“Well, all right, there’s a lot more to Isabelle compared to Miss Brandonberg, but still Miss Brandonberg isn’t mousy and puny. She looks just right to me.”
Theodore eyed his son askance, making out his clear, youthful profile beneath the bright moonlight. “You better not let her hear you say that, seeing as how she’s your teacher.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Kristian said dejectedly, dropping his glance to the dark earth, standing thoughtfully for a moment before suddenly lifting his face and asking more brightly, “You wanna know somethin’ funny?”
“What?”
“She thinks Russian thistles are pretty! She said she’s gonna have us go out in the field and paint pictures of them!”
Theodore grunted, then laughed once, joined by Kristian. “Yeah, well, she’s a town girl. You know they ain’t so smart about some things.”
But later, when Theodore lay down in his double bed, where he’d slept alone for well over fourteen years, he tried to picture a Russian thistle blossom and realized he really wasn’t sure what one looked like. For though he’d seen thousands upon thousands of them in his thirty-four years, he’d never looked at one with anything but contempt. He decided next time he saw one he’d take a second look.
5
LINNEA WASN’T PREPARED for the change she saw in Kristian and Theodore on Sunday morning. They’d looked the same as always when they returned from doing the morning chores to have their breakfast. But afterward, when Nissa called up the steps, “Come on! Buggy’s waiting!” Linnea dashed outside to find father and son dressed in formal black suits and ties and crisp white shirts, sitting side by side in the front seat of a black four-passenger surrey.
She came up short, assessing Theodore’s formal black hat and Kristian’s freshly combed hair, still wet at the sides and gleaming in the sun. They both wore tight, tight collars that appeared to be cutting into their jaws.
“My, don’t you two look handsome,” she said, pausing beside the rig. Kristian lit up while Theodore’s eyes lazily lingered on her ridiculous high hat, then dropped to her feet to assess the high-heeled congress shoes. He’d give them about six weeks out here on these rocky roads.
Neither of them, however, remembered to help the ladies board. When Nissa made a move to do so unaided, Linnea halted her as inconspicuously as possible.
“I wonder, Kristian, if you’d mind giving your grandmother a hand up. Her knees are bothering her this morning.”
“My knees’re as good—”
“Now, Nissa,” Linnea hushed her with a light touch on the arm. “You remember how you just said your knees seem to be out of joint this morning. Besides, a young man like Kristian is only too happy to display his manners and help us ladies board.”
He was down in a flash to hand up first Nissa then Linnea into the back seat, grinning widely. Theodore craned to observe, but said not a word. He just sat and watched the girl work her wiles on his son, who was falling all over himself to do her bidding. When everyone was seated, he caught the little missy’s eye, lifted one brow sardonically, then turned to cluck at the horses, flick the reins, and order quietly, “Hup there, Cub, Toots.” The whiffletree leveled and they were off at a trot.
The ride was very pleasant, though Linnea couldn’t help wondering at the reticence these people practiced during times when her own family would have been chatting pleasantly. Why, the weather alone made her spirits bubble. A slight breeze rustled the grasses at the edge of the road; the mid-morning sun was a golden caress. And the smell — pure, clean, the way she imagined it must smell a mile up into the clouds.
She glanced up. A few meringue puffs floated high to the north, but straight ahead the westerly sky was hard blue, a blue so rich it smote the senses.
Against it, she saw the white steeple long before they reached it. It seemed to be resting on Theodore’s broad right shoulder. The bell pealed, drifting to them quietly on the soft autumn wind. Again it pealed, louder, then again, diminished, its reverberations waxing and waning at the whim of the wind. Twelve times it chimed, until its canticle at last ushered their carriage into the churchyard.
Here, as at school, the wheat pressed close, surrounding the scores of horses and rigs tied at the hitching posts. The churchyard was filled with the congregation, all outside taking in a few extra minutes of the wondrous morning. The men stood in groups with their thumbs caught in their waistcoat pockets discussing the weather and the crops. The women gathered together, their bonnets nodding, discussing their canning. The children, their freshly polished boots already coated with dust, chased each other around the women’s skirts while being warned to stop before their shoes got dusty.
