She had a sudden vision of those same hands touching her arm. She could almost feel the warmth of them, pressed against the cotton fabric of her sleeve.
What might it be like…
She closed her eyes and took another drink of the strong, dark brew. What fanciful thoughts! And Pappa had always called her the sensible one. Surely, if her father knew what she was thinking, he would no longer believe she had any sense at all.
“Well…” Dirk set down his mug, scooted the chair back from the table, then stood. “Better see to the milkin’ ’fore it gets any later.”
Inga glanced up, her heart quickening as she looked him full in the face again. “You will want breakfast when you return, Mr. Bridger. Ja?”
“Yes, ma’am. I sure will.” Then without another word, he turned on his heel and headed out of the kitchen.
“Poor Inga,” Gunda said as she smoothed the quilt her sister had made. “She will be miserable, being away from home. Pappa should have sent me to work for Mr. Bridger.”
“You?” Thea straightened from making her own bed and stared at Gunda. “Pappa would never be so foolish.”
“And why not me?”
“Because, Gunda, you flirt with every male over the age of fifteen. That is why.”
“I do not!”
Thea laughed. “Of course you do. Ask anyone.”
“And you don’t?” Gunda plopped herself down on the edge of her bed. “Besides, no one could have blamed me if I flirted a little with Herr Bridger. He really is so handsome.”
“Perhaps.” Thea turned toward the window, staring out at the lead gray skies. In her mind, she imagined Karl, saw his sun-gold hair and icy blue eyes and pale, close-trimmed beard. No one would ever be as handsome as Karl Gustav. She knew she would feel that way until her dying day. But Karl was in Sweden and Thea was in America, and nothing had ever seemed as hopeless in her seventeen years as her love for Karl.
“You’re wishing you’d run off with Karl, aren’t you?”
Thea glanced over her shoulder. “Ja.” She whispered the reply, as if afraid her father would hear.
“Karl promised he would come.”
“Of course he will come. But it will take him so long to save enough for the passage. It could be years.” It was all so unfair. Why hadn’t her pappa understood?
Gunda ran a brush over her hair. “At least Karl loves you. It could be worse.”
“Ja, it could be worse. I could be an old maid like Inga.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculous nature of the statement. She was the prettiest of all the Linberg sisters. She could have had her pick of any of the young men in Jönköping or in Uppsala.
“Shame on you, Thea. That was a very unkind thing to say.”
Thea harrumphed as she lay down on her sister’s just-made bed, her hands cupped behind her head. “Perhaps, but it is true, and you and I both know it.”
Gunda nodded. As much as they loved their oldest sister, they both knew there had never been a boy in Jönköping who had asked to pay calls on her. All the boys and young men had come to see the younger Linberg sisters, never Inga.
“It’s because Inga has never shown any interest in marriage,” Gunda offered in her sister’s defense. “She’s too involved in helping Pappa with his work and acting like a second mother to the rest of us. Besides, she wouldn’t know how to catch a man.” After a moment’s pause, she grinned. “Now if it were me working for Herr Bridger, I would have myself a husband in no time.”
Thea thought about chiding her sister but, instead, got up and returned to the window. What would be the point, after all? There was little danger of Gunda making a fool of herself over Dirk Bridger. The man’s farm was a long way from Uppsala, and since he didn’t attend Pappa’s church, their paths weren’t likely to cross any time soon. Being the silly coquette she was, Gunda would forget him as soon as she was around some other eligible male.
If only Thea could as easily quit thinking about Karl. Perhaps then she wouldn’t feel this constant ache in her chest or this overwhelming sadness that made it such an effort to smile. If only Pappa had let her marry Karl and stay in Sweden. But Pappa had said she was too young to marry and that Karl, only seventeen at the time, could not provide for her, being the youngest of six sons with nothing to inherit.
“If he loves you as he says,” Pappa had said the night she and Karl had gone to him, asking for his permission to marry, “he will find a way to come to America. True love is not diminished by distance.”
