In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “I wasn’t always.” I took his hand and guided it away.

  “No.” He smiled. “But you have a talent, and it’s important to hone one’s talents.”

  “If I only get the girl—” I clenched my jaw.

  “You will.” He sounded reassuringly calm beside me.

  “No one can come after me then. Not if she is spoiled and content.” My hand curled into a fist upon the crocheted bedspread.

  He laughed and rolled on top of me, burrowed in between my legs. “I think you should lay off the ‘accidents’ for a while.” He closed his hands around my wrists when he pushed himself inside me. “I will always help you, you know that; but another dead man on your kitchen floor just might be too hard to explain.”

  * * *

  —

  James and I left Joe and Jennie to tend the farm and took rooms in Minneapolis while searching for Swanhild. We drove out to Gust Gunness’s place every day, parked the buggy nearby, and watched Gust’s daughters and sons playing on the porch. Swanhild was not with them, though. Only once did I think I glimpsed her: a pale face between the parted curtains in one of the windows upstairs.

  “They are watching her every second,” James muttered. He was sitting beside me, toying with the whip. “What kind of life is that for a little girl, being locked up like that?”

  “They’re expecting me.” I spoke without taking my eyes off the house.

  “You took her once before,” he reminded me in a light voice.

  “All within my right,” I sneered.

  “Is the money really that important to you, or is it a matter of principle?” He sounded curious beside me.

  “They crossed me.” I finally tore my gaze away, found the basket by our feet, and handed James a piece of ham. “I think they may have seen us here before. The children. The eldest girl keeps looking around, as if she expects someone.”

  “Maybe they’ve been told to be on guard,” he mused.

  “At least the weather is nice. It would be dreadful sitting out here in the rain.” I smiled a little, as it was a ridiculous thought.

  “They cannot keep her locked up forever,” he assured me.

  “Let’s patrol the roads again. Maybe they have taken her out the back door. They have to air her sometimes.” I rolled my eyes and took the whip from his grasp.

  “Sooner or later, we’ll find her,” he said, but as it turned out, we did not. They treated that girl as if she were a princess, valuable beyond measure.

  One day when we arrived, we could tell that something was different. The windows upstairs were wide open. The door to the porch stood open too, and the children ran in and out, chasing puppies.

  “She’s gone,” said James. “They have moved her during the night.”

  I rested my elbows on my knees and hid my face in my hands. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, yes, the house is wide open now. Anyone can get in.”

  “What do we do, then?” I looked up. James’s face had turned cold and smooth as stone as he looked upon the house. He did not much like it when a hunt was cut short.

  “We make a new plan.” The stony expression was wiped from his features.

  “Better do, and quickly. I have a farm to run. I don’t have time to sit around here.” I grabbed the reins and set us in motion. “So much trouble for one little girl,” I huffed, and then, when we had been going for a while: “I need another child—a boy. About three months from now. Can you do that?”

  James laughed beside me. It was a dry, throaty sound. “The new Gunness heir, is it?”

  “That, my dear friend, it is.” I smiled.

  “I cannot guarantee Norwegian stock.”

  “To hell with that, as long as it’s white.” I felt hope again—hope—blooming in my chest.

  “You’ll be having a son, then?” His hand was on my back, warm and strong.

  “Yes.” I smacked the whip. “It’s such a comfort to me in my time of grief that my husband left behind a living seed.”

  “And Swanhild?” His voice was terse.

  “To hell with her too—I don’t need her . . . Peter Gunness’s son is so much better.”

  * * *

  —

  My condition soon became clear for everyone to see, and I was happy I had not thrown away the cushions. About three months later, one late night in May, James came back to La Porte with the child, a healthy baby boy about a month old. There was a woman in the carriage too—the boy’s mother, I presumed—there to keep him quiet and fed on the journey.

  I took the child and gave James the money. “Tell her he will be well taken care of.”

  “I don’t think she cares much. She’s taken with drink, that one.” He motioned to the carriage with his head.

  “Nevertheless, I’m grateful to her.” And I truly was.

  “Give her a bottle of whiskey, then, and she will never regret the trade.” His lips tilted up in a wicked smile, dripping with disdain.

  I thought that all would be settled when I had Peter Gunness’s son—surely the money would fall to me then—but Gust was a fierce advocate for his wan little niece. Our dispute ended up in court, where my lawyer fought well enough on my behalf, and in the end, I got most of the money for my little boy. I would rather have had it all, but most was certainly better than nothing, and the lawyer said there was little left to be done, and so I had to let the rest of the money—and Swanhild—go. The latter certainly bothered me the least.

  It did not sit well with me, though. Did not sit well with me at all. I could not help but curse Gust Gunness as I sat up at night, drinking brandy next to the spot where his brother had died. He had cost me much chagrin and misery, that man, and I swore that if I ever crossed paths with him again, I would make sure to pay him back with interest.

