“Right here.” Penny measured off three inches or so of the wheel. “This much?”
“About twice that.” Mrs. Johnson, her girth increasing again, leaned her belly against the counter. “What’s that man doing back there with some contraption?”
“He’s going to show me how to use his sewing machine.”
“Sewing machine? What’s wrong with a needle and thread?”
“He says it is faster and stronger. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Within minutes she was cleaned out of the last loaves of bread, the wheel of cheese was half gone, and the new order of headcheese spices sorely depleted. Butchering season was almost upon them. Good thing both Bridget and Hildegunn were bringing bread in the morning. And Bridget would stay to help her cook and serve the noon meal.
As the last of the customers visited their way out the door, Penny made her way to the corner with the sewing machine and the salesman, straightening merchandise as she went. The machine had a song of its own, but until she reached it, she wondered at the strange noises.
The man sat hunched over a shiny black machine that was trimmed in gilt and set on an oak cabinet. The intricate cast-iron legs were joined by a flat treadle that he pumped with one foot. The stitching portion hummed along as the hemmed muslin square flowed out behind it.
“Well, I never . . .”
Mr. Drummond picked up the napkin, snipped the threads with a small pair of scissors he wore on a ribbon around his neck, and handed her the napkin. “There you go.” He nodded to a neat pile of squares lying on the board attached to the right side of the cabinet.
Penny examined the even stitching of the hemming. Both sides looked exactly the same. “How—I mean—what . . .” She shook her head, eyes widening in delight. “This is amazing.”
“So it is.” Mr. Drummond smiled, showing one blank space where a lower front tooth should have been. “I can guarantee that quilts, curtains, dresses, children’s clothing—anything you do now with a needle and thread—will be done easier, faster, and stronger.”
“Even sewing on buttons?”
His face melted into sadness. “Sorry, no.”
“Blind stitching a hem?”
He nodded. “Yes, it can, but that’s not a skill for beginners. However, when you own a Singer sewing machine, you will finish most of your sewing so quickly that those finishing touches will take only moments in comparison. Can I show you this from beginning to end?”
Wait until Ingeborg sees this. Penny shook her head slowly, one index finger on the point of her chin.
“But, dear lady, you’ve only seen one product. When you understand how easy this little gem is to operate, why, you must try it yourself.”
“How much?”
He named a price that made her blink.
“But the beauty of this is that you only have to pay a little bit down, and the rest is only pennies a month. This plan makes it possible for every woman in America to have a Singer sewing machine in her own home. Think what this will do to ease the burden on your friends and family.”
Penny held up a hand to stop his spate of words. “Easy, Mr. Drummond, easy. I see how this machine can help the women. I can see a hundred uses for it, but I can tell you right now that the people of Blessing are a thrifty lot and don’t take too easily to new things.”
“Do the men buy plows and mowers, binders and threshers?”
Penny had to agree.
“But not things like that for the home?”
“There haven’t been things like that for the home.”
“Ah, but they are coming, and this little beauty”—he laid a reverent palm on the wheel of the machine—“will revolutionize the way women sew clothing for themselves, their families, and their households.”
“I know. Now I have to figure out how to do this.”
“If you order one today, it will be shipped directly from the factory and be here in two weeks. Then I will return and train you how to use it so you can teach others.” He rubbed a hand over his balding pate. “I saw those women eyeing me when they came in for the mail. Having a machine set up like this will increase your business and provide a much needed service for the women of Blessing and parts beyond. You will be the first store north of Grand Forks to carry the Singer sewing machine. Why, down in Fargo a woman is opening an entire store just to sell sewing machines. Can you believe that?” He stroked the machine as if it were a favorite horse or dog. “Of course she will soon be selling the latest silks and cottons, wools and linens. I can just see it—The Sewing Emporium.”
The tinkling bell caught her attention. “Excuse me, Mr. Drummond. I have another customer.” She hustled toward the front of the store. “Goodie, how wonderful to see you. Why, here you live almost next door, and it seems like forever since I’ve seen you.”
