Perhaps we could go for a walk later.”
“I’d like that.” Annabelle stopped at the door. “Down along the river would be nice.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Then tonight I am going to take a long, long bath with bubbles and candlelight and a novel. How long it has been since I read something for pleasure.”
“I just finished the latest Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. You can read it next, as long as you don’t drop it in the water.”
The two of them chuckled at the memory of the night Elizabeth had fallen asleep reading in the bathtub and was awakened by the splash her book made.
Elizabeth stretched again and, pushing her arms into the sleeves of her wrapper, wandered down the hall to the bathroom. By the time she’d washed and dressed, she felt ravenous enough to eat a . . . well, whatever Cook had chosen for the meal.
“So what are your plans for the summer?” They’d finished supper, and now Elizabeth and her mother were strolling along the river path. While mud showed the line where the river had nearly run over its banks, green horsetail weeds and grass were already poking through the gray. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the dirty mud stench. Half-furled maple leaves fluffed out the stark branches of the trees, and dandelions beamed like tiny suns in the new grass. Azure-winged swallows dipped for mud to build their nests and scooped bugs just above the river’s surface.
Elizabeth stopped to point out the brilliant pink, rimmed with burgundy, of the flowering crab apple tree that hung over a brick wall. “Dr. Gaskin asked if I would help out in his surgery two days a week because his assistant nurse would like to be home with her children more. And I think Mrs. Gaskin would like to be out in her garden instead of in the office all day. Since I worked there last summer, they are counting on me. The rest of the time I will be helping Father like I usually do. Why?” She breathed in a whiff of sweetness from another flowering shrub.
“I thought perhaps we might take a trip to New York or perhaps Chicago for the world’s fair. I’d really love to go to Europe, but I know your father would scream the house down at the expense.”
Elizabeth nodded. She knew he would too. While it took a lot to get her father riled, her mother dipping into the principal of her inheritance was a bone of contention for sure. Just as he refused to allow her to spend her money on the newspaper.
“Most likely he would. If we went to New York, I could visit one of the hospitals and look into their medical school. But I’ve read so much about the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.” She gave the fair’s title a lilt like a barker at the circus.
Annabelle glanced at her daughter. “Most medical schools still don’t take women.”
“I know. But they will someday.”
“Hmm. We shall see.” Annabelle paused. “I heard Mrs. Andresen and Miss Livia Wahlstein will be speaking at the Columbian Exposition. We could go hear them.”
“Then Papa would scream the house down.” Elizabeth smiled at her mother. One thing they absolutely agreed on was a woman’s right to vote. “I would love to hear them. I mean, reading their speeches and articles is fine and dandy, but to hear them and see them in person . . . Do you really think we could?”
“Not only could we, but we will.”
“When will they be there?”
“I think in July sometime. I saw an article about them in the Minneapolis Tribune.”
“Interesting that Father didn’t pick up on an article of such timely import.” Elizabeth glanced sideways at her mother, and the two of them burst into laughter. While Phillip Rogers thoroughly believed in the fourth amendment and would be incensed if ever accused of censoring the news, somehow he managed not to include information with which he heartily disagreed. Or else he gave it a two-inch space on the next to the last page or tucked it in the middle of the obituaries or the ads.
“I’d really love to see the women’s building, along with the others, of course.” Elizabeth thought of all the advertisements she’d seen and the articles about the beauty of the lakes and the ornate classical architecture and all the works of art. “And the Ferris Wheel. I definitely want to ride on that.”
Annabelle shuddered. “I’ll watch you from the good solid ground.”
“Now, Mother, surely you don’t want to miss out on a ride on the Ferris Wheel. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” The daughter laughed at the look of horror on her mother’s face. Besides, she knew her father would love to ride with her.
“We could go to the symphony there too and shop at Marshall Field’s.” Annabelle took her daughter’s arm. “What a marvelous time we shall have.”
