A Promise to Love (12 page)

“Not for you.” She smacked his hand. “For neighbors.”

He looked at her like he could not believe his ears. “What neighbors?”

“Diantha's parents.”

“They won't want to see you. These are not people we can be friends with, Ingrid. They hate me.”

“But they not hate
me
. Ingrid nothing but
dum Svenska
girl. They think I not know better than come for visit.”

“My father-in-law has a gun.”

She grinned. “But Ingrid have strudel.”

“You're a great cook, Ingrid, but they aren't going to soften toward us just because of some pastry.”

“We see. You stay with children. Breakfast in skillet. Soup on stove for dinner. I come back—maybe late.”

“Please,” he said. “Don't go down there. Or at least let me go with you.”

“No. You stay with children.”

She had a plan, but it was not one she wanted to discuss. It involved an emotional tug-of-war that might or might not work. If it failed, she would rather no one know what she had attempted to do.

“You do not worry.” She patted his cheek like a bustling housewife. “Diantha's persons like.”

This particular strudel was a complicated dish and not even native to her country. She had learned it from a German girlfriend, who had told her that good strudel was irresistible to men. This was important, because she had gotten the impression at the inquest that Richard Young might not be quite as unreasonable as his wife.

She took two flat, clean bricks she had heated in the oven and placed them in the bottom of a basket. Then, she carefully wrapped the steaming strudel in a clean cloth and laid it on the hot bricks. That would make the pastry not only stay hot but be at its most aromatic when she arrived. She had used extra cinnamon for that reason alone.

“Richard might not shoot you, Ingrid, but I'll guarantee he's not going to be happy to see you,” Joshua warned. “Virgie's a good cook in her own right.”

“It is time I visit neighbors.” She wrapped her maroon shawl around her shoulders and lifted the basket.

Because she did not speak perfect English, she knew that Joshua had sadly underestimated her. She hoped Diantha's parents would also. Now that she knew there would be no children born between her and Joshua, now that she understood that their marriage would remain a marriage of convenience, she was absolutely determined to come back with Bertie in her arms. She wanted that baby more than anything in the world right now. For all she knew, little Bertie would be the only infant she would ever get to nurture as her own.

She was on Richard and Virgie's doorstep before either of them knew she was on the place, which was exactly as she had hoped. She had walked so quietly she had even escaped the notice of their old dog until she was knocking on the Youngs' front door. Then the dog began to bark.

Richard heard the dog and came hurrying from the barn just as Virgie opened the door to her.

“Good
morgon
!” Ingrid deliberately thickened her accent and made herself sound as Swedish as possible. “Ingrid bring neighbor gift.”

“What are you talking about . . . ‘neighbor gift'?” Virgie's eyes narrowed. “Ain't you that Swedish girl Josh married to keep us from getting the girls?”

“Ja. I marry to Joshua.” She peeled back the corner of the cloth covering the strudel and put a vacuous smile on her face. “Nice gift. Friends now?”

“Look at this, Richard.” Virgie barked out a laugh. “The girl thinks we're gonna be friends just because she baked us some kind of a pie.”

“Strudel,” Ingrid corrected.

“Whatever you want to call it, it don't make no difference. You turn yourself on around, missy, and—”

“Take it easy on her, Virgie.”

Richard, as Ingrid had hoped, intervened. “She's just a young immigrant girl. In her country it's probably some kind of custom to take this, this . . .”

“Strudel.” Ingrid supplied the word, still smiling.

“This strudel to their neighbors. She probably don't know no better.” He came closer and sniffed. “What's that thing got inside of it, girl?”

“Nuts, eggs, flour, butter—much butter—raisins, cinnamon, sugar.” She pulled the covering completely back and revealed the pastry in all of its glory.

The strudel, carefully brushed with beaten egg whites, glistened brown and delicious-looking. The cinnamon, sugar, and butter—still hot—oozed out of the slashes she had made with her knife into the many layers. Even Virgie seemed impressed and reached for the basket.

This was the pivotal moment. Instead of relinquishing the basket, she held on to it and affected a hurt sound to her voice.

“No invite Ingrid in for
kaffee
? Strudel much, much hard work.”

