Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Elsa left her supplies in the dry, tall grasses in front of her home and went back for easel and chair. Five minutes later she was settled and sketching the house. This view of it still took her breath away. Somehow inside she forgot its simple, forthright beauty. From here it all came back. The Atlantic breathed a fresh gust up the hill from the water, and Elsa smiled. This was a good idea. How many letters could she write Kaatje, anyway?

  She concentrated on the elements before her, warming to her task. She had been overwhelmed at her first sight of Ramstad Yard and even more by the quaint cottage beside it. She had been overcome as Peder led her through their home. Only the first floor and the outside were complete. “The rest will have to wait for the success of Ramstad Yard,” he said, smiling and exultant as she shared in his joy over their home. As much as Peder infuriated her, at the moment Elsa longed to see that smile again.

  She studied the contrast between the narrow first-floor clapboards and the intricate second-floor shingle patterns. The gables were steep, and the encircling verandah had spindle-like ornaments often found on homes built by architects influenced by the Queen Anne master, Richard Shaw. But her favorite part of the house was the turret on the north side, a towering lookout in which she could watch for Peder as she had from the hills bordering Bergen. Many windows let in as much light as possible, and a giant, medieval-type chimney boasted of the warm fires that would kindle come winter.

  As the sun sank lower in the sky, Elsa completed the rough sketch and began to paint, using her tiniest brushes for detail. A house had none of the action that ships did, but she was inspired. For she knew that it was with love and sacrifice that Peder had built this home for her. If only he were with her right now, she mused.

  A thought came to her. Peder loved this growing talent of hers, nurtured it, in fact. Perhaps she could argue that she needed to travel with him for research. How else could she insert the sense of realism, combined with the romanticism, that made artists successful? If that did not convince him, she would argue until she was blue in the face. Why be married if only to be continually separated?

  She glanced over her shoulder. Down below in Ramstad Yard, they were completing the caulker’s shed where men would soon twist and prepare rope, and the long house, a single-story mold loft where others would craft models or set out the ribs for the new schooner. All of the men from Bergen were gone, however, off to sea on the Herald to make some more cash before winter settled in. Kristoffer was the only one who remained behind, left to oversee construction at Ramstad Yard and the care of his home and children. The workers at the yard had made good progress in the last six weeks, and things were taking shape. Elsa returned her gaze to the house, wanting to capture the colors of the autumn leaves before putting away her paints for the day. It had been a wet year, she was told, so the colors were more muted; in dry years they would be brilliant gold, gaudy orange, and vermilion. But Elsa preferred the more subtle hues of ocher, russet, umber, and mustard—they held a depth that captivated her and her brush as she mixed the oils to get just the right shade. She was excited to try her hand at painting. Ramstad House looked warm and welcoming, and she wanted to remember this day forever on canvas.

  Peder looked out at the turquoise sea and longed for his wife. Had he been wrong to leave her in Camden? These last weeks had been agony as he rehashed their argument and agonized over his wisdom in leaving her. He could not find any peace about it.

  Peder wanted Elsa with him. Their short runs to the West Indies for sugar and pineapples were nearing an end. Once the schooner was built, he would go to Australia for wool and to China for silk, competing with the medium clippers that now dominated the sea lanes to those countries—and beating them with his faster ship. On those voyages in which he would be gone for months, he wanted Elsa along.

  But how could he do so? Had he not promised God to love, honor, and protect her? And had he not promised Amund that he would keep her safe?

  He had not anticipated missing her as he had. Peder shook his head and returned to his charts, measuring the distance to Camden. At this rate, they would be home soon. He smiled. It would be good to see Elsa. They would resolve their differences somehow. He would hold her in his arms and take her to their bed. He swung his fist in the air as a surge of energy exploded through him. They would make better time than ever, if he was worthy to be called captain of this ship.

  Laughing at himself, he left the cabin and strode to the helm. Karl looked at him, surprised by his quick gait. Peder studied the wind and the sails for a moment then looked back to Karl. “Set all sails,” he commanded, his voice jubilant. “We’re going to get home to Camden as fast as we can!”

