Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  NORTHERN LIGHTS TRILOGY

  PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations or paraphrases are taken from the King James Version.

  ISBN 978-0-307-73204-0

  Copyright © 1998, 1999, 2000 by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  2012

  v3.1_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Captain’s Bride

  Deep Harbor

  Midnight Sun

  About the Author

  For Dan, Cara, and Madison Grace Berggren,

  With love

  Acknowledgments

  My appreciation goes out to the people who graciously read this manuscript as a first draft and gave me their input: Lois Stephens, Joy Tracshel, Jana Swenson, Leslie Kilgo, Rebecca Womack, Ginia Hairston, Mona Daly, Cara Denney, Liz Curtis Higgs, Francine Rivers, Rebecca Price, Dan Rich, Jeane Burgess, Diane Noble, and my husband, Tim. In addition, Paul Daniels of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America archives in Saint Paul assisted me in finding authentic wedding vows and burial services for the time period. And I cannot forget Judy Markham, editor extraordinaire. She, and the editors who have preceded her—Shari MacDonald and Anne Buchanan—helped mold me into a better writer. You all helped make this book a better one. Thanks.

  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  The Captain’s Bride

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Section One - New Horizons

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Section Two - Bitter Truths

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Section Three - The Sorrowing Spirit Sings

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  new horizons

  June–September 1880

  Elsa Anders knew she would remember everything of this moment, even as an old and bent woman. The scent of sea and wild clover, the vision of seven peaks about her, the feel of the cold North Sea’s stiff wind that would leave her cheeks chapped and rosy come morning. This high up, it was cold enough to make her nose run. She reached for her handkerchief, but as usual, her father was already ahead of her, offering his instead. She took it gratefully, feeling the impact of the realization that he might never hand her anything again. For she was going. Far away and forever, it seemed.

  Papa himself was uncommonly quiet tonight, Elsa mused, undoubtedly dreading what she herself dreaded: parting. In two days, she was to wed her beloved Peder. Her heart skipped at the thought of it, and her breath became even more labored. Peder, oh Peder. Her darling, who had finally come home to claim her as his own! Her heart swelled with pride at the thought of him. He had stood so proudly at the helm of the Herald as it entered port last week! Such a vision he was: all manly man, standing several inches taller than her own impressive height. His long brown hair had a slight rakish wave to it, and on top, the sun-bleached highlights common to sailors. In the year since she had last seen him, his face had matured. Lines at his eyes had deepened, and his skin was tanned to a golden bronze. How could such joy walk hand in hand with such sorrow? How could she walk by his side while leaving her entire family and the only home she had known for her twenty years of life?

  Elsa looked west and then east, crying out silently to God. Please, Father, tell me this is right, tell me this is good.

  There was no moon, but Elsa needed no illumination. She knew the landscape by heart. A million stars glittered high above the mountains that towered over Bergen and the darker, winding coastline of the Byfjorden. Turning a corner around an outcropping of rock, she could see below her the ancient city of Bergen, its warm lights twinkling softly. The town had once been the biggest trade port in Norway, surpassing even Copenhagen in the Middle Ages. In recent years, the pace had slowed, shipping traffic had moved on, and Bergen was left to find its own way in a new age.

  Silently, she and her father reached their destination and sat on a large, flat stone and looked to the heavens. The two of them had come to this spot countless times, this place that Elsa, as a child, had named Our Rock. Her father, a slight man with a bone structure that Elsa had inherited, took her smooth hand in his withered, arthritic-bent one. Elsa thought that if she could travel back forty years, their fingers would be nearly identical: long and thin, yet strong. Perfect for a career as a shipwright, which was what her father had worked at for decades, forming, modeling, building ships. The longing to draw her own plans—or anything else for that matter—gripped her as she stared at the stars. But her destiny lay elsewhere. She was to be Mrs. Peder Ramstad, and she would find her fulfillment in that. Yet the ships in port called to her. Many were majestic vessels, and Elsa could see them in her imagination, crashing through a cyclone’s worst wave, brave and formidable….

  Her father cleared his throat as if to speak, and her attention immediately focused back on home and the present. How could she leave her dear old father? The agony of it threatened to break her heart. Oh, why could her parents not come with them to America? Why did she have to leave her loved ones to have another?

  Elsa could hear him take in a breath, and then, after a moment, sigh heavily. An old ship designer who married his beloved Gratia years behind most couples, Amund Anders had started his family late in life. Somehow, Elsa intuitively knew that this made it harder for him to let any of his brood go. And she was going. Her heart beat triple fast again at the thought of it. In two days’ time she would wed. The day after, she and Peder would sail for America.

