A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  “Gud dog,” Jan said in his normally serene tone. His address to Rose though, while as polite as always, seemed rather spiritless. “And denk you, Mrs. Brünlee. Ride vas ver nice.”

  He opened the door, holding it for her and closing it firmly after she passed through. In the house Rose stood where she was until the sound of the horses and buggy faded into the evening.

  Chapter 27

  The sunrise on Sigrün’s wedding day was like a bridal pageant itself, all white-gold and blushing, walking in sacred procession over the far hills and throwing its bridal flowers to the waiting congregation. Enthralled, Rose watched the spectacle from the front steps. Baron was content to stay quietly at her side as long as her slender hand rested on his head or scratched his ears. At last she stood up sighing with contentment. There was work to do, and it was to be a joyous chore; she had the honor of supplying the wedding roses! How Amalie had exclaimed her delight when Rose had told her on Sunday last that the now opening blossoms were to be her wedding gifts to Sigrün and Harold. Harold had thanked her too, but Rose’s real reward was Sigrün’s beatific smile of pleasure. Maybe Sigrün would never speak aloud to her, but their friendship of spirits spoke a deeper language than uttered words.

  Now, sharp shears in well-gloved hand, she went first to the climber roses on the south side of the porch and carefully chose and clipped the longest tendrils with the sweetest blooms. True, there were not many yet because the weather was still cool, but here in RiverBend, where roses were still rare, they would be twice admired. The two tea rose bushes, one bearing sunset gold blooms, the other graced with buds and full-blown, deep red flowers, yielded eight lovely stems altogether.

  “Beautiful! Enough for a bouquet and for Sigrün’s hair. The others will be for the altar.” She admired their brilliant colors and lush fragrance.

  She wrapped the cuttings in tissue and set them in a long box carefully lined with ice before getting to the rest of her chores. Rose rushed through milking Snowfoot and caring for Prince so she would have time to bake her contributions to the wedding feast. Finally she was able to bathe and dress. With great care she removed the protective paper from her garment, revealing a deep, dusty rose-colored muslin dress, sprigged with cream and trimmed all over with priceless ivory lace sewn upon layers of ruffles and gathers.

  It had been so long since Rose had really “dressed” up, more than a year of mourning and dressing to work, that the sight took her breath away. Into her hair she twisted a long, thin, burgundy velveteen ribbon until there was a flush of color throughout her ash-blonde coil that reflected on her pale cheeks.

  Rose hurried to get her things to the buggy, pausing to collect her guitar at the last minute as she recalled the dancing at Sally Gardiner’s wedding and her desire to be allowed to play with the fiddlers.

  At last Rose’s buggy pulled into Thoresens’ yard behind the McKennies’ wagon. McKennie children spilled from the back of their wagon to join the children frolicking around the side yard.

  So many friends, neighbors, and family are here, Rose marveled. Warm greetings came to her ears and Fiona’s hug was exuberant.

  “I belong here! I’m a part of all this now,” Rose rejoiced. “And so many here are part of God’s family—my family, the one God gave me to bring healing to my heart.”

  The happiness in her flowed in and out as she helped ready the “chapel.” The Thoresens’ enormous barn had been swept and was now being decorated. Neighbors hung evergreen boughs from distant hills twined with sweet peas and lined up sweet scented bales of hay before the “altar.” Colorful cloths and rugs transformed the bales into benches, and Rose twisted and tied the strands of climber roses to the altar legs and laid one fragrant branch across the snowy linen cloth where the bride and groom would make their vows. It was not going to be a stylish eastern wedding, yet Rose had higher expectations from this union than many a fashionable wedding she’d attended back home.

  Amalie bustled forward to inspect the preparations, her kind face flushed with joy and excitement. Rose saw, too, how much work Amalie had been doing and stepped up to hug her and urge her to sit down a minute.

  “Karl! Little Karl!”

  Karl approached shyly at her bidding, standing over her.

  “Karl, do get Mor a cold glass of water, please. Takk takk.”

  Karl grinned at her use of Riksmaal picked up from Uli. Amalie sat obediently until he returned. She drank the long glass of well water while Rose stayed with her and patted her plump, brown hand.

  “Don’t worry, Amalie. Everything is perfect, really.”

