“Why don’t you all leave?” muttered Ursula the barmaid. “You’ve scared away my customers and caused enough trouble.”
It seemed more than a good idea. Gathering what dignity she could muster, Kristin squared her shoulders, marched past her tormentor, and walked outside. The carriage was there alongside the dock. She walked toward it. So did Giselda.
“Do you not have some explanation for me?” the other woman goaded.
Kristin decided that, however compromising her situation appeared, Giselda, as a servant, was in no position to cause real trouble. After all, Kristin was Rolfson’s wife, however little the fact pleased her.
“I do not have to explain anything to you.”
Giselda’s lovely lips twisted into a sneer of knowing malevolence.
“We shall see,” she retorted. “I know as well as you how to account for the household funds.”
Kristin started. True, she left most of the details of running the household to Giselda. Could it be that the wily servant had noticed the small weekly discrepancies, the money Kristin was sending to her family in Lesja? If so, the situation was more dangerous than Kristin had surmised. The only way to deal with it was to be as truthful as possible, and to act as a member of the class into which Rolfson had brought her.
“You are quite right, Giselda,” she said. “I am pleased by your perspicacity, as well as by your diligence. Yes, of course a portion of the household fund is being withheld. It is for a special gift”—this was true—“and it is none of your affair whatever. As to my travels about the city, I owe you no explanation. But since you have gone to such trouble to follow me, I shall tell you this. I am seeking information about the man who marked my husband so horribly upon his visage. If you had been thinking of telling tales”—and, saying this, she looked at both Giselda and old Fensterwald—“do you think you would very much elevate my husband’s estimate of you by passing on such information?”
Fensterwald was having some trouble following the conversation, but Giselda saw the point all too clearly, and began to form an apology.
“It is all right, Giselda. In a way, I am touched by your concern. And I am sure we do not need to discuss the inevitable consequence to a servant who involves herself in matters not within her jurisdiction.”
Giselda blanched. She did not wish to be dismissed. And it was with new respect, even a measure of fear, that the housekeeper accepted Kristin’s invitation to climb into the carriage and drive home warm within the lush sleek furs.
On the drive, watching the fine houses of the moneyed class come into view, Kristin suppressed a sigh. She had narrowly avoided a great deal of trouble. It was still possible, although unlikely, that Giselda would mention this trip down to the docks. Then Kristin brightened. At long last, she had at least one small sliver of information. The American ship Anandale. If Eric had sailed on her…
Her brain worked rapidly; currents and connections flickered and flashed. The Rolfsons were heavily involved in shipping, and somewhere in their offices must be a list of the vessels serving Oslo. If the itinerary of the Anandale could be traced, she might learn where Eric had gone. But how could she inspect such listings without making Gustav suspicious?
It was something to think about.
Upon returning to the mansion Kristin gave instructions for the evening meal—roast goose with a dressing of herbs and truffles, flounder basted in white wine, carrots baked in sweet molasses, baby onions stewed in gravy, and cheese toast—and then retired to her room. She ordered her bath drawn, undressed, bathed long and splendidly in hot, fragrant water, then consciously selected an evening gown sure to have its effect upon Gustav. His awe of her was a weapon, her weapon, and his awe of her made him faintly contemptible in her eyes. Eric had been a man who accepted her beauty as a natural gift, but who loved her beyond mere beauty. But Gustav thought the loveliness was all there was to her, and so he was a victim of Kristin’s comely face and lissome body. Standing before the mirror, she admired the glistening white satin gown. It was a French design, and, in fact had been a gift of old Adolphus, who admired the way it revealed her breasts almost to the nipple, and how it hugged her narrow waist and showed the curve of her hips. Perhaps Gustav’s father would permit her into the offices one day, if she could fashion a sufficiently compelling reason.
Summoning a maid, she asked for tea and sherry, and sat down at her writing table to think. Alternately sipping the hot tea and the sweet, heavy wine, she began to prepare a list of the pieces the orchestra might perform on the night of the Soames dinner. The occasion was a crucial one for the Rolfsons. Their plans for an international business empire depended heavily on the ability to secure capital. Kristin felt a sudden anger that was close to hatred. The poor people of Lesja, her people, those who shared her own honest origins, were financing with their lands and mountains the underpinning of the Rolfsons’ vast schemes. How would she feel if the Rolfsons failed?
She had never really considered the question before because, initially overwhelmed by their position in Oslo and by the wealth surrounding them, she had not entertained even the possibility of a Rolfson debacle. But she did now, at first with a certain bitter pleasure. Soon, however, her intelligence superseded her emotions, what she had learned of wealth and power took precedence over hurt and passion, and she began to understand that Rolfson’s standing was also hers, if she could but find a way to use it to her ends. Of what good would she be to herself, to her family, should Gustav’s fortunes flounder? And, cast off and impoverished, she would never find Eric, would never see his sweet strong face again, nor be held and thrilled by him. Penniless women did not emigrate; penniless women did not ship away on steamships as deckhands or boilertenders.
No, it was true, she had a stake in the Rolfsons and their enterprises. She resolved to find out as much about business as she could. That was it! She would convince Gustav to permit her into the offices of the company, professing a desire to learn more about mercantile affairs! That her desire was real in no way diminished her resolve; in fact, just the opposite was true.
