Badly-Behaved Betrothed
ASTA HEDSTROM
I’d broken my promise—the promise I’d made to Fred and the promise I’d made to myself.
I hadn’t told Gunnar about his family losing their farm and I hadn’t yet conceived of a way to save it. There was a procedure I needed to follow—first I’d make a plan, and then I’d do the informing.
But I hadn’t been able to figure anything out—just a single loose idea: Erlend’s papa had money. But then the idea fizzled. How would a girl like me go to Erlend’s papa and ask him to loan a great deal of kroner to the Fuglestads? I could nearly picture Herr Fournier, with his stern posture and tightly buttoned frock coat, reminding me that the Fourniers were already more than generous when it came to taking care of Gunnar. Indeed, it’d be foolish to ask them to save the boy’s farm as well.
Down in the wardrobe, I lay back against the velvet carpet, staring up at flickering light in the wall sconces. The show would debut in less than a fortnight and then it’d all be over—my fun with the theater and my friendship with Gunnar. After all, he and I couldn’t possibly remain pals if I’d be preparing for my wedding. Back at home, Mama, of course, was full of glee—corralling my siblings and bestowing upon them their wedding preparation duties. She’d never done so much smiling before. It turned my gut to lead.
I placed my fingers over my lips. Rehearsal after rehearsal, Gunnar’s fierce kissing left them tender. Today he’d even used his teeth! Though he’d asked my permission well in advance of our climactic encounter, he nonetheless delighted me with a myriad of inventive techniques. What would my betrothed think when we’d arrive at Act Four—when he’d see the way Benedick takes hold of Beatrice? I smiled at the thought, but then forced the smile away. Thoughts of Nils Tennfjord always managed to tire me, so I tried not to consider them too long. Really, I needed to work harder stirring my affection toward him. He’d done everything properly—attended each of my plays, wrote me polite, though misspelled, notes expressing his admiration. Nils even assured me he didn’t believe what others said about the traits of mothers being passed on to offspring. He had a satisfactory face and two functioning ears, so, in his mind, our future children wouldn’t bear any of my imperfections.
“Aren’t you grateful”—Nils once asked me—“that I don’t take any notice of your unusual features, nor fault you for your deafness?”
I understood he wanted me to answer in the affirmative, so I said yes.
“That’s good,” he replied. “Gratitude is so essential to the female character.”
At the time, I’d been glad to have successfully demonstrated a praiseworthy virtue.
Now, touching my mouth again, his words rankled, and I returned to thinking of the Fuglestads. It’d been over a month since I’d spoken with Fred and I’d broken my promise for too long—far too long—and I needed to finally tell Gunnar what his brother wanted me to tell him.
With a loud creak, the door to this chamber swung open and Gunnar’s sweat-mussed head blocked my view of the light. “Did I hurt you?”
“Hurt me?”
“You’re rubbing your lips and looking unhappy.” He plopped onto the floor beside me. Instinctively, my fingers linked with his.
“I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking doesn’t usually make someone look like they’ve been kicked in the stomach.”
It was time. I had to tell him.
He squeezed my fingers. “You don’t have to go through with it, you know.”
My chest seized. “Go through with it?”
“Your betrothal. A lady is allowed to call it off.”
I hadn’t been expecting to have this particular conversation with him, not right now, and, really, not ever. “What makes you think I’d want to call off my betrothal?” Gunnar had to know that although such a thing might be possible, it simply wasn’t done. I couldn’t afford to make Mama and the rest of the town hate me further. Besides, I wouldn’t disgrace a young man who’d shown me only kindness.
He rolled onto his side. “True love doesn’t make a person look like they’ve been kicked in the stomach.”
I elbowed him, smile growing. “What do you know about true love?”
He blinked, not saying anything and surely scrambling for the right line from Romeo and Juliet or A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
At last, he spoke, his inflection changing—almost as though he were switching to a different subject, but not really. “I’m currently residing with the most elegant young man in all of existence.”