When the surrey halted, Linnea didn’t have to remind Kristian of his manners. He was johnny-on-the-spot, helping both women with a newfound sense of pride. But as they walked toward the church steps, Nissa commandeered her grandson’s arm and Linnea found herself beside Theodore. She neither took his elbow, nor did he offer it, but moved through the crowd with him, offering quick smiles when her glance met those of strangers.
Immediately she sensed people falling back to give her a respectful distance, watching as she made her way toward the door. There, Theodore introduced her to the minister, Reverend Martin Severt, a spare, handsome man in his mid-thirties, and his wife, an angular, well-dressed woman with prominent teeth and a ready smile. The Severts seemed a charming couple, their handshakes warm, their welcomes genuine, and Linnea couldn’t help but wonder if their son was really the mischiefmaker Nissa said he was.
Inside, John was already waiting in their pew. As they filed in to join him, Linnea ended up between Kristian and his father. When the service began, Kristian followed along in his prayer book, but Theodore sat for the most part with arms crossed tightly over his chest. Until the hymns began. She was amazed, then, to hear him sing out heartily in a clear, resonant baritone, as true as the tone of a tuning fork. Joining him in her equally true soprano, she allowed herself a cautious upward glance.
It was impossible, she decided, for a person to appear hardbitten while singing a hymn.
For the first time, she saw all that his face could be. His lips, now open wide in song, appeared less harsh than ever before. His jaw, dropped low to hold a note, had lost its stubborn set. And his eyes, lit by morning light streaming through an arched window, sparkled with a mellow expression. Shoulders squared, he stood with eight fingertips lightly tapping the pew in front of them, adding his robust voice to those around him.
He glanced down and caught her — singing, too — peering up at him. For only a moment his eyes seemed to radiate the smile his open mouth could not. Obviously, he knew the words by heart, but the moment was too perfect to pass up the opportunity of proffering an olive branch. It took only the slightest leftward shift for Linnea to lift her hymnal and offer to share it. Her elbow bumped his arm. A ripple skipped up her skin. She felt his uncertain pause, then he angled his body toward her. His fingers took the far edge of the book and they finished the hymn together.
In those minutes, while their voices blended toward heaven, she felt a reluctant accord, but by the time the song ended, a barrier had tumbled.
When the amen faded, Theodore waited until she began folding toward the seat before following suit. The sermon began and she struggled to concentrate on it and not the smell of lye soap and hair dressing coming from her left.
The service ended with Reverend Severt announcing, “We’re pleased to have with us today our new schoolteacher, Miss Linnea Brandonberg. Please take a minute to greet her and introduce yourselves and make her feel welcome.” Dozens of heads turned her way, but she was uncomfortably aware of only one, the one directly to her left. Realizing Theodore was scrutinizing her at closer range than ever before, she wondered suddenly if her hat was straight, her collar flat, her hair tight. But a moment later the church began emptying and she was swept into the bright autumn day. She forgot about appearances and concentrated on the new faces and na
mes.
They were all such ordinary people, but in that very ordinariness Linnea saw nobility. The men were built broad and strong, their hands hard and wide, all of them dressed in stern black and white. The women dressed simply with much more attention to comfort than to style. Their hate, unlike hers, were plain and flat, their shoes sensible. But to a number, they afforded Linnea an unmistakable diffident respect. The women smiled shyly, the men doffed their hats, and the children blushed when being introduced to “the new teacher.”
She met all of her students, but the two who stuck in her memory after they turned away were the Severt boy — a looker like his father, but with an unsettling nervousness about him — and Frances Westgaard, because Nissa had said she was slow. Perhaps it was the innate teacher in Linnea that made her radiate toward any child who needed her most, but her first glimpse of the thin girl with freckles and a corona of braids sent her heart out to the child.
Alas, there were so many Westgaard children she soon gave up trying to remember who belonged to whom. The adults were a little easier. Ulmer and Lars were simple to spot because they looked so much like Theodore, though Ulmer, the eldest, was losing his hair, and Lars had a far more ready smile.
