She and Thornton Wickersham, Pastor Mueller’s nephew who had attended Carleton for his final year, had agreed to act as though they were falling in love so that the girls at Carleton would leave him alone and her mother would quit trotting out eligible young men for her. All Annabelle wanted was for her daughter to marry, preferably well, and become a concert pianist—instead of a doctor. Elizabeth desired neither, believing she could not manage both a medical practice and a family complete with husband.
She sighed as her full cotton batiste nightgown slipped over her head. Why was it that people got their feelings hurt so easily?
Looking back, she had to admit she and Thornton had enjoyed many good times together. And now there was no one with whom to share ice cream or croquet or bicycle riding or walks down by the river. Most of her friends had already married. She corrected that. Her two friends. And they had moved away. She’d not taken time during college to make new friends, instead concentrating all her efforts on her studies, working for her father, and assisting Dr. Gaskin whenever he asked.
Before turning out the gaslight, she read one chapter and one psalm in her Bible, a habit she’d formed while in grade school after a missionary came to their Sunday school. He’d told them how important it was to learn God’s Word while they were young and challenged them to stay in His Word daily throughout their lives.
The missionary had been from Africa.
So why not teach Thorliff to play croquet? He’s a good baseball player. Surely he can learn to hit a wooden ball on the ground.
With that thought in mind, she said her prayers and rolled over, the moonlight tracing intricate shadows on the floor of her room, a mockingbird singing, perhaps mistaking the bright moonlight for sunshine.
I’m thanking you, Lord, for the school you will send me to and for the chance to learn patience—she rolled her eyes at that one— and for the full knowledge that you know what is ahead. I just wish you would give me a glimpse.
With her mother now in charge of the accounts at the newspaper and Thorliff working all summer, Elizabeth had no reason to rush in the morning, so she ate her breakfast out under the oak tree in the backyard. When she finished, she cut some deep red roses for the house, arranged them in vases, and set one on the narrow table in the entry hall, another on the piano, and a third on the dining room table.
Not knowing what to do next, she went into the kitchen. ‘‘You need anything from the market?’’ she asked Cook.
‘‘No. I’ve already been.’’ Cook gave the pie dough on the table another pass with the rolling pin.
‘‘Oh. Do you need some help around here?’’
‘‘Not that I can think of.’’ Cook flipped the dough into the pie plate. ‘‘All your things ready for graduation?’’
Elizabeth ticked them off on her fingers. ‘‘Dress is pressed and hanging ready, thanks to you. Also petticoats. Menu planned for the reception afterward. Guests invited.’’ She looked up. ‘‘Anything else you can think of?’’
Cook added the home-canned peach pie filling. ‘‘No, nothing.’’
In reality her mother had been the one to plan the reception. Had it been left to Elizabeth, she’d have been content with the one at the school.
‘‘Just think, as of tomorrow afternoon, I will be a college graduate.’’ She leaned against the doorjamb.
‘‘And that is a major accomplishment.’’ Finished crimping the edges of the pie, Cook trimmed the crust and slid the pie into the oven, wiping the perspiration from her forehead with the edge of her white apron. She returned to the floury board and began rolling again.
‘‘If there is nothing you need, I think I’ll take a book outside. I haven’t read for pleasure for so long, I’m not sure I will remember how.’’
‘‘I’ll bring out lemonade.’’
After fetching The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane from the library, Elizabeth made herself comfortable on the chaise lounge in the shade and read the first page. By the third page, her eyelids felt as if they were attached to fishing weights. She forced herself to read another page and had no idea what she’d read before the book flopped on her chest and her eyelids refused to rise again.
‘‘So here’s our sleeping beauty.’’ Her father’s voice brought her back from a lovely stroll along the river, a handsome man beside her. Who he was, she had no idea because she hadn’t been able to see his face.
She stretched both arms above her head, too far to trap the yawn that caught her unawares. ‘‘Oh, I was having such a nice dream.’’