I studied him for a long moment—the way his face remained turned my way, his eyelids now still and faintly dusted with the lampblack we relished applying even just for rehearsal. Elegant wasn’t a word I was accustomed to hearing from boys about their male friends.
“Elegant,” I said. Not a question. Here, Gunnar was communicating something.
“Take a moment to appreciate the depth of Fournier’s dimples,” he added. “Both when he’s contemplative and when he smiles.”
Maybe Gunnar was suggesting I had any sort of chance with a young man like Erlend, and, with that thought, sobriety found its way back into my voice. “I should endeavor to appreciate Nils and his proposal.”
“You should endeavor to do what you want.”
Such a Fuglestad thing to say. I could nearly picture Gunnar’s mama, the lady blacksmith, plunging her cold iron into the forge and speaking those exact words to her beautiful eldest son. Maybe that’s why she allowed him to devote himself fully to the theater at sixteen instead of taking up a profession, even though his family needed money. Do what you want, Gunnar. You should endeavor to do what you want.
But that Fuglestad defiance had caused so much trouble for his people. Now his mama was dead. He still hadn’t told me the whole story and I wouldn’t be the one to bring up those painful memories. Not now.
I twisted at a button on my skirt. “You know I love the theater, Gunnar. But I’m not calling off my betrothal.”
“There’s a fair amount of distance between calling the thing off and submitting to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve agreed to be Nils’s intended. But that doesn’t mean you have to be a well-behaved intended.”
Now he’d ventured into truly wicked territory.
“Surely you have obligations in these weeks leading up to your wedding day,” he said. “Tasks you have to do.”
“Well, there’s appointments with the dressmaker. Invitations to scribe. That sort of thing.”
“What if you were to do a damn poor job of meeting your obligations?”
“Mama’d smack me across the mouth.”
“Good.” His eyes ignited with impish glee. “A bride with bruises on her mug. The wedding would have to be postponed for weeks while she heals.”
“Ha!” I gave him a jab on the shoulder.
Wriggling out of his jacket and kicking off his shoes, Erlend slipped into the room. “Fuglestad”—he lowered himself to the floor, sitting near Gunnar’s hip—“sometimes I can’t tell whether or not you’re joking.”
Gunnar pointed to his own face, indicating the contusions that still remained. “Nearly two months and still purple.” He turned back my way. “If you earn yourself a good enough beating, your wedding could be delayed until after the New Year. Maybe you’d be able to do Twelfth Night after all.”
Is that what happened to you, Gunnar? A beating?
“Picture it,” he continued. “Viola with a black eye.”
I laughed. “You’re beyond wicked!”
The button I’d been twisting snapped free. Dammit. I threw it at him, striking him right between his brows.
Erlend’s expression remained serious. “Better well-hanged than ill wed.” Feste’s line. Act One, Scene Five.
I shrugged off his implication. “I’m not backing out of my engagement.”
“Yes, fine.” Gunnar sighed. “But you can still enjoy a little disobedience. And if your punishment is a whipping, make sure your mama strikes the parts not covered by your gown.”
I laughed once more. Erlend’s sock-covered foot kneaded into the billowy place where the flannel of Gunnar’s shirt was tucked into his trousers. Gunnar reached down and took hold of Erlend’s leg, letting his fingers slide gently over the knobs of his ankle.
I tilted my head. Though I had brothers and grew up surrounded by the boys in the theater, I’d never seen one touch and caress another boy’s foot. Maybe Gunnar wanted me to know something and now he was showing me—that he wasn’t like a boy, that he was a regular person.
“Erlend.” I looked his way, at first questioning whether I should speak, and then deciding to just go through with it. “Gunnar says you’re the most elegant young man in all of existence.”
Erlend smiled and I saw his dimples as if for the first time.
All right.
Flagrant insubordination did seem perfectly appealing. I could see it: spilling tea over the wedding announcements, Mama uncomfortably sitting down to dinner with the Tennfjords while I made myself scarce, my sullen disinterest later that evening when she’d scold me for my transgressions. A girl could have such fun once she had nothing else to lose. It would be such a brash, Fuglestad thing to do.
