A Season of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Nilda will do that,” Ivar volunteered her.

  “Ivar!” The look on one of the other girl’s faces said disappointment. Nilda leaned closer to her. “Why don’t you turn the pages? You know the songs far better than I do.”

  “Thank you.” She tried to hide her giggle behind her hands.

  Nilda had not heard any of the pieces that everyone knew. “When It’s Moonlight on the Prairie” instantly became her favorite. Or maybe “Shine on, Harvest Moon.” Several of those present knew the harmony. It was just beautiful. They finished with “Goodnight, Irene,” whoever Irene was.

  As the guests prepared to leave, Nilda saw them all out the door while Charles and George assisted them into the sleigh. Another successful social. Relief that all had gone well and pleasure with a dash of pride teamed up to keep her smiling.

  Saturday morning, Nilda and Mrs. Schoenleber were already in the dining room when their two guests wandered in.

  “I guess all that entertaining last night wore him out.” Ivar motioned to Fritz over his shoulder.

  “I always sleep well here,” Fritz replied.

  “You know your room awaits whenever you decide to come,” Mrs. Schoenleber said.

  “And I eat well too. I suppose Cook has outdone herself as usual.” He took the chair across the table from Nilda.

  “You never did hire a cook?” his aunt asked.

  “It seems a waste of money for one person. Besides, when I take the time, I’m not a bad cook.” He raised a hand. “I know, you offered to pay the cook, but . . .”

  “She could clean house, do your wash, all the things that need doing.”

  “I often eat at students’ homes when I do my visits. Some, like Nilda’s house, have superb cooks, and some are not so good. The Skarsteads often invite me over, and the Bensons too.” He looked at Ivar. “Just tell Charles what you want for breakfast.”

  “I’ll have whatever everyone else has,” Ivar said, looking nervous.

  “He’ll have ham, eggs, toast, and fried potatoes.” Nilda grinned at her brother as she placed his order. “Cook does the best fried potatoes.”

  Charles exited to the kitchen.

  “Now, may I make a suggestion on how you could spend your morning?” Mrs. Schoenleber said.

  Fritz nodded. “How did I know this was coming?”

  “Because I always have something for you to do, that’s why. If you would come more often . . .” She laid her hand on her newspaper. “Since it is so perfect out, I think you might enjoy skiing, but we have one problem—only two pairs of skis.” She looked to Ivar. “How soon might your brother have my order ready?”

  “I think he has the first coat of wax applied, so fairly soon.”

  “Good. Nilda really enjoys skiing, and because I am such a failure at it, Charles goes with her.”

  Nilda shook her head. “As if I could get lost in Blackduck.”

  “Going alone is just asking for gossip.”

  “So Miss Carlson going with me would be proper?” Fritz asked.

  “You know the best trails, and I have something else for Ivar to do.”

  Fritz turned to Ivar. “I should have warned you.”

  “Cinnamon rolls!” Ivar stared from his plate to Nilda’s when Charles brought them in a few moments later. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I forgot. You turn in your order, and Cook adds whatever specialty she has for the day.”

  “She always makes cinnamon rolls when I come.” Fritz inhaled the aroma. “This always says home to me.”

  “You lived here?”

  “Most summers when I was attending school in Minneapolis. Aunt Gertrude let me play the piano as much as I wanted. And read—oh, the hours I spent in the library or outside in the shade.”

  “I was hoping he would follow his heart and draw too,” Mrs. Schoenleber said. “He is quite an artist when he allows himself to be.”

  “Don’t believe everything she says. She is a bit prejudiced.” Fritz smiled at Nilda. “So according to her plan, we ski first and then have piano lessons.”

  “See what a good boy he is?” Mrs. Schoenleber patted his hand.

  Nilda felt like shaking her head. This was not what she had expected. “Is Miss Walstead coming today?”

  “No, she is going to visit her sister who lives on a lake south of here. This was the perfect opportunity. George will drive her out, so Ivar, if you would like to see more of the country?”

