All eyes were on Clara. An elderly gentlewoman, lips pursed tightly in her wrinkled face, had sat quietly during the presentation. She grabbed the arm of the minister’s wife sitting next to her. “Please, it cannot be true. I don’t want to hear any more.” She covered her ears.
The minister’s wife answered by hiding her face in her hands.
“Well, this is not new. We have all heard stories.” Abigael lifted her chin and smirked. She had not said a word until that moment. “Where are you going with this charade, Miss Dahl? You make it sound like doomsday is upon us.”
The elderly gentlewoman looked at the minister’s wife and whispered, “I did not know.”
“All I ask of you is this; be careful what you do, and watch what you say about others. Be caring and respectful to everyone. Do not give the witch-finder a reason to blame someone. Thank you.” Clara sat down and leaned back in the chair. Her hands were shaking a little, her thoughts scattered.
Dorthea clapped, and a few of the women joined in. Else was one of them. Clara studied their faces again now that they had listened to her speech. She had done what she could to help them understand the danger. There was no telling if the women had understood her message or not. Mrs. Winther and the grocer’s wife started chatting about curtain fabric.
The elderly gentlewoman held out her hand. “Daughter, help me up.”
The young lady got up and supported her mother’s arm. “My, you are shaking, Mother. Are you sure you can walk to the carriage?”
“Yes, with your help I will manage.” Shuffling toward the door, the gentlewoman turned to Dorthea. “It has been…enlightening. Adieu.”
Abigael rose from her chair and gazed out the window. She took a small flask out of her purse and dabbed some liquid on her sleeves. She then hurried through the exit into the hallway, leaving behind the heavy floral scent of periwinkle.
✽✽✽
Scattered thoughts filled Clara’s head. It was the right thing to do. The women had to be told.
“It’s impossible to know the outcome of an appeal like this,” Dorthea said after the last guest had left. “Let me walk you to the door.”
“I hope some of them will think about what is happening. I am grateful I had the chance to speak to them.”
They walked outside just as Abigael came around the corner from the back of the house. Her arm hooked tightly around Christian’s, she looked up at him from under her large, feathered hat, smiling and batting her eyelashes.
Clara dropped her purse then quickly reached to pick it up. Her heart raced. The humiliation was insufferable. What was Christian doing with that woman? She was beautiful but also married and heavily pregnant. Was he the type of man who allowed a pretty face to lead him astray?
Dorthea put a hand on Clara’s arm. “Abigael should give birth any day now,” the older woman said. “Let’s hope she delivers a healthy child this time. Maybe it will soften her.”
“I have only met her briefly. I did not know she had miscarried before.”
“Ah, but she has.”
Abigael stood awfully close to Christian. He opened the door to her carriage and helped her in. She leaned out the window and smiled flirtatiously at him. He turned to leave, but she called him back.
Clara’s stomach hardened. She could have stormed away but got a hold of herself and hugged Dorthea instead. “I need to go. Thank you for doing this luncheon.”
“You are very welcome, dear Clara. Do you want to say hello to Christian before you leave?”
Clara shook her head, fighting back tears of hurt and anger. “Please greet him for me. Goodbye.”
She spun around and strode down the lane, kicking small rocks into nowhere. Her eyes stung, and her throat was tight from holding in sobs of frustration. A few minutes later, Abigael’s horse and carriage passed Clara nearly halfway down the lane, swirling up a cloud of dry dust. Clara startled and jumped to the side of the road. She turned and looked back toward the main house. Christian and his mother stood by the front steps. Dorthea was doing the talking, shaking her head and banging her walking stick hard on the ground.
Clara’s normal behavior would be to analyze the afternoon’s events, to go through and try to understand each woman’s reaction. How could she continue enlightening all the women of the village—not just the affluent ones who had been invited to Ivershall? Every woman was valuable, and each one mattered.
But the vision of Christian with Abigael, a married woman, kept teasing her mind. The distress grew painfully unbearable. Clara lengthened her stride down the lane, trying to focus on something else. She had better return to her cottage and plan her next move.
CHAPTER 11
✽✽✽
AS FAR BACK as she could remember, Clara had lived a separate life during the night. Her dreams took her places, made her laugh or cry, and sometimes, they even reminded her of people she should talk to or something she needed to do.
Often, her dreams brought her great worry, causing her to go over every detail she could recall the next day in an effort to understand what they meant.
The rooster crowed in the early morning hours. As Clara woke up, she felt a burning in her chest. She had dreamed she had shut a door and had turned the key, but every time she tried the knob, the door remained unlocked. A sense of inadequacy crept upon her, stemming from her fear of not having enough to offer in a relationship. Did she even have the right to feel angry, hurt, or jealous? Forgetting the sense of irritation she had felt the day before when she had seen Christian with Abigael was proving more difficult than it should be.
She put on a well-worn gown and added a clean apron. She brushed her hair and fastened it in the back with a ribbon. Her reflection in the looking-glass showed a young woman, determined but concerned. She lifted her eyebrows to remove the worried furrow on her forehead.
