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  Pearl

  Books by Lauraine Snelling

  A Secret Refuge (3 in 1)

  DAKOTAH TREASURES

  Ruby • Pearl

  Opal • Amethyst

  DAUGHTERS OF BLESSING

  A Promise for Ellie

  Sophie’s Dilemma

  A Touch of Grace

  Rebecca’s Reward

  HOME TO BLESSING

  A Measure of Mercy

  No Distance Too Far

  RED RIVER OF THE NORTH

  An Untamed Land The Reapers’ Song

  A New Day Rising Tender Mercies

  A Land to Call Home Blessing in Disguise

  RETURN TO RED RIVER

  A Dream to Follow

  Believing the Dream

  More Than a Dream

  Pearl

  LAURAINE SNELLING

  Pearl

  Copyright © 2004

  Lauraine Snelling

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-7642-2221-4

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Snelling, Lauraine.

  Pearl / by Lauraine Snelling.

  p. cm. — (Dakotah treasures ; 2)

  ISBN 0-7642-2221-X (pbk.)

  1. Women pioneers—Fiction. 2. Medora (N.D.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.N39P43 2004

  813'.54—dc22

  2003027327

  * * *

  Dedication

  Pearl is dedicated to all the daughters God has given me, not to replace Marie but to make her absence easier.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  LAURAINE SNELLING is an award-winning author of over forty books, fiction and nonfiction, for adults and young adults. Besides writing books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband,Wayne, have two grown sons and two dogs and make their home in California.

  acknowledgments

  Historical societies are great research places for historical writers, and for this new series I thank the North Dakota Historical Society at Bismarck and Diane Rogness, the curator at the Chateau de Mores in Medora, for information and early pictures, of which there are few, of Little Missouri. Doug and Mary at the Western Edge Bookstore in Medora added bits and pieces to this series and directed me to the most helpful books and maps.

  I am blessed with the most able and helpful assistant in Cecile, who has learned she is part brainstormer, part editor, part encourager, and part researcher. When she came to work for me, she didn’t realize she would lose sleep over the characters in these books.

  Thanks to husband Wayne for becoming more expert in the care and feeding of a writer under deadline and for the research, reading, and remembering he contributed. It sure helps to be married to a man who can pull historical dates out of his mind without looking them up and who enjoys being a partner of this writing life of ours.

  My editor, Sharon Asmus, and all the staff at Bethany House Publishers did their usual fine work, for which I am extremely grateful. I waited a long time for an agent, and Deidre Knight has helped make my writing life both simpler and more diverse. Thanks, all of you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chicago , early March 1883

  Once a teacher, always a teacher.

  Pearl Hossfuss stared at the line she’d written in her most perfect script. That is the story of my life, the rest of my life for however long it may be. Was that a sigh of despair or acceptance she felt working its way up from her toes?

  ‘‘Miss Pearl, your father said you are late for supper.’’ The maid stood in the doorway, a quick glance over her shoulder giving the impression she would rather be anywhere than where she was at the moment.

  ‘‘Thank you, Marlene. I’m sorry you had to come searching for me.’’ Pearl corked her inkwell and stood, tucking her hair into the gentle wave that, along with the high-necked waist, covered the scar on her neck. She glanced in the mirror as she passed the oak-framed oval mirror. No sense in not being perfectly groomed. She’d been sent back to her room more than once to repair an imperfection.

  She touched the cameo at the neckline, her talisman, the last gift from her mother. Would her father even remember that today, March fifth, was the tenth anniversary of her mother’s death? Not that he would say anything, of course.

  She made her way down the curved and carved staircase, the gas-lit chandelier on the landing dispelling the gloom of a gray day. The light reflecting off the Venetian crystals was a sight that never failed to lift her spirits.

  ‘‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was studying for tomorrow.’’ She made her way to the chair at her stepmother’s left hand, where she had sat ever since Amalia joined the Hossfuss family a year after Pearl’s mother died. Her father had at least paid tribute to the strictures of society regarding the year of mourning.

  The way he snapped his napkin and laid it across his lap told her he would have more to say later on the subject of her tardiness. Muttonchop whiskers, two shades darker than his sandy hair, bristled. Gold-rimmed glasses perched low on a nose as regal as a Greek god’s.

