An Untamed Land (9 page)

She looked up and down each street of the intersection, praying for a glimpse of the immigration center. Castle Garden was far too large an edifice to hide behind anything. It had to be here somewhere.

Where was she? Nothing looked familiar to the streets they had passed yesterday.

A shiver of fear added to the chill from the wind that had been kicking up ever since the sun disappeared behind scudding gray clouds. If the weather here acted like that at home, more snow was imminent. If she couldn’t find the center, how would she ever find her way back to the boardinghouse?

Another shiver chased the first. Fear made her mouth dry.

She paused an instant too long on the curb. A tall man, looking even taller with his beaver hat, jostled her on the right.

Caught just as she was stepping out with her right foot, the bump made Ingeborg stagger. Coming down hard, a patch of ice under the snow sent her sliding into a portly gentleman on her other side, and straight toward becoming an ignominious heap on the cobblestones.

But as quickly as she slipped, the first gentleman spun around and grabbed her arm, literally lifting her back to her feet and safe onto the sidewalk. It all happened so quickly that Ingeborg only had time for a tiny shriek. But in that instant, her imagination had her huddled in a puddle on the streets of New York City.

“Mange takk,” she whispered at the same moment he asked her a question. At least it must have been a question because of both the inflection and the questioning look on his handsome face.

“I asked if you are all right?”

Ingeborg looked up at him, certain the shock of hearing her own language on the lips of a fashionably dressed gentleman on the sidewalk of New York must be registered on her face.

“You speak Norwegian?”

“Yes. Since birth.” The smile that lifted the corners of his mouth lacked the stiffness of those passersby she’d noticed in her travels of the morning. “But I must know, did you injure yourself in the slip?” he persisted.

Ingeborg shook her head, making her hat bounce alarmingly. As the black brim tipped slightly forward over one eyebrow, she wished for a pit of quicksand beneath her feet, rather than the icy, rounded cobblestones.

“But you talk like an Amerikan.” Ingeborg ignored the voice of her mother echoing in her ears, the voice that warned her against speaking with a man to whom she’d never been formally introduced.

With a gentle hand on her arm, the tall stranger drew her back out of the melee of rushing pedestrians and against the protection of a brick wall. “I am an American, but my nursemaid was a fine Norwegian girl, straight from the old country. By the time I could talk, I spoke either language easily.”

As he talked, Ingeborg tried to unobtrusively push her wayward hat back in place. The stubborn thing tipped even farther, and the feather, of which she’d been so proud, now tickled the end of her nose. She batted it away with one impatient finger, all the while trying to stifle a sneeze. Failing in that effort, she sneezed hard enough
to splatter his lapels. Instant mortification stained her cheeks. She could feel the heat as if she’d just stuck her head over a bubbling wash boiler.

“Bless you.” He whipped a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

“Mange takk.” Was that all she could say? Between her hat, her now throbbing ankle, and his handkerchief, the earth opening up and swallowing her could happen none too soon.

“Mange takk, again. And for your kind assistance.” She started to hand him back the used handkerchief, but better sense prevailed. How could she possibly return a dirty handkerchief? Where were her manners? If only she could run down the street and hide in a doorway. But if she started to run, where would she stop? And how would she ever get back to the boardinghouse? Visions of Roald roaring through the streets looking for her made her chin start to quiver.

She smiled bravely up at her savior and thanked him once again. Then turning on her right foot, she tried to make a graceful exit. And failed. Or at least her foot did. Walking was extremely difficult, if not impossible, for a sharp pain sliced clear to her knee. She bit back the groan but failed to hide the flinch.

“You are hurt.” Instantly he appeared at her side again.

“It is nothing. I am fine.”

“It is more than nothing, and it is my fault. I bumped into you.” He tucked her arm in his. “Now, you must tell me where you are going, and I will take you there.” As he spoke he waved at a passing hansom cab.

“Nei, nei, you mustn’t.” Ingeborg tried to draw back but, as in everything else so far this day, failed miserably. Before she could protest any further, he had lifted her into the still swaying cab and stepped in after her.