One at a time. Maybe it would help if she focused on helping one woman at a time. Knowing herself, she would not be able to do so, but it was a worthwhile goal. But today, she would concentrate on being what she was meant to be and try not to worry about the witch hunts. First and foremost, in her heart, Clara was a teacher.
On the table sat a package she had picked up from the grocer’s the day before. She gingerly untied the hemp string and pulled out the world map. She sat down, unrolled the large paper, and spread it flat on the table.
Memories flooded her mind and heart. She found the small island of Okinawa in the Far East. She slowly traced her finger along the route she had traveled to return to her homeland a little over a year ago, pausing at various locations where she had learned something new. Some areas she had lingered a while, either by chance or by choice. Peter had made the journey with her, had kept her safe and, sometimes, entertained. His trading often led them to towns filled with fear and peril.
Sidetracked, she stared out the kitchen window, pressing her fist to her mouth. Where was Peter? She had not seen him for several days. Having him around was something she had grown accustomed to. A safe anchor in the midst of the storm, a wise and patient man. Soon, he would come by, and she could tell him about the black book and the women’s luncheon. He would be appalled to hear about Angus’s plans for the weigh house.
She continued tracing her finger on the map until she reached the Norwegian coastline. There on the western shore was her childhood home of Rossby, the place she had left to come to Berg. And all because of Angus Hill. She frowned and crossed her arms when she thought about how that man dominated her life. Following the witch-finder and trying to protect the women of the village was wearisome, but she had made a choice to try to stop his wicked influence and had to continue her quest.
“Do you need my help today?” Siren sat up in her bed, yawned, and stretched.
“Good morning to you. Yes, some help would be appreciated.”
Siren rose and stroked her belly. “Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”
“You should take some nourishment first.”
With the m
ap neatly rolled back up and tucked under her arm, Clara walked out to the cabin. She could hardly wait to show the children. Most of them had never been outside the county border, and today, she would give them the world.
Watching the children’s faces when her words widened their understanding was enjoyable. Their eyes would sparkle, and their mouths would fall open as they comprehended a certain fact or principle. Knowledge was a valuable weapon, a necessary tool for progress and to find a place in society. She wanted them to understand how reading could change their lives. Even a farmer or fisherman would be better off if he could read, write, and do basic arithmetic. The young girls could have ample opportunities for work if they were able to write, and with knowledge they would be well-appointed to teach their future children.
Clara walked out by the gate to wait for the pupils. After a few minutes, Siren joined her. Between five and eight children came once or twice a week. Some had a long walk, but now and then, a farmer let children ride on the back of a wagon as he drove into the village.
Hopefully, in the near future—if the bailiff would let her continue—her reading class would have a dozen students or more. Their ages or social status didn’t concern her. If they wanted to learn, they were welcome.
She did worry, however, about some of the children coming to class hungry and fatigued. Food was scarce on many of the homesteads, and the children labored at home and sometimes went to work on other farms to earn money for their families.
Clara brought baskets of boiled eggs, pieces of bread, and berries. The children learned to count, add, and subtract the goods, and then they were rewarded by being allowed to eat them.
Teaching made her heart happy. Yes, it was considered unusual for a woman to teach, but why shouldn’t she? She had the knowledge and the desire. Seeing their little faces light up when they reached a goal or understood a principle always made her work worthwhile.
✽✽✽
After class, Clara remembered she needed to pick up a pair of shoes at the cobbler’s shop on Market Street. She glanced out the window. The summer clouds had gone from soft white to dark and foreboding. Before long, rain was pouring down, splattering hard against the window. The cloudburst did not discourage Clara enough to delay her from running her errand in the village. She smiled when she spotted a patch of blue sky on the horizon, put on a hat, and threw a short cape around her shoulders.
The rain was only temporary. If only Angus’s dreadful actions were short-lived, too. She forced herself to hope, to believe that one day, she would not have to worry about witch hunts.
Visions of Christian kept weaving in and out of her thoughts, also. If her fears were affirmed—if Christian and Abigael were a pair—Clara would not only be heartbroken but utterly disappointed. Christian could not be involved with a married and pregnant woman. Not the Christian she had gotten to know.
She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and let refreshing raindrops wash her face. Concentrate on what is good. It was something her father had often said when she needed guidance and comfort.
By the time Clara reached the square, the rain had subsided. She shook her wet hat and looked down at her mud-caked shoes, soiled from the wet road.
Angus Hill stood by the entrance to the village hall deep in conversation with Mr. Winther. A knot formed in her stomach. Had someone told Angus about the ladies’ luncheon? If so, was she in trouble for spreading her thoughts about witch hunting? John Pywell was there, also, not translating but watching a group of young women standing by the well. A young woman with round cheeks was gesticulating, eagerly telling a story, while the others listened intently.
Clara ran her hand through her hair. The look on Pywell’s face, the way he stared so intently at the group of girls, spelled trouble. Clara moved closer, pretending to pull a pail of water from the well to get a drink.
“She was there, I tell you. I saw the vittra crawling out of a hole in the ground right by a small lake in the forest. First, I thought about giving her something so she would not track me down and hurt me for finding her there. But I slowly moved away and managed to escape. I plan to go back and see if I can meet her again and maybe learn some of her tricks.”
