Leaving Norway: Book 1: Martin & Dagny (The Hansen Series - Martin & Dagny and Reidar & Kirsten)

by Kris Tualla

  “You know what I meant,” Dagny accused, trying to keep her emotional balance in the entrancing sapphire of his gaze. “What is your game?”

  “There is no game, Dagny,” he replied. “You have been acquitted of the crimes with which you were accused. We are legally married. Why should we hide?”

  Dagny sighed. Martin’s version of their story was so very different from hers.

  “I’m not that strong,” she objected. “I’m a coward.”

  Martin wagged his head as they continued their stroll. “Oh, Dagny.”

  “What?” Was he displeased with her?

  He squeezed her arm. “You have so much to learn about yourself.”

  ***

  Dagny may have much to learn, but Martin knew her fears about the other passengers’ reactions to her release and the conditions of their marriage were founded in very real human responses. Even so, she straightened her back and entered the dining room on his arm as if she were the queen herself.

  He was so proud of her.

  When they took their regular seats with the Thomassens, Martin prayed two things. First, that the older couple would be as engaging as they had been on the voyage thus far. And second, that Torvald would behave in a civil manner, should he choose to join them.

  He needn’t have worried about Torvald. The man didn’t appear.

  The Thomassens were another matter.

  On this night, Stig, Astrid, Martin and Dagny were the only inhabitants of their supper table. The empty seats around them seemed a buffer, left vacant to prevent anyone from contracting whatever social disease he and Dagny carried.

  Martin held Dagny’s chair, then slid into the one next to her. He met Stig Thomassen’s speculative gaze across the table.

  “Good evening sir,” Martin offered. “Thank you for deigning to dine with us this evening.”

  “I make up my own mind about people,” Stig declared. “As does Astrid.”

  Martin had to ask, “And have you made up your mind about my wife and me?”

  “No. Not entirely,” Stig admitted. “But we’ll give you this one chance.”

  “Has our character not already become known to you?” Dagny ventured.

  Stig’s gaze moved to hers. “I thought it had.”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” Dagny said in a much clearer tone than Martin might have expected.

  “We don’t believe you did,” Astrid spoke up.

  “I never fully trusted your brother,” Stig added. He squinted at Dagny as if to discern her true feelings.

  “Half brother,” she retorted. Anger seeped into her voice. “And I have learned through this experience that he is completely untrustworthy.”

  “Is he the thief?” Astrid asked. “Is he arrested?”

  Martin gripped Dagny’s hand under the table. “My wife believes that he is. Unfortunately, there is no proof.”

  Stig scowled. “The plunder was in Dagny’s trunk.”

  “And her trunk was not locked,” Martin confessed. “Anyone might have hidden their spoils there.”

  “Why was it not locked?” Astrid asked.

  Martin looked to Dagny.

  “My brother unlocked it to retrieve my slippers on my behalf. Unfortunately, he forgot to relock it afterwards,” she explained, her sorrow and frustration pulling at her features. “If only I had gone to retrieve them myself…”

  “There, there, my dear.” Astrid patted Dagny’s arm. “It’s not your fault.”

  “What about this marriage?” Stig blurted. “It’s rather sudden, isn’t it?”

  “I acted in an ungentlemanly manner, sir,” Martin began. “I needed to right that wrong.”

  “In an odd way, that was fortunate,” Dagny added. Her voice was small and strained. She cleared her throat. “Because we were thus engaged, I could not have committed the thefts.”

  Astrid’s brow lowered. She regarded Dagny with an intent gaze. “Are you happily married then?”

  Dagny wouldn’t look at him, though Martin squeezed her hand. Her smile did not appear fully convincing to him. He wondered what Astrid thought.

  “Yes. Yes I am,” she replied.

  He squeezed her hand again, and this time she met his gaze.

  “As am I,” he declared. “As am I.”

  ***

  Martin kept refilling her wine glass. Dagny didn’t object. As the liquid worked its way into her veins, she felt her body relax.

