Tender Mercies Page 3

Like the others, Mary Martha found it easy to enumerate things to be grateful for. Her family out here with new nieces and a sister-in-law with whom she felt an instant kinship, Zeb’s freedom from the Galloways, her safe trip here, a house of God to worship in. With that, a picture of the minister to this flock flashed into her mind. So much for a reverent attitude for prayer. Now that she’d had time to think about it, she was irked. After all, he had been terribly rude.

  “Heavenly Father . . .”

  Kaaren’s words brought Mary Martha back to the moment.

  “Thou knowest our hearts, thou knowest our inmost beings, and we thank thee that thou lovest us anyway, for we are thy children and the sheep of thy pasture. Keep us in thy will that we may bring glory and honor to thy name. In Jesus’ blessed name we pray. Amen.”

  There were sniffles as the women echoed her “amen,” and several had to surreptitiously wipe their eyes when they raised their heads.

  “Thank you, Kaaren. As usual, you have given us food for thought and an opportunity to spend time with our heavenly Father.” Penny’s eyes looked a bit damp too.

  On the surface we all look so fine, but I have a feeling that some of these misty eyes came because of hurts inside that no one wants to admit, me included. Mary Martha watched as Penny took control of herself again and beamed a smile around the room.

  “Now, does anyone have anything to say about what has gone on in our meetings before?”

  “Ja, what happened with the letter you sent to find out about Manda and Deborah’s homestead?” Mrs. Valders’ feather on her hat bobbed as she spoke.

  “I still have heard nothing, so I sent another letter. I have a feeling Mr. MacCallister is going to have to make a trip out there to settle this thing. It would be his place now that he and Katy have officially adopted the girls.”

  “Ja, he’s been thinking on that, but he had to wait until harvest was over.” Katy looked up from cutting out bits of cotton one and one-quarter inch square to piece for the wedding ring pattern. “We hate to take the girls out of school, but they want to see their homeplace again.”

  “Can’t say as I blame them.” Ingeborg joined the conversation. “We’ll take care of your chores while you are away.”

  Penny nodded. “I know cousin Ephraim wouldn’t mind living out there again.”

  “On the matter of women’s votes, you know, like we talked about before?” Wrenlike, Mrs. Dyrfinna Odell raised her hand as she spoke, glancing at Hildegunnn Valders as if to ask permission.

  Penny nodded. “What is it you want to say?”

  “I . . . I read that the men don’t want our proposal even on the ballot. The Fargo Argus had a big article about it. The . . . the man who wrote it said God didn’t make women to think well enough to make decisions like choosing our government officials.”

  “Ah, yes, the men are doing such a fine job themselves what with all the graft going on in President Cleveland’s administration. And if you look into the Indian matters, the reality between what was ordered and what gets to those poor misfortunate beings is inhuman.” Penny rolled her eyes and took a breath. “I better not get going on this, or I’ll go on for hours.” She shook her head again. “And that Louisiana Lottery they’re trying to push over on us, oh!”

  “So, I want to know how we are going to get our men to vote for women’s suffrage.”

  “Oh, pshaw,” Agnes Baard said with a shake of her head, “we just tell ’em no vote, no—”

  “Agnes!” Penny had to roll her lips to keep from laughing out loud.

  “ . . . cookies to go with their coffee.” Agnes finished with an innocent look on her face. “What did you think I was going to say?”

  While some of the women snickered either into a handkerchief or behind their hands, others laughed out loud.

  But through all this, the work continued as if minds and hands were two entirely separate entities. Mary Martha marveled at them, since she had to quit stitching to follow the conversations.

  “While I know that some of you have met my sister-in-law, I’d like to introduce her to those of you who haven’t yet had the honor.” Katy stood and motioned Mary Martha to do the same. “Mary Martha MacCallister is here from Missouri to visit. Let’s speak English as much as possible so she can join in. Now if the rest of you would say your names, she can get to know us all.”

  Katy sat down, making Mary Martha feel as if a spotlight shone right on her. She could feel her cheeks heating up as around the room all the women introduced themselves.

