“Not one I have accepted yet. It takes a special kind of woman to fill a house with warmth: someone kind and caring with a strong Christian faith.”
“Are such women hard to come by?” I smiled my best smile, averted my gaze, and acted coy. I pretended that I wore a thick coat of the finest fur, not a threadbare thing of simple wool. Instead of my headscarf, I imagined a hat, bold and bright with an impressive plume. I found it gave me courage to imagine things like that—to see my future clearly before me.
“Tell me, Bella, what would you do with a house like mine?” Mads’s cheeks reddened and his eyes shone toward me.
I thought for a moment and then I drew a breath. “I would make sure it was always clean and tidy, keep chickens in the yard and a boar in a pen. I would hang sheets to dry in the breeze, make jams and marmalade and wholesome dinners. There would always be something sweet for dessert.” My gaze snagged his. “The man in the house would never want for anything. His clothes would be neat, his belly full, and his home would be a cheerful place where God was given rightful due. In time there would be children—”
“Bella.” His hands caught mine and his voice was thick when he spoke. “Say you will be my wife.”
I looked away and bit the inside of my lip until my eyes watered. It seemed right to shed a tear in that moment. “Yes,” I said when I could stand it no more, “I do want to be your wife.”
And so it was settled between us, right there on that filthy street reeking of rot and misery, with only a stray dog as witness.
* * *
—
We got married at the Evangelical Lutheran Bethania Church on Grand Avenue and Carpenter Street early in 1884. Mads gave me gloves to hide my red, callused hands. They were soft and supple, made of leather. He gave me a well-stocked pantry too, and dollars to spend—but he could not fill those empty rooms.
Could not fill my womb.
I thought little of it at first. I was far too busy settling into my new life on Elizabeth Street. It was a fine house on a quiet street: two stories, a coal cellar, and a backyard bursting with apple trees and lilacs. It was a sensible house rather than beautiful, and I had most of the furniture changed on my arrival. Mads had never given much thought to such things and had merely kept what was in there when he bought it. Now I brought in comfortable chairs with wine-colored seats, crowned with carved flowers and polished to a shine; bow-legged tables of oak and chestnut; feisty rugs with exotic patterns; a mantelpiece of marble; and a floor-standing clock that measured out our happy hours. I had the kitchen repainted in the softest shade of blue and bought a sturdy new table with six wooden chairs, as white and smooth as ivory. It was easy back then to have Mads open his purse. He thought me so soft and sweet, so lovely to touch at night.
“How is my beautiful wife today?” he asked every morning when arriving home from his shift. I would be in the spacious kitchen, offering fresh bread and yellow butter, coffee made from the finest beans.
“Never happier,” I always replied. “It is such a joy to be married to a kind man like you.”
Our marriage was new and dripping with honey, and I was content for a while. I enjoyed being a married woman and walking by his side with my gloved hand resting on his arm. I liked to sit next to him in church, liked the way people looked at me, as if I were important. Suddenly I had a voice that was heard because I spoke for him too—a man of some means. I had gotten my stamp of approval and no one could peg me as a poor girl anymore. A man had chosen me above all else and thought me fit to run his household, mend his shirts, and cook his meals. He had given me his name to carry. The girl by the lake, beaten and bleeding, seemed nothing but a dream by then.
I saw to it that the pantry was always well stocked. Now that I had my own money, I just could not seem to stop. I saw the delicious beef and I got it, the link of sausages and the blood pudding too. I could not leave the butcher without it. When I came home, I placed the parcels on the kitchen table and peeled the bloody paper from the ruby red meat. I could not get enough of the scent of it. I had eaten so much porridge in my life, so many scraps and boiled potatoes. The beads of blood were my reward, a prize for being clever, for making my way around it all, the obstacles and the pain. I baked cakes too, so sweet they could barely be eaten. I made waffles, puddings, and tarts for my husband, baked apples, biscuits, and soft, golden buns. As much pleasure as they gave me, though, those sweet little treats, they were nothing compared to the meat, glittering brightly in the kerosene light. Food like my mother never tasted. Food fit for kings and queens. I would not be hungry again, I swore, and stocked my pantry full to the brim: smoked and cured, cut and whole. To me it was all about the meat.
I kept chickens in the backyard as I had promised. I had a pen made but never bought the pig. I told my husband I just could not bear it, to raise an animal and then have it killed. In truth, I had no patience for it then, to raise my own meat when I could buy it. It is hard work, butchering a pig. Mads found me sweet and endearing, patted my hand, and said of course, we did not need it; we had other meat to chew on, soft and supple and ruby red.
At first, it baffled me how easy it was to have things done my way. The men I knew back home were a hard and stubborn breed. They said no just for the pleasure of hearing the word said aloud and enforced their will with fists and harshness. They let you know your place one slap at a time. Mads was nothing like that. He was a simple man in pursuit of a simple life. He wanted a woman to look after him, to fluff his pillows and iron his shirts. I liked this as it made him easy, but I despised him for it too. I never much appreciated kindness. To me it spoke of weakness and I never could stomach that. It made me worry about the future, the kindness in that man. He would have to be ruled, I decided, or he might become our ruin.
“He doesn’t want anything,” I complained to my sister. “He wants nothing for himself but what we have.”
* * *
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