He glanced down into eyes green as grass. She batted long, up-curved eyelashes of such thickness to seem as fans of their own. He couldn’t take his gaze back; he felt as if a corded line held him in place. His heart picked up speed and he felt a stirring in his middle.
‘‘Ah, that might be more in the area for . . . for . . .’’
A slow sweep of those lashes and her eyes pleaded with him, shimmering a language of their own.
‘‘Ah, I guess I could do that.’’
‘‘That would be such a kind thing.’’ Her voice now held the breath of awe, as if he had bestowed a gift of immense magnitude.
His swallow had a hard time passing his Adam’s apple.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Sweet intoxication tickled his nose from the perfume she wore, like lilies of the valley and roses and something darker.
‘‘You . . .’’ He swallowed. ‘‘You are welcome.’’
‘‘Shall we say this evening then, Mr.— No, I feel that we are becoming such friends. May I call you Thorliff?’’ Her voice purred like a kitten stroked by a loving hand.
‘‘I . . . ah, y-yes.’’
‘‘And this evening it is?’’
‘‘That will be fine.’’
‘‘Then I must be on my way. Thank you again and bonjour.’’ She fluttered her hand as she turned and walked back the way they had come. He watched, her undulating hips bringing a sheen of moisture to his upper lip.
He wiped it away with his handkerchief. ‘‘Surely has gotten hot today,’’ he muttered as he continued back to the office.
‘‘Mrs. Kingsley was here looking for you. I said you would cover her soirée.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Even he could hear the disgruntlement in his voice.
‘‘Ah, she found you?’’
Thorliff nodded and wandered back to the printing press he’d been cleaning before being sent on an errand. She found me all right. How does one keep pure in heart with a woman like her on the loose?
‘‘Where are the stamps and the mail?’’ Phillip called from his desk.
Thorliff jerked straight up from checking the ink level and then flinched. ‘‘I’ll go get them right now.’’ He fled out the front door as though a swarm of bees were chasing him.
After closing up the shop because Phillip had gone home earlier, Thorliff trudged up the street to the Stromme house. He’d much rather have stayed in his back room at the newspaper, but he’d promised to help Henry Stromme until they found someone else. He hoped that would be soon, though Henry made it clear he would prefer that Thorliff stay.
Trying to put a pleasant look on his face, Thorliff turned up the walk to his temporary home.
‘‘Hey, young man, good to see you.’’ Pastor Johnson rose from the seat facing Henry and extended his hand. ‘‘Sounds to me like you’ve been doing a good job with this old codger here.’’
Henry’s barking laugh and half smile showed his agreement.
‘‘H-he be good.’’ The speech came slowly, but it came and was getting better week by week.
Thorliff took the old man’s extended hand and squeezed gently. ‘‘Come on, squeeze back.’’ He nodded at the returned pressure. ‘‘Good, good. Did you have someone help you today?’’
‘‘Ja, t-two.’’ Henry held up two fingers.
‘‘Well, Henry, I’ll come back tomorrow and read to you again. Pretty soon you’ll be able to turn your own pages, you wait and see.’’ Pastor Johnson stood. ‘‘Mrs. Norlie brought supper over. It is in the kitchen. Henry says he can pretty much feed himself now. That is great progress.’’
‘‘Once we got him out of that bedroom and back out on the porch, he’s gotten better daily,’’ Thorliff said. ‘‘His porch sometimes looks like the neighborhood social hall, what with half the women in town bringing him cookies and lemonade.’’
‘‘Mrs. Gartley brought strawberry-rhubarb pie. We managed to leave you some.’’ Pastor set his hat back on his thinning blond hair and, after patting Henry’s shoulder, ambled down the walk.
Henry pushed with his arms and after a struggle made it to his feet. He grabbed the cane by the chair with his good hand and allowed Thorliff to hold open the screen door so he could go in.
‘‘Tha-s.’’
‘‘You are welcome.’’
Henry slowly made his way down the central hall from the front parlor, recently converted into his bedroom, to the kitchen at the rear where he sank onto another chair with a sigh.