  Her father tried again. “Elsa, my sweet, many dangers are ahead of you. Are you certain of this path?”

  “As certain as I can be, Papa. I know that I love Peder with all my heart.”

  Amund harrumphed, then remained quiet for a moment. Then, “Love is a good thing for a young heart. But it is not always the best compass in trying to find one’s way. This immigration”—he cast about for the right word—“fever is like the smallpox. It threatens Bergen like the angry blisters the pox leaves on one’s skin.”

  “Or perhaps it is like scarlet fever,” she answered carefully, “leaving one with a new appreciation for life.”

  Her father nodded, relishing her banter. Elsa knew how he would miss their intellectual sparring. Her older sister, Cari
na, seemed to have not a thought in her head, while her younger sister, Tora, was too busy to stop and indulge in the pleasure of conversation and discussion.

  “Papa,” she began, looking toward the skies again, “I must know. Do you disapprove of Peder?”

  “Do I disapprove?” he scoffed. “I disapprove of the fact that he is taking my darling daughter away from me. I disapprove of the fact that you will not be here to comfort me in my old age. But of the boy himself ? I cannot disapprove. The boy … the man is like a son to me.” Amund turned to Elsa and cradled her cheek in his hand. “I am so happy for you, Elsa. I am happy that you’ve found your own beloved as I found my own in your mother. But permit me to grieve. I promise. On your wedding day, I will celebrate your union and not grieve any longer. But tonight, please allow an old man a bit of sadness.”

  A huge lump grew in Elsa’s throat, and tears welled in her eyes. How did she know that this was right? Did she truly know Peder anymore? They had been inseparable as children, but he had been off to sea for the last ten years. Oh, but when he had come home, all the old feelings were there, along with something new. There was a maturity and solidity about their love now, built upon a lifetime of friendship and, over the last three years, a courtship of letters. Yes, Peder was the man for her, her beloved.

  “You haven’t thought more about going with us,” she said carefully.

  “No. You know my feelings, daughter. Bergen is where I was born. Bergen is where I will die. Your mother and sisters and I are where we are to be. You, my sweet, have been called to a different path.”

  Elsa knew her father’s answer by heart. He had proclaimed it three years ago when their pastor, Konur Lien, had first raised his proposal of going as a large group to the new Promised Land, as he had called it. Together they would be stronger, more successful. Together, they would flourish. He had waved a letter from Peder, promising to take them to America. Their departure date was set for June 1880 and had set the town abuzz not only because of the excitement but also because of the sheer bravado of such a letter sent from a second mate who planned to be a captain.

  “The pompous boy who would be captain,” people had called Peder Ramstad. Elsa had defended him, sticking her nose in the air as if to say they knew not of whom they spoke, but privately fretted that they were right. Who had Peder become? And were his tender words, written in his strong, manly script, a passing fancy or the seedlings of love? Gradually, Elsa found strength in her trust of the man who found a way home to visit at least once a year. Still, for years she had wondered and waited, looking to sea, hoping against hope that each day would bring Peder home to her for good or that he would take her with him the next time he departed.

  “What are your hopes for the future, child?” her father asked, interrupting her daydreaming.

  “My future?” She paused to think before speaking. “A good marriage to Peder, lots of children, a good home.” And maybe a career as a shipwright or an artist, she mused silently, yet unable to voice it. A woman’s career was never a point of discussion in the Anders household. She sighed. Perhaps it would not be welcomed in Peder’s home either.

  “They are good aspirations,” he said in approval. “You will make your mama and me proud.”

  His uncommon words of praise again brought Elsa near tears. She looked at him, squinting, trying to see what he must be feeling by his expression, but the light was too dim. Suddenly, a green light shimmered on the horizon, lighting up the entire mountain range. “Papa, look!” The lights grew, sending streaks southward toward them and then filling the streaks in with horizontal waves of red and purple, reminding Elsa of the inner iridescence of a seashell. The movement was like a tiny wave upon the sand, uneven in its climb, ebbing and flowing.

  “Ah, yes!” her father cried, leaping to his feet and dancing a little jig. “It is appropriate for such a night as this. Do you remember what I told you as a child?”

  Elsa stood beside him and hooked her arm around his thick waist. “I do. You said the lights were symbolic of God whispering to me.”

  “Yes,” he nodded in approval. “They are a hint of heaven’s splendor.” He was more visible now in the soft light from the north. Twin streaks of glistening tears ran down his weathered cheeks, and at the sight of them, a lump rose in Elsa’s throat.

  They stood there silently for a moment, looking toward the fjord that reflected the aurora borealis in unearthly hues. “I will always cherish these memories, daughter. Thank you for making an old man’s life so full of joy.”

