She whirled away from him, her skirt and long braid flying. He had hurt her by not joining forces, and his heart ached knowing it. “I am sorry, Elsa.”
She raised her hand, as if to halt his words. “No, Karl. It is I who am sorry. Forgive me for bringing you into this. You are a good friend and a wise man to stay out of it.”
Karl swallowed. So that was it. Their encounter was at an end. The voice within him commanded him to leave. His own desire commanded him to stay. Would he tear in half if he turned to go? “May I see you home?” he managed to ask.
“No, thank you. I’ll be along shortly.” She turned and gave him a half smile. “Don’t worry about us, Karl. Peder and I will resolve our differences in time.”
Karl nodded then willed his body to turn and climb down from the boulder. Yet he felt as if he remained behind, watching another man leave. Oh, that it were so. He reached his horse and mounted swiftly, whirling the mare around and back toward town like a man chased by a demon.
“What, God?” he cried once he was out of earshot from Elsa. “What would you have me do with these feelings?” He pulled the mare to a stop and shook his fist at the heavens. “What?” he screamed. His question echoed off the nearby cliffs. “Is this my trial?” he asked miserably. “Is this your way of proving whether I am a worthy servant?”
Karl resumed his ride, feeling spent, helpless, and weak. How on earth could this all be resolved in a way befitting a man of faith? And how could it be resolved when he felt himself so miserably distant from his Savior? Perhaps he had been abandoned entirely, he thought. Only one idea sustained him: Tomorrow he would board a train for New York, leaving Camden and temptation behind.
Kaatje winced as she rose from bed, feeling the taut ligaments supporting her abdomen stretch at the effort. How could her body expand to accommodate another two months of the baby’s growth? She felt bloated and round, and her ankles were horribly swollen, but all in all, life was tremendous. Kaatje smiled as she padded over the dirt floor to the bucket of water at the door. It was warmer than usual this morning, more like late summer than fall. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t shiver as she left her warm bed. But as she drew the blanket aside—their makeshift front door—there was no doubt about it; the crisp edge to the breeze outside warned of winter.
This morning was typical of their routine of late. Soren rose with the sun, eager to get to his work, and built a fire in the yard to brew a pot of coffee. Then he walked over a quarter mile to their neighbor’s well to draw a fresh bucketful of water for Kaatje’s use. By the time the coffee boiled, Kaatje would rise and sleepily make her way to the bucket at the door to wash her face.
Kaatje dried her face with an old rag. Then crossing her arms, she studied Soren as he worked without his shirt, digging a well. Powerful shoulders topped a lean torso that led to a svelte waist. Sweat trickled down his face and chest in tiny streams over dusty skin, even as his breath showed up as clouds in the early morning light. On and on he worked, determined that they would have their own well by first snow.
Kaatje grabbed a shawl from her cedar chest and wrapped it about her, feeling a shiver of excitement run down her back to be able to brazenly walk out into the yard half-dressed. Their farm sat a quarter mile from their nearest neighbor. Old Lady Engvold, as everyone called her, had acquired over 460 acres of land, having homesteaded 160 of them herself and purchased the others. Her land bordered theirs to the west and south. Fred and Claire Marquardt, whose farmhouse sat about a half mile away, owned to the north of them, and on the east was a dear Dutch man named Walter Van Der Roos.
Walter had come to introduce himself soon after they arrived, blushing as he offered Kaatje a pair of wooden clogs, beautifully carved with an intricate pattern, that his dead wife had once worn. Kaatje had taken them without hesitation, thinking of the large holes in her boots that had been patched and repatched over the years. The clogs were a bit large, but comfortable enough. She put them on now and padded out to the campfire, thinking about silly superstitions. Soren had been able to settle on this prime piece of land because an old cemetery stood on the southeast corner and no one else wanted it. What was all the fuss about? Kaatje had spent many a day wandering about the withered crosses and faded tombstones, tending to the neglected graves. There was something fascinating about the place. It was a reminder that she was very much alive despite being so near death, she decided.