  She tried to keep her mind focused on the conversation with the Thomassens. Apparently, she and Martin had passed muster with the older couple, because Stig and Astrid were acting as friendly as they ever had before. Warm feelings for the forgiving pair suffused Dagny’s chest, giving her a sense of well-being.

  Or maybe that was the wine.

  In any case, her fear was beginning to wane. She looked around the room at all the married couples. The world was full of them. And most of them had children. Several children. Proof that the women allowed the men to, well, swive them. If the experience was so horrid, would they agree to its frequent repetition?

  And then, of course, there was the question of whores.

  Women who offered their bodies to men—lots of men—for money. There were even prostitutes in the Bible, so this wasn’t any sort of recent phenomenon. If these women felt as though they might be rent to death with every occurrence, as Sister Mikal so emphatically declared was true, no amount of money would be worth it.

  Dagny had the temerity to ask Sister Mikal how she knew what the act felt like.

  “I don’t, of course, you wicked child!” she retorted.

  “Then how—” Dagny got no further when she was slapped for her impertinence.

  “I have ears, don’t I?” the sister demanded. “I heard my father grunting with his vile efforts, and I heard my mother howling in response.”

  Dagny didn’t dare press her any further, but tucked that vivid description in her mind in case she ever considered marriage. She found it odd how Torvald’s kisses had shushed that warning. Now that her actual deflowering was imminent, it came roaring back with sinister echoes.

  “Dagny?” Astrid addressed her. “Are you well?”

  Dagny blinked at the woman. “I’m tired is all. What did you ask me?”

  Astrid shook her head. “You have had a very long day, and I think it’s time you and Martin were excused.”

  Dagny’s gut tightened.

  Martin stood and gripped her chair. “Thank you, Astrid. I do believe you are right.”

  He tugged at her chair and Dagny rose slowly. The calming effects of the wine disappeared in an instant. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking.

  “Good night,” she murmured.

  Martin’s hand on the small of her back guided her out of the dining area and into her hallway. He stopped at her cabin’s door.

  “I’ll give you time to prepare,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll join you in an hour.”

  Martin flipped the handle of her door, pushed her inside, and closed it behind her.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Inside her cabin, the gas lamp was lit and two buckets of steaming water sat on the floor beside a tin tub. A pile of towels waited, folded and patient, on the table beside a bar of soap. The dry sheet and shirts were draped across the bed. Martin must have arranged for this.

  Delaying the inevitable, Dagny folded the two shirts and tucked them into Martin’s satchel. She was about to remake the bed when a soft knock on the door shot through her nerves like a cannonball.

  “Y-yes?” she stammered.

  The door opened and Astrid Thomassen stepped into the small space. “I’m here to help you prepare for tonight,” she said, closing the door and latching it.

  Something about that statement triggered a string of connections in Dagny’s mind. “Why? Why tonight?” she probed.

  Astrid faced her and took her hands, holding them gently. “Because it’s my opinion that the story of an affaire between you and Martin is pure
fabrication. Furthermore, I believe tonight is your first time. Am I right?”

  “How did you know?” Dagny breathed. Her eyes slammed wide. She yanked one hand free, clapping it over her mouth too late to stop the confession. “Oh, nooo!” The moan escaped between her fingers.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Astrid assured her. “I know that you’re not guilty of those crimes. And if Martin Hansen was willing to provide you with an alibi, going so far as to marry you, then you are a very lucky woman.”

  “Do you truly think so?” Dagny pressed, so anxious to believe her.

  Astrid chuckled. “I do. And I believe that by tomorrow morning, you will too.”

  The older woman’s reference to what was coming sent a second cannonball through her composure. Dagny feared her supper would revolt.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled and wrapped her arms around her waist. She waited, having no idea what she was supposed to do.

  “I expect you need help with your gown. Why don’t you let me unlace it for you,” Astrid suggested.

  Dagny dropped her arms then she shook out her fists.

  While Astrid tugged on Dagny’s laces, she spoke in a soothing tone. “I’m married for twenty-five years now.”

