Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02]

by Patterns of Love

  The minister glanced toward Dirk. “These are your feelings, too, Mr. Bridger?”

  “I’ve never taken liberties with your daughter, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at, Reverend Linberg. I took proper care of her when she was with us before, and I’ll take proper care of her now. You’ve got my word on that.”

  “You mistake me, young man,” her father replied. “I know what it is to be young and in love, although it is always difficult for the young to believe that of their elders. But if love is real, it will survive a time of separation.” He looked at his daughter again. “I would never mean to imply that Inga would deport herself in any way but an acceptable one.”

  “Pappa—”

  Olaf raised his hand to halt her words. “It is not necessary to argue with me, Inga. I have not been your pappa for all these years without learning many things about you. You are kind to those near to you. You are tender and loving to those who need nurturing, and you are generous with all that is yours, always looking for ways to help others. All good qualities, I might add.” His smile was tolerant. “You are also more stubborn than a mule, kära du, and when I see that expression on your face, I know it is useless to try to reason with you.”

  What Dirk saw was a glimmer of tears in her eyes, not stubbornness, and he felt something tighten in his chest in response.

  “Mr. Bridger,” the pastor continued, still gazing at his daughter, “I foolishly thought I would be allowed to keep Inga at home with me and her mamma. When I get too old to shepherd my congregation, I always envisioned having long philosophical and religious discussions with her, for she is intelligent, this daughter of mine. I should have known her heart held too much love not to give it away to the man she would want to marry.” Now he looked at Dirk. “You are fortunate, Mr. Bridger, that she has agreed to be your wife. You must also be a man of fine character to have won her heart. She would never agree to marry you otherwise.”

  Dirk felt like a fraud.

  “Will you perform the ceremony tomorrow morning, Pappa?”

  “Ja. I will agree to dispense with the reading of the banns. But your mamma is not going to like this haste. She will want to do more.”

  “Thank you, Pappa,” Inga whispered, and again there were tears in her eyes.

  Dirk had a strange wish to fold her in his arms and make her tears go away. He wanted to prove he was the man Reverend Linberg thought he was. He almost wished he and Inga were marrying for all the reasons her father thought. But they weren’t, and that was the way Dirk preferred it to stay. Loving folks tied a man down, held him captive when he yearned to roam. Besides, loving someone only brought pain when they died.

  And they so often died.

  Olaf offered his hand to Dirk. “I wish you happiness, young man, and God’s blessings on your marriage.”

  “Thanks.”

  Inga’s hand slipped from Dirk’s as her father turned toward her, his arms outstretched. They embraced, Olaf whispering softly in his native tongue.

  Dirk wondered if he was making a terrible mistake, taking Inga from her father and the rest of her family. Would a man of fine character take a woman from a warm and loving home to the harsh life he had to offer? It wasn’t fair to her. But what other choice did he have?

  “Now,” the pastor said as he stepped backward, “I believe you should bid each other a good day. Then, Inga, you and I must go and tell your mamma. She is with Mrs. Jansson this afternoon. The widow’s rheumatism has been causing her great distress. But we must not wait until your mamma comes home to tell her your plans for tomorrow morning. She will think of much to be done before then, if I know my wife.”

  Inga nodded, then glanced at Dirk. “I will walk you to the door.”

  “Goddag”—the pastor hesitated only an instant before adding—“son.”

  Dirk shoved away his feelings of guilt and uncertainty. “Good day, sir.”

  Life was hard, he rationalized as he walked beside Inga toward the front door of the parsonage. Folks did what they had to do to survive, to get along as best they could. He needed someone to care for his nieces, and Inga was the logical person. He hadn’t lied to her about his reasons for proposing. He hadn’t professed feelings that weren’t true. He’d told her why he wanted to marry her and what the terms of their marriage would be. She was going into it with eyes open. She was intelligent, just as her father had said, and she knew what she was doing.

  Besides, the state of their marriage was no one’s business but their own. He had nothing to feel guilty about.