The delicious aroma surrounded them, but there was another smell, one not quite so pleasant—and Ingrid was delighted.

“Good golly, Virgie,” Richard said as he caught a whiff. “You done gone and burnt the potatoes!”

With a screech, Virgie rushed inside, leaving the door open. Ingrid immediately stepped inside as though invited. Richard, following the pastry, did not try to stop her.

Their home was pleasant enough. It was a little larger than Joshua's, but her eyes were drawn to only one thing—the corner where a small cradle lay. It rocked a little as the infant inside it kicked and gurgled.

“Bertie?” she asked.

“Yes,” Richard said.

“May I see?”

“No.” Richard plucked the baby from the cradle, carried him into the bedroom, and kicked the door closed.

She was devastated.

“Well,” Virgie said, “them taters are hog food now, thanks to you a-knocking at our door. All I can say is that strudel better be good! We ain't had breakfast yet.”

“Strudel very good.” Ingrid sat the basket on the living room table. There was no reason to hold on to it anymore. The golden pastry had gotten her through the door, which had been her intent. Virgie and Richard could bathe in strudel now for all she cared.

She seated herself on a small horsehair sofa. It was the nicest piece of furniture in the room.

“Why are you sitting down?” Virgie asked. “You ain't staying.”

“Ingrid so tired.” She gave a great sigh. “All week long. Cook, cook, cook. Clean, clean, clean. You care I sit down? Rest a little minute? Joshua, he no help.”

“Honey, I hear you.” Virgie's face softened. “A woman can get a bellyful of work out here on these hardscrabble farms—but you can't stay here.”

“Ingrid leave—with Bertie.”

“You little sneak.” Virgie's eyes smoldered. “The only reason you came here was to take our little boy away!”

“Bertie needs grow up with
systrar
and with father.”

“Did Josh put you up to this?”

“No. He say, ‘Don't go there. Diantha's parents mean.'”

Virgie seemed taken aback. “We're not mean.”

“Then give Bertie . . . judge say.”

“Richard!” Virgie yelled. “Get your gun!”

Joshua fed the girls breakfast, then dinner, and later on, he fed them leftovers for supper. It had been hours and hours since Ingrid had left for the Youngs' with her hopeful little basket of strudel, and she had not returned.

Had they shot her? Or had she handed them the basket of strudel and then just kept walking? He wouldn't blame her a bit if she did.

He tried to put the girls to bed early, but it was like trying to put a hutch of rabbits to bed. About the time he got one down, another one would pop up full of questions about when Ingrid would be coming home.

It was starting to get dark. What would he do if she never came home?

 11 

“Bertie needs be with family,” Ingrid said for the umpteenth time.

This statement had become a recurring refrain that had woven itself through the whole weary day. Ingrid had lost track of how many times she had said it. She was discovering that being an unwanted guest in two angry people's home was more tiring than anything she had ever done.

Richard had tried threatening her with his gun.

“Big mess.” Ingrid was unimpressed. “Have to clean Ingrid off of floors and walls.” She did not move from the spot she had staked out on the horsehair couch.

Virgie had tried reasoning with her. “You already got four children to take care of and you're not even their real mother. What's a girl like you need with another baby to care for?”

“Bertie needs be with family,” Ingrid had repeated.

“I think the woman might be a little slow-witted,” Virgie said to Richard, tapping her finger against her own forehead.

Richard tried bribery. “I'll give you five whole silver dollars to leave our house.”

“You keep money. I take Bertie.”

The baby began to cry back in the bedroom where they had put him away from Ingrid's sight. Virgie went in to tend to him. While she was gone, Richard attempted to physically remove Ingrid from the cabin.

It turned into a wrestling match that was not pretty and did not last long once Richard realized he could not win. He soon discovered that if he was going to remove Ingrid from the house, he would have to remove both her and the heavy horsehair couch to which she determinedly clung. There was one long, awkward scuffle in which Ingrid clung tenaciously to the couch and Richard pulled and strained, trying to pry her off of it.

“What in the world do you think you're doing?” Virgie asked when she reentered the room and found him dragging the sofa across the living room floor with Ingrid still firmly attached.

