An Untamed Heart (25 page)

“The best for you, maybe. For me, they want someone who looks good at a soiree.” She shifted her basket again and stopped. “Why are we suffering like this? Hail a hansom. Are you going to go with Mor to that social?”

He chuckled. “Ja, I’ll go. The bomb will drop soon enough.”

“What bomb?”

“I am in love with a farmer’s daughter. She is everything I want in a woman, and she’s sweet, tender, gentle, good-natured. . . . She knows as much about treating injuries as any doctor, knows as much about farming as any man, she’s an expert spinster—an expert everything. And she is beautiful.”

She stared at him agape. “Oh, Nils! Can you imagine Mor and Far when you mention that bit of news! They’ll disown you. Cast you out!” But she was smiling. Grinning, actually. “What’s her name?”

“Ingeborg Strand. Actually, as farmers go, her family is pretty well off. They have quite a— There! Yo!” he shouted, waving his laden arm, and a hansom drew to a halt beside them.

“Moving?” the driver asked dryly.

“Matter of fact, I am. To rooms near the university to commence my senior year of study. I can’t wait!” He helped Amalia dump her burden on the cab floor and climb in over it. Then he called up, “Einar Alley just off the King’s Strand. Big square building of three stories.”

“Ah, I know the place.”

Nils climbed in, settled to the seat, and rapped on the roof. The cab lurched forward.

“Nils, are you sure about this? I mean—a summer romance I can understand. But a farm girl? Nei. You will be courting trouble, huge trouble, from both families. You don’t want to do that to her.”

“She is worth it, Amalia. Oh, and incidentally, don’t fret about Mor’s diatribes. When I take over the business, I intend to bring you in as a full partner. Then you can run it while I pose and preen as a handsome figurehead.”

She laughed. “And go tramping in your beloved mountains. Ja! I can hardly wait!”

Hardly wait?
Nils could certainly wait to go to yet another soiree. Why did Amalia have to mention it? Now he could glumly anticipate posing and preening for a whole parcel of snooty society women. And dream of the mountains and his Ingeborg.

He asked the hansom driver to wait while they carried his belongings, which grew heavier with every step they climbed to the third floor to his new rooms. Then they took the hansom back home. Amalia was right. Why suffer? Besides, it was starting to rain.

Saturday came all too quickly, and it was still raining. Janssen laid out his attire and helped Nils dress. He joined his mor in the parlor, and they walked out to their waiting carriage as Janssen held the umbrella over Mor. Nils handed Mor up into the vehicle, climbed in to settle in the opposite seat, and Janssen closed the door. The leather seats crackled.

Mor sat quietly with a look of vague disapproval on her face. Nils seemed to be seeing that more and more.

“Mor, who is the new serving girl in our kitchen?”

“The cook’s daughter. He wants her to learn service so she can find a good position in some household. I gave him permission to bring her in and train her.”

“And I assume you are not paying her.”

“Absolutely not. She is inexperienced, and Cook asked me to take her. I did not hire her.”

Cook’s daughter. Nils had not known that Cook was a family man. He came early in the morning and left late at night. That is all Nils had ever known about him. Nils knew nothing about Janssen either. Or the cleaning maid. These were people with lives beyond the Aarvidson household that Nils had, frankly, never even pondered. Why had he been so obtuse for so long?

“The young woman I want you to meet is Kristina Lindstrom,” Mor said. “Lovely girl.”

The carriage stopped under a marquee, and Nils hopped down. His leg tweaked a little. It often did if he sat for too long before using it. He gave Mor a hand down and escorted her to the door.

A stolid butler opened the door and stepped aside.

Nils handed him the calling cards.

Sonorously, the fellow announced to no one in particular, “Mrs. Rignor Aarvidson and her son, Nils.” Did this man have a family, sons and daughters, who greeted him at the door?

“Ooh, Sonja! I am so pleased to see you!” A rather overweight woman came shuffling up. She was wearing one of those skirts they called a hobble skirt. She could not take steps of more than several inches. Nils found himself contrasting that to Ingeborg’s peasant skirt, and her free-spirited stride.

