In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “So be it.” I pulled Olga closer to my body and placed my free hand on the side of her head. “But my children are not for sale.”

  “Not now, perhaps, but think ahead. In a few years’ time you will loathe them all—”

  “I am not like you, Little Brynhild.”

  “You are exactly like me, Big Brynhild.” She rose from the chair and stood before me with her hands resting on her voluminous hips. “We share the same cross, you and I!”

  14.

  Bella

  Ihad not expected Nellie to give up her daughter, though I surely would have appreciated it if she did. The girl was uncommonly handsome with a soft, round face, and I would not have minded at all to call myself her mama. I knew Mads had wanted her too, and spoke of it often. To him it was all so easy: well-off relatives took on less fortunate children in the family all the time to raise them and give them better opportunities. He figured that Nellie and John would count themselves lucky if we offered to raise Olga as our own. He knew nothing of the toil my sister had gone through to have those mewling infants at her breast, how sometimes reason gave way to baser emotions and stronger ties. It was unfortunate, though, as I surely would have liked to have her. That void inside me was like a rotting tooth; I simply could not help but prod it with my tongue, even if it hurt.

  My request stopped Nellie from asking more about Mads, though, so in that respect it served its purpose. She no longer cared about his bruises and complaints once I had suggested taking Olga away from her. My husband had chosen a poor ally who could so easily be diverted. I was furious that he had enlisted her as his confidant to begin with; I had been hoping that his pride would keep him from such foolishness. I added a little laxative to his fish that night, and spent the next hours listening from my spot by the kitchen table as he rushed between the outhouse and the bed. There would be words as well—I could not have him running to my sister for every little thing, but just that night, his pain was all that I wanted.

  None of it truly mattered, though—it was inconvenient at best. This world was brimming with the poor and unwanted and I had just thought of another way to get what I most desired.

  That summer, they held a children’s picnic in the park, where the little ones from the Norwegian orphanage were to have a bit something of what they so rarely tasted: cake and lemonade, sunshine and laughter. The park was brand-new with a road running through it; there was a stream adorned with bridges, and a boathouse with rowboats to rent. At its center stood a horse drinking fountain, providing some comfort to the creatures in the heat.

  By the picnic area where the children gathered, they had raised a wooden platform below the ash trees, and generous souls were urged to step onto it to offer a lucky child or two a place in their home. Both the children and their caretakers knew it was a gamble; sometimes such offers turned out to be nothing but a workplace—the generous souls were merely seeking an inexpensive worker—but for those who were lucky, it could mean a good life, and perhaps even a family to call their own.

  I was jittery with excitement when the day arrived and I was to step onto that platform and ask if there was a child who wanted to come home with me. I had put on my finest hat, with cherries and leaves of wax crowding at the pull, and a black velvet coat that was much too warm. I could not discard it, though, as I was already slick with perspiration, and my dress soaked through. It would not do to stand there in front of a lawn filled with children and their caretakers with dark stains marring the green cotton of my dress. I wore jewelry too—maybe too much. I wanted to appear as a mother, not a whore, and busied myself with unclasping my necklace and pulling the cheap rings off my fingers while I waited.

  I was not alone by the platform; there were other women there as well. They all wore their Sunday best and little cross pendants, putting on a performance just as I was, and succeeding better at it too, to my chagrin. They were all Scandinavians, just like me, like the little ones would be as well. Some children were not orphans at all but came with their struggling mothers who wanted nothing more than to see their children in the care of someone who could properly feed and clothe them. Mads was not there in the crowd, but he knew what I was up to. I had told him of my plans the week before.

  “We should consider fostering a Norwegian orphan, maybe two,” I said as he had his sausages one evening. I had placed the newspaper before him on the table and pointed to an advertisement for the children’s picnic. “Maybe it does not have to be my sister’s child. Maybe any little angel will do.” He had been a little stumped by Nellie’s refusal—which served me well. Perhaps he would not go to her the next time he ached.

  “It would be nice with a child in the house.” He seemed somewhat uncertain, taken by surprise, perhaps, wanting to have his dinner in peace.

  “Wouldn’t it just?” I heaped his plate with more food. “I truly think it would be good for me to have a child around. A woman can go a little mad with no one to care for but herself and her husband. I would be better, then, I think . . . I would be happier for sure.”

  “It would be good to see you happy again, like you used to be before.”

  “You know how fragile women can be. We are meant to care for children.” I looked away to hide the smirk that suddenly curved my lips.

  “You are right.” He let out a deep breath. “That’s what’s been bothering you all along—I said so to your sister. Of course you need a child to care for.”

  “Ours would be the happiest house.” I rambled on and poured him a drink. “I would make all kinds of good stuff, meats and puddings. Our orphans would be the best-behaved, most well-fed children in church.”

  I only had to get one first.