‘‘You’re getting stronger every day.’’ Thorliff lifted the lid on the cast-iron kettle on the still-warm stove. ‘‘Um, smells good. Are you hungry?’’
Henry half shrugged.
‘‘Too much pie and cookies.’’ A cackle greeted his teasing. ‘‘I’ll dish up, and you tell me when to stop.’’
Later, with them both finished eating and the kitchen straightened up again, Henry motioned to the box of dominoes that resided in the middle of the table.
‘‘Sorry, but I have a meeting tonight, so I need to help you get ready for bed now. Not sure how long I’ll be.’’
Henry sighed, and the one shoulder rose and fell in the usual shrug.
‘‘If you’re still awake when I get back, we can play a game then.’’
‘‘Goo-d.’’ The old man struggled to his feet and shuffled back down the hall.
Thorliff offered as little help as necessary because Dr. Gaskin continued to stress that Henry needed to do as much for himself as he was able and if anyone helped too much, they were doing him no favor. Waiting and watching the struggle were painful.
Thorliff’s fingers twitched to assist. ‘‘We need to give you a shave in the morning. Can’t have you looking scruffy for all your girlfriends.’’
The dry cackle always made Thorliff smile too. In spite of his difficulties, Henry Stromme managed to keep his sense of humor.
‘‘I’ll be back later, then. You need anything else?’’
Henry shook his head and waved his good hand.
‘‘No, use the other.’’
Slowly the hand obeyed, rising from the top of the sheet that covered Mr. Stromme and moving from side to side.
‘‘Good for you. Guess Dr. Gaskin isn’t going to have to come every day to beat you with a stick after all.’’ Thorliff left with the cackle of glee ringing in his ears.
I’d rather stay here, he grumbled to himself as he made his way to the Kingsley home. How’d I let myself get talked into this? But the thought of bewitching green eyes and a memorable perfume made him pick up his feet a little faster in spite of himself. He slicked his hair back and adjusted his collar before ringing the doorbell at the brick house that could closely be called a mansion. If he remembered right, the Kingsleys had bought or perhaps leased the house from one of the founding families of the town. The children had moved on, and the old folks passed away, leaving a house that needed a family.
‘‘Yes?’’ A white-capped maid answered the door.
‘‘I’m Thorliff Bjorklund, here to see Mrs. Kingsley.’’
The young woman eyed him up and down, a slight smile tugging at the corner of a cupid-bow mouth. ‘‘Won’t you come in?’’ She stepped back and indicated the same with one hand. ‘‘They are out on the verandah. Follow me.’’ She closed the door and led him down a hall, through a large open room with dark, grand furniture, through open French doors, and announced, ‘‘Mr. Bjorklund is here, ma’am.’’
‘‘Ah, Mr. Bjorklund, so good of you to come.’’ She beckoned him to join them and turned to the man beside her. ‘‘Dear, this is the young man I told you about who works at the newspaper office. He wrote a book too. Mr. Bjorklund, this is my husband, Edmond Kingsley.’’
Edmond Kingsley looked up from the book he was reading, marked the place with one finger, and stood to shake hands.
‘‘I heard you go to St. Olaf. Shame. We could use you at Carleton.’’
‘‘Thank you, sir, but I think I shan’t switch. I hope you like it h
ere in Northfield.’’
‘‘The town seems pleasant enough so far, but for the finer things of life.’’ At Thorliff’s questioning glance, Mr. Kingsley added, ‘‘Like the theater, the opera, and the symphony. I do appreciate a good museum also.’’ His accent spoke of the East Coast, but Thorliff wasn’t sure from where.
‘‘Minneapolis and St. Paul aren’t all so far by train.’’ Thorliff realized he’d made a gaffe by the raised eyebrows and a look he could only interpret as condescending. Ah well, I’m sure he will be real popular with the students at Carleton! But Thorliff kept his thoughts from his mouth and he hoped from his face. He started to defend the choir and band at St. Olaf but decided to let it ride. ‘‘It is good of you to support the Missionary Society.’’
Kingsley waved a dismissive hand. ‘‘That is my wife’s interest, not mine. I hope you can help her with her writing.’’ He glanced down at his book, obviously wanting to get back to it.
