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

by Kris Tualla

  Martin had no intention of showing anyone anything. His intricate sketches were merely flights of fancy, a way to escape the mental monotony of the voyage and the physical confines of the ship. If it wasn’t for the hour or two a day he spent with Dagny, he would experience nothing more intricate than a detailed analysis of Oskar’s latest—and as yet unfulfilled—crush.

  “Ask me in English,” he challenged her in that very language. “Only then will I consider it.”

  Dagny leaned back and folded her arms. One slippered foot tapped on the wooden floor. “You sketch them? I look, yes?”

  “That is close,” Martin admitted.

  “Close is good. I will look now,” Dagny replied with a grin. “You will help me look.”

  Martin was defeated at his own game. “I will show you,” he conceded. “Say it.”

  “You will show me,” Dagny correctly stated, adding, “I will like what I see.”

  Martin huffed a chuckle. “We shall see about that.”

  “Yes,” she said. “We shall see about that.”

  Martin climbed back to his spot and grabbed one of his drawings. When he handed it to Dagny, she unrolled it and her eyes widened.

  “Whose house is this?” she asked.

  “English,” Martin admonished. “We shall only speak English from now on.”

  Dagny groaned, but she complied. “This house. It is a house for what man?”

  “No man as yet,” Martin answered. “I was imagining a house.”

  “Imaginari. I understand.” Dagny bounced a nod. “You… praksis?”

  Martin helped her. “Practice. It’s almost the same.”

  Dagny blew out her relief. “You imagining a house and draw a house for practice.”

  “Imagine,” he corrected. “I imagine a house and draw it for practice.”

  Dagny stared at the drawing as if analyzing it. “This house is very good. I want this house.”

  Martin spread his hands and shrugged. “Perhaps you will have it someday.”

  Dagny smiled at him, her light blue eyes glowing turquoise in the lamplight. “You will make me this house, Martin Hansen. I ask this, I say please, and you will do this.”

  Martin laughed. “You are speaking very well,” he complimented.

  “I like to talk English with you,” she replied. “You are interessant.”

  “Interesting,” he corrected again.

  “That is same word as Latin!” she exclaimed before repeating, “You are interesting to talk at.”

  “Talk to, not at.” Martin retrieved his drawing and rolled it up once more. “And you, my lady, are learning very quickly.”

  “I am learning very quickly,” she mimicked as he tucked his drawing out of sight. She gave him a puzzled frown. “What is ‘quickly’?”

  “Fast.” Martin swept his hand in from of him. “Opposite of slow.”

  “Oppositum of tardus, retard. I understand. Quickly is fast, not slow. I am learning quickly.” Dagny blushed as the meaning of his accolade became clear. “Thank you. I have a good tutor.”

  Martin affected a courtly bow. “And I, my lady, have an excellent student.”

  ***

  Dagny wandered back to her cabin after nearly two hours of practicing English with Martin. She was so intent on trying to think in English, repeating words to anchor them in her memory, that she didn’t notice she had entered the wrong passageway. When the doors didn’t look familiar, she slapped her forehead and turned around.

  A door behind her opened, and closed. When Dagny reached the end of the hall she glanced back out of idle curiosity.

  Torvald strode briskly away from her, toward the back of the ship. She stopped and watched his exodus. Had he not seen her? Why didn’t he call out to her?

  A cabin door opened. Anna Solberg, the red-haired single woman, stepped through the doorway and closed the portal behind her. As she smoothed her hair, she turned toward Dagny, but stopped when their eyes met. For an instant, neither woman moved.

  Then the other woman blinked slowly and gave Dagny a smile that was the epitome of sensuality, slow and knowing. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes held a sleepy, sated look. She spun around, changing her direction. With her skirts swaying seductively, she sauntered after Torvald.

  Dagny felt her knees buckle. She grabbed the corner of the wall. Either the ship had hit a rough patch of ocean or the shock of what she assumed she witnessed had knocked her equilibrium sideways.

