But Karl knew he would not sleep that night, for he could not shake the feeling that he had sent a lamb off to pasture with the she-wolf.
Kaatje shivered under her quilt, wishing for her aunt’s down comforter that she had left in Bergen. Her old feather bed and comforter might have had a chance against this bitter cold. She stared at the tallow candle that she kept burning by her bed, anxiously waiting for Soren to return from the barn. Kaatje had heard stories of men getting lost in the snow between house and barn, wandering until they froze to death, but Soren had been determined to go.
Outside the wind howled, and the poorly crafted shanty on their new land did little to stop it. She had to admit that the windows and wood floors felt more civilized than the soddy, but the walls had none of the insulation that the good old dirt had provided. Here and there were cracks that Kaatje had attempted to patch with rags, but still the cabin was drafty. And outside the first snow was beginning to fall. Oh, how she ached for Soren’s arms! What if he never returned, leaving her alone on the Dakota prairie! If he would just get back to the house and climb into bed with her, she could relax, cozy and warm against his body in the midst of their first winter storm.
The front door blew open, swirling flakes coming in before a dark form. Kaatje rose to a sitting position, her hand at her throat, her heart banging against her ribs. “Soren! You startled me.”
“These homesteads get awfully lonely, eh?”
Kaatje smiled and raised the covers. “Yes. Now undress and come to bed. I was just wishing you were here to cuddle with me.”
In an instant he was beside her, cradling her in his arms. “Should I blow out the candle?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
Through the window she watched the giant flakes swirl and fall, an entrancing, hypnotic display. They lay together for a long time before the baby moved. Soren drew away from her in surprise. “What was that?”
She smiled, feeling like Saint Nick, as the Americans called him. “Why, that’s your child,” she said.
Soren hooted and sat up. Kaatje sighed, missing his warmth already as he placed a hand on her swollen stomach and waited. After a moment the baby kicked again, then rolled.
Soren’s mouth dropped. “You feel that every day?”
“Every day, all day.”
“It’s a miracle!” Soren shouted.
Kaatje laughed at his exuberance. “Yes. It is. Someday soon that baby will come and greet us.” The thought sobered her. “I don’t want to be alone on that day, Soren. You’ll have to go for Eira.”
“Just as soon as you tell me to,” he said solemnly. Soren caressed her cheek. “Don’t worry, elskling.” He leaned toward her belly. “And I’ll watch over you too. Shall I tell you of the farms we will have someday, little man? The rain will fall, and the sun will shine, and you and I will establish a ranch here that will spread for miles. Your mama and I are just beginning.”
When Peder arrived home on Christmas Day with a letter from Elsa’s parents, she thought it the best present of all. Elsa straightened the paper on her lap, treasuring each word before her like a hug from her distant mother, and began to read aloud. As she did so, Peder settled down to listen in a chair nearby.
15 November 1880 Dearest
Elsa and Peder,
Christmas greetings to both of you and happy New Year as well. I should have gotten this letter off earlier, but I have found myself quite busy of late. I pray that the new year finds you settled and happy. We were so relieved to hear that Tora is well and with you. Thank you for sending word immediately. Amund and I had assumed that when she disappeared, it was on the Herald. I am sorry, dears, for any burden you must bear because of her impetuous decision. Thank you, in advance, for caring for her.
Elsa shot Peder a glance. Her mother did not know, as yet, all that had transpired for Tora aboard the Herald and afterward. Would she be angry with her elder daughter for not taking Tora in herself ? She continued reading.
My good tiding: Garth has begun courting Carina in earnest, and for the first time, she seems amicable to the idea. Perhaps you younger ones marrying caught their interest. In any case, I expect a proposal any day.
I have poor tidings that I need to share with you as well. Your dear father is failing.
Elsa let the letter fall to her lap. Papa! Failing. And so far away … “Elsa, keep reading. Perhaps it is not as dire as it sounds,” Peder said.
