Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  She shook her head as if to shake out the image, and looked down the street to where the stagecoach had stopped in front of the hotel. True to his word, the hotel clerk had deposited her trunks on the street. “Of all the nerve!” she muttered angrily, rising to have a word with the man. But as she neared, Tora realized she had little to say, and shaky footing on which to stand. He was right; she had no call to assume he could keep her things. They belonged to her, and they were in his way. But how was she supposed to move all of these trunks? And to where?

  She sat down dejectedly atop the largest, her head in her hands as she strained to find an answer. But none came, even as the sun set and the long arm of dusk enveloped the town. Fewer people remained on the street, and Tora became desperate. Where could she go? What would happen to her if she stayed out on the sidewalk for the night? Surely the whole town could not be as cruel as that! If only Mr. Campbell had remained!

  Seeing no other choice, she approached the clerk again, asking to work for the night in his restaurant in exchange for a meal and a bed. He threatened to throw her out. With as much dignity as she could find, she walked out, head high, even as her heart sank to her toes.

  Never in her life had she felt so lost, so afraid.

  Tora vaguely heard the sound of creaking leather. Horror overtook her. Weak from hunger and exhaustion, she had fallen asleep among her baggage! Grimly, she opened her eyes to see a horse, and beyond him, a middle-aged man in a wagon who had paused beside her, peering at her through the darkness as if she were a vision. “Ma’am?” he tried tentatively. “You needin’ some help?”

  Tora fluttered her eyelashes, wondering at the proper response. At last! Someone who did not know her or of her reputation! “Oh yes, sir. I am afraid I’ve just arrived in town in search of work, and cannot find a soul who will consider employing me.”

  The man took off his hat and scratched his head. “Now that’s funny. Thought there was more work in this town than there was workers. What kind of job are you seeking?”

  “Well, most of my experience has been in running restaurants, but I am a good cook, and I have taken care of children in the past.”

  “Sound educated,” he said softly, studying her eyes. His own were weary, sad.

  “Quite a few years in Norway,” she said, lifting her chin. “I learned English before I arrived in America, and tend to think I’ve done a good job in perfecting it.”

  “Know your numbers?”

  “Very well.”

  He was silent, continuing to stare at her as if he could discern what she might not be telling him. It was as if she could hear his questions out loud. After all, if there were plenty of jobs in town, why had she not found a position? And what kind of woman took off to parts unknown without enough money to stay in a hotel until she was safely employed? Tora willed herself not to shift her position but rather to return his gaze as if unafraid that he, too, might leave her there on the street.

  “Name’s Owen Crosby,” he said carefully. “You are …?”

  “Tora Anders,” she said without thinking, then held her breath to see if the name meant anything to the man.

  “Got a spread about five miles from here. Got a schoolhouse in need of a schoolmarm immediately. Want to give it a try?”

  A teacher? He wanted her to teach a bunch of children? “Oh, Mr. Crosby, I’m afraid I have no teaching experience.”

  “There’s a shanty attached to the schoolhouse that’s all your own. The missus could give you a hot meal tonight.”

  “I’ll try it,” she said a second later, unable to pass up the chance at a warm supper and a decent bed for the night. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a try for a few days, and it would buy her time to decide on her next step. Forward, she told herself, no longer backward. She would show them, she coached herself with renewed vigor. They would all see who would win when it came down between Trent Storm and Tora Anders! “Now, Mr. Crosby, if you would be so kind as to help me with my luggage …”

  Once they were loaded up, Mr. Crosby stopped at the mercantile, placing the merchandise he purchased in the back beside her trunks. As they drove off, Tora looked again at the window. For she was certain that she had glimpsed a man who looked exactly like Mr. Campbell. But then, she was so hungry, she supposed she could be hallucinating by now.

  eight

  Early September 1886

  Elsa sat at the edge of her bed as Riley saw the Eagle to port. Kristian sat by her side, silent, as if aware of her anguish. For weeks she had longed to disembark, to get off this ship of memories and to her home. But now, with bags packed, the voyage over, she was reluctant to leave the last place she had shared with Peder and return to a home of other memories. A knock sounded at her door. “Enter,” she said.