Crouching by the fire, Kaatje poured herself coffee in the tin cup Soren had left beside it. Still her husband did not see her. She watched him in silence, viewing him through the steam of her bitter coffee as if he were a vision. After a while Soren set down his shovel and wiped his face with a rag. He looked to the horizon then toward the soddy. At last he spied her. “Aha! My wife finally rises!”
“I have been up for a while,” she defended with a smile.
“And how long have you been watching me like a prairie dog?”
Kaatje laughed. The prairie dogs were their constant companions, sitting on their haunches and watching their every move. “Long enough to appreciate your work.”
Soren cocked his head to the side. “It is a man’s work.”
“And I appreciate that my man works as he does to make a home for me.”
Soren climbed out of the hole and walked over to her. She rose and offered him her coffee cup. He drank, then handed it back to her, studying her closely. “It is better here, isn’t it, Kaatje?”
Kaatje nodded. Soren took a step closer and placed his hands on her hips. “And I like it that you can go about in your night shift and shawl.” He raised his hands and twisted about like a dust devil. “Freedom! Privacy! A place to call our own! America!” He said “America” with relish, enunciating each syllable. He grinned and pulled her close once more. “It is a fine, fine thing that we’ve done.”
“It is,” Kaatje said, feeling utterly satisfied. She shook her head and stepped away from Soren. “Now I must tend to breakfast. Can you hold out for another hour? I hoped to send a letter to town with Mr. Marquardt this morning. He said he’d be by about nine.”
“Sure,” Soren said. “Go write your letter to Elsa. Tell her I’m taking care of you,” he added with a grin. “Tell her I was afraid not to after her fierce warning.”
“I’ll tell her.” She stood up on tiptoe and kissed her husband. “You are taking fine care of me.”
Soren pulled her in as close as possible, resting his chin on her head. “I hope so, elske. I want everything to be right for you here.”
“And I for you.”
Now that they were together again—with no immediate threat of separation—the urgency was gone, and Elsa relaxed as they settled into the routine of life in Camden. Each morning Peder rose, ate breakfast with her, then headed to the yard. On the ramp stood the white oak frames of the Sunrise, Ramstad Yard’s first ship, looking like the bleached ribs of a giant beached whale. But no one would work on her today. Today was their first American holiday, Thanksgiving, and Elsa had enlisted the help of an American neighbor to prepare a traditional feast.
She grinned again as she caught a whiff of the turkey roasting in her cast-iron stove in the kitchen. Elsa mentally listed what remained to be done as she searched for her drop pearl earrings. They must “whup” the potatoes, as her new southern friend, Bessie Walters, called it, and boil the yams. Bessie said she always added something special—a family secret—to the candied yams, and Elsa hoped to catch her at it.
It was good to be surrounded by friends, she mused, old and new, on a day such as this. Tonight they would host Karl, Kristoffer and his boys, Tora, Bjorn and Ebba, Mikkel and Ola, Bessie and her husband, Richard, and their two daughters.
Elsa looked at her reflection once more. Peder had chosen wisely for her. The gown was made of fine, golden silk at the bodice, and the skirt was of white silk that gave way to three tiers of delicate lace. The sleeves were slightly gathered at the shoulder, and at the wrist, tiers of lace matched the skirt. The neck
line was high, and at her throat, she wore her grandmother’s brooch. The trim fit of the gown complemented her form, and Elsa wondered what she would do when she became pregnant. Let out all these dresses? Buy new ones? Peder spent money on her clothes as if he had an endless supply, when she knew the reality of their situation. But she would worry about it later. It was a concern for another day, not Thanksgiving.
A knock at the door brought Peder out of the parlor as she left the bedroom. He made a fashionable figure himself in a new, double-breasted coat with velvet collar and cuffs, and striped wool trousers. “I’ll get it,” he said, stopping to give her a kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” Elsa said, as he went to answer the door. She followed behind, wanting to welcome their first guest alongside her husband.
