Until We Reach Home (33 page)

“That’s ridiculous. Hilma has plenty of room. She could take you in if she wasn’t such a miser.”

“We thought they would take us in,” Elin said, “seeing as they sent us the tickets. But when we arrived, it turned out that some men up in Wisconsin whom we never met had paid for our tickets and we were supposed to go up there and marry them.”

“There’s nothing so unusual about arranged marriages.”

“I want to choose my own husband,” Sofia said.

Kirsten waited, hoping for words of sympathy from the fairy queen. They didn’t come. She couldn’t tell what her employer was thinking. Kirsten gestured to one of the pots of water. “I did this because I know what it’s like to have to leave your home. I know how you feel—”

“I doubt that! This home was a gift to me from my husband. He had it designed and built just for me. We planned every room together, chose every color. It has been our home for more than thirty years. We raised our son here, gave lavish parties here, entertained the cream of Chicago society here. Every room is filled with memories.”

Kirsten looked down at the floor. “Then I’m very sorry for making those people think your home had rats. I’m sorry if it reflected badly on you and your husband.”

“Hmmph,” she snorted. She bent to stroke her cat, which had finished its circuit of the room and was looking up at her as if to report that its inspection was complete. “I know I’m disagreeable,” Mrs. Anderson said when she straightened again. “You would be disagreeable, too, if you had a shrew like my daughter-in-law trying to dictate your life, making plans for you, telling you where you should live and how you should feel. I may be old, but I’m not dead yet!”

She thumped her cane against the floor and the cat gave a tiny, high-pitched
meow.
The noise sounded as though it had come from a kitten instead of this obese pillow-sized cat. Its voice was as mismatched to its body as its owner’s was.

Mrs. Anderson shook her finger at Kirsten. “What you did was very deceitful, young lady. Nevertheless . . . I appreciate it.” A tiny hint of a smile twitched on her lips. “If you continue to help me stay in my home, I’ll make certain you have a job here until your passage is paid for.”

Kirsten smiled with relief. “It’s a deal, ma’am.”

That evening Mrs. Anderson’s son arrived, looking thoroughly drenched and very annoyed. Kirsten let him in the front door and watched in frustration as he shook rainwater from his umbrella and tracked mud all over the clean floor. He was a small, prim man with fair hair and skin so pale he looked as though he never stepped outside in the sunlight. He reminded Kirsten of a baby mouse.

“I would like to speak with my mother. Is she upstairs?”

“I’m right here, Gustav.”

Kirsten marveled at her employer’s acute hearing and the way she could sneak quietly into a room without thumping her cane when it suited her. During the day, the only warning they had of her arrival sometimes was the sudden appearance of her cat.

“What’s this I hear about the roof leaking, Mother?”

“How would I know what you’ve heard?”

“Bettina told me there were pails and buckets everywhere,” he said, glancing all around. “And that water was pouring in around the windows.”

Silvia Anderson gazed steadily at her son. “I was in my bedroom the entire time.”

“And I told Bettina that I’m quite certain there are no rats in this house. Have you seen any rats, Mother?”

“Yes, two of them: that woman you married and that nurse you sent over here to plague me.”

“Now, Mother . . . why did you ignore Bettina today?”

“She brought strangers into my home, Gustav. I see no reason why I should be civil to strangers, seeing as I didn’t invite them here in the first place.”

He rolled his eyes then turned to Kirsten. “What about you? What’s your name?”

“Kirsten Carlson, sir.” She gave a little curtsy.

“If you have found any evidence of rats, I should like to know where.”

“I’ve never seen a rat in this house, sir.”

He turned to his mother again. “Bettina said—”

“I really don’t care to know anything that woman said. Look, did you come over here to drip water all over my house, or are you going to stay and visit?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Yes
what
, Gustav—the dripping or the visiting?”

“I came for a visit. Shall we go into the morning room?”

Kirsten waited until they disappeared through the door, then tiptoed down the hall and stood outside to listen. She knew eavesdropping was wrong, but her life was already so scarred with sin that one more wouldn’t matter.

“Now, Mother, be reasonable,” she heard Gustav say.