“A badly-behaved betrothed.” I savored the phrase.
Lazily turning his attention away from Erlend’s foot, Gunnar smiled at me. “So you’ll do it then?”
“Be naughty during my final weeks of liberty? How could I not?”
There’s a sort of immobility that occurs when one is on the edge of understanding something, yet not creative enough to grasp onto it fully nor recognize how it could be applied to one’s present situation.
Perhaps my immobility was exacerbated by the expectation that young ladies must do whatever possible to avoid causing young men any sort of distress.
I didn’t tell Gunnar the news.
I couldn’t.
Whenever the rest of the cast would leave for the evening, Gunnar’s fingers would weave through Erlend’s and his cheek would come to rest on the taller boy’s shoulder. I wasn’t completely certain what it all meant, but I knew Gunnar was happier than he’d been in months and that fact delighted me to no end. But now it was the beginning of October and if I continued to stall, the damn show would be over and I’d have no excuse to see him anymore and then I’d truly break my promise to Fred.
If only the Fourniers lived closer to the main road and the two Fuglestad brothers could just happen upon each other, sorting this all out on their own. But then I remembered Fred’s unfocused eyes and bruised forehead. He was relying on me to handle one simple task, and he probably thought I’d taken care of it over a month ago. Really, I had no good excuse for this continued delay.
I’d tell Gunnar tomorrow.
No, I’d write it out.
Nabbing a pencil from Erlend’s office, I plopped down in the alleyway and composed a letter on the reverse side of a script page.
Dear Gunnar,
I’m writing this because I made a promise to your brother and am too miserable a coward to tell you in person. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that after the New Year, your family will lose their farm. Your brother intends to move to the city, and you ought to know this so you can plan your life accordingly.
Your Devoted Friend for All Time, Asta.
A terrible feat of letter writing, but at least it got written.
That done, I needed to conceive of some trouble to cause. I was a badly-behaved betrothed after all.
A curious thing about my Gunnar-inspired disobedience—it grew. At first, I directed my mischief only toward the trappings of matrimony. When no one was looking, I’d smash the wishbones Mama had been collecting for the ceremony, and I’d purposefully drop the jars of preserves intended for use in the fruitcake. But soon I became a saboteur of all domesticity. I’d arrive for tea with my hair hanging free all the way to my waist; I taught curse-words to my young siblings; and when Mama sent me to market, I’d return not with flour and potatoes but with expensive novelties—sweet-cakes, gingerbread, and chocolates.
I never earned a flogging for my behavior. Mama’s inflamed temper cooled when she saw that no amount of hollering could distress me. Perhaps she understood in a few short weeks she’d be free of her most troublesome daughter.
A few short weeks.
It didn’t matter how many wishbones I broke or fruitcakes I ruined, it would still happen. On Christmas Day, I’d be married, a pig would die, and my life with the theater and my friends would be over.
Forever.
The cobblestones gleamed with raindrops. A damp wind struck my pores.
“Good evening, Frøken Hedstrom.”
Heart thundering, I glanced up.
It was Nils Tennfjord, his silhouette the shape of a plucked osprey—his woolen coat square, functional, and not the least bit elegant. “Your mama sent me for you.” He peered over my lap. “Writing a letter?”
Quickly, I folded the page and tucked it into my bodice.
Nils stepped forward. “Who were you writing to?”
My arm-hairs prickled as I stood. “No one. Just notes for the play.”
“It was addressed to Gunnar Fuglestad.”
“Yes. He’s in the play. This is about our scene.”
“How very thorough.” His smile was all teeth and no cheeks. “You’re quite an artist, Asta Hedstrom.” His ungloved hand lifted toward me and I nearly stumbled as I rose, grasping onto the door handle behind me in the hopes it might offer any support.
“With the days getting shorter, your mama proposed I walk you home after theater rehearsals.” He opened his palm, waiting for me to take it.