“I . . . ah . . . haven’t felt good the last couple of days.” Goodie Peterson Wold dropped her gaze to her hands. “I lost the baby, you know.” Her fingers twined around one another, as if by moving they would right the wrong that tore at the woman’s heart and soul.
“No, I didn’t know. Oh, Goodie, I’m so sorry.” Penny put an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Did you call for Ingeborg and Metiz?”
“No, it happened too fast.” Goodie sighed. “One minute I was rejoicing, and the next I felt this terrible cramp, and it was gone.” Her head wagged from side to side, more perpetual motion. “I just want to give Olaf a son. He is so good to me and mine.”
“But you will, surely.” Penny forced a note of cheer into her voice. She who would give anything to be expecting, and God seemed to be looking the other way. “Is that why you missed the quilting bee?”
Goodie nodded. “Do you have any molasses? I been hankering for some gingerbread something awful.”
Penny thought a moment. “Let me check.” Knowing she’d had Ephraim wash out the molasses barrel, she went to her own cupboard and returned with a half-full jar. “This is all, but you are welcome to it.”
“Thank you. You are a real friend.” Goodie dug in her bag. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. I’ve got some molasses cookies left. How about some of those to last until you get the gingerbread baked?” Penny laid a hand on Goodie’s arm. “Besides, you look as if you need to lie down, not bake.”
Goodie cocked her head. “What’s that strange sound I hear?”
“Oh my, I near forgot. The sewing machine man is here.” Penny called that over her shoulder as she went for the cookies. “Go on back and talk with him.”
When Penny returned, Goodie and Mr. Drummond were talking like old friends, and the sewing machine hummed between them. Goodie’s cheeks were pink again, and the sparkle had returned to her eyes.
Clearly she was in love—with a sewing machine.
Penny hoped Olaf was making plenty of money at the sack house, for it appeared he was about to purchase some new machinery.
“Can I bring Olaf back to see this?” Goodie looked from the machine to Penny and back again. “Why I could open me a dressmaking business right down the street from your front door. Blessing needs more businesses, just as you always said. Are you going to sell these in your store?” She looked around the room, every square inch of floor already filled, up the walls and things hanging from the ceiling.
Penny eyed the hand corn planter hanging from one beam and the carved saddle that rested on a small half barrel attached to the wall. She wished she’d dusted more recently. Ugh, the cobwebs. Some of the things had been there since her first order.
Penny listened while Mr. Drummond told Goodie about the sewing store opening in Fargo, all the while watching Goodie’s face. Clearly the idea intrigued her.
Worries raced through Penny’s mind. Was there room for two places to sell sewing materials in Blessing? Dress goods and the attending notions were a good part of her inventory. Penny nibbled on her bottom lip. If Goodie followed her dream, should she stop carrying the calicos and ginghams?
&n
bsp; Or should she put the machines in her store? Where was Hjelmer when she needed him?
Chapter 6
Freedom smelled like fall.
Ingeborg kicked into a pile of oak leaves still rich with the oranges and burgundies of newly fallen leaves. She wanted to lie down and roll in them, as she did when she was a child. The oak trees of Norway and the oak trees of Dakota wore the same painted fall dresses and rich perfume. A squirrel scolded her for intruding upon his territory.
Ingeborg laughed at his antics, then shifted the rifle to her other hand and broke into a trot. The geese would be settling down soon for their evening feed, and she wanted to be there before then. The wheat field south of the Bjorklund land, bordered by the swamp, was a favorite resting place. Any wheat that the thresher missed had sprouted again, thanks to the warm fall rains, and made perfect grazing for the geese.
She wished she had spent more time practicing with the shotgun so she could have brought it instead. It wasn’t that Haakan really frowned on her using firearms. He just didn’t quite understand why they were so important to her. After all, Baptiste and Thorliff, besides grazing the sheep, managed to supply much of their wild game and fish. Both boys were excellent hunters.