  So why, when he looked down at her as he bid her farewell, did he still feel that irritating sense of guilt?

  Eleven

  Invitations were hastily written and dispersed to members of the community, Inga’s wishes for a quiet family affair ignored. In deference to the groom’s recent bereavement, Bernadotte agreed there should be no dancing at the reception. Still, she fussed over a hundred different details for Inga’s wedding, and she had all of her daughters working throughout the evening and way into the night, preparing food and cleaning and pressing clothes for everyone in the family.

  As they worked, Thea and Gunda tittered and teased Inga about how the handsome Mr. Bridger had swept their very sensible sister off her feet. Astrid and Kirsten swore no woman, not even Inga, could have resisted him. They weren’t far wrong. Inga had fallen helplessly in love with Dirk almost from the first moment they’d met.

  But her sisters also waxed eloquent about how Inga had made Dirk fall in love with her—and that she knew was a lie. Rather than compound the falsehood with words or risk her sisters seeing the truth, Inga remained silent, averting her eyes, and allowed them to think her the shy bride.

  In her heart, she knew women married every day for reasons of convenience. There was no shame in what she was doing. Love was a bonus rather than a necessity for marriage. But still she had her tattered pride—sin or not—to consider. She didn’t want others to know the real reason Dirk had proposed. Not now. Not yet. Soon they would guess the truth. She couldn’t expect Dirk to pretend a passion he didn’t feel. Eventually, others would recognize that theirs was not a love match.

  Strangely enough, during that wakeful hour before dawn, when the house was completely quiet and still, Inga realized she felt like a bride who was loved. She was filled with nervous anticipation. She even allowed herself a few moments of fantasy, imagining Dirk standing beside her in his dark suit as her father joined them in holy matrimony.

  His hair would be mussed by his fingers, as usual, and his tie would likely be knotted improperly. He would smell of soap and water. His jaw would be clean-shaven, but there would be that ever-present shadow of a beard beneath his skin. He would stand straight and tall, towering over everyone else in the room. As he promised to love and to cherish her, she would look into his brown eyes and believe it was true. And when they were pronounced husband and wife, he would kiss her.

  What would it feel like, that kiss? Would there be a particular taste to his mouth? Would his kiss feel hard or would it be tender?

  I’m not askin’ you to…well…to share my bed.

  What would it be like to share his bed? She had only a nebulous understanding of what that meant. A woman didn’t have children unless she lay with her husband. It was something married women whispered about. Why?

  As if summoned by Inga’s thoughts, Bernadotte appeared in the doorway, a lamp in her hand. Light spilled into the bedroom, illuminating Inga’s bed. She sat up.

  “Mamma?”

  Bernadotte put a finger to her lips as she glanced toward Thea, who was buried beneath her quilts. “I thought you might be awake,” she whispered. “I could not sleep on the morning of my wedding. Come with me, Inga. We must talk, you and I”

  Inga tossed aside the blankets and rose from the bed. She slid her bare feet into her house slippers, then grabbed her dressing robe and put it on as she followed after her mamma.

  They went to the kitchen where the stove burned hot, chasi
ng away the cold. Inga sat in a chair by the table while Bernadotte poured coffee into cups. After her mother had taken her own seat, the two women spent several moments in silence, looking at each other while sipping the hot drinks they had both sweetened with cream and sugar.

  Finally, Inga couldn’t stand the quiet any longer. “Why did you bring me down here, Mamma?”

  Bernadotte wore a gentle smile, but it was tinged with sadness. “You are the first of my daughters to marry and leave home. I am having a difficult time adjusting.”

  “Oh, Mamma.”

  “I pray this union will make you happy, Inga. You never showed an interest in suitors before now.”

  It was more like suitors had had no interest in her, Inga thought.

  Bernadotte touched the back of Inga’s hand. “Marriage is a sacred union, dotter, and the joining of a man and woman in marriage is meant to be a beautiful thing.” She pulled her hand away and gazed down at her cup. “You must not expect too much at first, but it need not be unpleasant. I know you will feel shy and embarrassed. That is only natural, and even as it should be for a maiden. But you must not deny him, for it is his right as your husband.”