And then came Clara — bulging with pregnancy, laughing at something private her husband had just whispered in her ear, and with eyes that smiled even before her lips did. Her hair was coffee-brown and she had beautiful skin, though her features were far less classically attractive than her brothers’. Her nose was a little too long and her mouth a little too wide, but when she smiled one scarcely noticed these imperfections, for Clara had something much more lasting. Clara had the beauty of happiness.
Linnea knew the minute their eyes met, she was going to like this woman.
Clara clasped Linnea’s hand, held it firmly and let a conspiratorial grin play at the corners of her lips. “So you’re the one who put my brother in his place. Good for you. He probably needed it.”
Linnea was so startled she couldn’t think of a proper response.
“I’m Clara.”
“Y... yes,” Linnea’s eyes swept down to her gently rounded belly. “I thought so.”
Clara laughed, caressed her high stomach, and pulled her husband’s elbow closer against her side. “And this is my Trigg.”
Perhaps it was the way she said “my Trigg” that made Linnea like her even more. There was such obvious pride in her voice, and for good reason. Trigg Linder was probably the handsomest man Linnea had ever seen. His hair glinted in the sun like freshly polished copper, his sky-blue eyes had the kind of lashes women envy, and his Nordic features had flawless symmetry and beauty. But what Linnea noted about Trigg Linder that remained in her memory was that all the while his wife talked, he kept one hand lightly around the back of her neck and seemed unable to keep himself from enjoying her face.
“So Teddy gave you a hard time,” Clara commented.
“Well, he... he didn’t exact—”
Clara laughed. “You don’t have to whitewash it with me. I know our Teddy, and he can be a royal Norwegian pain. Muleheaded, stubborn... ” She squeezed Linnea’s wrist. “But he has his moments. Give him time to adjust to you. Meantime, if he gets to you, come on over and let off some steam at my house. Coffee’s always on and I sure could use the company.”
“Why, thank you, I just might do that.”
“And how about Ma? She treating you okay?”
“Oh, yes. Nissa’s been wonderful.”
“I love every wiry hair on her head, but sometimes she drives me plumb crazy, so if she gives you one too many orders and you have the urge to tie and gag her, come and see me. We’ll talk about all the times I almost did.” She was already leaving when she turned back and added, “Oh, by the way, I love your hat.”
Unexpectedly Linnea burst out laughing.
“Did I say something funny?”
“I’ll tell you when I come for coffee.”
Even pregnant, Clara moved briskly, but when she was gone Linnea was the one who felt breathless. So this was Clara, the one who’d been closest to Theodore. The one who’d known Melinda. And she’d invited Linnea’s friendship. There was no doubt in Linnea’s mind she’d take her up on the offer.
Just then Kristian appeared and announced, “Pa says to come and ask you if you’re just about ready.”
She looked across the churchyard and found Nissa already in the wagon and Theodore standing beside his rig looking displeased, his foot tapping nervously.
“Oh, am I holding you up?”
“Well, it... it’s the wheat. Out here, when the weather’s good and the wheat’s ripe, we work every day of the week.”
“Oh!” So she’d given her landlord fuel for the fire. “Let me just say good-bye to Reverend Severt.” She kept her farewell short, but even so, as she crossed to Theodore’s wagon she saw the irritation on his face.
“I’m sorry I held you up, Theodore. I didn’t know you’d be going out in the fields today.”
“You never heard of making hay while the sun shines, missy? Just get up there and let’s move.” He grasped her elbow and helped her up with a shove that was more rude than no help at all. Singed by his abrupt change after the closeness to him she’d felt in church, Linnea rode home in confusion.
As soon as they arrived there was a quick scramble to change clothes. Linnea was in her room removing her hatpin when she remembered the coal. The last thing on earth she wanted to do was bring up the subject and rile him further, but she had little choice.
She intercepted him as he came out of his bedroom into the parlor, dressed in freshly washed and ironed bib overalls and a clean faded-blue chambray shirt. He was setting his shaggy straw hat on his head when he came up short at the sight of her. His arm came down very slowly, and they stared at each other for a long, silent moment.
