In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  I did not have to worry for long, though. Bella was hard-faced and curt on her return. “He was not there,” she informed us as she pulled off her gloves. The massive hat sat crooked on her head; she must have been driving hard. “He will not be back for another few weeks. They said he had gone off to work.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Sigrid looked up from her knitting. “He will appreciate that you called, though.”

  “For sure.” Bella did not linger but went back outside to dry off the horse.

  “She seemed a little disappointed,” Sigrid remarked in a quiet voice, a half smile on her lips.

  “She’ll get over it,” I replied in a voice thick with emotion. My insides flooded with relief.

  Bella would not let the issue of marriage lie, however, and was at it again that same night when we gathered in Sigrid’s sitting room. It was just us women then; Stefan had gone early to bed, and so had the girls, though we could still hear the three oldest in Louisa’s room: eager chatter and stifled laughter. They would likely not sleep for some time yet.

  We were knitting and sipping small glasses of brandy when Bella broached the subject again.

  “You should let it be known that I’m looking for a husband,” she said to Sigrid. Bella was still working on those socks—meant for a new spouse, no doubt. “You could just mention it if you meet someone you think is right, and have them write to me in Chicago. Tell them I’m looking to buy a farm.” Her initial disappointment at not finding Mr. Gunness at home seemed to have dispersed. Now there was a tiny smile lingering on her lips, as if she were sucking on something sweet.

  “Oh, you will be flooded in suitors in no time at all. So many would rather have the means to buy the land with houses and all, rather than build it themselves—and who can blame them.”

  “It has to be a Norwegian, though; I get tired if I have to speak English for very long, but that won’t be a problem in these parts, I think.”

  “No, we have plenty of Norwegians here.” Sigrid seemed excited by the prospect of acting the matchmaker; her face shone and her knitting sped up. “I can think of a few names already.”

  “Wonderful! I’m so pleased that you will help me.” Bella briefly put a hand on Sigrid’s knee. “I’m sure we will find the right one—and don’t be shy about it either. I don’t mind if people know that I’m looking. There’s no shame in that. You can mention that I have money too. They’ll like that.”

  “It’s only been a few months—” I tried to say, but Bella cut me off.

  “I need a man if I am to develop a farm. I cannot wait to look just for propriety’s sake.” She frowned at me. “I just cannot wait to leave Chicago,” she added with a sigh. “Everything there reminds me of Mads.” And then she started crying, lifting her hands to her eyes to hide her tears.

  Sigrid was there at once with a handkerchief and comfort, hooking an arm around her shoulders and cooing into her ear.

  I poured us all more brandy and waited for it pass.

  Not before we were on the train back to Chicago and the older girls were out exploring did I ask Bella about her marriage plans.

  “I thought it was Mr. Gunness you had your sights on.” I was embroidering on the return, having finished several pairs of socks while with Sigrid. Flowers and leaves appeared on the cloth as I quickly moved the needle. “I admit that when I heard he lived nearby, I thought he was the reason we had come.”

  “It is—it was.” She looked up from her knitting. “I think he would make me a fine husband.” She shifted on the seat and gave a satisfied smile.

  “Then why the charade? Why act as if you are open to any suitor that comes along?”

  She shrugged in her seat. “I think he will be quicker in coming if he learns that I’m looking—and that someone may beat him to it.” She fished a hard piece of caramel out of the brown paper bag by her side and popped it in her mouth. Then she sighed before starting a new row. “Men are not very complicated. Threaten to take something away from them, and they’ll want it even more.” Her face twisted up with something like disdain.

  “Do you really think it will work?” I found her logic peculiar, but it sounded right as well. Maybe they really were that easy.

  “Of course I think it will work. I had been hoping to find him at home, of course, but this is almost better. This way, he comes to me.” An almost childlike smile followed the statement.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I could not help but ask. It bothered me that she had deceived me, even in such a small way.

  “Oh, I thought you would not go if you knew the truth, and I much wanted your company. You’re hardly ever at Alma Street anymore.” The smile was replaced with a frown and a flash of cold eyes in my direction.

