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Authors: Mona Hodgson
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heart you do.”
Tears stung the backs of Maren’s eyes. “Thank you.” It squeaked out on a whisper. She would surely miss this woman and Gabi—and all of her quilting circle friends—when she left Saint Charles. Yet she had no choice but to do so. A hard worker or not, the day would come when her limitations would catch up to her. She took the wet bowl from Mrs. Brantenberg and dried it thoroughly.
“You think I’m being unfair to him? That I should’ve welcomed him home with open arms?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
“I asked.” The widow stilled her hands and waited for an answer.
“Grace cannot be earned, only given.”
“Did I say that too?”
Maren nodded, trying not to smile.
Mrs. Brantenberg lifted the washtub to the window and flipped the remaining water outside. “I talk too much.”
“I think it’s just easier to trust someone else’s wise counsel.”
She wagged her curved finger. “Your heart is not only full, dear, but perceives more than most eyes can see.”
“Oma. Miss Maren.” Gabi’s voice split the silence as she dashed into the kitchen, skidding to a stop in front of Maren. “PaPa said it is time for the music. You and Oma need to come.”
Maren had scarcely removed her apron when Gabi captured her hand and pulled her through the doorway of the sitting room. She focused on the glow in the fireplace, then on the man on the settee. Smiling, he stood and brushed a wild curl from his temple.
That’s when she realized she was fingering the silver chain at her neck. Woolly had given her the present, and the whistle now lay between her chemise and her shirtwaist. Her neck warmed at the thought. She’d not heard of a nanny who had ever received such a gift. She should never have accepted it, especially when she had plans to end her care of Gabi soon.
“Without a flute and a piano the band is incomplete.” He glanced at Mrs. Brantenberg, then pulled the bench out from the piano.
The older woman held up her hand, pointing a finger upward, and spun toward the staircase. In silence, the three of them watched her disappear from the second-floor landing. Before Maren could think of small talk, Mrs. Brantenberg descended the stairs with something in her hands. As she drew closer, Woolly’s breath caught.
“My zither? You kept my zither?”
Nodding, Mrs. Brantenberg handed Woolly the instrument. “Now, the band will be complete.”
He held it as he would an infant, counting toes and fingers. Silent, he wiped his cheek with his sleeve. Also silent, Mrs. Brantenberg rested her hand on his arm.
Maren’s own eyes brimmed with tears, her heart full of joy for them.
Woolly looked at Mrs. Brantenberg. “It’s been too long. Thank you.”
She nodded and turned to the piano.
Maren pulled the box from the bookcase and assembled her flute while Mrs. Brantenberg seated herself on the bench.
“We’ll start with ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.’ ” Mrs. Brantenberg tapped an A-note on the piano. Gabi chimed in on her recorder and Rutherford strummed the zither. His profile against the light streaming in from the window revealed a tall forehead, a straight nose, and a square chin beneath a neatly trimmed beard. She could see a man described in the Viking mythology of her childhood.
Maren joined in. When her memories tried to carry her back to the good days in the old country, she shook them off so she could enjoy this moment.
Nine
M aren held a sickle in one hand and Gabi’s little hand in her other. With barely enough daylight to see the path at her feet, she followed Mrs. Brantenberg and Woolly toward the wheat field. The chill in the morning air wouldn’t last, but right now if she had a hand free, Maren would raise the collar on her coat.
Gabi swung Maren’s arm, her steps cheerful despite their extra-early start on the chores. The difference between this walk out to the field and the cautious one last week was as stark as the sunlight casting a glow on the
Tears stung the backs of Maren’s eyes. “Thank you.” It squeaked out on a whisper. She would surely miss this woman and Gabi—and all of her quilting circle friends—when she left Saint Charles. Yet she had no choice but to do so. A hard worker or not, the day would come when her limitations would catch up to her. She took the wet bowl from Mrs. Brantenberg and dried it thoroughly.
“You think I’m being unfair to him? That I should’ve welcomed him home with open arms?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
“I asked.” The widow stilled her hands and waited for an answer.
“Grace cannot be earned, only given.”
“Did I say that too?”
Maren nodded, trying not to smile.
Mrs. Brantenberg lifted the washtub to the window and flipped the remaining water outside. “I talk too much.”
“I think it’s just easier to trust someone else’s wise counsel.”
She wagged her curved finger. “Your heart is not only full, dear, but perceives more than most eyes can see.”
“Oma. Miss Maren.” Gabi’s voice split the silence as she dashed into the kitchen, skidding to a stop in front of Maren. “PaPa said it is time for the music. You and Oma need to come.”
Maren had scarcely removed her apron when Gabi captured her hand and pulled her through the doorway of the sitting room. She focused on the glow in the fireplace, then on the man on the settee. Smiling, he stood and brushed a wild curl from his temple.
That’s when she realized she was fingering the silver chain at her neck. Woolly had given her the present, and the whistle now lay between her chemise and her shirtwaist. Her neck warmed at the thought. She’d not heard of a nanny who had ever received such a gift. She should never have accepted it, especially when she had plans to end her care of Gabi soon.
“Without a flute and a piano the band is incomplete.” He glanced at Mrs. Brantenberg, then pulled the bench out from the piano.
The older woman held up her hand, pointing a finger upward, and spun toward the staircase. In silence, the three of them watched her disappear from the second-floor landing. Before Maren could think of small talk, Mrs. Brantenberg descended the stairs with something in her hands. As she drew closer, Woolly’s breath caught.
“My zither? You kept my zither?”
Nodding, Mrs. Brantenberg handed Woolly the instrument. “Now, the band will be complete.”
He held it as he would an infant, counting toes and fingers. Silent, he wiped his cheek with his sleeve. Also silent, Mrs. Brantenberg rested her hand on his arm.
Maren’s own eyes brimmed with tears, her heart full of joy for them.
Woolly looked at Mrs. Brantenberg. “It’s been too long. Thank you.”
She nodded and turned to the piano.
Maren pulled the box from the bookcase and assembled her flute while Mrs. Brantenberg seated herself on the bench.
“We’ll start with ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.’ ” Mrs. Brantenberg tapped an A-note on the piano. Gabi chimed in on her recorder and Rutherford strummed the zither. His profile against the light streaming in from the window revealed a tall forehead, a straight nose, and a square chin beneath a neatly trimmed beard. She could see a man described in the Viking mythology of her childhood.
Maren joined in. When her memories tried to carry her back to the good days in the old country, she shook them off so she could enjoy this moment.
Nine
M aren held a sickle in one hand and Gabi’s little hand in her other. With barely enough daylight to see the path at her feet, she followed Mrs. Brantenberg and Woolly toward the wheat field. The chill in the morning air wouldn’t last, but right now if she had a hand free, Maren would raise the collar on her coat.
Gabi swung Maren’s arm, her steps cheerful despite their extra-early start on the chores. The difference between this walk out to the field and the cautious one last week was as stark as the sunlight casting a glow on the
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