She recalled sharing the hymnal with him in church and how for those few minutes he had seemed... different. Approachable. Likable. Suddenly it became difficult to talk to him. But at last she found her voice.
“I realize how busy you are at this time of the year, but I promised Mr. Dahl I’d remind you about the school coal.”
“Dahl always thinks a blizzard’s gonna blow up in the middle of September and he’ll lose his job if that coal shed’s not filled. But Dahl ain’t got wheat to get in.”
“Hasn’t got wheat to get in,” she corrected.
“What?” His brows drew together.
“Hasn’t got... ” Her fingers went up to cover her lips. Oh, Linnea, must your tongue always work faster than your brain? “Nothing. N... nothing... I... I told him I’d remind you, now I have. Sorry I held you up.” What was it about the man that could make her so twitchy at times?
“If Dahl comes around pesterin’ you about it again, tell him I’ll get to it when I can. While the sun shines, I cut wheat.” And with that he shouldered around her and left the house.
The afternoon stretched before her endlessly, so she decided to go down to the schoolhouse. Knowing more about her students now, able to put a few faces to names, she sat down and mapped out the first week’s lesson plans, perusing her limited textbooks. There was Worcester’s Speller, McGuffey’s Reader, Ray’s Mental Arithmetic, Monteith and McNally’s Geography, and Clark’s Grammar. The other books on the shelf were on varied subjects and appeared to have been donated from homes over the years. Most, such as the one she’d randomly selected the day she read to Kristian — entitled New Era Economics — were far too advanced to be of much use for her students, especially the younger ones.
But there was one thing children were never too young to learn, and that was table manners. She needed no books to help her teach this! And it was high on her list of priorities.
When her lessons plans were done, she unfurled the American flag and hung it from its bracket up front, printed the words to the “Pledge of Allegiance” on the blackboard, then her name in large block letters: MISS BRANDONBERG. She stood back, surveying it with smil
ing satisfaction, brushing the chalk dust from her fingers, almost giddy at the thought of ringing the bell at nine o’clock tomorrow morning and calling her first class to order.
It was only mid-afternoon, and she hated to leave the pleasant schoolhouse just yet.
On a sudden inspiration she sat down and began drawing a series of large alphabet cards to augment the textbooks, each with a picture to represent the letter. On A she drew an apple. On B a barn. On c a cat. She enjoyed drawing, and took time over the task, stopping often to ponder long and hard over what symbol should represent each letter. Striving to make them pictures of things to which the children could relate, she made H a horse, rather misproportioned, but she did her best — M a mouse, and s a sunflower. And with a smile, she began next on a thistle.
But upon beginning, she realized she’d need to see the plant to capture the Russian thistle accurately.
She walked down the road with the sun beating hot on her hair, dreaming idle dreams while the cottonwoods tittered in the gentle afternoon breeze. Spying a gleaming amber rock in the middle of the road, she squatted, plucked it into her palm, and remained hunkered for long minutes, chin on knees, savoring the warmth of the stone — smooth and weighty in her palm. In places it glittered, and in the center bore a translucent stripe reminiscent of the color of Theodore’s eyes. She closed her own and remembered the touch of his arm next to hers in church, the odd sense of unity she’d felt while singing with him. She had never before been to a church service with a man.
She rubbed the stone with her thumb, popped it into her mouth, tasting its warmth and good earthiness, then spit it into her hand and studied the brown stripe, wet now, gleaming, its color intensified to the deep amber of Theodore’s eyes.
She smiled dreamily, hunkering yet in the center of the road.
“Lawrence,” she murmured aloud, “isn’t it funny, I’ve known you all this time yet I’ve never noticed the color of your eyes.”
She stood up, squeezing the stone in her palm. She looked into Lawrence’s eyes. “Oh,” she noted disappointedly, “they’re green.” Then she forced herself to brighten. “Oh, well. Come on” — she grabbed Lawrence’s hand — ”I’ll show you a Russian thistle.”