That had been almost a year ago. It seemed even longer, and Thea felt eons older. She believed Pappa had thought she would forget Karl, but she hadn’t. She would never forget Karl. She would die first. Like Shakespeare’s Juliet, she would die before she would forget her Romeo, her Karl.
It was all so terribly tragic and romantic.
By the time Dirk had finished with the milking, he’d cursed every cow in the barn, several of the cats who made their home in the loft—and who constantly pestered him for a squirt of milk—and one old plow horse that the girls called Chief. Chief, who had done nothing wrong in particular that morning, was included for good measure.
A bitter wind slammed into Dirk as he stepped out of the barn, a bucket of milk in each hand. He leaned into it and headed toward the back door, feeling tired already even though the day had just begun. He purposely didn’t look at the house. He knew if he did he would see at least a dozen things that needed repairs. Like the shutter at his mother’s bedroom window that had a loose hinge or the porch banister that needed to be replaced or…
He muttered an oath—the sort his mother had washed his mouth out with soap for when he was a boy. Come to think of it, if she’d heard what he’d said, she’d probably threaten to do it again.
When he opened the door into the kitchen, laughter spilled through it, along with warmth from the fire and the tempting odors of fried eggs and sausage. He lifted his gaze as he kicked the toe of one boot against the step, knocking off straw and mud. His glance took in both of his nieces and his mother, seated around the table, and Inga Linberg standing near the stove, dishing breakfast onto a large platter.
“Here’s Dirk,” Hattie said, still smiling from whatever had caused them all to laugh moments before. There were patches of color on her cheeks, and her eyes twinkled with merriment.
Dirk hadn’t seen her looking like this in more than a year.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, then set the buckets of milk on the nearby counter. “Hope you haven’t been waitin’ on me.”
“Nej,” Inga replied. “Your breakfast is only now ready. Come and eat while it is hot.”
Dirk nodded. “I’ll wash up.”
“Inga was tellin’ us about her trip to America,” his mother said. “I can’t imagine goin’ so far from home, myself.”
He shoved his hands into a pail of sudsy water in the sink, thinking, I can.
“Pappa says there’s much of our seagoing ancestors in me.” Inga set the platter in the center of the kitchen table. “I thought the voyage was wonderful, but my mother and sisters suffered from seasickness, especially when there were storms.”
Dirk grabbed a towel and dried his hands. “I’ve never seen the ocean myself, but I’ve been to the Rocky Mountains.” He turned. “If you haven’t seen ’em, you can’t imagine ’em. Air so thin at the top a man can’t scarcely breathe. Trees like nothin’ in Iowa. Streams so fresh and cold they’ll make your teeth chatter.”
“You’ll go back some day, son,” Hattie said softly. All remnants of her smile vanished, and her gaze filled with sorrow.
“Doesn’t matter, Ma.” He pulled out his chair from the table and sat down. “I’ve been there once.”
He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. It didn’t serve any purpose, thinking about his brief time out West, except to make him want what he couldn’t have and make his ma feel responsible for it. He would have thought, after two years, he’d be
used to being here in Iowa, that he would’ve accepted his lot in life. The world was full of people who never made it more than a few miles in any direction from the place where they were born. He’d at least done more than that. He ought to be thankful for it.
“Mr. Bridger?”
He looked at Inga. “Yeah?”
“Perhaps this afternoon you would be kind enough to show me around the farm.”
“Sure. Whenever you want.”
After Hattie said the blessing, the Bridger family and their new housekeeper ate in relative peace for about ten minutes. Dirk got to hear about the immigration depot on Ellis Island and about Inga’s first impression of New York City. Despite himself, he was interested in hearing it, even though listening made him yearn for the same type of experiences.