“Why should I be? I’ve told you countless times that I don’t want to sell this house, yet that is exactly what your wife is trying to do behind my back.”

“We don’t like the idea of you living here all alone. This house is too big for you. And there are too many stairs. We worry about you.”

“I have three very capable girls taking care of me now.”

“That’s the other thing we need to talk about. Why did you fire Agne?”

“I don’t need a nurse hovering over me—especially one who is a spy for your wife.”

“She isn’t a spy. And the doctor said—”

“The doctor is a nitwit.”

“If you don’t need a nurse, then why were you in bed today when Bettina came?”

“Because I can’t stand your wife, Gustav. I told you that
before
you married her, I told you that on the
day
you married her, and I’ve been telling you every day
since
. You can’t seem to remember anything I say, so perhaps you are the one who is in need of a physician, not me.”

Kirsten covered her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“I wish the two of you would get along. . . .”

“And I wish you would listen to me and take my wishes into consideration. I don’t want to sell my home. Period. I don’t want to live with that woman. Period. Perhaps you’ll get your wish when I get mine.”

“This home is very expensive to maintain, Mother. The country has fallen on hard economic times.”

“Then why don’t you ask your wife to sell her home? Why are you selling your mother’s home? If your father were alive, which home do you suppose he would tell you to sell?”

Kirsten heard Gustav exhale. “We’re getting nowhere.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all evening.”

“So. Now that your health is better, shall I pick you up for church tomorrow? You can join Bettina and me for dinner afterward.”

“No thank you. I don’t need dinner or a ride to church.”

“How will you get there if we don’t come for you? You no longer have a carriage driver. Or horses.”

“I’m well aware that I no longer have a driver or horses. But as it happens, I don’t need them. I don’t care to attend church.”

“But . . . you and Father have been members of that congregation for a long time, and—”

“Why do you insist on telling me things I already know? ‘You don’t have a carriage driver,’” she mimicked. “‘You’ve been a long-time church member.’ I’m not senile, Gustav. I simply don’t care to attend services. If you need to know why, then I’ll tell you, even though it’s none of your business. Pastor Johnson is a nitwit.”

“Really, Mother!”

“Yes, really.”

They were quiet for such a long time that Kirsten tiptoed away from the door, worried that they would come out of the room and catch her. She had heard enough to get a sense of the man, and that’s all she needed for now. She was very relieved to learn that Gustav Anderson wasn’t going to fire her for her deception. And content to know that he was not strong enough to bully his mother.

Two days later, on her afternoon off, Kirsten walked to the boardinghouse, hoping for a letter from Tor. She went around to the rear door and found her aunt outside, pinning sheets to the clothesline. Kirsten knew from experience that doing laundry in the boardinghouse was an endless job.

“
Hej
, Aunt Hilma. Has any mail come for us?”

“A letter came for one of you—I don’t remember who. It’s on the hall table.” She frowned, as if carrying a letter from the mail slot to the hall table had been a huge imposition.

Kirsten hurried inside and pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen to the front hallway. Maybe the letter was for her. Maybe it was from Tor. She snatched up the envelope and saw that it had her name on it! And it bore a Swedish stamp! But the handwriting didn’t resemble Tor’s, and the contents of the envelope seemed very thin. She turned it over and read the return address on the flap.

It was from Tor’s father.

Kirsten’s hands trembled as she ripped it open. Inside was one page of inexpensive paper, folded in half. There was no date, no greeting—only a few lines of writing scrawled in dark ink:

Stop writing to my son. You are a liar and a harlot. If you are with child, it is certainly not my son’s baby. Therefore, I see no reason at all to allow him to read your letters. If you continue to write to him, I will continue to throw every letter you send into the fire, unopened.

Carl Magnusson

“No . . .” Kirsten’s knees buckled. She leaned against the hall table, rocking it and sending a metal ashtray clattering to the floor.

Tor hadn’t even seen her letters. He didn’t know about their baby. He wasn’t coming to rescue her. She had waited all this time in vain. She covered her face and sobbed.

“Is something wrong? Can I assist you?”