“I'm trying,” he huffed, “to get her out of here!”

“Leave her be. You ain't gonna be able to toss her out. She'll just grab something else to hang on to. Besides, she'll get fed up with this soon enough. She can't sit there on that sofa forever.”

They had sorely underestimated Ingrid's endurance. She sat and sat some more as she watched Richard and Virgie attempt to ignore her as they went about their daily chores. Ingrid did not intend to be ignored. Virgie washed and dried the breakfast dishes, and Ingrid watched.

“You need put those dishcloths out in sun,” Ingrid advised. “Be much whiter.”

Virgie cooked dinner, and Ingrid watched.

“Tablespoon of vinegar in beans make cook faster,” Ingrid pointed out.

“No, no!” she exclaimed when she saw Virgie salting them. “Salt make cook time too long!”

Richard ate the noon meal Virgie prepared, and Ingrid watched every bite he took from her vantage point on the sofa. Soon, his meal half-eaten, he escaped to the barn, leaving Virgie alone to deal with both Ingrid and the baby.

Virgie self-consciously swept the floor.

“You miss spot,” Ingrid pointed out.

“I don't need you a-telling me how to keep house!” Virgie exclaimed tearfully.

It was at that moment, with Virgie on the point of tears, that Ingrid knew things were beginning to go her way.

From her place on the sofa, Ingrid graciously dispensed free advice on everything that Virgie did for the rest of the day. When Bertie began to cry again, Ingrid kindly offered to hold him so that Virgie could work more efficiently.

Virgie declined. “You'll just run out the front door with him,” she said, “the minute my back is turned.”

“Ja,” Ingrid agreed cheerfully. “Probably I do that.”

In the late afternoon, with Bertie asleep in a cradle near her feet, Virgie released a thin rope that was attached to the wall and lowered a quilt frame from where it hung near the ceiling. It held a quilt that had been pieced from various shades of blue and white.

“Ah!” Ingrid said. “That is some pretty quilt. You make?”

Virgie preened a bit. “It's a new pattern.”

“I quilt good. I help?”

Virgie looked confused. “I don't know . . .”

“I sit here anyway.” Ingrid shrugged. “Nothing to do.”

Virgie looked down at the baby sleeping soundly beside her.

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Frankly, I'd like to get the thing done. It's the piecing I enjoy the most, not the quilting. It's so tedious.”

For the first time that day, Ingrid left the couch and pulled a kitchen chair up to the quilt frame. It felt heavenly to move about. Now, if she could only empty her bladder without being locked out of the house! Hunger she could deal with. Dirty looks she could deal with, but the need to go to the toilet was beginning to be a problem. She estimated she was good for about another hour before things got critical.

Virgie handed her a needle and thread, and Ingrid inspected the quilting done so far.

“Good work,” she said admiringly. “Tiny stitches.”

“I try.” Virgie smiled, then she realized that she was smiling and frowned.

“I try make tiny stitches too,” Ingrid said. “I want not to spoil beautiful quilt.”

Virgie waggled a needle at her. “Now, just 'cause I let you help quilt, this don't mean you get to take Bertie home.”

“I know,” Ingrid replied.

Quietly, almost companionably, the two women set to work.

“How are the girls getting along?” Virgie bit off a piece of thread. “I ain't seen 'em since the inquest.”

“They fine,” Ingrid said. “But they miss grandmother and grandfather.”

Virgie looked up from her work. “Did they say that?”

Ingrid nodded. “Agnes, she say, ‘Grandma Virgie make best corn bread. Wish we have corn bread like Grandma Virgie do.'”

Virgie smiled. “Well, I do make a good pone of corn bread, even if I do say so myself.”

“I not know how make right,” Ingrid said sadly.

“Well, that strudel thing you made was right tasty.”

“You like?”

“Very nice. Wish there was some left. Richard ate most of it. I didn't have much of an appetite at the time.”

“I make again sometime. You come visit?”

“I'll never set foot inside that house again. Not while Josh is there. But tell me more about the girls.”

“They miss mother. They miss grandmother. They miss little brother. But all right. Not sick.”

