Northern Lights Trilogy (23 page)

“Elsa—” Peder called.

“I need some air, Peder,” she said from the hallway. “I’ll return in an hour. I want to take Muskatnøtt out for a ride.”

Peder allowed her to go then began looking over some paperwork. Tora could tell he wasn’t reading, just holding the papers to cover his distress. “What is your news, Tora?” Peder said wearily, setting down the paper and rubbing his eyebrows with one hand. The front door slammed.

“She asked me to wait—”

“What news?” Peder roared, rising and leaning over the desk.

Tora’s hand flew to her throat. How dare he take such a threatening tone and pose with her! She had to stay the anger that begged her to respond with, “Temper, temper. She’s merely referring to my pregnancy.” That would put the overbearing man in his place! But she knew it would also work against her. Instead, she used the rush of emotion to work up some tears.

Peder sat down, narrowing his eyes at her with a suspicious expression.

“Really, Peder, my nerves cannot take such violence.”

He sighed and pursed his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you, just … Perhaps you should wait for your sister.”

“No,” she said, wiping a fat tear from her cheek. “It is all right.
We are family now, right?” She took a deep breath. “What I must tell you is that I am in a delicate condition.”

“You mean—” Peder began, his face coloring.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I’m afraid Soren Janssen took advantage of me one night on the ship. I was horrified, of course, and wanted nothing more than to forget it ever happened. I never told anyone because I did not wish to hurt Kaatje. That day you found us in the passageway, he was trying to force himself on me again.” She warmed to the story as it came closer to the truth, and she could
feel
the righteous indignation she knew would sway Peder.

“I had narrowly escaped him. He came on me in the cabin as I napped. Can you imagine?” She fanned herself, as if wanting to waft away bad memories and push back her tears. “I made it to the hallway and told him to never get near me again, when he slapped me. It was then that I called for help.” Tora looked down quickly, wanting Peder’s image to be of a young girl wronged, a victim in his presence.

He did not speak for a long minute, then said, “This is the truth, Tora? Look at me.”

She raised her eyes to his, knowing her future hung in the balance. It was difficult, but she managed to hold his gaze. “Yes,” she said, nodding then looking steadily back at him. She blinked rapidly. “Every word.”

Karl rode his rented mount high into the hills above Camden, following a faint path with fresh tracks. It was no wonder that someone else rode here. It was beautiful and haunting amid the tree skeletons and their autumn crop on the forest floor, a thick blanket of faded fall colors. He turned at a switchback and climbed higher, hoping to eventually reach the top of this hill and find some place to contemplate his future. By tonight, the
Herald
’s cargo would be unloaded and ready for the train. He would leave for New York tomorrow. His departure could not come too soon. In Camden he could think of nothing but Elsa. It threatened to drive him mad as he paced his hotel
room in town, until he had finally settled upon the idea of an afternoon ride.

It had been a good idea. The air refreshed him, cleansed him of his obsessive thoughts. Time and again he turned wandering romantic notions to the business at hand—building the schooner then his steamer. He had his work cut out for him in research, for none of the Bergensers had worked on a steamship, and few in Camden knew much more.

Karl’s mare raised her head and whinnied as they walked, and he could detect an increased energy in her gait, as if she smelled a pile of grain in her stall and was hurrying toward home. It was soon clear what had inspired her. Up ahead was a brown mare, the color of nutmeg. His heart skipped a beat. Surely, this was not Peder’s horse. The last thing he needed was to come across Peder and Elsa in such a romantic setting. He didn’t think his heart could bear it.

But his heart would have to bear much worse. For as he neared, he could hear a woman weeping, and his brow furrowed in concern. Was it Elsa? Was she injured? He made a sound low in his throat, urging his mount to a stop, and leaped to the ground. He scrambled up the hill, following the sorrowful sounds, slipping on damp leaves. At last he reached the top and emerged to find a clearing of granite that looked over the forest below and the harbor beyond it. The vista was glorious. But it was not the view that stopped his heart. It was Elsa. She was alone, sitting on a huge, flat boulder, her arms on her knees, her head on her arms. Her body shook as she wept, and the sight and sound of her distress tore him apart.