  “But Captain,” Karl protested, low enough so none of the men would hear, “we’re almost between wind and water now. Setting the other sails might have us turn turtle.”

  Peder sobered and reevaluated his command. Karl was right to question him; they were speeding along at quite a nice clip. But no, there was still room for a bit more speed. “My command holds,” he said, and turned back to his cabin.

  “All sails set!” shouted Karl without hesitation.

  “All sails set!” rejoined the crew, acknowledging the command.

  “Cap’n?” Karl called.

  Peder turned.

  “I assume you’re thinking of home.”

  “Aye.”

  “Once we arrive, I’d like to take care of the Herald’s chandlery needs. I could accompany some of our cargo to New York via railroad and get those supplies for the shipyard we discussed. I want to do some research on our steamship anyway.”

  Peder smiled broadly. Not only was he getting home sooner, but his first mate would see to the errands that would have taken him away from Elsa again right after returning. “I’d appreciate that, Karl.”

  “Consider it done,” Karl said. He glanced up to check the set of the sails. The sailors working high in the rigging and those down below at the capstan were hauling up the remaining canvas.

  Peder watched for a moment, thinking about his friend’s offer. It seemed incredible that anyone would want to leave home as soon as he returned, but then Karl did not have Elsa. Did Karl offer this kindness as a friend? Perhaps he had noticed Peder’s distraction, his penchant for standing on the bow, looking northwest toward Maine. Whatever his reasoning, Peder was glad. To him, it felt like an answer to prayer.

  Tora lay on her narrow bed while Knut played on the floor beside her with six blocks that Kristoffer had carved for him. Lars, thankfully, was sleeping, and Knut seemed to sense that once again Tora wanted peace and quiet. She closed her eyes wearily. Taking care of the boys without Kristoffer was not easy. Keeping up with the house—even one as small as their three-bedroom, Federal-style cottage—was tiring. How did one live without a maid? But worse was this plague that had come over her body, this siren’s call to sleep for an hour twice a day. It was the worst part of her pregnancy.

  She figured she was more than two months along. God’s wrath was how she referred to it in her private musings. Well, she’d show him. Even God would not rule her life. Elsa, up on her hill in Ramstad House, had said she longed for a child. Soon enough Tora would birth the baby and be done with it, leaving it on its aunt’s doorstep for her to raise. She had the means. She had the interest. And Tora had bigger and better places to go. A child was not part of the picture, and certainly Kristoffer’s children were not a part of it.

  Tora rolled her head to the side and watched as Knut built a tower out of his blocks then tore it down, over and over. She had grown reasonably fond of the boys these last weeks, but was merely serving her time. She felt none of the feelings that mothers did for their own—or what she had witnessed in self-sacrifice and generosity from her own mother. To Tora this was a job, a job thankfully over in another four months. Three months following that, the baby would be born. Would she be able to leave her own child as easily as Kristoffer’s children? What would become of them?

  She dismisse
d the niggling questions as she ran a hand over her abdomen. Not only did pregnancy make one exhausted, it made one fat. Was there anything less fair in the world than to saddle women, the weaker sex, with childbirth? It was all that nasty Soren Janssen’s fault. He, after all, did not have to bear the burden she did for their torrid affair. What was his price? Nothing, she thought with a mirthless laugh. He had probably already found someone else in North Dakota to take her place, God help the poor soul.

  Tora giggled suddenly. The only good part about her situation was that she would have the chance to shake up Elsa’s orderly life. She sat up. “Get your coat, Knut. Auntie Elsa invited us for dinner. And I have news I need to share with her.”

  The boy scrambled to his feet and ran for his coat while Tora fussed with her hair and put on her hat. She studied her reflection in the mirror. She looked ghastly, and it brought her high mood crashing down. Her flesh was peaked and her eyes sunken.