  “We’re going to give you a test at the end,” whispered Kaaren.

  “Thank you.” Mary Martha sat down and whispered back, “If you made me pronounce them all, that would be hard enough.”

  “We are glad you are here,” Penny added at the end. “Now, was there anything else?”

  “Ja, but we didn’t talk about this before.” Ingeborg nodded toward Bridget, who was stitching on the quilt across the corner from Mary Martha.

  “So, let’s start now.” Penny nodded to Bridget, who put a hand to her breast and rolled her eyes beseechingly at Ingeborg.

  “No, you tell them,” Ingeborg said.

  Bridget got to her feet, clasped and unclasped her hands, and launched into rapid fire Norwegian. She finished in the same rush and sat back down.

  “She wants to build a boardinghouse here in Blessing, but her son thinks she is too old. She wants to know what we all think.” Kaaren hit the high points for Mary Martha.

  “Why, the nerve of him. From what I’ve seen and heard of Bridget, she has the energy of one half her age. And from what Penny said the other day, a boardinghouse would be a good idea.”

  “It is.” Kaaren agreed. “I think Hjelmer is just being cautious.”

  “If Bridget decides to do this, we will help her.” Mrs. Valders glanced around at the others, and they all nodded. “Contrary to other political situations, we have as much say at the bank meetings as the men do. She will most certainly be given the loan. After all, the men borrow money for machinery from the bank and for barns and such. Why can’t a woman take out a loan too?”

  “For the same reason they think we can’t vote.” The voice came from the group at the cutting table.

  “Bridget, you need a savings account at the bank.” Penny looked around for the approval of others.

  “But I . . . I have no money.”

  “Of course you do. I sold those sweaters you knitted, the soakers, and the wool stockings. If I pay you in cash rather than dress goods and such, you could open an account. Then you will have a vote just like the rest of us.”

  A flutter of frowns crossed Bridget’s forehead, disappearing into her snowy hair. When she nodded, she smiled at the same time. “I am in America now. I will try this new thing.”

  “Then we must sit down and begin to figure out what the building and furnishings are going to cost.” Penny nodded as she spoke. “I have price lists from companies that will help us get an idea of costs.”

  “Uff da.” Bridget shuddered. “I must be a crazy woman to think I can do such a thing. Maybe Hjelmer is right. I am too old.”

  “No, just as we broke the sod one furrow at a time, we will raise this new building one board at a time.” Ingeborg leaned toward the bestemor of her two sons. “You can call it Bridget’s Boardinghouse or The Bjorklund Boardinghouse. Either one will look good on a sign right on top of the porch roof so all can see it.”

  “Just don’t serve any spirits there is all I say.” A comment again from one of those at the cutting table.

  Penny waited a moment before continuing. “If there is nothing else, then, help yourself to the coffee and cake whenever you want. We will serve dinner at noon like always.” She made her way to the quilting frame and took a seat between Bridget and Kaaren.

  “I’m glad to get that part out of the way.” She reached for her needle. “Oh, Kaaren, one of the ladies asked if you would read to us again like you have in the past. Would that be all right?”

&n
bsp; Needles flew as Kaaren read from the Psalms and then asked for any favorites. One woman asked for the story of Ruth, so Kaaren turned to that book.

  Mary Martha let the sounds flow over her, wishing she understood the words. Women went about the business of quilt making, took care of the children, nursed their babies, and wiped away a tear once in a while, at the same time listening to what the Scriptures had to say. After she finished reading, Kaaren took her whimpering baby, Samuel, and, folding a blanket over her shoulder, set him to nursing.

  When they broke for the noon meal, a male voice intruded on the female conversation.

  Mary Martha knew immediately who it was even before she heard the “Welcome, Pastor Solberg, you are just in time.” Why is it that I know his voice already? It isn’t as if we’ve been acquainted for a long time or anything. Why does just hearing his voice bother me?

  The thoughts raced as she schooled her face to neutrality, continuing her description of the homeplace in Missouri to Kaaren and Ingeborg. They were having a difficult time understanding the term hollow, or holler, as she said it.