“Elsa?” he asked tentatively. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

She looked up, and a sob caught in her throat. Quickly she tried to wipe away the tears and make herself presentable. “Karl,” she managed. “What are you doing here?”

“I was out for a ride … I came across Muskatnøtt—”

“And you heard me,” she finished for him.

“Are you all right? I will leave you in peace, but I wanted to make sure.” He reached into his pocket and handed her his handkerchief.

The act of kindness seemed to tip her over the edge, and she began to cry again. Haltingly, he sat down beside her. He swallowed hard. “Elsa, what is it? What is the matter?”

She stood suddenly, wiping her cheeks with his handkerchief. “It is that Peder,” she spat out. “He is so obstinate; he refuses to take me with you on this next voyage. You’ll only be gone two weeks! It is an easy voyage, but even so, he refuses to allow me along!”

She paced angrily back and forth along the edge of the boulder, and Karl held his breath, wondering at the image of her against the view beyond. Even disheveled from her ride and weeping, she was worthy of a portrait. He wanted to pull her into his arms. But a still, small voice told him his role was that of a brotherly friend, no more. She was not his to take. Nor would she ever be. The thought of it threatened to make him weep himself.

Elsa stopped suddenly and studied him. “What do you think of that, Karl? Is he not being overly protective? If I were your wife, would you not take me along?”

Dear God
, Karl prayed silently, running his hand through his hair.
Does she know what she asks? Is this of you, Lord? Or is this sweet torture of the devil?
He dared to look up at her. “Do not ask me that,” Karl said.

“Why not? You are first mate, are you not? His dearest friend. Perhaps if you agree with me, you could persuade—”

“Elsa!” he said, a bit louder than he had intended. “Stop,” he said, lowering his voice and coming to his feet. “You do not want me in the middle of this. It is your marriage. A private matter. And it is up to you and Peder to determine the right thing.”

She whirled away from him, her skirt and long braid flying. He had hurt her by not joining forces, and his heart ached knowing it. “I am sorry, Elsa.”

She raised her hand, as if to halt his words. “No, Karl. It is I who
am sorry. Forgive me for bringing you into this. You are a good friend and a wise man to stay out of it.”

Karl swallowed. So that was it. Their encounter was at an end. The voice within him commanded him to leave. His own desire commanded him to stay. Would he tear in half if he turned to go? “May I see you home?” he managed to ask.

“No, thank you. I’ll be along shortly.” She turned and gave him a half smile. “Don’t worry about us, Karl. Peder and I will resolve our differences in time.”

Karl nodded then willed his body to turn and climb down from the boulder. Yet he felt as if he remained behind, watching another man leave. Oh, that it were so. He reached his horse and mounted swiftly, whirling the mare around and back toward town like a man chased by a demon.

“What, God?” he cried once he was out of earshot from Elsa. “What would you have me do with these feelings?” He pulled the mare to a stop and shook his fist at the heavens. “What?” he screamed. His question echoed off the nearby cliffs. “Is this my trial?” he asked miserably. “Is this your way of proving whether I am a worthy servant?”

Karl resumed his ride, feeling spent, helpless, and weak. How on earth could this all be resolved in a way befitting a man of faith? And how could it be resolved when he felt himself so miserably distant from his Savior? Perhaps he had been abandoned entirely, he thought. Only one idea sustained him: Tomorrow he would board a train for New York, leaving Camden and temptation behind.

