Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] (18 page)

“Dirk’s been ill?”

Inga turned, coffee cup in hand.

Clara rose from her chair. “May I see him?”

“Mrs. Keene, he is resting. Besides, I—”

“I wasn’t simply your husband’s employer for all those months, Mrs. Bridger. I was his…
friend.
Surely he told you, or you never would have written to me about the horse. Won’t you at least tell him I’m here?”

A chill ran up Inga’s spine.
His employer? His friend?

“You needn’t wake him if he’s asleep.”

A premonition warned her she should send Clara away, should send her packing back to Kentucky with her fine Thoroughbred filly and her coach and her liveried driver. But before she could follow her instincts, Martha raced into the kitchen, excitement glittering in her eyes.

“Aunt Inga, whose—” She stopped abruptly when she saw Clara. “Is that your carriage, all gussied up with feathers?”

Clara’s smile never reached her eyes. “Indeed, it is.”

“Uncle Dirk was wonderin’ who it was when I told him about it.”

“Your uncle is awake?” Clara asked, sudden sweetness in her voice.

“Yeah,” Martha answered, “he’s awake.”

“Would you take me to him? My name is Mrs. Keene, and I’ve come a long ways to see how he is doing.”

“Sure.” Martha looked at her aunt. “That okay, Aunt Inga?”

She wanted to refuse, but all she seemed able to do was nod.

“Come with me,” her niece told their visitor, then led the way out of the kitchen.

With reluctant footsteps and a wary heart, Inga followed after them.

Suzanne held up four fingers. “I was this many on my birthday. Remember? Aunt Inga baked me a cake. How many’re you gonna be, Unca Dirk?”

Before he could answer, Martha hurried into the room. “The lady’s come t’see you, Uncle Dirk.”

“What lady?” he asked. But the words stuck in his throat when the widow Keene of King Meadows, Kentucky, stepped into the doorway.

After a long moment, she gave him one of her sultry smiles—a Clara Keene specialty. “Well, you needn’t stare at me as if I were a ghost, Dirk.”

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“I understand you’ve been ill, but have you no manners at all? You might at least say hello.” She sashayed into the room. “After all, it’s been a long time, and I’ve come a long way to see you, as I was telling your wife.” She sat on the chair beside the bed as if it were her own. “What a pretty thing she is, too. Why, it’s no wonder you married her. She must have simply made you forget yourself.”

Dirk’s gaze darted to the doorway where Inga now stood. Clara’s sarcasm had been disguised in pretty words, but Inga had heard it as clearly as he had.

“I’d wondered what became of you, Dirk,” Clara continued. “I was hoping you’d write, but you never did. It was like you’d dropped off the very ends of the earth.” She touched the back of his hand. “But then, that was what you wanted to do, wasn’t it? What a terrible thing for you, ending up here in little ol’ Iowa. Whatever made you change your mind about seeing the world the way you always talked about?”

He looked at Clara. She was as beautiful as she’d ever been. Not that long ago, he’d thought she was the perfect kind of woman for him, but now he didn’t know why he’d thought so.

“And these charming little angels are your nieces?” she continued, looking at Martha and Suzanne. “Aren’t they just as cute as buttons?”

“What brought you here, Mrs. Keene?” he asked, ignoring her question about the girls.

Her brown eyes widened as she met his gaze again.
“Mrs.
Keene, is it? Such formality between friends.” The look she gave him spoke volumes.
But we were more than friends, weren’t we, Dirk? Remember
…

But strangely enough, he couldn’t seem to remember much about those months he’d spent in Kentucky. Didn’t want to remember them, actually.

Clara waved one of her dainty hands. “Well, if you must know, I am here because your dear wife wrote to me. She wanted to surprise you for your birthday.” She rose from the chair. “But I’ll tell you nothing more or the surprise will be ruined. You’ll have to wait until Saturday. That
is
your birthday, isn’t it? I did remember the date right?”

“Yeah, it’s—”

“It has been three years, but I’ve never forgotten the day you left King Meadows. It was your birthday then, too.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, I’m tired, and I must ask your wife to show me to my room so I can freshen up before supper.”

Clara was planning to stay here? Dirk’s gaze darted once again toward Inga.