  “Mrs. Ramstad,” Riley said, hat in hand. He was a silhouette against the bright sunlight of one of Seattle’s brilliant early fall days. “The ship’s in, and I’m ready to see to her needs. I thought you and Kristian might like to take the first skiff to shore.”

  “Indeed,” she said, standing at last. She turned around to glance at the room, the last room she would ever share with her husband. “You will see to our things?”

  “We’ll get ’em delivered to the house,” he said gently. “You want me to clean out the cap’n’s belongings as well?”

  “Do whatever you think necessary, Riley.” She moved forward, suddenly conscious of the tears ready to come. It had been weeks since she had cried, but clearly, her mourning had just begun. For to have Riley clear out Peder’s things meant that another would captain his ship, another would inhabit their cabin.

  What had become a way of life for Elsa was suddenly, irrevocably over.

  “Come along, Kristian,” she said, taking his small hand in hers. They walked out, and Elsa was surprised to see the entire crew on deck, hats in hands, waiting to see them off.

  Finch stepped forward. “On behalf of myself and the crew, ma’am,” he said, “we wanted you to know that we thought the cap’n a fine man.”

  Elsa nodded.

  “Finer cap’n I’ve yet to see,” called one from the back.

  “Finer cap’n than we’ll ever see,” said another.

  Elsa swallowed hard and tried to smile—it felt false on her face, and she wondered if it was obvious to them as well. “Thank you, men. Thank you for serving the Eagle, my husband, and me so well. God be with all of you.”

  “And you!” said several.

  She turned and followed Kristian over the side and into the skiff. Never did she look back.

  Dear Mrs. Hodge, their Seattle housekeeper, met them with open arms and the caring ministrations of a mother hen. Elsa did not know who had informed the short, stout woman of Peder’s death, but as with many things, she seemed to have a sixth sense about how to remedy a situation. Before Elsa knew what was happening, she had a long, hot bath in her porcelain tub and, like a child, was put to bed by six. Mrs. Hodge had her niece, who was perhaps a year older than Kristian, over to play. She could hear them giggling outside her door, running through the halls, and it brought a measure of comfort to her. How long had it been since she had heard Kristian laugh? She couldn’t remember.

  Mrs. Hodge knocked and entered her room, carrying a tray of fruit, fresh bread, and hot tea. “It would do ya some good to eat, child,” she said. Never had she referred to Elsa as “Mrs. Ramstad” or with the deferential tone that many demanded of their servants. But Elsa liked that. Mrs. Hodge was a good foot shorter than she, and rounder as well. But she was kind and honest and took excellent care of their home while they were away, and of them when they returned.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hodge. I have been so tired.”

  “Sure, sure. You deserve a good rest after what you’ve been through. But not for long,” she said, her voice raised in warning. “Too much rest leads to the darkness. At some point you’ll need to move, Elsa. Up and out and toward the future. You’ve had a hard blow, perhaps the hardest of your life. But remember that the
Lord walks beside you.”

  Elsa nodded, feeling nothing of his presence but too weary to argue.

  “Now eat some good, fresh food, drink your tea, and rest. Tomorrow is a new day.”

  “Thank you,” she managed to murmur. But Mrs. Hodge was already gone. Elsa forced herself to nibble on the fresh peach, an uncommon delicacy, and the soft wheat bread that was still warm. It all tasted bland in her mouth. Would all of life taste bland to her forevermore? She hoped not. Taking a sip of tea, she nestled under the down comforter, then reached out to Peder’s pillow, so perfectly puffed up, untouched. Even the sight of it dismayed her.

  Elsa rolled on her back and looked past the four-poster to the plastered ceiling. “Dear God,” she said, “how could I have fallen so deep? How could Peder leave?” Her questions went on and on, and she heard no answer in response to her railings. Then she fell asleep with yet another question on her lips: “How could you have let it happen?”