‘‘We’ll leave you then, dear.’’ Mrs. Kingsley took one step toward the house. ‘‘Can I send anything out for you?’’
‘‘Something to eradicate these pesky mosquitoes. One can hardly enjoy the solitude with them whining about.’’ He sat back down and reopened his book.
‘‘Come, we’ll work inside where the light is better.’’ She strolled beside him, her perfume teasing his nostrils again.
‘‘Would you care for something to drink? We have wine, whiskey, or if you’d rather, iced tea or lemonade.’’
‘‘Nothing now, thank you. I need to get back as soon as I can to make sure Mr. Stromme is all right.’’
‘‘Mr. Stromme?’’ Karlotta paused in reaching for a stack of papers on the library table.
Thorliff explained his position as she sat on the horsehair sofa and patted the seat beside her.
‘‘The light is better here.’’
His fingers accidentally brushed hers in the transfer, sending a shock up his arm, making him choose a chair on the other side of the whatnot table that held the lamp. Trying to swallow again took effort.
In spite of her compliments on his suggestions for her writing and her repeated offer of refreshments, he fled Karlotta Kingsley’s presence as soon as he could manage.
Back home, Thorliff lost two games of dominoes to Henry, and after rolling around in his bed in that restless land of neither waking nor sleeping for what seemed like hours, he finally drifted off. Only to wake with his heart pounding at the dream he’d had of Mrs. Kingsley.
He drained a glass of water from the pitcher he kept near and sat on the edge of the bed, head propped in his hands.
Whatever in the world is the matter with me? Lord, forgive me. She’s a married woman, and I— He chugged another glass of water, feeling instead he should pour it over his head. If there had been a cow tank nearby he could have thrown himself into it to cool off. He picked up his Bible and turned to Matthew, chapter five, and read: ‘‘Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.’’ Thorliff repeated it out loud with his eyes closed. However will I get my thoughts under control?
‘‘What’s the matter with you?’’ Phillip asked the next day. ‘‘You’re lower than a centipede.’’
‘‘Nothing. I’m fine.’’ Thorliff thought a moment. ‘‘I would really rather not attend the soirèe tonight. I mean, I have not the proper attire, and . . . ah . . . I need to stay with Mr. Stromme, since I have agreed to help him and . . .’’ He could think of nothing else to say.
Phillip steepled his fingertips and studied Thorliff over the top of them.
Thorliff could feel the heat rising from neck to face; his ears blazed.
‘‘Your suit will be fine; just give it a bit of a brushing. Henry can manage for a few hours on his own. What is it that is really bothering you? This will be a good opportunity for you to mingle with the upper echelon of this town. There are people attending tonight who already know you because of what you’ve written here at the paper and through your book, but meeting them personally could be beneficial down the road. Who knows how.’’
‘‘I just . . . I . . .’’ Please, Lord, get me out of this.
‘‘I think you better plan on going.’’
Thorliff felt his shoulders sag. How could he say no? ‘‘All right.’’
‘‘Eight o’clock.’’
‘‘I know.’’
‘‘And, Thorliff, just be your normal, respectful self. Women like Mrs. Kingsley lose interest as quickly as it starts.’’
‘‘Thank you, sir.’’ He does understand. Thorliff nodded slightly. I wish Elizabeth were here. The thought surprised him, but then he realized this had not been the first time he’d thought that since she headed for Chicago. After this was over, he promised himself he’d write her another letter, never mind that he’d yet to receive an answer to his first. He glanced at the calendar on the wall. Nearly four weeks before she’d be home.
The way things were looking, this could be a long summer.
‘‘You must go through the greeting line,’’ the young maid whispered that night as she escorted him into the foyer where a carved walnut stair curved gracefully, drawing the eye to the two-story windows behind it. Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley stood side by side, he in black tie and cutaway coat with tails, she in an emerald green gown with a heart-shaped low-cut neckline.
Thorliff felt like he’d swallowed a baseball. He tried to look everywhere but at the bare skin above the lace-trimmed edge of the bodice.