  “Do not swoon,” she ordered herself through a clenched jaw. Defying her narrowing field of vision, Dagny made her way to her own cabin, praying that Torvald was not inside. He wasn’t.

  Once safely hidden behind her door, Dagny collapsed on his bunk, too stunned to cry. What do I do now? echoed through her thoughts, over and over again, as if the question bounced off some soaring Norwegian cliff. And just like any echo, no matter how many times it was heard, there was never an answer.

  She didn’t know how long she lay on the bunk, unmoving and dry-eyed, but when Torvald opened the door she shifted her gaze to his. He looked startled.

  “What’s amiss? Are you unwell?” he asked, his expression full of concern.

  “Where were you?” she asked, her voice rough and dry. “This morning. After you brought my shoes.”

  He closed the cabin door gently and came to sit beside her on the bunk. She did not slide over to give him room, so he propped himself rather awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. “I told you, Dagny. I had a business meeting.”

  Still no part of her moved. “With whom?”

  “Does that matter?” he deflected. He rested a palm on her forehead. “Your skin is cold. Did you eat?”

  Dagny pulled a shaky breath. “No.”

  “Let me bring you something. Soup. And bread.” Torvald stood to leave but Dagny grabbed his wrist.

  “You never intended to marry me, did you?” she squeaked.

  “Oh, my dear girl. Don’t be ridiculous,” he soothed. “You are weak from hunger and you might be falling ill. Rest now. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Dagny stared at the closed cabin door and wondered if she had any chance at all of salvaging the rest of her life.

  ***

  Dagny ate the soup. And the bread. But she didn’t ask Torvald any more questions. In spite of his solicitous care, she believed that she knew the truth.

  She was a failure. Completely and utterly.

  Even though Torvald had swept into her life and claimed her heart, she had somehow failed to claim his. Perhaps it was her unwillingness to give herself to him freely on that very first day. What would it have mattered, really—even without the benefit of official words spoken, she would have been his wife from that moment on. The nuns always said that actions carried more weight than words.

  Instead, she had demanded words from him. And withheld her wifely actions.

  None of that made sense to her until now, and now it was too late. Torvald was smitten with another. He spent his morning in her arms, in her bed. Anna’s sultry smile screamed that truth at her.

  Dagny lay on Torvald’s bunk all afternoon, unable to find a reason to pull herself out of her torpor. Her future at this point was unrelentingly bleak. This ship was going to dock in Boston harbor in America. Without Torvald, she hadn’t a single coin in her possession. No one would meet her arrival. She had no meal waiting, no place to lay her head. And no way to procure those things unless she quickly sold what little she owned.

  Even then, the money would soon run out.

  When the second supper bell rang, Dagny thrust herself from the bed as if it was consumed in flames. She pulled the cabin door open and ran to the opposite end of the passage. Without planning her escape—limited as it must be by the boundaries of the ship—she went deeper, into hiding. When she reached the hold, she scrambled back in the direction from which Martin always appeared. In the dim space, she waved her hands in front of her, feeling her path more than seeing it. When she discovered the pallet of fabric she f
ell on it, tucked into herself, and tried to disappear.

  At last, the tears came. And they came in torrents.

  ***

  Martin always watched Torvald carefully as the men played cards. He seemed to lose often, winning rarely. This tactic endeared him to the men he played against. He moaned his losses loudly, smiled and complimented his opponents on both their skills and their luck, poured them celebratory drinks, and never suggested that anything underhanded had happened to cause his own downfall.

  So when his fortunes reversed now and again, the men cheered for him, even if they took a considerable loss in the process.

  Torvald also made certain that the men in the salon—whether they were playing or merely watching—never grew thirsty. Every few days a new cask was tapped. Or another box of cigars passed around. He was the ultimate host, gracious and self-effacing.

  Until he won a round.

  Torvald made the rules for the games, and the rules stated that all wagers must be settled at the end of the afternoon or evening. No debts could be carried over until the next session. If a man didn’t have the required coins at hand, he couldn’t play until he paid, by one method or another.

