Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  “No, thank you,” he said, passing the glass to a waiter.

  “Nonsense, man,” John said, staying his hand with a laugh. “If you’re to work with these men,” he said, waving at the crowd of businessmen, “you drink with these men.”

  Karl said nothing, just held on to the glass. The men laughed uneasily and raised their glasses in silent cheers. After a moment, he was again forgotten.

  “As I was saying, John, I thought it quite striking that Parker pulled out of the Sullivan warehouse deal so suddenly.” The man’s tone was full of innuendo. He dares to say it because he has no direct business dealings with John, Karl thought. The fellow was foolish to dare his future father-in-law. Sooner or later, every businessman in Saint Paul would deal with John J. Hall.

  “Indeed,” John said, full of bravado. “I always say that a man has to look after his assets close to home before he looks to foreign soil. The fortress walls, I call them.”

  Karl thought of the image, and his mind went back to a story his father had told him as a young child. He remembered little of the tale other than that it was of a Norwegian king who had conquered a city, and in retribution for the townspeople’s resistance, ordered ten men killed and buried within the walls of his new fortress. Were Brad and Parker victims, laid to rest in John’s fortress walls? Karl stepped back and watched Hall as he spoke, as if seeing him in a dream. Who have I become? he asked himself. Was he the knight for an evil king? Driven by money and the need to succeed, he had done John’s bidding.

  He caught himself shuddering as Trent Storm walked up and joined the group.

  “You all right, man?” Trent asked in a low voice.

  Karl nodded.

  “Say, the lady I have been courting disappeared into Alicia’s room. Have you seen your fiancée lately?”

  “No,” he said, choking on the word. Tora and Alicia in the same room! “I’ll ask a maid,” he said. Spotting Alicia’s maidservant passing a tray of champagne, he waited until he could catch her eye. She hurried over. “Jonquil, would you check on Miss Hall and Miss—”

  “Anders,” Trent interrupted, assuming Karl did not know.

  “Yes, Miss Anders. We have not seen the ladies in quite some time and wanted to make sure they were all right.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Martensen.” She curtsied shallowly, then hurried off to follow his instructions.

  Within minutes, Jonquil emerged from the lounge, and shortly thereafter, the women did too. Karl frowned as they made their way over. He did not like it. He did not like it at all. Alicia smiled, but it was all lip and no eye. Tora seemed tired, woozy, as if she had … Karl narrowed his gaze and looked at his fiancée. She evaded his glance, but he saw enough to know. Alicia had been into the laudanum again, and from the look of her, so had Tora.

  “Headache, dear?” he asked under his breath.

  “No.” Alicia laughed, looking at him, challenging him. “I did earlier, but it’s all gone now. Karl, darling, have you met Tora Anders? Your fellow Bergenser.”

  “Why, yes,” he said without missing a beat. “We caught up at your sister’s wedding.” Stick to the truth, he coached himself.

  “But, darling, she told me something quite amusing,” Alicia said, her eyes catlike. For a moment, Karl could see a tail swishing beyond her. “Tora says you once loved her sister.”

  Karl laughed it off, hoping he sounded convincing. “Love! I know the entire Anders family but can only claim friendship with any of them. Why, Tora was just a girl when I left, hardly the young woman she is now. Perhaps she was remembering a girlish fantasy.” Karl hated the defensiveness that crept into his voice. She was the one who should be questioned, not him.

  Suddenly he felt as he had that day in John’s office when Brad was fired. The shadows were deepening, threatening to swallow him. His job aside, what had he gotten into with Alicia? Was she the woman he wanted for a wife? The idea seemed ludicrous. Yet what was he to do now?

  “I am simply curious, darling. Why was there no reunion between you two? I would think we would have dined with Trent and Tora by now, in that you two have so many things to talk about.” Her tone was innocent. Her look was not. Alicia was onto something like a cat and would never let it go.

  He would not be the mouse. Karl smiled apologetically at Trent. “Tora and I have a shared background, but we have little in common.” He glanced at Tora, but she seemed confused. How much laudanum had Alicia given her?

