"I'm sorry," Elfin said.
"Don't start telling me what to do, Elfin. I have enough people trying to do that already."
"I just wanted to say that with your heart giving you trouble, perhaps you should take it easy for a few more days. Have the party another time."
"I don't expect you to understand, as young as you are. But you'll be my age someday ... sooner than you think, in fact. The days fly by, faster and faster each year, like horses galloping toward the finish line. And one day you'll wake up and see an old woman's face looking back at you in the mirror."
Elfin didn't reply. When Mrs. Anderson spoke again, her voice was uncharacteristically soft.
"I want to live my life for as long as I can, enjoying the things that give me pleasure-like giving this dinner party. If I'm about to drop dead from a bad heart, I'd prefer to do it while holding a glass of good wine in my hand and laughing with my friends rather than lying in a sickbed waiting to die."
Elfin nodded silently in reply.
"Now," Mrs. Anderson said, her voice as loud and harsh as usual, "do you girls know how to serve guests at a formal dinner party?"
"No, ma'am."
"Do you know how to set a proper table? How to arrange all the silverware and glasses?"
"Sorry, no."
"Well then, I will have to teach you. I've invited eleven guests, plus myself. We will begin the evening in the salon with hors d'oeuvres and aperitifs."
Elfin had no idea what those things were but didn't want to interrupt.
"The main meal will be served in the dining room, of course, and then we'll have coffee and dessert and some light entertainment in the salon. Altogether, I expect it will be an enjoyable evening. I've prepared a menu for Mrs. Olafson," she said, handing Elfin a second piece of paper. "I want her to serve all the traditional Midsummer treats-pickled herring, new potatoes with dill and sour cream, strawberries and cream. One of you girls will have to help her in the kitchen, managing all of the food."
"Yes, ma'am. We will be happy to."
"She might need you to go to the market with her and help with the shopping, too. You and Kirsten will serve my guests, but Sofia is not to appear in a maid's uniform. I want her to be dressed up. Did she tell you that she is going to sing for us?"
"She told us. But I think she is frightened by the idea."
"Too bad. She made a promise. Does she have something nice to wear?"
"Her Sunday clothes are very ... well, they're very Swedish, ma'am. They're the same clothes we wore on the day you hired us. You said we looked like peasants."
"No, no, no. That won't do at all. Take her down to Marshall Field's department store tomorrow morning and buy her something decent to wear. I'll give you my calling card and a letter of introduction. Tell them to add the bill to my account. . . . And by the way, why aren't you wearing a uniform today? Why are you dressed in street clothes?"
It took Elin a moment to remember why. "Because... well, because it's my afternoon off and-"
"You did all of this work for me on your day off?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Humph.... I suppose I'll have to give you a half day off tomorrow, then."
"That isn't necessary, ma'am. I finished all of my errands today."
Mrs. Anderson struggled to rise, and Elin bent to help her, taking her arm. For once the fairy queen didn't wave Elin away. "We'll go into the dining room now, and I'll instruct you on the proper way to set the table and serve the meal."
She limped through the foyer, pausing to look into the library. She stood in the doorway for a long moment before turning away, then walked into the salon and looked all around. Finally, Mrs. Anderson crossed the hall to the dining room.
"You girls have done a lovely job," she said. Her voice was very soft and a little hoarse. "My home looks beautiful again. Thank you."
THE DOORBELL CHIMES echoed through the foyer. Kirsten opened the huge front door for a young Swedish couple in their thirties, dressed in American clothing. "God of ton," she said in greeting. "Valkommen. May I take your wraps?"
Mrs. Anderson had given Kirsten the task of answering the door for her dinner guests and taking their coats and hats. Kirsten escorted the young couple into the salon, where Elfin served appetizers and punch, then pulled Elfin aside.
"I thought the fairy queen's guests would all be old, like her," Kirsten whispered.
"Shh. Mrs. Anderson has very good hearing, you know."
"And why do you suppose she invited her son and his wife? I thought they didn't get along."
