Next was the closed door of Dorothe’s room. Strange that Ida hadn’t given that one to Aven, but perhaps they meant to preserve Dorothe’s memory awhile longer. The final door was up ten twisting steps that led to the third floor—a finished attic he shared with Haakon. It was hot up here in the summer, cold in the winter, but never so miserable that they weren’t grateful for the space. Windows were everywhere. Thor’s favorite being the pair that overlooked the westward slope where his Baldwins grew, deep and red. Right now, the sun was gone, leaving only its blush behind the gnarled branches.
After easing the door closed, he strode to his bed and sat on the mattress. He reached beneath the bed and slid forward a rough-hewn box. It bore no top, simply a collection of odds and ends, most ordinary save for the one thing he kept there where it wouldn’t be noticed.
He didn’t need to reach in and pull out the framed wedding photograph to know that Aven’s lips curved up so subtly it could hardly be considered a smile. Or that the young bride standing beside Benn Norgaard was seventeen on the month. Plucked from an Irish workhouse to marry a man she had never met. But with her likeness now fresh in his mind, Thor reached into the box and loosened the photograph from beneath two books, the Norwegian titles as well-read as all the English books lining his shelf.
He looked down at the photograph, smoothed his thumb along the frame, and felt a pang at the sight of Aven’s wide, uncertain eyes. Benn’s proud grip on her hand. Thor had always disliked that about the photograph, which had come by post a few months after the wedding. The unease in Aven’s expression. How young and lonely and lost she looked. Perhaps he couldn’t hear, but he could see. Better than most. And he’d always seen heartache in her face.
But she’d been the wife of another, so Thor had vowed to push the Irish girl from his mind—the photograph soon collecting dust on the wall with many others. Until news reached them of Benn’s death, and Thor had pulled it down and studied once more the face of the young woman who had bound herself to his older cousin.
Who—now widowed—bore the name Norgaard.
He’d stowed the framed image in his box where it was safe. Like the spark of hope forming in his guarded heart.
Now she was but feet away. So near that he need only stride down the hall, rap his knuckles against her door, and find himself peering into those same eyes. See afresh that her hair was actually the color of copper and that her skin was as pale as it was in that photograph of black and white. The shade of buttercream and just as silken, he imagined.
This woman who’d walked up to him but hours ago in the orchard. Standing there, a reach away, looking bone-weary as she asked questions he could scarcely answer for her. He’d known it was Aven the moment he had turned. His heart so quick in his chest, he thought it would fail him. Even if he had known what to say to her, he had no way to speak it.
Floorboards vibrated beneath his boots. Thor slid the frame away and shoved the box from sight. He straightened just as Haakon stepped into the attic. Pressing his fingers together, Haakon touched them to his mouth.
Time to eat. Thor rose. Haakon spoke, but the phrase was lost in the dimming light. Thor didn’t like the dark and the way it made his world shrink in smaller, so he smoothed a palm around his chest, then using his forefingers, circled them toward himself—please sign. A freedom he’d never take for granted. Not since the teacher who had bound his wrists together with string, insisting he learn to speak as the others could.
Haakon pointed toward the hall, shaped the letters A-V-E-N, then using two fingertips, slid them down his cheeks.
She was crying?
“It’s not loud,” Haakon said, turning up the lantern. “I heard it when I walked past her door.” He backed away because there wasn’t a meal in the world that the kid would miss. Haakon paused. “Why do you think Dorothe had her come?”
Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Thor shook his head.
The only answer he would give Haakon.
“Turns out she and I are the same age. Figured that out while I fixed her jammed window.” Haakon bobbed his brows as if that wasn’t the only thing he wanted to fix for her. Before Thor could even think of a response, his younger brother headed back down the steps.
Not entirely hungry, Thor reached for his jar. He didn’t want to, but it was a need so wrought with time and yearning that he unscrewed the lid, lifted the glass to his lips, and drank. No comfort followed as the bubbling cider warmed him, and the liquor did nothing to wash away Haakon’s smug expression. Irritated with his own weakness, Thor replaced the lid.
He rose, set the drink aside, and freed the photograph once more. Stiff from a day’s worth of work, he headed down the stairs. The hallway was nearly black but for the slit of flickering light beneath Aven’s door. He strode with as much care as he could manage. When they were younger and prone to mischief, Haakon had taught him which boards creaked, so Thor stepped over those before slowing in front of Aven’s door.
He hesitated, then placed his palm to the wood. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes.
And there it was. The gentle tremor in the slab. It moved against his hand . . . the sound of her grief. Overwhelmed, he pulled away, grateful Ida was here so Aven’s tears might fade into sleep easier.
After glancing one last time at the photograph—the beginning of a life he knew nothing about, and one he frankly didn’t deserve—Thor knelt, settled it in the nook of her door, and left her with the only thing he could.
THREE
After showing Aven to the bathhouse—a little room nestled on the outside of the kitchen—Miss Ida limped across the board floor to the soaking tub. At the turn of a knob, water spilled in from a reservoir connected to the stove on the other side of the wall, and within minutes the steaming wetness was heaven to Aven’s skin. She soaked and scrubbed, savoring the feel of washing the road off her body and out of her hair. Memories of all that brought her here, however, weren’t as easy to scrub away. Those she tucked in the quiet places of her heart, thinking instead to simply count the blessings of this day and what it held.
Out and toweled, she dressed in a skirt that had been given to her at the poorhouse. The waistband needed a few pins, so Aven gathered and folded material better into place, then made sure the collar of her somber blouse was fastened snug. The look was a bit severe, especially in the light of a summer morning, but she was aiming for inconspicuous.
Tucked within her carpetbag was a prettier frock of pale-blue bombazine. While outdated with a wide, sweeping skirt meant for hoops, she had altered the secondhand gown to be quite fashionable, modifying the pagoda sleeves to a sparser, more modern style. The dress was one she’d been looking forward to wearing. Just not today.
The smell of hot meat and bread lured her back to the kitchen. Aven stepped in to see Thor sitting at the table. His dark hair was pulled back with a leather cord, and the sleeves of the undershirt he wore had been shoved up past his forearms. He sipped from a cup of coffee, a half-eaten meal in front of him. Haakon entered, moving to the stove where he filled his own tin cup. He smiled at Aven.
“You have very red hair,” Haakon said as he handed over the offering.
Aven accepted the cup and peered at the brew, then up into his striking face. “And you have very blue eyes.”
He grinned as he pulled out a chair and sat. Aven splashed cream into the coffee, then fixed herself a plate of fried potatoes and ham. Once seated, she eyed the feast before splitting a biscuit in half. To be offered a meal in this abundance—never had she known such a luxury. Her mouth all but watered for the first taste, but the jar of jam sitting in front of Thor was too tempting to ignore.
As difficult to ignore, but by no means tempting, was a bottle of whiskey. It sat beside the jam as if the two went hand in hand at breakfast. Elbows on the table, Thor studied the newspaper spread out beside his plate. His dark, thick lashes moved with the words.
“Might you pass the jam?” Aven asked.
With a lick of his thumb, Thor turned a page. Haakon looked to his brother, then reached out and slid the jar to Aven.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, still eyeing Thor.
Haakon shook pepper onto his food. “He can’t hear you.”
“I’m sorry?”