  “I have a lot of pain,” I said, feeling the lie burn on my tongue.

  “So it would seem,” she remarked but let the matter go.

  * * *

  —

  I looked in on her a few weeks later, spurred on by guilt, perhaps, that I was so rarely there. I had brought waffles wrapped in cloth and hoped for a nice visit.

  She was busy with letters when I arrived. Dozens of them littered the kitchen table.

  “What is this?” I asked. “Surely these are not all suitors from Janesville?”

  “No—no.” She looked up with a wild expression in her eyes. “These are answers to my advertisement!”

  “What advertisement?” I sat down before her.

  “Oh, I’m offering a trade: this house for a farm, and I must say there are a lot of people who want to own property in Chicago.” She rose to go to the stove for coffee. “Only today I had ten answers.”

  I picked up one of the letters and skimmed, but it was written in English and so I had to put it back down.

  “You’re really doing this, then?” I asked as she returned with coffee for us both. Her fingers, I noted, were black with ink.

  “I am.” She looked nothing but smug.

  “And Peter Gunness? Did you hear from him?”

  “I did.” She grinned as she sat back down. “I have his letter right here.” She tapped her fingers against a cream-colored envelope. “He comes to see me next week—I told you he would come running.” She rolled her eyes but still smiled.

  “That you did.” I felt a little hopeful too. She seemed so happy then, planning her new life.

  Perhaps she was right, I thought. Perhaps this was what she needed. Perhaps Peter Gunness was the right man for her, and a change of residence was good for her mind.

  Perhaps things would be good from now on.

  I wanted to believe that—so I did.

  27.

  Bella

  James and I set out to look at Brookside, a promising property in LaPorte County, Indiana. I brought him along as an advisor, though he knew little of farming. Maybe I just craved the company.

  “I have done a little digging,” he told me in the buggy. “He probably didn’t tell you, Mr. Williams, when he came looking at the house on Alma Street, that his house in La Porte used to belong to Mattie Altic.”

  “Who?” I was holding the reins just then; James was peeling an apple with his knife.

  “A whore of some renown. She used to run the place as a first-class bordello.” He seemed to take some pleasure in telling me this; his voice was smug and his eyes were daring.

  “Is that so?” I accepted the piece of apple he pushed between my lips. It was very sweet, just the way I liked it.

  “It used to be a lively house back in the day, with music, drinking, and whoring. The whole of McClung Road used to be a rowdy place; last stop before the prairie and all.” Another piece of fruit pushed against my lips.

  “And now?” I chewed and spat out a black seed.

  “Decent farmers.” He sucked on his own piece of apple. “Just the way you like it . . . I must warn you
, though, the house has a reputation for suicides.” He said it as if amused.

  “Not for whoring?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “That too, but untimely death seems to cling to the place. A couple of brothers who lived there died so suddenly that the coroner was called in to investigate, and the farmer who bought it next hanged himself in the barn. Some even say Mattie herself took her own life.” He stretched out his legs and sighed with contentment; he always liked a sordid tale.

  “Well, I’m not afraid of either suicide or harlots. I just want a place to raise my pigs.” I looked back at him and added a smile. He had donned his thick coat that day, and so had I, as the weather was chilly.

  His eyes blinked at me, lazy like a cat. “The place has certainly seen its share of pigs, and that’s something if you mean to follow through with this plan—”

  “Marrying Peter Gunness?” I could not keep the amusement out of my voice. It baffled me how much James was against it.

  “Just that . . . Do you really think it’s wise?” He nudged my calf with his foot.

  “What else am I to do? Fend for myself as a widow?” I rolled my eyes in jest. We both knew that I would manage just fine.

  “A new marriage would limit your possibilities.” He straightened up beside me; his hand came to rest on my thigh.

  I glanced at him. His dark hair had gained streaks of silver over the years; he was growing older, my friend, but it did not make him any less handsome. “What possibilities?” My gaze went back to the road.