  Trent apparently shared his concern because he bent down and said a word in Tora’s ear, to which she shook her head.

  “Forgive me, sir,” Karl said to Trent, “and my fiancée for her impolite manner this evening. Excuse us.”

  With that, he pulled Alicia to the doorway and down the hall to a private alcove.

  “It is over,” he said to her.

  “What are you talking about?” Alicia asked, looking bewildered.

  “We are wrong for each other, Alicia. It is over,” he repeated, pacing before her.

  “Yes, it is,” her father said, striding through the deep shadows of the hallway. He exhaled, smoke dancing in the air about his face, which remained hidden in the relative darkness.

  Alicia sputtered, indignant, but Karl could not keep his eyes off of John.

  It had been a long time since Karl had feared anything.

  But suddenly he was very afraid.

  “I am hurt and discouraged that you were less than honest with me, Miss Anders,” Trent said the next morning. “That was why you dropped the coffee that first day in my car, was it not? You recognized Karl Martensen. Why hide your association?”

  “I thought it improper,” she pleaded. “And then it was awkward. What were we to do? Please, Trent. I did not know you would take it this way.”

  Trent handed her bag to the porter and pressed a coin into his hand. “I want Miss Anders settled into your finest, cleanest stateroom,” he directed.

  “Yes, Mr. Storm.” The man disappeared.

  Trent turned back to Tora. “What was there between you two? Were you in love?”

  Tora laughed. “No. He was in love with my sister.”

  “The one who died?”

  She shook her head. How was she ever to get through the web she had woven? Trent was angry now. What would he do if he ever found out the truth? “Trent, I …” The train whistle blew, and she lost her courage. “There’s something I need to say. Something I have not told you.”

  “Say it.”

  “You see, I uh … Well, I wanted to … Oh, never mind.”

  “Say it, Tora. Tell me now.”

  The train whistle blew. “Miss Anders?” the porter said from behind her. “May I show you—”

  “In a minute!” she interrupted. Leaning out the doorway, she kissed Trent full on the mouth, in front of anyone who looked their way. But Tora saw only Trent. “Trent, whatever happens, remember this. I love you, Trent. I never knew it could be this way, and I never meant to hurt you.”

  His jaw was slack, and his eyes filled with pain. Did he know? Did he have an inkling of the secrets she held within? The train whistle blew again, and the engine began its slow churning. Trent walked beside her, holding her hand.

  “I’ll come to see you soon, Tora. We will talk more then.”

  “Until then, Trent.”

  “Until then, love,” he said, so softly that she wondered later if he had ever really said it at all.

  The Sunrise entered New York’s busy harbor on a day in late November, barely making it before a northeaster ransacked the upper East Coast. It seemed to Elsa that the entire town had been waiting for their arrival, since as soon as Peder brought the Sunrise to dock, they were inundated by reporters.

  “What on earth—” she began, emerging from their cabin with her valise. Peder was shouting and directing his men to hold the crowd back, and when she came out, the crowd went wild.

  “Mrs. Ramstad! I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Mrs. Ramstad! Tell us about the Hor
n!”

  “Mrs. Ramstad! We want to hear—”

  Peder came striding back to her, his face a mixed mask of concern and delight. He handed her an edition of the New York Times, turned to a page that had her image, sketched as if she were looking heroically over a ship’s bow like a figurehead. The headline read “Heroine of the Horn to Return Home.”

  “What on earth?” she repeated, dumbfounded. She looked back to the crowd, and even that glance set them all yelling again.

  “You are a celebrity, it seems. The first woman to captain a ship around the Horn. News must’ve spread overland from San Francisco. Remember when Riley spoke with that reporter there at the dock? They have been waiting on you for weeks.” Peder laughed as if enjoying an inside joke.

  “It’s not funny, Peder! What are we supposed to do about … Well, about them? ” She waved at the reporters as if gesturing toward a pack of wolves.