  It was quite the spectacle on the lawn before the platform, with all the children gathered around picnic blankets and wicker baskets filled with donated treats. The orphans all wore simple garb: light-colored shirts and dark pants for the boys and starched pinafores for the girls. Glass bottles of pale lemonade shone in the sunlight, and the children’s hands were filled with bread and ham. Some of the girls braided flowers into ropes, while the boys played with sticks and leather balls; their chatter rose like a song in the air. Among them sat the women who worked at the orphanages, demurely clad in navy blue. Their eyes were on the platform, silently judging us brave souls who dared tread upon the pine boards. The air smelled of fresh greenery and baked treats, with just a hint of lemon.

  A woman with a drab gray dress was speaking right before me. She described how it was her pleasure as a Christian to open her door to an unfortunate soul, and I made a note to mention God as well. They would like that, the matrons at the orphanages. A little piety went a long way with such people. I was annoyed with myself for not wearing my cross; I should have thought to dust off my old church attire.

  Finally, it was my turn, and I stepped upon the platform just as the gray-clad woman stepped down. I could not help but smile at the sight before me, all the little ones milling about. “My name is Mrs. Sorensen,” I said as loud as I could, and pressed my hands to my chest. “I am sad to say that I have no children of my own.” I dropped my gaze and added a quiver to my bottom lip while the audience let my tragedy sink in. Then I took a deep breath and straightened my back before continuing. “What I do have is a kind husband and a large house with many empty rooms, and a kitchen brimming with all sorts of nice food.” I cocked my head and added a smile. “I do not want a child only to be kind.” I raised my hands a little. “I want one because I believe it is in a woman’s nature to care for our little ones.” I made another little pause. “I keep a Christian home. My husband and I are both Norwegians and would very much like to raise a Norwegian orphan as our own. We both read and write in Norwegian and English and would make sure that the child is educated as well as clean and healthy.” I paused again and looked around on the lawn. “Is there any child in need who would like to come home with me?” I did not expect anyone to speak
up right away. The offers would come later, after I had departed the platform. The woman who spoke before me was already surrounded by matrons and mothers with toddlers in tow. I felt I had done well, though, as I departed and left the platform to another. My voice had been loud and clear enough to cut through the children’s chatter.

  I had prepared a basket of sweets, caramels and suchlike, to be distributed among the children in the hopes that it would charm one of their little hearts so much that they would beg their caretaker’s permission to go and stay with me. The basket was waiting by the platform’s edge, but I had not even reached it before a tall, thin woman guiding a scrawny boy by the hand approached me. I could not understand what she was saying, though. She was speaking Polish or some other such language; her eyes were fierce with desperation. Then there was a woman about my age, carrying a girl. She spoke Norwegian just fine.

  “Oh, please take her,” she begged me. “We cannot go on like this.”

  Behind her back, I could see a woman dressed in the orphanage’s attire stride toward me with two boys following behind her.

  And then there was a man appearing by my side. He did not have any toddlers with him but smiled at me as if he were amused. Something about him snagged my attention, though I could not at once tell what it was. Perhaps it was his eyes: glittering and dark.

  “Mrs. Sorensen,” he said. “I have the right child for you.”

  “Really?” I asked over the Norwegian mother’s head. “I cannot see a child there with you.”

  “Ah, no. I thought she was better off away from this ruckus. But she is a lovely child—of Norwegian stock, and in dire need of care.”

  I gave him another look. His brown cap was simple, his shirt gray with age, but his speech gave him away. This was no ordinary worker at the docks. I had no time for distractions, though; I was to make an important choice, yet despite myself, I was intrigued.

  “Just a moment of your time,” he begged. “Please, Mrs. Sorensen. I will make it worth your while.”

  I smiled and apologized, and smiled again at the mothers and matrons, knowing full well that they would soon be watching the next woman who climbed onto the platform and forget all about me. Then I pushed my way through the throng, following the strange man’s shirt-clad back, my basket of treats all forgotten.

  “So tell me about the child,” I said when he finally stopped under an ash tree. “I do hope she is something spectacular, since I just left behind several little angels in need of my help.” I felt suddenly ashamed about how it had happened, how I had forgone all propriety to follow this man for no good reason at all. The shame, in turn, became anger. “I have prepared for this day,” I told him. “If I return home empty-handed, depriving a poor unfortunate of a better destiny, the blame will be all on you!”

  The man did not seem to feel my anger but chuckled a little at my words. “I do have a child, Mrs. Sorensen, and I believe she is meant to be yours.” He paused and leaned against the tree, still with that aggravating smile on his lips. “She is not mine but left in my care. Her mother is indisposed for a while.”

  “Is she now?” It was my turn to be amused. “Why would that be?”

  “Oh, poor choices were made, but who can blame her? I could spin you some story, Mrs. Sorensen, say that she was recovering from some injury, but that would be an insult to your wit, wouldn’t it? This new world promises so much but often gives but a little, and one must eat. Surely we agree on that, Mrs. Sorensen?” The curve of his lips deepened as he plucked a leaf from a hanging branch and set to shred it.

  “She is in prison?” I could not believe what he was saying. “And you want me to take her child?” I was about to laugh from the absurdity of it, but my fury won out, and I remained standing before him with my hands on my hips and my chin lifted high. We were about the same height, he and I, but I figured I could still make him feel small. “You are wasting my time, Mr.—?”