  Eleven-year-old Jorge Bronson Hossfuss Jr., a miniature of his father, sans glasses, in appearance only, glanced at her from lowered eyes, one twitching in a wink. If it weren’t for the antics of Jorge, life in the Hossfuss mansion would be far more sober.

  ‘‘Let us pray.’’ Mr. Hossfuss, the name still called him by his wife, bowed his head and began without waiting to make sure everyone did the same. He just expected it.

  ‘‘I Jesu navn . . .’’

  The Norwegian words flowed around the table, a daily reminder of their heritage, a heritage that Jorge Bronson Hossfuss Sr. had capitalized on as a way to the wealth th
at built a warehouse, office buildings, and as Pearl recently discovered, some of the tenements where her pupils lived, as well as the Hossfuss estate on Lakeshore Drive.

  Pearl brought her thoughts back in time to join the others in the amen. Was that why her father allowed her to teach at the settlement house? As a way of atonement for his investments? Or, as she had suspected more than once, was it because teaching was the only permissible position for his elder daughter who refused to become a leader in the society where his new wife thrived? After nine years of marriage, Amalia was not new, but Pearl always thought of her that way.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ she responded as the maid set a gilt-edged flat bowl centered on a matching gilt-edged plate in front of her. Fish ball soup tonight. Inga, direct from the old country, cooked all manner of meals but was truly in her element when she could serve true Norwegian fare.

  ‘‘How was school today?’’ her father asked his son.

  ‘‘All right. I made an A on that composition about the wreck of the HF, thanks to the information you gave me.’’

  Mr. Hossfuss shook his head. The HF, standing for Hoss Fuss, had been one of his ships, veteran of many Atlantic crossings, but had sunk in a freak storm on Lake Michigan.

  ‘‘And you, Pearl, have you a good report also?’’ His mandatory question asked, he nodded to the maid to remove his soup dish.

  ‘‘Yes.’’ But she made no effort to continue. He never bothered to listen.

  ‘‘Mrs. Smithson said that she’d heard your headmistress saying what a superb teacher you are.’’ Amalia patted her mouth with her napkin. ‘‘I know that makes your father very proud of you.’’

  Pearl knew no such thing. Once, back when she was his princess, she had thought that, but no longer. He did his duty by her—he would never bear to have someone say he had shirked his duty—but with that taken care of, he relegated her to things past.

  Wishing she were up in the nursery with the younger children, Pearl finished her dinner, waited for her father and stepmother to adjourn to the parlor for their evening together, then she and Jorge headed for the second floor in the west wing, the floor devoted to children.

  ‘‘Did you see the stage since I remade it for Arnet and Anna?’’

  ‘‘No. When did you finish?’’

  ‘‘Last night.’’

  ‘‘So they will be able to give their first performance for Father’s birthday?’’

  ‘‘Right on schedule. He’ll have to believe you had a hand in the script.’’

  ‘‘No one will tell him.’’ She’d already made sure of that. All the credit would go to Arnet and Anna who, while they were ten months apart, looked more alike than many twins.

  ‘‘Do you think Father will like our surprise?’’

  He better. ‘‘Of course he will. After all, it’s about when he came to America. How many times has he told you the story?’’

  Jorge grinned. ‘‘I can’t count that high.’’

  Jealousy was one of the seven deadly sins, and Pearl had to fight it off on a regular basis. On one hand she rejoiced for her younger brothers and sister, but on the other, if only her father would grace her with the smiles she remembered from before, then . . . But it was always before. Before life had changed in an instant. Accidents happened. That’s why they were called accidents.

  ‘‘Are you having your class do a play this year?’’ Jorge asked.

  ‘‘I’d like to.’’ Ignoring the memory of the extra long hours she’d put in to make the play a success, she thought only to the faces of her pupils, the smiles, the excited jabbering, the fear overcome. Could she manage to create such a production again, or had her children last year been especially gifted?

  ‘‘I’ll help you.’’

  She turned to her brother. ‘‘Tusen takk and more.’’

  He sketched a bow. ‘‘You have no idea what it will cost you.’’

  Her laugh made his smile widen.