With shaking hands, Elsa picked up the letter again.
The doctor believes that it is heart trouble again. He has been in bed for weeks, feeling weak and suffering from numb toes and fingers. He cannot work, and lying in bed brings him to despair. But the worst happened three days ago. He suffered a fit and was left useless on his left side and has a difficult time forming words. I must spoon soup into his mouth and close his lips for him to swallow.
Forgive me when I say this, dear ones, but I pray for his release if he cannot be healed. I pray that he will find peace in heaven and restoration at Jesus’ side. For a man as proud as Amund cannot live on in such a state. It would be worse to watch him slowly waste away than to mourn his departure. Will you join me in my prayer? For healing or release.
I am thankful for Carina, but miss my other two daughters. Please encourage Tora to write. Young ones must make their own way in life, and all is forgiven. I long for a word from her. I send my love and a prayer of bounty for each of you.
Your loving mother,
Gratia
“Oh, Peder, I must get home! I must!”
Peder rose and came to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry, dearest. There is no way. There are precious few ships that would dare a crossing in the midst of winter. Look outside.”
Elsa’s eyes flew to the gray, swirling waters then to her painting. She knew she was being irrational, but her heart ached at the thought of her father passing without one more kiss from her. She wanted to fly like the birds to Bergen, walk in the hills high above the fjord, watch the northern lights once more by his side.
“No,” she said sadly, giving in to tears. “He cannot die yet. He cannot. There’s so much I want to share with him! Perhaps Mama can bring him here in the spring. Perhaps you and I can go and get them!” She looked up at Peder, feeling as desperate as her voice sounded.
He knelt by her side, taking her hands in his. His face was sorrowful. “Love, I understand your pain. But they are far away. When you left on the Herald, you were essentially saying good-bye to them forever.”
“But Karl said—”
“What?”
“He said that perhaps your ships would pass near Bergen one day. I had thought that I would see my parents again. At least once. And now Papa is dying.” She could utter no more words, for she was choked by her tears. She felt so far away! So distant! So helpless!
“You know that I would see you home if I could. But it’s impossible. Entirely too dangerous. We need to stay here and pray for your parents. Concentrate on the Lord, Elsa. He will see us all through.”
“God! Where is he? Surely this cannot be of him.”
“We all will reach the end of our days.”
“But not Papa! He is too young!”
“He is nearing seventy. His own father passed at what? Sixty-five?”
His attempt at reasoning angered Elsa. Could he not see that she did not want practical assessment, but simply love and commiseration? What was it about men that they always had to whittle things down to their inevitable practicalities?
“I need to go and find Tora,” she said coolly, rising and dropping his hands.
“Elsa—”
“I need to go find Tora!” she repeated, sweeping out of the room.
Peder went to their bedroom when Elsa did not rise for supper. He supposed he had botched his husbandly duties this afternoon when he had attempted to reason with her. She was obviously not in the mood for cold, hard facts. Would he ever understand the intricacies of marriage? In contrast, running a sh
ip was simple. Men were men, and easily understood. Furthermore, as captain, what he said went on his ship, unlike at home. The same tactics, when employed here, tended to breed discontent rather than the idyllic home off the waters he had imagined. It was a whole new world, in which Peder felt like an explorer.
Elsa lay on the bed in the gloomy darkness. Peder lit a kerosene sconce above her head and placed a gentle hand on her side. At least her tears had stopped. He cast about for the right words to assuage her pain. “Love?” he dared.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m sorry, Peder. I have taken myself away from you all day, but I felt I needed some privacy.”
“I do not blame you. I was a buffoon. You obviously needed a caring ear, not the captain at the helm.”
She turned and smiled a little. “It is not your fault. You were simply trying to make me see the reality of my situation.”
“At the cost of caring for you best.”
She laughed, a mirthless sound. “We are both still learning. We have been apart as much as we have been together.”
