Northern Lights Trilogy (20 page)

Nora reached across the aisle and handed Kaatje her fan.

“No, I couldn’t,” Kaatje protested. She knew Einar had purchased it from a vendor in Boston as a wedding gift for Nora, an uncommon extravagance for such a simple man.

“You take it,” urged Nora. “It is the blessing of all expectant mothers that others treat them with a little extra kindness.”

“Thank you,” Kaatje said, reluctantly taking the luxurious fan. Its handles were made of ivory and the linen covering nearly matched it in color. On it was a delicately painted picture of a Japanese woman in her native kimono, sitting beside a tiny, strange-looking tree with a curved trunk. In her hands was a fan like the one Kaatje held.

“An exotic fan for a Bergen farm girl, is it not?” she asked Soren.

“A befitting fan for my wife,” he said, tenderly touching her cheek. “I should have purchased one, too, that day with Einar.”

She looked down, embarrassed by his praise. Was that not evidence in itself that he had recommitted himself to their marriage? He loved her. First, best, and always. The gentle rocking of the train and Soren’s hand in hers reassured Kaatje that all was right in her world, especially now that they had left Soren’s dark-haired temptress behind. Surely in a land where they gave away one hundred and sixty acres to every person who sought it, there would be few women and far between. On their land, they would form their own little country, a hundred and sixty acres of safety. Yes. In the Dakotas, she and Soren would find their way.

Tora sighed in relief as the train slid out of sight. Soren was at last out of her hair, one more step accomplished in her path to a bright future. She grimaced as Lars screamed at the top of his lungs and Kristoffer glanced eagerly around for her, but then steeling herself, she went to the man. In spite of herself, there was something in the baby’s cry that tugged at her heartstrings, urging her to move. And after all, she mused, she needed to convince them all that she’d embraced her lot if she was ever to escape it.

As she walked across the stifling platform, Tora placed a hand on
her stomach. Ever since that awful, heavy breakfast at the inn, she had felt queasy. The sensation brought tears to her eyes.

Kristoffer glanced at her, misreading her misty eyes. “You are sorry to see them go?”

She stifled a smile, ready to take advantage of his concern. “Yes. It makes me feel just that much farther from home,” she said prettily.

“You will like Camden-by-the-Sea,” he said, taking her arm as Lars nestled underneath her chin, despite the heat, and soon quieted. “I have sailed there many times with Peder. There are shops and a bookstore that will keep you busy when you need a distraction from the boys.”

“I hope so,” she said. Together they left the station, and Kris hailed a cab, a black coach with one horse. Someday, she would have her own George IV phaeton like those she saw on the streets of Boston. The elegant coaches were slipper-shaped and open so that a lady’s fine dress might be seen. Yes, that, and a matched span of golden horses to lead it. She would go fast, everywhere, for time was of the essence. They all wasted so much time! Five more months would seem like an eternity.

Tora glanced over her shoulder as she heard the whistle of another train leaving the station. What she wouldn’t give to be on it, going to someplace exciting, where things
happened
. Instead she was destined to board that cursed ship again and be carted off to some sleepy town to the north. Such was her life. But her time would soon come.

Peder breathed a sigh of relief as he and Elsa hailed a hackney, a coach for public hire. He felt as if half his responsibility had departed on that train after five long years of planning. He wished them the best. He and Karl had told the men all they knew about the rough country to which they were headed, hoping to impart a sense of realism. But he knew that they remained hopeful that their land would be all the railroads promised, an Eden in a world of deserts. “Father, be with them,” he prayed quietly as he settled into the coach beside Elsa.

She bowed her head beside him, joining in. “Yes, Father. We ask that thou wilt watch over them. Help them to make good decisions and avoid harm. Help them find fertile land in which to settle and build. And go before them always.”

“Amen,” Peder said, placing his arm around her. “And now on to
our
new land. Are you excited?”

“Terribly. But I am glad so many of our people go with us. If they all had departed on that train, I am afraid I would be horribly sad.”

“This from the woman who says she’d like to set sail with me!” Peder said, making a point. “I can just see us in Hong Kong and you begging me to leave because you are homesick. No, it’s obvious to me that a woman needs a village, a community to which she belongs.”

Elsa was silent, looking down at her hands as a muscle in her jaw worked. When she spoke, her words were measured. “A woman’s place is beside her husband. Yes, I might be lonely without friends and neighbors aboard, but I would be much more lonely without you.”

Peder glanced at her. How were they to resolve this? He had hoped that her comment meant that she had at last come to agreement with him. “I was pleased to see Tora go to Kris this afternoon,” he said, tactfully avoiding the subject that got them both so upset. “She seems to be coming around. Perhaps with time, she and Kris will become … attached.”

“I think that is far-fetched,” Elsa said gently.