“Now, where do you need to go?”

Ingeborg knew an angel when she met one. She just didn’t expect to see one wearing a rich gray topcoat and a black beaver hat. She gave a sigh of surrender and told him all that had happened since their arrival.

“. . . and so I came out to pay the grocer and lost my way.” She clasped her hands in her lap and raised her gaze to meet his. The genuine concern in his warm brown eyes made a lump form in her throat.

“Would you recognize the place if you saw it again?”

She nodded. “I feel sure I would.”

“Good. Then we will return to Castle Garden and proceed from there.” He leaned forward and gave what Ingeborg assumed to be instructions to the driver. Not understanding the language was proving to be a greater barrier than she had ever dreamed it would be. As the driver clucked to the large black horse, she made herself a promise. She would learn the language sooner rather than later. All the reports they had received in Norway had said that immigrants could live in this new land without taking time to learn to speak Amerikan. But Ingeborg now knew differently. All that had happened since they stepped off the boat had proved that. She would learn Amerikan, and she would learn it well.

As the horse trotted down the street, she leaned back against the leather seat. She could hear Roald, like her mother, saying she must get out immediately. Who knew where this stranger was taking her? After all the admonitions she’d heard about immigrants being robbed and suffering other unthinkable things, here she was riding the streets of a bustling city in the company of a man whose name she did not even know.

What does one do?
The thought nagged at her sense of propriety. In all her life, she’d never done such an outrageous thing as this. What would Roald say?

He’s not going to
know. The thought flitted through her mind and lodged securely in a corner as though made for that place.
And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him
. She raised her chin and straightened her spine.
So I will enjoy every moment, for such a time shall never come again.
She watched out the window as the round stone fort filled her vision. She could go inside and find Mrs. Amundson. Surely she would be able to help. She would remember where the grocer’s fruit stand was located.

But something inside Ingeborg rebelled at the thought. Would she forever be needing others to help her accomplish the slightest thing?
That
wasn’t why she had braved a turbulent sea and homesickness to come to the new land.

“Let me see, I’m sure it must be up that way.” She pointed to a street angling off from the one on which they approached the Battery. Her escort gave the driver instructions, and off they went.
What is this man’s name? Who is he?
Would it be too forward to ask?

She gave a tiny shake of her head, sending the hat into its final dislodgement. The contrary thing slid forward and completely covered one eye. She sneaked a peek at the man sitting across from her,
hoping against hope that he was looking out the window rather than seeing her discomfort.

He averted his eyes politely, but the smile that tugged at the corner of his shapely mouth didn’t hide quickly enough.

Ingeborg could imagine what she looked like. A bedraggled kitten wouldn’t be too far off, she knew. She tried to ignore the hat, the close confines of the cab, and the handsome man close enough to touch with her knee. She tried, really she did. But it was too much. A giggle stole past her iron will.

One look at her escort and they were both laughing like children let loose at recess. When the hat gave up entirely, she raised her arms and unpinned the silly thing.

“There now,” she said, laying the black hat in her lap. “Now it can fall no farther.”

“You’d best hang on to it tightly; it seems to have a mind of its own.”

“Rest assured, I will.” Ingeborg leaned forward and pointed out the window. “There it is, the grocer’s. We found it.” She pulled open the strings of her bag and dug inside for the coins Kaaren had given her. Removing the two copper pennies, she held them out. “This will be enough, don’t you think?”

“For one small apple, I am sure.” He ordered the driver to stop in front of the apple cart that took up the same space on the corner as it had the day before. When Ingeborg started to rise, he stopped her with a shake of his head. “I will do this for you.”

“Mange takk.” But when he started to step down without her money, Ingeborg pressed the coins upon him.

He rolled his eyes upward as if looking for consolation and took one of the coins from her hand, obviously against his will.

