Anna's heart skittered and leapt in her breast at his unexpected gentleness and selflessness. Considerateness of this sort was foreign to her. She wanted terribly to meet the blue depths of his eyes, but had she done so, she thought she might start crying. She could only stare at the strong, brown hand draped over a wide kneecap as he went on speaking.
“Anna, it is not too late for you to go back. It is not too late for either of us to change our minds. I thought that now you have met me, maybe . . . maybe you might not want to get married. Knowing how young you are and how you had to think of some way for you and the boy to live, I see you had to act quick, but maybe you think now you made a mistake, now that you see Karl Lindstrom. I think, Anna, that I must give you two choices. I must promise you first that if you want to go back, Father Pierrot and I will find a way to get you to Boston safely. Only if you are very sure this is not what you want, then I must give you the second choice to marry me.”
The callus on his thumb grew wavery. Anna felt the tears form upon her lashes and quiver there, just short of dropping. “I told you, I have nobody to go back to, no place to go back to.” Still she did not look up at him.
“Father and I will try to think of something else if this is what you want. Some place for you to go and live here in Minnesota.”
“Your place sounded pretty good to me,” she braved timorously.
Yes, she was afraid of him. He knew it now because of the tremble in her voice.
“You are sure, Anna?”
She nodded at the buffalo robes.
“In that case, a girl should have the right to say she has been given a proper proposal of marriage, and that she truly had a choice in the matter, after she has met the man, not before.”
Now she did look up. Her eyes flew to his face, so close above hers. His intense eyes had never left hers, were only waiting for her to raise her glance to his. Those eyes were liquid blue, shining with sincerity. She wondered how many girls had gazed into them and found them as heartstopping as she did at this moment. The lashes were darker than the perfectly shaped eyebrows, which beckoned her fingers to trace their curve. That silly compulsion prompted her to close her fist about a handful of buffalo fur, to keep it from doing such an outrageous thing.
“Onnuh . . .” he began, and during the long hesitation before he continued, she wanted to say, yes, yes, I am Onnuh now, say it once more just like that. And as if he heard her thought, he did. “Onnuh, if I am not what you thought I would be, I will understand. But if you think that we could forget this poor start we had yesterday, I promise I will be good to you, Onnuh. I will take both you and the boy with me.”
Slowly one big hand went up to slide the cap from his hair, the old-country courtesy tearing at her heartstrings. He reached to take her elbow in his free hand. The warmth of his flesh, the look of need she read in his eyes, the feathertouch upon her elbow, all combined to make Anna feel light-headed and dizzy.
“Onnuh Reardon, will you marry me?”
She felt like she had awakened in the midst of some fantastic dream, to find this handsome blond giant kneeling upon one knee to her, rubbing her inner elbow with his thumb, an expression of intense hope and promise upon his sun-bronzed face.
Anna's lips fell open, a quickly drawn breath told the secret mingling of emotions she was experiencing: relief, fear, and—yes—a new, beating exhilaration that made her breasts seem tight and brought a film of perspiration to the palms of her hands.
“Yes,” she breathed at last.
Karl smiled, a relieved tilting of the corners of his lips. He glanced at her hair once, then gave her elbow a light squeeze of reassurance.
“Good. We will make this our beginning then, right here. And everything else is forgotten, right?”
“Yes,” she agreed, wondering wildly if she should confess the rest to him here and now. Yet she was terrified lest he withdraw his proposal and the security it offered. She gave him a wavering smile.
“We will make a good start . . . just Karl and Anna . . .” Then, with a full wide smile, he added, “and James.”
“Karl and Anna and James,” she repeated, almost like a vow.
Karl stood before her then. As she looked up, she noticed for the first time what straight teeth he had. Has he no flaws whatsoever? she wondered. Anna became ever more aware of a feeling of inferiority as she compared herself to him.
“Come,” he said nicely, “I will help you roll up these robes, then we will go tell Father Pierrot the decision is made and we are ready.”
Outwardly, Father Pierrot beamed as he shook their hands with great enthusiasm, saying, “I have every confidence that you will build a good and lasting marriage.”
Inwardly, he was troubled. Although he had led Karl to believe he'd received a special dispensation from the diocese to act as a witness while these two spoke their own vows, this was not altogether true. Bishop Cretin had sympathized with the couple's plight, but had adamantly refused, saying such dispensation must come from the Holy Father himself in Rome and could take one to two years to get. Father Pierrot found this attitude hard. After all, he was not asking to perform the Sacrament—this he knew would be entirely out of the question!
So Father Pierrot had faced the dilemma of which dictates to follow, those of Holy Mother the Church or those of his own heart. Surely, it was a more Christian act to witness the sealing of vows between two such well-meaning souls and sanctify the union than to send them away to live in sin. This is the frontier, argued Michael Pierrot, the man within the ordained priest. This is the only church within a hundred miles, and these people have turned to it and to me with the best of intentions.