“I will put her in your mamma’s old room,” she told him softly, her voice devoid of expression. Then to Clara, she said, “Please come with me. Children, you come, too. Your uncle is supposed to be sleeping.”

Inga stood beside the doorway until the others had all passed through the opening. Then, with only the briefest of glances in Dirk’s direction, she went out and closed the door behind her.

He didn’t understand. Inga had brought Clara here as a surprise? But that didn’t make sense. Why would she do it? How did she know about Clara? He hadn’t mentioned Clara’s name when he’d talked about working in Kentucky. He was certain he hadn’t.

With a groan, he leaned his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Why had Clara kissed his cheek? Why was she implicating with her words and her actions that there had been more between them than was true? Clara Keene was rich, beautiful, and ambitious. She had never wanted anything more from Dirk than he had from her. So why pretend otherwise now?

The why was quite simple: Clara was bored. And Clara Keene absolutely despised being bored.

Thus, when she’d received the letter from Mrs. Dirk Bridger, she’d decided a trip to see her former lover and to
meet the woman who—it seemed—had made him forget his plans of world travel might be just the cure for that boredom.

Clara looked around the small bedroom on the ground floor of Dirk’s home and wrinkled her nose. It was primitive to say the least, but she supposed she could make do for the duration of her stay.

It was a shame, really, to find Dirk living so humbly. She’d remembered all his wonderful plans, and she’d enjoyed entertaining thoughts of him in different parts of the world. Of all her gentlemen friends—and there had been more than a few in the years since Mr. Keene passed away—Dirk had been the most handsome and most amusing. Admittedly, she hadn’t known how much she would miss him until he was gone or she might have tried harder to persuade him to stay another season.

And his wife! Inga Bridger was nothing like what Clara had expected. She wasn’t beautiful, and she most definitely wasn’t rich. A man like Dirk could have had his pick of women. Why had he settled for Inga?

If Clara thought about it, it was actually insulting. Dirk had never proposed marriage to her, not even in the heat of passion. In fact, he’d said he didn’t want to ever marry. Neither did she, of course. She enjoyed her freedom too much. She had paid for that freedom with five miserable years as the wife of her much older but extremely wealthy husband. After his death, nothing could have induced her to give up control of her own finances—let alone how she lived—by marrying again. Still, it was nice to be asked.

Now, to find Dirk here with that woman as his wife…To think that he had asked
her
and not Clara…Yes, it was indeed insulting.

Clara settled onto the stool before the dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Then she smiled.

Perhaps her stay needn’t be dreadful. It would be entertaining, if nothing more, to toy with Dirk’s affections. Of course, things might take a little longer, given his illness—whatever the nature of that was—but Clara had all kinds of time. That was one of the benefits, and one of the curses, of the idle rich. Lots and lots of time.

“Oh, but I insist I be allowed to help, Mrs. Bridger,” Clara said at supper that evening. She laughed and gave a self-deprecating shake of her head. “Of course, I don’t cook a lick and I know even less about keeping a house. But I’m sure there must be something I can do.”

Inga wanted her help about as much as she wanted a toothache.

“I know!” Clara’s eyes widened as she clapped her hands in front of her chest. “I can look after Dirk for you while you go about milking your cows and caring for these sweet children and whatever else it is you do.”

Uncharitable thoughts raced through Inga’s mind. “Mrs. Keene, I—”

“Now, don’t you tell me no, ’cause I simply must insist on doing something. What else are old friends for? Why, you’re worn out, Mrs. Bridger. I haven’t seen anybody look so wan and tired in a month of Sundays. If you don’t take care o’ yourself, you’re going to make yourself sick. Just see if you don’t.”

Inga had developed a quick dislike for the Southern accent of her uninvited houseguest. She wished Clara would shut up.

“You just tell me what I need to do,” the woman went on, oblivious to Inga’s private thoughts.

Go home to Kentucky,
Inga wished she could say.
That is what I need you to do.

“I cannot believe how timely my arrival was. Why, without my help, who knows what would have happened to y’all.”

“Mrs. Keene—”

“Isn’t it time we called each other by our given names?” She leaned forward. “Do call me Clara. Please. I intend for us to be good friends.”

