A question she’d been asked only once before. In Ireland, a nun had drawn Aven into an office at the workhouse and told her of a man named Benn Norgaard, a boat builder from Norway, who had inquired after the redheaded woman—the one who carried a box of thread spools across the courtyard as he’d stood there on the cobbled street.
Despite Aven’s shock of what the man offered, and the tiny gold band the nun unfolded from his handkerchief, Aven had traded in her striped workhouse petticoat and shift for a threadbare dress two sizes too big. Tucked in the pocket was the name for the boardinghouse where the man had secured lodgings for her for two weeks. He was already gone—returned to a ship he was repairing that had struck on the Irish coast. But the Norwegian had passed on the message that he would return in a fortnight to wed her. If the girl could please not flee before then. Aven had no sooner added a pound to her spindly frame and washed the lice from her hair when he’d returned to keep his promise just as she had kept hers.
With his cousin waiting for an answer now, Aven spoke. “I—I honestly don’t know. I came with the understanding that I would help Dorothe care for you three. Thinking you were all much smaller, and that she would be here.”
Thoughtfully, Jorgan nodded. Yet there was a smile playing in his eyes as if he sensed the mischief Dorothe had been up to. Aven was sensing it as well.
“I’ve never been one to want for much. All I seek is a way to earn meals and shelter through a hard day’s work. For that I would be grateful. Dorothe insinuated I’d find such an arrangement here.”
“We’d certainly put you to use.” He smiled. “If it’s hard work you don’t mind.”
Not in the least. “Under the circumstances . . .” How was she to phrase this? “ ’Twould appear . . . improper, perhaps?”
“To others.” He glanced back to the window, deep voice gentle as he beckoned for her to follow him upstairs. “And folks don’t miss a chance to speculate.”
Nay, they didn’t.
Down the hallway, Aven slowed when he did just outside Dorothe’s door.
“There may be a way around that, but I’ll need to talk to my brothers some more.” With a gentle turn of the knob, he pressed into the dim space. Dense floral curtains covered the windows, and after stepping to the nearest one, he shoved back a panel. “For now, there’s some things in here I think you could use.”
Light seeped into the room, glinting along the stirring of dust motes. Aven walked the length of the nearest wall, seeing framed needlepoints stitched with the tiny signature of D.N. The elegant vines and twisting flower petals a taste of Norwegian handicrafts.
Past those, tacked to the wall, hung drawings done by children. Penciled on the bottom corner of each one was a name and age written in Dorothe’s familiar penmanship. Noted beneath a mass of pencil scribbles was Haakon, age 3. Just under a drawing of a great whale in a roaring sea was Jorgan, age 10. And on the last was Thorald, age 7. Each one would have been created at a different time, and Aven lingered in front of the last drawing. A boyish sketch of a family. The roughly drawn figures had smiles nearly as big as their faces, and each figure stood beside a tree that was so large it reached the sky. Birds soared overhead. Aven touched the aged corner.
Standing near, Jorgan pushed aside a vase of dried flowers to reach a lidded sewing basket. “You should take this.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“It’s no good sitting here. It’d do Dorothe proud for it to be put to use.”
Aven took the handle of the basket and the sheer heft of it—from buttons and needles and thread—sent a wash of delight through her. Her own basket was long gone, sold with all else to help procure passage here.
“Anything else you might need?”
“This is the best of starts.” And a blessed one. Aven glanced around Dorothe’s room, looking more upon the good woman’s belongings. Shades of ivory and soft pinks made up the quilt draped over the bed, and the brass headboard gleamed. Scraps of colorful thread rested on the bedside table along with a dainty pair of scissors. ’Twas as though Dorothe had been tending a project up until the very end. “May I ask how she passed?”
Jorgan stepped nearer to the window and peered down. “She was up there in years—nearly ninety—and she went in her sleep. It was right peaceful. One day she was here, and the next she wasn’t. We may not show it much—my brothers and me—but she’s missed.”
“I wish I could have met her.”
He gave a sad smile, then glanced around. “She spoke highly of you.” Jorgan lifted a square of embroidered cloth that sat folded on a nearby chair. “And I know she’d want you to be comfortable and at home here. So please let us know if there’s anything you need. Since you sew, you might like to look in the shed outside. There’s piles of fabric and boxes of thread. I can show you if you’d like.” He folded the needlepoint and handed it over. As if he knew as well as she did that her carpetbag had stowed very little.
“Thank you.” Her embroidery skills were simple at best, but there was something about the deep-blue cloth, its white and pink flowers and vines that made her wonder about placing a few final stitches to finish the job. More so that the arrangement had stemmed from Dorothe’s heart and mind.
“Should you ever want to search for work of this sort, we can send inquiries to some of the nearby towns. Though . . .” His smile was friendly. “We’d be awful sorry to see you go.”
Aven was about to thank him when gunfire blasted from a distance. She jumped. Another shot fired from the same direction.
When all quieted, Jorgan grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s just Thor.”
“What is he doing?”
“Just scarin’ someone off. Sometimes our neighbors get a little cozy. He’s careful not to hit anybody.”
She swallowed hard.
“Just so you know, Miss Ida stays with us most of the week.” He lifted the small scissors from the nightstand and slipped them beneath the padded lid. “She goes to her sister’s Saturday evenings. Aunt Cora. You’ll meet her. She’s real nice. Lives on our land a few acres past the orchards. One of the reasons Thor and Haakon are makin’ some rounds—to be sure nobody’s pesterin’ them.”
Jorgan’s focus shifted to the window, then back to her. “Ida offered to stay on all week long so it would never be improper. We’d treat you like family. No different from what Dorothe had in mind. We’d pay you for your work. Give you something to make a new life with. However we can help. We have plenty, Aven, and it’d be our right to look after you.” Motioning her near to the window, he pointed toward a cluster of outbuildings. “The one with the peaked roof is the one you might want to search through. Has some boxes we moved after Dorothe’s passing. Fabrics and such. Use anything you like. And also . . . there’s something else I need to show you.”
Down the hall, Aven set the treasures in her room and followed him downstairs.
He didn’t speak again until they were outside. “What else you should know is how we make our living.” He pointed toward the largest outbuilding of all. A barn, as great in size as the house itself. “Some folks find it shameful, so I think you ought to have the chance to know before you decide how long you wanna stay.”
Apprehension rising, Aven studied the building with its weathered siding and abundant windows.
“We make liquor. Well, Thor does. Here in the cidery.”
At the building, he slid open a heavy door. Within lay dimness and the intoxicating aroma of apples and their juices. Aven followed Jorgan inside the space that was so tall, the angled ceiling soared overhead. Along every wall rose shelves upon shelves of glass jars. If she were to count them, hundreds. Below that, giant barrels were aligned and numbered with chalk. A long workbench stood covered in pencils, paper, and ledgers. From one of the rafters, an owl watched.
“Liquor,” she said it softly, not really wanting to.
“It’s what Da set out to do when he first came here and why Thor keeps the orchards like they’re kin. He brews the best drink in the county.”