Threads of Hope

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Kristin sent a glance skyward. She never believed in the fabled creatures and didn’t think Peder did either, but it didn’t stop him from teasing her.

  “How did you sleep last night up in that sorry excuse for a loft?”

  “Horrible.”

  “Hmm … well, I hope you are not hungry.” All humor drained from his freckled countenance. “The scrawny chickens have not laid an egg in weeks, and the cow looks so sickly I am surprised she gives any milk at all.”

  “But Tante lit a fire in the hearth just now.”

  “For coffee, perhaps, and bread if she has flour.”

  “But the stew yesterday evening?”

  “A gift from the minister and his wife. There is no repast.”

  Kristin felt somewhat alarmed. “Maybe there is food here that you do not know about.”

  “None that Far and I could see. But the trouble might change to good. Far managed to find an old piece of string and a long stick. He is fishing in the nearby stream. Guess where your uncle is?”

  “Where?” Kristin couldn’t conceal a wince.

  “Dozing in the hay.”

  “He is exhausted from working.”

  Peder shook his head. “Kristin, take a look around you. Little effort goes into this place. Living here is worse than what we had in Norway.”

  “You do not know that yet.” Kristin’s gaze spanned the area surrounding her. Maybe the house had been nice at one time.

  No, she realized, it hadn’t.

  “I do not understand. My uncle’s letters stated—”

  “Your uncle lied. He tricked you into coming and bringing any inheritance.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Did your uncle pay for your trip? No? So what did he lose if you traveled all this way? Nothing. But he gained a gold pocket watch—and free laborers, which would be us.”

  “Stop it, Peder.” Kristin didn’t want to hear any more. This was her family. They had wanted her to come because Mor, Poppa, and the boys were dead.

  Except she didn’t feel very wanted.

  In the next moment Kristin remembered the farm they’d passed yesterday. It seemed oddly familiar to her—And that’s when she realized it looked just like the one Uncle Lars had described in his posts.

  “My uncle needs some help with building and repairs.” She tried to see the brighter side. “Then the farm will look every bit as good as we imagined.”

  “Kristin, your uncle expects Far and me to work hard. For that we should live in a smelly barn with no wages? How do we get ahead?”

  “I cannot say.” She hadn’t expected her uncle’s place to be in such a sorry state.

  Peder folded his arms. “And my mother and sister should travel all the way from Norway for this?” His gazed quickly roved about the property before settling back on her.

  Kristin’s heart sank. She wanted Sylvia to come soon.

  “Far says I will have to find work in town or hire on as farmhand to someone able to pay me. But I think you should be the one to have to find work. You brought us here.”

  Kristin lifted her chin. “I would be willing.”

  Peder snorted.

  Suddenly weary, the fight went out of her. “At least the traveling is over. No more sleeping on a ship, tossed by the ocean’s waves. No more rocking train rides that left my low back sore and my muscles stiff.”

  “And the Great Lakes steamship, which took us to the port of Green Bay?” Peder arched an auburn brow.

  “I suppose that last leg of the journey was not so bad.” Kristin smiled. She had, for the most part, enjoyed sailing across Lake Michigan and into the bay. However, even the roll of the lake’s waves proved enough to make her a bit seasick.

  Peder’s mood seemed to lighten. He took the rope from her hand and lifted the bucket easily up from the well. Its contents sloshed over the side and the ice-cold water covered Kristin’s feet.

  “Ah!” Laughing, she jumped back when the water hit her feet.

  Peder chuckled.

  “Kristin!” Inga stood at the cabin’s entryway.

  The water. Of course. They are waiting. “Coming!” She struggled to carry the heavy bucket, irritated that Peder stood by, making fun of her efforts.

  Before long she reentered the house and poured some water into the basin.

  “Fetching the water is Inga’s job.” Aunt Esther scowled. “I have other chores in mind for you.”

  “Oh …” Confused, Kristin swung her gaze to Inga. Her cousin pointed and giggled, reminding Kristin of Peder. Some prank that was!

  “So wash up, already. There is work to do, and the wedding begins in just a few hours. As you know, Norwegian weddings are an all-day affair.”