  Dagny tried to swallow but her tongue was rough and dry as sand. “Oh?” she rasped.

  Astrid finished with the laces. “Martin Hansen is a fine sort of man. There’s nothing to fear if you’re married to a good man.”

  Dagny bobbed a nod. Fear did not begin to describe her mangled emotions.

  “Let’s get you down to your shift and we’ll wash your hair first, shall we?”

  Dagny sat on the little chair and leaned backward over the tub while Astrid poured water over her head. Throughout the hair washing and rinsing, Astrid kept up her soft, encouraging monotone, lulling Dagny into a slight semblance of relaxation.

  “What about the pile of linens on the bed?” Astrid asked as she wrapped towels around Dagny’s wet hair.

  “They are Martin’s. I washed the sheet but didn’t have a chance to make up the bed,” Dagny explained, tucking errant strands of wet hair under the tight towel.

  Astrid poured the remaining water into the tin tub. “You go on and get in the bath. I’ll make up the bed.”

  Dagny did as she was bid. The fresh rainwater felt like silk after washing with salt water for the past two weeks or so. She leaned against the tub’s high back and watched Astrid turn the bunk into a plush retreat, using Martin’s blanket under the sheet, fluffing his pillow next to Dagny’s, and folding back the edge of her tufted comforter in an inviting manner.

  “There. That shall be suitable, I think.” Astrid rested her fists on her hips and turned to Dagny. “Be sure to wash very well down there,” she prodded. “Between the folds, especially.”

  Surprised, Dagny met Astrid’s eyes. “Why?”

  Astrid tucked a wet strand of Dagny’s hair back under the towel. “Because a good man will want to see to your pleasure as well, my dear. You don’t want to put him off by being unclean.”

  Dagny’s face flushed so hot it hurt. “He’ll want to touch me there?” she whispered. “I don’t think I could bear it!”

  An enigmatic smile spread across Astrid’s countenance, and her gaze drifted aside. “My lady, I assure you. If his touch is gentle, you’ll bear it quite well.”

  “I cannot believe you,” Dagny’s whisper disintegrated to a quiet whimper.

  Now Astrid blushed. “Have you never… no. Forgive me.” She began gathering wet towels.

  “Never what?” Dagny demanded. Panic compressed her chest. If there was something she was supposed to do, she needed to know and she needed to know now. Time grew alarmingly short.

  Astrid murmured over her shoulder. “Touched yourself?”

  Dagny was struck dumb. Touching oneself was specifically forbidden by the sisters; in fact they lectured her about it often. They made it sound as if she would contract some terrible disease from her fingertips. For whatever reason she might consider doing such a thing, was never explained.

  Now it seemed there was a reason, and it had to do with the marriage bed, and she was ignorant of it. Yet she would be expected to be knowledgeable of these things within the hour.

  Her voice was a mere ghost. “No.”

  Astrid reached over and chucked one knuckle under Dagny’s chin, tilting her face upward.

  Dagny had to blink to see Astrid, though she remained a persistently watery image. Dagny sopped her tears with one corner of her towel.

  “You’ll be fine, Dagny.” Astrid’s countenance radiated kindness. “Those who do not find satisfaction in the act often try to frighten the inexperienced, or claim that the act itself is a sin.”

  Dagny’s brow twitched. Did Astrid mean the nuns?

  “You and Mister Hansen are not of that ilk,” she continued. “I predict that tonight you will begin your marriage well.”

  Dagny nodded, unconvinced in spite of the woman’s comforting tone. “Thank you.”

  Astrid put the wet towels in the empty water buckets. “Let’s get your nightgown on, shall we?”

  Dagny produced the gown she bought for her wedding night. It wasn’t as fine as she hoped; it had no lace. The sisters kept a tight watch on her, so she was forced to purchase a gown from what choices she could find on the morning she left the convent.

  Dagny sighed as the smooth fabric slid over her bare skin. At least it was silk, not cotton, and the pale blue went well with her eyes. She tried not to fidget while Astrid combed and plaited her damp, heavy hair.