  For a moment, Inga was confused. She didn’t know what her mamma was talking about. Then it dawned on her. “What… what really happens, Mamma?” she whispered, her stomach fluttering with nervousness.

  Bernadotte didn’t look up. “A husband enjoys…touching his wife. In bed. The…the act of marriage is intimate, and many women are embarrassed or frightened. But I have found…well…Oh dear.” She drew a quick breath, then took another sip of coffee.

  Inga had never seen her mother blush before. Bernadotte Linberg seemed always to be calm, serene, and collected.

  “Inga, what I am trying to say is that your wedding night may not be perfect. But given time, you may find yourself anticipating…even desiring…your husband’s attentions. If he is gentle and patient and loves you, he will learn to please you.” At last she looked up and met her daughter’s gaze. “And even if that never happens, it is this very intimacy that gives a woman her greatest blessing. Children. Do you understand?”

  No, she didn’t understand. Her mother’s words had left her bewildered and curious at the same time. But she nodded anyway, certain she would learn nothing more even if she inquired.

  Bernadotte let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she whispered as she reached for something on the chair next to her. Then she held the white bundle toward Inga. “This is for you, my dear. It was your grandmamma’s for her wedding night, and she gave it to me for my wedding night. Now it goes to my eldest daughter for her wedding night. When your husband sees you in it, may he say, like Solomon, ‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair.’”

  I’m not askin’ you to…well…to share my bed.

  “Oh, Mamma.” Inga’s voice cracked as she fought the tears welling up in her eyes.

  She should refuse to take the gown. She wouldn’t need it. She would never understand the obscure references her mother had made. She would never know if she thought her husband’s attentions or his touch were pleasant or not.

  Because Dirk didn’t want to touch her. Because he didn’t find her fair as King Solomon had found his bride.

  Never had Inga felt more plain and unattractive than she did at that precise moment.

  “Miss Inga’s always gonna live with us, huh, Uncle Dirk? She’s never gonna go back to town to live. Right?”

  He looked at Martha, who was sitting to his right on the seat of the sleigh. “Yeah. She’s going to come to stay.”

  “She’s gonna be Aunt Inga now. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “I love Miss Inga!” Suzanne piped up from his other side.

  He glanced at his younger niece. Her eyes sparkled with merriment, and her cheeks and nose were the color of ripe cherries. He didn’t know when she’d ever looked this adorable.

  He’d done the right thing, asking Inga to marry him. Both the girls were as pleased as punch. As for Dirk himself…well, he hadn’t spent much time worrying about his own feelings. A man did what he had to do. It was as simple as that. And he didn’t reckon he would mind having Inga Linberg in his house again.

  He remembered the many kindnesses she had shown his mother. He remembered the frigid mornings she had brought hot coffee to him when he was working in the barn. He remembered the fragrant odors of supper cooking. He remembered the children’s laughter as Inga told them stories at bedtime.

  No, he didn’t reckon he would mind having her there again.

  The parsonage came into view, and his stomach muscles tightened in a flash of jitters. This was it. He was taking a wife. Unconsummated or not, it would still be a marriage, and marriage was one more link in the chain that kept him shackled to a life he’d never wanted.

  He set his jaw, irritated with himself. There was no point wanting things he could never have. He’d be better off to accept the hand fate-or was it God?-had dealt him.

  If you clutch that bitterness to your chest so hard, son, there’ll come a time when you won’t be able to let it go, even if you want to.

  Ma had been right. Only he didn’t know how to let it go.

  From the window of her parents’ bedroom, Inga watched the sleigh pull up to the house. Her heart skittered and her pulse pounded. He was here. He had come. She hadn’t realized until this moment that she’d been afraid he would change his mind. But he was here, and in a short while, she would be his wife. In name only, perhaps, but his wife nonetheless.