“Monika, I present my son, Nils. Nils, this is Monika Lindstrom, our hostess.”

Nils took her fingers in his hand and murmured, “Enchanted, Mrs. Lindstrom.”

Mrs. Lindstrom smiled broadly, turned, and waved
vigorously. “Kristina! Kristina, come here, dear. I want you to meet our guests.”

A most beautiful young woman threaded her way through the other guests to join them. Her hair and eyes were darker than most, and unlike her portly mother, she was quite lithe and graceful, with a full stride. The fashion of a hobble skirt, thankfully, had not reached her yet. So this was the young woman who spoke three languages.

Monika waved expansively. “Mr. Aarvidson, Nils, this is my daughter Kristina.”

She smiled fetchingly. “Es verdad, señor. Estoy a sus ordenes.” Large brown eyes, like Viennese chocolate. She suddenly got a slightly impish look on her face. She glanced at the two mothers, who were both beaming broadly. “Usted es muy guapo, señor. Me gusta.”
You are very handsome, sir. That pleases me.

Nils caught the joke immediately. Speaking a language neither of the mothers knew, she could make a shockingly forward comment, be very bold, even quite wanton, and they would keep right on beaming. He smiled and purred, “Y tú, señorita, con tu ojo de vidrio y pierna de madera, pareces a una noche llena de estrellas.”
And you, miss, with your glass eye and wooden leg, are like a night full of stars.
Was that laying it on too thickly?

She laughed, a delightful tinkling laugh. So she had a rich sense of humor. Again, he found himself comparing Ingeborg. And as he thought about it, although Ingeborg liked a joke as well as the next person, she did not have this sophisticated, ready wit.

The evening was going to be far more interesting than he had anticipated.

“I told you he would not write.”

“Ingeborg, it has been only two weeks. When was he supposed to start school?” Gunlaug adopted her scolding voice that told Ingeborg right away that Gunlaug was beginning to believe her. “He does love you. I know he does. I saw it in everything he did. He never took his eyes off you when you were in the same room. And all the evenings the two of you spent in front of the fire? He said he loves you. You have to have faith.”

Ingeborg nodded, to calm Gunlaug, if for nothing else. “So what have you heard about Ivar?”

“Ivar who?”

Ingeborg nodded, her eyes losing their sadness for just a moment. It settled back in almost immediately. “I’m glad to hear that. I thought you were over him, but now I am sure.”

“He is a married man, and I wish him and his family all the best.”

Ingeborg weighed her cousin’s voice. She could tell when Gunlaug was saying something she thought Ingeborg wanted
to hear. It didn’t happen often; it was not happening now. “Of course you do.”

“Mor said I should go check on Onkel Frode, but Far said he would go. He was supposed to come to our house for supper last night, but he didn’t.”

“That is not like him.”

“No, it isn’t.” Gunlaug wore a shawl around her shoulders. The cold air had arrived in Valdres too. “I wonder if we are having an early winter this year.”

“It will be cold and rainy for a few days, and then fall will come, and we will have a glorious time watching the trees turn as we bring the last of the garden into the cellars. I pulled the cabbages yesterday and hung them from the rafters. Mor had herbs hanging too, both in the house and in the cellar. I found a book on compounding herbs for better results. I cannot wait to try some of those things after the fall work is done.”

“Is your mor glad to have you home?”

“I guess. At least she has someone to criticize again. It seems strange to me that she never seems to get after the others. There must be something about me that she does not like. She and Far have both been reminding me that there is no hope for Nils to ever come back. That I need to find a nice man of my own station, marry him, and settle down to raise a family.”

“What? Men like that are hiding behind the bushes waiting for us to drag them out and force them to the altar?”

“Isn’t that Onkel Kris coming now?” Ingeborg nodded up the lane.

“Ja, and something is bothering him. I better get home.”

“Takk for coming. I miss all of our time together. I guess I’ll go dig turnips, then the rutabagas. The bins are clean and ready for them.”

But Onkel Kris did not continue on home. He turned into their lane and, without smiling, asked, “Where is Arne?”

