Northern Lights Trilogy (29 page)

“I tell you, Seattle lumber is some of the finest around. And they have scads of it,” said Henry Whitehall—of Whitehall Lumber Company fame—then took a sip of his Scotch whiskey. Peder glanced at the glass the man had ordered for him, which remained untouched and sweating on a cloth napkin. Whitehall was tall with black hair salted with gray and coal black eyes. His countenance was fearsome. “There’s a future there, and I mean to be a part of it.”

“You plan to take off for some forsaken corner of Northern America?” asked James Kingsley, himself an iron baron and an old friend of Whitehall’s. In contrast, he was short and stocky with a closely trimmed, gray beard. “I can just see Augusta’s face,” he added with a wink toward Peder. “No, I think you will spend the rest of your days in New York. She’s as firmly ensconced in society here as my own dear Hazel.”

“Well, if I can’t convince the old woman to take off to territory unknown, then perhaps I’ll simply invest.”

“Here, here,” said Kingsley, raising his crystal glass. An alert waiter came and filled it again after he sipped, pouring from a crystal decanter. James looked over at Peder. “Perhaps our young friend Ramstad here has the perfect entrée into the northwestern lumber market, eh? See there? He does not even imbibe. A wise man, I’d wager.” He raised his glass again in a silent salute. Peder found it ironic.

Henry pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and looked Peder over. It was the first he had looked his way since James had introduced them. After a moment he nodded a bit. “Well, what do you have to
say for yourself, Ramstad? Where will you take your ships? To the Far East? Or would you be satisfied running lumber for my company?”

Peder drew on his cigar and slowly exhaled. He hoped he posed as dramatic a picture as he sought to portray and was not turning green from the foul tobacco. “I would be happy to supply your company with lumber,” he returned, “with a fat slice of profit for myself.”

Both men laughed at his audacity. “You’ll do fine,” Henry said, nodding with appreciation at the younger man. “And I like your spirit. Let’s talk some business, shall we? Tell me why you’re building a schooner instead of a steamboat.”

“As a matter of fact, we’re planning on building our first steamboat soon after the next schooner. My partner is in Saint Paul now, gathering more information and the last of his financing. But I’ll play straight with you, gentlemen: I am a sailing man through and through. It’s my partner, Karl Martensen, who has the passion for steam. I want to try my hand at sailing a schooner. They’re faster than clippers and wider at the bottom, perfect for hauling cargo such as lumber.”

“Will your steamboat not be more reliable? And faster?”

“At times.” Peder paused to look directly at both men. “But I prefer to trust the winds that God sends me to power my way. I have been successful so far. We’ll try our hand at a steamship, but they are temperamental and given to boiler explosions and other disasters. I much prefer nature’s way of travel—wind.”

“I admire your spirit,” said Kingsley. “I wish I were younger. I’d like to travel with you to Washington Territory.”

“You’d be welcome,” Peder said. He hesitated. “After all, I’m considering taking my wife along on our next voyage.”

Both men looked up at him to see if he jested, then at one another. Whitehall smiled first.

“I believe I saw your wife in the lobby this morning with you,” he said. “If you will permit me, I’ll tell you that she is admirable in her carriage.”

“He means stunning,” James translated.

“Yes, well,” Henry said with a glint of humor in his eye, “I only mean to say that I can see why a man would not like to leave a young wife such as Mrs. Ramstad for long.”

“Hear, hear,” James said.

Peder smiled and nodded, enjoying the subtle confirmation of his decision. After all, captains frequently took their wives along these days. Fretting over Elsa’s safety was old-fashioned. And these last months had only further convinced him that he wanted her near, twenty-four hours a day. He exhaled and watched the fragrant smoke dissipate into the air, visualizing her amidst it.

Tora noted that Kristoffer stayed at the house later than usual after dinner, long after the boys were in bed. Outside, the wind howled and the snow swirled. She wondered if he was aggravated at having to leave the cozy little home and warm fire for the Spartan boards and makeshift bed in the mold loft each night. It mattered little, really. In a few months she would be gone, and he could once again reside in his own home. Silly conventions, she thought. They had not even kissed, and yet society demanded they sleep in separate buildings.

The fire cracked and popped noisily, and she looked up from her book, a novel by an American upstart named Twain. She liked the writer’s spirit. But thoughts of the author left her as she glanced at Kristoffer and found him staring intently at her. “What?” she asked nervously.

He looked uncommonly handsome in the flickering light of the fire, and Tora understood that tiny seeds of love might be sprouting in her heart for the man. She stood and nervously bid him good night, moving as fast as she could, given her advanced pregnancy.

“Tora.”

She turned, not wanting to stay, unable to leave. “Yes?” she asked, feigning disinterest.

“I need to speak to you, Tora.” He rose and came near her. She
backed up a step. His hand went to his neck, rubbing hard as if to pull away an ache. “You see … I think we ought to get married.”

Tora snorted and walked around him, back to her seat—as if her sole intention was to pick up her forgotten book. “What an idea!”

He followed her, turned her around, and placed a hand on her cheek. “You are a complex woman,” he said, “but I think I’m beginning to love you.”

She dropped her eyes as she brought her own hand up to gently pull his away from her face. “I do not need your charity, Kristoffer.”

“You need somebody. Despite what you try to tell the world.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“And your baby?” he asked quietly.

“I have plans for her too.”

