A Promise to Love (10 page)

Ingrid looked. Joshua was, indeed, walking toward Diantha's parents' place.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.” Hazel dug a pair of women's everyday shoes out of the wagon. “I hope they fit.”

“Ah!” Ingrid immediately sat down on the porch, pulled off George's boots, and pulled on the new shoes. “So much better! Thank you, thank you. Where you find?”

“George had ordered them a few days ago, without telling Millicent. They just came in yesterday.”

“I never take off!”

“Well,” Hazel said, “I wouldn't sleep in 'em if I was you.”

“I put the bread in oven, then we unload. Have fresh bread and
soppa
after.”

Hazel seemed taken aback. “You're making soap for supper?”

“No, no, no.” Ingrid made a motion as though dipping and slurping out of a spoon.

“Oh! You mean soup!”

“Ja. I make soup.”

“Soup and bread sounds good to me. I never did have the knack for making bread. Drop biscuits was about as good as I could manage.” Hazel lifted Polly from Trudy's arms. “And how are
you
doing, you little sweet 'tater?”

Polly grinned, unplugged her thumb from her mouth, and offered it to Hazel.

“Oh, you got some sugar for old Hazel? I been needing me some sugar. Yum!”

She pretended to put Polly's thumb into her own mouth and made loud smacking noises. This tickled Polly so thoroughly that she started belly laughing. Ingrid saw Joshua glance back at them as he walked down the road to Diantha's parents'. Ingrid turned her head so he wouldn't think that she was bothering to watch him.

She desperately longed for a heart-to-heart talk with Hazel, so she asked the girls to go upstairs while she finished making supper. She put a few more sticks of good ash wood into the firebox, then held her hand inside the oven to test the heat. She counted the seconds and made it to twenty-five before she had to snatch her hand away. Perfect! Twenty-five seconds was just about the right temperature to bake bread. Forty-five seconds was her standard for anything that required a moderate oven. Sixty seconds for more delicate foods.

“I am so sorry,” Hazel said once the girls were out of earshot. “I don't know what came over me yesterday. I saw this smirk on Millicent's face when the judge said he was going to give those girls to Virgie, and it went all through me. I spoke up before I thought. Now you two are in a mess, and it's partly my fault. I came out here hoping for a chance to tell you, privately, that I'm pretty sure you can get this marriage annulled. It'll take awhile and it will cost money, but since I got you into this, I'll pay for it.”

“Annulled?”

“It means the marriage would be over.”

“Where I go?”

“I got friends in Port Huron. Nice people. The wife is an invalid. They've been looking for just the right person to come help out. Pay is decent. It's just the two of them. I had planned to get you set up with them before I lost my mind yesterday and told the judge all that hogwash about you and Josh being a couple.”

Ingrid sat down at the table and gave Hazel's words thoughtful consideration. Finally she said, “No. I stay.”

“I don't understand,” Hazel said. “I come here and find you sitting out on a stump, Josh upset, and the girls all in a state. It's obvious to me that things aren't working out. Why would you want to stay?”

“I already love girls . . . and Joshua. He is good man. Someday, he make a fine husband. I pray he loves me someday.”

“Josh Hunter”—Hazel crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair—“would be a greater fool than most men if he didn't.”

“You ain't taking the boy,” Richard Young said. “And that's that.”

If Joshua thought getting his son back just because the judge had given him permission would be easy, he had been mistaken. He kept a careful eye on the Kentucky long rifle that his father-in-law cradled in the crook of his arm. It had never occurred to him that he would have to arm himself to enter a home that had once been as much a part of his life as his own.

“The judge said I could have my children.”

“Well, the judge ain't here now, is he?” Virgie chimed in. “You got all the girls. Now, leave us the boy and get out of here.”

“But he's my son.”

“And Diantha was our daughter and you went and kilt her.”

“Virgie, you know that's a lie. I never harmed a hair on Diantha's head.”

Her jaw was set—a bad sign. The woman could be as stubborn as a mule. “We're keepin' the boy.”

“Richard . . .” He wished he could get Richard alone so they could work this out man to man. His father-in-law had always been reasonable.