"They don't. I think she wants to make a point with them, proving that she's in good health and capable of living alone."
"Is she, though? In good health, I mean?"
Elfin shrugged. "Who knows?"
"It must be nerve-wracking for Sofia, hiding in the kitchen, waiting until it's time to sing. How's she doing?"
"She was busy helping Mrs. Olafson with dinner the last time I went out there. We'd better get back to work now."
Elfin turned to serve the newest guests some punch, and Kirsten hurried back to the foyer. It was still light outside on the eve of the longest day, even though Chicago wasn't as far north as Sweden. Kirsten wondered if Tor was celebrating the festival back home, watching the young village girls dance around the maypole. Midsummer's Eve was a magical night for love. According to tradition, if you picked seven different kinds of wild flowers on your way home from the festivities and placed them under your pillow, you would dream of your future husband. Kirsten swore she had dreamed of Tor.
The door chimes jolted her out of her reverie. When she opened the door, the lone gentleman standing on the front step looked familiar. It took her a moment to realize that he was the man who had heard her crying at the boardinghouse last week and loaned her his handkerchief.
"Oh! It's you! ... Um, Mr. Lindquist, isn't it?"
"Yes." He frowned, as if trying to place where he had seen her, his pale eyebrows furrowed in thought. They were several shades lighter than his sandy hair and mustache. Kirsten hadn't taken a very good look at him on the day they'd met, but now she noticed the fine lines around his eyes and realized that he was at least ten years older than she was.
"Ah, yes," he finally said. "You're the young lady from the ... you're Mrs. Larson's niece, aren't you?"
"Yes." She looked down at the floor, embarrassed for losing her composure in front of him. "Please, come in. I'll take your hat and coat." He removed them, and she draped the coat over her arm. "Come this way, please. Mrs. Anderson and her guests are in the salon."
"Don't bother showing me. I'll find it." She watched him stride away and noticed how nicely dressed he was. His leanness made him seem even taller than she remembered. She thought it was curious that he had arrived alone, then realized that if he had a wife he wouldn't be living in Aunt Hilma's boardinghouse.
As Kirsten lifted his coat from her arm to hang it in the closet, something fell from his pocket and dropped to the floor. She picked up a palm-sized leather folder. Inside was a photograph of Mr. Lindquist posing with a woman and a small child. The woman was very pretty, with white-blond hair and delicate features. The little boy, who was about two years old, bore a strong resemblance to his mother, including his pale hair. Mr. Lindquist must be living in the boardinghouse while waiting for his family to arrive from Sweden.
The photo brought tears to Kirsten's eyes, reminding her once again of Tor and of the child he didn't know he had fathered. They should all be together, forming a family like the one in the picture. But it was impossible. Her dream of a life with Tor would never come true. She quickly dried her tears and returned the photo to Mr. Lindquist's coat pocket.
Meeting him a second time had rekindled Kirsten's grief, reminding her of the day she'd received the terrible letter from Tor's father. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath to compose herself. She needed to get through this evening without breaking down. She could let her tears fall freely when she was alone in her bed la
ter that night. That was when she always wrestled with the question that still had no answer: What was she going to do about her baby?
Eventually the party moved into the dining room, and Kirsten concentrated on serving dinner to Mrs. Anderson and her eleven guests. Her biggest fear was that she would spill something on one of the visitors and ruin their evening. The elaborate meal progressed slowly, taking several hours, and she eavesdropped on the dinner conversation while she worked. She learned that Mr. Lindquist worked for the Swedish language newspaper that Mrs. Anderson's husband had founded and that her son now managed. In fact, most of the dinner guests seemed to have some connection to the newspaper.
By the time Kirsten served dessert, her feet ached, but at least the work had kept her mind off her sorrow. "These are the last of the dessert plates," she announced as she pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. "I think they're ready for-" She stopped short. Sofia had changed into the new skirt and shirtwaist that she and Elfin had bought at the American department store. Elfin had helped her pin up her hair. Today was Sofia's seventeenth birthday.