Karl shifted his weight from one leg to the other and looked up, a new bowler hat in hand, as Peder opened the door. He too looked handsome in a new, short-fitted jacket and matching trousers. The cool gray wool of his suit brought out the color of his eyes. He shook Peder’s hand firmly then bent to kiss Elsa on the cheek, the perfect gentleman. For some reason, her thoughts flew back to that afternoon on the peak above Ramstad House. Feeling foolish and a bit guilty for telling Karl about her argument with Peder, she had not told her husband of their meeting.
It was an answer to prayer that she had not destroyed the balance of things with her childish ways. If anything, in the three or four times that Elsa had seen him since that day, Karl had been more aloof. Perhaps her foolishness had turned him aside. In any case their relationship was still warm, but now properly distant. Anything that she had observed—or others, for that matter—had clearly been dealt with, or altogether a figment of their imaginations. Karl Martensen was obsessed with his steamship, not her.
“Come in, Karl,” she said warmly. “I see you went shopping with Peder. May I take your coat?”
“Certainly,” he said, handing it to her. “It seems that I have done my share in fattening the shopkeepers’ wallets of late. I must stay away from New York! The people there are of a different breed and fill my head with folderol.”
“Like steamships,” Peder quipped.
“I was speaking of an unreasonable need for more clothing,” Karl returned, raising one eyebrow.
Elsa laughed, glad to hear the banter between the two, and followed them to the parlor.
Before long the other guests arrived, and the house was alive with conversation and laughter as they gathered around the dining room table with Peder at the head and Elsa at the foot. Bjorn was debating with Kristoffer about the wisdom of the yard’s new schooner design. “We should simply build another clipper,” the bearlike man said quietly, obviously hoping to avoid Peder’s ears. Peder smiled. The man had never whispered in his life.
“You will see, Bjorn,” he said loudly. “Our schooner will have your heart soon enough.”
“And if she doesn’t,” enjoined Karl, “our steamship will.”
The men laughed, and Peder raised his crystal glass after Elsa had refilled them all. “To the American holiday … to our holiday … Thanksgiving. We have much, indeed, to be thankful for this year.”
“Hear, hear,” called the men, and as one the company lifted their glasses.
Over the rim of her goblet, Elsa watched Tora. The girl barely looked pregnant, defying the fact that she was four months along. Elsa wondered if her sister had told Kristoffer about her condition and watched as Tora leaned over and whispered in his ear. The man’s lean, tanned face broke into a smile, and he winked at her. Once again Elsa wondered what was transpiring in that three-bedroom cottage down below. It had been five months since Astrid’s death, and as much as the two had loved one another, Kristoffer was in dire need of a wife. He could not mourn forever.
Elsa frowned. It wasn’t entirely proper for a young, pretty girl like Tora to be living in an unmarried man’s home, regardless of her station and duties or the fact that the man slept in the Ramstad Yard long house. Elsa looked down the table at Peder. She knew from experience what the intimacies of living together brought forth, and Kristoffer’s cottage was small. Kristoffer and Tora laughed together again, and Elsa found herself hoping that her sister wouldn’t hurt the man. Kris was still wounded; he didn’t need more heartbreak.
Bessie bustled off to the kitchen again, and Peder leaned over toward Mikkel, who sat stiffly beside his wife Ola, watching the goings-on as if he were tolerating the shenanigans of toddlers.
“We will eat well tonight, eh, Mikkel?” said Peder.
“Well enough,” Mikkel allowed. The old bird was somber, but solid. Peder said there were few men at Ramstad Yard that he could count on more than Mikkel Thompson. He and Ola postured themselves like the elders in Bergen, often coming across as superior, but served as a wealth of knowledge on a variety of subjects. They were true friends. And no one could run a crew like Mikkel. The old man could get men to work longer hours and be more efficient than anyone Peder knew. Bjorn was a good worker, too, and his wife, Ebba, lived up to her name, which meant “as strong as a boar.”
All in all, they were a good mix, this hearty crowd of Bergensers, and a fine beginning for Ramstad Yard, thought Elsa. Together these people would build Peder a business. As she looked around the table, never in her life had Elsa been more thankful.
Tora assisted Bessie and Elsa in getting the food to the table, although she was feeling terribly tired again. The charade was wearing, and Tora wondered how long she could keep it up. Perhaps she shouldn’t. Her dresses, after all, could not be let out much more. Surely Kristoffer would know before long. It would be better to tell him herself, perhaps soften the blow.