  Ivar nodded with enthusiasm.

  “Have you been on the other side of the river?” Fritz asked when he and Nilda were strapped into their skis and ready to leave.

  “No, the river was not fully iced in the middle.”

  “When did you go out last?”

  “Over a week ago.”

  “Good, then we’ll go that way. I asked George, and he said one of the older men was out drilling holes for fishing, so the ice is thick enough now.” He set his poles and pushed off. “We should have brought Ivar’s skis along. They’re at my house.”

  Nilda kept up with him without much effort. Should she suggest they go faster? Thoughts of Dreng crept back into her mind, making her sure she was seeing a man with a black hat behind every birch tree. A grove of maple trees provided even more lurking spots.

  “Do you ever ice skate?” Fritz called back after they crossed the river. He shushed to a stop and pointed to a pond off to the right, where benches lined the banks and people of all ages were skating.

  “Oh, that would be so much fun. We used to pump enough water to make a pond at our farm in Norway, back when we were children. I’ve not skated since then.”

  “Aunt Gertrude has skates of various sizes out in the carriage house. I can ask George to find and sharpen them, see if any fit you.”

  We never had time to play, Nilda thought. Doing anything we could that raised money was far more important, as we needed food on the table. “That would be delightful.”

  The wind was picking up, blowing ice bits in their faces, so Fritz curtailed the rest of the trek he’d planned and led them back to the house.

  “Thank you.” She bent over to unbuckle the straps and rammed her skis in the snowbank against the carriage house wall. “This was grand, but that night when Ivar and I skied you halfway home was beyond description.”

  He smiled at her and nodded. “Yes, it was. The shadows on the snow were almost black. By the time I got home, my fingers were itching to draw what I had seen.”

  “I didn’t know you liked to draw.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I have a feeling there are a lot of things about you that I don’t know.”

  She could feel heat rising from her neck, and it wasn’t the scarf she wore. “Most likely that goes both ways.”

  That old adage time stood still became real to her as they gazed at each other.

  He broke the spell first. “We better get to those piano lessons in case Ivar and I need to head home earlier than we planned.”

  She nodded. “Yes, we better.” She headed for the kitchen door and kicked her boots against the step, unwrapping her scarf as she dragged each foot over the boot brush. Cook would not be happy if they tracked snow inside.

  “Thank you.”

  She looked up at his face and nodded. “Thank you.”

  After warming in front of the fire, they sat on the piano bench, and she clenched and stretched her fingers.

  “Show me what you have learned,” he said.

  She tried, she really did, but for some strange reason, her fingers did not want to perform. They usually did these exercises well—because she practiced every day—but not this time. Could it be the man sitting beside her?

  Chapter

  28

  Nilda woke up feeling as if she’d been screaming. Perhaps she had been. Even her throat felt sore—and tired.

  Not wanting to be greeted by Gilda, she dressed in the dim light from the window and made her way down the stairs. Only one gas lamp lit the stairs, so she kept a h
and on the railing. Somehow the smoothness of the banister made her feel grounded in reality rather than still stumbling along in the dream world.

  The man in the black hat—again. She’d been so relieved to sleep through the nights in peace, but now he was back. She never had seen his face.

  From the dining room, she could hear Cook moving about in the kitchen, so she pushed open the swinging door and went in.

  “Oh, my goodness, you scared me half to—” Cook paused. “Something is wrong, Miss Nilda, I can tell. You sit yourself down at this table, and I will have tea ready in a jiffy. The water is already heating. Coffee will take a bit longer.”

  Nilda did as instructed. “Tea will be fine.” Even her fingers twitched. “Is there something I can help you with? I could bring in wood or . . .”

  “This is a gas stove, and Charles keeps the wood full for the fireplaces. But here, you can fold napkins.” She set a pile of them on the table. “You know the way he does it?”

  “Yes.” She set to folding, pressing the creases in with the heel of her hand.

  When Cook set the teapot and cup in front of her, Nilda heaved a sigh. She needed something to do that involved moving around more.

