A Song of Joy

by Lauraine Snelling

  “I have heard good things about her. Mr. Larsson says Nilda has quite a head for business and that his aunt sings her praises.”

  “Really?”

  “Mrs. Schoenleber is one of the people behind much of the change in Blackduck. She wants to make sure Blackduck doesn’t go into a decline when the lumber runs out and the lumber barons move on. Already some have left.”

  “Rune has mentioned that, which is why he is working hard to make sure we have other ways to make a living.”

  “Like the skis and the hogs?”

  “And the rugs that Gunlaug weaves, although they won’t bring in much.”

  “If she can get some woven ahead, I will carry them at the store. Even one as a sample. I think there is a furniture store in Blackduck that might be interested too.”

  “Thank you. We need to get more wool carded and spun. There must be a better way to do some of these things to make it go faster.”

  They went inside and sat in their normal pew as Reverend Skarstead took his place in the pulpit and cleared his throat.

  “Let us pray.”

  Signe bowed her head and breathed softly.

  After the prayer, the reverend continued. “Dearly beloved, let us return to the gospel record for today: Mark chapter eight, beginning at verse twenty-two.” He read it again. “One of Jesus’ miracles. I have wondered why certain stories were included and others weren’t. Scripture says there were many other signs and wonders that Jesus did in those few short years of His life on earth. We know they are told to show us what He did, to increase our faith.”

  Signe listened intently. Rune needed healing in his eyes. The glaucoma was making it harder for him to see. If only God would reach down and touch his eyes. Even just stop the progression. Could that be why this story was preached on today? To help them know what God had in mind? But did He ever do miracles like that anymore?

  Signe forced her attention back to the sermon. Lord, teach me, show me how to help Rune. He is such a good man and is trying so hard to provide for us all by looking ahead.

  Another hymn, the benediction—a favorite part of the service in her mind—and then the organ burst into the postlude. Fritz Larsson let out all the stops so that the music rolled across the land. If only she could hear such music more often than church on Sundays. Nilda said he was teaching her the piano. Someday, perhaps, he would teach Signe how to play the organ.

  Silly, you dream up the craziest things. She walked beside her family as they left the church. Surely the Kielunds would come to the farm for dinner. The roast was in the oven, and she had stoked the fire well.

  Selma Kielund stopped beside them with only her little boy in tow. The other two Kielund children were off playing with Leif and the boys. “So good to see you today.”

  “Can you and Oskar join us for dinner?” Signe asked. “I thought it would be good to have all the family together, since Nilda is home.”

  “I thank you, let me ask Oskar.” While she was trying to learn English, she was having a hard time with it. She nodded to a circle of men talking by the buggies and then walked over to speak to her husband. She was smiling when she returned, so her yes was no surprise.

  Reverend Skarstead joined them and warmly greeted Rune and Signe. He patted Kirstin, who stared at him as if trying to figure out where she had seen him before.

  Rune smiled. “This one fell asleep during the sermon. Please don’t take that personally.”

  Reverend Skarstead laughed. “I promise not to.” He greeted the children and finally Gerd and Gunlaug. “English class will be starting up again soon.” He waited, then nodded when Gunlaug did.

  Signe said, “I will make sure Selma comes too.”

  They glanced over to see Nilda talking with Fritz Larsson, the organist and schoolteacher. He’d been her first teacher for English too. The reverend raised his eyebrows and grinned at Gunlaug, then leaned closer. “He certainly looks forward to those socials and visits to his aunt’s house. He never used to go so often.”

  “Really?” Gunlaug nodded. “Nilda is encouraging Bjorn to attend with Ivar and Mr. Larsson.”

  On the way home, Gunlaug leaned over and spoke in Nilda’s ear, though Signe was sitting close enough to hear. “He’s a good man, Mr. Larsson. Did you say he is teaching you to play the piano?”

  “When he comes to town. Mrs. Potts also gives me music lessons.”

  “Do you think Bjorn will be terribly uncomfortable at the party?”