Then Suzanne spilled her milk and immediately began to cry. Quickly, Inga sopped up the liquid with a towel while crooning words of reassurance to the girl. As if jealous of the attention her younger sister was receiving, Martha knocked her plate on the floor, splattering eggs and sausage everywhere. Her face turned red, and her eyes filled with tears as she bit her lower lip. Suzanne’s wails increased in volume.
Dirk wolfed down his last few bites, then mumbled, “I’d better get back to the chores,” and rushed out of the house into the cold, preferring the frigid conditions outside to the current indoor chaos.
Inga glanced up as the door slammed closed.
“He’s still not used to children,” Hattie said, sounding apologetic.
Inga shrugged, ignoring the disappointment his departure caused as she lifted Suzanne into her arms. “Pappa always hid in his study when things got too noisy for him.” She swayed and shushed and stroked the child’s back with one hand. As Suzanne began to quiet, Inga kissed the tip of her nose. “I suppose your uncle is not so different from my pappa. What do you think, prinsessa? Do you think he is hiding like my pappa did when my sisters and I made too much noise?”
Suzanne stuck out her bottom lip as she drew in tiny gasps of breath.
Inga looked down at Martha. “What do you think, kattunge?”
Martha frowned. “What’s that mean?”
“Kattunge? It means kitten.” She set Suzanne back on her chair, then retrieved the broom and swept up the spilled food.
“What’dja call me that for?” Martha persisted.
Inga smiled. “It is habit, I suppose. I had pet names for each of my sisters when they were little.” She paused and met Martha’s gaze. “Do you mind?”
Sounding a lot like her uncle, the girl answered, “Don’t reckon I do.” She actually looked pleased as she slid off her chair and helped Inga clear the breakfast dishes from the table.
“You’ve a way with children, Miss Linberg,” Hattie commented.
The words gladdened Inga more than she’d have thought they would. But her pleasure was fleeting. When she looked at Hattie Bridger, she was alarmed by the sudden pallor of the older woman’s face.
As if she’d read Inga’s thoughts, Hattie rose from her chair, saying, “I’d best lie down for a spell. I’m feelin’ a bit peaked.”
“Do you need—”
Hattie waved away her offer of help before she could make it. “I’ll be fine now that we’ve got you t’look after the young’uns. Don’t worry ’bout me none.”
But her footsteps were shuffling as she made her way out of the kitchen, and Inga continued to worry. She knew Hattie wasn’t well. That was, after all, why she had come here—because Hattie was no longer strong enough to care for herself and her family. But still…
Inga gave her head a quick shake. She was borrowing trouble. A nap and some time away from the commotion of young children would likely have Hattie feeling refreshed and strong once again. Inga would check on her later. For now, there was much to be done.
First, she washed the breakfast dishes, and when she was finished, she heated more water on the stove and filled the washtub. After the children were bathed and dressed in clean clothes, she sat them down on a blanket near the stove so their hair would dry quickly.
At midmorning, she took a cup of hot tea to Hattie. The woman apologized profusely for her weakness. Inga insisted she remain in bed the rest of the day, and Hattie did not seem inclined to argue with her.
To keep them occupied, Inga asked the girls to sort the quilting scraps she had brought with her from home into separate piles, depending upon color. She was certain she would have to reorganize them again at another time, but the purpose was to keep the children quietly occupied so their grandmother could sleep.
Once Martha and Suzanne understood what was expected of them, Inga returned to the kitchen, filled a pail with water, and began giving the room a thorough cleaning, something she suspected it hadn’t had in many months. Time fled, and before she knew it, she heard the stomping of boots just before the back door opened and Dirk reentered the house.
Inga, scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees, felt a sting of embarrassment. She could feel rings of perspiration under her arms and a stripe of moisture along her spine. Her skirt was wet from the wash water. She sat back on her heels and swept her straggling hair from her face, knowing she must look a sight.
But despite whatever work he’d been doing, despite the redness of his cheeks from the cold winter air and the wildness of his windblown hair, Dirk Bridger looked even more handsome than she’d thought him this morning.