Michael Pierrot's human side was swayed also by the fact that Karl Lindstrom was a good friend. Their relationship surmounted any differences of faith. Leading the way toward the humble sacristy, the priest thought of this marriage as wholly right, perhaps the most fitting he might ever perform.
“Come, Anna, I will hear your confession now without delay, for I know you are both anxious to be on your way.”
Totally taken off guard, Anna came up short behind the black cassock. “My . . . my confession?” she blurted out, appalled.
“Yes, Anna, come,” the priest said as he continued into the incense-scented vestry.
Anna's legs seemed to have turned to mush. She had instructed James to tell Karl that they were devout Catholics, knowing that the man wanted a wife of Christian bent. Never had Karl told her in his letters this mission was Catholic. If he had, she would obligingly have told him she was some other religion, to avoid having to prove Catholicism. As it was, she was now entangled in another lie.
“But can't I just . . . I mean . . . well, I don't want to go to confession.”
“Anna,” the priest chided, turning around, “forgive me for being direct, but last night Karl and I talked. He said you admitted telling him lies. These are sins, my child. You must confess them, so you will be in a state of grace before entering the state of marriage. Surely you know this.”
Of course she didn't know this. All she knew about the Catholic church was that it was warm inside St. Mark's, and they refused no one entry there.
“But . . . but I've told Karl I'm sorry and I've promised I won't lie any more. Isn't that enough?”
“It is not enough for a Catholic. You know that confession is necessary, Anna, to cleanse the soul.” The priest truly didn't understand her reluctance.
She fidgeted and shifted from foot to foot, refusing to look at him while Karl, too, wondered at Anna's hesitation. With growing trepidation, Anna realized the only confession she would be making here today was the truth. She bit the inside of her lip, clasped her hands tightly behind her back, then, big-eyed and brave, admitted, “I'm not a Catholic.”
Karl couldn't believe his ears. He took her by the elbow—it seemed to Anna that her elbow was certainly being over-worked lately—and forced her to look up into his face. “But Anna, you told me you were Catholic. Why did you
tell me this?”
“Because you said in your advertisement that you wanted a God-fearing woman.”
“Another lie, Anna?” Karl asked, dismayed anew.
“That's not a lie, that's the truth. You said you wanted the truth, so I gave it to you this time. But what does it matter anyway, as long as we're going to be saying our vows ourselves?”
Caught now himself by the half-truth he had let Karl believe, Father Pierrot suffered pangs of remorse. What was he to do? If he witnessed the union, he would be liable for excommunication should his bishop ever learn of it. At this point the priest was wishing that Long Prairie boasted just one justice of the peace, so he could send these two to get themselves legally married without all this confusion.
But the staunch Irish girl looked her betrothed in the eye and kept a stiff upper lip. “Well, if it's still all right with you, Karl, it's all right with me.”
This was all too much for Karl. He had spent most of the night carefully reflecting in order to decide it was the right thing to marry Anna. Now another of his delusions about her lay shattered. He was acutely embarrassed to have this newest lie come to light in front of Father Pierrot. Karl found he could not abase himself further by standing there and arguing. And the day was moving on. So much time had been wasted already on this trip, it was folly wasting more, and there were no other churches nearby. But a godless woman! thought the beleaguered Swede. What have I gotten into?
“It does not matter,” Karl said tightly, and everyone in the room could see it mattered a great deal. “We will be married as we agreed.” He turned to his friend in the black robes.
Father Pierrot hadn't the heart to say, no, Karl, I cannot witness this marriage after all, nor record it in my books. The strength of the vow rests within the heart, he thought, not in witnesses nor penned words. If these two were ready to accept each other, he would not stand in their way.
Anna felt a flood of relief wash over her as the ceremony was agreed upon. Her knees were weak. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut and silently promised the man beside her that she'd make it up to him, one way or another.
But Karl's heart was heavy as he stepped to the altar. He had, in his own halting way, achieved his amnesty with her this morning. Peace should be the feeling in a man's heart as he spoke his vows, not this resentment that now lay coldly inside. It is difficult enough to promise love, Karl thought, when the one you promise it to is a stranger. To promise it with such a feeling of foreboding is less than good.
Father had donned his surplice, alb and stole, and the time was at hand.
“James will be our witness,” Anna said, wishing to please Karl in some small way. Karl, she could see, was very dissatisfied with her. He avoided her glance, and studied the distance as if ruminating the deepest of thoughts. Also, when he'd last spoken, his voice had become devoid of its usual musicality. It told her in no uncertain terms that he was displeased.
The pair stood so stiff and erect that Father Pierrot felt certain things must be said. He could sense the animosity, which had sprung up so quickly. Karl's mouth was pursed, and Anna stared at the little bouquet of lemon lilies and wild roses at the feet of St. Francis of Assisi.
