Northern Lights Trilogy (55 page)

“We are here,” Kuma said over the edge of her jinrikisha to Elsa and Peder as they turned off the main road and down a thickly wooded path. The girl was not more than twenty, and dressed in the common kimono, rather than the more popular Western dress. Elsa appreciated that although Kuma had been educated and earned a good wage as translator and guide, she had not rejected her Japanese heritage.

The Saitos were a wealthy family, and their mountain home sat amid impeccably kept grounds. A lush lawn set off groomed trees as the forest grudgingly gave way to the property’s borders of precisely placed stones in a wall of about three feet in height. Here and there the hot pinks of lotus blossoms in bloom and the deep purple of another flower caught Elsa’s eye. As they drew closer to the house, the garden became more dense and sculpted, with waterfalls cascading into
delicate pools and tiny plantings. Peder smiled at Elsa and nodded. “Incredible.”

She could only nod in agreement.

“I would wager you’re thinking about your canvas and oils.”

“Or at least my sketch book. Oh, Peder, I could spend days here.”

He smiled and placed an arm around her. “We’ll stay as long as we are welcome.”

The Saitos were gracious hosts, attending to the Ramstads’ every need: taking their shoes when Elsa, Peder, and Kristian entered their beautiful home; offering countless cups of tea; and giving them a detailed tour of the estate, explaining through their translator not only the uses and names of the things they saw but the fascinating history of their ancestral home. By early evening, Elsa and Peder felt at home. After a traditional Japanese dinner, and stilted but eager conversation through Kuma, the families said their good nights.

Mrs. Saito’s final gift to Elsa that evening was a nod toward the bathhouse. Urged by her gentle gesticulations, Elsa slid open the surprisingly sturdy door of rice paper, and followed a rounded stone path through a heavily shrouded garden. There, in the midst of a smaller private garden, surrounded by high walls covered in fragrant flowering vines, was a tall redwood tub, steaming in dusk’s waning light. Four servants emptied their last offerings to the tub and bowed toward Elsa, excusing themselves.

One waited until the others left, and then gestured toward a changing screen and a silk robe hanging over its edge. Unable to deny herself the luxury, Elsa eagerly moved forward and accepted the woman’s help in removing her gown and corset. She hoped Peder and Kristian would not miss her. Just a half-hour in the steaming water would do her a world of good, she thought. The smoke from the train, the dust from the mountain road, sweat from the excessive heat over the last days—all would melt away in that wonderful tub!

She expected the servant to disappear when she moved toward the
redwood tub, but instead she moved to pick up lush towels from a nearby bench and place them on the edge. Then, ceremoniously, she lit three candles in delicate torches, casting a soft glow across the sanctuary. Lastly, she raised a bottle and sprinkled five droplets of a rich, fragrant oil into the tub. Only then did she nod at Elsa and excuse herself. Smiling, Elsa moved forward, disrobing and sliding into the hot cauldron. How long it had been since she had had the opportunity to bathe in such luxury! Shipboard, they were reduced to sponge baths and, when she could manage it, perhaps a basin of two inches. This, this was heaven.

She did not know how long she soaked there, letting the warm waters soothe away aches and pains, when she heard a snap and crackle of leaves underfoot. Her eyes widened, and she whirled in the tub, terrified that Mr. Saito or some servant might unknowingly enter the bathing garden and embarrass them both. Out of the shadows came a man, and Elsa’s heart stopped momentarily.

It was Peder. A slow smile spread across his face, his teeth white in the glow of the lanterns. “I knew I was right to let you talk me into this,” he said softly.

Elsa smiled back, feeling mischievous. “You’ll probably want to bathe too.”

“Already done it. While you were escorted here, and Kristian to his bunk, Mr. Saito and I shared a pipe and then a steam bath. A brisk splash in the stream finished our manly bathing task.” He drew nearer, picking up a bar of soap from the bench. “Your hair?”

Elsa smiled again. “That would be divine. The perfect end to the perfect day.” She settled back against the side of the tub as Peder soaped up his hands and then scrubbed her scalp until there was a thick lather. Then he let his fingers massage the long tendrils, working his way out to the ends and letting the bubbles drop into the water in thick globs. For fifteen minutes he worked on her hair, almost putting his wife to sleep. She breathed deeply, just thinking about the pleasure of giving in to dreams right then and there, when he dunked her.

She came up, sputtering. “Well, thank you very much.”

“Needed a rinse. Oh. Still some more.” He dunked her again.

This time she came up splashing. He laughed, wiping the water from his face. “I suppose I deserve that.” He leaned closer to her, resting his chin on his hands as he stared over the edge into her eyes. “I do love you, Elsa Ramstad.”

“And I you, Peder Ramstad.”

“You are the finest thing I have ever been given in life. I treasure you. You know that, right?”

“Most of the time,” she said. “When you are not obsessing over the ship.”

“I will try not to obsess too often.” He leaned closer and gave her a long, tender kiss. It was a moment Elsa knew she would never forget.

“As long as you steal away with me to mountain cottages once in a while,” she said, still closing her eyes, relishing the memory of their kiss, “you may obsess once in a while.”