  “Ja, I know.” Kristin smiled, thinking about all the fun she and Sylvia had at weddings past.

  Removing her robe, Kristin rolled up her sleeves. She splashed water on her face and arms and told herself to enjoy the feel of the cold water against her skin, for it promised to be another hot day.

  Her cousins went out to do their chores. Kristin finished washing then approached her aunt. “What tasks would you like me to do?”

  “I already told you. You rest today and tomorrow. Your chores start on Monday.”

  Kristin thought she should feel relieved, even privileged, but instead she felt chastened. Her self-confidence teetered.

  Walking to her trunk, she found her bunad. A traditional outfit, the dress consisted of a vestlike bodice and full skirt. She slipped behind the curtained-off area in which her aunt and uncle slept and where everyone could dress, one at a time, in some semblance of privacy. With her undergarments in place, she pulled on the special chemise that her mother had given to her. Next came a white linen blouse with puffy sleeves. Amazingly, it had fared well on the journey and didn’t appear all that wrinkled. Kristin pulled on her black stockings, followed by a dark green wool dress, which was gathered at the waist. Her bunad. The deep green color of the fabric symbolized the area of Norway from which she’d haled: Nordre Bergenhus amt, and particularly Jølster. And the embroidery …

  Kristin fingered the red and pink roses that Mor had painstakingly sewn into the bodice and along the hem of her skirt that closed in the front. Mor had modeled the flowers after the climbing rød and rosa blooms that had climbed up along the back of their small cottage. Kristin tied on the white apron, which covered the skirt’s front hooks. More embroidered roses, along with ribbons of green, made for exquisite edging around the circumference of the garment.

  Smiling, Kristin recalled how she hadn’t any idea that Mor worked so diligently on her bunad, until the day of her confirmation when she’d received the outfit as a very special gift.

  And speaking of …

  Kristin made sure Mor’s necklace remained concealed beneath her blouse, just in case.

  Then, hairbrush in hand, Kristin stepped around the partitioned-off area and walked into the kitchen and dining area. “Will you help me with my hair, Tante?”

  Aunt Esther glanced up from the empty flour canister she held in her hand. “Brush your own hair. I am busy.” She gave Kristin a once-over glance.

  Kristin sensed her aunt’s disapproval. “No one else wears a bunad?”

  “Some do.” Her aunt shrugged.

  “And you?”

  “I had one, but … times got tough. I had to cut it up so your uncle had warm socks for the winter.”

  Kristin tried not to let her surprise show. To cut up her bunad must have meant her aunt and uncle fell on hard, lean times here in America. Kristin wondered if she would meet that same fate.

  “Would it be best if I changed clothes, Tante?”

  “No, no … wear your pretty outfit. Your uncle still has his bunad, his embroidered vest.”

  “And the Olstads will most likely wear theirs too.”

  “Then, see? You will not stick out like a sore thumb.”

  The remark stung and Kristin’s cheeks grew hot. She left the stuffy structure for the sanct
ity of the outdoors. She walked a ways from the house and closed her eyes. Familiar and comforting sounds wafted to her. The lowing of cows in the distance, the rustling of leafy tree branches, and the whisper of the wind passing through a tall evergreen. She missed her home in Norway. Was Peder right? Had she been tricked into coming to America?

  Sam shifted his weight and smiled at Luke Smith’s nervous expression. Together they stood near the altar as the small church filled with guests. Pa and Jack sat only a few feet away on the Sundberg family’s usual front pew. The Smith family had filed into the polished wooden bench on the other side of the aisle, where the Eikaases normally sat each Sunday. Sam anticipated Lars Eikaas’s irritation with the temporary seating arrangement. But Luke’s family members were guests in Emmanuel Christian Church. The Smiths haled from the neighboring county, so God’s little brick house would be packed today with visitors as well as regular attendees. Mr. Eikaas would have to understand.

  Glancing around the mostly familiar faces, Sam’s gaze suddenly fell on Lars Eikaas’s niece as she and her family entered the church. Her dancing blue eyes were a stark contrast to her aunt’s stern squint and her cousins’ downcast looks. And, as he expected, Lars appeared none-too-pleased when he glimpsed the Smiths’ seating arrangements. Sam fought back his urge to grin, and then his gaze shifted back to Lars’s niece. She looked stunning in her forest-green bunad, and Sam rather liked the pretty blush on her peachy complexion.