  Nodding, she seemed to relax a little, but something else played on her face.

  Oh, Rose commiserated. She’s hurting for losing Sigrün. Rose patted Amalie’s hand again and said brightly, “Harold is a wonderful man. God is good to Sigrün, don’t you think?”

  Sighing, Amalie agreed, although she struggled for the words in English.

  “Ja, Gott is gud. I denk him, sure.”

  An hour later the crowd of friends and family stood by their “benches” as Jan and Sigrün walked solemnly to the altar where Harold and Pastor Medford waited. How fine and true Sigrün looked! Jan, appearing very genteel in his dark suit, proudly led her forward. He caught Rose’s eye, and she smiled encouragingly. Holding her look, he kept his eyes on her, and as inscrutable as ever, there was something else, too, a kind of firmness or resolve. She dropped her eyes at last, not knowing what to think, and they passed her by. The wedding began. The vows were exchanged solemnly with Sigrün nodding at the proper moments and the blessing pronounced.

  Next came the feast, far bigger and more splendid than Sally Gardener’s, Rose observed. Two enormous hams, a roasted goose, several chickens, plates of Smørbrod (open-faced Norwegian sandwiches), baked potatoes, baked beans, new greens, several varieties of cheeses, fresh bread and corn bread, every kind of pie and pastry, pickles, stewed fruits, relishes, and jams and jellies loaded the tables. Søren and his friend Ivan strode forward with kegs of apple cider, icy cold from sitting for days in the Thoresen icehouse. Cheers and toasts were offered, while Sigrün and Harold sat in chairs on a little platform surrounded by boughs and ribbons, both blushing and smiling as everyone wished them well and piled their gifts at their feet.

  The feasting wouldn’t stop all day. An empty spot on a table was quickly refilled and then the dancing started, too. Rose remembered her guitar and slipped out to fetch it from her buggy. As she turned to go back, Jan was there. He looked as “grand” as she’d ever known him, she thought, his broadcloth suit showing off well his erect carriage and strong shoulders.

  “I carry for you,” he stated. She allowed him to and thanked him.

  “I vant do,” he replied succinctly.

  The dancing was well organized and getting underway as they returned to the barn. Rose made to take her guitar from Jan and join the three musicians, but Jan held the case firmly and shook his head once.

  “Please, ve dance first?”

  “Oh, Mr. Thoresen, no, no, thank you. I don’t, I mean I haven’t danced in a long time. Thank you, no.” Rose reached out for her guitar again, only this time Jan held it away and smiled broadly.

  “No. Ve dance now, please.”

  Never had she seen him smile like that! Was he making a tease with her?

  “Mr. Thoresen! I really don’t think . . .”

  “No talk—dance.” Without waiting for her answer, he set the guitar beside the wall and possessed himself of her hand, leading her out to dance. Rose felt her face grow red as Jan took charge and they went whirling across the floor. The young men vigorously leading their partners made way before them and, when the music stopped, Jan called loudly for another.

  Rose was flagging, out of breath, but he seemed tireless. Around and around the room they flew until at last the song stopped and Rose collapsed laughing on a bale now pushed up against the barn wall.

  Søren called his father at that moment. He left her fanning her burnin
g face with a “Scuse, please.”

  Rose’s breath was coming in short gasps, and she was happy to just sit. What had come over the man! Across the room, Jan was giving instructions for something to Søren, Ivan, and Karl, and she heard him call a hearty welcome to a latecomer. Well, she conceded, it was a special occasion, and even staid individuals would unbend a little at a wedding. She made talk with the folks sitting near her, and as she recovered her wind, got up and moved about, sharing the festive mood with everyone. The dancing went on, the food was in constant supply, the day perfect.

  Just after chatting with Berta Schmidt, she felt a heavy hand on her arm and turned to find Mark Grader standing at her elbow. He must have arrived after the ceremony, and his breath had the unmistakable smell of tobacco mixed with alcohol. He was, however, cleaned and dressed for a party. Tossing his slick, black-haired head back, he grinned and demanded a dance of her. Rose demurred politely, but his hand did not leave her arm.

  “You danced with old Thoresen. A young buck like me’d be better than an old Norski like him any day.” His words were loud and several heads turned their way. Berta looked nervously around for her husband.