  What was it with brothers that they always came meddling and stuck their noses where they did not belong? Why was it that they always distrusted me so? I was sick of such men and their need to interfere. It made me think marriage was not worth it at all, if I always ended up with some brother on my doorstep, making problems and voicing concerns.

  Perhaps I was better off on my own.

  People in La Porte were touched by my plight, though, and the church was crowded when my son was christened. This little boy would have a good life, I thought, looking down on his small face under the lace cap.

  This one would have a good life, if only for helping me fight back against that horrid man Gust Gunness.

  34.

  Nellie

  Chicago, 1903

  Ihad not been well since Peter Gunness’s funeral. My sleep was uneasy and nothing seemed to bring me much joy. Not even after we finally could afford a house of our own did my mood brighten much, although it was what I had wished for always. Though my sister was far away, she seemed to be always on my mind—the children, too. Myrtle in particular. I wondered how she was after all that had transpired, if she had managed to forget whatever it was that she knew, or if she found the burden of knowledge unbearable.

  Her dark gaze, wide with innocence, seemed to watch me whenever I closed my eyes.

  For the first few weeks, after the story of the meat grinder had found its way to ink and paper, I waited for something to happen. I was always expecting a knock on the door, or a blazing headline with my sister’s name in it. I waited for something to come tumbling down, and as we readied for the move, I was thinking of how to best arrange it if Bella’s girls should suddenly end up in my care. I thought of where they would sleep and where to keep their clothes. I walked past the school they would go to, to make sure that the yard looked nice.

  John noticed my dark mood with growing concern. He did what he could to keep my mind occupied, speaking of wallpapers and upholstery—we would have a bigger sitting room now and were in need of more furniture—but I could not
make myself come out of it.

  He thought that it was the newspaper stories alone that bothered me, and he surely shared my concern about that. I suspected that he and Rudolph edited the articles when they translated them for me, but they could not shield me from people’s talking.

  “I think we should not go to La Porte again until they know what happened,” John said one night after we had gone to bed; the candle was still burning on the bedside table. “There are too many strange occurrences happening around your sister.”

  “Do you think Bella had anything to do with Peter’s death?” I asked with my heart in my throat.

  “Of course not,” he murmured, though I could tell that he did not mean it. He only said so because I had always defended her before, and he wanted to avoid an argument. He had no reason to think things had changed. “I just think about Mads, and that date . . .”

  “You thought Mads could have done it to himself.” I remembered our talk from that time.

  “I still think so—but this meat grinder business is equally odd.” He was on his back and had flung an arm over his eyes, so I could not see them. I thought that it maybe was on purpose.

  My heart was racing, racing. “So what exactly are you saying, then?” I wanted him to voice it, the suspicion we shared.

  “Nothing.” He sounded very tired. “We do not know anything of what happened in that house, and we have to put our trust in the sheriff.” He sighed and removed his arm; I could tell that his eyes looked tired, too. “I’m just glad that she lives in La Porte now.”

  I did not tell him about Myrtle then, although I knew I should.

  If it all came tumbling down, then I would tell him.

  If it all came tumbling down, I had to.

  But the headline never came—no law enforcer ever came knocking to ask about my sister, and I was starting to think that perhaps Gust Gunness had been a little rash. Perhaps they held an inquest after all such farm accidents that ended in death. I knew little of the law and could not tell.

  The worst thought of all to fly through my mind was the idea that I was wrong. What if I suspected my sister of such foul things for no good reason? What sort of woman would it make me to think of my sister in such a way if it had all been heresy and misunderstandings? Perhaps what Myrtle had seen had not been so bad. She was young and innocent; perhaps she had merely seen her parents in the throes of passion? That could certainly look both frightening and confusing to a young soul.

  But then I thought that surely the newspapers would not have written about it if the death had not been peculiar, and then there was the memory of Mads’s death that came drifting along whenever I was about to put the matter aside and ascribe it all to bad luck on my sister’s part. Then again, I thought that surely the sheriff would have found it, if there was something be found, during the inquest.

  As I packed all my things and brought them out again to rest on new shelves, my mind seemed to never tire of these thoughts, and even after it became apparent that nothing would come of the inquest, I was still startled by the smallest noise and dreaded to see the mailman on our street, fearing for what he came carrying. More than anything else, I worried that Bella would announce another wedding. When an envelope eventually did appear, however, it was a smaller sort of man it introduced, and I did my very best to rejoice in this new life, this nephew of mine, but his father’s bloody death cast a shadow on it all that I simply could not be free of.

  Yes, I did my best to stay away from Brookside Farm—not because I did not want to go there, to help those little children out, but because I could not bear it. Everything in me was repulsed by the thought, afraid of what I would find if I went there again. Afraid it was something I could not look away from, or silence as I had Myrtle. The farm had become a dangerous place in my mind, littered with traps and unwelcome surprises. I ran from all knowledge the best that I could; I did not want to know.

  But only because I stayed away from Bella and her children, it did not mean that they did not come to me.