Elizabeth didn’t mention the one place she wanted most to visit— the hospital for women, run by women, with women doctors treating the patients. She’d been wanting to talk with Dr. Morganstein, the head of the hospital, and this would be her opportunity.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blessing, North Dakota
“We’ll be at the church for quilting, then,” Ingeborg reminded her husband. “Dinner is on the stove.”
Haakan nodded. “You have a good time.”
“I could come home and serve if you want.”
“No. Astrid can do that. Time she took more responsibility in the kitchen anyway.” Haakan stopped on the way out to kiss his wife’s cheek and give her a pat on her sit-down place.
“I know. I just . . .” Ingeborg looked around the spotless kitchen. The stew simmering on the back burner lent a fragrance that could make anyone’s stomach rumble, even if they had recently eaten. The bread she’d just taken from the oven lay on the sideboard, golden crusty brown, joining its yeasty aroma with that of the stew. “It’s just that this is most likely our last time to meet until after harvest.”
“You go on and have a good time. I hear Kaaren with the wagon.”
“Ja, I will. Now you be careful in the field.” She reached up and patted his cheek. “Did you see that the peas are starting to blossom already?” The glint in his eye told her he understood her change of topic. It meant I love you, and I can’t say it right now, but later . . .
“Ja, and the potatoes are up.” He winked at her and headed out the door to the barn where the boys had the teams and spans all harnessed, yoked, and hitched to the plows, harrows, and the drill for seeding the wheat. With all of them, including Baptiste, working and the weather holding, they were getting spring work done ahead of schedule.
Ingeborg took her basket of quilting supplies, another basket with a wedge of cheese, a freshly baked spice cake, and a loaf of bread still warm to the touch. Whoever was the hostess for the day would have a kettle of soup steaming on the church stove, and everyone else brought whatever they had. Ingeborg’s cheese was always a welcome addition.
“Bye, Mor,” Astrid called from the garden where she was planting beans with the assistance of the twins and Trygve. When they finished one garden, they would go to the other house and do the same there.
“Uff da. I hate to be gone like this.” Ingeborg set her baskets in the wagon bed and climbed up, using the wheel spokes for steps. “Good morning, Kaaren, Ilse. Did you get all your quilt squares sewn?”
“Ja, that machine makes short work of piecing the quilt top. Ilse and I each did one. Surely is different from piecing it all by hand.” Kaaren waited for Ingeborg to settle herself on the board seat before clucking the horses forward. “I need to go by the store and leave off a list for Mr. Valders to fill while we quilt.”
“Oh, I forgot to bring cheese for the store.”
“You want we should go back?”
Ingeborg shook her head, wrapping her shawl more closely around her shoulders. “That breeze is chilly. You think it will bring rain?”
“I hope not. On one hand we need rain, but on the other it slows down the planting. Good thing we can leave such decisions to God himself.”
“Did you tell Andrew that Penny is in the family way?”
“No.” Kaaren glanced at the woman on the seat b
eside her. “Why?”
“He asked, nei, rather informed me that she was.” Ingeborg shook her head. “That boy. He is an observer all right.”
“She will most likely mention it today. I know how she feels. After losing two, you get afraid to mention the new life growing inside you in case you frighten it away.”
“She is past her fourth month, and this time she looks good and healthy.” Ingeborg dropped her voice with a glance over her shoulder. After all, they shouldn’t be talking so freely in front of one not yet married.
But Ilse, though sixteen years old, sat at the end of the wagon with her feet swinging over the edge just like the children. Snatches of her song could be heard above the clumping of the horses’ hooves and the jingle of harnesses. The wheels sang their own song, one needing greasing, so the squeak could be irritating after a while.
