An Untamed Heart (10 page)

“Good. Why don’t you go get a jug of milk from the springhouse, and we’ll sit outside.” She looked at their faces. “Some of you got sunburned. That’s why bonnets are no good hanging down the back.”

“The boys are lucky. Their straw hats are better than bonnets.” Hamme led the way out of the fire pit to the sitting logs and wood chunks that were now in the shade of the house. Mari brought out the freshly made gorobrød, butter, and jam, Gunlaug passed out the cups, and Jon poured—very carefully.

Ingeborg leaned against the log wall of the house. They had done a good day’s work, and everyone got along. What more could she ask for?

“They must have smelled the gorobrød,” Hjelmer said when they heard a dog bark. “I’ll go put the sheep in the corral so they can eat.”

Ingeborg watched him go. Hjelmer might not be the tallest, but he was the most caring of the boys in the family. He took after his grandfather Bjorn.

If only . . .

She knew better than to listen to
if only
.

But
 . . . not a good word either.

Please, Lord, let tomorrow be as peaceful
as today
.
And thank you the hail didn’t damage anything either.

The next morning, Ingeborg held Tor back from tending to his chores after breakfast. “Tor, your hands?”

He rolled his eyes but returned and held his hands out.

“The bandages are pretty dirty. Are you not wearing gloves?” She fetched a scissor and cut them off. “We let this go too long. Let’s see how they look.”

As she peeled back the bandages, she was pleased to see healthy pink skin under the dead skin of the blisters, much of which had worn away. “Very good. But we’ll wrap them again to protect the new skin.” As she spoke she did just that. “And you wear the gloves.”

He nodded. “I know how to sew gloves if you have some tanned deer hide, or sheepskin can work too. I could make me a new pair or make Anders a new pair and keep these.”

She’d not heard him speak that long at once before and to volunteer something like that. Smiling up at him, she nodded. “We do have a deerskin—two, in fact. I’ll get them out for you. How did you learn?”

“My far. He makes all kinds of leather things—shoes, aprons, gloves, bags. I help him.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Far’s gloves never raise welts or rub the skin raw either. But I’m not that good yet.”

She knotted the ties on the backs of his hands. “There you go. Count yourself lucky. Those blisters could have gotten infected and messed up your summer.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Not with you taking care of ’em. They wouldn’t dare.”

Ingeborg tried to hide her laughter but gave it up as a bad effort and burst out laughing. “Takk, I think.” Maybe there was hope for Tor after all. One thing for sure, he would learn a lot this summer.

O
SLO
, N
ORWAY

The clock on the wall ticked quietly, marking moments, its shiny brass pendulum flowing back and forth. Nils glanced at it again. It was five minutes after nine. The last time he had looked, it was four minutes after nine. His appointment was supposed to be at nine o’clock, and the dean was a punctual sort. What could be the problem? Ordering himself to relax, he heaved a sigh, which made him wish he’d not. He scooted a bit further back in his chair and forced himself to stop fingering the hat brim in his hands. The clock ticked.

The dean’s office door swung open, and his secretary stepped out into the foyer. The gentleman was dressed like Nils’s father dressed, every stitch of attire perfect from cravat to shoes. “The dean will see you now, Mr. Aarvidson.”

“Thank you, sir.” Nils stood up, sucked in some air as a tweak in his side stabbed him, then walked to the door.

The secretary stepped in behind him and announced lugubriously, “Mr. Nils Aarvidson, Mr. Klein.” He stepped backward. Nils heard the door click.

“Please be seated, Mr. Aarvidson.” The dean had been living in Oslo how many decades? And he still spoke with the clipped, authoritative German accent of his homeland.

“Thank you, sir.” Nils perched on the edge of the chair, thought twice about that, and slid back to give a more relaxed impression—also not a good idea. “Thank you for allowing me this audience.”

The dean nodded. “I have spent the last fifteen minutes looking at your records.” He tapped a pile of papers on the corner of his desk. “I also have here a letter from your attending physician, Dr. Jorge, about the extent of the injuries you sustained in that accident. I am amazed that you are so soon ambulatory.” He sat back. “So what have you been doing for the last week?”