Peder took her hand and placed it over his heart. “It is something I have been rethinking of late. I have not decided for sure,” he warned, “but I do agree it would be nice to have you along this spring.”
Elsa nodded, obviously afraid to push it further at the moment.
“I have a present for you.”
“For me?” she asked, turning and sitting up.
“Well, yes. You do remember it’s Christmas, don’t you? As rotten as the day began, it should end on a better note.” They had celebrated with many of their Camden friends the night before, reserving this day for themselves.
Peder left the bed and went to a huge, wrapped canvas by the door, then brought it to her. She had the string untied and the brown wrapper ripped off in seconds, looking like a child as her face lifted in excitement.
“Oh, Peder! A Long! A painting by Fergus Long!” She studied the painting before her in reverence then asked him to bring the lamp closer. It was a picture of three brigantines and a bark at dawn in Boston Harbor. “Look at the detail! There’s such a calm feeling about his work, it’s almost spiritual.”
Peder smiled, glad she was so pleased, and happy to take her mind off her father. “He has agreed to take you on as a student.”
“A student?” she asked in wonder, looking up at him as if the news did not quite register.
“Yes. I took the liberty of taking two of your paintings down to show him—”
“You did not! How horrifying! They are not suitable. Peder, you should have asked me—”
“And he was very impressed. He thinks you have a natural talent that should be cultivated. In fact, Long demanded that I bring you down to see him.”
“You jest.”
“No.” Peder reached into his lapel pocket and drew out two train tickets. “We leave next week. We’ll be in New York for a week or more, depending on how you fare with Mr. Long, and we’ll stay at the Park Avenue Hotel. Merry Christmas, love.”
“Oh, Peder!” she cried, pulling him down onto the bed for a quick embrace. “It’s wonderful! You wonderful, wonderful man!”
He chuckled and leaned back. “It’s amazing how one can go from cad to wonderful in one day, eh?”
Tora’s way out arrived in the same mailbag as the awful letter from her mother. She felt more sorry for her mother than for her father. It would be horrible to watch someone waste away in front of your very eyes. Tora shook her head and waddled to the stove, removing the hot biscuits from the oven. In her six months of indenture, Tora had become somewhat of a cook. Thus, having read about the expanding railroads and the dire need for decent restaurants along the tracks, she had hatched her plan.
She would remain with Kristoffer and the boys beyond her required stay simply because she was still saving money and planning carefully. Kristoffer had begun paying her, and using that, along with the money she had pilfered from her father, she could get to Minnesota and still have a sizable amount to place in a savings account.
The letter that had just arrived was an answer to prayer, God smiling on her at long last. In it, Mr. Trent Storm, a railroad dinner house mogul, was requesting that she report for an interview in March. An opening had formed along the Northern Pacific line, and her bilingual status should serve her well.
Trent Storm had styled his business after the successful Fred Harvey, creating restaurants along the railroad lines. These dining places had become so popular that the railroads promoted their tickets with “Storm meals en route.”
Tora had read an article on the man soon after arriving in America and remembered that he liked to employ “attractive young women of good morals and pleasant disposition.” The Storm restaurants never served canned food, and they coordinated their menus so that no customer ate the same meal twice en route to his destination. It was a vast improvement over the roadhouses of old, where travelers often found their meals to be meager, spoiled, or rife with vermin.
When she came across an advertisement in the newspaper, Tora considered it providential. Despite the fact that “Storm girls” were “carefully screened, closely supervised, and lived in a dormitory,” they were also expected to live in the “wild and dangerous west.” That sounded good to her, Tora thought with a laugh as she looked out a window at the sleepy little town to the south. It would be in the wild and dangerous west that she would find someone with the spirit and the entrepreneurial sense to win her.
“Duluth,” she said, reading the letterhead again and again. Surely that was a bigger city than Camden. Maybe even bigger than Boston! And it would work perfectly. She would remain in Camden another few months, have her child, then leave the cursed town behind forever. There was but one hitch: Mr. Storm wanted to see her in March, and she wasn’t due until April. Surely she could delay the interview until May.