That estimation of his father-in-law's reasonableness evaporated when Richard very deliberately cocked the gun and pointed it straight at him.

“Git on out of here, Josh,” Richard said. “Whether or not you had anything to do with Diantha's death is no never-mind now. She's gone. The thing is, Virgie's gotten attached to the boy, and you ain't gonna take him away from her. She's suffered enough.”

There really was no choice. Joshua knew it was best to retreat and regroup when going up against overwhelming odds, and so he walked away. That cocked rifle worried him. When it came to guns, Richard was a very careful man. Josh had never known him to point a gun at something he did not intend to kill.

Richard wasn't playing around when it came to Bertie.

The problem was, Josh didn't know how to regroup in a situation like this. To come back here armed and ready for battle was ridiculous. There was no way he would allow bullets to fly around his infant son, nor did he want to hurt Richard or Virgie. For the moment, he was stumped.

Admitting temporary defeat, he went back home.

Ingrid, Hazel, and the girls were having a spirited discussion over the use of a bolt of pink calico when he slipped through the door. He was hungry, and even from outside the house, he could smell the aroma of fresh-baked bread and bean soup. Ingrid made a point of ignoring him. The girls barely noticed him. It was obvious that they had eaten without him. It was Hazel who finally acknowledged his presence.

“Where've you been, Josh?” Hazel asked. “Me and the girls had to unload the supplies out of the wagon all by ourselves.”

“What supplies?”

“The ones I brought. And not a moment too soon, from what I see.”

“I was going to make a trip into town tomorrow.”

“I made the trip for you,” Hazel said. “I'll repeat, where've you been? Trying to make peace with your in-laws?”

“I went to get little Bertie.”

All conversation stopped. Once again, six pairs of female eyes were focused on him.

“You
what
?” Agnes asked.

“I went to get your little brother.”

“Well, I don't see him anyplace.” Agnes mimed looking around the cabin. “What happened?”

“Your grandfather refused to give him up.”

“You're bigger and stronger than Grandpa.”

“Not when he's pointing a gun at me.”

“Grandpa pointed a gun at you?” Agnes was astonished. “Our grandpa? The one who always tells us to never point a loaded gun at anything we don't want to kill?”

“And he cocked it.”

“Oh!” Agnes frowned. “He must be awful serious about keeping Bertie.”

Suddenly, no one was angry at him anymore.

“You are
hungrig
.” Ingrid ran over and sliced him off a thick chunk of bread and buttered it. “Give father a bowl,” she told Agnes.

Agnes didn't argue but placed a deep, savory bowl of bean soup in front of him. Ingrid brought him a cup of coffee. His spirits rose a bit when she delicately lightened it with cream. She had remembered how he liked it.

“Richard and Virgie are too caught up in grief to think straight,” Hazel said. “They'll soften. You're too good of a father to be deprived of your child. Goodness, you all live so close they could see Bertie every day if Virgie would quit that craziness we had to listen to at the inquest.”

“I hope you're right.” He dipped a piece of bread into the soup.

“We get baby.” Ingrid patted his arm and dipped another ladleful into his bowl.
“Snart.”

He had no idea what she had just said. “
Snart
? What does that mean?”

“Soon,” Ingrid explained. “We get baby soon.”

Later that night, he lay alone in his room and listened to what sounded like a party going on overhead. Ingrid had chosen to share the loft with Hazel and the girls tonight. He heard Agnes spluttering with laughter—probably at his expense.

Although he felt left out of the fun, he was intensely grateful. His house, which had felt so desolate, had come alive.

 9 

Ingrid sprinkled water from a bowl onto a pair of Joshua's line-dried pants, then picked up the flatiron, licked her finger, touched it to the iron, heard a satisfying sizzle, and knew it was hot enough. Ironing was not her favorite chore, but it was a necessity for a well-ordered home. She had spent most of the afternoon pressing the family's laundry.

Joshua came in just as she finished ironing a sheet for his bed.

“You iron sheets?” he asked.

“Ja.” She folded it neatly and laid it on the table.