  What was happening to her? She was Tora Anders! This would not be her end. She would not drown in this dreary little town, nor care for these boys until she was old and ugly. She would leave! Soon … or all her dreams would be sucked into the mire of Camden-by-the-Sea. She was born for something higher than a three-room cottage on the shores of a forsaken land. She wanted money and all that it could buy. She wanted expensive clothing and beautiful things around her. She wanted to be a powerful man’s bride. And that man was not Kristoffer.

  “I am ready,” Knut said, taking her hand and pulling.

  “Very well,” Tora said, giving herself one last determined glance. “Let me get Lars and we will be off.” She bundled up the baby in a soft wool blanket that Kris had purchased in Australia on one of his voyages, then followed the bouncing Knut out the door. The three-year-old was happy to escape the house, and Tora had to agree with him. He ran ahead, knowing the way to Ramstad House, just a five-minute walk away. There was practically a path worn through the tall, dying field grass, for Knut had grown quite fond of his Auntie Elsa.

  It was all very fitting, Tora thought, for them to grow close. Perhaps Elsa would take Knut and Lars in with Tora’s own child when it came. Or maybe Kris would find someone else to slave away and shoulder his burdens while he supervised the yard or was away at sea. She tripped over a rock and almost fell, then frowned at her surroundings. This was a miserable, lonely place to live. And so dull. She wanted society, a dinner out, a ride in one of those high society carriages rather that a cross-country stroll to her sister’s. She could have stayed in Bergen and fared better than this.

  Up ahead Knut reached the house and ran into Elsa’s outstretched arms. She hugged him and laughed as he said something, then rose and waited for Tora to reach them. Elsa was dressed for dinner in an elegant gown their mother had given her, and she looked quite lovely standing on the porch. Her smile faded as she saw Tora’s own stern expression.

  “Good evening, Tora,” she said. “My goodness, you look tired. Are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” Tora said, climbing the steps and flashing a false smile at her sister as she passed. “Simply pregnant,” she tossed over her shoulder, then winced as she heard Elsa suck in her breath. Why could she not curb her tongue? The last thing she needed was to have Elsa think she was proud of herself. Tora quickly composed her face and turned to seek sympathy.

  “What—” Elsa began.

  “It is awful, is it not?” Tora cried. “I don’t know what I will do.” A few tears crested her lower lids and slid down her cheeks. Tora didn’t wipe them away.

  Elsa’s face was ashen. “Knut,” she said, “I have some new blocks for you to play with in the kitchen.” Tora followed behind them, sniffling. Knut looked up at her, concerned.

  “Knut, Auntie Tora will be fine. We just need to speak for a moment. Could you please play by yourself like a big boy and watch your brother?” Elsa took Lars from Tora’s arms and settled him in the wooden cradle she kept near the hearth for their visits.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said soberly. Elsa let the door swing shut and pulled Tora to a dining room chair.

  “Tell me. Who was it? What happened? Oh, Tora, how on earth could you have let—”

  “I did not let anyone,” Tora said, raising her chin a bit. “I didn’t. You must believe me! Oh, Elsa, you must help me figure out what I will do! You must!” Elsa held out her arms, and Tora leaned into her embrace.

  “I am here,” Elsa said soothingly, sounding as maternal as Tora desired her to be. “I do not wish to hear the sordid details. Let us focus on what you might do to recover.”

  “Recover?” Tora asked, hearing the hysteria in her own voice. She pulled away and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “This is not something from which one recovers.” She got up from the chair and began to pace the length of the room, glancing at Elsa occasionally. “The only thing I can think of is to have this baby then give him to you and Peder to adopt.”

  Elsa shook her head. “Wait. You’re moving much too quickly for me. I just found out that you are … expecting.”

  “But think of Mama! Such news would kill her!”

  “Let us think of you first. We will deal with our parents later. Now sit. Tell me when you expect the child.”

  “April, I suppose.”

  “There are homes for young women—”

  “You would send me away?” Tora cried.

  “No, no,” Elsa said, gesturing with her hands for Tora to settle down. “Of course not. I’m simply thinking of all our options.”

  Tora stifled the smile that threatened to curve her lips. Already her older sister was thinking of this as her own problem. Surely Elsa would help her figure a way out!