The man’s voice startled her. She looked up to see one of the boarders standing in the parlor doorway with a newspaper in his hand. She struggled to control her tears.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said, bending to retrieve the ashtray. “I-I didn’t know you were here. I’m sorry. . . .”

He continued to stare at her, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you ill?”

“No . . .” She lifted the envelope to show him. “I’ve received some terrible news from home, and—”

She couldn’t finish. The thought of Carl Magnusson burning her letters without ever showing them to Tor made her start weeping all over again. Her grief overflowed until she couldn’t stop. She forgot all about the boarder until he gently took her elbow and guided her forward.

“Perhaps you need to sit down to absorb the shock.” He led her to a chair in the parlor.

“Wait—my aunt doesn’t allow me to sit in here.”

“Please, I insist. You look quite pale.”

He made her sit down, then took his handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it into her hand. His kindness after the cruelty of Tor’s father brought more tears. She bent over in pain, her face buried in her hands.

“Are you certain there is nothing I can do, miss?” he asked after a long moment. “I can see how distressed you are. Shall I summon your aunt?”

“No! No, please don’t tell my aunt!” Kirsten struggled to regain control, sitting upright and wiping her eyes. “I-I’m all right. . . . I’m all right. . . .” She stood, using the arms of the chair for support. The man towered over her, standing several inches taller than her. His high, broad forehead made him appear even taller.

“Wouldn’t Mrs. Larson want to know if there was bad news from home?”

“No . . . it’s . . .”

Kirsten couldn’t let her aunt know the truth. The entire family would be disgraced. Her cousins Dagmar and Anna would never find suitable husbands—not to mention the shame that would fall on Elin and Sofia. Oh, what a terrible mess she had made. What should she do?

Tor doesn’t know about our baby.
Kirsten began crying all over again.

“Please, Miss Larson. I insist that you sit down again.” His newspaper rustled like leaves as he laid it down. He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to sit.

“My name is Carlson, not Larson,” she said when she could speak. “My Aunt Hilma isn’t . . . I mean, this letter . . . it has nothing to do with her.”

“Shall I fetch you some water?”

“No! I mean, no thank you. Aunt Hilma would probably complain about the cost.” Kirsten tried to smile as she blotted her tears with his handkerchief.

What might have passed for a smile flickered briefly across his face. “I understand.”

Kirsten took a deep breath. She had to get her grief under control before her aunt came inside and began asking questions. Besides, her sisters were certain to notice her swollen eyes and blotchy face if she returned home this upset. Kirsten had planned to browse in all of the shops on the way home and find something special to buy with her nickel, but she no longer felt like shopping. Nothing could distract her from the terrible truth that she was pregnant—and Tor didn’t even know.

“I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled.

“Pardon me?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak out loud. Listen, Mr.—”

“It’s Lindquist. Knute Lindquist.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Lindquist. But I should be going.” She had to get out of there. She stood and made her way toward the front door, leaning against the furniture and doorframes to support herself on shaking knees.

“Miss Carlson, I really don’t think you should—”

“I apologize for disturbing you. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Kirsten staggered through the front door without closing it and ran blindly down the street.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“T
HIS IS PROBABLY
a lovely piece of furniture, but how would anyone know?” Sofia stared at the massive library desk in dismay. Mounds of papers, books, ledgers, and letters lay heaped like snowdrifts on the polished mahogany surface, concealing what lay beneath. “What should I do with all of this stuff?” she asked her sisters.

“I don’t think you should throw anything away,” Elin said. “It might be important.”

“You’re right. I guess I’ll just try to stack everything into piles. . . . God bless you,” she said when Kirsten sneezed. Sofia expected one of Kirsten’s wry comments about how they had raised enough dust to start their own desert, but her sister had been very solemn and moody for the past few days. Sofia thought she’d heard her crying in the middle of the night. Kirsten had insisted it was only a bad dream.

They had decided to clean the library next. Elin chose to dust all of the leather-bound books, wash the shelves, and then arrange the books on them again. Kirsten decided to scrub and wax the woodwork. One entire wall had built-in cabinets with ornately carved paneled doors. The contents of those locked cupboards was a mystery.