Nils had not been expecting that question, or any question, for that matter. He had been expecting a diatribe such as his father delivered daily. “Uh, convalescing, sir. Or trying to. And studying. Actually fretting over not studying. I’m having a difficult time concentrating. My sister, Amalia, has been reading to me, coaching me. My eyes don’t focus well yet.”

“As your doctor’s comments suggested. That blow to the head. Your father came by to see me a few days ago. He is greatly concerned.”

What could he say? “Yes, he is.”

“Your father has requested that we postpone your examinations until near the beginning of the fall school year. He wants you to work in his office half time over summer and study half time.”

It blurted out of him before he could think. “So he can supervise my studies.”

The dean smiled slightly. “Quite possibly, although he did
not mention that. So I queried your professors. Your philosophy professor is willing to postpone your exam until the beginning of fall semester. He senses in you a potential that is yet untapped.”

As does my father.
Again Nils held his tongue.

“Your logistics professor has offered to waive your exam and give you a grade based on your work to date. Would that be acceptable to you?”

Nils tried to think fast and could not. Logistics of Trade and Transport. He was making an average grade—not great, not mediocre. Could he do better with an exam?
Think, Nils!
Probably not. “Yes. Yes, sir, that would be satisfactory. I am grateful.”

The dean nodded. “And your medieval history professor refuses to consider a postponement. He intends that you take the exam at the appointed time, along with his other students.”

“Then I will do so. Thank you for your efforts, Dean Klein. I am grateful.”

The dean stood, so Nils leapt to his feet, gasping as another stab of pain sliced through his ribs. The dean extended his hand. “Mr. Aarvidson, I am impressed. Despite your circumstance, you have not once complained or tried to pass blame. I wish you well. Thank you for coming in.”

Nils stretched forward to accept the handshake and just about died. He hoped the pain didn’t show. “Thank you, sir. I truly am grateful.”

“And I truly am impressed with your fortitude. Good luck, Mr. Aarvidson.”

Nils heard the door open behind him, so with one more thank-you, he nodded briefly and left.

As the door closed behind him, he heard the dean saying, “Take a letter. Mr. Rignor Aarvidson, care of Aarvidson Shipping. My esteemed Mr. Aarv . . .”

“This is outrageous!” RA slapped the open sheet of foolscap on his desk. “A pox on Hermann Klein! A pox on that sorry excuse for a school! A simple request and they send this!”

Nils knew what
this
was—the letter from the dean, explaining the decisions that had been made.

His father turned on him. “And you acquiesced to this nonsense!”

Apparently Nils was deserving of a pox as well. “It was the best I could get, given the choices. At least I need to study for only one exam this fall rather than three.”

“Dinner is served.” The footman stood in the doorway.

RA marched out, still fuming.

“Thank you.” Nils nodded to the footman and followed the furious tycoon downstairs to the dining room, hanging on to the stair rail and feeling every step he took. He castigated himself with each one. He couldn’t even remember the footman’s name. How would he ever be ready for that test?

At the bottom of the stairs, Katja scooted past him and stood at her chair. She sat and gripped its seat with both hands, lifting as Nils scooted it in, lest his ribs decide to come apart again. Dear, sweet Katja.

Absolutely icy, Nils’s father rattled through the blessing. His mother picked up her fork.

Nils announced, “I learned today that my classmate, Hans
Boonstra, is a descendant of Dutch bankers who helped the Germans set up the Hanseatic League. His family has always been bankers.”

RA scowled at the platter of pork roast the cook placed before them before the man returned to the kitchen.

No answer? Then Nils would continue. “His family is remarkably wealthy. Apparently his father and grandfather bought up Amerikan dollars and bonds right after their civil war twenty years ago, when bonds and currency were cheap. Now the Boonstras are buying up more, because the nation is in a financial depression. They are quite certain the Amerikan economy will rebound, and when it does, they will be well enough off that they can buy most of Europe, if anyone would want most of Europe.”