“You never know.”

“No, I suppose not. But I’m certain Tora has something else in mind. This time in Camden is like a prison sentence to her, and she’ll look for any opportunity to dig a tunnel to what she considers freedom.”

“And if she escapes?”

“So be it. I cannot be her keeper. And I would only lament placing such a burden on Kris.”

“You will take in his children if she abandons them while we are at sea,” Peder stated.

“I will take them in if we are at home,” she corrected, with no note of aggression in her voice. “And I will speak to Ebba Erikson or Ola Thompson about it when we sail.”

Peder thought about setting her straight, then elected not to press the issue. There was time enough to convince her. Once they were in Camden and she had the task of settling her new home, Elsa would be so busy she probably wouldn’t notice when he sailed without her. What they needed were a few children of their own, he thought, warming to the idea.

Yes, with a few children, Elsa would be happy to stay at home.

bitter truths
September 1880–April 1881

E
lsa absently wandered around their Camden cottage, missing her husband for the fifth time that day. He had been at sea for six weeks, leaving after a terrible argument in which he forbade her to come and commanded her to stay.

“Please, Peder. Don’t you see? It is because I love you that I want to be with you.”

“No, Elsa. I’ve made my decision. You must abide by it.”

“Just like that? What if I do not think you have given it the consideration it warrants?”

He had stood there, glowering.
“Do not second-guess me.”

“Do not dictate to me.”

“It is finished. Done. I have decided.”

With all these thoughts crowding in on her, she needed air. She stepped outside onto the verandah. The beauty of the autumn day caught her eye and momentarily eased her anguished thoughts. The leaves were turning, the sky was a bright blue, and Elsa felt the urge to paint the scene. Seizing any idea that might afford some distraction, she hurried to her supplies and brought out a fresh canvas, a
pencil, and her newest adventure in media, oil paints. She would illustrate their home on a small canvas so that she might mount and frame it for Peder’s cabin on the
Herald
.

Our
cabin, she corrected herself. As beautiful as her new home was, she was determined to be on the next outbound ship with Peder.

Elsa left her supplies in the dry, tall grasses in front of her home and went back for easel and chair. Five minutes later she was settled and sketching the house. This view of it still took her breath away. Somehow inside she forgot its simple, forthright beauty. From here it all came back. The Atlantic breathed a fresh gust up the hill from the water, and Elsa smiled. This was a good idea. How many letters could she write Kaatje, anyway?

She concentrated on the elements before her, warming to her task. She had been overwhelmed at her first sight of Ramstad Yard and even more by the quaint cottage beside it. She had been overcome as Peder led her through their home. Only the first floor and the outside were complete. “The rest will have to wait for the success of Ramstad Yard,” he said, smiling and exultant as she shared in his joy over their home. As much as Peder infuriated her, at the moment Elsa longed to see that smile again.

She studied the contrast between the narrow first-floor clapboards and the intricate second-floor shingle patterns. The gables were steep, and the encircling verandah had spindle-like ornaments often found on homes built by architects influenced by the Queen Anne master, Richard Shaw. But her favorite part of the house was the turret on the north side, a towering lookout in which she could watch for Peder as she had from the hills bordering Bergen. Many windows let in as much light as possible, and a giant, medieval-type chimney boasted of the warm fires that would kindle come winter.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, Elsa completed the rough sketch and began to paint, using her tiniest brushes for detail. A house had none of the action that ships did, but she was inspired. For she knew
that it was with love and sacrifice that Peder had built this home for her. If only he were with her right now, she mused.

A thought came to her. Peder loved this growing talent of hers, nurtured it, in fact. Perhaps she could argue that she needed to travel with him for research. How else could she insert the sense of realism, combined with the romanticism, that made artists successful? If that did not convince him, she would argue until she was blue in the face. Why be married if only to be continually separated?

She glanced over her shoulder. Down below in Ramstad Yard, they were completing the caulker’s shed where men would soon twist and prepare rope, and the long house, a single-story mold loft where others would craft models or set out the ribs for the new schooner. All of the men from Bergen were gone, however, off to sea on the
Herald
to make some more cash before winter settled in. Kristoffer was the only one who remained behind, left to oversee construction at Ramstad Yard and the care of his home and children. The workers at the yard had made good progress in the last six weeks, and things were taking shape. Elsa returned her gaze to the house, wanting to capture the colors of the autumn leaves before putting away her paints for the day. It had been a wet year, she was told, so the colors were more muted; in dry years they would be brilliant gold, gaudy orange, and vermilion. But Elsa preferred the more subtle hues of ocher, russet, umber, and mustard—they held a depth that captivated her and her brush as she mixed the oils to get just the right shade. She was excited to try her hand at painting. Ramstad House looked warm and welcoming, and she wanted to remember this day forever on canvas.