  “Would you like some toast with that?” Cook asked.

  “Yes, please, but you know I could do that myself.”

  “I know, but that is really not proper. Mrs. S would be offended if she knew you were slaving in the kitchen.”

  “Slaving in the kitchen?” Nilda’s eyes widened. “Folding napkins or buttering toast is slaving?”

  “There, that’s better. You are more like yourself now.” Cook pulled a packet out of the cupboard. “One raisin bun left. I could heat that for you.”

  “Oh yes.” Nilda poured the tea into her cup. “Did you use cardamom in those buns?”

  “I did. A Norwegian friend of mine gave me the recipe.” Cook slid the lone bun into the oven. “Won’t take but a minute.”

  When the stack of napkins was folded, Nilda set them in the butler’s pantry. Picking up the teapot and cup and saucer, she took them into the morning room, where Charles was building a fire in the fireplace.

  “Good morning, miss. You’re up early. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you. I’m just going to sit here and read until breakfast.”

  He nodded and left.

  The report could not hold her attention. The library was too cold. Her bed had already been made. If she got caught polishing the banister, who knew what would happen?

  At last it was time for breakfast.

  “You’re restless as a bird in a trap. Whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Schoenleber laid her paper down. “I hear you scared Cook in the kitchen and folded napkins. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “I have got to get out and move. Fresh air will help. I think skiing will top this off.”

  “I’m sorry, but Charles has other commitments for this morning.”

  “I will go by myself. If he asks, please tell him I will follow the route he laid out. I’m praying that some fast skiing will take this away.” She remembered a better phrase. “Vigorous activity. Mor says weaving, especially slamming the shuttle, is one of the best ways to deal with restlessness and anger. That and kneading bread. Since we have no loom and Cook might be offended if I made bread, skiing will have to do. I’m just grateful for the sun. Had it been stormy today . . .” She shook her head.

  “Please do not cross the river.”

  “I won’t. When I get back, I will settle in.” Nilda bit back the words “I promise.” How could she know, when she’d not felt like this for who knew how long?

  Mrs. Schoenleber frowned. “Are you angry?”

  “Possibly, but I doubt it. Restless seems a more appropriate word. I could run up and down the stairs a few times, but I think fresh air and the cold would work better.”

  Mrs. Schoenleber shook her head. “Ah, the perils of being young.”

  “Did you ever feel this way?” Nilda tucked the ends of her scarf into her coat and pulled her knit hat down over her ears.

  “Most likely, but I don’t remember skiing a lot. I sometimes walked fast in the spring.”

  Outside, Nilda buckled her skis on, rammed the poles into the snow, and shot off toward the trail. She pushed as hard as she could and went as far as she could short of crossing the river, until she was panting. It was much colder than she had anticipated when she looked out the window. And the wind . . . Her breath would have looked like a steam locomotive’s, but the strong breeze whipped it away immediately. But the fresh snow was so beautiful. Perhaps the glory of this morning was part of what took her breath away.

  It was early enough that she didn’t see a lot of people out of doors yet. There was only one set of tracks through the snow near the house besides hers. They appeared to be those of a person in a hurry. She hoped that person would pause long enough to savor the beautiful day, the crisp snow, and the blue sky.

  She stopped by the back stoop, resting on her poles, until her breaths came evenly again. She decided she would go around the route one more time. This time she would not rush. She would relax and enjoy the lovely countryside.

  She looked toward the kitchen window. Cook was waving enthusiastically, so she waved back. She took off again.

  Skiing smoothly, settling into an easy pace, she had drawn even with the maple tree orchard when a noise behind her made her look over her shoulder.

  A man in a black hat threw himself at her from behind a tree, screaming, “It’s all your fault!”

  “Dreng!”