She blushed and could only hope and pray he would mistakenly think it was caused by heat from the stove.
“Where is everybody?” he asked as he shucked off his coat.
“Your mother is lying down. The children are in their room.”
He raised an eyebrow, as if doubting the truth of her reply.
Inga dropped the scrub brush into the murky water in the bucket and rose from the floor. Nervously, she ran the palms of her hands down the front of her skirt. “I am afraid I have forgotten the time. I haven’t prepared a noon meal.”
His gaze swept over the room, but he didn’t comment on what he saw or on what she’d said.
He had the most amazing eyes. Rich and dark. Yesterday she had thought them like coffee. Today she thought them more the color of baker’s chocolate. They seemed to take in everything around him, yet revealed nothing to others. She wished she knew what lay behind them. She wished she knew what he was thinking.
Her heart began to hammer wildly. Suddenly light-headed, she found it almost impossible to draw a breath. The room seemed far too warm. What was the matter with her? Was she ill? Only illness could explain the odd way she felt.
She turned her back toward Dirk. “I will make your dinner now.”
“No hurry. I’ll just look in on Ma. See how she’s feelin’.”
She heard him walking across the kitchen, felt the sudden emptiness of the room the moment he was gone. Her pulse slowed, her breathing became easier, the light-headedness vanished.
Being the sensible sort—just as her pappa expected her to be—Inga could not deny the truth. It wasn’t illness she’d been feeling, but an emotional and physical reaction to this man’s presence. She knew, of course, that the reaction was absurd. She had always thought her sisters silly when they would giggle and whisper about some boy. That such a thing should happen to her now, at her age, was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Well, it simply must stop,” she whispered with conviction as she set about making dinner, foolishly believing she could control the way Dirk Bridger made her feel.
Four
Dirk hadn’t been particularly enthusiastic about bringing a stranger into the Bridger home, but after a couple of days, he was forced to admit that Inga Linberg had made a difference. A difference for the better.
The house was cleaner and the meals were tasty. His ma looked more rested than she had in months. He’d actually heard her humming. Even his nieces looked tidy, their curly red hair captured in braids. Come to think of it, little Suzanne seemed less inclined to throw one of her temper tantr
ums, and Martha smiled more often than before. Funny, he hadn’t really thought about the girls’ behavior until he’d seen the changes in them.
On Saturday evening, after a supper of fried pork and potato griddle cakes—what Inga called raggmunkar eller rårakor—Dirk sat down at the kitchen table with his logbook and financial records. He thought sometimes that he hated this task even more than milking cows in the wee hours of the morning, perhaps because it was obvious to him when he saw how little money they had that he was failing everyone. His brother had managed to make a profit when he was living. Dirk was lucky to break even from year to year.
He didn’t know how long he’d been going over the figures and making entries before he became aware of soft voices coming from the living room. He twisted on his chair and looked through the open doorway at the cozy scene.
His mother was in her favorite overstuffed chair, the one closest to the fireplace. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she was awake because she was smiling. Inga sat in the rocking chair John had made for Margaret when she was expecting Martha. A partially completed quilt lay in her lap, and she was taking small stitches in the fabric as she talked to Martha, who was kneeling beside the chair, watching intently. Suzanne lay on the rug near Inga’s feet. Unlike her grandmother, she had drifted off to sleep.
“It’s sorta like a painting, isn’t it?” Martha said.
“Ja. A little.”
“And you just make it up as you go?”
Inga nodded. “As I go. Ja.”
Martha pointed at the quilt. “What’s that?”
“It is England. That is where my friend Beth is from.”
“Do you s’pose you could make a quilt for me?”
“Martha,” Hattie scolded without opening her eyes.
“It is all right, Mrs. Bridger,” Inga responded. “I would very much like to make quilts for the children.” She set her sewing in her lap and touched Martha’s cheek with her left hand. “But I will need to know you better before I can do so. I must know the story I need to tell before I begin. That will take some time.”
Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Page 4