  “If you should ever dare another enterprise.” His voice was honey sweet.

  “I told you I wouldn’t.” I batted at his hand, which had crawled farther up my thigh.

  “Things may change; perhaps you’ll need my services again.” He gave my thigh a squeeze, and I wondered which of his services he referred to.

  “I better make sure not to need your services then.” I lifted my chin a little.

  “Oh, but I think you will. Our kind don’t change so easily, and it’s hard to go back to that ‘wholesome life’ after doing what you did in Chicago.” He let go of my thigh, but the warmth lingered.

  “Still, I’m leaving it all behind.” I nodded once to emphasize my words.

  “To be a pig farmer?” The disbelief in his voice was priceless.

  “Just that.” I snapped the reins.

  “And married to a butcher.” He suddenly laughed; the sound was dark and velvet soft. “I can see the charm in that.”

  “You just don’t like that I’m leaving Chicago.” Another look at him and I could tell that he was looking at me too, with something almost like sadness. I could certainly sympathize. Of all the things I had to give up by leaving the city, the closeness to him was the only thing I would truly grieve. I took great pleasure in my friendship with Mr. Lee. “When I was a girl, I used to daydream of owning a farm,” I told him. “Where I grew up, it was as good as a castle, and everyone listened to those who had one. I suppose I wanted people to treat me better . . . I decided that I would have countless cows and more maids than I needed, just because I could, but then, having worked on such farms myself, I was sick of it all for a good long while. It’s different now, though; people repulse me after that whole ordeal with Mads, and it seems a good time to revive that old dream—to give myself what I wanted so much back then.” I snapped the reins again.

  “Dreams change for a reason,” he noted.

  “Maybe those reasons are poor.” I fumbled for the bottle of brandy by my feet.

  “I don’t like letting you out of my sight.” He helped me uncork the bottle. “You are bold but too careless on your own. I would rather be there to assist you, and make sure that your dealings go smoothly. It was a close call with Mads, and then the Alma Street fire.”

  “I’m quite capable, James,” I muttered as I retrieved the bottle.

  “Of course you are.” His hand came back to rest on my thigh. “But if there’s ever something I can do, never hesitate to ask.”

  * * *

  —

  The property was large, as expected. The orchard bristled with gnarled trees and bushes, while tall cedars would give plenty of shade around the house in summer. There was a sizable barn and a windmill, a small pond, a water pump, and several sheds for equipment and tools. The buildings needed work and the fields needed tending, but none of that came as a surprise. Mr. Williams’s in-laws had lived there; they were elderly and could not care properly for the place.

  The main house was square and made of red brick, with a wooden addition in the back. The building sported twelve rooms in all—Mrs. Altic’s business would have had room to thrive. The double front doors led from the porch directly into a parlor with marble details; behind it was a beautiful dining room. Both rooms had exquisite, expensive flooring, though like everything on the property, it was run-down and old. Back in Mattie Altic’s days, the house would have been made up to be as lovely and inviting as the girls themselves, but now it was only the expensive materials that spoke of a time when the liquor flowed and passions ran high within its walls. I wondered how it was that the former inhabitants chose to end their lives when living in a place so pleasing to the eye. How could one even be touched by sorrow and strife when living with such beauty? I felt giddy as a girl while flitting through the rooms, caressing the smooth paneling with my rough and callused hands. These walls would not tarnish, I felt sure of it. No invisible filth would ever coat the voluptuous roses that sprawled on the dining room walls, or diminish the iridescent green in the parlor that would work so well with my furniture.

  The kitchen was located in the addition at the back of the house, below a room for hired help. It was large with a working table covered in oilcloth and dozens of cupboards lining the walls, along with a sizable flour bin. The cookstove was old, but that could be changed. The pantry was cool and perfect for meat. Behind the kitchen was a small hallway that led out back and housed the door to the cellar, where a large, heavy wringer was already in place. The cellar had a dirt floor and dozens of shelves that would be perfect for storage.