  “Please, Mr. Grader, if you don’t mind . . .”

  “Don’t mind if I do!” he answered rudely and, taking her other arm, pulled her with him to the center of the barn floor. The music was just beginning, slow and sweet, and his arm went about her familiarly so that she was much too close to him to be comfortable or decorous. Rose was so embarrassed and angry that she tried to pull away but his grip on her waist was determined. He leaned his face into hers, smiling wickedly.

  “You’re a pert thing even if they do say you’re five years older than I be. And a widow woman has to be on the lookout for a good man to take care of her. I’m a man. I could take care of you fine—real fine.” His smile widened, and he drew her closer.

  Rose’s senses reeled. With all her heart she wanted away from this horrid man! Dear God, she prayed desperately, Please help me! Deliver me from this without a humiliating scene, please dear God! Abruptly they stopped dancing. When she opened her eyes, Mark Grader was glowering. Close beside and behind him stood Jan, Søren, and Ivan.

  “Oh, thank you God!” she breathed.

  “What you want, Thoresen?” Mark barked out. “You’re interruptin’ our dance.”

  Rose tried again to extricate herself, but his grip was like steel.

  “’Scuse, Mr. Grader,” Jan said mildly, “Ve need talk now. Ver important. Out dere.” His hand indicated outside. Søren’s eyes narrowed; Ivan grinned in anticipation.

  “I’m busy. Now get out of my way.” Grader’s hand made to push Jan aside, and suddenly he found his arm twisted hard behind his back. Jan held it there while staring fixedly into Grader’s eyes.

  “Out dere, please,” he repeated softly. Grader’s hold on Rose relaxed, and Søren and Ivan hustled him out. Rose found herself dancing very properly with Jan. The whole scene had been so discreet that only one or two people glanced knowingly at the retreating backs of Søren, Ivan, and Mark Grader.

  “Better, ja?”

  Rose looked up into the genuine friendliness of his query and nodded. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Jan shook his head once and clucked his tongue, then spun her gently across the floor. There was a soft smile on his face the rest of the dance, but when the music ended, he deposited her with Fiona McKennie and, bowing, left them.

  The uncomfortable incident was soon dismissed from Rose’s mind as the singing began. Old Mr. Clark called out the tunes, and the group picked them up. Song after song was rendered with gusto and soon individuals were being brought forward to sing solos, mostly ballads with choruses to join in on. Then a courting song was sung for Sigrün and Harold’s benefit amid much good-natured laughter.

  Fiona McKennie spoke up, “Perhaps Mrs. Brownlee would favor us with a song? Her guitar is right here.”

  Eagerly the request was seconded and Rose stepped forward to oblige. She’d sung for many entertainments in private gatherings around her city. It was a very lady-like accomplishment, and she felt no qualms as she picked up her guitar. A sudden inspiration came to her and with a gleam in her eye she addressed herself to the bride and groom.

  “I’d like to sing a verse to a tune Uli taught me just recently. I only know the one verse, but it is for you, Harold and Sigrün.” Smiling prettily with an air of teasing, she strummed the first chord:

  Der star ein friar uti garden

  Mor Lilla, hau, hau

  Der star ein friar uti garden

  Mor Lilla, hau, hau

  Kor mange pengar have han,

  Du mi dottre Dalia?

  Kor mange pengar have han,

  Du mi dottre Dalia?

  The Norwegian and Swedish folk roared with laughter and Sigrün threw a linen napkin lying in her lap over her face to hide her blushes. Those who couldn’t understand the words could laugh at the results, and soon everyone had an understanding of “the gentleman suitor standing in the yard while his beloved’s mother wanted to know how much money he was willing to pay for her daughter.”

  This would have brought down the house, except that Jan Thoresen stepped up and announced he would sing the last song. His unexpected offer met with a burst of applause, so he bowed and began, also in Norwegian, to sing to Sigrün and Harold. His voice was strong and true, not cultured, but he sang with pleasure and the song gave pleasure back. Harold took Sigrün’s hand and looked deep in her eyes as Jan sang. The eternal story of love was there to be read by anyone with eyes to see.

  How wonderful that they have a love for God that will hold their love together, Rose mused.