Inga thought not. “Clara, about that filly. As you can see, we really cannot afford such a—”

“Goodness, is that what’s on your mind, causing such a frown? You know, if you go on scowling like that it will cause the most dreadful wrinkles in your forehead. The last thing a man wants is a woman with wrinkles. Anyway, you just forget about that little ol’ horse.”

“But—”

Clara laughed. “It isn’t like I need the money. All I care about now is that your husband makes a full recovery. I mean to do everything I can to see he does.”

Inga was at a disadvantage with a woman like Clara Keene. She couldn’t outtalk her, that was for certain. And for the first time since Dirk had truly made her his wife, Inga felt all her old insecurities raising their ugly heads. She was too tall. She was too thin. She was too plain. She couldn’t hold a candle to the likes of Clara.

Why on earth would a man want a plain loaf of bread when he could have cake smothered in sugar frosting?

Why on earth would Dirk want Inga when it was so obvious he could have Clara Keene, just for the asking?

T
he entire tenement building smelled of onions and boiled cabbage.

Thea stared out the window of her Lower East Side apartment, trying to ignore the horrible, constant odor. There wasn’t much to see. Just the neighboring tenements, most of them filled with European immigrants. Beyond a sea of rooftops, she could see the Brooklyn Bridge. Out of view was the waterfront, steamships and ferries docked at the piers, people bustling in every direction. She hated it all.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She was crying again. She couldn’t seem to help herself. She was lonely. Karl was gone from dawn until dusk, six days a week, working in that dreadful factory. He came home at night, exhausted and sweaty and invariably hungry. Poor Karl. He seemed always to have to eat something Thea had either half cooked or scorched.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She turned away from the window and sat in one of their two chairs. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with an already damp handkerchief.

She did love Karl. She really and truly did love him. She remembered how lonely and bereft she’d been all those terrible
months they’d been separated. Now they were together. Now she was his wife. Everything should have been perfect.

But still she was unhappy. She was disillusioned. When she had fantasized about her marriage to Karl, she had imagined a beautiful home with pretty furniture and bric-a-brac and flowers in tall vases and lovely place settings on the table. She had pictured her devoted husband arriving home from work, looking handsome as always, with some special gift he’d purchased because he’d been thinking of her. She hadn’t given any thought to who would do the cooking or any of the other housework. Not that Thea hadn’t done her share when she was living at the parsonage, but it had been different with her mamma and five girls, all working together. As for gifts, her new husband was always quick to tell her, there was no money for anything beyond the essentials.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She hated New York City. She hadn’t remembered it being so dirty and crowded. Here on the Lower East Side, she didn’t even understand what most people were saying. She was an outsider, and she was alone much of the time.

She missed her mamma and pappa and her sisters. She’d thought she would never want anyone else once she had Karl, but she’d been wrong once again. She was homesick.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

On the morning of Dirk’s birthday, Inga dragged herself out of bed at the usual predawn hour, made the coffee, then went out to the barn. At Inga’s insistence, Sven had stopped coming to help with the morning milking. She already felt obliged to their neighbors for so much, and now that Clara Keene was here to help with Dirk…

Inga gritted her teeth as she yanked open the barn door with more fervor than necessary.

How she detested that woman! And how intimidated she was by her. Countless times over the last three days she’d wanted to send Clara packing, but she hadn’t had the courage. She’d heard Clara chattering on with Dirk about when he’d worked on her farm in Kentucky, and more importantly, she’d heard all that had been implied but not said.

He’s
my
husband!
she wanted to say. So why didn’t she act like it? Why didn’t she tell Clara that her assistance was not needed and she could go back to Kentucky and her precious horses? Dirk might have married Inga only to be his house-keeper and to look after the children, but he was
still
her husband.

Orient nickered from a nearby stall. Then the filly thrust her fine-boned head over the top rail and watched Inga’s approach with large dark eyes.

Inga’s anger faded into despair. “Oh, why did I ever write that letter?” She stroked the animal’s velvety muzzle.

Dirk was going to love this horse. Many times, she’d imagined the look that would be in his eyes the first moment he saw Orient, and Inga had sworn to herself she would find some way to pay for the filly so it could be his. They could not simply accept the horse as a gift as Clara had insisted several times. They were not going to be beholden to her.

One of the cows mooed, reminding Inga of her duties. She gave Orient one last pat, then went to retrieve her stool and milk pail.

