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

by Kris Tualla

  “But you, Dagny. What did you want?” he pushed.

  She looked deliberately into her husband’s eyes. “I had no desire to break my vows. I spoke truly.”

  Martin nodded and closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”

  “Just keep breathing. That is all I ask,” Dagny whispered.

  One corner of Martin’s lips lifted briefly. “Or you’ll jar me to distraction.”

  “I will, indeed,” she promised.

  “May I ask you one more question?” he murmured.

  “Of course.”

  He hesitated and she thought he might have fallen back to sleep, then he pulled a deep breath. “Has anyone died?”

  Dagny looked at the slumbering mother in the corner, holding her child. The girl wiggled her foot in her sleep, erasing Dagny’s fear for the moment.

  “Only one, thus far,” she replied.

  He heaved another deep breath. “Who?”

  “Torvald. Now get some rest and stop talking.”

  Chapter Thirty

  June 29, 1749

  Martin felt as though death might be a blessing. He was so weak he couldn’t sit up without help. His head hurt. Hungry enough to eat an entire elk by himself, he understood Dagny’s dictum; no solid food until his battered bowels showed signs of recovery.

  I’m probably too feeble to chew the beast anyway.

  At least she stopped forcing him to drink that bitter invention of hers. Martin nearly gagged to think of it, though to be truthful it did seem to shorten his misery. If he could manage not to shit for the next few hours he would at least get some bread with his broth.

  Martin turned his head toward the rest of the salon.

  Dagny moved with grace between the cots, the lower half of her face draped with his ripped-up sheet and her hands red from their constant scrubbing. God must indeed be pleased with her to protect her from such a virulent disease in the midst of her nursing the sickest of the sick.

  The young sailor helping her—Martin didn’t remember his name—also had the lower half of his face draped. His hands showed the expected roughness of his position, though Martin was certain Dagny had him washing as well. Whether that practice was of any benefit, he couldn’t say; but doing so couldn’t hurt either of them.

  When Martin saw Dagny pull a sheet over a woman’s face, a shock went through his gut of an entirely different sort. He wasn’t so flippant about dying any more.

  Dagny gestured and spoke to the sailor. He left the salon. Dagny went to her station and washed her hands. Only then did she wipe her eyes.

  Martin watched his wife rest the heels of her hands on the table, her back to the room. She leaned forward, her head drooped, and her shoulders began to shake.

  At that moment, Martin would have given up the pearls and everything else he owned for the strength to get up off his pallet and comfort his wife. Her silent grief tore through him and tears of his own rolled over his cheeks. Dagny was truly an amazing woman. She was working herself to exhaustion, tending to those who dismissed her as unworthy of their company. And she did so without complaint.

  God, I love her.

  Another shock sliced through him.

  I love my wife. I do. With all of my being.

  Martin closed his eyes and let that realization flow over him. Heal him, body and soul. No longer was he on his own and without family. Dagny wasn’t alone any longer either. She was his family, and he was hers. Together they would forge a dynasty in America. A new branch of the Hansen clan of Arendal, strong and plentiful.

  He held out his hand. “Dagny?”

  She turned her head in his direction, but didn’t face him. “Yes?”

  “Come here, will you?” he said gently.

  She did turn at that. Her eyes were red above the scarf. “Do you need water?”

  Martin knew in an instant that his wife was too fragile to accept his emotional offering. She was on the back railing of her own resources and about to fall into the depths. He lowered his arm to his cot.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Dagny selected a mug from the several lined up like warring soldiers on her table. She poured water from a heavy pitcher, set it down, and came to his side.

  Martin climbed up on his elbows and patted his cot. “Will you sit a moment?”

  She sank to the edge of his pallet. Martin took the mug from her hand and gulped the cool, clear liquid. He was amazed at how thirsty he was once he began to drink, and yet he hadn’t marked it beforehand.

  “Would you like more?” she asked. Her voice was thin and tired.

  As much as he wanted her to rest, his body begged for the liquid. He handed her the cup. “I would.”

  When Dagny stood, a burst of movement pulled Martin’s attention. Two sailors stood by the cot and began wrapping the dead woman in her sheet. As he watched, they lifted the shrouded corpse and lowered it to a stretcher on the floor. Without a word, they lifted the stretcher and carried the body away to be buried in the sea.

  The weight of Dagny’s body beside him signaled her return with his water. “Who was she?” Martin asked, accepting the mug from his wife.

  “She was one of the young mothers,” she murmured. “She brought her daughter here too late, and the girl died yesterday morning.”

  Martin laid his hand over Dagny’s. She sniffed wetly behind her kerchief. “She went so quickly I believe grief killed her, not only the flux.”

  “When did you sleep last?” Martin asked.

  Her brows wrinkled briefly but she didn’t meet his eyes. “I sleep when I can.”

  “Where?” he prodded.

  She pointed toward her station with her chin. “I have a mattress.”

  Martin noticed the rolled bundle under her table for the first time. “Dagny, you need to go to the cabin and get some rest.”

  She turned angry eyes on him then, pale blue flames in fiery red rims. “And how am I supposed to sleep when men and women are dying all around me? Tell me that!”