  “Think of it as making it past the Horn,” he said, picking up her valise and taking her by the arm. “The only way through it is through it.” And with that he led her toward the gangway. Sailors pulled the crowd apart like Moses parting the Red Sea. The high mood was contagious, and Elsa was soon laughing along with Peder. They hurried across the pier and through the shipping terminal, anxious to get to a carriage before the sailors could not hold the reporters back any longer Peder looked over his shoulder. “Uh oh,” he said, “we’d better move a bit faster.” They hurried outside.

  “Cabby!” Peder yelled, hailing a coach. But the driver went right on by, apparently otherwise employed.

  “Cabby!” Peder urgently yelled again. The reporters were running now, determined to catch up with them. A grand state coach pulled up before them, handsomely painted a deep blue and pulled by a matched span of white horses. “Get in!” shouted an elegantly dressed man within, opening the small door for them to enter.

  Elsa looked at Peder, who shrugged slightly and then followed her in, just as the reporters surrounded them and shouted more questions. The man tapped the roof with his cane, and they were off.

  Elsa breathed a sigh of relief, still not quite able to believe that what had just happened was real.

  “We owe you a debt, sir,” Peder began.

  “Nonsense,” said the graying man with a wide, engaging smile. “Why, it was a coup! Allow me to introduce myself. Alexander Martin, editor in chief of the New York Times.”

  Elsa laughed in surprise. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, I’d say.”

  “Hardly, my dear. I intend to put you two up in the finest suite the Marquis Hotel has to offer. For a day, for a week.”

  “We only intend to—” Peder began.

  “In exchange, all I ask is that you give me an exclusive for my paper.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Peder said firmly, taking charge again, “we wish to keep our stories to ourselves.”

  “Nonsense!” Martin said jovially. “Your wife’s picture is on every paper across the country. She’s the Heroine of the Horn! Isn’t that a fine headline? Came up with it myself. Anyway, our readers are clamoring for her story. They want to hear what it was like to be there, to be her. Now be a good sport and let her tell me the details.”

  Peder shook his head, obviously as flabbergasted as she. “It is up to my wife. If she agrees, I will go along with it. If not, I will thank you to allow us to leave your presence without further ado.”

  Martin studied him silently for a moment. “Agreed.” He turned back to her. “My dear?”

  “But why … why on earth is my story so fascinating?”

  “You beat the Horn! A woman! And lived to tell about it. Captained the Sunrise when your husband was incapacitated and the mate was in irons! Think of it, Mrs. Ramstad. You are beautiful,” he said, turning to Peder. “If I may be as bold to say so, sir.” Then back to Elsa, “And strong. You embody the American spirit. Our people want to hear more!”

  “But I am Norwegian.”

  “You are an American now,” he said. “You, my dear, are America.”

  Elsa shook her head and touched her brow. “It’s all so much to take in …”

  “There’s more.”

  “Listen,” Peder interrupted. “Perhaps this is not such a good idea.”

  “I’ve spoken with a dear friend, Fergus Long. I believe you know him?”

  “Fergus! Of course!” Elsa relaxed a bit in the presence of someone with whom they shared a mutual friend. If Fergus liked him, Alexander Martin must be trustworthy, she thought.

  “Fergus tells me that you are a talented artist and anticipate traveling with your husband on future ventures.”

  Elsa glanced at Peder. “It is my hope, if Peder agrees.”

  Peder scowled as if pushed into a corner. “This is a private issue.”

  “Of course, of course,” Martin soothed. “I only wished to offer Mrs. Ramstad a unique opportunity.”

  “Which is?” Peder asked.

  They all leaned as the coach turned a corner.

  “I would like a firsthand account of her travels by your side, sir. With illustrations, of course.”

  Elsa laughed, incredulous. “You want me, me, to do that for the Times? ”

  “Yes, my dear. I think it is a delightful concept.”

  Elsa shook her head, unable to believe it. She looked at Peder, and he smiled at her.

  “It sounds like something you would wish to do,” he said quietly. “Are you sure, Elsa? This is it. Are you sure you do not want to stay at home in Camden-by-the-Sea? Is there nothing about that idea that is welcome?”