When dinner was announced, she went downstairs eagerly, looking radiant, and prepared to work her wiles.
But she came upon a scene of dark, gloomy pessimism. Gustav and his father, already seated, were hunched over their wineglasses at one end of the huge table, muttering to each other, lower lips thrust out in quirky and not entirely convincing defiance.
“Why, gentlemen, what is the matter?” she asked, as Ellison, the butler, pulled out her chair. She sat down, signaled for wine. Old Adolphus was studying her neckline and breasts, but dully, without spirit. A bad sign. Truly, the day must have gone bleakly for these rapacious and brassy connivers.
“We have had something of a setback,” Gustav grumbled, turning to her. His eyes widened when he saw the gown, and her inside it.
“Not a setback,” grumbled the old man, in hoary admonishment, “more like a disappointment. But it would have been better to have him here, on our own grounds. Then he would have been able to see our wealth. Otherwise…oh, I know what they think in London. I know how they think. They feel that we here in Norway are mere pikers, useless for knowing and fruitless to consider.”
“And not worth a loan of money, either,” added his son, “especially the amount of money we so desperately need if we are to expand our business.”
“Would you please tell me what you are talking about?” Kristin asked. “What is the cause of such dismay?”
Gustav shrugged and told her. “We have had a message from Lord Soames. He has canceled his plans to come to Norway. Instead, he has invited father or myself to London.”
“Why, and what is wrong with that? You yourself are very much a champion of things English, and I should love to go to London.”
“You?” Her husband laughed, in a condescending way that angered Kristin. “You go? This is business, my dear, and not a promenade.”
“Wait a minute,” grumbled Rolfson senior. “I believe I have
thought of a new angle for us to exploit.” He was still staring at Kristin’s breasts, but with much more alertness now. His mood was improving. “Yes, I believe I have a new angle indeed. We had intended to impress Lord Soames with our houses, or lands, wealth he could see, which he cannot witness from London. But we have something else he can see and appreciate, which will give him evidence of our exquisite style and taste.”
He raised his glance from Kristin’s breasts and met her eyes. His own eyes were glittering fiendishly. “You see, I know a little about Lord Soames. He has certain tastes all his own.”
“What do you mean, father?” asked Gustav in a tone that seemed not disingenuous to Kristin.
“When I was in England last September, attempting overtures to financing after we had acquired the Lesja property, I learned that Lord Soames is…how would one say it? A connoisseur of beautiful women? And surely Kristin is that.”
Kristin watched her husband’s face. For a brief—a very brief—moment, he seemed shocked to grasp that his own wife might play a part, based merely on her sex and beauty, in the fortunes of the Rolfson future. But that brief moment passed, and it was all too clear to Kristin that, whatever personal or passionate needs Gustav had for her, when it came to business she was but another item, another element, another pawn in the game. But then, why would she ever have thought otherwise?
She surprised both of them with her agreeability. “If the Englishman in question means so much to you, then he must mean a great deal to me as well, because our fortunes are joined.” She thought again how she would learn as much as she could, how she would use these two unprincipled moneygrubbers exactly as they were using her. She felt a quick pang of conscience. “Don’t become like them,” she had pleaded with Eric. “Don’t ever become like them.”
I’m not, she reassured herself, I shall simply be the dutiful, compliant spouse.
“Whatever you wish of me, husband,” she said, dropping her eyes.
There was a long silence as the waiters began to serve the meal.
“Ah…what precisely did you mean by Lord Soames’s tastes?” Gustav asked his father, when the fish course was being cleared. The flounder had been splendid.
The older man looked up. “He appreciates beautiful women, that’s all,” Adolphus answered, with a wink. “Nothing wrong with that, is there? So do I!”
He reached over and pawed Kristin around the shoulders a little, let his hand trail down her back, around her ribcage.
“Oh, father!” she cried, with a counterfeit but convincing giggle, as Gustav’s face reddened. “If I’d only known earlier how much you cared…”
“That’s enough of this!” Gustav cried, angry and embarrassed at the same time. “This is enough.”
The old man chortled but withdrew his eager, exploratory hand.
Then the goose was served.
“How could you have let him do that to you?” Gustav raged later in their bedroom. He was dressed in a silk robe, almost as scarlet as the mark across his face.
Kristin, sitting at her writing desk, looked up without interest. She had begun to wonder why Eric had not tried to write her or send her a message. Surely he knew where she was living, in Oslo with the Rolfsons. Perhaps some tragedy had befallen him.
“Let who do what to me?” she asked.
“You know what I am speaking about!”
“Husband, I assure you, I do not.”
“My name is Gustav. Gustav.”
“Yes, husband.”
With difficulty he forced himself to keep control. “My father,” he said, between gritted teeth. “Pawing you at dinner.”
“He was only showing affection, in his way,” Kristin replied, in a voice absolutely without inflection. “You do the same,” she added.
His face darkened the more, becoming almost as colorful as scar and dressing gown.
“He is simply using you, for the cheap, vicarious delight of an old man.”