  Martin glanced at the crowded salon and realized that, once struck with his own sickness, he had no idea of the magnitude of the outbreak. “How many?”

  “Nineteen of the adults, four of the children,” she answered, her tone prickly with the rasp of fatigue. “I have no idea about the crew.”

  His gaze returned to hers. “How many have died?”

  Dagny closed her eyes. A single tear leaked from under each lid. “As of today, eight. Two were children.”

  Martin squeezed her hand. “You saved fifteen lives.”

  Her chin dropped to her chest. “Look around you, Martin,” she whispered. “Those lives are still quite precarious.”

  He handed her his empty cup. “What’s the name of the boy helping you?”

  Dagny’s head lifted and she looked around the salon. “Frank. Why?”

  “I want to be sure and thank him, is all,” Martin lied. He had every intention of finding a way for his wife to take a nap in a real bed.

  Dagny grasped his cup. “I’ll tell him to speak to you when he returns.”

  “Where is he?”

  A hint of a smile—the first one he had seen on her face that day—curved the edges of her lips. “He’s bringing your broth.”

  ***

  Martin insisted on sitting to take his soup. Frank helped her stubborn husband to stand for the few seconds required for Dagny to push his cot against a wall. He resettled sideways on the cot, leaning against the panels with his feet on the floor. A tray rested across his lap holding the bowl of broth. Martin spooned soup to his own lips for the first time in days.

  “If you continue like this,” Dagny approved, “you may have bread for supper.”

  Martin shot her a look of irritated compliance. “When will you eat?”

  She tilted her head toward the seventeen other cots. “After they do. The ones who are able, that is.”

  “Do you believe the worst is past?” he asked.

  Please, God, let it be so.

  “It’
s too soon. Today is the fifth day, and the infection often lasts a week.” She shrugged. “And yet there were no new casualties this morning, so I am hopeful.”

  Martin set his spoon down and lifted the bowl to his lips. Apparently the spoon delivered the broth too slowly for his liking.

  “Am I allowed to have more?” He looked at her like one of the street orphans who begged at the abbey’s kitchen door. His expression made her laugh. She hadn’t laughed for over five days.

  “Wait an hour,” she said, taking the empty bowl from his hands. “If your bowels are quiet, then I’ll see about getting you another serving.”

  Martin handed her his tray. “I’m going to sit up for a while.”

  “Don’t push yourself too hard,” she chastised.

  He cocked a brow. “Isn’t that quite like the pot calling the kettle black?”

  As if his words had summoned a phalanx of spectres, Captain Gilsen entered the salon with Astrid Thomassen and Sara, whose surname Dagny never learned, marching behind him.

  Panic zinged through Dagny’s frame. The tray tilted in her hands and the bowl began to slide off. She grabbed it before it fell.

  “What’s amiss?” she demanded. “What has occurred?”

  Astrid stepped in front of the captain. “It has been brought to our attention that one of the most important passengers aboard this vessel is behaving in a dangerous manner, and we have come to put a stop to it.”

  Dagny’s eyes rounded. “Who is it?”

  Sara jammed her fists on her hips. “It’s you, of course.”

  Dagny whirled toward Martin, hoping for his support in the face of this latest and unwarranted accusation. Instead, he leaned against the wall and grinned at her. His sapphire eyes twinkled and his teeth gleamed through his unkempt beard.

  “What is this about?” she growled.

  “It’s about me telling Frank to tell the captain to find you some relief,” Martin explained, still smiling. “And I have no intention of apologizing for interfering, in case you are wondering.”

  A tap on her shoulder forestalled Dagny’s snapped response, which her tired mind was admittedly having some trouble conjuring. She spun to face three pair of intent stares.

  “I am relieving you of your duties, Mistress Hansen, for the period of at least four hours,” Captain Gilsen stated. “These two ladies have agreed to assume your duties during your absence.”

  Dagny shook her head. “There is much to teach them first.”

  “I’ll do it,” Frank spoke up from across the salon. “And I’ll see to it that they follow your directions as strictly as if you were here yourself.”

  “Go, Dagny,” Astrid urged. “Wash up and get into bed before you collapse.”

  “We’ll stay as long as you need us to,” Sara added. “Don’t worry a bit about that. Just rest yourself.”

  Dagny faced Martin again. “I am out-gunned.”

  “Yes, you are,” he concurred. He was obviously very pleased with himself. “And if it will make you feel better, I’ll rest as well.”

  He slumped to laying on his side and pulled his feet onto the cot.

  Dagny pointed her finger at him. “I told you not to push yourself,” she said feeling the need to maintain some semblance of her authority in the midst of this mutiny.

  “This is the kettle speaking,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Pot, you too are black.”

  ***

  Dagny crawled into her bunk for the first time in five days. It felt like heaven to be clean, to be wearing her cotton nightdress, and to snuggle under her tufted blanket. She made the decision not to wear the blue silk gown again until Martin slept in this bunk with her, confident at last that he would survive to do so.

  She refused all along to consider what might happen to her if he had not. Now that her husband was on the mend, Dagny had an account to settle. A spiritual one. One where she owed a massive debt. It poked her so hard at this moment that she couldn’t relax and fall asleep until she paid it.