  He knocked her to the snow and pressed her neck down, nearly choking her. He was laughing! A horridly evil laugh. “I searched for you, asking about Einar Strand. He has a wide reputation. All over. You don’t know how happy I was to find you in Blackduck! I had it so good in Valders, and you spoiled it. Now you are going to pay! I’ve thought of nothing else, ever since I came to America. You will pay!” Holding her with one hand, he ripped off his coat, threw it to the side, and fought through her wool petticoats. “I am going to enjoy making you pay. I will enjoy this so much! Go ahead, fight me. I love it when girls try to fight me off.”

  Nilda bucked against his weight and thrashed from side to side. She fought to breathe, to overcome the dizziness.

  He laughed and pulled at his trousers, undoing the buckle. In that moment, Nilda’s hand closed over a ski pole. She grabbed the bottom end of it and, with all her waning power, stabbed upward at his face.

  He screamed. Both of his hands clamped his face, and blood squirted from between his fingers.

  Nilda bucked again and twisted to the side, throwing him off. She surged to her feet. She was still in her skis, but the left was broken off just behind her boot. She had only one ski pole, but one was enough. Leaning into the fierce wind, she sped off toward the house, toward home, pumping that pole with both hands.

  Behind her Dreng was screaming, “You blinded me! I’ll kill you for this!”

  She glanced back to see him, one bloody hand covering his eye, his trousers open, his coat cast aside in the snow. He lurched forward, yelling, coming toward her, running in the snow, pursuing her. No!

  She knew how to get the most speed from her skis—long, smooth glides, not choppy thrusts. The icy wind blasted her. No wonder the wind chilled her body—her clothes were torn. She could not afford to stop and fix them.

  As she approached the house, Charles came toward her, running. Cook stood on the back stoop, jumping up and down and shouting. And George was running from the carriage shed, skis in his hand and the tails of his greatcoat flapping.

  Charles stopped Nilda by engulfing her in a powerful hug. Her face was numb, her throat burned; her teary eyes could barely see.

  He asked simply, “Dreng?”

  She bobbed her head, grateful he was holding her up.

  “Cook saw him running back up the trail and waved at you, trying to get you to stop. Then she became worried and called me from my duties. Mad
am is calling the sheriff.”

  George was buckling into his skis.

  “The maple grove,” Nilda gasped and bent over her skis, trying to get her breath.

  Gilda and Stella crowded in against her, holding her up. She could feel Charles releasing her ski bindings. Then they steered her toward the house. She stumbled on the steps, but they held her steady. She heard Charles say, “Let’s go!”

  Mrs. Schoenleber stood in the doorway. “The sheriff is on his way.”

  The maids guided Nilda into the kitchen and set her near the warm, welcome stove. Cook had turned on the oven and opened the oven door. The warmth flowed over Nilda.

  Mrs. Schoenleber gave orders firmly, with confidence. “Hot chocolate. Cream, not milk. And bring her some crackers, something to settle her stomach. She’s not breakfasted yet. Warm a quilt by the stove and wrap her up. Nilda, did he, ah—”

  “No,” Nilda interrupted before Mrs. Schoenleber could say that horrible word. She looked down at her front. What a mess. Her dress was torn, and the buttons were missing from her coat. Cook handed her a mug of tea to tide her over until the hot chocolate was ready and set a plate of crackers on the table beside her. Nilda’s hands were still trembling violently. She sipped some tea just to keep it from sloshing.

  Now the danger was past, but Nilda could not stop sobbing. She had only partly pulled herself back together when Gilda ushered an imposing uniformed man into the kitchen.

  Hat in hand, he nodded at Mrs. Schoenleber. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff Gruber. Cook, bring him coffee. Cook? Where is she?”

  Stella replied, “Out telling his deputies what happened.”

  “I’m sorry, my deputies are on snowshoes; they won’t be as swift as your men on skis. But they’ll get there.”

  Nilda felt comforted by the sheriff’s voice. Like Mrs. Schoenleber’s, it was strong and authoritative. Listening to him, you just knew everything would be all right.

  “Mrs. Schoenleber, your maid says your two men have gone after him. I’m afraid that wasn’t wise, putting themselves in mortal danger.” The sheriff swung a chair around to face Nilda and sat down, watching her closely.