“Why do you bother?”

“Because it look good and feel good. This is a problem?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But even my mother didn't iron the sheets unless company was coming.”

“My company is you and children.”

She meant it. She cherished having her own family to care for. Even if that family felt a little . . . borrowed.

“Don't try to argue with her, Pa,” Agnes said from her seat at the kitchen table. “Ingrid has her own ways of doing things and you better not try to change it. The woman even has a certain way of putting clothes on the line.”

“How is that?”

“Sheets go first.” Agnes ticked items off on her fingers. “Then towels, then long pants, then dresses—then Polly's diapers. It has to go in order of length. I pegged a washrag beside the sheets and I thought she'd faint.”

“Neighbors see laundry,” Ingrid said. “They judge us.”

“But we don't have any neighbors,” Joshua pointed out.

“Someday.” Ingrid smoothed out another sheet and began to iron it. “Somebody come on wash day. They say . . .” She frowned and shook her finger in the air. “That Ingrid, she is bad housekeeper. Her washing
krökte
—crooked.”

Joshua laughed. “I doubt anyone will ever call you a bad housekeeper, sweetheart.”

Her heart flip-flopped in her chest. He had called her a love name. Only two weeks into their marriage and he had not gotten angry at her again, and just now he had called her a love name.

Her eyes sought his, to see if his words had meant anything, but he didn't seem to notice what he had said, nor did the girls, who were busy cutting out chains of paper dolls from an old newspaper.

“Hey, Pa,” Agnes said, picking up the section from which she was cutting, “listen to this. President Ulysses S. Grant signed something called the Ku Klux Klan Act.” She looked up at him. “Aren't them the people who burn crosses and scare people?”

“Sometimes they do a whole lot more than scare people. It's a good law, Agnes. I'm glad Grant signed it. It's the kind of thing we fought for.”

“What was it like?” Agnes's eyes were avid with curiosity. “Fighting with General Custer?”

“Dusty.”

Ingrid waited for him to say more, but all he did was reach around her for a cup from the cupboard and the coffeepot from the stove. The nearness of him made her lose her English again.

“Noggran. Kaffet är hett!”

He paused. “What did you just say?”

“I say, ‘Careful, coffee is hot.'”

It was embarrassing that his nearness had flustered her so.

“With you in the house, there is always coffee, and it's always hot.” Joshua saluted her with his cup.

He had started coming in each afternoon for a small bite of something to eat and drink. It was becoming a habit of his, and she had begun to make little surprises for him each day. Her mother had taught her that a man who was well fed was a good worker, and a good worker meant prosperity for a family.

“There is cookies,” she said. “Fresh bake. In top of stove.”

His face lit up as he opened the warming oven of the woodstove and drew out a plate of sugar cookies.

“Can I have some, Ma?” Ellie asked when she saw them.

The sound of “ma” coming out of the child's mouth made everyone stop what they were doing, except for Ellie, who continued cutting out paper dolls.

“Ingrid ain't—” Agnes started to correct her sister, but Joshua shook his head at her.

“Leave it be,” he said quietly.

Agnes gave it some thought and then nodded. “You're right, Pa.”

Ellie, absorbed in her play, did not notice the exchange.

The fact that he did not want the little girl corrected made Ingrid very happy. “There is cookies enough for all.” Ingrid's heart sang from the child's slipup.

While Joshua admired the girls' handiwork, Ingrid took the bedsheets into the bedroom and proceeded to make up Joshua's bed.

And it
was
Joshua's bed. Even after Hazel left, she had continued sleeping upstairs with the girls. She had no intention of coming back to Joshua's bed until he invited her.

She did not know that he was even in the room until he spoke.

“You can sleep here with me tonight if you want.”

She gasped and jumped.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” He was leaning against the doorway, a half-eaten cookie in his hand, watching her.

“You are sure?” she said.

“No,” he answered. “I'm not at all sure. It's only been two months since I buried my wife. To be honest, I'm not sure about anything anymore.”

She considered his words. “I sleep with girls, then.”

“Please, Ingrid. You are so wonderful with the children. Let us at least attempt to be husband and wife.”

