It feels good to be honest and sincere, and then find a friend who is the same. If a woman is ever so honest and faithful, what good does it do when she is unfortunate enough to come into contact with falseness and deceit?
No, it would be better to be dead. It is a shame that you have had the same experiences as I have. There are so many false people in this world, so many who are low enough to lie and spread falsehoods, especially when they see someone who is a little more fortunate and can afford to live a little better than they do. They cannot do enough harm to us.
I have worked alone for four years now, and have done pretty well for myself. As you know, it is hard for a single woman, but I would rather live alone than have anything to do with false, mean, and drunken men.
There are so many Swedes here, and I do not like them either. Nearly all of them have been jealous because they see I can manage on my own and I suppose they will be worse when you arrive. Some of them have been good to me and helped me out at times, but there are many who would rather see me not make it.
Now, dear friend, I hope the worst is over for the both of us. It seems that I have known you for a long time even if we have never met, and I will live for the future and you, my good friend, from the first day you arrive and as long as I can. I really think we will live together always, because a true friend, who has the same disposition and heart as I, will surely get along with me, and then I will get my good nature back, because I will think that life is worth living and will do the best I can for us both. We will always have good Norwegian coffee and waffles, and I will always make you a nice cream pudding and many other good things.
My very best friend, it is just as you say, if you are going to take a few horses, you might as well bring a whole carload of stock with you here. Hurry and come before winter sets, and take with you all you can get in a carload, and do not stop anywhere longer than necessary. Do not leave anything up there because you cannot leave me later to go and get it. Rather sell your things a little cheaper for cash, for then you know what you have and will not have anything outstanding. I am sure you will find things here that are just as nice and useful as those you have now.
Do not even let the banks have anything to do with your money, not even to send it to you, because you do not know what will happen nowadays. One bank closes right after the other and the cashiers steal. Follow the advice I gave you in a former letter and sew the money into your clothes. You are the first one I have told this secret to, but it is practical, and I know you will do it.
I am very happy to have a friend in whom I can have confidence. However, do not let anyone know anything about our understanding. Let us keep it to ourselves for now.
Oh, please hurry and come before it gets too cold, and let me know in your next letter when you think you will be ready.
Live well until we meet.
Loving regards from your friend,
Bella Gunness
I enclosed a dried four-leaf clover I had been saving since summer.
I did not lie when I wrote. It was as if a spell came over me then, and the words on the paper rang true to me, even though I knew what would happen. For those few moments, though, while ink spilled on the paper, I was that woman—that lonely, struggling woman—who wanted nothing more than a good and capable husband, a wholesome life and arms to hold her. I could see it all so clearly before me: him and me together, his horses in the stable, and all the children healthy and fed. I pictured Philip a little older, helping him in the barn, and Myrtle and Lucy playing games with him: Red Riding Hood and the Fox. It was as if the boneyard outside were not mine just then but belonged to a different woman altogether.
The next letter I wrote was for James, and the bones were suddenly mine again. Jennie had been a festering wound that never dried up ever since she saw me in the cellar. She never said anything, or did anything, but something had wedged between us. She was not as sweet as before, not as compliant and trusting. She would flinch when I entered a room and look at me with scared blue eyes. I hated the sight of those eyes. I tried to soften her with promises and gifts, but nothing seemed to please her. I kept talking about California, but the silly girl looked at Emil Greening with longing in her eyes, and he would look at her in turn. When they spoke to each other out in the yard, my heart ran cold with worry. Surely she would tell him.
Emil was not the only hound sniffing around her skirts either. Mr. John Weidner, who worked at the coach house, was frequently around, wanting to call on Jennie. I let him into the parlor and had Jennie play some at the piano but was terrified of letting the two of them be alone together. I had always been protective of Jennie, but now I became a hawk. I did not want a single word passing through her lips without me there to hear it.
I knew I was putting off the unavoidable.
* * *
—
One afternoon, about a week before Christmas, James arrived in a coach. With him was a professor from the Norwegian seminary in California and his lovely wife. I had told Jennie they would be coming, and that she was expected to return with them to begin her studies.
“You are lucky,” I reminded her. “Not many girls get such an opportunity.”
“I am grateful, of course.” The girl would not look at me. We were in the kitchen and could hear the professor and his wife in the parlor through the half-open doors, James too, chattering nonsense about the weather. It was for our benefit, all of it. The professor was a hired man, the woman a Chicago brothel owner catering to the tastes of very rich men. Innocent and well-bred girls like Jennie were always in high demand. The two of them did not know that I knew who they truly were, however. With them was a satchel of money that James Lee would get when they left with the girl the next day—if she was to the madam’s liking. We aimed to strike twice, James and I, rid me of a problem and gain some in the process.
I ushered the girl inside to our guests, and she stood before them shy as a kitten in her new blue dress, with red spots riding high on her cheeks.
“My, aren’t you a lovely girl.” The woman introduced herself as Cecily, although I knew her name was Laura Burns.
The professor, who called himself Smith, rose and bowed to Jennie, shook her hand, and invited her to sit. He asked her what she had studied before, and pretended to listen while she listed the books she had read in school. I went out for more coffee and checked on the roast.
“I’m sure you will love California,” chirped Mrs. Smith—Laura Burns—when I returned. “We have the best school for bright girls such as yourself, eager to better themselves.”
She did not sound like some posh professor’s wife, but Jennie would not know that. She became eager, even excited, when shown so much attention. She told them about her fondness for numbers, and I asked her to play some on the piano.