“Dear Mr. Storm,” she mentally formulated her response. “Due to a family emergency, I am afraid I cannot reach Duluth until May.” Once in Minnesota, she would check into her options for the child. Surely in a big city she could find fitting adoptive parents! Elsa had tearfully informed her last week that the child was Tora’s responsibility, regardless of how she had become pregnant. She planned to travel with Peder … A child was too much … Tora and her child were welcome to stay at Ramstad House …
She was heartless, Tora concluded, and refused to listen to another of her older sister’s lectures. She would see! The least she could have done was take the child, her own flesh and blood, and claim it as her own to their parents. Instead she demanded that Tora write them with the news! Why, the very shock could kill their father!
Tora laughed hollowly, thinking again of her sister’s unreasonable demands. There was no way she would write to her parents now. No, her family would all soon be behind her. She had a whole life before her. And it would all begin in a place called Minnesota.
Karl leaned forward as the train came to a stop, brakes squealing. He rose as soon as the conductor called, “Announcing Saint Paul! All those en route to Minneapolis, next stop!”
As he made his way down the aisle, Karl smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. He was miles away from Camden-by-the-Sea and from Elsa, with more than enough to occupy his mind. The fellows in New York had been quite helpful with his research last fall, but they had encouraged him to look up John J. Hall in Saint Paul. After he had sent a letter to Mr. Hall, an associate of Hall’s had written him back, welcoming a visit. Americans were a wonderful lot, Karl concluded as he stepped down the steep passenger car stairs. Open and warm, for the most part, even in extending a hand to a potential competitor.
He looked about, straightening his new, long overcoat, which was double-breasted, and sported a shoulder cape, flap pockets, and wide cuffs. He touched the brim of his bowler hat as a young, attractive brunette looked his way, and he felt more alive than he had in months. If he could not have Elsa, perhaps another woman would win his heart. And in the meantime, he had more th
an enough to do looking after his business. He intended to be a business mogul himself one day, the head of a successful steamship company. Ramstad Yard would be the beginning, but Karl would not finish there. No, there was much more ahead.
As passengers gradually cleared the platform, a few waiting gentlemen became more obvious. Karl looked from one to the other, and finally found a gaze that welcomed him. “Martensen?” the man asked as he neared.
“Yes sir,” Karl said, extending a hand. “You must be Mr. Bresley.”
“That I am. But you may call me Bradford or Brad,” he said, shaking Karl’s hand firmly. Karl liked him immediately.
“Call me Karl,” he returned, studying the man who looked about his own age and near his height, but with brown hair and eyes. Bradford Bresley reminded him a bit of Peder’s elder brother, Garth.
“Where are you from, Karl?” Brad asked as they meandered through the luggage, looking for Karl’s valise.
“Bergen, Norway. Lately of Camden-by-the-Sea, Maine.”
“Ah,” Brad said. “I thought I detected a Scandinavian accent.”
“I’m an American now,” Karl said. He pointed to his bag. “This is it.”
“A man who travels light,” Brad said. “I think we’ll be friends,” he added, clapping Karl on the shoulder.
Outside the railway station, he led Karl to a magnificent town coach. The four-wheeled carriage resembled the state coaches that carried the well-to-do, and Karl felt a bit conspicuous. It was John’s private coach, Brad informed him. With one empathetic look at the driver and footman, who must sit outside exposed to the elements, he climbed in beside Bresley, glad to escape the giant, wet snowflakes that fell about him.
“Been to the Twin Cities before?” Brad asked.
When Karl shook his head, Brad said, “We’ll do a quick tour then. John would have welcomed you himself—he loves an entrepreneur—but he’s in Canada, working on the Canadian Pacific Railway.”
Northern Lights Trilogy Page 19