RA studied his son. “At least he follows in his father’s footsteps.” There was a bitter edge to his words.

Nils licked his lips. “Actually, no. He’s going to let his brothers do that. He wants to get into trade and transport, he says. Shipping. He has taken quite a fancy to it, what with our logistics class and all, and he’s quite good with geography.” And Nils drove home his point: “Hans will be doing something he truly enjoys. I envy that.”

For some reason he glanced at his mother. She was studying him carefully. What was going on in that well-coiffed head?

Nils had five days to master seven hundred years of European history. He returned to classes and took notes conscientiously, but learning a little something about the century immediately preceding the Enlightenment didn’t help a whole lot.

In the evenings Amalia read his notes back to him, complaining frequently that his scrawl was nearly illegible. She read his text to him. He blotted up as much as he could, painfully aware that his mind was nowhere near as sharp as it had been, and it had not been too sharp to start with.

Examination day arrived, and he settled into his desk in history class and took pen in hand to write his medieval history exam. It was a shame he couldn’t send Amalia to take it for him. She excelled in history and had learned more from the coaching than he had from being the one coached.

The first twenty minutes or so went pretty well. Then the headache returned. Another half hour and his eyes could not focus well. He saw his own handwriting grow larger and larger. He was losing his fine motor control. Oops, he had just mixed up Leo the tenth with Hadrian the sixth. Or wait . . . He ended up skipping the question about the popes.

At last a question that referred to the last two lectures, the dawn of the Enlightenment. He could discuss that one. When his professor counted down to zero and everyone laid their pens aside, he had completed all but the pope question and had even added some information to two of the other essays.

It took him nearly a minute simply to stand up. His legs ached, his ribs ached, his head ached. His heart ached. Surely he could have done better.

Hans was waiting for him outside the door. “I’d ask you how it went, but you look like you’d have to get better to die. I happen to have a hansom waiting for us out front. You don’t have to walk.”

“Boonstra, you’re a prince among men. Prince nothing. King.” Nils stumbled down the hallway. “I would love to
join you for a beer, but I’m too knackered. I’d like to just go home and sleep.”

“Understood.” Hans was his usual ebullient self, and his cheer raised Nils’s spirits. A little. “Oh, Nils, and I think I have a job. Not in trade exactly, but close. I will be a stevedore down on the Londres dock.”

“Loading the Nordic Princess?”

Hans stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“My father owns the Nordic Princess and she’s in the Londres dock right now taking on lumber. Enjoy. She used to be a ketch, but they’ve rigged her as a barkentine. A worthy little vessel.”

“A barkentine. That’s she, all right.” Hans held the door for him and pointed two doors down toward a carriage at the curb. “Right over there. I’m telegraphing my father, telling him I’ve found gainful employment in Norway, and to save the cost of my traveling home and then traveling back to school, I’m just staying here. Save him some money.”

Nils stepped up into the hansom and flopped down on the leather seat. The carriage bobbed a bit, giving his ribs another tweak. “And what will your father say to that?”

“He’ll say bosh, he can afford to send me home. Or maybe not. Saving a guilder here and a guilder there has always rung his bell.” Hans settled in across from Nils and swung the door closed. He rapped on the roof.

Nils chuckled as the cab lurched forward. “Can you join us for dinner?”

“Another appointment, sorry. But I’ll gladly accept an invitation for another time. Just think. The shipping magnate and the lowly stevedore dining together.”

Nils snorted. “A lowly stevedore who can afford to buy the
ship.” How good it felt to simply chat, without the need to learn anything, without the need to mount a pretense. How he wished his life were like this.

By dinnertime he had retrieved enough of his faculties that he could make decent conversation. He allowed as how Amalia had gotten him through the exam and refused to speculate on the results. Then he let his father take off and expound, and what the man said didn’t even really register. His mother nodded knowingly now and then, and he knew well that she wasn’t listening either. For some curious reason, he glanced over several times to see her carefully watching him.