"You look beautiful," Kirsten told her. "This party should have been for you."
"We've been so busy with the dinner preparations," Elfin said, "that we haven't had time to do anything to celebrate. We couldn't even shop for a gift."
"That's all right," Sofia said.
"I promised her that she could buy a treat for herself on her next day off," Elin said.
"But I don't need anything. These new clothes are the most wonderful birthday present I've ever had."
The long dark skirt was simple, yet elegant. The white silk blouse had rows and rows of tiny pleats and delicate ruffles that made Sofia look like a princess. But her face looked as white as her blouse.
"Are you all right?" Kirsten asked. "You look like you might faint. Maybe you'd better lie down for a minute."
"She can't," Elin said. "It's almost time for her to sing."
"I feel like I can't breathe. I don't know how I'll ever be able to sing."
"I didn't lace you up too tightly, did I?" Elin asked.
Sofia shook her head. She looked frightened to death.
"Don't worry," Elin said. "All the guests seem like very nice people."
"Except for her daughter-in-law, Bettina," Kirsten added.
"Well, yes. Except for her. But hear them laughing? Everyone is having such a good time. I don't think you need to worry. You have a beautiful voice, Sofia. They'll be thrilled to hear you."
"What are you going to sing?" Kirsten asked.
Sofia held up their mother's hymnbook. "Some of these songs. I dug Mama's book out of the trunk." Her hand shook like a branch in a windstorm. Kirsten could think of nothing to say to calm her sister's fears, so she simply pulled her into her arms and hugged her.
When it was time for Sofia to join the guests in the salon, Kirsten took her arm and walked with her to the door. "Close your eyes and pretend that you're singing to the man you love," she whispered.
Sofia nodded, then drew a deep breath and walked into the room.
Kirsten and Elin stood listening outside the doorway as Mrs. Anderson introduced Sofia. She made no mention of the fact that Sofia was her maid but simply stated that she was newly arrived from Sweden and was going to sing for them. One of the female guests agreed to play the piano for her. The room grew hushed the moment Sofia began to sing. She had a truly remarkable voice, and her singing sounded so effortless that no one would ever guess how nervous she was. The beauty of it sent shivers through Kirsten.
Sofia was so young and innocent and beautiful. She had her whole life ahead of her, filled with promise. But her future was going to be ruined when everyone found out about Kirsten's baby.
"Kirsten, you're crying," Elin said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Kirsten lied as she wiped her eyes. "I'm just so proud of our little Sofia. She looks beautiful, doesn't she?"
Kirsten wondered how much longer she could hide her despair. Day after day, her thoughts were filled with the baby and with Tor and with her impossible situation. Her sisters had begun to notice her gloom and had heard her crying in the night. They were asking too many questions. Even though the truth was a heavy burden to carry alone, she couldn't bear to tell her sisters. After reading Elin's diary, Kirsten knew how much pain her sister had endured already. Now Elin and Sofia would suffer more scorn once the truth became obvious. If only she knew what to do.
Mr. Anderson and her guests applauded when Sofia finished. They requested song after song, all the traditional Midsummer's Eve folk songs. Kirsten peeked into the room and saw that Sofia had begun to relax. Her shy smile told Kirsten she was enjoying herself.
"Is she available, Silvia?" one of the guests asked Mrs. Anderson. "I would love to have her sing for one of my parties."
"She's another jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale," someone else said.
Shortly before the guests began to leave, Kirsten raced up to the third floor and retrieved Mr. Lindquist's handkerchief, which she had laundered, starched, and pressed. She handed it to him as she gave him his coat.
"Thank you so much for your kindness the other day, Mr. Lindquist."
"It was nothing."
He slipped his left hand into his pocket as he put on his coat and his pale brows arched in surprise. He quickly searched his other pocket and Kirsten saw his relief when he pulled out the leather folder. She had put it in the wrong pocket. He gave Kirsten an odd look as he transferred the photograph to the other side. She quickly turned away to retrieve another guest's coat from the closet as Mr. Lindquist bid his hostess good-night.