“At the barn, I believe,” Ingeborg told him. “Can I help you?”

“No. I need to talk with him.”

Ingeborg watched him stride off. Something was wrong; this wasn’t like her Onkel Kris at all. He did not smile, and he always had an extra warm smile, just for her. It was nice to be someone’s favorite.

The two men strode out of the barn moments later, wagging their heads, looking shocked and terribly sad. Ingeborg stopped in front of them. “What has happened?”

“Frode died either sometime yesterday or during the night. I found him on the floor. His dog was lying next to him.” Kris blinked a few times and continued. “We need to tell our families.”

“You want me to run to old Reverend Berger’s house? He was Onkel Frode’s favorite pastor.”

“No. Hjelmer is a faster runner. I will send him.” Far sniffed and turned to wipe his nose and probably his eyes.

She could tell he was not thinking clearly. “But Hjelmer is in school.” Ingeborg felt like she’d been punched in the stomach, and from the looks of the men’s faces they felt the same. Had Onkel been sick? Had something happened during the summer that they at the seter had not heard about?

“Ja, you go. We will go do Frode’s chores.”

“I know he has not been himself, but . . . he is the youngest of us.” Far shook his head slowly, no doubt fighting to understand. He stared at his brother. “When did you see him last?”

Kris closed his eyes. His wrinkled brow said he was trying to remember. “He was out in his garden early in the afternoon.
He was supposed to come to supper last night.” He stared at his older brother. “I should have gone to see why he did not come. Maybe if I—”

“Why would you have done that? Did you ever before?”

“No, but . . .” He made fluttering motions with his hands. “You go on, Ingeborg.”

Ingeborg took off running, although she wondered why she was hurrying so. There was nothing they could do for Onkel Frode.
Lord God, he is with you now
. She refused to think what this would mean for the families. She arrived at the pastor’s house out of breath so stopped to walk the last bit. When she knocked on the door, he answered it, clad in a sweater and his house slippers.

“Why, Ingeborg, welcome.” He narrowed his eyes. “What is wrong?”

“Onkel Frode died sometime since yesterday afternoon, which was the last time anyone saw him. Onkel Kris said he is on the floor.”

“I see. Come in, come in.” As he stepped back, he held the door wide open.

“Nei, takk. I must get back to see what I can do. We will miss him greatly.”

“I will be there as soon as I can. What a tragedy. Tell your far we are praying for all of you.”

“Tusen takk.” Ingeborg turned away, feeling as though she were carrying the whole of Norway on her shoulders. One by one the tears slid out from under her resolve and trickled down her cheeks as she walked as fast as she could home. But the closer she got, the slower she moved.

She entered by the back door. Both families were gathered at her house, other than the men who were still doing chores.

“Mor, I am going to go bring Onkel’s milk cows here so we can milk them easier. I’ll put them in the side paddock for now?”

Mor nodded, staring at the table. Did she even hear Ingeborg? “We need to make plans.”

“Ja.” Ingeborg tossed a shawl over her shoulders, gathered up several halters and ropes, and headed toward Onkel Frode’s. If her far was still there, he could help.

Onkel Frode. Oh, Onkel Frode!
She collapsed to her knees in the middle of the road, buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly.

Onkel Frode had never been the best at cleaning his house. Ingeborg and either Mor or Gunlaug had always come by to clean at least a couple of times each year. Especially in the spring. Every house had to be spotless before Easter, even if the resident was a bachelor. No good housewife in the whole of Norway or perhaps in the entire world would leave a house unclean for that most holy of days.

Ingeborg was helping clean out Frode’s house several days after he was buried. Everyone else, children and grown-ups alike, was pitching in to help finish the harvest and take care of the animals. She mopped the bedroom. Who would live here now? Perhaps Gilbert, even before he married, which didn’t seem to be happening soon. That seemed the likely idea. He was the oldest of all the cousins. Unless Katrina and her new husband were invited to live here. So many decisions to make. But at least the house would be clean for whoever moved in.