‘‘With a Prince Charming, no doubt.’’ Phillip took the chair at the table and drained the waiting glass of lemonade.
‘‘That was mine.’’
‘‘Too bad. I was working while you were snoozing away the day. Thorliff is joining us for dinner, so you might want to freshen up a bit.’’ He reached over and lifted a fallen leaf from her hair. ‘‘I’m glad to see you resting. You’ve earned it.’’
He pulled her up with one hand, and together they strolled into the house.
‘‘What are you doing this afternoon?’’ Elizabeth asked Thorliff a little while later as they were eating the peach pie still warm from the oven.
‘‘Working at the paper.’’ Thorliff wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Do you know how to play croquet?’’
‘‘No.’’
She turned to her father. ‘‘I think he should learn, and I should be the one to teach him . . . today.’’
Phillip gave her one of his my-daughter-can-have-her-way-today-since-she-is-about-to-graduate-from-college smiles and nodded to Thorliff. ‘‘The princess has spoken. Surely you wouldn’t mind an afternoon learning to play croquet? You are due a day off anyway.’’
‘‘But I was going to write on . . .’’ Thorliff stared from the complacent smile on Elizabeth’s face to the helpless shrug of his employer. ‘‘All right, if you say so.’’
‘‘You needn’t act like you are being punished. After all, it’s a game for fun.’’ Elizabeth folded her napkin and stuck it into the silver napkin ring by her plate.
‘‘Give it all you’ve got, son. She is a good teacher but a go-forthe-jugular player.’’
‘‘Now, Phillip . . .’’ Annabelle shook her head and looked up toward her eyebrows. ‘‘Don’t listen to a word he says, Thorliff. He so loves to tease.’’
‘‘Have you ever won a game off her?’’ Phillip looked over his glasses at his wife, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.
‘‘No, but then we all know how abysmal I am at anything athletic. She got all her prowess from you, dear.’’
‘‘Well, I haven’t won more than one or two matches since she was ten. She hits me into the rose garden or the fishpond every time. Did you know lilacs are mean and vicious creatures that delight in flaying shirt sleeves and hide?’’
‘‘Father, you are going to scare Thorliff off, and then you will have to take his place.’’
‘‘Spare me, Lord.’’ Phillip clasped his hands and looked heavenward.
Elizabeth, the twinkle in her eyes matching that of her father’s, held out her hand. ‘‘Come on, Mr. Bjorklund, surely you have not lost heart.’’
He stood and pushed his chair back up to the table. ‘‘If I don’t return, you know where to find me, ensnared by the lilacs or still hunting my ball in the pond.’’
‘‘Oh, never fear. It’s easy to rake them off the bottom. The pond isn’t that big.’’ Her merry laugh preceded him out the kitchen door and into the backyard where the wickets were already in place.
‘‘Have you really never played before?’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Guilty as charged. We don’t have many smooth lawns like this on the farm, in fact no lawns at all. I did learn to play badminton up at school.’’
‘‘Well, I’m afraid skill in one does not contribute to skill in the other. Which color do you want?’’ She pointed to the mallets and balls in the wheeled wood
en cart.
‘‘Ah, blue.’’
‘‘Good. Red is my favorite. The purpose of the game is to roll your ball through each of those wickets.’’ Her hands waved the pattern to follow. ‘‘And through those final three to hit the peg before I do. On the way if you hit my ball with yours, you can knock me out of the playing field, thus my father’s comments about the vengeful lilac hedge or the waiting pond. A good player tries to keep the other off the field as much as possible.’’
‘‘I can see that.’’ Thorliff contemplated the playing area, the tip of his tongue massaging his right cheek. ‘‘Could you please show me how to tap the ball? Surely there are tricks in that too?’’
‘‘Of course. I’ll start from the beginning. You hold your mallet so . . .’’ She positioned her hands on the stick of the mallet. ‘‘Then you make contact with the ball like so.’’ Her ball rolled obediently through the first three hoops. ‘‘Now you try.’’