“So am I,” she proclaimed, and the sound of her voice sent a crow flapping from the tree, his raucous voice announcing her presence. “Uff da,” she muttered low enough for only her own ears. “I know better than that.” Every self-respecting deer in the country will hear that crow and head for cover. Ah well, it is geese I came for, and geese I will get. Ignoring the game trails to the river, she settled herself behind a thicket of Juneberry bushes. There was still enough leaf cover to make a blind for her, and she’d wait until there were plenty of the Canada honkers on the ground. Big as they were, they made for easy hunting.
The haunting cries came close as a large V settled to graze, the swamp close enough to provide moisture. The heavy beat of their wings, the honking between the birds, and the beauty of their landing made her clutch the gun more tightly. Such magnificent creatures they were, with their gray bodies and black heads and necks. More continued to land, and those on the ground nibbled the tender grass shoots and picked the seeds of any standing grasses and wheat.
She felt guilty for her presence, wishing she could just sit and watch and listen to their chatter. Instead she slowly raised her gun and sighted. With six shots she had five geese and another couple that were wounded. With a beating of wings and honks of protest, the flock rose. She downed another on the wing with the last shell.
Ingeborg moved swiftly, dispatching with her knife the two that she’d wounded and gathering up the carcasses. She cut throats and held each up to bleed out. She’d have to build a travois like Metiz had taught her to get them all home. They were far too heavy to carry even with some tied across her shoulders. Farther out in the field more geese settled down.
She jingled the shells in her pocket. That was another good thing about britches. They had deep pockets. She could go for more, but then she would be so late getting home. Eight wasn’t bad. Even Roald would have been impressed with that. But then Roald was long gone, and Haakan would be pleased because she was pleased. Even though he’d tease her about her britches, secretly—or not so secretly to an observant wife—he’d wish she wouldn’t wear them any longer. Why were men so set against women wearing pants? Kneeling in the garden to weed was far easier without skirts and apron. So was driving the team during harvest, getting up and down the wagon wheels. All the while the thoughts ran through her head, she searched for straight saplings to use as poles.
Taking her knife, Ingeborg slashed down the two slender trunks she’d decided on and stripped off some thicker branches. Then using the twine she’d brought for this purpose, she tied those farther toward the tops on the saplings and wove more branches in to create a bed. Laying the geese on the woven bed along with the empty rifle, she took a pole in each hand and began the trip home, dragging the load behind her. Metiz had shown her how to fashion a harness for her shoulders, but the load wasn’t that heavy nor the distance that far.
Paws announced her arrival, yipping and dancing beside her as she slowly trudged her way into the yard. Even though the temperature was falling, she’d worked up quite a sweat on the walk home.
Thorliff came running out of the house. “What’d you get, Mor?” Seeing the pile of geese, his mouth became a big O. Along with his eyes. “How many?”
“Eight.” Ingeborg laid down the poles. “You want to help me pick them?”
“I’ll get Bestemor.” He headed back for the house.
The jingle of harnesses told her that Haakan was on his way in with the team, so she dragged her load over by the well house, where a wide bench was attached to the building for just this purpose. She slung the geese up on the flat top and leaned the rifle against the wall. Once they were gutted, the geese could be left to hang until plucked or skinned in the morning. She ran a hand over the breast of one of the birds, feeling the dense down that made for such warm sleeping in the winter months.
“Whoa.” The jingling stopped, and one of the horses snorted. “Easy, boy.”
“Haakan.”
“Ja.”
“Come see what I got.” She stuck her head around the corner of the building.
“You been fishing?”
“No.”
“What then?”
She could hear him removing the harnesses while the horses stamped their feet, impatient to be released in the pasture. Swiftly she gutted each of the geese and tied their feet together to hang them. Saving the gizzards and livers, she tossed the rest in a pail to feed to the pigs. Paws whined at her side, so she gave him a gizzard. Eight livers wasn’t enough for all of them for supper, but chopped with eggs in the morning would taste good. The gizzards she’d chop into stuffing.