She smiled as she approached the table, placing a delicate hand on Kristoffer’s shoulder as she leaned over to set the dish of stuffing before him. “Pardon me,” she said demurely.
“It’s quite all right,” he said, smiling up at her. His hazel eyes were still sad, and Tora felt both a twinge of guilt and a strange desire to erase his pain. She immediately dismissed both inclinations. This pregnancy was simply playing havoc with her emotions. She could not rely on them as real. Surely she did not feel anything for Kristoffer. He was nothing, a worthless second mate to her brother-in-law. There was someone greater out there waiting for her. And she would find him.
Knut ran up to her and tugged on her skirts. “I’m hungry,” he whined.
“Your dinner is in the kitchen,” she said. “Go and join the other children at the kitchen table.”
“I want turkey!” he said, running toward the kitchen.
“You’ll have it soon enough.”
Lars was in the master bedroom, sound asleep on Peder and Elsa’s bed, surrounded by pillows. Tora felt another odd heart palpitation. Who would care for the boys when she left? She knew now that she could not last the duration of her pregnancy. She would find a suitable home for her child wherever she landed, but she had to leave Camden. She had to. Kristoffer would just have to find another nanny. Surely someone in the village …
“Tora?” Elsa said in irritation, holding out a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes. “Take these to the table.”
Tora used one hand to wipe perspiration from her brow. The kitchen was stifling from the heat of the stove. Like Camden, she thought, as she took the bowl from her sister. Escape or wither.
At the table the men were talking once again about boring ship industry news, with Richard Walters, Bessie’s husband, sharing the latest gossip. Richard owned a small yard of his own next to Peder’s, and the two had become fast friends. This time Tora carefully avoided touching Kris as she set the bowl on the table, but he immediately stood to pull out her chair.
Elsa entered with the turkey, and everyone oohed and ahhed, their mouths watering at the golden bird’s aroma. There was a veritable feast before them. Tora tried to smile as Kristoffer made a comment in her ear about getting her share. So he had noticed her increased appetite. Tora seemed unable to eat enough these days. It w
as showing and not only through her stomach. She had agonized over arms and thighs that were plumping up, but still could not seem to stay her hunger.
Kristoffer was not being mean. He obviously meant it as a compliment when he called her healthy. He was nice in many ways, but he was not, and would never be, one of Tora’s conquests. She knew she could have him if she wanted him. He was in the palm of her hand already. But she didn’t want him now. Or ever. She was leaving Camden. Just as soon as she could manage it.
When Tora excused herself, saying she wanted to get the children home to bed, Karl excused himself as well. He had watched Tora and Kristoffer throughout the evening, and what he saw concerned him. He walked behind her and the boys for a while. The lantern she carried cast her form in sharp silhouette. Karl observed the new curves she’d gained with some added pounds and distantly decided it made her all the more alluring and dangerous. Did Kris see her as the vixen she was? He trotted to catch up with her, suddenly angry at the memory of her hand on Kristoffer’s shoulder.
“He cannot take a broken heart again,” he said without preamble. The memory of Kristoffer’s agonized cry as the sailors dropped Astrid’s body overboard still awakened him at night.
Tora turned, Lars asleep in a sling over her shoulder. The lantern swung in one hand, Knut’s hand in the other. “Karl! You scared me to death!”
“Forgive me,” he said, momentarily taken aback. But he charged on, wanting to have his say. “I just do not want you to hurt him. It would be better for you to leave now than to win his heart and then leave him.”
“I do not know of what you speak,” Tora said, pivoting and walking away from him with her nose in the air.
He caught up with her easily. “You do. You know what he’s been through. Good grief, woman, you were there when she died.” Karl looked quickly down at Knut, who seemed to be so sleepy he did not care what the adults spoke of. “Losing Astrid almost killed him. It is only the boys that keep him going. And he doesn’t need you in the middle of his life, messing with his heart. A man can only tolerate so much, Tora.”
Northern Lights Trilogy Page 17