“That’s good to know,” he said, smiling. He rose and opened up a towel. “Now, shall we retire?”

“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “As enticing as you are, husband, it is tough to leave this bath. Do you think we could bring it aboard?”

“Right,” Peder said. “I can just see Riley’s face now.”

Elsa giggled. “Or Cook’s. Can you imagine how many pots he would have to boil to fill this up?”

“I’m afraid it will have to be a fond memory. Come now. I’ll brush out your hair.”

His promise brought her out of the water, and Peder surrounded her with the huge towel. “I think it’s Egyptian,” he commented, fingering the lush cotton.

“A Norwegian woman in an Egyptian towel, surrounded by an exotic Japanese mountain bath. Quite the globetrotters we are.”

“Aye. Come, wife. We might be far from home, but my mind is on hearthside matters.”

Elsa smiled. “Coming, husband.”

K
aatje kissed her sleeping girls and pulled the rough wool blanket to their chins. Despite the heat of the summer days, the night temperature dipped and grew chilly, oftentimes enough to warrant a fire in the hearth. Tonight Kaatje could have gone either way with the fire, but she was feeling lonely and wanted the cheery crack and snap, as well as the light, to keep her company. She sat staring into the flames for a long time, thinking about Soren, remembering the tilt of his nose, the sparkle in his blue eyes. What had become of him?

Glancing at her slumbering girls, Kaatje rose and walked to the kitchen sideboard. Behind the sacks of flour and sugar, and beneath a loose board, she pulled out her last letter from Soren, cradling it to her chest as if it were he, instead, in her arms. She did not know why she hid it from her daughters, only that it was hers and hers alone. Her last connection with the husband she had lost long ago. Her daughters had yet to learn how to read, but regardless, she wanted it all to herself.

Sighing, she sat down in her rocker and straightened the two sheets of paper she held in her hand. One was from Soren, crumpled and yellowed with age and handling. It had been forwarded by the postmaster in Dakota to the Skagit Valley postmistress. The other page
was smaller, a note from the proprietor at a place called Kokrine’s Trading Post, Yukon River, Alaska.

She straightened out the first and read the words, words she could have recited from memory. But seeing his fast, elaborate scrawl was like touching the man. So she read it yet again.

Blinking back a tear, Kaatje stared into the fire for a while, then turned her attention back to the other, shorter note in her hands.

She had heard, of course, nothing since then, despite the fact that she had sent numerous letters to any address she obtained rumored to have gold in Alaska. Someday, perhaps one of those letters would be answered. Until that day, she didn’t know what else she could do.

You could go
.

The Voice in her heart startled her. She shook her head at such nonsense. Go to Alaska? What would she do with the girls? The farm?

Rent the farm to others. Take the girls
.

Kaatje’s heart pounded at such preposterous thoughts. This was not of God! It was wishful thinking, fanciful dreams of reuniting with her husband. She grew angry at herself. Why, they had not even been happy when they were together. Soren was a philanderer through and through. What would happen to the man when he became rich on gold and sat idle? Nothing good, that was sure.

She rose and walked to the door, pulling it open angrily and striding to the well outside. Hauling up a bucket of fresh, cold water, she splashed her face again and again, even as the tears came. Kaatje braced her hands on the stone facing of the well, gasping for breath. Why did she put herself through this? Why did she repeatedly read
those letters? It never made her feel any better, simply lost and angry and sorrowful. She threw the bucket down the shaft with all the strength she could muster, finding only mild satisfaction at the splash far below.

Turning and leaning against the well wall, she dried her tears and studied the cabin—looking warm and cozy in the night—her breath frosting in the cool evening air, and the stars high above it. She spotted the North Star at the end of the Little Dipper and stared.

You could go
.

“And do what?” she cried aloud, shaking her fist at the sky. “Wander around, looking for my lout of a husband? He does not deserve it!”

You need to know
.

“I need to know nothing of the kind! I need to know my children are well and fed. How would I know that on a road in Alaska?”

You could go
.

Kaatje sank to her knees and sobbed, so suddenly overwhelmed and weary that she sank to the cold, damp grass as she wept. “I cannot, Father. Do not ask it of me. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

She did not hear the Voice again. Only silence.

It had been a very wet spring and early summer, and that day at the church potluck, Kaatje found herself grinning.

“You think this is funny? Struggling with rot here in this soggy land?” Einar grumbled at her as she set a plate of lefse before him.

“I do,” she giggled. “Just think. When we first got to the Dakota Territory, all we did was complain about the dry land, the lack of rain. But here we get too much!”

The table of men and women laughed too, and Kaatje’s smile grew. These people were her family, her security. They had been her stronghold when Soren left, filling the hole that his absence created. What would she have ever done without them?

“It is good to see you laugh, joke, Kaatje,” Nora said, a toddler on one hip.

“It is good to have a reason,” she said as they walked back to the kitchen. The Gustavsons’ home, one of the largest in the area, had a huge dining room that could seat eighteen. Consequently, they often hosted church suppers and the like. Their house felt like a second home to Kaatje.