‘‘Good evening, Mr. Bjorklund. It is good of you to join us.’’
Karlotta fanned herself idly, her eyes sparkling behind the pleated lace and silk confection. Her eyelashes swept down and up again.
‘‘Ah, thank you.’’ He’d read of sweaty hands but never before had the sensation been so overpowering. He half bowed, but that only brought him closer to her.
‘‘Ah, there you are, Thorliff.’’ Phillip to the rescue. ‘‘I see you’ve met both the Kingsleys.’’ He nodded and smiled, at the same time easing Thorliff closer to a group of men, some of whom were also wearing less formal attire.
‘‘Are you all right?’’ Phillip asked as they finally turned and sauntered toward the group.
‘‘I . . . ah, of course. Why?’’ Thorliff wanted to loosen his necktie, but he refrained under the strictest self-discipline.
‘‘Annabelle sent me to retrieve you, saying she thought you needed help.’’
Thank you, Lord. Whatever you tell me to do for Mrs. Rogers to return this favor, I shall do with my utmost ability. ‘‘I will thank her myself. And you, sir, for listening.’’
‘‘Are you sure you are all right?’’
‘‘I am now. Who was it you wanted me to meet?’’
Thorliff spent the rest of the evening visiting with those people his employer thought necessary and with others who stopped to tell him how much they enjoyed The Switchmen and the articles he had written for the newspaper.
‘‘When you chose my daughter to win in the under-twelve-year-old category, you changed her life,’’ said one of the women. ‘‘Now she is absolutely certain she wants to become a writer, and her grades have gone up accordingly. I no longer have to remind her to do her homework.’’
‘‘Thank you, ma’am. She wrote a very good story. I’m glad it has been a help for her.’’ While he smiled and nodded when he should, his mind went leaping off on another tangent. What if. . . ?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blessing, North Dakota
‘‘There must have been a lot of celebrating last year after harvest.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Ingeborg rolled on her side to look into her husband’s moonlit face.
‘‘Well, the rash of babies you’ve been birthing of late.’’ Haakan ran a calloused finger down the bridge of her nose.
‘‘There is nothing more satisfying on this earth than helping a baby into this world.’’ Ingeborg smiled at the memory of the night before when she’d ushered a baby boy into his waiting family. F
irstborn and a son. The father and mother were both pleased beyond measure.
‘‘The most satisfying?’’
Ingeborg elbowed Haakan in the ribs. ‘‘You know what I mean.’’
His chuckle banished any shadows in the corners.
Some time later when she was finally on the verge of sleep, Ingeborg thought back to the boy, Robbie, who’d had the head injury and was still alive. She sighed. Tomorrow she would take a loaf of bread over to Mrs. Nordstrum and find out how they were doing.
Ingeborg rolled on her side, laying aside even the sheet. Sometimes she thought of sleeping in the cellar or the cheese house where it was cooler, but Haakan’s gentle snores usually lulled her to sleep.
The next morning Astrid came running out to the garden. ‘‘Mor, can—’’ She caught the lift of her mother’s eyebrows and started over. ‘‘May I go play with Sophie and Grace? Please? We need to go wading in the river.’’
‘‘Need to?’’ Again the eyebrows lifted, this time accompanied by a smile.
Astrid nodded. ‘‘I heard a bullfrog croaking, and we haven’t been to the river in forever.’’
‘‘What are the boys doing?’’ Ingeborg pulled a carrot from the rich soil and, wiping it off on her apron, took the first sweet bite. She held it out and Astrid ate the rest. ‘‘I meant only to share it, not for you to take it all.’’
Astrid bent over and did the same, offering her mother the larger end. They both tucked the carrot tops back in under the fluffy row to return to the soil as they decomposed.
‘‘Well?’’ Astrid said.
‘‘If it is okay with Tante Kaaren, it is with me. Why don’t you ask Ilse to go with you? She never has time to play anymore.’’
‘‘All Ilse thinks about is the deaf school and Mr. McBride.’’ Astrid tilted her head. ‘‘Are they getting married soon?’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Because I saw them kissing out behind the barn.’’
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