  “There now. Into bed with you! I’ll tell the cabin boy to clear away the mess.”

  Dagny climbed onto the bunk and pulled the comforter to her waist. She looked down and realized that her breasts, and their anxious tips, were quite visible through the silk. Humiliation flamed her cheeks. She felt completely undone.

  Astrid leaned over Dagny and kissed her forehead the way a mother would. “I will be praying for you and Martin tonight,” she whispered.

  Dagny tried to smile. “Thank you for everything. I needed help, but I didn’t know how much until now.”

  Astrid opened the cabin door, set both buckets in the hallway, and left.

  When the cabin boy arrived to empty and cart away the tub, Dagny slid deeper under the blanket, hiding the silky evidence of her expectations. She had to assume that he knew what she and Martin would be doing soon, as would every passenger on the ship, truthfully. For such an intimate occurrence to be public knowledge did nothing to soothe her nervousness.

  The tub finally disappeared. The cabin door closed.

  Dagny considered the oil lamp; should it be as bright as it was? Or should she turn it lower? Perhaps the cabin should be dark, to protect each other’s privacy. There were so many details to this whole consummation contrivance that no one had ever informed her of, and Dagny in her ignorance had never considered asking.

  She was just about to hop off the bed and turn down the lamp when knuckles on the door shot the third cannonball of the night through what meager confidence her preparations had attempted to construct. Dagny tugged the hem of her gown lower and the blanket higher.

  “C-come in, Martin,” she stuttered.

  The cabin door opened.

  Martin was barefooted and clad in only a nightshirt that reached his knees. He carried a carafe and two glasses, which he set on the table before latching the door securely. His hair was damp and Dagny smelled soap. He had bathed as well. Somehow, that helped.

  “I brought more wine,” he explained. “I thought it would calm you if we shared a glass and talked a little first.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, thank you.” Dagny hoped her gratitude sounded as sincere as she meant it to.

  Martin poured two glasses, reached over and lowered the lamplight a bit, then carried the glasses to the bed. He handed one to Dagny. She accepted with a hand which, surprisingly, did not tremble. He sat on the edge of the bunk and lifted his gla
ss.

  “To my beautiful wife,” he murmured. “May I prove worthy of you.”

  Dagny’s jaw dropped. She was so shocked that she didn’t lift her glass in response. “You think I’m beautiful?”

  Martin huffed a laugh. “My God, Dagny. You are stunning. I thought so the first moment I saw you.”

  She blinked at the memory. “When you opened my cabin door by mistake?”

  For an instant, Martin’s face was blank. “Yes. Yes, on the day we sailed.”

  He reached over and lifted her hand, clinking their glasses together. “Now, drink to my toast.”

  Dagny took an obedient sip. The wine was delicious, so she took another.

  “I don’t want you to be afraid of what will happen tonight,” Martin said. “It’s likely to hurt a bit at first, but the pain should be brief.”

  “Truly?” she asked. Another sip of wine was warranted. “So you have done this before.”

  Martin’s cheeks darkened. “I have. Yes.”

  “With a virgin?” Dagny probed. “Or with whores?”

  Martin snorted. He gulped the remainder of his wine. “That’s a question I wasn’t expecting.”

  “Will you answer it?” she pressed.

  Martin got up to pour another glass of the aromatic burgundy liquid. He filled hers as well. When he set the carafe down, he faced her. “I have never in my life laid with a whore. I swear to that.”

  Dagny found his answer pleasing. In her mind, men of quality never did. “A virgin?”

  He returned to the bunk and sat back down on the mattress. “We were only sixteen and both virgins,” he began. “It was awkward. Embarrassing. Neither one of us really knew what we were doing.”

  Dagny tilted her head. “Then why did you do it?”

  Martin’s expression grew pensive. “She wanted to. Now I believe she was trying to trap me into marriage.”

  “So young?” Dagny asked, incredulous. “Why?”

  He shrugged. Sipped his wine. Stared at the lamp. “I was to be the next Hansen heir. My family is fairly wealthy and holds a high status in Arendal.”