  “I don’t know,” Ingeborg said with a sigh, accompanied by a gentle smile. “Between our Norwegian accents and your Missouri drawl, our understanding of each other might be nothing short of a miracle.”

  “Zeb and Katy surely did work it out real fastlike. You should have seen them. Zeb went to the classes where our new immigrants were learning English so he could learn enough Norwegian to help out. We had many good laughs over that.” Kaaren motioned Mary Martha toward the table where the food was set out.

  “Kaaren and Agnes helped with the English classes and probably will again,” Ingeborg said from her other side.

  “Agnes helped out with what?” Agnes said, joining them.

  When they reached the head of the line, they gestured for their guest to go first. Mary Martha turned toward the table and glanced over to another just in time to catch the glance of Pastor Solberg.

  He looked at her as if she weren’t there, as if he could see right through her.

  She felt like waving her hand in front of his face just to get that look out of his eyes. But instead she turned to dish up her soup and buttered bread. Surely that must be the problem. The man had no manners. None at all.

  And if that were the case, how on earth did he shepherd this flock, who certainly seemed to hold him in high esteem.

  Was there something wrong with her?

  Chapter 4

  “I’m going to school today. I’m going to school today,” Andrew recited in a singsong voice.

  “Not if you don’t hold still. Andrew Bjorklund, I mean it.” Ingeborg tapped her young son on the shoulder. She raised the scissors again. “I am trimming your hair, and you are sitting still.”

  “Ellie and Deborah are going too.”

  “Ja, I know.”

  “Pastor Solberg will be our teacher.”

  “True.” She snipped a bit more off the left side in the back, leaving no curls along his neck. The top now lay in waves, but she knew as soon as the wind caught it, the nearly white curls would fly free again.

  “I like Pastor Solberg.” Andrew looked up at her.

  Ingeborg rolled her eyes. “Andrew, sit still, or you will look very strange.”

  “Andew petty.” Astrid studied her big brother with adoring eyes. “Me go too.”

  “No, you’re too little.” Andrew shook his head, flinched, looked up to the right to catch his mother’s frown, and froze. “Sorry.”

  Astrid straightened her spine and glared at her brother. “Me go.”

  “She surely is a Bjorklund. Look at that jaw.” Bridget scooped up the two-and-a-half-year-old in her arms and kissed her rosy cheek. “Astrid can help Bestemor bake cookies.”

  “Cookies?” She clapped her pudgy hands to her grandmother’s cheeks, then looked over her shoulder at Andrew. “Andew no cookies.” The tip of her straight little nose rose in the air just a mite. Astrid knew how to act like a queen bee when she wanted to.

  “You be good now. We don’t want any bad reports.” Bridget smiled at Andrew, who looked at her as if she’d grown two new sets of ears.

  “I am always good.”

  Bridget and Astrid headed for the well house, giggles floating over their shoulders.

  “Mor?”

  “What?”

  “I am good all the time, ain’t I?” He looked up at her with eyes of Bjorklund blue, slightly darkened with the seriousness of his question.

  Ingeborg whisked away the dish towel she had tied around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Most of the time, and I know you will do all you are asked at school.”

  “Mor. Hurry him up.” Nearly twelve years old, Thorliff carried in an armload of wood and dumped it in the woodbox by the cast-iron cookstove. “We’re going to be late, and we can’t be late on the first day of school.” The horrified look on his face made his mother smile. He brushed the bark and chips off his arms and the front of his sweater, one that Bridget had just finished knitting for him the night before.

  “No, you won’t. Lars is taking you. He has to go to town anyway.”

  “Good.” He studied his brother. “You got your slate?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Your lunch pail?”

  Another nod.

  “A handkerchief?” At the third nod, Thorliff pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, studying his younger brother.

  Andrew sat like a small creature in the grass when the shadow of a hawk flies overhead. At Thorliff ’s nod, the little boy let out a long held breath. He’d passed inspection. He leaped off the stool and ran around the table once, then again, singing out happily, “School today. School today.”