“I’ll take the list in and walk on over to the church,” Ilse called as the wagon pulled to a stop in front of the general store, owned and run by Penny Bjorklund. Her husband, Hjelmer, owned and operated the blacksmith, livery, and machinery lot next door. Hjelmer was the last living Bjorklund son who emigrated from Norway. A raised board sidewalk connected the two buildings and on to the old granary that now housed Uncle Olaf ’s furniture and woodworking shop. The new grain elevator stood next to the train station, so new that it still needed a coat of paint. The Blessing Boarding House, owned by Bridget Bjorklund, now wife of Henry Aarsgard, stood taller than any building but the elevator, and with the new additions, it took up more ground. The new dining room was now open to the general public for three meals a day. Bridget’s home cooking was well known among the railroad workers and traveling businessmen. She’d met Henry when he was still working for the railroad. Now he tried to keep her from working too hard, an arduous task in itself.
“Mange takk.” Kaaren handed the paper over. “And if they have any needles, bring a packet along to the meeting. We can never have too many needles.”
“Not like it used to be.” Ingeborg waved her list too. “This one, please?”
“Ja, sure.” Ilse paused. “Anything else?”
Both women shook their heads. “Just remind Penny to hurry if she hasn’t left already.”
The street had dried to ruts from the spring mud, so the wagon bounced on its way around the corner and back to the Lutheran church built next to the school. Pastor Solberg’s soddy was occupied by Sam and his family now, since Pastor and Mrs. Solberg lived out on Zebulun MacCallister’s farm with Zeb’s two adopted daughters, Manda and Deborah.
Kaaren stopped at the hitching rail, and Ingeborg climbed down to tie the horses. Removing their bridles, she tied the lead shank to their halters and then to the rail. The ten-foot-high cottonwood trees planted and hand watered by the schoolchildren were leafed out enough to offer a bit of shade as they rustled secrets in the breeze. Baskets over their arms, the two women followed the sound of laughter and happy chatter up the three broad steps and through the open church door.
With the benches pushed back to line the walls, tables now filled the center of the room. Three quilting frames took up one side, and someone had brought her sewing machine along. A chorus of greetings welcomed the last comers as women cut and ironed quilting pieces from scraps brought in or material donated. Since the sewing machines had speeded up their quilting, the women made quilts to donate to the needy too. The Indian reservation to the north received many of their warm quilts.
“We thought perhaps you had decided not to come today,” said Mary Martha Solberg, her loose-fitting dress failing to disguise her advancing pregnancy. Her warm smile rivaled the sun streaming in the tall windows. While her dark curly hair was now worn properly in a crocheted snood, tendrils resisted her combing and curled around her heart-shaped face like petals cupping a blossom.
“Had to sidetrack to the store first.” Kaaren glanced around the room. “Penny’s not here yet either?” She dropped her voice. “She’s all right, isn’t she?”
“Far as I know.” Mary Martha leaned in closer, her words for their ears alone. “I have good news. We had a letter from Zebulun.” Back in ’89 her brother had left for Montana to round up horses after his wife, Katy Bjorklund, died in childbirth. The baby didn’t live either, adding to Bridget Bjorklund’s deep grief at the death of her youngest daughter. They rarely heard from Zeb, only enough to know he was still alive. He’d taken up homesteading in Montana, writing that his farm in Blessing held too many sad memories.
“What did he have to say for himself?” Ingeborg knew her tone carried a bite to it, but watching his two adopted daughters grieve not only Katy but him too made her want to grab the young man and shake him.
“He loves the mountains and the valleys, his horses are doing well, and . . .” She paused, eyes twinkling. “He’s coming back to visit.”
“When?”
“This summer. He’s bringin’ a herd of horses to sell.” When she got excited, Mary Martha’s Missouri accent grew more pronounced. “I reckon he’ll leave some here for Manda to train for him. That girl has such a gift with horses, I swain?”
At the arch of Kaaren’s eyebrows, Mary Martha broke into laughter. “Forgive me. I nigh to forgot where I am. I swain is a bit like you sayin’ you know, but you always put a question mark after.”
Kaaren and Ingeborg exchanged questioning looks. “Do you think she is saying we talk funny?” Ingeborg asked.