The screech of the gate, a slap on a horse’s rump, more gate noises, then she could hear Haakan coming toward her. Quickly she hooked the tied legs of the last goose over the pegs in a board farther up on the wall and stepped back.
“You got all of those? And back home by yourself?” He put an arm around her waist, dragging her close. “Well done, wife.” His hand slipped lower, and he patted her bottom. “Hmm, maybe these britches aren’t so bad after all.”
Ingeborg could feel the heat flame up from her neck. “Haakan Howard Bjorklund, how you talk.” She turned in his arms. “Now we’ll have a new goose down quilt to help keep us warm this winter.”
“We do pretty well keeping each other warm.” His mouth was only inches from hers.
She leaned into his caress, grateful for the deepening dusk. His kiss, first on the tip of her nose, then her cheeks, then her lips reminded her anew how much she loved him. And loved to be loved by him.
“Please don’t wear these britches where other men can see you. They might get the same idea I had.”
“I won’t. But I do love to hunt.” She laid her head on his chest, grateful for the strong heart she could feel thumping in her ear.
“Not a womanly thing.”
She shook her head. “But we will enjoy roast goose tomorrow night, as will Kaaren and Metiz, and we’ll give one to Zeb and Katy too.” She counted them out. “I think I better go out again tomorrow night.”
“Ah, my Inge, what would I do without you?” Haakan kissed her again, a gentle kiss full of promise.
Perhaps this time there will be a baby. Ingeborg kept the wish to herself.
After hanging the spoils of her labor in the well house to cool, the two made their way to the lighted windows of their house, the peal of children’s laughter welcoming them home.
“I have a deacon’s meeting tonight, so I better get myself moving,” Haakan said at the close of the meal. “Mange takk, Bridget. You are one fine cook.”
“Good enough to run a boardinghouse, huh?” She smiled at him over Astrid’s head, the child nestled in her lap.
Haakan rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Some people
never give up.”
“Not when this is such a good idea.” Her reply snapped back, tempered by a smile but undergirded with determination.
“Well, the meeting tonight is for church, not the bank, but keep thinking about it so you can answer all the questions the board is going to throw at you.” He stood and stretched, giving Ingeborg a smile that promised more later.
“It helps to have people in your corner.” Bridget rocked her lap sitter.
“I know. Far as I can see, the idea is sound, and no, I don’t believe you are too old. Hjelmer doesn’t either. You caught him by surprise, you know.”
Bridget patted her white hair. “The hair may look old, but the back is strong.”
“I don’t think your hair looks old,” Thorliff said, looking up from the book he was reading at the table where the lamplight was the brightest. “But I want you to stay here with us. If you live at the boardinghouse, we won’t see you so much.”
Ingeborg nodded. “Leave it to Thorliff to hit the nail right on the head.”
Andrew looked up from drawing letters on his slate. “What nail?”
Ingeborg shook her head. “That is just a saying. Now, where’s Hamre?”
“Gone to the soddy.” Andrew took up his chalk again. “He doesn’t like to be with us much.”
“Hamre did a fine job oiling the threshing machine.” Haakan shrugged into his coat.
“But he doesn’t like school.” Thorliff glanced up again. “Says he wants to go fishing again on the ocean like his bestefar.”
“Is that so?” Bridget looked to the boy at her side.
“Um.” Thorliff went back to his book.
How he can read and still keep track of the conversation around him, I’ll never know. Ingeborg wanted to reach over and brush away the lock of hair, no longer so blond, that fell over Thorliff ’s forehead. Instead she looked up at Haakan. “Tell Pastor Solberg there’s a goose here for him as soon as I pick it.”
“Better yet, invite him over for supper tomorrow night.” Bridget dropped a kiss on Astrid’s gold-white hair. “I’ll make lefse. He says that’s one of his favorites.”
Tender Mercies Page 5