by Kris Tualla
Dagny tried without success to believe him. Too many awkward years as a too-tall adolescent, combined with the nuns’ painful binding of her bosom in a failed attempt to stifle its growth, had solidified knowledge of her liabilities.
She dipped her chin. “I respectfully disagree.”
“And I,” Martin said with a flourish of his toast. “Respect your right to be wrong.”
Dagny rolled her eyes. “Will you always be so contrary?”
“Yes, in some areas I will,” he admitted.
An outburst of male approval made Dagny turn toward Torvald, even though doing so soured her stomach. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight and turned to face Martin. Opening her eyes to her husband’s sculpted features made an inroad toward restoring her equilibrium.
“I hate that man,” she confessed. “What did he say?”
Martin was still watching Torvald. “Something about the races, I believe.” He swung his attention back to her. “Is Torvald Haugen his real name?”
Dagny blinked, startled by the change in their conversation. “No. It’s Torvald Heimlich.”
Martin’s brows met in concentration. “Torvald Heimlich…” he repeated.
“Do you know him?”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He swallowed the last of his coffee. “I need to go down to the hold later and retrieve my things.”
Another shift. “Why?”
“It has become known that I spent time there. I want to bring my drawings and materials to our cabin where they will be safe from curious investigators,” he explained.
“Where will you go now for your privacy?” she asked.
He smiled at her, an act which pinched the outer corners of his eyes so attractively. Why hadn’t she noticed that before?
“It would seem that I don’t have the inclination to flee your presence in the way I desired to get out of Oskar’s pocket.”
“So you will do your drawing in our cabin?” Dagny clarified. “What if I’m there as well?”
Martin spread his hands. “You can tell me what you think of them.”
Dagny sat back in her chair and stared at Martin.
When she boarded this ship in Christiania, she expected to spend her hours becoming better acquainted with her fiancé. He, however, evinced no such desire. On the contrary, he repeatedly pushed her off to her own industry.
If she understood her new husband’s words, then he welcomed her companionship. Beyond that, he might even ask her opinion of his work. As incredulous as the idea was, Dagny must believe him. She had never known Martin Hansen to lie. Except for the lie that saved her life, of course.
She forgave him that one.
“I might read or knit,” she ventured.
“Well there is one other thing you will need to do,” he responded.
Dagny’s gut tightened. Was he referring to their marriage bed? Conflicting feelings crossed like dueling swords in her chest, and she had no idea which one she championed.
“What?” she squeaked.
“English,” he stated, switching languages. “We must now speak in English so you may continue to learn.
Relief and disappointment clanged against each other, sending off sparks. Dagny focused her thoughts, hoping no fire started in her battered emotions.
“Yes. I must practice my English,” she agreed. “All of time?”
“Unless you do not know the word.” Martin pointed a finger at her. “But try German or Latin first. Norse is our last choice.”
Dagny wagged her thumb in Torvald’s direction. “He will know. Is… good?”
Martin scoffed. “I have no care for that man, nor what he knows or thinks.”
Dagny nodded. Martin’s decision was a good one. She smiled to indicate her compliance.
“I understand. I will practice and learn. I will speak English.”
Martin took hold of her hand. He lifted it to his lips, turned it over, and gave her palm a warm, lingering kiss. “Good.”
“What do you think, Hansen?” Torvald shouted across the room. “Are you up to it?”
Chapter Twenty Three
Martin didn’t react to Torvald at first; he kept his eyes on Dagny’s. Hers widened but didn’t move away. When he sensed a rumble of discontent starting to grow, he turned to face Torvald.
“Of course I am up to it,” he scoffed, his intentionally strong tone filling the room. “What did you have in mind?”
Torvald’s mouth worked as he chewed his responses. “These gentlemen,” he said with exaggerated patience, “would like to see a demonstration of the race course.”
Martin shrugged and glanced around the group of men. “Did you forget where it goes? Oskar here can show you.”
A few sniggers rose and died.
“No,” Torvald sneered. “I am asking you if you would be willing to run the course for them.”
Martin gave a knowing smile. “I’ll run against you.”
Dagny breathed in sharply. Martin squeezed her hand. Oskar grinned at him as if Martin just handed him a victory of his own.
“Against me?” Torvald’s incredulous response drew another round of brief sniggers. “Why would I agree to that?”
“The course is to be run by two men at a time, each starting at the opposite end,” Martin pointed out. “What better way to demonstrate its effectiveness?”
All eyes returned to Torvald. The man was caught, and if the expression on his reddening face was a true indication, he knew it. To decline now would lose him any of the credibility he might have rebuilt.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll begin at the bow.”
Martin stood and stretched, flattening his palms on the low ceiling. “I’ll give you an early start as well, Haugen, so the finish will hold a semblance of suspense.”
“That won’t be necessary, Hansen,” Torvald growled.
“Necessary or not, I believe in fair play.” Martin let those words—and the insinuation behind them—hang in Torvald’s furious silence.