She should be grateful, she thought to herself. Dirk was much better. Dr. Swenson had said he could get out of bed today. He thought the danger was past and now it was simply a matter of Dirk’s regaining his strength.

Last night, for the first time since the accident, Dirk had drawn Inga into the circle of his arms. That was how they’d drifted off to sleep. Listening to his steady breathing, Inga had found herself wishing he would make love to her. Then she’d scolded herself for it because she knew he wasn’t well enough yet. But then she’d wondered, if he did make love to her, would he be thinking of Clara?

The cow she’d been milking moved restlessly, and Inga realized her hands had become idle while tears streaked her cheeks. Suddenly she was angry again. She loved Dirk. He was her husband. She was pregnant with his child.

What was she doing, standing by while Clara Keene toyed with their lives?

Well, she wasn’t going to do it any longer. When she was done with the milking, she was going to march into the house and send that woman packing.

Dirk had had enough.

For three days, he’d put up with Clara’s fawning attentions and unwelcome flirtations. Three days, and Inga didn’t seem to care. Like leaving a sheep to the slaughter, Inga had left him to Clara’s ministrations with scarcely a backward glance.

He’d had
more
than enough!

He was up and half-dressed before Clara arrived with a tray and two cups of coffee, as she had for the past three mornings. When she saw him standing near the window, wearing his trousers, she exclaimed, “Well, I do declare! Look at you. You’re out of bed.”

“What is it you want here, Clara?”

Her expression changed to bemusement. “Why, to see you well, of course. Whatever else?”

“No. I mean, what do you
really
want?”

She set the tray on the bedstand, then folded her hands in front of her waist and faced him again. Her look was solemn as she returned his gaze. Then, slowly, her mouth curved in a familiar come-hither smile.

Three years ago, that same kind of smile had set him ablaze. This morning he felt repulsed.

“I came because I wanted to see you, Dirk, to see how you were doing. I was curious.” Her voice was low and husky. “I’ve stayed because I couldn’t make myself leave.” She closed the distance between them. “What happened to your dreams of seeing the world? Why did you come to this godforsaken place?”

“I had responsibilities.” Even as he said it, he realized she would never understand. Clara had no responsibilities other than to herself and her own pleasure. She never thought of anyone else. He hadn’t recognized the trait when he’d been with her years ago, perhaps because he’d been much the same, only interested in himself and what he wanted.

“When I learned where you were, I came at once. I brought you a horse as a surprise for your birthday. A filly I named Orient. Do you know why she’s named that? Because you were there when the mare was bred, and the next day you left King Meadows. When the foal was born, I thought of you. I thought of you in the far-off Orient, like you’d always talked about. I wanted a constant reminder of what we’d shared.”

She placed her hands on his bare chest and leaned into him, her head thrown back so she could look up into his face.

“You don’t belong here, Dirk. You don’t belong with Inga. Come away with me. I know how to make you happy. You can’t be happy here. She isn’t the woman for you. Anyone with eyes can guess the reason you married her. I have. So let her take care of those children and you come away with me.” She pressed closer. “Remember what it was like. You and me.”

He was about to push Clara away when he heard a strangled gasp from the doorway and looked in that direction. Wide-eyed, Inga stared at him. At them.

“Inga—” he began, but she whirled away and disappeared before he could say more.

Now he did shove Clara back from him.

“Inga!” he called as he headed after her.

Clara grabbed his arm. “Dirk, don’t! Let her go. Stay with me.”

He shook her off without breaking his stride.

A second later, he heard Inga’s cry of alarm, then the unmistakable sounds of someone falling. “Inga!”

He couldn’t reach her fast enough. His heart was pounding and his head was swimming. His chest felt as if it were about to burst.

She lay in a still heap at the bottom of the stairs. When he reached her, he dropped to his knees. “Inga,” he said hoarsely. He leaned over her.

She opened her eyes, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

She started to sit up. He moved his hand to her back to help her. Then she gasped and grabbed at her abdomen.

“What—” he began.

She cried out in pain, then curled into a ball. That was when he saw the blood soaking her dress.

Fear iced through him as he scooped her into his arms and carried her up the stairs. “Hang on, Inga. Hang on.”

Frida Gerhard laid her hand on Dirk’s shoulder, stopping his pacing. “Mr. Bridger, you must sit down and rest. You are not well yet yourself, and you will do Inga no good this way.”

