Believing the Dream (37 page)

“Now, Mother, you just rest while I bring out the tea. Thornton, I think Old Tom is working out behind the barn. Would you please ask him to join us?”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth returned to the house in time to find Cook setting up the tea tray.

“You could have killed them both with a scheme like that.” The teapot clanked down on the tray with more force than necessary.

“Now, not to worry. Thornton is very strong, and helping Mother like this will only make him stronger.”

“And you think he can carry her up again?”

Elizabeth flinched the tiniest bit. “Now that you mention it, I wonder if we shouldn’t set up a bed for her in the music room. We could bring down that Chinese screen from the attic and the single bed from the spare room. What do you think?”

“I think she will refuse, and then what?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I guess we cross that bridge when we come to it, but while she is ordering Tom around, the three of us could set it all up, and she will feel too guilty about needing to be carried back up and will agree to our plan.”

“Our plan?” Cook’s eyebrows nearly met her graying hairline.

“You know how she hates to create a scene. I am sure this will work.” Elizabeth picked up the silver tray and headed for the French doors.
Please, Lord, bring this about. I want my mother well again, and this is the best idea so far. Surely it is from you
.

“Well, my dear, you’ve certainly had a busy day.” Phillip Rogers joined his daughter in the study later that evening.

“I know, and I’m grateful it worked out so well. If Thornton had tried to carry Mother back up those stairs again . . .” Elizabeth gave a delicate shudder, then a chuckle. “He surely was a big help. With him teasing her, how could Mother be anything but agreeable? And I know she will be happier down here where she can be part of life instead of stuck up in that gloomy bedroom.”

“I tried to talk her into such a move a week ago, but she was adamantly against it. I think you are going to have to marry that young man sooner rather than later if he can charm her like that.”

Elizabeth fought to keep the smile on her face. One of these days her mother and father were going to have to learn she and Thornton were only playacting. There was no imminent engagement, no future wedding. Guilt pricked like a hair shirt.

How could she ever tell them she thought of Thornton more like the older brother she’d never had than as a husband? She stared down at the sheet of paper that was supposed to be a letter to Dr. Morganstein. Would this be another secret too heavy to keep?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

June 1894

“Thorliff, do you think you’ll be able to finish the serial before you leave for home?” Phillip leaned back in his office chair, hands locked behind his head.

Thorliff stuck his head around the door from the pressroom where he was cleaning up after the print run. “I think so. I’m two installments ahead right now, and I see only two or three more before the end of the story.”

“I sure wish you could manage to stay on through the summer. You’ve spoiled me, son. I haven’t even looked for someone to replace you over the summer months.” Phillip brought his hands down to the chair arms with a thump. “You will be returning, right?”

“Planning on it. God willing, as my mother says.”

“I never would have made it through that measles mess without you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thorliff lingered. “How is Mrs. Rogers doing?”

“Not well, but better. Elizabeth’s getting her out of that bedroom and outside like she did was pure grace. I was beginning to think Annabelle would continue to fade away.” Phillip cleared his throat. “I never realized measles could be so vicious.” He swung his feet off his desk and pulled out a side drawer. “That reminds me, and for this I must beg your pardon. A letter came requesting permission to reprint your satire on the measles. You don’t mind, do you? They would have to pay you for the privilege, of course.” He dug through his files. “Here it is.” He handed the letter across the desk. “Don’t know how I can misplace things like that. Sorry.”

Thorliff read through the letter, fighting back the grin that threatened to crack his face. “Legally you don’t have to ask my permission. I work for you, so what I write for the paper is really yours.”

“Maybe so, but that’s not the way I work. If we go ahead and print your story in book form like we talked about, you will receive a portion of the sales, royalties if you will. This new press is opening up all kinds of possibilities for us.”

Royalties. Thorliff swallowed to settle his pounding heart. Was the story really good enough to print in book form, or were the people of Northfield just more accepting of local talent? However, even Mr. Ingermanson at St. Olaf had commented on how good the story was. And as head of the
Manitou Messenger
, the school’s monthly magazine, he was pretty critical. At times Thorliff regretted that he’d not had time to join the magazine staff, but just when he was about to do so, the measles epidemic broke out, and he’d been working around the clock to keep up at school and put the newspaper out.

“Should I give them the go-ahead?” Phillip waited for Thorliff ’s answer.

“Ja, of course. This just caught me by surprise, is all. I mean, that satire just came about so . . . so . . .”

“Easily?”

Thorliff could feel his ears heat up. If he said yes, he would sound like he was bragging, and if he said no, he’d be lying.

“It is not a crime to have a piece come to you like that. Consider it a gift, and remember that gift the next time you are ready to rip your hair out over another article that isn’t so easy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The telephone jangled, and Phillip got up to answer it. “We’ll talk more about the book another time.” Nodding to the noisy instrument, he continued, “Most likely Elizabeth calling me home. Or rather us. You didn’t stop by to pick up your supper, did you?”