  Two of the six bedrooms were located on the first floor, off the parlor and the dining room; the four remaining were upstairs. The rooms were not very large but fit for a bed and a washstand. As I inspected the rooms I could see it so clearly, how the walls would look with a coat of fresh paint or covered in lovely wallpapers. Beautiful rooms for my beautiful girls. I just could not wait to begin.

  Mr. Williams was eager to sell me the farm. He pointed, gestured, and gave me numbers. It was all rather pointless, as I had already decided that I wanted it. Brookside was clearly worth more than my Chicago property, and Mr. Williams and I discussed it for some time before deciding on an acceptable deal.

  “Is it a good place to raise pigs?” I asked Mr. Williams as we stood outside in the yard, where a few scrawny chickens flitted about under a large maple tree. There was a scent of hope in the air. Hope, manure, and fat, black soil. James was wrong, I decided. I would never need his help while living on this land.

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Williamson said. “There’s already a hog pen.”

  “What about Mattie Altic? Did she keep pigs as well?” I could not help but tease him for the things he had failed to disclose.

  The man reddened behind his beard. “I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Sorensen. That was a very long time ago.”

  “No,” I mused. “She probably didn’t. She probably only kept girls.”

  I could hear James’s laughter behind me; he was standing a little away from us, inspecting some bushes.

  This was the place, I could feel it my bones—this was the place to flourish and thrive.

  28.

  Belle

  LaPorte, 1901–1902

  Ihad wanted to marry Peter Gunness ever since that first time I saw him at the fair. He seemed to me a decent man without any of Mads’s limitations. A
man like that, I thought, I could care for without hesitation.

  Through the letters he wrote to me, I felt I knew him well. I saw a kind but firm man holding the pen. A man who could hold a child or butcher a hog with the same ease. Those months he stayed with us had done nothing to change my view. I felt I deserved a man like that for enduring Mads for so long. Peter was no young man either, past fifty when his wife finally died, but he was tall and straight as a rod; no gout or other ailment had diminished his physique. His blond hair had turned a pale silver since we met, but I did not mind those few changes; I had gone through a few myself. To me he was still that same man who had defended me at the beer garden.

  I held no illusions of love. I knew Peter had been close to his wife and mourned her passing, but I thought such things would come in time. He liked me, that was plain enough to see, and we always had such good conversations. He was as eager as I was to start a new life after his loss. Though it had irked me before, how steadfast he had been in his loyalty to his wife, I could much appreciate such a character trait if it was me he was true to.

  Our wedding was a small ceremony; all our daughters but his younger one were there. We celebrated our union with baked sweet potatoes and beer, ice cream and soft cakes for the children. I felt happy then. I did. My luck had finally changed and I was on my way to contentment—though I still carried James’s pewter button around my neck.

  The girls and I had moved to La Porte in the fall of 1900, while Peter and his two daughters joined us in March the following year. Shortly after the wedding, he set to repairing the buildings and preparing the barn for scores of hogs. I put up my chickens and did my best to make the house our own. I purchased new beds of walnut and brass and adorned every one of them with quilts. In every bedroom there was a marble-topped stand with a washbasin and a brand-new kerosene lamp. I wanted us all to be comfortable. I had my dark wooden furniture upholstered in green to go with the walls in the dining room, and I installed a new range in the kitchen. I did everything I could to make Peter feel welcome, even if the farm was mine. I brewed good, strong coffee and pampered him with treats while discussing barley and corn. I served him mutton and beef, waffles and puddings, and filled his glass with whiskey or beer, while planning curing, smoking, and salting. It was a relief to have a husband who did not mind if I had a drink from time to time. Living with Mads had been frugal and sparse, while Peter enjoyed the good things in life. He never took me for a fool, my new husband, or dismissed my advice. Though he would be the master of the farm, handling all the decisions outdoors, he still let me have my say, and agreed to keep some goats when I asked him. He valued me and I thrived for it. Never mind that his elder daughter was sullen and his younger one was not well; I still treated them as my own and saw to it that they were clean and neat and always had food in their bellies.