“Using me? Is not Lord Soames to use me, too?”
“That…that is ridiculous! That is preposterous. You will merely accompany me to London. If he appreciates beauty, he will find favorable his visual experience of your charms.”
Kristin gave him a level look. “Is that all? But, even so, then who is using whom?”
Gustav turned, and paced away, irritated.
“When do you sail for England?” she asked.
He turned back to her. “What? Oh. It is now January. The North Sea is treacherous. And there are many papers and preparations I must see to. I doubt that we will sail until the summer.”
The summer. By then a year would have elapsed since she had seen Eric, since that last fleeting moment, when, leg broken and lying in the stream, she had last seen him race away up the mountain. But had she not promised him, We shall always belong to each other, no matter what? Yes, she had. And that was still true, it would always be true.
“I wish,” she said, “to learn more about your business. So that when we reach England, I am conversant on the subject. Do you think it would be seemly for me to spend some time in your offices? To gather a feeling for what it is you do at work? A feeling for how your enterprises are managed?”
Gustav misread her request. To the extent that he could be demonstrative, his face showed softness, even tenderness.
“My darling, of course,” he said, coming to her, taking her into his arms. “How foolish of me not to have suggested it before.” He thought it was the beginning of an entirely new closeness for them.
Overcome by desire, he stripped her rudely and carried her to the bed, only to be confounded again by her limp, maddening acquiescence to his physical assault, her entire responselessness. But that, he assured himself once more as he had so often before, was only the temporary “incapacity” of a young mountain girl brought suddenly into the house and surroundings of a great family.
What else could it be?
Later that night, after Gustav had drifted off into a sex-satiated sleep, Kristin removed from herself the protective wad of cheesecloth, red with the remnants of wine, red with hopeful blood, white with the seed that had not taken.
Not this time, nor ever, she thought.
Due to business preparations and various delays Kristin and Gustav were unable to sail for England until the autumn of 1861. At the Rolfson offices Kristin had been able to determine only the ports at which the S.S. Anandale had long since visited and departed. Eric might well be in the Azores, or Africa, or South America, or New York. He might even be rolling white and lost beneath the wild waves and dark cold waters of Cape Horn, where the Anandale had gone to the bottom in a typhoon some months after leaving New York on a voyage that had been planned for Tahiti, the Dutch East Indies, China, and Japan.
No, she thought, upon learning of the tragedy through the notices of various mercantile shipping lines, no, I will not let myself believe in disaster.
So she and Gustav left for London, aboard the Viking Serpent, an oceangoing yacht Adolphus had acquired by cheating a drunken young nobleman in a card game. Adolphus was sure the yacht would impress Lord Soames. Its master cabin was walled with mirrors; there was a mirror on the ceiling, too.
Kristin saw herself looking up at the mirror every night on the voyage from Oslo to England, saw herself, arms and legs limp and outstretched, motionless beneath the wildly thrusting Gustav, who was determined now more than ever to have a scion, a son, a Rolfson heir. Kristin watched him bucking and battering at her, but somehow she could not feel him. It was as if another man entirely was making love to some woman she had never known. The woman she did remember had felt desperately hungry, famished, absolutely starved after love.
Four days after they had left Oslo a letter addressed to Mrs. Gustav Rolfson arrived at the mansion. A mail coach brought it from the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, where it was received, along with other dispatches, by Ellison, the butler.
He wondered what was in it, of course, but he had always felt kindly toward the young Viking beauty w
ho had come down from the mountains and had adapted so naturally to the rich life of Oslo. A Giselda might have opened it, read it, and destroyed it later, knowing its importance. It was the first letter from America ever received in the Rolfson household. “It is unfortunate she missed it,” Ellison said to himself, as he slipped it into the pouch of business dispatches that would be sent to Gustav on the next ship bound for England.
III
A week before Eric posted his circumspect letter to Kristin, in the summer of 1861, things had seemed to be going well for him. He had a little money saved, and was thinking of moving out of the Leeds house, buying a horse and wagon and going into business for himself. He was not certain how Liz and Mick would react to his departure, but it was something he had to do. Eric had become very suspicious of Mick’s “business,” and he did not want to become involved in it any further. But, more crucially, he felt a need to move to a place of his own because of Joan.
Over half a year had passed since the first night in that cold, darkened upstairs bedroom. Eric, who had known women early, who had known rowdy mountain girls in cool summer glades below the timberline with the sun dappling the leaves, the grass, and the burning bodies of lovers, and who had known rough, eager older women in a room behind the store in Dovre, downriver from Lesja, thought he knew immediately what Joan Leeds was offering when she pressed her body momentarily against his own, when she reached down to touch him with a tender, exploratory hand.
But now, half a year later, he had to admit that his initial estimate did not begin to explain the mystery of Joan Leeds.
In a sense Eric was relieved. He was intensely attracted to Joan, to her mystery, allure, and enigmatic smile. However, not only could he not embark upon a dalliance with her right in her own household, but his memory of and need for Kristin was with him constantly, like a companion, as if Kristin’s spirit and palpable physical presence stood beside him by day and lay down with him at night, when his labors were done.
Wild Wind Westward Page 13