  After two days of sleeping and resting in bed, she made herself rise, dress, and assess what needed to be done. Feeling as if she moved with shoes of lead, Elsa did the perfunctory tasks before her. She wrote to her mother, and then to Peder’s parents in Bergen, Norway, weeping over her words. What sorrow they would suffer! Only they would come close to her own grief.

  She looked once more at the painting of Peder and Kristian in their samurai costumes, touching Peder’s image as if she were touching the man one final time. Elsa hated to let it go—to send it to the Ramstads as planned—but she also knew it would help assuage the pain of her news. Peder’s parents would treasure the painting. Resolute, she wrapped it in brown paper and attached her letter, planning to have it boxed and sent on the next ship to Norway. Next she wrote to Kristoffer in Camden, explaining what had transpired and informing him that she was giving him a raise and a promotion. He was the official manager of their shipyard in Camden-by-the-Sea. After that, she wrote to her editor at the Times, requesting a hiatus during her time of mourning and that they put a brief notice in the paper.

  Riley arrived as she finished her note. “You’re looking better, ma’am,” he ventured.

  “Thank you, Riley. Please, sit down. What news have you?”

  Smelling of the sea and out-of-doors, he took a seat in the armchair beside hers. It made Elsa aware of how pale she must look after being inside since arriving home. “The Eagle is nearly unloaded. I’ve arranged for all the goods to be sold a’ market tomorrow.”

  “And then?”

  He grimaced and ducked his head. “Then I wait to hear from you, ma’am, on what you’re wantin’ us to do.”

  Elsa sat back in her chair and sighed. “You, of course, Riley, are my choice for captain. Please obtain a load of lumber from our yard in Seaport and make a run to the East Coast with it. Check with our sources to see where you can get the best dollar for the load. Then you and Kristoffer decide on what to do next. I trust you both.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She could see by his eyes that he was glad for the promotion, but sorry for the means by which he’d received it. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like t’ stay for the funeral.”

  “Ah yes, the funeral.” She dimly remembered the short, quiet service they’d held aboard ship. Then she recalled how she’d stood at the stern of the ship for days, looking, watching, waiting, hoping that somehow Peder would miraculously appear swimming behind them. She could not even remember what had been said or by whom at that seaside service. She hoped to have something more befitting of the man here in town—a service at church and a burial in the cemetery, despite the empty coffin. Elsa knew that Peder would have wanted a burial at sea, but she needed a place to go, to mourn, to remember. She needed a chance to honor her husband.

  “It will be the day after tomorrow. Please, invite any of the crew who wish to attend too—and then push off for the East the day after.”

  Riley nodded, hesitating as if something was on his mind. “And you? What will you do?”

  Elsa gave him a soft, small smile. “I will stay here for a while with Kristian. We need some time to adjust. Perhaps I’ll return to the sea someday. Just not yet.”

  “You’re welcome anytime on my ship.”

  “No, Riley, she’s your ship. I’ll captain my own should I return.”

  Riley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing. “Can I do anythin’ else for you, Elsa? Do you need anythin’?”

  Elsa reached over and took his hand. “Thank you, Riley. You have already done so much. I appreciate all that you do for me and Ramstad Yard. Just keep on as you have and I will be content.”

  He studied her for a second, his eyes moist. “Well, you just let me know, ma’am.” He rose to leave, clearly uncomfortable with the intensity of the moment.

  “I will. Good-bye, Riley,” she said, feeling as if they were parting for a long while. Yet another good-bye, she thought wearily.

  “Ma’am,” he said with a nod, and left.

  Elsa rose and walked to her desk. Quickly, she wrote out notes to the pastor in town, a basic obituary for the newspaper, and a brief correspondence to the principal people in Seattle who had known, respected, and liked Peder. They had made few friends here, having been away much more than at home, but many in the shipping community would wish to honor Peder as she did. She did not want anyone who wished to attend to miss it in the paper, although it wasn’t likely. Even in a city the size of Seattle, word still spread fast.