“Shall we?” Martin suggested just as Torvald opened his mouth to respond. He turned his back on the room and offered Dagny his arm. “Will you cheer me on, my darling?”
Dagny stood and gave him a smile that went straight to his groin. “You and no other, my love.”
Martin led her from the room at a pace brisk enough to drain blood from the part of his body which it was rushing to fill. Dagny trotted beside him without question, but he knew she must be wondering what precipitated the rush.
Once all the men had gathered on the deck, Oskar loped away to warn anyone who might be in the path of the runners to step back for their own safety. Martin explained the route, usurping Torvald’s control of the crowd.
“Stig, will you officiate at the finish?” Martin asked.
The man nodded. “I would be happy to. I won’t be running, and that’s clear,” he chuckled.
Martin pointed to the bow. “Haugen, you’ll hold that railing until the signal to start is given. I’ll hold the railing at the stern.”
“Who will give the signal?” Stig Thomassen asked.
“I will!” Oskar called out as he jogged back to the group. He waved a small pistol above his head. “You both should hear this just fine.”
Martin spun on his heel. With Dagny at his side, he walked toward the rear of the ship and made note of the obstacles he would have to avoid. She stopped of a sudden and grabbed his arm.
“Wait! Don’t start without me!” she ordered. With a delightful whirl of her skirts she ran to the nearest ladder and disappeared down its steps.
Martin slowed his pace, knowing that any delay he caused would just make Torvald that much more irritated. He had to be honest; he would not pass by any opportunity he could conjure to annoy that scoundrel. Martin would enjoy seeing how much disrespect the man could take before he exploded.
When he reached the stern he waited for Dagny with his hands on his hips and his back to the deck. He knew Oskar would wait until
both men waved their readiness before he shot the pistol in the air. Martin thought he could feel Torvald’s frustration burning into his back.
“Here,” Dagny huffed.
Martin turned to face her. She held out a blue knitted scarf.
“Wear my favor, like the knights used to do,” she said. “I want everyone to know which man has my heart.”
Martin accepted the scarf. “Did you make this?”
She nodded, but didn’t meet his gaze.
“Thank you.” Martin tied the scarf around his waist. He strove to make his next question sound casual. “Do I have your heart, Dagny?”
Her pale blue eyes lifted. “You are my husband, now. No one else has a right to it.”
That wasn’t exactly the same thing, but Martin understood her reticence. He couldn’t say with certainty that he loved Dagny as yet, though his vow to her would remain unbroken.
Martin leaned down and kissed his wife, taking his time about it. That decision was more for his own pleasure than to blacken Torvald’s mood, though the other result was nearly as gratifying.
When the kiss ended, he faced the front of the ship, grabbed the railing behind him with one hand, and raised the other. The pistol shot cracked the air. Torvald started running along the starboard rail. Martin kept his word and counted to five—then he was off.
Martin ran full out along the port side, arms pumping and his stride as long as he could stretch it. As he leapt over coils of rope and dodged crates lashed to the deck, he remembered he should have taken off his boots.
Next time.
He slapped the railing at the bow, then swung around and bolted down the starboard side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Torvald cross him on the other side. Martin smacked the stern railing and headed for the nearest ladder, Dagny’s cheers of encouragement pushing him on.
Martin rested his palms on the edges of the hatch and jumped the seven feet to the deck below. He held his balance and ran down one hall, up the other, and back down the first one, circling the passenger cabins in a clockwise direction. He heard Torvald’s boot steps echoing on the opposite side, bringing Dagny’s brilliant suggestion to mind—the runners would never collide.
He took the next ladder up two steps at a time. The bow was a short distance away, but his final target was his starting point at the stern where Dagny was jumping up and down and clapping her hands. After more running and leaping over obstacles—this time with the men shouting their encouragements—Martin touched the railing for the last time.
As he barreled toward the finish, he saw Torvald running toward him close to the starboard railing. Martin shifted left to avoid crashing into him.
Torvald moved into his path.
Incredulous, Martin made a last-moment adjustment. He was twenty feet from the finish.
Torvald matched his direction, his expression murderous.
Martin tried to stop running but only succeeded in slowing his momentum.
Torvald raised his hands in front of his chest. He did not slow down.
The men smashed into each other. The impact spent them both sprawling to the deck. Martin rolled to the side and regained his feet, fury narrowing his focus and turning the world red.
“You Gud forbannet bastard!” he bellowed.
He launched himself at Torvald, fists cocked. If three or four onlookers hadn’t jumped on his back, Martin might have killed the man.
“What the helvete were you trying to do?” he hollered. “Get yourself killed?”
Torvald was slower to his feet. He didn’t appear to have any fight left in him. “You hit me,” he claimed.
“The hell I did!” Martin growled. “Every time I tried to move out of your way, you jumped back in it!”
“It’s true,” Oskar shouted. “I could see it from where I stood.”
“You’re just saying that because Hansen is your friend,” one man accused.
“No!” Stig Thomassen objected. “Listen to me! Oskar is right. Haugen did this on purpose.”