  * * *

  —

  “Isn’t that your niece?”

  Clara and I were in my new kitchen, unpacking my cookware from crates on the floor. None us were young anymore, and Clara had become almost as slow as I was, but we managed well enough, lifting out pots and pans and dusting them off before putting them away. We both wore old dresses, frayed at the hem, and grimy aprons. There was no use wearing anything else, as all the pots were stained with soot and the crates they were moved in were covered in dust. A little bit of black was smeared on Clara’s cheekbone.

  I looked up and out the window, following Clara’s gaze through my new front yard with its flowering bushes, and onto the street, where a slender girl with a long blond braid stood by the wooden gate and looked up at the house with a pensive expression.

  “Sure.” I was surprised by the power of the surge of love that suddenly erupted in my chest. I had not known that I missed her so much. “That’s Jennie.” I rose to my feet and rushed to the front door.

  “Jennie!” I called when I had it open. I waved though she was just a few steps away.

  “Aunt Nellie!” The girl was all sunshine when she unlatched the gate. “I did not know if it was the right house—they all look so similar, and I only knew that it was white.” She chattered merrily as she came up the flagstone path. At fifteen, she was a young woman, and her face had shed much of its former roundness, taking on the sharper angles of an adult. Her dress was white and blue and reached her midcalf; a little straw hat sat perched upon her head. Her socks were very white and her black shoes neatly polished, though a little dust from the street had lodged onto the leather.

  “Jennie.” I opened the door wide in welcome. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I’m staying with my papa for a while,” she said as she entered my new hall. “This is a very pretty house, Aunt Nellie.” She looked around as in awe, though the hall was cramped and housed little but the stairs to the second floor. I knew very well what she was used to. “I am so happy that you could move here.” She gave me a hug; her skin was smooth and chilled from the outside.

  “Thank you so much, Jennie. It is not so very big, but more than enough for us, with only Nora living here.” I swallowed hard as I said that last part, remembering how I had been wondering if I was about to take on all the girls from La Porte.

  “I only came to see if Nora was home, and to see the new house, of course,” Jennie said as she stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes were still wide, taking it all in. “Oh, hello, Clara,” I heard her say in front of me. “How are you on this fine day?”

  Another round of greeting ensued before Jennie finally settled on the bench, and I went to bring her a cup of milk.

  “Nora isn’t home, I’m afraid. She is working with Olga now, selling hosiery,” I said as I served her. I noted how her face fell when she heard that her cousin was not there, and was charmed by how much she cherished my unruly daughter. “She will not be home before late this afternoon, but you’re most welcome to stay for dinner if you like,” I offered, to cheer her up.

  Her lower lip came out in the tiniest of pouts. “I wish I could, Aunt Nellie, but Margret, my stepmother, would not approve of me being late.”

  “So your father has remarried?” I sat down in a chair opposite the girl.

  Jennie nodded and clutched the enamel cup of milk between her hands. “They think I should come and live with them now, since Papa Mads died, and Peter.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not the reason why.” Clara rose and went to the stove, for coffee, no doubt. “He probably thinks he can provide a better home for you now that there’s a woman in the household.”

  “Maybe,” Jennie answered politely, “but my sister said otherwise when she met me at the station. She said they had all been so worried, because of the writing in the newspapers and all.”

&n
bsp; “You should not listen to what people say,” I huffed, while a surge of dread took root in my belly. It was one thing that I thought what I did, and quite another to hear that others might be thinking the same thing. People who did not know us. “Your mama cannot be very happy about this.”

  “No.” Her gaze seemed to glaze over and she looked down into her milk. “She told Papa she would get a lawyer.”

  “Of course she did.” I could not help but smile a little. My sister could never resist a fight.

  “Will you be going to school here in Chicago, then, Jennie?” Clara carried cups of warm coffee to the table.

  “Oh, I already am, only not today.” Red spots bloomed on her cheeks—she was clearly supposed to be there and not with us, but I did not chastise her. I was much too happy to see her.

  “It sounds like you are settling in nicely, then.” Clara joined us at the table. She was as happy as I was, I reckoned, to have some respite from the crates.

  “Sure.” But the girl looked pained as she said it.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best,” I suggested, finding that I did not much mind that Jennie was away from the farm. Likely, my own poor memories of it colored my view a little. “With the new baby,” I added. “Mama must have her hands full.”

  “Yes, but he’s such a handsome little boy.” Her face lit up in a smile that made her blue eyes sparkle. “He is the sweetest thing you could ever imagine and he makes very little fuss.”

  It hurt my heart to see her longing. “Do you miss him very much?”

  She nodded again. “And Myrtle and Lucy, too.” Her expression suddenly darkened. “Papa says that he will not force me to stay, but I’m afraid he will be upset if I leave . . . but then Mama is already upset, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Where would you rather stay, then, Jennie?” Clara’s voice was soft.

  The girl on the bench shrugged. “Both places are nice.”