  A rush of sisterly concern had flowed through Elsa at Tora’s revelation. It was only later, as she mulled it over, that Elsa became angry. How, after all, was she sure that Tora had been drawn unwittingly into such a predicament? She had seen for herself how Tora used her feminine wiles to get what she wished. Elsa felt the heat of her embarrassing thoughts rise up her neck. Could Tora be wanton, not a victim?

  The thought overwhelmed and saddened her. She felt such a responsibility for her sister! Should she not for the unborn child as well? Oh, to have her mother near! Surely Mama would know what to do! Did she not have enough to worry over without this too? There at her writing desk she bent her head in prayer, unable to do anything else. Lord, Lord! she cried out silently. I feel so lost. So confused. What am I to do with her? With the child?

  It is not a trial for you to bear.

  The clear answer to her prayer took Elsa aback. “But she is my sister!” she prayed aloud.

  She is my child.

  “But … but we are so far from home …”

  You are in the world I gave you.

  “I am so worried, Father …”

  Be still.

  “I cannot. I cannot turn my back on her.”

  Be still.

  In his answer, Elsa knew what God wanted from her. He wanted her to trust him, to trust him with Tora. In his own time, in his own way, he would deal with Tora Anders and her child. Until then Elsa would trust him and know that he would guide her in her role with Tora. Wearily she said, “Into your hands, Father, I give my sister and her child.” She opened her eyes and wiped them with a handkerchief, stared out the window for several minutes, then turned to the letter she had received from Kaatje that day.

  It is difficult to believe that the baby is only a few months away. At least the exhaustion that accompanied my first months of pregnancy is gone. So too have my uglier memories of Soren in Bergen and on the Herald faded. Although our farm seems dismal now, I am glad for the dissimilarities. It affords me assurance as I thank God for my new life. Our new life, I correct myself. Oh, Elsa, I am happy, happier than I can ever remember being.

  Soren works from dawn to dusk at clearing and preparing the land. We have a burly, even-tempered Cleveland Bay who helps him. The horse ignores me when I haul coffee out for Soren. My husband does not. This land is r
ougher than we were promised, but we were warned. And the soil is rich and fertile. If we can only get some decent rainfall, we shall do well.

  Some immigrants have already come and gone, giving up on dryland farming and its challenges. But we love it. We have broad vistas where you can see for miles. It reminds me of the sea. I feel as if I am on the verge of watching a miracle. It is our new beginning, Elsa. Nothing can destroy it. And surely nothing will impede our progress.

  Elsa paused and looked out to sea, hearing her friend’s gay laughter in her words. At last God had smiled upon Kaatje and Soren!

  Elsa climbed the stairs of the turret, noting as she exited to the open, unfinished second floor that the air had turned decidedly crisp. She glanced at the brown oaks and red maples that bordered the yard; many of their leaves were gone, and what remained were a pale reminder of autumn. Peder had missed it all, she thought sadly. Her painting, while it had turned out well, held none of the awe-inspiring motion that the trees had once carried. That was the only way she could think of describing their colors in the crisp autumn breeze. She had worked and worked on the colors, getting the shading almost dead-on, but they still seemed flat to her.

  That was why she preferred ships. It was easier to show life in a moving ship than in a dying leaf. She could not wait to be at sea again. Surely Peder had missed her as much as she had him. This would work to help her in her arguments when he came home. The Herald was due any day now, but it was likely that it would be later in the week. Still, Elsa could not keep herself from the turret, as if a sixth sense was telling her that he was near. It was as it had been in Bergen. She had waited for days on the hills, looking for the Herald, knowing, even though he hadn’t written, that Peder was coming soon.

  She scanned the horizon. It was about ten in the morning, and after her morning routine of reading a chapter of the Bible and praying, then writing a bit to Kaatje, Elsa found little to do. Ever since Tora had shared her devastating news, Elsa had sought release in furious housecleaning or an absorbing painting. Now the house was in immaculate order, and she had completed three paintings: one of the house; two of ships in the harbor below.