Ingeborg watched as he spoke with the grocer and, with a nod, indicated her sitting in the cab. When the aproned tradesman started gesticulating and raising his voice, her angel pressed the coin into the man’s hand, spoke in a sharp tone, and spun on his heel. The straight line of his mouth told Ingeborg something the grocer said had irritated him.

“What did the man say?” she asked when he swung himself back in the cab.

“He demanded I also pay for the apples the ruffians stole.”

Ingeborg waited until he settled himself in the seat and repositioned his beaver hat, knocked slightly askew by the doorway.

“And what did you answer him?” Guilt for involving someone
else in a brew of her own making made Ingeborg twist her fingers together.

“I told him to move the cart back to where he could keep better track of his produce and quit trying to take advantage of immigrants like yourself. For all I know, he and those two hoodlums are in cahoots.”

“Oh.” All of a sudden the enormity of her situation rolled over Ingeborg like a thick fog coming in from the sea. Whatever had possessed her to think she could just waltz right out of the boardinghouse, find her way back to the Battery, find the grocer, and then return to the only place that right now seemed like a haven of comfort?

“Hutte meg tu,” she muttered as she pinned her hat back in place. The simple words could be used as a sigh of disgust or an expletive of the proper manner, whichever one chose. Ingeborg could think of stronger words to call herself but stopped in time.
Oh my, what a dolt I must seem
.

“My mother has a favorite saying, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ I think we can apply that bit of wisdom here. Now, can you tell me the address or at least the name of the place where you are staying?”

Ingeborg nodded, pleased that she at least had the wits to do that before venturing out. “I wrote it down.” She dug the bit of paper out of her bag and handed it to him. “How can I ever thank you enough for all that you have done?” She raised her eyes filled with gratitude to meet his.

“You will do a kind deed sometime for someone in your life, then they will do so also, and thus the circle continues. Now, let me show you some other sights of my fair city as we return to your starting place.”

“Mange takk . . .” Ingeborg paused. “But . . . I don’t even know your name.”

“Nor I yours. I cannot keep on thinking of you as my ‘Norwegian in distress.’ ” The twinkle in his eyes invited her to enjoy every moment. “My name is David Jonathan Gould, and please don’t believe everything you’ll hear about my family. We were immigrants once, too, and now my father is encouraging people like you to come help settle the West so we can push our railroads out there.” He leaned forward. “And now, I know what a fine sense of honor you have, but I do not know your name either.”

“Ingeborg Moe Bjorklund. My husband’s name is Roald, and we are journeying to Dakota Territory to homestead there with his
brother and wife.” Ingeborg could feel questions welling up like an artesian spring, but she quickly put a cap on them.

David tipped his beaver hat. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Bjorklund.”

His smile made her want to say something witty and wonderful to keep that glorious smile in place, but, as usual, words deserted her. When he turned serious, she felt as though a gray cloud had blocked the sun.

“If you ever need something, you can write me here.” David reached into the pocket of his topcoat and pulled out a small white card with black embossed letters, which he offered to her. “No matter where I am, your letter will find me.”

Ingeborg bit the inside of her cheek and swallowed quickly. What could she say to such a kind offer? Fearing the inanity of words, she just nodded and took the card, placing it carefully in a pocket in her reticule. Whatever made her accept it? She blinked quickly and pointed to some tall posts that held up a metal framework.

“What is that?” She felt relieved that the quiver vibrating in her throat stayed put.

“The el, or elevated train. One of our modern wonders. By elevating this type of transportation, the streets are then free for all other types of conveyance, including that streetcar over there.” He pointed to a long, horse-drawn car filled with riders, many of them reading newspapers. “New York is known for its modern methods of transportation.”

“Well, I never . . .”

As they continued, David pointed out the copper-domed courthouse and various mansions that made Ingeborg wonder at the wealth that allowed people to live in palaces such as these. Had the people here indeed found the streets that were paved in gold, and then harvested it all? He also showed her Columbia College and St. Paul’s Cathedral. Even Ingeborg, with her totally confused sense of direction, realized they had not returned by the shortest route.