions to her cottage, she sat in silence as they passed the fields and the forest beyond. Who was she? Where had she come from? Clara had acted on intuition alone, as she did not know how she would help the girl yet. Additionally, they were somewhat the same. The girl’s presence in Berg was a mystery, at least to Clara, and no one in the village knew the real reason behind Clara’s arrival a couple of weeks earlier.
The stablehand stopped in front of Clara’s cottage on the outskirts of the village. “I will return to the Ivershall estate soon after my errands. You want a ride back, miss?”
“Thank you, David, but I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
She thought immediately how redundant courteous etiquette was right now. Her stubborn, independent pride sometimes sat like a lump in her throat. Accepting help was hard, asking for help even harder. The young woman was her responsibility, and if it had not been for this meeting, she would not have left the girl. Clara had to finish up her business and hurry back.
David was still looking at her. “Mistress Dorthea told me to ask you, as it would save you time walking.”
“It truly would. I only have one engagement and would appreciate a ride back afterward.”
He tipped his hat and drove on into the village.
There was a note tied to the handle on Clara’s cottage door. She unfolded the paper and read the words.
Dear Clara. I arrived from Christiania this morning and asked around to find out where you resided. You thought correctly. He is on his way here. Meet me at the tavern this evening. Yours, Peter.
Finally! Clara had waited anxiously for Peter’s return every day since she had arrived in Berg. He’d had trade dealings to take care of in the capitol before he could join Clara but had promised he’d be back in time to support her effort, and she could scarcely wait to see him again.
CHAPTER 3
✽✽✽
CLARA CHANGED INTO a clean blue gown with lace on the sleeves. She pinned her long, wavy hair into a bun and slipped her feet into a pair of fancy shoes that were free of dried mud and grass.
She read the note from Peter again, her good friend who had been with her family for years. Did he know how much she needed him now? He was always supportive and a well for her to dip into for good, solid advice.
On her way out the door, Clara left the note on the kitchen table. As she headed down the street, she began sorting out in her mind which thoughts to present to the bailiff at their meeting.
Market Street was the busiest road in the village, especially in the middle of the day. Unpainted log houses, tarred to protect the timber from the humidity of summer showers and unpredictable winter storms, stood in rows along each side of the street. Some had turf roofs—layers of birch bark covered with sod. These roofs were especially decorative in the warmer seasons, as field flowers adorned the grass growing on the housetops.
The marketplace mainly provided a location where the villagers of Berg could conduct sales and trading. Farmers and traveling tradesmen set up stands across the square in front of the village hall. Clara delighted in slowly ambling among the booths, crisscrossing between piles of ceramic, glass, and iron pots. Outside the grocer’s shop stood tables holding grain, salt, and wine. Even the baker had a stand next to his bakery.
Not every buyer had coins to pay. Some traded with furs, cheese, or eggs from their own supply.
Clara stopped by a table stacked high with imported textiles. Other than her beloved books, she had little interest in collecting things. Nevertheless, garments made of beautiful fabrics in various colors caught her eye every time. She let her hand glide across the brocade, velvet, and silk, dreaming of which one she would choose for a formal gown and a matching shawl.
The tradesman behind the table, obviously eager to sell, bombarded her with facts about the origin of the material and why she should buy it today.
“Very tempting, but I must return another time,” Clara said. She could not dawdle too long.
The invitation from the man with his large baskets of small breads and cakes outside the bakery was harder to resist. The whiff of delicious, freshly baked goods drew her in.
“I will take one.” Clara slid her hand through a slit in her skirt to access the thigh pocket hanging underneath from the waistline of her gown and covered with layers of fabric. The pocket was hidden for safekeeping.
“A lady should never flaunt that she has money in her pocket,” Father had said. He had married above his station but was always careful with Mother’s bequest.
“Be conservative with the annual funds you’ll receive and with our legacy,” Nathanael had wisely told her. “Now that our parents are gone, we must respect our inheritance, even though it is more than what our neighbors have.”
Clara quickly retrieved a coin and handed it to the man. She chose a roll from his basket and put it in a larger pocket hanging on the outside of her apron.
A man by the well offered her a drink of water. It was a warm day, and she was grateful for the gesture. The well supplied cool, clear drinking water for the families who lived in the center of the village. Many of them had their dwellings in the backs of buildings or stayed in rooms on the second story above a blacksmith’s or basket weaver’s workshop.
The bustling scene was always enjoyable as she walked through Berg, but every idyllic place also had its downside. A small hill rose to the left of the well, upon which stood two pillories against a stone wall. More often than not, both were in use when Clara passed through the village. One of the pillories was an upright pole. Today, an older man stood next to it, a chain around his neck attached to the pole. A middle-aged woman was locked with her head and arms in the second pillory. She had to stand bent over for the duration of the penalty. Occasionally, people passing by spat on those sentenced or shouted words of abuse as they gathered around to watch a public whipping.