  “He might be, but he might really enjoy himself too. I’m sure Ivar will give him good instructions. He usually goes walking around Blackduck until Mr. Larsson is ready to return home. Bjorn knows Petter, who will be there too, now that logging season is over.”

  Gunlaug nodded thoughtfully. “He needs more time with people his own age. Since he didn’t attend school here, he’s not met many people outside the family. Not like he would have in Norway.”

  Signe thought about what they were saying. Bjorn had been thrown into manhood so young. He’d adopted Onkel Einar’s drive to bring down the most trees possible. He would be seventeen soon, and he both looked and acted more like a man than a boy. She turned her head and looked up at him, driving the team, talking with Gerd and his far. Was it only two years since they came to Minnesota? For some reason it felt like more.

  Selma, her husband, Oskar, and their children drove far enough behind them not to be eating their dust. Kirstin leaned against Nilda’s chest, thumb and forefinger in her mouth. Knute and Leif sat with their feet hanging over the lowered tailgate. When they turned into the lane, Signe began parceling out the tasks ahead.

  “Nilda, will you fetch the baked chickens from the well house? Bjorn, you take the wagon down to the new house and bring up some chairs.”

  “How about if I make the biscuits?” Gunlaug volunteered. “Since we baked those pies yesterday, we have dessert. How about bringing up some cream for whipping, Nilda?”

  Good thing they still had some canned goods down in the cellar. They’d need to can more this year.

  Leif loaded Kirstin in the wagon and, taking his three cousins, headed for the barn to show off all his babies. Piglets, calves, chicks, and kittens. Signe watched them go. Leave it to Leif. She smiled to herself.

  I know pride goeth before a fall, but Lord, these sons of ours are good boys. Thank you. And each is so different. Bjorn would as soon hunt as sleep. Knute would rather fish than anything, like his onkel Johann in Norway, but he’s provided us a lot of meat with his rabbit snares. Leif has taken over the care of the baby animals, and watches over his little sister. I wish the other two liked school and reading as much as he does.

  Listening to the laughing and talking in the other room made her even more content. Thank you, Lord. We are blessed indeed.

  Chapter

  7

  So how was your visit?” Mrs. Schoenleber smiled from her desk chair.

  Nilda heaved a sigh of delight as she unpinned her hat and let the maid, Stella, take it. “We had a marvelous time with only one bit of well, blood.”

  “What happened?”

  “Kirstin tried to get out of the wagon by herself down at the barn, fell, and banged her forehead on something. Lots of tears and blood, but not severe. That child sure has a set of lungs.”

  “Are you ready for a cup of tea?”

  “Coffee sounds better.”

  “I’m sure Cook has something left of the coffee cake she made for breakfast, although it is not that long until dinner.” Mrs. Schoenleber pulled the cord to the kitchen. “Now, tell me more.”

  Nilda crossed to stand in front of the window. “Let’s see. I invited Bjorn to come with Ivar and Mr. Larsso—” When she stumbled over the name, Mrs. Schoenleber rolled her eyes.

  “For goodness’ sake, I do believe you can call him Fritz now, at least around here.” She gave the order to the maid and nodded for Nilda to continue. “Surely there is more news than that.”

  “Selma and her family joined the others
for Sunday dinner. I do believe she is in the family way, but nothing was said about it. Mor told me. I’m afraid Rune’s eyesight is growing worse.”

  Mrs. Schoenleber studied the desk in front of her, obviously pondering something. Nilda had learned to wait patiently when this occurred. Looking out the window, she sucked in a deep breath of pure delight at the buds on the rosebushes. A red one already had a full blossom. The daisies were entering their glory. A purple martin flew in the birdhouse with a piece of red yarn in its beak. Cook had hung a mesh bag filled with bits of yarn from the branches of the clump of birch trees in the corner. Bluebirds and house sparrows splashed in the bird bath, while another inspected one of the birdhouses on a pole by itself, like bluebirds demanded.

  “There must be some way we can help Rune’s ski-making business grow. I think there is an organization in Red Wing. Skiing has been growing in popularity. I wonder if they have a newsletter or a magazine. If we could get an article in it . . .” Mrs. Schoenleber wrote herself a note on the pad of paper she kept handy for just that purpose. “An advertisement in the Minneapolis Tribune might be a good idea.” She wrote herself another note.