  That night as she prepared for bed, Pearl opened her Bible to Psalm 91, one of her favorites. She recited it aloud as she loosened her corset, sliding the bone-ridged garment down so she could step out of it. She hung it in the chifforobe, lifting her dressing gown off the hook at the same time. ‘‘‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings thou shalt trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.’’’ She turned the pages to verses fourteen and sixteen, her latest verses to consign to memory. She read one verse aloud, reciting it again as she sat to brush her hair the required one hundred strokes. Dark like honey, left in the hive over winter, that glinted fire when sparked by sunlight, the strands rippled down her back. She could call one of the maids to come brush it for her, but she knew they were busy cleaning up from supper. The pitcher of water, still warm for her to wash her face, was a luxury. Bathing in the bathroom was also a luxury, but there was something special about the privacy of her own room. And besides, this was the time she used to spend with her mother, a sacred hour just before bedtime, when Anna asked about her day, told her stories of when she was little after coming from Norway, and always, the most delicious, brushed her hair. And allowed her daughter to brush hers. Ah, the rippling gold of her mother’s hair. Pearl’s had never held the sheen and silkiness of her mother’s.

  She stared at the face in the slightly wavy mirror. She knew she looked like her mother—straight nose, full lips, and eyebrows with a tendency to arch, both in question or amusement. Except for the side she kept turned from the light. Always there was an except. But her mother had been a beauty, so why didn’t the similar features do the same for her daughter?

  Was it the touch of her father’s square chin? His wider brow? The tiny gap between her two front teeth? Beauty was in the eyes of the beholder, or so the old saying went. And her eyes always saw only the almost, the not quite.

  She folded back the covers and stroked her hand over the warmed sheets. Marlene had been busy with the warming pan, a long-handled round pan filled with coals that she stroked between the sheets. Settled with two pillows propped behind her so she could read, Pearl opened her book, carefully placing the leather bookmark beyond where she was reading. Nothing gave her more pleasure than a good book. Even though she’d read Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility before, she lost herself in the story, finally turning off the gaslight when her eyes grew too heavy to stay open. In the darkness of her room she watched the branches outside her window dance in the wind. As a child they’d frightened her, but now they’d become old friends.

  ‘‘Lord, what is to become of me? Am I to remain here in my father’s house, doing his bidding for the rest of my life? Is there not another place for me? Perhaps even a husband? I hate to sound like a whining woman, but I’m nearly twenty-three, an old maid in everyone’s eyes. Is that your will for me?’’ She paused, a heaviness settling on her chest. A sigh sent it scurrying. ‘‘I surely do hope not, pray not. Have I been remiss lately in saying how I love you? Forgive me for being so wrapped up in my own concerns. I do love you. I honor you and praise your most holy name. Amen.’’ She turned on her side and tucked the quilts up about her shoulders.

  Sometime later, she woke from a dream of traveling on a train. I wonder where I was going.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pearl stared across her fifth-grade class at the settlement house. Half of them belonged at home in bed if their coughing and runny noses were any indication. But they were at least warm here and had a hot meal at noon.

  ‘‘Miss Hossfuss, I gotta go,’’ one of the boys said.

  ‘‘You may be excused.’’ She gave him an arched eyebrow look. ‘‘But come straight back.’’ She refrained from adding ‘‘this time,’’ but he knew. One more trip to the principal, and he would be out on the streets. r />
  No one with even a lick of brains wanted to be out on the sleety streets of Chicago. The wind seared skin and sucked the juice out of one, leaving a person reeling. And yesterday had been the first fine taste of spring.

  ‘‘All right class, since we cannot go outside for recess, we will play a game in here. Now count off by twos.’’ She pointed to the girl on the far left side of the room. ‘‘Start with you, Sadie.’’

  Sighs and groans accompanied the numbering as the sides took shape. Letting them choose took far too long and always left the last one standing feeling as though no one liked him, or her, as the case may be.

  ‘‘You’re here with us,’’ someone called when the boy reentered the room.

  ‘‘All right now, form up behind the line. We’re going to do a relay. The person at the head of the line runs to the front of the room, grabs an eraser off the blackboard, and runs back, handing it off to the next runner. The first team to finish wins.’’