  This particular afternoon, Torvald was in the best of moods.

  His smile was broader, his laugh louder, and he bounced around the salon watching the different games in process. Obviously his business meeting, whatever that had entailed, ended in his favor. Martin was still curious about the items Torvald had placed in Dagny’s trunk, and the idea of asking Dagny to open her chest and look did occur to him. Perhaps he would.

  Martin tucked that option away for now, and returned his focus to the cards in his hand. He had a shot at winning if he was careful.

  When the supper bell rang the games came to an end. Martin returned to his cabin to wash, and then made his way to the dining area with Oskar in tow. It would seem that his cabin mate was making progress with the curvaceous Floss Pedersen, claiming several kisses in a secluded corner of the upper deck that very afternoon.

  Martin smiled and clapped Oskar on the back. “Perhaps you will land in America with a wife!” he quipped.

  Oskar’s eyes rounded in horror. “Bite your tongue, Martin. I’m not fishing in this little pond when an ocean of choices awaits our arrival!”

  Martin laughed. “I am of that same persuasion. I don’t even know where on the continent I will settle. Until I do, I’ve no interest in carrying aught with me but my own trunk!”

  While Oskar went off to sit with Floss and her friend, Martin took his accustomed seat at Dagny and Torvald’s table. Torvald arrived alone. His gazed bounced around the room and a little frown creased his brow, yet he sat and flashed a smile at Martin.

  “Nicely played hand,” he complimented. “How much did you win?”

  Martin shrugged. “Only twelve.”

  “Twelve is better than losing,” Torvald replied absently, his attention still on the doorway.

  “Is Lady Haugen joining us for supper?” Martin asked the obvious question.

  The frown deepened. “She wasn’t feeling well this afternoon, so I brought her soup and left her to rest.”

  “Is she recovered?” Martin pressed.

  Torvald’s eyes met his. “She wasn’t in our cabin when I returned. I thought she might already be at the table, but obviously she isn’t.”

  Concern jabbed at Martin, though it had no cause that he was aware of. So he jabbed back. “Might she have eaten earlier? And is even now on the deck enjoying the sunset?” he posited.

  Relief washed Torvald’s features. “That is the most likely explanation. I shall search her out when we’ve finished.”

  Martin pressed back his irritation. If Dagny was his cherished wife or sister, he would have jumped up from the table immediately and gone to find her. As it was, he struggled to keep from doing so himself, even though her well-being was not his responsibility.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” he said evenly. “Where could she go? We are in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dagny remained in her hiding spot until no light seeped in from any source. She had come to a decision, and it was time to turn her thoughts into actions. Feeling her way through the crates and casks, she found the ladder and climbed up from the hold.

  The crew’s deck was dimly lit, and the snores of sleeping sailors rumbled a chorus between the rope hammocks slung from the thick beams. Dagny climbed another level—reaching the one where the passengers’ cabin doors were all securely shut. Up one more set of narrow steps and she was on the deck. Salty air and countless stars greeted her appearance, as if she had been born into a new existence.

  “I will be soon,” she whispered. “God in Heaven, please forgive me.”

  Dagny stood at the aft railing and stared at the black water below. The half moon over her shoulder didn’t reveal much, though foam from the ship’s wake glowed a pale blue. Wind that pushed the ship forward blew in her face. Escaping wisps of hair tickled her cheeks and caught in her tears.

  Throwing herself into the ocean wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would save Dagny from having to do unconscionable things solely to survive once she was stranded in America. A life like that was as good as death. And between the two, she thought she preferred the immediate one in the water.

  It seemed such a simple thing. One leg over, then the other. Settle on the railing, then let go. She had no idea how to swim, so she’d surely sink quickly once her clothing filled with water. Then her humiliation and foolishness would be gone, as would she.