“And Josh?”

Ingrid sighed. “He miss Diantha so very, very much.”

Virgie's voice took on a hard edge. “You made a mistake marrying that man, you know.”

“I know.” Ingrid shrugged. “Too late. I do best I can now.”

It was the truth, and Virgie apparently heard the truth of it in her voice. She glanced up, eagle-eyed. “You aren't happy with him?”

“Joshua love Diantha. I love children. I cook. I clean. We do all right.”

“You aren't afraid of him?”

“Joshua?” Ingrid scoffed. “No. He so easy on girls. He let Agnes talk back all the time. I not afraid.”

“That Agnes does have a mouth on her.” Virgie chuckled. “I'm not saying I'd ever let you take Bertie or anything, but if I did, would I ever get to see him again?”

“Of course!” Ingrid said. “You baby's grandmother.”

“And you'd let the girls come visit me?”

“All the time.”

“I've missed those girls something awful,” Virgie confessed. “But I don't want to see Josh or be around him.”

“No worry,” Ingrid said. “You visit Bertie and girls when Josh in fields.”

“Are you sure you could handle everything? You might be having a baby yourself before long.”

“
Nej
,” she said sadly. “No baby. Joshua sleep in barn.”

Virgie's eyes widened. “Josh sleeps in the barn?”

“Ja,” Ingrid said. “Bertie only baby I maybe ever get.”

“Oh.” Virgie digested this piece of information. “So you and Josh haven't . . .”

“I cook. I clean. I care for the children.” She rethreaded her needle.

“I'll admit,” Virgie said, “it's been a little hard taking care of an infant. I'm not as young as I used to be.”

Ingrid quietly sewed and nodded as she listened to Virgie argue with herself. She hoped Virgie would come to a conclusion soon, because she didn't know how much longer she could hold on to the coffee she had been foolish enough to drink that morning.

“Richard has been complaining a bit,” Virgie said, “about me not being able to help him with his outdoor work as much as I used to.”

Ingrid held her peace as she diligently worked the thread in and out of the lovely quilt.

“You sure you'd let me see the baby any time I wanted?” Virgie asked.

“Ja. And girls too,” Ingrid agreed.

There was a silence for many minutes as both women plied their needles.

“Do you know why my Diantha died?”

“No,” Ingrid said sadly. “But I very sorry for you.”

Virgie threw down her needle and thread. “Let's go take a walk.”

When Ingrid didn't move from her place, Virgie picked the baby up from the cradle.

“I'll let you hold Bertie while we walk, but I gotta go out to the barn and talk to Richard.”

Ingrid held her arms out for the baby, trying not to tremble in her eagerness. The girls would always have memories of their mother, even Polly might have some fuzzy ones that would stay with her, but Bertie would be
her
baby, and hers alone.

It was getting dark, and he could do nothing but pace the floor and worry about Ingrid. He had completely given up on getting the girls to stay in bed.

“I need to go look for her. Can you watch over your sisters?”

“Sure,” Agnes said. “Do you think Grandpa might've shot her?”

“I hope not.” He lit a lantern and reached for his gun. “I should never have let her leave,” he said as he went out the door. His first stop would be Richard and Virgie's to ask if Ingrid had been there. He had only taken a few steps out onto their lane when he saw a tall figure cresting the small rise between their cabin and his in-laws'. It was Ingrid, and she was still carrying that basket with her.

He went back inside and hung his gun in its place above the door. “Ingrid's coming. You girls go to bed now. I want to go talk to her.”

He didn't really expect to be obeyed, and he wasn't. Before he had left the yard, four little girls were huddled, barefoot and in their nightgowns, in the doorway behind him.

“Try not to scare her off again, Pa,” Agnes advised. “We really need her.”

“I know.” He was surprised at how strongly he agreed. In two weeks, she had become like a comforting flame within their home around which they all huddled, hands outstretched, warming themselves. The house had felt empty all day without her.

She seemed completely unafraid of the dark as she walked toward him, even though the forest loomed on either side of them. In fact, her step seemed surprisingly buoyant for having been gone so long. The large basket swung from one hand, still heavy with those bricks she had heated and placed within.