  Nilda knew who would be doing the research on these new ideas. “I need to go to the mercantile to buy shirts for both Ivar and Bjorn for the social. They’ve both gotten broader in the shoulders and more muscular.”

  “I take it Bjorn wasn’t too enthusiastic about coming.” Mrs. Schoenleber smiled at Stella when she entered the room. “Please put the tray on the table in front of the window. Thank you.”

  When she finished pouring coffee for herself and tea for Mrs. Schoenleber, Nilda eyed the crumbly-topped breakfast cake. “Leave it to Cook to come up with something new.” She moved two pieces to separate plates, placed a fork on each plate, and handed one to the woman who had become friend along with employer. Nilda took a bite, then set her plate down. “I would like to invite Mor to visit, and I thought she could bring Leif along. I know Rune would take her to the train.”

  “Of course. I’m glad you want to do that. I would love to see that little Kirstin again. This house needs the laughter of children.”

  “You really want them to come?”

  “Of course. Why do you doubt it?”

  “I-I—everything is so perfect here, and children . . . well, children can be messy.”

  “Ah, I see. Don’t worry about that.” Mrs. Schoenleber nodded and stared at nothing. “I—we, meaning Arvid, my husband, and I—always dreamed of having children to fill this house, but then God took them all away in that tornado. It’s something I will never understand but have learned to accept. After that, I decided my oldest nephew, Fritz Larsson, would inherit the personal part of our estate. We had sent him to school in the hope that he would step into Arvid’s shoes or perhaps become an attorney, but when he wanted to become a musician and a teacher, we agreed. Not everyone is designed to run a business. So, surprising as it may seem to many, I had a head for business, and when Arvid died, I stepped into his shoes. Much to the consternation of my brothers, as you know. But he also held investments apart from the family businesses, and perhaps someday Fritz will pick up the responsibilities there. In the meantime, I am training you to help me carry out the things that need to be done.”

  “Did Fritz know what you wanted of him?”

  “Yes and no.” She held up her cup. “Coffee this time, please.”

  Nilda filled both their cups. Never had her employer’s plans and dreams been laid out quite like this. She paused, sipped, and studied her cup.

  “You have a question?” Mrs. Schoenleber asked.

  Nilda nodded, the slow motion of someone deep in thought. She sucked in a breath, and on releasing it, looked at Mrs. Schoenleber. “But why me?”

  “When I first met you, that night you stayed here, I felt God saying, ‘Pay attention to her.’ I had no idea why, but I learned long ago that when I sense things like that, I must try to follow them. Arvid used to say that I had a special gift in sensing things. It took us some time to believe it, but so it is.” She leaned over and patted Nilda’s hand. “And I have not regretted my decision for a moment. When we follow where God leads, we receive all sorts of surprises. Any more questions?”

  “Not at the moment, but I am feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

  “Don’t be. God knows where all this is leading, so let’s just hang on for the ride.”

  Mrs. Schoenleber’s hostler, George, entered the room. “The mail is here.” He handed it to Nilda. “Something for you too. I’m going to be washing the carriage if you need anything.”

  “We’ll have more to go out later.”

  Nilda sorted the mail—business for her to deal with later, personal to those it was addressed to. She handed two letters to Mrs. Schoenleber, kept two for herself, and tucked the remainder in beside her in the chair.

  They both slit open their letters and unfolded the sheets of paper inside. The letterhead on Nilda’s piqued her interest. She must have made a noise, for Mrs. Schoenleber looked up.

  “A problem?”

  “I have no idea.” Nilda skimmed the note, then went back and read it again. “Listen to this.”

  “‘Dear Miss Carlson,

  “‘I’ve been thinking about our evening at the symphony and how much I enjoyed myself. I’m hoping you did too; you seemed to. I asked you at the end of the evening if you would be willing to correspond with me, and since you did not say no, I am writing this in the hope of getting to know you better.’”