“Anna,” he began, “I speak to you first, and I speak with the hope that you will take to heart everything I say. You are young, Anna. You are taking on a grave responsibility when you marry Karl here. The two of you have a long life ahead of you, and it can be a good life if you work to make it so. But goodness must be built upon mutual respect, and this respect must stem from trust. Trust, in return, must spring from truthfulness. I believe you have done what you thought necessary to get here to Karl. But henceforth I caution you to be truthful with him in all ways. You will find him to be understanding and patient. This much I know of him. But you will find, too, that he is rigid in his honor. I caution you once more always to tell him the truth. When you make your vow here to love, honor and obey, I ask you to add in your heart that you, Anna, will always be truthful with Karl.”
She looked up at him with her girlish face and said guilelessly, “Yes, Father, I was.” Father Pierrot could not help the tiny curve of his lips at her reply. He noted, too, the way Karl glanced briefly sideways.
“Good. So be it. And Karl, there are things not expressed in the vows, about which I must caution you. It falls onto your shoulders to protect Anna and provide for her. In your case, here in the wilderness, and with the added responsibility for James, this job is a far greater one than for most men.” Karl glanced at the boy, and the priest saw a perceptible softening of Karl's expression. “The wilderness is new to them, and there will be much they have to learn. Patience will be required of you time and again. But you have the gift of knowledge to give them. You must be teacher as well as protector, father as well as husband, almost from the start. If at times this task falls heavy upon you, I ask you to remember that on your wedding day you silently added the vow of patience.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And while it is not written in the vows either, there is a an old adage I firmly believe in, which I would repeat here and ask you both to remember on days when perhaps you have not seen eye to eye. “Never let the sun set on your anger.' There will be disagreements between you, and these cannot be avoided—you are human beings with much to learn about each other. But differences incurred during the day become lodged in stubbornness if held throughout the night. By remembering this, you will perhaps not cling to your opinions when it is long past the time you should have conceded or compromised. Will the two of you remember that?”
“Yes, Father,” they said in unison.
“So be it. Then let us begin.”
Father Pierrot began praying.
The soft tonal inflections of Latin brought back to Anna the memories of nights she and James had sheltered in St. Mark's. Nights when all the rooms above the tavern were busy and they were told to get out and not show their faces till the last customer had staggered home. Anna tried to push the hurtful memory aside, but the priest's flowing Latin brought back the anguish all over again, the anguish of huddling in the scented dusk—beeswax, incense, candlelights—vowing that she would find a way out of a life where, since her mother's death, nobody cared whether Barbara's brats lived or died.
They'd hung on, she and James, by the skin of their teeth, but all the while Anna was determined to get them away from the hopeless situation somehow. Well, she was doing it now. She and James would never go homeless again. Never would they be chased away by the “ladies” and their “gentlemen” customers. But knowing what she'd done to get here, knowing that she was duping a man who truly didn't deserve it, an engulfing guilt washed over her.
She felt her hand taken into the large hand of Karl Lindstrom, felt the calluses of labor there, felt the firm grip that told of his intensity, and she knew beyond a doubt that this big, honorable man would never, never understand a thing like she'd done. His palm was warm and dry and as hard as oak. The way he squeezed her knuckles she thought they might shatter in a moment, but his grip told her he meant all he promised here today. She found herself looking up into blue eyes, then watching sensitive lips speaking the words from the book Father Pierrot held open upon his palms. Karl's voice came lilting, and she watched his mouth, memorizing the words as best she could.
And the long months of hoping, dreaming and planning for this day would become part of the fabric that wove Karl to Anna in the words he spoke aloud. Nor would the thoughts, which had so long lived in Karl Lindstrom, now be denied their part in all he promised.
“I, Karl, take thee, Anna . . .” My little whiskey-haired Anna . . .
“for my lawful wedded wife . . .” How I have waited for you . . .
“to have and to hold . . .” Not yet have I even held you, Anna . . .
“from this day forward . . .” Forward to this night, and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .
“For better, for worse . . .” In spite of everything, I kno
w I could do far worse . . .
“for richer, for poorer . . .” Ah, how rich we can be, Anna, rich with life . . .
“in sickness and in health . . .” And I will see this thin hand grow strong . . .
“till death do us part.” These things I promise with my life—these things and the promise of patience, as Father, my friend, said.
As Anna's eyes roved over Karl's face, a shaft of golden sun came through the open door, gilding his features as if nature itself bestowed the blessing Father Pierrot could not. In the tiny outpost mission of Long Prairie only wildflowers adorned the altar. Only the cooing of mourning doves provided song. But to Anna's ears and eyes it was as fine as any cathedral hosting a hundred-voice choir. She could feel the beats of their hearts joined where her slight, pale hand rested in his wide, dark one. As she took her turn at vows, Anna felt a willingness she had certainly not expected when she'd thought of this moment through the dreary winter, waiting to come to an unknown husband.
“I, Anna, take thee, Karl . . .” Forgive me, Karl, for tricking you . . .
“for my lawful wedded husband . . .” But James and I didn't know what else to do . . .
“from this day forward . . .” Never again will we be homeless . . .
“for better, for worse . . .” I promise I will never, never tell another lie . . .