Leaving Norway: Book 1: Martin & Dagny (The Hansen Series - Martin & Dagny and Reidar & Kirsten)

by Kris Tualla

  She blinked slowly. “I pray he finds the time soon. I do not wish to wait too long for you to be my husband.”

  “And I have no more desire to wait than you do, my beautiful Dagny,” he replied.

  Beautiful? Every time he said that, Dagny cringed inside. Since her birth, she had always been the least attractive of the five living Sivertsen sisters.

  She was way too tall to begin with. Just two inches short of six feet, she met most men’s gaze evenly. Torvald was just a finger’s width over six feet, and Dagny found herself slouching when she stood next to him in her heeled boots.

  Then there was the question of her bosoms. Though in proportion to her height, they was still much larger than her shorter, older sisters; a fact that the nuns berated her for as if it was a choice on her part to cultivate them. Her common yellow hair was too straight. Her eyes, too pale. Her lips so pink that the nuns always asked if she rouged them, then scrubbed their fingers over them when she said no.

  But Dagny wasn’t worldly and had no experience by which to judge Torvald’s words. Perhaps what he said was true. Perhaps their promises were enough reason to inhabit the space together, until the vows made them husband and wife by law.

  But she would not sleep in his bunk, nor allow him to have her, until they were.

  On those points she would remain immobile. “Please remind him as soon as you feel it’s proper,” she whispered, shushing the tiny voice in her head telling her to flee and quickly, before it was too late.

  Torvald gave her a condescending look. His voice smoldered with sarcasm. “Yes, dear.”

  Dagny’s cheeks stretched hot and tight with her feeble smile. Unable to present an alternative, she had just agreed to share the cabin with him. “I suppose we should get settled, then,” she said, her tone more of a question than a statement.

  “Why don’t you do that, sweetheart? You are so much better at these things than I am. I would probably make a mess of it.” Torvald glanced at the door. “I’ll go explore the lay of the land—or should I say, the ship—while you do so.”

  Dagny found herself relieved by the thought of a few minutes alone. Her composure was unraveling like loose yarn under a kitten’s frantic assault. “Will you come get me when we set sail?”

  “Of course!” He kissed her soundly, ending with a loud smack. Flashing a white, toothy smile, he winked one amber-brown eye and closed the door behind him.

  Dagny drew a nervous breath and investigated her tiny domain. At the foot of the bed was a small, simple wooden table and chair. A single wall sconce held a small oil lamp, but there was no flint. And no chamber pot.

  “I suppose we might carry a lit candle from another part of the ship,” she mused. “But how do we—”

  Her thoughts were interrupted when the cabin door swung open, pushed by a man she had never seen before. His jaw dropped and he stared at her as if seeing a startling apparition. For a moment, neither one moved.

  “Oh! I b-beg your pardon!” His face flushed, making his blue eyes darken in contrast. The first thing Dagny noticed was that the man had to bend over to come through the door. He had to be well over six feet tall. The second thing she noticed was his handsomely sculpted face.

  He flashed her a crooked grin and backed out, pulling the door shut; the barrier again stood solidly between them. Only then did Dagny remind herself to breathe.

  Chapter Two

  Martin stood in the hallway, his hand hovering over the door latch and his heart painfully thumping his surprise. The woman he saw from the tavern was on this ship. The beautiful woman with the thick blond hair. The tall woman who was with the slightly taller, dark-haired man. The very man who carelessly whored around, and then kissed her chastely on the cheek.

  That woman.

  He heard footsteps inside the cabin—the wooden soles of her brocade slippers scuffing on the wood plank floor—and glanced up at the barred transom. He turned and hurried as quietly as he could to the end of the passageway. He didn’t want to meet the woman again until he could find out who she was.

  And who, exactly, she was with.

  Martin counted the doors in the passage from the opposite end and opened a different cabin’s portal. His small trunk was already there; his larger one would be stored a few decks lower. The cabin was about nine feet wide and was lined with two narrow bunks atop two banks of drawers. A small table with two chairs completed the furnishings, and a little round window let in minimal light. It was tight, but acceptable; even if his feet would hang off the bed.