“Ja, I did. I need to study for exams and finish another research composition.”

The phone jangled again.

“All right, I’m coming.” Phillip reached for the earpiece. “Rogers here.”

Thorliff returned to cleaning the printing press and sweeping the floor, all the while swallowing the shout that wanted release. Mr. Rogers was serious about printing his story in book form. He’d mentioned it several weeks earlier, but when nothing more was said, Thorliff figured Phillip had changed his mind.

And he was to receive royalties. Just seeing his name on the cover would have been enough.

Anji, I’ve got to tell Anji—and Pastor Solberg. The thought died as quickly as it flowered. Why hadn’t she answered his last letter? Three letters since Christmas was all she’d sent in spite of his apology for not being able to spend more time with her in December. Was it his fault there’d been such a terrible blizzard?

Like all the other times, he alternated between sorrow, despair, and rage. And like all the other times, he had a choice—sink into despair or put it aside and keep on working. He’d somehow found the strength to do the latter before, and he would do so again.

“Good night, Thorliff. Don’t worry about the garbage. I’ll take care of that in the morning.”

“Good night and thank you.”

“I’m not sure what to say you are welcome for, but you are.” Phillip snagged his felt fedora off the hatstand and headed out the door, a cheerful whistle floating over his shoulder.

Promising himself that if he finished his paper he could write another chapter, Thorliff ate his supper without warming it and continued to cover pages with his research, thoughts, and conclusions on the Pullman strike. He’d chosen the topic because he was hoping that Mr. Rogers would allow him to write a series of articles on the subject, or perhaps it would turn into another serial story. Most likely it would have to be the second.

The thought made him write faster, otherwise his mind would go off on another tangent, and he’d not finish the composition he was working on. . . . Maybe his characters from
The Switchmen
would be involved in the strike. What if one of them were wounded—or killed? What if . . . ?

The clanging of the milk wagon woke him in the morning after getting far less sleep than he needed. By the time he reached the Rogerses’ back door, he finally felt awake enough to continue on up the hill.

“You’re late!” Elizabeth met him in the kitchen.

“No, I’m not.” Thorliff nodded to the clock. “It’s only seven-thirty.” He took the cup of coffee Cook handed him and sat down at the cloth-covered oak table.

“But I told you we needed to be early today.”

Thorliff shook his head. “No, you said don’t be late, and I’m not.”

“You sit down and eat, miss. You still need to get your strength back.” Cook pointed toward the place set at the other side of the table. Since Annabelle still slept later in the morning, the family had yet to return to breakfasts in the dining room.

Elizabeth growled but did as told, sending resentful looks across the table.

Thorliff glared back and shook his head. Whatever had gotten into her? He looked again and noticed the purple circles under her eyes and her pale face.

“You feel all right?” Ever since the measles, she’d not regained the vitality that made it hard for anyone to keep up with her. She’d most likely been studying too hard to try to make higher grades to make up for her winter quarter. But he knew if he mentioned anything more, she’d take his head off. Women. Inwardly he shook his head and ground his teeth. Outwardly he sipped his coffee and did away with the ham and eggs that Cook set before him. All without looking at Elizabeth again. On the way out he picked up her satchel at the same time as his own and held the door for her.

“I can carry my own, thank you.” Icicles had returned in spite of the spring breeze.

Without answering, he nodded for her to precede him and struck off for the path up the hill. If she wanted to be obnoxious, let her. Two could play that game.

“I said I can carry my own satchel.”

“Nice day, wouldn’t you say?”

“Thorliff Bjorklund, you can be the most stubborn, exasperating man I know.” She verbally stamped her foot.

“Thank you. I do hope your exams go well. It would be good if you could pull top marks to make up for earlier.”

Her sputtering made him think of Astrid, for often he’d dealt with her bouts of temper the same way. When he heard Elizabeth panting to keep up with his long stride, he slowed imperceptibly so as not to be noticed.

Oak trees in full emerald dress whispered secrets in the breeze, their feet tickled by nodding grasses. Robins sang for their mates, and a woodpecker rata-tata-tated on a nearby tree trunk. After the hush of winter the songs and smells of summer played upon the senses like an oratorio in full crescendo.

At the door to Old Main he handed Elizabeth her satchel and sketched half a bow. At her glare when she passed him, he shrugged his eyebrows and followed her into the building. Her “humph” made him smile as he headed up the stairs. Sure enough, just like Astrid.

The thought made him whistle as he walked the hall to his first class.

“You certainly seem to be in a good mood,” groused Benjamin, who caught up with him at the door. “You’d think exams were over instead of just beginning. Did you not spend all night studying?”