An Untamed Heart (3 page)

Ingeborg sighed, for at last the evening of the dance had arrived. Her sisters were all getting dressed, and she was sure Gunlaug was also ready long in advance. If there were any way out, Ingeborg would take it.

“Are you not ready?” Mor asked one more time.

“Nearly.” Ingeborg wrapped her golden braid around her head and pinned it into place. Gilbert gave her a brief nod with an almost smile that showed her he approved. Gilbert and Ingeborg each picked up a basket of the food they’d prepared, as did their parents as they went out the door to walk the mile to the Geltlunds’ place. The dance would be held in the barn loft tonight, for not only was it in town, it was nearly empty of fodder. Far had said they’d leave the horses to rest tonight.

The Strands met Gunlaug’s family as they walked the road past their farm, and her cousin immediately fell into step beside Ingeborg.

“What if Ivar’s mother gives me one of her looks for dancing too often with her son?”

“Ignore her.”

“You might be able to do that, but she makes me quake in my shoes.”

Ingeborg shook her head.
Silly goose, you better listen to what you are saying if you want to marry that mama’s boy. His mother will run your life, or ruin it.
But she kept her thoughts to herself. Perhaps up at the seter, Gunlaug would get over this infatuation for Ivar.

They heard the music while they were still up the road a bit. Katrina, Ingeborg’s next in line sister, hung back, and Oscar Boll, her intended, fell in step with her as they passed his farm. He was a bit slow but not a bad catch. Right now, he and his far were building a house for the new bride and groom, so they might not have to live with his parents. Since he was the eldest son, he would inherit the farm.

Couples were swirling around the well-swept area to the beat of a tune played by an accordion, a fiddle, and a guitar, which its owner insisted was imported from Germany. Someone thumped on a homemade drum. Ingeborg’s feet seemed to have a life of their own. She never could keep still when the music played.

They set their baskets on the tables, and Gilbert grabbed her hand. “Come on, before you get told what to do.”

Gratitude for her older brother swept her along with him as they picked up the pattern and let the music take them away. Both of them were content to enjoy dancing and not talk.

Ingeborg glanced off to the side. She had attracted the attention of Asti, a sort of friend, since they both knew everyone in the small community of Valdres. Asti wanted to be dancing with Gilbert, Ingeborg knew, and she tucked a smile away. Surely Gilbert might like to know this, if he didn’t already.
Asti would be a good wife to her big brother. How could she work this out?

She stopped herself. Why would she work this out? She hated being pushed, hated being the subject of matchmaking. Surely Gilbert would like it no better. She missed a beat and shrugged up at him. When the music ended, she guided him over to where Asti and another friend were chatting. When Gilbert slowed down, she took his arm and kept him going. “Asti, how nice to see you.”

The slender young woman smiled back and up at Gilbert also.

“How’s your mor?” Ingeborg knew the woman had been having health problems.

“She’s better.”

The musicians picked up a polka, and Ingeborg smiled up at her brother. “Why don’t you and Asti go dance this one.” She pulled his hand out and placed it over Asti’s, ignoring any look he might be giving her and smiling at Asti, who was shyer than she needed to be. She watched the two of them move toward the dance floor and congratulated herself on a job well done.

A tap came on her shoulder, and her onkel Jonas took her hand. “Surely you’ll give an old man a chance to enjoy this dance.”

“Since you are not old yet, I’m not sure.”

She linked her arm through his, knowing they would not need to talk. Of her mother’s brothers, he was her favorite.

Later on she saw Gilbert and Asti together again, and this time they were both smiling. And talking. Maybe he wouldn’t be put out with her after all.

After the dance, Ivar asked Gunlaug if he could walk her home, so Ingeborg fell in with her family.

“Why did you not dance with that nice Garborg boy?” her mor asked. There was the slightest tinge of disapproval in her voice, as if she considered it Ingeborg’s fault.

“He didn’t ask me,” Ingeborg answered, bringing her mind back from something Onkel Jens had said.

“Did you even meet him?”

“No one introduced me.”

“I am sure if you had made any effort, you could have arranged it.”

I was too busy helping Gilbert and Asti
. But she kept that thought to herself too. If only she could remember to keep her mouth closed more often.

She wished someone would ask her mor a question, make a comment, anything.

“He seemed a very nice young man.” Mor pressed forward. “He is working in his father’s store in Hallingdal.”

“Oh.” What could she say? She would spread gossip, that’s what. “Did you know that Onkel Jonas wants to go to Amerika?”

“He can’t. He is the eldest son and has inherited the land.”

“What if he chose to give that land to a younger brother, or even a sister?”
Ingeborg Strand, do not ask questions if you don’t want to know the answer, or in this case listen to your mother talk down to you again.
As if she didn’t know the primogeniture rules also.

“That just isn’t done.” The tone of finality should have warned her to stop.

“But what if he doesn’t want the land?”

“The law is the law.”

“There must be a provision for a situation like this.”

“Mor, my heel hurts. I think I must have a blister.” Mari,
the youngest of the children, tugged at her mor’s skirt on the other side.

Grateful for the reprieve, Ingeborg dropped back and walked by herself. If only the time for the seter would come soon.