  “Oh, Papa …”

  “Remember your old father when you see the lights, will you, Elsa?”

  “If you will remember me.”

  He turned toward her. “You, Elsa, will never be out of my thoughts for more than a day. I will pray for you and yours every day, as will your mama.”

  “And I for you.”

  Father and daughter embraced while the northern lights continued to dance high, high above them.

  Kaatje Janssen smiled, thinking of her dear friends marrying on the morrow, the beautiful northern lights she had witnessed with her husband last night as they lay together under the spring night sky, and Pastor Lien’s sermon to come this morning. It would be his last in Bergen. As she finished her chores in the kitchen and began to prepare for church services, she caressed the slight bulge beneath her apron. Her belly was hardening and her hips widening by the day. Last night she was sure that her amorous husband’s warm hands would at last discover the treasured secret her womb held.

  Oh, how she had prayed to the heavenly Father that Soren would be pleased! Perhaps this was just what they needed to solidify their marriage and stay his wandering eyes. She finished the breakfast dishes and wiped her hands on her apron, smiling again as her fingers brushed her stomach. Today would be a good day to tell him. If she waited until they boarded the ship, he might be angry.

  As she dumped the wooden pail of dishwater outside their tiny cottage, Kaatje glanced toward the barn, situated just beyond the house. She would miss this cozy home and their small farm, but what she and Soren needed now was a new start, for themselves and their baby. A girl? That would be nice. But a boy would be so helpful to Soren as he plowed the new soil that was said to be as fertile as Eden. At least a boy would be of some help in five or six years. But she was getting ahead of herself. Where was that man, anyway?

  With a smile, she wound her creamy blond hair up into a knot and set out toward the barn to get Soren. He only had a few minutes to wash up and change for church. Humming, she walked across the spring grass in their yard, feeling cool, damp strands against her skin where they cleared her slippers. Low voices inside the barn brought her to an abrupt halt. She swallowed hard.

  A low moan, a soft giggle. Soren’s husky voice, the way he used it when he wanted Kaatje. No. Please, God. Please, Father in heaven. Not again.

  Steeling herself, she took hold of the barn door and pulled it open. The creaking and groaning silenced the couple’s noise and movement as Kaatje’s eyes scanned the dark interior, fighting to adjust to the poor light. What they found confirmed her worst fears. In a stall, her handsome Soren, the man no woman could seem to refuse, stood very near Laila, who looked at Kaatje with a horrified expression. Laila’s milking apron straps were off her shoulders, her dark hair pulled from its knot, and it took Kaatje only half a second to understand what had transpired.

  “Elskling!” Soren began, his face a mask of consternation. “My love, this isn’t what it looks like.” In three powerful strides, he covered the distance between them while Kaatje fought for the energy to move. She felt numb, like a bird frozen in the snow. His hands were on her shoulders, moving down to cover her arms, as if he intended to hold her there until she understood. But she understood. She understood only too well.

  “Oh, Soren,” she breathed. Kaatje glanced up to meet his fiery blue eyes, normally so bright and gay, but already steeled for the argument they were sure to have. A sudden bolt of fury broke Kaatj
e from her dreamlike reverie.

  “You told me it was over! That there would be no others ever again!” She wanted to spit in his face and struggled to escape his giant hands. “Let me go! Your hands are defiled! You do not deserve to touch me!”

  Her words seemed to pierce his defensive armor, and the blush of excitement on his cheeks faded to pale gray. He ducked his head and looked down at her like an errant schoolboy confessing to a schoolmarm. He knew that look always melted her heart. Quick tears laced his lashes. “You are right, min kære,” he said humbly.

  Behind him, Laila edged out of the door and fairly ran for home. She was little more than sixteen years of age, compared to their own twenty, but age did not seem to matter where Soren was involved. He had the powers of the wind, seeming to gust in and capture any female heart he could, surrounding, pulling, easing them away from their moorings. And he seemed to have a distinct preference for brunettes.

  “No,” Kaatje said, brushing wisps of hair from her face. “No more, Soren. I will not forgive this.” She shook her head as if deriding herself. “When you wanted to hire a milkmaid, I fought off my feelings of fear and suspicion. But I was wrong! It was not fear … it was God! The Lord was trying to warn me that there cannot be a woman within sight for you! The only way you could stay true to me is if we were alone for a hundred—no, a thousand—square miles!”

  She whirled and stomped away from him, tears blinding her path. Not again, God! Oh, I can’t bear it!

  “Kaatje!” Soren cried, his voice cracking like a scared child’s. In moments he had her in his arms again. He spoke in broken English as she struggled to get away. “I am sorry. I am so sorry! I don’t know what is wrong with me! It is like an illness! I am sick. You must help me to get better!”