The woman must have been brought up with superstitions, not knowing the danger of publicly declaring what she thought she had seen. The moment Angus and his interpreter stepped inside the village hall, Clara quickly approached her.
“Hello. My name is Clara. May I speak with you?”
The woman’s expression turned skeptical, but she followed Clara across the square.
“What is your name?” Clara asked.
“Gunvor. What do you want?” she asked defensively, one hand on her hip.
“I help women understand how to avoid the witch-hunter’s attention.”
“You mean the Englishman who spoke on the square a while back?”
“Exactly. Will you listen to what I have to say?”
The young woman stood quietly, staring at Clara. Wiry strands of hair had escaped her coif, and she pushed them aside.
“Can you come with me right now?” Clara could not let her go without trying to help her.
“If I come, can I bring a friend?” she finally asked.
Clara smiled. “Of course. I have only one errand to do, and then I will return home. My cottage is by the old cabin on the road east of the village.”
✽✽✽
An hour later, Clara was at home when she heard noises outside. She looked out the window, broke into a smile, and rushed to open the door. Gunvor and several other young women walked toward her door. Clara counted six in all. They stopped by the front steps and stared at Clara with probing eyes, their chins low.
“You came. I’m so pleased.” Clara stepped aside and let the women enter. “Why don’t you three set yourselves down on my bed there. I will fetch some chairs for the rest of you.” She placed the chairs by the bed, grabbed a stool next to Siren’s bed, and sat down in the circle.
Gunvor cleared her throat. “I’ve thought about what you said. We are all afraid of the witch-finder, and if you can help us, we would be grateful.”
The women looked as if they were around Ruth’s age, some maybe in their early twenties. Clara’s heart went out to these women as she explained what Angus Hill looked for and how he conducted his work. Fear filled their eyes when she described how other innocent women had been charged with witchcraft by a ruthless witch-finder.
“Now, tell me your names and a little about yourselves,” Clara said.
“I spend a lot of time in the woods,” Gunvor said. “I eat mushroom and berries and sing to myself. Sometimes, I think I see the vittra or a wight when the moon shines on the lake, but I have never spoken to them.” She nudged the one sitting next to her. “Now, you, Karen.”
“I used to work as a midwife in a neighboring town,” Karen said. She was a large woman but seemed weak and helpless. “Whenever there was a problem, I was blamed. Our minister chased me away and told me not to return.”
“I am Sofrine,” the next one said, chewing her fingernail. “I have spent the last year, going from door to door begging for meals. I would gladly work for you if I could stay only for a little while.”
Clara gave Sofrine a smile. She could not promise anything yet and nodded to the next woman to share her story.
“I’m Dordi. People say I am quarrelsome, and I always seem to get into arguments. My family sent me away when I was only eight summers old, as they had too many to feed. I have worked in several places since then but often get into trouble.”
Her voice was sharp, and her gaze darted from one woman to another. Clara could sense a vulnerability behind Dordi’s tough conduct and thought her brave to tell her story.
Gunvor pointed at the woman sitting beside Clara. “Tell her what you do, Lene,” Gunvor said.
Lene shook her head.
“You have to, Lene. From what Clara has told us, you could be someone the witch-finder might notice.”
> Lene, with her large, staring eyes and small mouth, reminded Clara of a kitten. She could easily understand the difficulty of revealing something about yourself, especially if the circumstances were adverse.
The girl swallowed hard and rubbed her hands on her thighs. “People have always said I am stupid and unlearned,” she said. “I make up for my shortcomings by telling folks about vivid dreams I have, telling them I can predict what will happen.”
“What did I tell you?” Gunvor gawked at Clara. “Lene should not meet the witch-finder.”
Clara nodded and folded her hands in her lap. She looked to the last woman in the group, the only one who had not shared her story. “Do you have anything to tell?” Clara asked gently.
“Her name is Hilleborg,” Gunvor said.
Hilleborg said nothing but pulled her shift off her left shoulder, revealing three large moles on her upper back.
“I see.” Clara let out a long breath. What had she been thinking? It was an impossible goal to think she should concentrate on helping only one at a time.
These young women desperately needed someone to keep them safe from Angus’s claws. If he were to discover the matters they’d just told her, these young women would be in deep trouble. They would be like small rabbits cornered by an angry, hungry wolf. Their faces showed fear but also anticipation that Clara could somehow help them.
“For now, I can offer you meals and a place to sleep. I would advise you to stay here and out of sight until I find a better solution.”
“Will we be hiding?” Gunvor asked.
“I am afraid that is best for now. Angus Hill’s interpreter was observing you in the village today. The cabin in the back has a good-sized loft. You can stay there. There’s also a secluded stream beyond the garden where you can bathe and such.”
“What will we do? Tomorrow is the Sabbath day. Will we go to church?”
Clara shook her head and put her hand on Gunvor’s sleeve. “It might be safer if you say your prayers here tomorrow. Hopefully, this will only be for two or three days. I promise I will do my best to find better, more permanent places for you to stay. How about if I start teaching those of you who do not read and write?”
Trailing the Hunter: A Novel of Misconception, Truth, and Love Page 15