  One bunk had already been claimed by his cabin mate, whoever that might turn out to be. Martin set his satchel on the other. There would be ample time later to make up his bed. And supper wouldn’t be served for a couple hours after they set sail. To pass time, he decided to explore the vessel that would be his transient home for the next seven weeks or so.

  And to distract his thoughts from the mystery woman who hovered in his mind’s eye.

  He climbed the narrow steps to the top deck. Above him was a sky full of sun-bleached canvas clouds, tethered to horizontally-branched trees by thick webs of twisted hemp. The deck’s topography was defined by coils of rope, barrels for water, hatches open to the lower deck, and innumerable crates of indeterminate cargo. The water below was studded with tiny wind-waves that caught the sun in succinct flashes of brilliance.

  Martin stepped cautiously around the obstacles and out of the paths of busy crewmen who scurried up the rope webbing more easily than they walked the deck. He climbed down one hatch on the steep open stairway—designed to be descended facing forward, it would require practice before he no longer felt he would pitch frontward off the narrow slats.

  The second deck held the passenger cabins, but he had entered from the other end the first time. He became confused trying to find his cabin because there were two hatches, and two hallways. Eight cabins hugged the starboard side, eight on the portside, and eight down the center with no exterior windows. He walked the passageways again, noting the location of his own cabin. And of her cabin.

  Stop it.

  Toward the bow of the ship was an open area with three long tables, and behind that lay the captain and officer’s quarters. The aromas of warm spices and roasting beef wafted up the next hatch and tickled Martin’s nose. His mouth watered even though he wasn’t hungry. Having palatable food on the voyage was his hope; what he smelled happily foretold provisions far beyond merely palatable.

  Martin followed the scent of food down the hatch to the third deck. Darker than the upper decks and the air stuffier, rows of canvas slings hung between the boat’s support posts. Some of the hammocks bulged and dripped arms or legs, and the sonorous rumble of sleeping crewmen mingled with the galley noises.

  Through an open doorway he saw wooden counters and a brick oven hung with several iron pots. The man ordering others around appeared in full control, but he glared at Martin when it seemed he might dare to step inside. Martin smiled and waved a greeting and kept moving, down another steep stairway and into the cargo hold of the vessel.

  This was a sort of no man’s land. As Martin glanced at the stacks of crates, barrels and trunks he felt the ship begin to sway. Not wanting to miss his last view of Christiania, he quickly climbed from the boat’s bowels back to the open deck.

  High tide was flowing away toward the sea and it carried the Seehorst from the Christiania docks. The tall ship headed south through the protective saltwater inlet toward the North Sea. Martin watched the land slide past. The city and Akershus, its domineering fortress, shriveled and sank from his view.

  His throat thickened, knowing he would not return. He swiped moisture from his eyes. He said a prayer for his family, and especially for his beloved brother Gustav. I left Arendal for you as much as for me.

  Martin stood at the starboard railing and watched the innumerable rocky outcroppings, which defined all of Norway’s coasts, slide past in anonymous similarity. Rugged gray fists reached out of the sea like drowning troll
s, and were just as inviting as the mythological monsters. The ship followed the curve of the land and wouldn’t reach the open sea until sometime in the night—when Martin was curled on his bunk, hopefully asleep and dreaming of his new country.

  He wondered if America would look anything like Norway. Would there be steep, stone-topped mountains edged in tumbling rivers? Crowned with ancient turquoise glaciers? Clothed in endless pine forests?

  It might be that America was more like England. Perhaps he would find rolling green hills, farms with stone barns, and ponds filling every depression.

  Or perhaps, America was like no land he had yet seen.

  Martin stood at the railing, alone and unmoving, until he felt his farewell to his home was honorable, and his grief was sufficiently acknowledged. Then he made his way back to his cabin to settle in, careful to take the correct path this time.