  “Lee, James Lee.” He whipped his cap from his head and gave me a halfhearted bow.

  “Mr. Lee, you’re wasting my time.” And yet I did not go but remained standing there like a fool, wishing to feel that sizzling gaze upon me for just a little while longer.

  “She is a sweet toddler, Mrs. Sorensen, only just a year, and as I said, it will be worth your while.” He took a slow step back, as if about to go, yet waiting to see if I would call him back.

  “How is that?” I could not help but ask. I could not afford not to ask. The image of my pantry flashed through my head, and so did the thought of Mads’s dwindling accounts.

  “Well, there is a mother, indisposed, but a father also, who is not joined in wedlock to said mother. He would rather not see the child starve, even if he can’t bring her into his own home. He is prepared to pay you for your trouble.”

  My heart started racing in my chest. Here was an offer of money landing before me as if it were nothing. Money just for doing what I had set out to do in the first place, namely nurturing a child. “How long will the mother be gone for?”

  “Two years at least, maybe three. Perhaps she will not come back for her daughter.” He shrugged as if to say that there was some hope that could happen. “If we agree on terms, I will come by every month with cash. It can be a sweet deal for you—for everyone involved.”

  “What did she do, the mother?” I held my breath while waiting for the answer. I barely heard the clamor from the picnic or felt the heat anymore. All my attention was on him. To see him every month—no, I could not afford to entertain foolish notions. Yet his glittering eyes kept distracting me; the sight of his hands, long-fingered and lean, drew my gaze over and over.

  “It’s better if you do not know.” The amusement was back on his face. “I know they say wickedness travels in the blood, but the girl is much too young to show any such inclinations.”

  “I was not worried.” Why would I be? “Just tell me, why me? Out of all the women speaking here tonight, why did you come to me?” I had worked so hard not to stand out, so why did he pick me for this unsavory mission?

  “Mrs. Sorensen,” he started, the amusement all but gone from his expression. He buried his hands in his pockets and his body was so relaxed that anyone passing by might have thought we were discussing the weather. He was clever, I figured, clever and bright. “It takes one to know one, as you well know, and I could not help but notice that you appreciate the finer things in life: pretty dresses and suchlike. Your words, though, the way you speak—you were not always well off, and people such as yourself who have just come to money often crave more. I dare suggest that you are not yet quite where you want to be in terms of wealth.”

  I could not help but laugh at that, my anger from before all forgotten. It was as if he saw straight through me and I found it both baffling and amusing—though had he been a less charming sort of man, the same insight would have left me speechless with fury.

  He cocked his head, looking slightly surprised, “You have a beautiful smile, Mrs. Sorensen, if you do not mind me saying so.”

  I promptly fell quiet. It would not do to seem weak. “Did you ask anyone else to take the girl?” I motioned to the picnic. It somehow would not be the same if he had been hustling all day but not found someone willing to take the child.

  “No.” Another one of those amused, secretive smiles, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Only you, Mrs. Sorensen. I take care not to waste my time.”

  Satisfied on that account, I thought it through for a moment. “Bring the girl to me so I can see her,” I finally said. “Then we can discuss terms, Mr. Lee.”

  “I knew you would see sense.” He reached out a hand to seal the agreement, and I found myself hesitating before touching it, as if the hand itself were dangerous. When I finally did take it, I found it firm and warm, barely callused—this was no working man in any common sense, just as I had suspected.

  I gave him my address before we parte
d ways.

  As I moved back toward the picnic, I dared not look behind me to see if he was still watching me. My coat finally came off, as the day seemed to have grown even hotter around me.

  For the rest of the day, whenever my mind happened to drift, I could still see his dark, daring eyes.

  What happened next was inevitable.

  15.

  You are an extraordinary woman, Mrs. Sorensen.” James Lee sat by my kitchen table drinking my brandy. Having him there made the whole room seem new, infused with a sweet tension that was not there before. We were alone in the house except for the child. Mads was working all night.

  I had been fretting about it all day. Would he come or would he not? Would he truly bring a child to me and settle my dissatisfaction, even if only for a while?

  I had told Mads of what was to happen but also told him not to expect too much. “You never know with such people,” I said. “Perhaps they will change their minds and not show.”

  I had not told him that Anne’s mother was in prison; I said she had been ill. I did mention the money, however, as an explanation for my choice. Children from the orphanage did not come with cash. He huffed at that, of course, found it immoral that what he deemed greed had steered me in matters of compassion, but he knew as well as I did that we needed the income dearly, and he would surely enjoy the cheese and roast as well as me.

  “You barely know me.” I sat down opposite James Lee and poured myself a glass, fighting to keep a steady hand.

  “No, but I do know the extraordinary when I see it.” He smirked at me, and again I felt that blush staining my cheeks.

  “What about you? Are you an extraordinary man, Mr. Lee?” Having him there under my roof made me feel uncomfortable and exhilarated all at once. I did not understand myself. I had to search to find the right words, though I never lacked wit before. The house around me did not seem dirty and empty, or filled with the echoes of things not to be, but young and invigorated by his presence.