O
SLO
, N
ORWAY

“You know you are not working anywhere near your potential.”

Fighting to keep his face neutral, Nils stared at his father. Agree? Disagree? Would it make any difference? He chose the neutral way. “I know.”

“Then why are you not doing something about it?” Rignor Aarvidson stared across his steepled fingers at his son—his only son and thus the heir to the hard-earned Aarvidson wealth, a fiefdom started by his father and passed on to the eldest son, namely RA. He waited, his eyes narrowing.

Nils turned back to the window on the third floor of a cut-stone building right in the heart of Oslo. He could just see the harbor, where he knew his father’s ships were moored, awaiting another load of lumber on the way to insatiable London. Why could his father not leave him be? The sun was out for a change, and the mountains were calling him. One more ski break before the snow melted.

But yes, he was not working anywhere near as hard as he needed to be. He remained in the upper third of his class,
but he knew well he should be competing for top honors at his college. If only he could convince himself of the value of history and philosophy, let alone French. Though that was one class he excelled in, strictly because he could see a purpose in it. But studying the Napoleonic Wars only served to remind him that history would repeat itself if not learned.

At this point he spoke both Swedish and Norwegian fluently, had a fair knowledge of German, and could understand the opera in French. His favorite composers were Bach and Grieg, whose music echoed of mountains and living water thundering down the mountainsides. Studying music history was not a sacrifice. But his father did not deem those studies necessary to continue to build the family fortune, when the reins descended into his son’s very unwilling hands.

“So what are we to do?”

We? He meant, of course,
What are you going to do about this great lack in your character
? But could we be opening a doorway or at least a window to negotiating? His father loved nothing more than a good argument well presented.

“What is it? Your face just announced it had joined the discussion.”

Nils turned and focused on his father’s fingers. One forefinger tapped the other, a sure sign that he was running out of patience. “I have an idea, but I’d like to have some time to think it through before we discuss it.”

RA heaved a sigh, paused, and then with eyes still narrowed, gave an abrupt nod. “Will you be home for supper tonight?”

Nils knew that was not a question but a command. He’d not planned to be home for supper, but this was of sufficient importance to change his plans. After all, attending another
soirée was not high on his list of enjoyments anyway. He was only going because it would make his mother happy. He could be home for supper and the discussion and still arrive fashionably late.

“Yes, sir, I will be.”

“Good. Notify Cook that we will both be there.” His father spun his chair and rose to his full height, a trick that Nils knew his father used when he wanted to intimidate someone. It used to work with his son.

When had that changed? Nils almost pondered that as he made his exit. Feeling like a trapped bird newly freed, he whistled his way down the three sets of stairs and out onto the street. Instead of catching a hansom cab, he chose to walk the half mile back to the university campus. Good weather like this demanded that he take advantage of it.

He nodded to the two young ladies he met and could feel their gaze on his back as he continued onward. Attracting the female population took no effort on his part. His mother had called his looks classic Norsk and pointed to his father as an example. Although Nils’s wavy hair was a darker shade of blond than his father’s had ever been, it was no less attractive. He nodded and tipped his hat to two older ladies, one of whom looked vaguely familiar. He had half an hour until his next class and needed to pick up his textbooks first.

Nils enjoyed philosophy, more or less. This class was less. Much less. While the professor droned on about the importance of properly weighing the statements of Marcus Jakob Monrad—Norway’s foremost philosopher— when discussing governmental matters, Nils jotted down notes for his evening
meeting with his father. It would look like he was studiously taking class notes. At the end of the lecture, he folded over the page in his notebook and carefully ripped out his notes, tucking the paper into his pocket.

As he was walking out the door, Hans Boonstra fell in beside him, matching him stride for stride. The cheerful Dutchman was grinning, as usual. “Saw you taking class notes very studiously. So what were you writing down really?”

“Classes like this one are better skipped.” Nils was grinning too. “You know me far too well, Hans. Will you be going back to Rotterdam when school is done?”

“Probably. My father is lining up a job for me. I’d much rather stay here. Your father isn’t hiring this summer, is he?”

“Not that I know of. I’ll keep you posted if something comes up. Don’t you want to go home?”

“To a mother who constantly tries to make me perfect so I’ll marry well, and a father who constantly finds fault because I’m not exactly like him? Spare me.”

“You too, eh?” So apparently Nils’s life was not unique. They chatted idly for two blocks before separating. Nils cut across the park and down the alley to his family’s home, where he’d been invited to join them for supper.

“I’m home, Mor,” he announced as he stuck his head into the drawing room, where his mother was entertaining her sister for coffee.

“Come and greet your tante Marit.” His mother beckoned him in.

He kept from rolling his eyes by sheer force of habit, gave his aunt a sort of half bow and half dip of the head, then looked to his mother. “I need to get changed before supper.” Then back to his aunt. “Will you be joining us?”

“Nei, I must leave soon. Be a dear boy and ask Mrs. Skogen to call for my carriage.”

“I’m sorry to hear you won’t be joining us. I always enjoy your company.”

“Another time. Will you be at the soirée later?”

“If at all possible. I’m planning on it.”