  ***

  “How will you introduce me at dinner?” Dagny demanded, her irritation unintentionally sharpening her tone.

  She spent the last hour sitting alone in the little cabin with nothing to do, ignored by Torvald yet unsure if she had the right to explore on her own. She knew the ship had begun to sail, and she longed to take a last look at the only home she had ever known. But she was inexperienced in the ways of the world and didn’t want to stir Torvald’s irritation by acting inappropriately.

  Torvald frowned at her and glanced toward the spindled opening above their cabin’s door. He stepped close to her. His voice lowered.

  “Now is our chance, Dagny, do you realize that?” he whispered.

  That was not the response she expected. “Our chance for what?”

  “We can be anyone we wish to be,” he continued.

  Dread raised its head again, pushing against her diaphragm so she couldn’t pull a full breath. “Who do you wish to be?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted and his eyes glinted. “Lord Torvald Haugen, Greve of Trondheim.”

  “Are you from Trondheim?”

  “No, of course not!” Torvald scoffed. “But it’s so far north, that I doubt anyone on the ship will be able to challenge me. Challenge us.”

  “Us?” Dagny felt queasy. Torvald had thrown too many surprises her way already this day.

  “I shall introduce you as the Lady Dagny Haugen of Trondheim.”

  Dagny shook her head. “But I’ve never been to Trondheim! What if someone asks me about it?”

  Torvald twisted his lips and gripped them with his teeth. He squinted his eyes at her for a long silent minute.

  “Fine,” he relented. “If they ask, we’ll tell them that because of the tragic loss of your father, you have no desire to look back. You are only willing to talk about America and the life before you. Will that do?”

  Dagny wanted so fiercely to make her fiancé proud, even if he asked her to do things she never dreamt of doing. He was the one who knew how these things were supposed to be. All she knew was that she mustn’t disappoint him, not now nor after they were married.

  “Yes, that will do,” she murmured.

  “That’s my girl,” he pulled her close. “Trust me, Dagny. This will all be perfect.”

  ***

  Dinner was served in two sessions with two dozen passengers assigned to each. Elderly couples and families with young children ate first at six bells. The rest of the passengers were served at eight.

  Dagny did her best to present herself in a way that would make Torvald proud. She brushed and re-plaited her hair, scrubbed her face until it glowed with healthy color, and put on the nicest of her four gowns. Torvald took her arm and led her to the dining area. The tables were already about half full.

  “Does it matter where we sit?” Dagny asked.

  “No…” Torvald replied, his gaze skimming room. “But as humans are creatures of habit, we will probably be sitting with the same companions for the rest of the voyage.”

  Dagny glanced at the men already gathered, looking for her tall stranger. Not ‘my’ stranger, she chastised herself silently. In any case, he was not yet present. Perhaps he ate earlier.

  “Come, my dear.” Torvald pulled her toward a couple settling in.

  The man was probably in his sixties if judged by his rounded stance and clubbed gray hair. He held a chair for a plump woman wearing green satin and a crocheted shawl. Dagny thought she appeared friendly enough not to be intimidating.

  “May we join you?” Torvald asked, pulling out a chair for Dagny.

  “Why, of course, young man!” he answered with a broad grin.

  “Lord Torvald Haugen, Greve of Trondheim.” Torvald held out his hand once he and Dagny had taken their seats.

  “My pleasure, sir. I’m Stig Thomassen—no title, just wealthy!” Thomassen let out a laugh. “This is my lovely wife, Astrid.”

  Torvald swung his hand toward Dagny. “May I present Lady Dagny Haugen.”

  “Dagny will do,” she blurted, feeling her face flush at the deception.

  “And you must call me Astrid,” the woman said cheerily. “After all, we are to be shipmates for the next month and a half!”

  Torvald slipped her a knowing look. Then he said something to the other couple in English. They both answered, though their words were a bit more halting than Torvald’s.