“I would like to be the father to a daughter,” he said, acknowledging her assumption that the child would be a girl.

Her eyes flew to his face. He was really so kind, so dear. And he represented all that she didn’t want in life.

“I’m sorry, Kristoffer. I really am. But it cannot be.”

Kaatje stared out the window, watching swirling snow that seemed endless. Already it was piled high against the shanty—almost to the window ledge—and the only blessing was that it sealed out the wind. “Like an Eskimo in an igloo,” Kaatje whispered to her one-month-old baby, Christina. The child was fussy that morning, and Kaatje wished for the hundredth time that Soren was coming soon. He had a way with the infant. As soon as Christina was in his arms, she tended to quiet and giggle.

Soren had told her that morning that he would not come back to the house until dinner. He was busy patching their makeshift barn to protect their one horse, dun cow, and chickens from the winter wind. Kaatje knew the animals were vital for their survival and so kept quiet upon hearing about the plan. Perhaps Soren would bring eggs when
he came in. She comforted herself with the thought as she kneaded bread and set it by the stove to rise.

Christina whimpered on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest as if in pain. When Kaatje went to check on her, she was shocked at the heat that emanated from the tiny body. The child was burning with fever.

“Oh no,” Kaatje whispered. How could she be ill? Neither Kaatje nor Soren had had even a sniffle in the last months
…
Then an idea took hold, despite Kaatje’s effort to push it away.

Fred Marquardt had stopped by the day before in his sled, wondering if she had mail to take to town or any other needs. He had taken four letters and brought back a sack of flour and some butter for her. Before he left, she inquired about his wife, Claire.

“Oh, she’s gettin’ along,” the man had said, “although she has a rotten case of the influenza.”

“That’s a shame,” Kaatje said. “I do hope she will feel better soon.”

“Oh, you know Claire,” Fred said. “She’ll plug along and be up and about before we know it.”

As Kaatje remembered this conversation, she thought about the quiet, petite, and too-attractive Claire Marquardt. How had such a stunning woman ended up with such a plain man as Fred? Thinking about it made her uneasy. Perhaps Claire was restless, and knowing Soren’s weakness …

It was possible that during her brief contact with Fred, Kaatje had picked up the illness and passed it along to her child. But what if it hadn’t been from Fred? What if while Fred was away in town, Soren went to visit Claire himself ? Kaatje had not seen him until supper-time yesterday, and when he came in, he seemed cold and distracted, content only to hold the baby close and stare at the fire, He had said little to her all evening—and had barely eaten anything.

Kaatje pulled Christina into her arms and walked about the room
as the child wailed. She bounced, she rocked, she sang, but the baby obviously was unwell. Was it the result of another of Soren’s indiscretions? Or had he already been with Claire Marquardt before she was sick? Kaatje’s mind whirled. Yesterday when he went to her, was he disheartened because of her illness? Was that why he was so down the night before? After all, it was a perfect time for a tryst, with Kaatje believing him at work in the barn, and Fred away at town. Her mind went wild. Her heart felt like a stone.

I am making myself crazy
, she thought. “Believe the best,” she mumbled, unable to hear her own words over Christina’s wail. But it mattered little. “Believe we have begun anew. No more of the bad habits, Soren. Right?”

Kaatje sat down to feed Christina, but soon after eating, the baby vomited all over the bed and her mother. Kaatje fought off tears as she cleaned up the mess, changed her dress, and fretted over the child. Finally Christina drifted off to sleep.

O God
, Kaatje prayed. She felt like breaking out into a sweat herself when she thought of the many children who died of influenza each year. She gazed at her perspiring daughter, limp with fever.
Please heal Christina. And let me be wrong about Soren
.

She watched over the dozing baby all afternoon as she baked bread and pulled out some salt pork and butter to accompany it. At last Soren arrived.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He greeted her with a grin, but it faded fast when he saw her face. “What? What is it?”

“It is Christina,” she said, hurriedly shutting the door behind him. “She is sick. The influenza, I think,” Kaatje added, carefully watching his face.

But he turned from her before she could read his expression, crossing the few feet of floor to the bed and baby. He pulled off his gloves and placed a roughened hand on the tender infant skin, then drew back as if singed. “She is burning up! I will go for Eira. She will know what to do.”

Kaatje nodded. “Eat a little supper first. You will need your strength if it continues to storm.” She looked out the window. The night was dark, and still the snow cascaded down upon them. “I do not know, Soren. Perhaps it is not wise for you to go tonight. Look. It still snows. It might be too dangerous. You could get lost.”

“I will be fine,” he said, his mouth full. He swiped a chunk of bread through the soft butter on his plate. “The Marquardts gave me an old pair of skis yesterday.”

Kaatje froze. Soren glanced up at her and held her gaze. “What?”

“The … the Marquardts?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“I did not know … I did not know you had been there lately.”

“Yes, well, I went to borrow an ax from Fred two days ago.”

Kaatje rose and walked toward the window, not wanting him to see her expression. “And you spoke to Fred? He was there to give you the ax?”

“No. He was off checking on Old Lady Engvold. Mrs. Marquardt was there though. She gave me the skis. They were her father’s, apparently, and since they got the sled, they rarely use them.”

“Did she give you anything else?” Kaatje asked, hearing a chill enter her voice.

“No.” He looked her in the eye. “Kaatje, are you asking me what I think you are asking?”