Clara walked back to the well and asked for another ladle of water, which she took to the woman in the stocks.
“What happened to you?” Clara asked. “Why are you being punished?”
“I caused a nuisance in church on Sunday. My day had been horrible with trouble at home, and I was angry with my husband.” She turned her gaze toward the man attached to the pole. “That man there is a roving beggar. No one likes having him around. He is punished every time he comes to Berg. Sometimes, they lock him up back there.” She quickly tipped her head back and glanced toward the prison on the backside of the village hall.
A guard came up behind Clara. “Move along, miss. Nothing here for you.”
“Take a bite of this,” Clara whispered. She broke off a piece of the bread in her apron pocket and put it into the woman’s mouth.
The
man in chains lifted his head and stared at Clara, his eyes hollow. When the guard turned his back, she hurried back to fill up the ladle with water one more time.
✽✽✽
Clara clutched her purse as she walked into the bailiff’s office. Bailiff Winther sat behind a lavishly carved desk. He held a piece of paper in the air and looked up at the document so the spectacles would not fall off his nose. As Clara entered, he removed the eyeglasses and placed them on the desk.
“Ah, Miss Dahl, I presume.” He pointed at a hide-upholstered chair. “Pull it closer to the table. Sit.”
Clara sat down, digging her fingernails into the purse on her lap.
“I am a busy man but have decided to give you a few minutes,” the bailiff said. “I have gone over your proposal to teach the village children to read. You specifically requested that girls should attend. Before I say anything else, I must say it’s an unusual request. Why on Earth would girls need schooling?”
“I believe that young girls and women also—”
“I am sure you have your reasons.” He waived his hand. “Come, come. Do you have any recommendations? Any proof of your qualifications?”
Clara took a piece of paper folded in half from her purse. “I taught children to read last summer as there was no teacher where I lived.”
The bailiff grabbed the paper, put the spectacles back on his nose, and tilted his head back to read the document. He made affirming noises as he read over her references and teaching experience. Clara held her breath.
“I am impressed.” The bailiff put the document on the desk. “This recommendation from the mayor of Rossby is commendable. Are you really this knowledgeable? I mean, do you speak French?”
“Yes, sir, my mother was French and had us tutored.”
“You speak English?”
“I have lived with English-speaking people and learned their language.”
“Japanese? Now that sounds improbable.”
Clara smiled. “Well, I won’t brag about my Japanese vocabulary, but I spent ten years in the Far East with my father and brother. Nathanael, my brother, is still there. I returned to Norway just last year.”
He cleared his throat. “Miss Dahl, the children of Berg are not in need of languages of the Far East or any other country. They are mostly needed to help at home, tending to the animals, cooking, cleaning, taking care of their younger siblings, working in the fields, and so forth.” He leaned forward and pointed at Clara. “Most of all, we need a man to fill the role as teacher in the village.”
Clara had prepared herself for this argument, having expected she’d meet such resistance. She took a breath and looked him straight in the eyes. “Bailiff Winther, I do not request an organized school, merely to give children the opportunity to learn to read during the summer while I’m here. Our church father Martin Luther himself encouraged education for both girls and boys, and in some places, women taught these children. He sought to place the Holy Bible into the hands of ordinary Christian people, not just the clergy. If he was determined to have the scriptures translated for all to read, surely, the parishioners need to know how.”
Winther leaned back and frowned. “But why girls, Miss Dahl? Women don’t need to read.”
“Who are we to determine who should read God’s Bible? The Lord created both men and women. I am sure the minister of Berg would be pleased to have the parishioners reading from the Good Book.”
“Most ministers would.” He stared out the window. “Well, tell me then, where would you be teaching, that is, if you were to teach? I’m sure you also have a plan for that.”
“I have rented a small cottage up on the eastern road. It has a simple cabin in the back that I could use.”
“Hmm, yes, I know the place. And you would help them learn to write their name and read from the Bible?”
Clara smiled and nodded. “I have no intention of teaching them anything they will not need in their daily life. We may talk about practical subjects, but most of all, the children will learn to read, write, and understand numbers. They will be better off if they can read, and my aim is to help them get ahead in life.”
The bailiff got up and walked around the desk and handed her the document. “That I can agree with. Especially the boys.” He gave Clara a stern look. “I am reluctant but will give you a chance, Miss Dahl. You may start by teaching boys who are not yet enrolled in any educational system.”
Clara straightened her back. “The boys who are already attending some form of schooling are mostly from prosperous families, and they are taught in Latin. I want to give the farmer’s children a chance and teach them in their own language.” She cleared her throat and looked straight at the bailiff. “Girls should be invited to attend.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Dahl. Very well, girls, also, if they can manage to concentrate and if their families can spare them.” He stood up and slowly paced the floor, hands clasped behind his back. “You will not be paid a salary, and you must set up these so-called reading classes by yourself.” He stopped and faced her. “And mind you, it’s only for the summer.”