As Joshua went back out to his fields, he was furious with himself for what he had just done. His invitation had been a momentary impulse stemming from sheer, overwhelming gratitude for the order she had made out of the upheaval of his life.

At first, he was relieved when she had taken to sleeping with the girls. Night after night he had lain awake smiling as he listened to his daughters giggling as she told them stories. And then, truth be told, a deep sense of loneliness began to wash over him every night, an emptiness that he wondered if she might be able to fill after all.

She was a pleasant enough woman. Could sheer gratitude be a strong enough emotion to take the place of romantic love?

He had no idea, and there wasn't one person on earth he knew to ask. He had never known anyone who had been thrown into this sort of situation before. Now, he was angry at himself for opening his mouth, and he dreaded tonight and what might or might not happen.

“How come you're fixing a bath?” Agnes asked as she and the girls watched Ingrid fill the large round tub with water she had heated on the stove. “It ain't Saturday night.”

Joshua would not come back to the house for a while. He always spent at least an hour after supper doing chores, but just to be safe, she had put three of the high ladder-backed kitchen chairs in front of the tub and draped them with a quilt to give her a little privacy in case he did walk in.

She should have realized that privacy was impossible with all these curious little eyes watching her.

“I work hard, little one. I want bath tonight.”

“So, Swedish people bathe even in the middle of the week if they feel like it?” Agnes probed.

Ingrid smiled. That Agnes—so quick-witted with her never-ending questions.

“Ja. Some
Svenska
people bathe even in middle of week.” She disrobed and sank into the warm water.

She had to sit cross-legged in the tub for it to come up to her waist, but she unbound her hair and used a dipper to sluice warm water over herself. Hazel had been thoughtful enough to include a bar of precious scented soap in the supplies she had brought. Ingrid did not know if it was an accident or if Hazel simply knew—but that bar of soap smelled of lilacs, not of Diantha's roses. In fact, she didn't think she would ever be able to tolerate the scent of roses again.

Her bath would be absolutely delightful if not for the questions coming from the other side of the quilt.

“So, you gonna do this every night from now on?”

“No. Not every night.”

“Too much work to get it ready, right?”

“Ja.” She worked up a nice lather and smoothed it into her long hair. “Too much work.”

It
was
a lot of work, but oh, what a pleasure to wash the week's worth of toil and labor off her body. Best of all, she had a secret she had managed to keep from the girls' prying eyes. Hazel had seen her shabby nightgown the night she had slept at her cabin and had somehow secretly slipped a brand-new, store-bought nightgown into her old valise. Hazel hadn't even told her about it until the next morning.

“I left something behind for you in that old bag of yours,” Hazel whispered as she was leaving.

Ingrid had investigated the minute the girls' backs were turned. It was a lovely, floor-length, white cotton nightgown with a square-cut neckline, lace on the bodice, and a few sprigs of pretty pink flowers printed here and there.

She had not dared to even try it on until today, after Joshua's surprising invitation, while the girls were outside playing. It had fit her well, and best of all, had made her feel pretty.

She now rinsed her hair and then scrubbed her body with a rough washrag until her skin glowed.

“You about done back there?” Agnes asked.

“Ja. Why?”

“Well, I was just thinking,” Agnes said. “Polly's starting to smell a little ripe—can I stick her in there with you?”

One thing that Ingrid did
not
want tonight was to smell like a ripe Polly.

“Wait!” she said. “Almost done.” She rose from the tub and wrapped around her the quilt with which she had covered the chairs.

“Now all girls can take bath!”

With glee, the two littlest girls shucked their clothes off and dove in—the unexpected pleasure of splashing in the tub on an unprecedented middle-of-the-week night was too delightful to pass up. Even Agnes was grinning as she stripped Polly and lifted her in.

While the children splashed in the water, Ingrid, still wrapped in her quilt, sat in front of the opened door of the still-hot oven, drying her hair and reading a ragged copy of her Swedish Bible. Seeing the familiar words made her homesick for her country and for her language. She had not heard a word of Swedish spoken for months.