“What’s taking so long?” he asked, ignoring her advice.

“The doctor will let us know as soon as he is able.”

“There was so much blood. So much.”

Frida took his arm and guided him to the living room sofa. “Sit down, Mr. Bridger.”

“It was my fault.”

“No. It was an accident. You must not blame yourself.”

“It was my fault.”

“Hush, you must not say that.”

It didn’t matter if he said it or not. It was true. It was his fault. Because he’d never told Inga he loved her. Because he’d been too blind, too stupid, and too selfish to see it for himself. He’d fallen in love with his wife, and he’d never told her so. Now it might be too late.

“Mr. Bridger, I am going to take Martha and Suzanne home with me for the night,” Frida offered gently.

He glanced toward the oversized chair where the girls were sitting, watching him with wide, frightened eyes. Then he nodded, the lump in his throat making it too difficult to speak.

“Sven will take care of the milking. You must not worry about anything.”

He looked at his neighbor. What would he have done without the Gerhards? First Sven and Frida had helped out when he’d been hurt. Now they were doing even more because of Inga’s fall. They’d gone beyond neighborliness. They’d been true friends to the Bridgers.

Frida squeezed his shoulder. “We are glad to help.” She smiled sadly. “You’ve had much to bear. You and the children. But I’m sure Inga will be all right. You’ll see.”

He closed his eyes, remembering again the scarlet stain that had soaked Inga’s skirts. How could she be all right, losing so much blood? And what was taking the doctor so long? Why didn’t he tell Dirk anything?

“I’m going upstairs.” He started to rise.

His neighbor gently pushed him back down. “The doctor asked you to wait here.”

Frustrated and anxious, he raked his hands through his hair as he stared toward the living room doorway.

If only he’d sent Clara away when she’d first arrived, this wouldn’t have happened. If only he’d made it clear sooner that she wasn’t wanted or welcome. If only he’d told her he didn’t want her bringing him coffee or sitting by his bed, talking about long ago. He didn’t even know who that young man was, the one she’d kept talking about. It wasn’t him. Not anymore.

Clara was góne now, of course. In a rare display of decency—or maybe it was only out of humiliation because she’d failed to entice him away—Clara had left the Bridger farm as soon as her driver returned from fetching the doctor. Without a word to anyone, she’d simply gotten into her fancy carriage and departed the Bridger farm. Dirk wouldn’t have known at all if Martha hadn’t seen her go.

But what did it matter? The damage had already been done, and it was his fault. He couldn’t blame Clara, as much as he wanted to.

Why didn’t the doctor come down and tell him what was wrong? How much longer was it going to take?

My fault.

He hid his face in his hands. If only he’d told Inga how he felt about her, she never would have misinterpreted that moment when she’d seen Dirk and Clara together. If she’d known he loved her, she wouldn’t have run, wouldn’t have tripped, wouldn’t have fallen down the stairs.

The instant he heard Dr. Swenson clearing his throat, Dirk was on his feet. “How is she?” he demanded as he stepped toward the physician.

“Sit down, Mr. Bridger.”

“I want to see her.”

“Not yet.” Like Frida Gerhard had done a short while before, the doctor placed his hand on Dirk’s shoulder and gently forced him to be seated. “I have given her something to make her sleep. She won’t awaken for quite some time.”

There was a hollow feeling in the pit of Dirk’s stomach.

Behind him, he heard Frida say, “Come, children. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

The doctor sank onto a chair opposite Dirk. He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a white handkerchief. Only when the spectacles were back in place did he speak again. “Your wife suffered a severe hemorrhage. The next twenty-four hours will be critical. If she makes it through them, then I believe she will have a chance of returning to good health.”

“Thank God,” Dirk whispered, grabbing hold of the doctor’s words of hope and forgetting the words of caution.

“I would like to bed down here so I might monitor her condition. If you could set up a cot in her room?”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Bridger, you must have guessed the fall induced a miscarriage. It is my opinion that—”

“Miscarriage?” He straightened with a jolt. “She was
pregnant?
”

“You didn’t know? Ah, well.” Dr. Swenson shook his head. “It was early yet, of course. She was probably waiting until she was sure. She might not have realized it for herself. Young women often don’t.”