Thorliff stationed his feet like she had, held the stick the same, and tapped the ball, and it rolled through two hoops and out before the third. ‘‘Hey!’’
‘‘You have to hit it straight on.’’ She tapped her ball again and it rolled toward the next hoop, stopping close to straight on.
‘‘May I have a few practice shots?’’
‘‘Of course.’’ She leaned on her stick, the mallet providing a good brace. ‘‘Hit away.’’
After five or six practice hits Thorliff announced himself ready to play.
‘‘Good. I’ll concede one thing since this is your first time. I won’t knock you into the pond, the lilacs, or the rose garden, all right?’’
‘‘All right.’’ Thorliff tapped his ball through the first three wickets this time and overshot the first single by only a foot or so.
‘‘Very nice.’’
By the time they’d played half the course, they were fairly close in play. When she bumped his ball, she glanced toward the pond and grimaced. Oh, how fun that would be. Why did I ever offer him that promise? She glanced over to see Thorliff watching her, a half smile on his mouth and a twinkle in his eyes.
‘‘Are you sure you’ve never played this game before?’’
‘‘As your father said, you are a good teacher.’’
‘‘You didn’t answer my question.’’ She heard the tendency her voice had to snap.
‘‘No, I have never played croquet before, but I did try golf once. We read about it, took sticks out in the field, and batted at the puffballs. They didn’t roll well, so Andrew carved us a ball out of a hunk of wood. That thing could fly, until it broke in half. Then we wrapped it with string, and it really flew. Right into the river. End of game.’’
Elizabeth studied him, questions racing through her mind like kids just out of school and just as noisy. What a creative family they were, those Bjorklunds. Did they really not have much of anything, as he had so casually mentioned? What was life really like on that North Dakota farm of his?
With a sigh, she tapped his ball a few feet out of the playing area and won the game by one stroke.
‘‘Is it proper to put your foot on the ball like that?’’
‘‘House rules?’’
‘‘Ah.’’ His eyebrows waggled.
‘‘My father said it was so, and so it was so.’’
‘‘Very well said, Miss Rogers.’’ Thorliff dropped his mallet back into the proper slot on the cart. ‘‘Thank you for a most enlightening afternoon.’’
‘‘Can you not find time to play another round?’’
‘‘Not today. But you can count on another match, perhaps Sunday after church?’’
‘‘A good time.’’ She looked toward the house when she heard a door slam. ‘‘See, Cook is bringing refreshments. Her timing is impeccable.’’
‘‘Of course, all she has to do is glance out the window when you crow in triumph.’’
‘‘I didn’t crow.’’
His eyebrows rose as one.
‘‘Well, perhaps only a little crow.’’
When they sat at the table with their lemonade, she asked, ‘‘You are coming to graduation, aren’t you?’’
‘‘I promised to cover it for the paper.’’
‘‘Is that your only reason?’’
He studied her as if trying to figure out what she wanted. ‘‘Why else?’’ At the glint in her eye, he added, ‘‘And to see you graduate, of course.’’
‘‘That’s better.’’ Her smile brought an answering one from Thorliff.
He reached for another cookie and sat back in his chair.
Elizabeth nibbled on her bottom lip. ‘‘Have you been thinking any more on the challenge Pastor Mohn gave that day?’’
Thorliff nodded. ‘‘And you?’’
Elizabeth continued to worry her lip before answering. ‘‘He has such a gift for striking one right in the heart. I tried to ignore it since I’m not coming back here to school, but it isn’t that easy.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Thorliff sipped from his glass. ‘‘I’ve gone through all of the Beatitudes and considered each one. After I figured out the real definition of each one, that is. They are not easy.’’
‘‘No, that is for sure. I went back and forth between mercy and pure in heart, finally settling on mercy. I thought that is something I need in the medical field. What about you?’’
‘‘I decided on pure in heart.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘And controlling my thoughts is not easy. Paul said the same, that we should take every thought captive.’’