She found Onkel Frode’s Bible lying on a shelf in the bedroom. It was leather bound, big and heavy, with a strap and
lock. The lock was not only open but rusted. She lifted the top cover. Despite the fact that he had no wife or children, he had carefully recorded all the huge Strand family’s births and deaths on the flyleaf. Perhaps Ingeborg should enter his own death as the last one on the page.

What was this? A folded paper marking the first page of the Psalms. Far’s and Onkel Kris’s names had been written on the outside in Onkel Frode’s unmistakable hand. The urge to unfold it and see what it said had her doing just that before she gave it any thought.

At the top of the page she read,
My last will and testament
. Her gaze traveled swiftly down the page. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the window glass. She felt like ripping the paper into shreds.
Oh, dear God, this will not be good
.

Tradition dictated that the two surviving brothers should divide everything right down the middle, including the precious land. Land that was at a premium because there was so little of it. But Frode decreed that Arne have the land and Kris all the cattle and other things. This was going to bring down ill on everyone. Her far and her onkel were both stubborn men who would do what was right. But was this right? Why had Frode done this? It went against all custom and tradition.

She tucked the letter back into the Bible.
Let someone else find it and break the news. I do not want to be the one.
But how she would love to have Onkel Frode’s Bible.
What do I do, Lord? Why will you not answer me? I need an answer now. Or I’ll leave the letter in the Bible
. Perhaps that was the answer. As she turned away, another thought exploded in her head. When someone found it, how could she lie and say she’d never seen it? But why would anyone ask her? They
most certainly would if she kept the Bible
. I will leave it here and do something else if I am so led. Or Lord, please, you lead someone else to break this news.

She stripped the bed and hung the quilt outside on the fence to air. The other things she bundled with his dirty clothes to take home and wash. After dusting and washing the inside of the windows, she went on to the next room. She could hear Mor in the kitchen talking with Tante Berthe. Gunlaug was at home, Tante Berthe said, and most likely weaving. Or still gathering the garden produce. That was what Ingeborg had planned to do today, but Mor had insisted she help here.

By noon, when the house was clean and Onkel’s personal things were gathered together in a trunk, they shut the door and headed for home and the coffeepot. Ingeborg’s soul was in turmoil.

Gilbert was cleaning out Onkel Frode’s barn, so she dropped her bundle of wash in the doorway and stopped to talk with him.

“Have they spoken with you yet about living here?”

He shrugged. “In an offhanded way. Far said Frode told him once that he had written a will regarding how he wanted his things cared for. You did not find anything like that in the house, did you?”

Ingeborg ignored his question and blew out a breath. “I’m sure dinner will be ready soon.” She picked up her bundle and, carrying it over her shoulder, cut across the field to her far’s house. Surely by now the coffee would be hot. Berta was making applesauce from the bruised and wormy apples today. They would pack all the good apples into barrels to store in the cellar.

When they sat down for dinner, Far said grace, then asked,
“Ingeborg, you did not see something like a will in Frode’s papers, did you?”

“I did not go through his papers. I gathered them up and put them in the trunk, along with his Bible. You want me to bring them over?” She spoke the truth and yet successfully skirted the real question.

“No, Kris and I will sort through them this afternoon.” He shook his head. “I am sure he mentioned a will one time. Although why he would want to make a will, I don’t know. Everything is always divided between the remaining brothers when there is no immediate family involved.”

Takk, Lord. Let them find it
. But the feeling in the pit of her stomach did not lighten. She was sure there were going to be hard feelings. Or would they choose to ignore the will and follow tradition?

As soon as they finished eating, she headed out to the garden. Putting food away for the winter did not cause controversy.

———

She heard it coming before she saw the two brothers coming across the field from Onkel Frode’s. She was back in the garden gathering up the last of the root vegetables, but she could hear their voices clearly. Intent upon each other, they did not notice her as they approached, so she stepped behind the chicken coop and listened. From the looks on their faces and the tone of their voices, they were both very angry. And yelling at each other, something unheard of from her far, who was usually silent when he was angry.

Onkel Kris said, “I say we ignore the will and follow tradition!”