  “Well, well, well. Now this is a bit of a surprise.” Mrs. Schoenleber tapped the edge of one of her letters on her chin. “Continue, please. I mean, if you would like to. After all, this is a private letter.”

  Nilda made a face and continued reading aloud.

  “‘Perhaps I should tell you about myself, since we’ve not had much time to become acquainted, in the hope you will return the same. I am in my final year of college with a major in business and economics. Lest you think I am studying this under duress, let me reassure you that it is not easy, but it is fascinating. I play on the tennis team, usually in the spring, but now that we have an indoor tennis court at the college, I play year-round. The competitions are held in the spring and summer, since not all schools have access to indoor courts.

  “‘Besides my studies and tennis, I enjoy dancing and parlor recreations. It has been brought to my attention that my Aunt Gertrude has socials in her home on a regular basis. Far be it from me to request an invitation, but I do believe the train goes both ways, so if there is to be such a party over the holidays when I am out of school . . .

  “‘I do hope you will write back to me and tell me about your life in both Norway, which I visited on my European tour, and here in Minnesota.

  “‘Sincerely,

  “‘Jeffrey Schmitz.’”

  Nilda laid the page in her lap. “What do you make of this?” She wanted to ask if Mrs. Schoenleber thought this was a ploy of some kind but thought better of it.

  “I think I want to leave that for later. Let’s just see what happens.”

  “You think I should extend an invitation? And how do I know when college breaks are?”

  “Ask him that when you write back. Once we know for certain, we can plan our schedule.”

  “To include him?”

  Nodding, Mrs. Schoenleber replied, “Yes, I think so.”

  “He might not be under duress, but I am,” Nilda muttered under her breath.

  “And when he invites you to an event in the Cities, I expect you to attend.”

  “Why would he do that?” Nilda stuffed the letter back in the envelope, wishing she had not read it aloud and instead just tossed it into the trash.

  The other letter was a note of acceptance to the upcoming social, bringing the total to ten so far. Petter Thorvaldson, the friend she and Ivar had made on the ship to Duluth, had written and asked if Miss Carlson was planning to be there, which made Nilda laugh. After he’d told her he would like to court
her, he had taken it well when she told him she valued him as a friend but that was as far as the relationship would go. Having him present would make it easier for Bjorn. After all, he was turning into a fine-looking young man, which would surely cause a stir.

  “I have ordered the most up-to-date typewriter for you to use,” Mrs. Schoenleber announced. “Have you ever typed on one?”

  Nilda shook her head. “No, but it would make some things go faster, if what I saw at the board meeting was any indication. Mr. Jurgenson’s fingers flew over those keys. Do you know someone who can teach me?”

  “I’ll ask Jane when she comes this afternoon. Surely they are using them at the bank.” Mrs. Schoenleber stood up and left the room to consult with Cook about the meals for the next week.

  Nilda smiled to herself as she leafed through the remainder of the mail. She liked Miss Walstead, who had been one of Mrs. Schoenleber’s dearest friends ever since she and Arvid moved to Blackduck. Miss Walstead always explained things clearly.

  Charles appeared in the door. “A Mr. Crawford Galt to see Miss Carlson.”

  Nilda’s heart began to pound. She wanted to shout to Mrs. Schoenleber to come back. No. She was a grown woman who could handle complex business affairs. Surely she could talk to Mr. Galt. “See him in, please.”

  The detective entered the room, and a sort of dark cloud descended. An ominous feeling—the word ominous being another new word in Nilda’s growing vocabulary.

  “Miss Carlson.”

  “Mr. Galt. Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down firmly, acting as if he were in control. “How well do you know Miss Olivia Amundson?”

  “Very casually. An acquaintance.”

  “Hilda Rainer? Dolores Gruber? Maxine Murphy?”

  “They are young women who attend Mrs. Schoenleber’s socials. I know them only in that capacity.”

  “Then who are your friends?”

  Nilda thought a moment. She didn’t have any of her age, at least not in Blackduck. “Miss Walstead, of course. She instructs me in English and American history. Petter Thorvaldson is a good friend. And Mr. Larsson.”