  She pulled a steadying breath and lifted her right leg over the railing. She was tall enough to straddle it and still have the balls of both feet on the deck. She rolled her eyes; another humiliation to finally be done with. She lifted her left leg over and her skirt tangled.

  Her grip on the rail loosened and she scrambled to hold on. Her heart punished her so hard for that momentary lapse that it hurt. She didn’t stop to consider what that meant concerning her current actions, but instead forced herself to turn around slowly. With one hand grasping the rail on either side of her bottom, she sat, resting her feet on the railing below.

  She had no idea how long she waited there, commanding her unwilling hands to let go. They seemed made of rusted iron, hinged and frozen in place. Her heart slowed as she sat, no longer beating painfully against her ribs.

  “One hand,” she said aloud. “Let go with one hand.”

  She concentrated on her right hand. Straighten the little finger first. Good. Now another and another. She raised that hand in the air, slowly, fingers splayed and palm forward as though swearing an oath. Her eyes never left the churning blackness below.

  “Now…” She drew a deep breath. “The other…”

  An arm that cinched her like a steel band jerked her backwards. The iron rail bruised her calves and pried one slipper from her feet. The cold metal cut into her heel and she felt the immediate sting of salt. She was being dragged backwards, away from the edge of the ship.

  She cried out and began to fight. After holding herself away from Torvald she wasn’t about to submit quietly to rape now! Ironically cursing herself for coming on deck alone so late at night, she was all teeth, nails and elbows in her struggle. Her captor managed to pin her arms but she straightened her leg and swung her shoed foot backward with the full force of her panic. The remaining wooden heel cut perfectly into his shin.

  “Ow!” he bellowed and dropped her awkwardly on her arse.

  She whirled and crouched on hands and feet, ready to spring. The half moon dimly lit the tall form of a man wobbling on one foot, his other knee bent and his shin cradled in laced fingers.

  “What the hell were you doing?” he shouted at her. “You might have fallen to your death!”

  “Martin?” she gasped. Of all the men to see her humiliation, why oh why did it have to be him?

  She melted to the deck then, miserable sobs convulsing her shoulders. Her cheek scraped o
n the spray-dampened wood as her entire body shook under the crashing waves of her defeat. She keened inconsolably, her embarrassment smashed into the crook of her arm.

  She had failed yet again.

  She couldn’t make herself let go. She was always the coward; afraid of the prospect of brief pain and fear. A lifetime of horror stood before her and she couldn’t face a few minutes of terror in its stead.

  And worst of all, Martin Hansen was the man who witnessed her inadequacy.

  ***

  Martin let go of his aching shin and dropped to his knees beside Dagny.

  “Propriety be damned,” he muttered and gathered her in his arms. He held her as tightly as he could, pressed securely against his torso while she cried. He rested his cheek on her damp forehead and stroked her tangled hair. He rocked her without thinking about it. And all the while, his chest ached with fear and his own body trembled.

  “What were you thinking, Dagny?” he rasped. “Why? Please, tell me why!”

  She shook her head and her sobs grew stronger. “I cannot…”

  Martin tucked his knuckle under her chin and tipped her face upward. Her eyes remained downcast. She wouldn’t look at him.

  Martin tried to sound calm, though his heart still thudded his shock. “Certainly there is a better answer for whatever is troubling you.”

  Dagny squeezed her eyes shut. Her brows lowered as if trying to hide them. “There is not,” she whispered.

  Martin wiped her wet cheeks with his sleeve and affected an accusatory tone. “I don’t believe you, Dagny. Why would you lie to me? I thought we were friends.”

  Her eyes popped open and her brows flew upward.

  “Are we not friends?” he demanded.

  “We—we are, yes,” she sputtered.

  “And yet, you boldly lie to my face!” he charged.

  Dagny straightened, pulled away, and knelt in front of him. “I’m not lying to you!”

  “No?” Martin quirked a skeptical brow, relieved at her show of indignation. “Then tell me. Why would you consider throwing yourself off the ship? What could possibly be that bad?”