  “What? What is it?” Luke ran his calloused fingers through his dark-blond hair.

  Sam replied with a curious glance at his friend.

  “You’re wearing an odd sort of grin. Do you see Rachel? Is the wedding about to start?”

  “Relax. It’s nothing.” Sam shook himself. “Ma, Mary, and Mrs. Wollums are tending to Rachel and …” He inclined his head toward the side entrance, which led to the parsonage. “Look behind you, Luke. The reverend has just arrived.”

  “Thank God.” The groom-to-be let out a relieved sigh. “I thought maybe he changed his mind about performing the ceremony for Rachel and me.”

  “Nonsense.” He clapped Luke on the shoulder.

  Once the reverend took his place next to Luke and began conversing with him, Sam stepped back and seated himself between Pa and Jack. Luke’s brother would stand in as the best man.

  Jack leaned his shoulder up against Sam’s. “She sure is pretty.”

  “Who would that be?” In spite of his reply, Sam knew to whom his little brother referred. Lars Eikaas’s niece. Even now as he faced the altar, he sensed her presence one row back and across the aisle. He suddenly overheard her aunt introduce her in Norwegian. “This is our niece, Kristin Eikaas, from the Old Country.”

  Kristin. A lovely name. At least he’d learned that much about her.

  “I think I just heard that her name is Kristin,” Jack whispered a little too loudly.

  Sam sent a gaze upward. “I heard the same thing, wise guy.”

  “So you’re listening, eh?”

  “Mind your own business.” Sam shifted.

  The boy chuckled. “Well, all right.” He leaned closer. “But Miss Kristin Eikaas is awful pretty. A man can’t help notice. Why, Big Artie Svensen’s got his eye on—”

  “Enough, already.”

  Pa leaned over. “Quiet down, you two.”

  Jack sat up a little straighter.

  Sam grinned. “Everything’s fine, Pa.”

  “Hmph.” Karl Sundberg jutted out his chin and folded his thick forearms. “I hope you two aren’t discussing that Eikaas girl.”

  Sam felt his face flush.

  “Oh, no, Pa,” Jack said. “Not discussin’.”

  Sam turned to find Pa’s gaze boring into him.

  “No son of mine is going to court an Eikaas. Understand me?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Sam rolled his shoulders, adjusting his dress coat. He knew of Lars Eikaas’s past. The man had earned a bad reputation by brawling in Muskego. Finally the authorities had asked him to leave. Since moving to Green Bay, Eikaas had gotten himself in occasional trouble, but nothing to get him thrown in jail—or to prove he’d stolen Pa’s silver spoons.

  And as far as Kristin Eikaas was concerned …

  Sam looked straight ahead at the altar and rubbed the side of his clean-shaven jaw. Pa needn’t worry. Sam had no business even thinking of courtship. His father wanted him to begin a career in politics so he could fight social injustices. Sam thought he’d be good at mediation and agreed to give it a try.

  Redirecting his thoughts, Sam gazed at the polished oak cross, which hung above the matching altar, before he looked around the whitewashed plaster walls. When the church had first been built, both the men and women of their congregation participated in decorating the sanctuary. However, Pa paid most of the costs of building the church, along with its small parsonage. The pastor’s wife, Agnes Wollums, had been overjoyed when she first stepped into her new home. And the church and sanctuary itself were unique in the area. Pa had the bricks shipped up from Manitowoc. Typically only the wealthiest in Wisconsin could afford a brick dwelling. Pa figured no other family but this here body of believers was the richer, and they deserved a church home befitting of their heavenly Father’s glory.

  But Lars Eikaas had taken issue with building a fine church and parsonage. He maintained the rickety wooden structure served the same purpose as a new one. He was also adamant about the fact that the reverend and his wife ought not to live in a home better than his. The Wollumses were “servants of the Lord,” after all.

  Pa, however, had disagreed. As agents of the King of kings, the Wollumses should have everything this community could offer.