‘‘But thoughts and heart, they aren’t the same.’’
‘‘They are if you go back to the Greek. Jesus did not offer an easy thing, and Pastor Mohn understands that.’’ And since he’s a man, perhaps I could talk with him. Here, even just talking with Elizabeth, my mind . . . He shook his head.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Nothing. I need to get going.’’ He stood and nodded. ‘‘Thanks for the lesson.’’
That night at supper they discussed Thorliff’s new story and how the printing was going on The Switchmen.
‘‘I told Thorliff I think he needs a strong female character or two so that more women will want to read his story.’’ Elizabeth steepled her fingers under her chin, her elbows propped on the table. A look and a throat-clearing from her mother made her remove her elbows from the table.
‘‘You think women haven’t been reading The Switchmen? That’s who we heard from mostly.’’ Phillip leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache.
‘‘That’s because men don’t usually tell you if something is good, only if it is something that doesn’t please them.’’ Annabelle raised the silver coffee server, but they all shook their heads.
Phillip studied his wife, then glanced at his daughter. He turned to Thorliff. ‘‘So do you have any ideas for such a character?’’
‘‘Or two,’’ Elizabeth added.
‘‘I can figure some out. Both young men are of marriageable age, and . . .’’ His voice faded.
Elizabeth watched him, having learned that the look on his face meant he was off in the world of his latest story. She and her father exchanged a smile, knowing that he did the same thing when writing his editorials.
‘‘Ah, thank you for supper.’’ Thorliff stood and sketched a slight bow. ‘‘I will see you at the ceremony tomorrow.’’
They watched him leave before Annabelle rang for Cook. ‘‘We’ll have tea out on the verandah, please.’’
‘‘And I challenge you both to a game of croquet.’’ Elizabeth stood and took her father’s arm. ‘‘Come along, you need the exercise. Mother?’’
‘‘I, ah . . .’’ Annabelle sighed. ‘‘All right, if you insist, but if either of you knocks my ball into the roses, the lilacs, or the pond, I shall quit. Immediately.’’
The sky darkened with thunderclouds just as people were gathering for the graduation ceremonies. With guests filling the chairs and the faculty line
d up to parade in front of the sixteen graduates, Reverend Mohn took his place at the podium.
‘‘Before we begin let me announce that if the rain doesn’t hold off, we shall recess inside to the auditorium. But in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we shall begin with the processional.’’ He nodded to the band instructor, who raised his arms, and marching to ‘‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’’ the procession began.
Elizabeth looked at the young woman marching beside her. Both of them tightened quivering chins and stepped out on the right foot, just as they had practiced.
The last diploma was handed out, and Professor Mohn, usually rather loquacious, had quickly concluded his speech before the clouds warned them with a sprinkle. By the time they’d all made it inside, the last ones looked a bit damp. Thunder growled and lightning slashed, but the exuberance inside the auditorium drowned it all out.
Thorliff observed all the graduates with their families. He watched as Professor Ytterboe drummed up financial support to keep the college going. Would it be that way in two years for him, with his family gathered around, rejoicing? Would he even make it through the next two years, or did God have something else in mind for him?
CHAPTER SEVEN
June 19, 1895
Dear Thorliff,
I hope you are enjoying your summer in Northfield. We are sure missing you here at home. Our big news is that Metiz gave Andrew a puppy. He is the funniest thing. Andrew was wishing you were here to help find the perfect name. He—the puppy, not Andrew—has one white paw, and the rest is black and gray and brown all mottled together. He is so small we cannot let him outside by himself yet in case a coyote would grab him. Oh, Mor named him after all. His name is Barnabas—Barney— because he follows us all over. He loves to chew on anything he can get his mouth on. Far says he will be better when he gets his permanent teeth. I didn’t know that puppies had baby teeth and then got their big teeth just like we do. I know about kittens though, since we have so many. I hope his new teeth aren’t as sharp as his baby teeth.
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