“Lawsie, Miz Bjorklund, where all would she get such an idea?” Kaaren, in spite of her Norwegian accent, slipped into a perfect imitation of Mary Martha’s drawling speech.
“You two!” Mary Martha laughed along with them, drawing other gazes their way.
“Sorry I’m late.” Penny Bjorklund blew into the room like a human tornado. She set her baskets on the table and waved her greetings. “God dag. Did I miss anything?”
Ingeborg and Kaaren shrugged while Mary Martha shook her head. “Nothin’ other than Zeb is comin’ home with a herd of horses.”
“Well, my land, about time. Did he say anything about, you know, someone coming with him?”
“Like as in a female, perhaps a wife?”
Penny smiled, all innocence. “That’s exactly what I meant. Thank you, Ingeborg, for clarifying that.” She smiled around the room. “Are we having our meeting first or quilting?”
“I thought we should set up, then have devotions, then quilt, and have our meeting while we eat.” Mrs. Valders, her black felt hat pinned to cover her receding hairline, looked around for anyone who disagreed. With a nod that set her two chins to quivering, she finished. “That’s settled then. Who would like to start at the frames and who wants to cut?”
As women volunteered for each job, their laughter and discussion set the church to ringing. Those with small children left them in the care of Ellie Wold, Goodie’s ten-year-old daughter. One young mother nursed her baby, then laid her in a basket at the edge of the room. As the other children were herded out to play, peace floated into the room like a welcome guest, and voices settled more into murmurs.
“I sure would love to have Kaaren read to us while we stitch,” Mrs. Odell from over at the quilting frame said wistfully. “I do love to be read to.”
“Me too,” said another. “The only reading I hear is Thomas, and second graders don’t read real smooth yet.” She gulped. “Sorry. It’s not that he’s not reading good for a second grader, you know.”
Chuckles rose like soap bubbles popping.
“I would be glad to read.” Kaaren set her flatiron back on the stove and left her ironing board to retrieve her Bible from her basket. “Any favorite passages today?”
“I do love Psalm 91.” Goodie pushed her needle through the three layers of material and wool batting with her thimble.
“Anyone else?”
“First John.”
After a couple more suggestions, Kaaren, the sun glinting off her braided hair as if she wore a crown of gold or perhaps a halo, opened her Bible and paused. “Shall we p
ray first?” As the women bowed their heads and silence settled over the room, she began. “Our Father in heaven, we thank you for your house where we can come together. We thank you for the work before us and the blessings our quilts have been to those less fortunate than we. We thank you for sending your Son to live and die here on this earth that we might have eternal life. Oh, Lord, most holy, please fill us with your love and joy. In Jesus’ precious name we pray, amen.” The amen whispered around the room like the rustle of willow leaves in the breeze.
Needles darted in and out, flatirons pushed out wrinkles, and scissors snipped away as Kaaren read of sheltering in the shadow of the most high God and how God called them his beloved children.
Mrs. Magron, her nose twitching like the mouse she resembled, sighed. “I do love how He tells us to love one another. Sometimes . . .” She paused and sighed again. “Sometimes that ain’t the easiest thing on this earth.”
Ingeborg and Agnes glanced at each other with a slight nod that said they were thinking the same thing. Even in the most forgiving terms, Mr. Magron would not be described as loving. Not that he was cruel, or at least they hoped not, but he never had a good word to say about anyone or anything. At least he didn’t carry on about it like some others they knew, but still . . .
“I’m a’goin’ to make sure I call on her this summer, maybe invite her and the mister over for supper.” Agnes, her once round face now more bone than flesh, nodded as she whispered, “Get so tied up in my own things, I forget about her.”
Ingeborg reached over and patted her friend’s hand. Agnes and Joseph Baard had come to the area not long after the Bjorklund brothers, and the women had been friends ever since the first time they met, back when they were both a lot younger. “You always do so much more than most of us anyway.”
“Look who’s talking.”
At a disapproving glance from Mrs. Valders, who liked things just so, they returned to their cutting, sharing a secret smile.
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