  Elsa gripped his hands in hers and looked deeply into his eyes. “I want nothing more, Peder, than to travel with you. Past the Horn, wherever. I only want to be with you.”

  “Then it’s settled!” Alexander Martin enthused. His expression was immediately cowed by Peder’s warning look.

  Peder turned to Elsa as she held her breath. His eyes softened. “I guess it is,” he said quietly. He laughed. “I never knew the Heroine of the Horn would be sharing my cabin,” he teased.

  “Enough of that,” Elsa warned. “So tell me, Mr. Martin. Tell me exactly what your expectations are.”

  A week later her unexpected interview with Alexander Martin was fading in memory, but the impact of their decision was not. Elsa left Peder in their bed and rambled about their Camden cottage in her nightdress. She eventually settled up in the turret, watching the starlight dance over the frigid Atlantic on a moonless night. She was unable to sleep, thinking about her next voyage with Peder. Where it would take them, what she would draw, how she might write a story for the American people that captured their imagination …

  What if they could go home again? Perhaps in the spring Peder would consider a voyage to Norway. How grand it would be to see Mama again! And dear Carina. Elsa’s thoughts went to Tora then back home to Papa. What would it be like to go to Bergen and not have him waiting there with open arms? How she yearned to speak with him, to tell him of her adventures and lessons of the last year! Despite his own desire to see her safely lodged at home, Elsa believed that Amund Anders would have grudgingly agreed that she could walk no other path than the one to which she had been led.

  “It’s right, Papa,” she whispered, kneeling at the window, resting her elbows on the sill and her chin on her hands. Her hair was down about her shoulders, and she felt like a girl again. The cold air seeped around the windowpane, urging Elsa back to her warm bed, but for some reason, she felt hesitant to leave. The water was uncommonly quiet for a winter’s night, and Elsa stared and stared at the deepest indigo of the night sky and the inky blackness of water beneath. It was to the water that she had been called. To her husband’s side, wherever that might lead.

  On the northern horizon, a green ray waved above the water. She thought she was seeing things for a moment, but then no, there was another. Elsa smiled, quick tears coming to her eyes. A fluorescent turquoise and brilliant blue alternated as within minutes the blanket of northern lights stretched
toward her, as if calling her, talking to her. Elsa laughed through her tears, thinking of Our Rock and her family, of Kaatje and Karl. Most of all, she thought about her father.

  “Hello, Papa,” she whispered. She laughed silently and wiped aside her tears. “I have missed you.”

  To all who know the Deep seeks them

  and who, in turn, dive right in.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my readers who made sure this was a decent book before even my editor saw it: Tricia Goyer, Joanna Weaver, Maria Hansen, Rebecca Price, and my husband, Tim (who is forced to read everything I write and swears each one is the best, God bless him). Joe O’Meara essentially wrote the section on chess, since I’ve never played and would have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to learn. Brian Shouers, the reference historian at the Montana Historical Society Library, sent me invaluable information on Helena in 1886. And my editor, Traci DePree, made this a much better book with her insight and suggestions. To all of you, thanks.

  Author’s Note

  I’ve had many people ask me how to pronounce “Kaatje,” and I thought I’d answer before you got into Book 2. I’ve heard guesses from “Katie” to “Cootie” to “Catgee.” It’s “Kaaatya.” Isn’t that pretty? Sorry to make you struggle. My handy-dandy name book showed pronunciations!

  NORTHERN LIGHTS SERIES

  The Captain’s Bride

  Deep Harbor

  Midnight Sun (Spring 2000)

  ALSO BY LISA TAWN BERGREN

  Refuge

  Torchlight

  Treasure

  Chosen

  Firestorm

  NOVELLAS

  “Tarnished Silver” in Porch Swings & Picket Fences

  (Summer 1999)

  “Wish List” in Silver Bells

  “Sand Castles” in A Mother’s Love

  contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  Deep Harbor

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by This Author

  Prologue