Kaatje winced as she rose from bed, feeling the taut ligaments supporting her abdomen stretch at the effort. How could her body expand to accommodate another two months of the baby’s growth? She felt bloated and round, and her ankles were horribly swollen, but all in all, life was tremendous. Kaatje smiled as she padded over the dirt floor to the bucket of water at the door. It was warmer than usual this
morning, more like late summer than fall. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t shiver as she left her warm bed. But as she drew the blanket aside—their makeshift front door—there was no doubt about it; the crisp edge to the breeze outside warned of winter.

This morning was typical of their routine of late. Soren rose with the sun, eager to get to his work, and built a fire in the yard to brew a pot of coffee. Then he walked over a quarter mile to their neighbor’s well to draw a fresh bucketful of water for Kaatje’s use. By the time the coffee boiled, Kaatje would rise and sleepily make her way to the bucket at the door to wash her face.

Kaatje dried her face with an old rag. Then crossing her arms, she studied Soren as he worked without his shirt, digging a well. Powerful shoulders topped a lean torso that led to a svelte waist. Sweat trickled down his face and chest in tiny streams over dusty skin, even as his breath showed up as clouds in the early morning light. On and on he worked, determined that they would have their own well by first snow.

Kaatje grabbed a shawl from her cedar chest and wrapped it about her, feeling a shiver of excitement run down her back to be able to brazenly walk out into the yard half-dressed. Their farm sat a quarter mile from their nearest neighbor. Old Lady Engvold, as everyone called her, had acquired over 460 acres of land, having homesteaded 160 of them herself and purchased the others. Her land bordered theirs to the west and south. Fred and Claire Marquardt, whose farmhouse sat about a half mile away, owned to the north of them, and on the east was a dear Dutch man named Walter Van Der Roos.

Walter had come to introduce himself soon after they arrived, blushing as he offered Kaatje a pair of wooden clogs, beautifully carved with an intricate pattern, that his dead wife had once worn. Kaatje had taken them without hesitation, thinking of the large holes in her boots that had been patched and repatched over the years. The clogs were a bit large, but comfortable enough. She put them on now and padded out to the campfire, thinking about silly superstitions.
Soren had been able to settle on this prime piece of land because an old cemetery stood on the southeast corner and no one else wanted it. What was all the fuss about? Kaatje had spent many a day wandering about the withered crosses and faded tombstones, tending to the neglected graves. There was something fascinating about the place. It was a reminder that she was very much alive despite being so near death, she decided.

Crouching by the fire, Kaatje poured herself coffee in the tin cup Soren had left beside it. Still her husband did not see her. She watched him in silence, viewing him through the steam of her bitter coffee as if he were a vision. After a while Soren set down his shovel and wiped his face with a rag. He looked to the horizon then toward the soddy. At last he spied her. “Aha! My wife finally rises!”

“I have been up for a while,” she defended with a smile.

“And how long have you been watching me like a prairie dog?”

Kaatje laughed. The prairie dogs were their constant companions, sitting on their haunches and watching their every move. “Long enough to appreciate your work.”

Soren cocked his head to the side. “It is a man’s work.”

“And I appreciate that my man works as he does to make a home for me.”

Soren climbed out of the hole and walked over to her. She rose and offered him her coffee cup. He drank, then handed it back to her, studying her closely. “It is better here, isn’t it, Kaatje?”

Kaatje nodded. Soren took a step closer and placed his hands on her hips. “And I like it that you can go about in your night shift and shawl.” He raised his hands and twisted about like a dust devil. “Freedom! Privacy! A place to call our own! America!” He said “America” with relish, enunciating each syllable. He grinned and pulled her close once more. “It is a fine, fine thing that we’ve done.”

“It is,” Kaatje said, feeling utterly satisfied. She shook her head and stepped away from Soren. “Now I must tend to breakfast. Can
you hold out for another hour? I hoped to send a letter to town with Mr. Marquardt this morning. He said he’d be by about nine.”

“Sure,” Soren said. “Go write your letter to Elsa. Tell her I’m taking care of you,” he added with a grin. “Tell her I was afraid not to after her fierce warning.”