“I understand. Thank you, Bailiff Winther.”
A woman in a lavish, burgundy-colored dress, which clearly showed her advanced pregnancy, blocked the doorway as Clara turned to leave. The woman’s demeanor indicated she was accustomed to being there.
The bailiff’s strict countenance brightened. “Ah, Abigael, my dear. This is Miss Clara Dahl. Miss Dahl, my niece, Mrs. Abigael Steen.”
Clara lowered her gaze for a moment and curtsied.
As Mrs. Steen entered the room, she bowed her head to acknowledge Clara’s presence. Blonde, wavy hair wreathed her stunning face, and she had clear, fair skin and cheeks the color of pale roses. Her ample, coral-colored lips lifted in a constant smile that did not reach her glacial-blue eyes.
The bailiff opened his arms and hugged his niece as Clara slipped out the door.
She let out a satisfied sigh as she walked down the street. Teaching children would be her cover in Berg, allow her to conceal why she had come, and keep secret what she was about to do. She had achieved the first difficult goal on her list. Now, she needed to find the stablehand and hurry back to Ivershall.
✽✽✽
As the wagon drove up the lane to Ivershall, Clara’s thoughts were on the young woman. Had she woken up yet?
“She’s not here.” Dorthea met Clara at the front door. “The young woman must have woken up and fled. At least she took the food from the plate Marna had put on the nightstand. I am truly sorry, Clara. I promised to keep her safe, and now I have disappointed you.”
“This is not your fault. I am grateful for your concern and help.”
Dorthea wrapped an arm across her stomach and drew in a stuttered gasp. “What else can I do? The young woman was clearly exhausted. Had she stayed, I could have let her have a warm bath, given her clean clothes, and—”
Clara gently touched the older woman’s shoulder. “We could not force her to stay. Do you need to sit down?”
Dorthea nodded. “Let’s sit in the garden. Being among my flowers always calms me. I have heard that a garden is good for the soul, and in my case, that is true.”
Clara offered Dorthea her arm. They ambled down the stairs and across the courtyard, before they turned down a garden path. Clara drew in the sweet scent from the flowers and herbs along the trail. Fragile petals of red, yellow, and lilac florets alternated with longer-stemmed plants in the back. A thriving fruit orchard stood beyond the colorful blossoms, and berry bushes and rows of vegetables grew alongside those.
The park sloped down to a small lake. Dorthea stopped where three garden paths intersected. She sat down on a bench, leaned her cane against the side, and clasped her fingers loosely in her lap.
“It’s peaceful,” Clara said. “I can understand why you enjoy sitting out here.”
“And working here does wonders for me.” She lifted her hands and showed them to Clara. “These are often d
irty and not ladylike.” She sighed and looked around. “You are new here. The village of Berg has grown much in the last decade, and we are experiencing a demand for land. New farmers are breaking ground, and other people settle down in one of the settlements.”
Dorthea leaned back and folded her hands in her lap. “My husband’s family arrived here a long time ago. Christian’s great-grandfather came from noble lineage and led the Danish-Norwegian troops during the Northern Seven Years’ War. The king rewarded him handsomely for his service and bravery. He was a knight—a title that does not go from father to son—but he was also a nobleman. He built a seat farm, the residence of a nobleman. His name was Iver, and this is his—”
“Hall,” Clara said. “Therefore, the name Ivershall. It’s magnificent. And it is certainly well kept.”
“Thank you. According to custom, Ivershall also became the family’s surname.” A worried look swept across Dorthea’s gentle countenance. “Our country had wars with Sweden then, and we are still fighting for power and domination of land. You see, dear Clara, generations of men in the Ivershall family have witnessed and fought courageously in the kings’ wars. First Iver, then his son Henrik, then my Konrad, who passed away much too early. Christian—who was named after our former king—has followed his forefathers’ example. He was born to his station in life. We made sure he received a strong education. He needed a solid foundation as one day, he would be master of this estate. Most of all, we wanted him to be honest and true to his responsibility as lord of this land and much of the village.” Dorthea’s lips parted in a blissful smile. “I am proudest of him when I see how wisely he conducts his affairs among the villagers.”
Clara smiled and nodded. No doubt, Christian deserved all the praise and love his mother expressed. Hearing about him and the family at Ivershall fed Clara’s hunger to learn what kind of people they were.
“Having a family and knowledge about one’s heritage is a treasure. Thank you for sharing with me.” She took Dorthea’s hands. “I need to go now, but I will return another day, and then we can talk more.”
Trailing the Hunter: A Novel of Misconception, Truth, and Love Page 3