Martin’s arms were beginning to tingle. He shook his restrainers off, one by one, and glared at Torvald. He pointed a stiff finger at the other man, careful not to appear as though he might throw a punch as much as he ached to do so.
“You are an ass and idiot, Haugen,” he snarled.
“And you are an absolute fool,” Torvald countered. “But you are a damn fast one and I doubt any man on this ship could beat you.”
Martin narrowed his eyes. So that was Torvald’s game; make the men suspicious enough of Martin that they offered up every possible opponent. Well, he knew exactly what to do next. He gave a derisive laugh and wagged his head.
“You’ll never find out.”
***
Dagny watched her husband’s weaving path and saw exactly what he attempted to do. Her screams of warning felt as ineffectual as those in a nightmare. Before the men slammed into each other and tumbled to the deck, she had her skirts lifted to her knees and was racing toward them.
She watched, horrified, as Martin jumped up to attack Torvald.
“No! Martin!” she cried, but no one seemed to hear her. Thankfully a handful of men climbed on his back and stopped him.
As much as that rogue deserved a beating, Dagny feared for Martin’s safety. She had no way of knowing if the other men saw what she did, nor whose side they might take even if they did. She reached her husband’s side just as Torvald accused Martin of causing the collision.
Dagny opened her mouth to object, but snapped it closed when Oskar and Stig spoke up in Martin’s defense. She was wise enough to understand that their words carried weight, while hers would likely be ridiculed. She stood silently by Martin’s side until he turned away from the confrontation. He looked down at her, surprise washing away some of the lethal anger in his expression.
She took hold of his hand.
His grip was limp at first.
As sanity seeped into his countenance, his hand tightened around hers.
“Let’s go,” he grunted.
Dagny followed him to the hatch, down the ladder, and to their cabin. Martin flopped on his back on the bed and threw his arm over his eyes.
Dagny didn’t know what to do. She had only been married to him for one day, so Martin and his moods were still strangers to her. She sat on the wooden chair and waited for whatever came next, a skill which the sisters at the abbey had literally beaten into her.
When he began to snore, Dagny relaxed. Martin was obviously worn out from the intensity of the race and its violent aftermath. She wondered if she should remove his boots, but was afraid that she might awaken him by doing so. Instead, she opened the English novel he had left on the table. Opening to the first page, she began to work her way through it, completely content in her husband’s slumbering presence.
June 22, 1749
Torvald’s races, as he had now taken them over, began the next day. Martin declined to participate, just as he had declared the previous afternoon. He retrieved his architectural drawings from his nest in the hold and spent his afternoon designing outrageous structures. The thunder of boots in the hallway outside their cabin door served as a constant reminder of the activities which were going forward without him.
Skitt.
If it wasn’t for his stubborn pride, he would be competing. Enjoying the air, stretching his muscles, pushing hard to prove himself the better man.
He wondered if Dagny was watching them. After the midday meal, she went to join the gathering of women with whom she had previously spent her afternoons. Martin wasn’t sure of the reception she might receive, but Dagny was insistent.
“Either they are my friends, or they are not,” she stated as she dug out her knitting needles and the remainder of her yarn. “I am determined to discover the truth.”
Martin bounced the end of his graphite stick against his lips and stared at his sketch without seeing it. Last night he slept with Dagny in his arms but he didn’t touch her in the ways he wanted to. Somehow h
e needed to move their relationship forward; not so fast as to frighten her, but at the least making progress toward a full martial state.
Perhaps if I put my hands—
The cabin door banged open.
Dagny stomped inside and slammed the door so hard that it bounced open again. With a high-pitched grunt of frustration, she kicked it. When it bounced open yet again, she pushed it with her palm and latched it with the sort of finality which bespoke a lifelong jail sentence and the key tossed away.
Martin set the graphite down and rose to his feet. “Is something amiss?”
Dagny whirled to face him and only then did he see her tears. Her solitary and silent answer was to throw the needles and yarn into her wooden chest.
“They are not your friends, then,” he murmured in Norse. Now was not the time to push his wife into using her burgeoning English. “I’m so sorry.”
Dagny wiped her cheeks. “They wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence. They ignored me and talked around me as if I wasn’t there,” she sobbed.
Martin held out his arms and Dagny dove into them.
He gathered her close and fought the rage which swelled inside him, even more strongly than when Torvald plowed into him. For that man to challenge Martin in such a dangerous manner was simply idiotic, and Martin’s response was rooted in Torvald’s hazardous and manipulative behavior. This situation was different.
By ignoring Dagny, these women placed themselves above her. Punished her for behaviors they assumed she was guilty of. Shunned her, as if by removing her detrimental influence they could remain untouched by the common sins of the world.
Christ Himself spent time with prostitutes, tax collectors, and thieves—and they were guilty of their crimes, Martin mused. It was too bad these women didn’t emulate His example.
“It would seem that we are both ‘untouchables’ now,” he murmured.
“They were so mean,” Dagny mumbled into the curve of his neck. “It’s not fair.”