  Thorliff and Ingeborg exchanged looks of both pride and laughter. Andrew had always been the one to make the two who had a tendency to seriousness smile and laugh.

  I’m going to miss him. Ingeborg hid the thought carefully from her sensitive older son. Thank God for Astrid. But she will soon be on the way too and then what? Why, oh why, don’t you trust me with another baby, Lord? Have I been so evil in your sight? Do you not believe me when I plead for another child? What can I do to change your mind?

  All the while she kept a smile on her face and forced the clouds away from her eyes. Knowing in her head that God knew of His plans for her and convincing her heart were two different things.

  The jingle of horse harnesses and a sharp bark from Thorliff ’s dog, Paws, announced the arrival of the wagon.

  Andrew headed for the door, skidded to a stop on the braided oval rug, and spun around. He grabbed his lunch pail and slate off the table and headed back outside.

  “Andrew.”

  Another screeching halt. This time he ran back to his mother, gave her a peck on the cheek, suffered through a hug, and danced out to the wagon.

  Thorliff, who had grown so over the summer that the two of them stood nearly eye to eye, looked to his mother and shook his head. “Andrew, he gets kinda excited.” With that he took his own things, tipped his head for a quick kiss on the cheek and a pat on the shoulder, and joined Andrew in the wagon box behind their uncle Lars. Hamre, their twelve-year-old distant cousin who had come from Norway the year before with Bridget, sat on the seat beside the driver. The family resemblance was so strong that a stranger would have thought the three were brothers. While he nodded at their greeting, he, as usual, said nothing.

  Bridget and Astrid came out of the springhouse to wave them off, and Ingeborg did the same from the top of the steps. A running figure caught the wagon before they passed the barns. Baptiste, dark hair flying as he leaped in great strides, swung into the back of the wagon as it kept on rolling. Grandson of Metiz, the French-Indian friend of the family, and Thorliff ’s best friend, Baptiste would rather be hunting and fishing out on the land he loved. He suffered school for his friend’s sake and because Metiz insisted that he learn to live in the white man’s world. Thanks to Metiz and her grandson, the settlers of Blessing—mostly the
Bjorklunds—had learned to live off the land too. Metiz taught Ingeborg about the healing herbs growing around them and how to use them.

  “He almost waited too long, huh?” Bridget said, her basket full of eggs, a crock of buttermilk, and a haunch of venison Baptiste had brought them two days earlier. Astrid carried an egg carefully in each hand.

  “Ja, that rascal.” Ingeborg drew in a deep breath. Someone already had their smokehouse going—must be Metiz with the venison. This would be her first winter in the frame house Haakan and Lars had built for her on her three acres by the river. A haze lay across the land, blurring the edges of trees and the cattle out in the pasture. Geese and ducks sang their leaving song in the skies above, their V formations nearly clouding the sun at times.

  Off in the field she could see Haakan waving at the passing wagon. Row after row of black soil rolled over from the blade of his plow as he and the team made their way back and forth across the wheat fields. All of the prairie land they owned was now broken to the plow except for the acres they kept for hay and pasture.

  Ingeborg glanced up at the sky again. What she wouldn’t give to take the gun this afternoon and go bag some geese, both for the meat and the feathers. They never seemed to have enough down for pillows and feather beds, and roast goose would be such a treat. If she were lucky, she might even get a deer. With all the land settled around them, the deer had become more scarce so close to home.

  All good reasons. With the boys back in school, they wouldn’t be able to hunt as they had lately, so . . . so why not me? If Bridget is too scandalized by my britches, well, she . . . she can just live with it. So what if it isn’t exactly ladylike.

  Haakan would roll his eyes and tease her about her need to be out in the woods, but as long as she didn’t insist on working the fields, he’d allow her this. Kaaren would shake her head, but it would all be worth it to walk free in the woods and fields. Maybe she’d find a hazelnut bush or a bee tree.

  She could feel the anticipation welling within her like a spring newly uncapped. Freedom! Freedom from the hot kitchen, four walls, and hampering skirts.