  The ballad went into a second verse, and Rose realized Jan was looking at her now as he sang. She couldn’t understand the words, but he seemed to be singing each line to her. Nervously, Rose glanced around. Although many other guests were ignorant of the words also or were watching the bride and groom, Amalie stood staring at Jan with a puzzled expression. Søren, in the back with Ivan and the other young men, raised his eyebrows and looked first from Jan to Rose and back again. Quickly Rose sat down where Jan’s gaze couldn’t find her. What an up and down day! She decided she was tired from the long span of activity and was ready to go home as soon as the wedding party left.

  The bride and groom were now escorted to their wagon. Willing hands carried all the gifts for them and piled them in. Cooking utensils, linens, blankets, crockery, and preserves: all thoughtful and necessary for beginning life together. Then Sigrün kissed her mother, each brother, Uli, Søren, Jan and, once again, a tearful Amalie. Together Sigrün and Harold drove away into the great adventure of their lives.

  Waving and calling good-byes, everyone saw them off, then busied themselves with cleaning up. All traces of the wedding were removed, for the “bossies” would have to come into their barn for milking soon. Empty dishes, blankets, rugs, and children were gathered. Rose helped Grace Davies with her children; the baby wailed to be fed while the two toddlers were overly tired and alternated whimpering and screaming for their naps. After the crowd thinned, Rose sought out Amalie to bid her goodbye. The poor woman was weary looking, and even her smile had a droop so Rose hugged her while pouring out praises and compliments on the bride, the ceremony, and the day in general.

  “Ja,” Amalie responded in satisfaction, and added a great deal more Rose didn’t understand but agreed with heartily. Unexpectedly, Amalie looked deep into Rose’s face for a moment, then muttered something and kissed Rose tenderly on the cheek.

  “Oh, Amalie!” Rose was surprised and touched.

  Amalie just shook her head and sighed as Rose went to her buggy. Jan, Søren, and Ivan were moving bales of hay out of the barn. They’d all changed from their finery to normal farm clothes. As Rose stacked her things on the floor of the buggy, Jan left off moving bales and came to help her finish, then handed her up to the seat. Søren and Ivan had stopped work, too, and were watching; Søren’s expression was stu
diously blank; Ivan stood grinning like a cat in the cream. Politely, Rose coughed. What was everyone staring at today?

  “It was a lovely wedding, Mr. Thoresen,” she remarked, anxious to get away. “Simply ‘grand’!”

  “Ja.” That same resolute glint was in his eye, and he nodded knowingly. “Next vun better, too, ja? God-dag, Mrs. Brünlee.”

  She drove away wondering what he meant by that. Søren hadn’t asked Meg yet, she was sure. Fiona would have told her! Since Prince was in high spirits and anxious to be home, she gave her attention to her driving and soon forgot the puzzling parts of the wonderful day.

  Chapter 28

  A week after the glorious weather of Sigrün and Harold’s wedding, heavy spring rains rolled into the region. Thunderheads piled up, black and towering along the sky’s edge, waiting for some precise moment to rush headlong into each other. The resulting lightning and thunderstorms were deafening; to Rose it sounded and felt as though the heavens were cracking apart. No gentle showers these! Torrents and sheets of water inundated the area, threatening to wash away the nursling crops. The creek separating Brownlee and Thoresen land swelled to ridiculous proportions overnight, washing into the lower parts of Rose’s yard, covering some portions of Jan and Søren’s closest corn field, and swamping the small bridge.

  For three nights followed by three dark days Rose never left her house except to tend Prince and Snowfoot in their stalls. There they were dry and warm, and she provided their feed and water, but each foray soaked her to the bone.

  The Baron made the trip with her and regularly marched his sentry around the house. The remaining time was spent companionably inside. Rose worked diligently on mending, needlework, Bible study, anything to draw her attention from the stupefying drizzle of rain. Dejected and bored, Baron lay across the closed doorway.

  The third evening, Rose was daydreaming idly before the open fire in her stove, untouched knitting in her lap. The Baron raised his splotched head, listening. Not noticing, Rose roused herself to make dinner. The dog stalked about the cabin as if trying to get a bearing on something, stopping and listening, moving from front door to back. He lay down frustrated, then catching some other sound with his ear, raised up as if attempting to identify it. Rose noted his agitation at last and wearily ordered him to lie back down.