By the time Kirsten and her sisters finished cleaning up and washing all of the dishes, it was after midnight. Exhaustion numbed Kirsten, and she struggled to hold back her emotions. But Sofia beamed with happiness as she changed into her nightgown upstairs in their room.
"You were wonderful," Elin told her. "I wish Mama could have heard you sing tonight."
"Maybe she was listening up in heaven," Sofia said.
"She would have been so proud of you," Kirsten said. "I know I was proud of you."
"Tomorrow is my morning off," Elin said, "but I think Sofia should take it. It wasn't fair that you had to work on your birthday."
"You and Kirsten worked a lot harder than I did. Besides, I'd rather have the evening off that Mrs. Anderson assigned me this week so I won't miss my English class."
Kirsten knew Sofia was trying to learn English so she would be able to converse with the man she'd met on Ellis Island. Sofia still believed that he would be coming to find her, even though three weeks had passed. Kirsten had tried to warn her about the pain of heartbreak, but she hadn't listened. Now, as Kirsten imagined Tor dancing around the maypole tonight with another girl, her thoughts spiraled into despair.
"Kirsten?" Elin had been speaking to her.
"I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"I said you should take tomorrow morning off and go to church. You've seemed so sad these past few days."
"I'm not sad," she said irritably. "Why are you trying to make everyone go to church in your place? Why don't you want to go?"
"Because I think the party exhausted Mrs. Anderson, and I should stay home and take care of her."
Kirsten punched her pillow a few times to take out the lumps-and her frustrations-then climbed into bed. "Fine. If you are foolish enough to give away your time off, then I'll be glad to take it."
Kirsten didn't really want to go to church the next day, but she dressed in her Sunday clothes anyway and left the house. She could let her tears fall freely while she walked there, and afterward she could go to the little park a few blocks from the church and sit for awhile. She needed to figure out what to do.
Maybe she should take all of her money on their next payday and run away until after the baby was born. But where would she go? How would she live? She had no idea.
Kirsten reached the church and walked blindly up the steps,
deep in thought. Someone held the door open for her.
"Good morning, Miss Carlson." She looked up in surprise. Mr. Lindquist again. "I enjoyed your sister's singing last night. She has an exceptional voice."
"Yes ... thank you for saying so," she mumbled. She hurried inside. Kirsten recalled the picture Mr. Lindquist carried in his pocket, and she hated him. Why couldn't Tor love her the way he loved his wife, carrying her picture everywhere he went? Why couldn't Tor be a loving father?
She couldn't sing any of the hymns. She barely paid attention to the liturgy. When she did bring her wandering attention back to the service, she saw that the pastor was preparing to baptize a baby. She gazed at the young, happy couple and could no longer hold back her tears. It had been a mistake to come here.
Kirsten stood and rushed out of the pew, not caring whose toes she stepped on as she fled from the church. She walked down the street blindly, letting her tears fall, not noticing or caring where she went. Without a surname or a father, her baby would never be baptized by the church. She would be excommunicated when they discovered the truth. She had ruined her life-and her sisters' lives.
Kirsten trudged onward as if plowing through deep snow in a blinding blizzard, with no hope of ever reaching her destination. She understood her father's despair, how he could feel so distraught that he no longer wanted to live. She didn't want to live, either.
She should end her life right now, while her sisters weren't there to stop her. All she had to do was step in front of a streetcar and her misery would end. She and her baby would die together. Tor and his family didn't want either of them.
She would act quickly, without thinking about it. Papa had tried to make his death look like an accident, and she would do the same. The streetcar rode on rails like a train, but it traveled right down the middle of the street alongside all of the horses and carriages. It couldn't swerve to avoid her. She saw one coming and stepped off the curb, closing her eyes as she walked straight into its path.
But instead of the vehicle's crushing impact, Kirsten felt hands gripping her waist, pulling her to one side. She lost her balance and fell facedown, landing hard on the cobbled street. The person who had saved her landed on top of her.