  Dagny felt light-headed of a sudden. She had been fighting queasiness ever since sitting still in the cabin for so long once the ship started to move. Now the realization that she had no idea what Torvald was saying shone a light on how ill-prepared she was for this journey.

  She was following a man she had only known for two months. She was moving to a continent settled by the British. She knew nothing of their language. How did she think she would get by—by speaking Latin from the church rituals? She assumed that Torvald would take care of her, but his behaviors today gave her pause. What had she done?

  Dagny dipped her napkin in her water glass and began to dab her forehead and throat. She closed her eyes concentrated on taking deep, regular breaths.

  “Are you unwell, dear?” Astrid asked.

  Torvald began to massage her shoulders. “Is it the ship’s motion, sweetheart?”

  Dagny nodded. That was the easiest answer.

  “Do you wish to go back to the cabin and lie down?” Torvald asked, his tone mercifully gentle.

  She opened her eyes. “No, I believe if I eat something I shall feel better.”

  “Try this,” another man said and set a basket of bread in front of her. “I lived on bread when I first sailed.”

  Dagny recognized the new voice. Her humiliation deepened, pulling her confidence down with it.

  Her handsome cabin-invader took the seat across the table from her, next to Astrid. He considered her carefully, his blue eyes dark with concern.

  “But eat it dry,” he warned. “Nothing too greasy at first.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dagny mumbled. She broke off a crust and began to chew on it, not meeting his eyes.

  “We haven’t met,” Torvald volunteered. He draped one arm across Dagny’s chair as if claiming his property. “Lord Torvald Haugen and Lady Dagny Haugen.”

  The man dipped his chin. “Martin Hansen. Of the Arendal Hansens.”

  If that meant anything to Torvald, he didn’t react. “And what takes you to America?”

  ***

  “I am an architect and engineer looking for a place to build,” Martin gave the brief explanation. “And you?”

  Torvald smiled and switched to English. “My sister and I are looking to start new lives after the sudden deaths of our parents.”

  Martin had but a blink to make his decision. He followed his gut—and the training he inadvertently acquired from Onkel Brander, an investigator for hire. He shrugged and flashed an apologetic grin, implying that he did not understand.

  “Her father’s death was particularly hard on Dagny,” Torvald said in Norse. “A new beginning will help assuage her grief.”

  Martin looked to Dagny. She kept her eyes averted as she
nibbled the bread crust. He noted the slight difference in Torvald’s two explanations, though the sentences flowed together. Anyone else who heard and understood both would probably not mark it.

  He wondered, then, if Dagny spoke English.

  “My condolences, Lady Haugen,” Martin said softly.

  Her pale blue eyes lifted to his, filled with an unsettling disquiet he didn’t expect. “Thank you, Mister Hansen.”

  Their dinner was carried up by uniformed servants, obviously accustomed to the pitch and roll of a sea-going vessel. Martin chatted amiably with Stig and Astrid Thomassen, but he kept Dagny in the corner of his eye. The bread seemed to help her discomfort, if the color returning to her cheeks was an adequate measurement.

  Torvald put small amounts of food on her plate. “Do you believe you can manage this, darling?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered with a wan smile, adding, “You are so very good to me, Torvald.”

  Martin thought the statement was more of a plea then a compliment, but the way the man tenderly squeezed Dagny’s shoulders and lovingly kissed her forehead gave him pause. Perhaps he was looking for faults where none existed. Just because the man chose to bed a common prostitute before boarding a ship with his sister was no reason to mistrust his overall character.

  Dagny didn’t strike him as a woman unable to handle her own opinions, in any case. Martin couldn’t explain exactly why he thought that. Perhaps because she was tall. Her stature gave her an aura of competence.

  She didn’t eat much, he noticed. And she was quiet, not joining the conversation bouncing amongst the eight occupants of their table. Listening to the German, various accents of English, and Norse, which filled the space around him, Martin understood almost everything. Even so, he decided to continue the charade that he was ignorant of English. At least, for now.