  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

  All of her life she had been accused of being stubborn, but this time her stubborn streak insisted that she knew what choice was best. How she could think it acceptable in any way to skulk away from the abbey—her home for fourteen years—without a single spoken word to anyone remained a mystery to her now. In doing that, she proved herself rude and extremely ungrateful for the years of care the nuns gave her.

  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

  Dagny winced when she thought of how easily Torvald wooed her into his arms. She lived life in a cloister, separated from men. To trust the first man who whispered such sweet words to her was utterly stupid. Furthermore, the decision to keep his existence and his courtship a secret, lest someone suggest anything uncomplimentary about his suit, was based solely in her own ridiculous pride.

  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

  Dagny placed her faith in Torvald’s words, not God’s, and the man’s actions did not prove him trustworthy. Today it was clear to her that, had he been sincere, he would have married her before they boarded the ship. A man of good character would have insisted on it, not ask her to steal away in secret first. She behaved like a consummate fool.

  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

  At least Martin stopped her from jumping off the ship when Torvald’s true colors began to show. Dagny confessed the idea in her prayer even so, and how—in spite of her actions to the contrary—she knew she was making yet another bad decision.

  One, on top of another, on top of another. Until she was so deep in the muck and the mire, she couldn’t see her way out. Caught up in a hopeless situation of her own creation. Completely, absolutely, alone.

  And then, the unfathomable happened.

  A man she barely knew came forward, and laid down his life for hers. He claimed her foolishness and turned it into his own. He offered a solution where he yoked the burden of her idiocy to his own shoulders. When he did that, Martin saved her life for the second time.

  Dagny knew she didn’t deserve it. There was no reason for it. She slapped him across the face as hard as she could when he told her what he was doing. Twice, in fact. Hard enough that she could see the stain of her scorn bloom on his cheek. Yet he remained unmoved.

  No man was good enough to act in such a way on his own. Dagny knew in her heart that God had somehow made this happen. He had blessed her with a husband who proved his good character, and married her willingly in spite of her flawed one.

  Dagny pressed her face into her cushion, humbled to her very core. Her tears soaked her pillow and still they flowed, welling from a heart overwhelmed with relief, gratitude, and hope.

  That I may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

  That she may be made worthy of a man like Martin Hansen.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Dagny awakened when a dinner bell rang.

  She rolled over and peered out the little window to discern which bell it was. By the color of the sky she knew it rang for the early supper. Even so, she had slept over five hours. She tossed back her blanket and stood, then fell back down on the bunk, dizzy from the sudden activity.

  She knew better than to jump up from a dead sleep. Dagny stretched her arms and wiggled her feet before trying again. Splashing cold water on her face eased the ache in her eyes caused by crying. There was no point in straightening the bed since she would be the only one returning tonight—if she returned tonight. Martin would stay in the salon until his symptoms were truly gone.

  Perhaps tomorrow night he might lie beside her again.

  Dagny would have to judge his strength before she asked him to perform his husbandly duty in bed. As eager as she had become for him to do so, she needed to exercise patience. Wait for her husband to touch her again like he had before the bloody flux arrived and terrorized the ship. Then she would know he was ready.

  She lifted her sleeping gown over her head, tossed it on the still-inviting bed, and d
onned the serviceable cotton gown she had worn for the last week. She tied her laces, brushed and braided her hair, and washed her face again to ease the swelling in her itchy eyes. Deciding she had spent enough time away from her post, she stepped into the hall and closed the door on the cabin’s chaos behind her.

  Dagny had no idea what to expect when she reached the salon. Four hours was the amount of time the captain asked of her temporary replacements, and now she was nearing six hours of absence.

  Guilt prodded her, but she slapped it away.

  “If they needed me, they knew where to find me,” she reminded the irritating emotion, silencing its voice.

  When she reached the end of the hallway and entered the makeshift infirmary she slowed her momentum, not wanting to startle anyone by rushing in. What she found made her whoosh a breath of relief.

  Martin—where her eyes went first—was sitting up against the wall again. His cheeks were a healthy color, his eyes clear. His face split into a wide grin when he saw her. She wanted so badly to run to him and throw herself into his embrace. Somehow, she managed simply to beam at him from afar.

  “So you are actually capable of following an order?” he teased her across the room. “I’ll make a note of that.”

  Astrid looked up from the man she was feeding. Sara whirled around, cleaning cloths in her hands. Both wore the linens scarves Dagny demanded. A glance at the washing bowl showed fresh soap bubbles.

  Frank appeared at her elbow. “Everything was just fine while you were off duty,” he said earnestly. “One man’s wife came and got him and took him back to their cabin. He hadn’t had any expulsions since last night, so I didn’t fight her.”

  Dagny looked at the young man. “Did you tell her—”

  “—about washing her hands? Yes,” he finished her thought. “No one new has fallen ill, either.”

  Dagny noted the two additional empty cots, turning to Frank lifting her brow in question.

  He nodded solemnly. “The elderly couple.”

  Dagny sighed. “They were going to live with their son in Maine. They were both so excited about it.”