“It has to be a Norwegian, though; I get tired if I have to speak English for very long, but that won’t be a problem in these parts, I think.”
“No, we have plenty of Norwegians here.” Sigrid seemed excited by the prospect of acting the matchmaker; her face shone and her knitting sped up. “I can think of a few names already.”
“Wonderful! I’m so pleased that you will help me.” Bella briefly put a hand on Sigrid’s knee. “I’m sure we will find the right one—and don’t be shy about it either. I don’t mind if people know that I’m looking. There’s no shame in that. You can mention that I have money too. They’ll like that.”
“It’s only been a few months—” I tried to say, but Bella cut me off.
“I need a man if I am to develop a farm. I cannot wait to look just for propriety’s sake.” She frowned at me. “I just cannot wait to leave Chicago,” she added with a sigh. “Everything there reminds me of Mads.” And then she started crying, lifting her hands to her eyes to hide her tears.
Sigrid was there at once with a handkerchief and comfort, hooking an arm around her shoulders and cooing into her ear.
I poured us all more brandy and waited for it pass.
Not before we were on the train back to Chicago and the older girls were out exploring did I ask Bella about her marriage plans.
“I thought it was Mr. Gunness you had your sights on.” I was embroidering on the return, having finished several pairs of socks while with Sigrid. Flowers and leaves appeared on the cloth as I quickly moved the needle. “I admit that when I heard he lived nearby, I thought he was the reason we had come.”
“It is—it was.” She looked up from her knitting. “I think he would make me a fine husband.” She shifted on the seat and gave a satisfied smile.
“Then why the charade? Why act as if you are open to any suitor that comes along?”
She shrugged in her seat. “I think he will be quicker in coming if he learns that I’m looking—and that someone may beat him to it.” She fished a hard piece of caramel out of the brown paper bag by her side and popped it in her mouth. Then she sighed before starting a new row. “Men are not very complicated. Threaten to take something away from them, and they’ll want it even more.” Her face twisted up with something like disdain.
“Do you really think it will work?” I found her logic peculiar, but it sounded right as well. Maybe they really were that easy.
“Of course I think it will work. I had been hoping to find him at home, of course, but this is almost better. This way, he comes to me.” An almost childlike smile followed the statement.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I could not help but ask. It bothered me that she had deceived me, even in such a small way.
“Oh, I thought you would not go if you knew the truth, and I much wanted your company. You’re hardly ever at Alma Street anymore.” The smile was replaced with a frown and a flash of cold eyes in my direction.
“I have a lot of pain,” I said, feeling the lie burn on my tongue.
“So it would seem,” she remarked but let the matter go.
* * *
—
I looked in on her a few weeks later, spurred on by guilt, perhaps, that I was so rarely there. I had brought waffles wrapped in cloth and hoped for a nice visit.
She was busy with letters when I arrived. Dozens of them littered the kitchen table.
“What is this?” I asked. “Surely these are not all suitors from Janesville?”
“No—no.” She looked up with a wild expression in her eyes. “These are answers to my advertisement!”
“What advertisement?” I sat down before her.
“Oh, I’m offering a trade: this house for a farm, and I must say there are a lot of people who want to own property in Chicago.” She rose to go to the stove for coffee. “Only today I had ten answers.”
I picked up one of the letters and skimmed, but it was written in English and so I had to put it back down.
“You’re really doing this, then?” I asked as she returned with coffee for us both. Her fingers, I noted, were black with ink.
“I am.” She looked nothing but smug.
“And Peter Gunness? Did you hear from him?”
“I did.” She grinned as she sat back down. “I have his letter right here.” She tapped her fingers against a cream-colored envelope. “He comes to see me next week—I told you he would come running.” She rolled her eyes but still smiled.
“That you did.” I felt a little hopeful too. She seemed so happy then, planning her new life.
Perhaps she was right, I thought. Perhaps this was what she needed. Perhaps Peter Gunness was the right man for her, and a change of residence was good for her mind.
Perhaps things would be good from now on.
I wanted to believe that—so I did.
27.
Bella
James and I set out to look at Brookside, a promising property in LaPorte County, Indiana. I brought him along as an advisor, though he knew little of farming. Maybe I just craved the company.
“I have done a little digging,” he told me in the buggy. “He probably didn’t tell you, Mr. Williams, when he came looking at the house on Alma Street, that his house in La Porte used to belong to Mattie Altic.”
“Who?” I was holding the reins just then; James was peeling an apple with his knife.
“A whore of some renown. She used to run the place as a first-class bordello.” He seemed to take some pleasure in telling me this; his voice was smug and his eyes were daring.
“Is that so?” I accepted the piece of apple he pushed between my lips. It was very sweet, just the way I liked it.
“It used to be a lively house back in the day, with music, drinking, and whoring. The whole of McClung Road used to be a rowdy place; last stop before the prairie and all.” Another piece of fruit pushed against my lips.
“And now?” I chewed and spat out a black seed.
“Decent farmers.” He sucked on his own piece of apple. “Just the way you like it . . . I must warn you, though, the house has a reputation for suicides.” He said it as if amused.
“Not for whoring?” I raised my eyebrows.
“That too, but untimely death seems to cling to the place. A couple of brothers who lived there died so suddenly that the coroner was called in to investigate, and the farmer who bought it next hanged himself in the barn. Some even say Mattie herself took her own life.” He stretched out his legs and sighed with contentment; he always liked a sordid tale.
“Well, I’m not afraid of either suicide or harlots. I just want a place to raise my pigs.” I looked back at him and added a smile. He had donned his thick coat that day, and so had I, as the weather was chilly.
His eyes blinked at me, lazy like a cat. “The place has certainly seen its share of pigs, and that’s something if you mean to follow through with this plan—”
“Marrying Peter Gunness?” I could not keep the amusement out of my voice. It baffled me how much James was against it.
“Just that . . . Do you really think it’s wise?” He nudged my calf with his foot.