  She rose to take the stack of letters to Mrs. Hodge to deliver to the post office when an image of Karl took hold. He would want to know. Although Peder had never forgiven him, and Karl had never attempted to get in touch with them again, Elsa knew he would want to know about the death of his dearest friend. It made her sorrow that their friendship had never regained its foothold, and that she had been the cause. She sat down again, drew out a fresh sheet of stationery and dipped her pen in the ink.

  10 September 1886

  Dear Karl,

  It is with a sorrowful heart that I inform you that my husband, and your friend, Peder, has died. On this last voyage, he again took ill with malaria, and during a storm, fell overboard. My sole comfort is that he was as ever a friend to Jesus, and is walking by his side right now. But mostly, I feel utterly lost in the midst of my grief. Please pray for me. Although you and Peder never rejoined as friends, take comfort in the fact that he always believed you were as close as a brother.

  Always,

  Elsa

  She hesitated, wondering where to send it. The last letter from him had been Saint Paul, but she had no record of his address. Shrugging her shoulders, she simply wrote “Saint Paul, Minnesota,” and hoped it would get to its destination along with the rest of her mail.

  Mrs. Hodge appeared at the door. “You care for some noon dinner?”

  “A light snack, perhaps,” Elsa said vaguely. “But first, could you see to this correspondence?”

  Mrs. Hodge took the stack from her and peered at the addresses. “Certainly. I’ll send my young nephew after it.” As the eldest of ten children, Mrs. Hodge seemed to have an endless supply of nieces and nephews who were always at her beck and call. Peder had always said that they had not hired one woman; they had hired a family.

  Elsa nodded. “Good.”

  “Elsa, Kristian has had a fine mornin’ with my niece, but I’m thinkin’ he needs some time with you. Are you ready to go outside? A walk might do you both some good. It’s so glorious today! Soon the rain will be comin’.”

  “Oh, I have so much to do. The funeral to plan—”

  “A walk would do you both good,” she repeated. Although only fifteen years Elsa’s senior, the woman talked to her as a mother to her child. It soothed Elsa’s aching heart.

  Elsa sighed. “Very well. Directly after lunch. Can we speak about the funeral plans now?”

  “Yes, yes, let me just go tell the boy. He’ll be so pleased.”

  As with so many things, Mrs. Hodge was right. Kristian eagerly took h
er hand as Elsa forced herself out the front door on Third Avenue. They lived in a fine section of town—just down the street from Sara and Henry Yesler’s nearly completed, forty-room mansion—in a house for which Peder had proudly paid cash. Formerly owned by a mining millionaire, their two-story home was a classic, yet understated, Queen Anne with none of the showiness that some of Seattle’s founders, like the Yeslers, had succumbed to. It fit Elsa perfectly, and she had been as excited as Peder to move in.

  Just down the street was a city park, and Kristian pulled her hand, eager to get there and play on the seesaw or swings. He seemed thrilled that Elsa was moving, and willing to spend some time with him. A stab of guilt shot through her, and Elsa resolved to spend more time with her son, to force herself to be “alive,” if only to him. Her grieving could take place at other times. Her son, and the child within her, needed her to take care of herself and give them all she could.

  As they walked, they passed a cemetery, present in the city since its birth more than thirty years before. Many of the headstones had moss growing on them, and the lettering was difficult to read on others. Kristian pulled her hand to a stop and stared through the iron fence. “Bobby Francis says that Papa’s name will be on one of those things,” he said, pointing at the headstones, then looking up to Elsa as if asking her to deny it.

  Elsa swallowed hard. She nodded once, staring out at the hundreds of headstones, testimonies to hundreds more who had grieved as she did—there was odd comfort in the fact. “Yes, Kristian. We are going to mark a grave with a headstone that would make your papa proud. We need a place to remember him, to honor him.”

  “Because he disappeared in the sea?”

  Elsa paused, then said, “Yes. We have no body to hug one last time. We can’t kiss him once more. But we can make a place that is his alone. A place where we can go and remember how special he was to us.” She knew her words sounded mechanical, forced. But inside she felt as dead as Peder. She hoped her words would encourage her son, at least.