  Mrs. Dirk Bridger.

  “I wish it was me,” Gunda said as she stepped up beside Inga. “You are so lucky. He is the most handsome man in all of Uppsala. Of course, if he had asked me, I would have made him marry me proper. I would have made myself a new bridal gown for my wedding instead of wearing something out of fashion like Mamma’s dress. Everyone would have brought gifts to the receptions we’d have had after church when the banns were read, and all of our friends would have gathered for the tug of the birch tree. And we certainly would have had music and dancing.”

  Inga nodded absently.

  “You and Mr. Bridger did not even exchange gifts,” Gunda continued. “Not so much as a silk handkerchief or a pair of gloves.”

  “It is not the same in America,” Inga whispered as she watched Dirk lift first Martha and then Suzanne from the sleigh.

  That wasn’t true, of course. The Linberg sisters had attended a wedding in Uppsala three months before. They had toasted the bride and groom with Swedish vodka and partaken of coffee and cake at the various receptions. They had watched young men cut down a large birch tree and haul it to the bride’s home where it was sawn into pieces, some to be used for furniture in the couple’s new home. They had listened as their pappa conducted the marriage ceremony, seen the bride blush, watched as the groom sealed their vows with a kiss.

  “You didn’t even have reading of the banns.” Gunda clucked her tongue. “It isn’t right.”

  Thea took Gunda by the arm and pulled her away from the window, scolding softly, “Why should Inga wait three weeks so the banns can be read? She is in love. And Mr. Bridger just lost his mother. It would not be seemly to celebrate in the usual way. Of course Inga would want to marry quietly and go with her husband.” She paused a moment, then added, “It is what I would do if Karl was here and the circumstances were the same.”

  Inga turned around and met Thea’s gaze. Usually her sister was wrapped up in her own concerns. Inga was grateful for her understanding. Perhaps it was because Thea would soon go to New York City to marry the man she loved, the man who was going to travel across an ocean to make her his wife. If only Dirk loved Inga even half as much as Karl loved Thea.

  Inga forced a smile, trying to hide the pain that suddenly pierced her heart. She was greedy, she decided. She had never expected to marry at all. Now that she had fallen in love, now that she was about to wed, she wanted more. She wanted hi
s love, too.

  Her mother appeared in the doorway, the white bridal veil draped over her arms. “It is time,” Bernadotte said as she entered the bedroom. She stopped in front of Inga, then leaned forward and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “All the guests are here, and your groom has arrived. Are you ready?”

  Inga nodded.

  “You look beautiful.” Her mamma set the crown of artificial white flowers on Inga’s head, then smoothed the sheer, floor-length veil until it fell gently over her shoulders and her back.

  Inga glanced down at the black silk wedding gown that had been her mother’s before her. The dress had been taken in everywhere except for the hem, which had had to be let out. A new white lace collar had been added, this a gift from Gunda.

  Beautiful? Oh, how she longed for Dirk to think so.

  As he’d done countless times already, Dirk yanked at his collar with his forefinger, trying to loosen it so he could swallow comfortably. The parlor of the parsonage buzzed with the soft conversations of the guests, most of them strangers to him. Occasionally someone spoke to him or patted his back in congratulation. They all received the same response-a tense smile and an abrupt nod.

  When the room suddenly stilled, he knew Inga had arrived. He turned and saw her, standing in the parlor doorway, surrounded by her mother and sisters. But when his eyes met with hers, he forgot the others.

  She was lovely, as every bride should be. Pale and fragile. Flaxen wisps of hair curled across her forehead and around her temples, only a shade darker than the gossamer lace of the veil cascading around her shoulders. He could read the anxiety in her ice blue eyes, see it in the slight tremble of her lips.

  I swear I’ll be good to you, he promised her silently.

  She came toward him, gliding across the floor, tall and willowy. When she reached him, he turned, Inga standing to his left, and together they faced her father.

  The pastor cleared his throat, then began, “’In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’”