“Good. I hear there is a young lady coming whom I would love to introduce you to.”

“Now, seriously, why would you want to do that? I have another year of school and then must concentrate on learning the business, all before I can think of the ladies, including—” he paused—“Ingra Grunewald.”

The tante clucked. “Cheeky boy. You know she and that Lund lad are seeing each other.”

“Not seriously, of course.” Another of his mother’s dreams, a union between the two houses of Aarvidson LMT and Grunewald, their closest competitor. A union of the two would create a possible monopoly in the lumber shipping trade from Norway, a longtime dream of both of his parents. While he found Ingra to be lovely and a talented pianist, she lacked seriously in the love of outdoors, much preferring drawing rooms to mountain meadows and rocky trails.

“Ah yes. Unless you are publicly committed, there is always room for hope.” The tante tapped her folded fan on his arm. “We must make time for a good visit one of these days.”

“We must, but let’s not discuss my future love life, please.” He gave a vague imitation of a bow and left the room. Why did every woman over the age of thirty set about matchmaking? He and his tante used to play chess. Sometimes she even let him win. She was also quite a horsewoman, and they had spent many hours in the saddle at Laughing Creek, the
summer home of her and her husband, the uncle for whom Nils was named, now deceased. That had been a sad day for all of them, as Onkel and Tante were favorites of all three of the Aarvidson children.

Nils took the curving walnut staircase two at a time and hurried down the hall to his rooms. Being late to the table was another way to irritate his far, one he was careful not to trespass upon. He shut the door behind him and sighed. A fire danced in the fireplace, and his evening attire was laid out on the bed, waiting for him. Bless Janssen for looking ahead and making sure his young man was properly dressed. Open-necked shirts with full sleeves and tightly woven wool pants that resisted wind and water were much more Nils’s style, along with hiking boots and a leather vest. Riding boots too were much preferred to the fine leather shoes waiting in front of the chair. The temptation to hide out in the wing-back chair in front of the fire was hard to resist, but resist he did and donned the evening’s wear, including the cravat draped on the back of the chair. He paused to clasp the walnut mantel in both hands and lean his forehead on them to stare into the dancing fire.

A campfire on the edge of a crystal blue high mountain lake slipped into his mind. If his plan worked, that would become an actuality instead of a memory. Give him trout from the lake, sizzling in a frying pan, with the hoot of an owl for music, and he was purely content.

“You better hurry, young sir,” Janssen said from the doorway. “They are already gathering.”

“Thank you.” Nils slipped his arms into the waistcoat Janssen held out for him, then the dinner coat. “Will I do?”

“Yes, you’ll do. You’ll more than do.” Janssen stepped back. “Will you be late tonight?”

“Most likely, unless I can beg off early. I have a good excuse though—more reading in my so delightful philosophy book, sure to put one to sleep in short order.”

“Is that why you often read it standing in front of the fire?”

“Only way I can stay awake.”

Janssen smiled, showing his gold tooth. “You’ll do fine.”

“Thank you.” Nils followed him out, nearly being run into by his younger sister. “Easy does it.”

“Mor reminded me to not be late, and I almost am.” Katja tucked a wisp of hair back to be pinned in. Unruly hair after one had put her hair up was not to be tolerated.

“Don’t worry. You look lovely, as always.”

She tucked her arm around his. “Thank you. You always make me feel good. Shall we go down?”

He leaned closer and whispered, “To the dungeon?”

“I hope not. You had a meeting with Far today. How did he seem?”

“Disappointed. I am not working up to my potential.”

“Well, you aren’t.”

“I know, but—”

“But you’d rather be up in the mountains, or at least the hills, or horseback, or . . .”

He patted her hand. “You know me well. If only sons were not the only ones expected to work in the family business. Amalia would rather be in the office than anywhere else. She was just born the wrong sex.”

Katja nodded. “She thinks making money is the most exciting thing in the world. You should see the books she reads. And the newspapers. She squirrels them away as soon as Far is finished with them.”

“She will do well heading up some charity and using her
skills to bring money in for their ministries.” He turned to look at her as they descended the stairs. “And you, pet, what do you want to do?”

“Go climb the mountains along with you.” She patted his arm, as if she were the older and wiser. “It’s a shame none of us can have what we want.”

“At least you can still go riding with Tante.”

Katja dropped her voice. “I rode astride one day. I may never go back to the sidesaddle—a horrid contraption made by men to restrict women. You can only half control your horse, and it’s easy to become unbalanced.”

“You better not say that out loud.”

“I know, but I can always say my mind to you.” They entered the dining room just as their father seated their mother. They’d missed the drawing room conversations, which didn’t bother either one of them.

“Glad you could manage to get here reasonably on time.” RA waited until Nils seated his sister, then sat himself.

Nils just nodded, shook out his napkin and laid it in his lap.

“Shall we pray?”

Bowing his head, he let the old words roll over him. “I Jesu navn, går vi til bords . . .” Together they said the amen, and the footman brought in the soup tureen.

Nils kept one ear on the conversation, which was deemed proper for the dining room. Far asked each of the girls what had been the most important part of their day, and then looked to his son. “And you, Nils, what do you have to say?”