  So with the support of his family, Pa stepped out and offered to pay for the new church. Several other men in the Green Bay community rolled up their sleeves and helped with its construction. All around, some sacrifice had been involved, but Sam and the rest of the Sundbergs were only glad to do it—and how glad and grateful they were to worship inside a solid building whose walls were stronger than last winter’s north wind. Mrs. Wollums said her daughters were healthier, and each time she spoke about her new brick home, tears of joy filled her eyes.

  Yes, it had been worth it.

  However, Lars Eikaas saw it, not as beauty or blessing, but as some sort of outward gloating on the Sundbergs’ part. The tension between the two families only seemed to escalate, in spite of the reverend’s efforts.

  Sam couldn’t help sneaking a look over his shoulder. His gaze happened to catch Kristin Eikaas’s sky-blue eyes. She sent him a timid grin before quickly turning away. In that moment a powerful sense of hope, wonder, and possessiveness all rolled into one coursed through him.

  “Don’t even think it, son.”

  The growled warning brought Sam up short. He gazed into his father’s weathered face. “Think what, Pa?”

  “You know what.” He gave his brown dress coat an indignant tug. “Like I said, no son of mine will ever court an Eikaas.”

  “I never saw such a beautiful wedding ceremony.” Kristin smiled as she watched the bride and groom make their way down the church’s aisle. Lively music from the piano and an accordion followed them. The couple paused here and there to greet guests as they passed by.

  Kristin took note of the bride’s headpiece. Quite plain, as far as Norwegian customs were concerned. Kristin was accustomed to seeing brides wearing an extraordinary silver crown with spoon-shaped sterling-silver bangles dangling down their backs. Each time brides moved their heads, the spoons struck one another and the bangles made a metallic-sounding music, which, many believed, kept evil spirits away. But perhaps there were no evil spirits in America. Perhaps they stayed in the Old Country.

  The smiling couple paused a ways down to quickly acknowledge another family, and Kristin admired the bride’s lovely lace collar that she wore around a white blouse. The young woman’s white skirt had been embroidered with silver thread. Kristin appreciated the needlework. It w
as what she did best, working with a needle and thread. She could spin too. Mor had always admired Kristin’s efficiency on the spinning wheel.

  “Ja, lovely wedding,” Inga replied to her earlier remark. Her quiet voice sounded rather wistful.

  Kristin glanced at her cousin just in time to see her exchange glances with a stocky man with hair the color of a maple leaf in the peak of autumn. “Who is he?”

  Inga appeared startled, but then the features on her round face relaxed. “You won’t tell Far, will you?”

  Kristin shook her head. “No. Of course not.” The less she had to say to her ornery uncle, the better.

  A timid smile curled her cousin’s full, pink lips. “He is Oskar Frantzen, the blacksmith’s apprentice in town.” Her features fell. “But he does not know I exist.”

  “He just looked your way. I saw him.”

  “Ja, but only because I was staring.”

  Kristin peeked over at Mr. Frantzen. He spoke to a man standing nearby, and his gaze didn’t stray to Inga again.

  Peder tugged on Kristin’s arm. “Time for the wedding dinner and celebration in the churchyard.”

  Kristin followed him out of the pew and into the aisle where they trailed a throng of people out of the church.

  Sandwiched between Peder and her cousin, Kristin leaned close to Inga and whispered, “Perhaps Mr. Frantzen will notice you this afternoon and evening.”

  A hopeful spark entered the younger girl’s blue eyes. “Yes, perhaps.”

  Outside, Peder politely assisted Kristin down the steps and onto a dirt pathway, which led to the lot where the horses and wagons stood.

  “I will go help bring the food.” Peder dropped her arm and headed for the wagon.

  Kristin stood there a moment, deliberating whether she should wait for him or catch up to her cousins who had headed for the grassy yard on the side of the sturdy brick church. The latter won out. Whirling around, Kristin took a blind step forward then suddenly slammed into something hard and muscled. She bounced backward.

  “Oh! Oh!” One hand flew to her bonnet as she fought to regain her balance. She felt herself sailing downward, destined to land on her backside.