“I don’t need to be walked home.”
Nils grinned—his gums thick and pink, incisors small and round. “There’s been rumors of impropriety around here in the evenings.”
“Impropriety?” Was he referring to our drinking parties, and, if so, did he know I was a part of it? We hadn’t had any since the beginning of summer.
“I insist on walking you home.”
Why was he smiling? Did he understand his tooth-filled grin had the reverse effect than whatever agreeableness he’d been hoping for? It occurred to me then that the opposite of elegant young man was crude older boy.
“Please . . .” My voice came out breathless. “I’d like to see you another time.”
“But aren’t you going home now?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s dark this evening.” Instead of continuing to wait for me to take his hand, he reached for mine.
I pulled it away.
Something hot and sour-tasting rose in my throat. From the look on his face, I’d overreacted, but my nerves kept insisting: react, react, and react some more.
“Did I do something wrong?” Nils’s expression didn’t know whether it wanted to be hurt or angry.
I drew in a breath. He didn’t intend to injure me, but something about the weight of his masculine demeanor was too much to bear.
He came forward again, taking hold of my elbow. “Because if I did something wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
I shrunk sideways but he remained clutching.
“Please tell me if everything is quite all right, Frøken Hedstrom.”
No. Everything was not all right.
React.
I tore away from him. It was dramatic, silly, and far too demonstrative, but I turned on my heel, and took off at a run. I was being preposterous. He wasn’t a villain, he was my betrothed—a young man who’d overlooked all my undesirable qualities. And didn’t that make him exceptionally kindhearted? Surely my intuition was screaming over nothing.
But I didn’t turn back. With the damp breeze slapping my face, I hurried up the street, around a corner, and toward the part of town not illuminated by gas lamps.
There was no reason for this. He’d been perfectly courteous.
But his reaching. Those gums. His inelegance.
What would I say to the Tennfjords? That I thought I deserved better than their exceptionally generous son?
Oh, if only I could be a Fuglestad. If only I could live in a world where a boy like Gunnar could propose something-else to me.
Then I could continue acting, or be a lady blacksmith, or whatever brazen thing my heart desired. And my heart did desire—I wanted Gunnar and Erlend. Not as suitors. Of course not as suitors. But I wanted to continue holding on to these strange, beautiful feelings that drew us together—these moments between us that flourished with profound intimacy. We were equals, after all, even though I’d never get to possess the type of freedom they enjoyed as young bachelors.
What would it be like to always have them? If I spoke to Gunnar, he’d tell me there wasn’t anything wrong with my reactive nerves. He’d soothe them, of course. Unless Gunnar had to move to the city. Heavens, this was such a mess.
I needed a plan to save his farm. I needed to think. I needed to take the long way home—walk and sigh and moan and reach a proper conclusion.
Crossing the street, I headed for the woods behind the groggery. Nils would’ve had to sprint to keep up with me and I hadn’t heard any clap of boot soles upon the paving blocks. If I kept going straight through these trees, I’d reach the Fournier estate and maybe Gunnar might be there, sitting on the porch or strolling through the gardens and, finally, I’d be able to give him this blasted letter about the fate of his family’s farm. Maybe we’d cry together about our miserable fortunes and he might even tell me what to do.
The light from the full moon made the birches shine like wands in the fog. A hare leapt through the fallen leaves, its white tail a ghost’s heart fleeing into the night. Tucking my chilled fingers into my pockets, I strode onward.
If I told anyone these thoughts—these thoughts about wanting to become a Fuglestad rather than a Tennfjord, they’d look at the way Gunnar and I kissed during rehearsals and conclude I fancied him.
Was this what fancying felt like? Wanting to be someone’s friend for all time? No. True fancying involved other things—we all talked about it in the theater—not just kissing, the carnal stuff. We were a carnal lot and we knew which parts went where.
But I didn’t want Gunnar’s parts. I never had. Not even before he became the Gunnar who’d spend our quiet time down in the wardrobe massaging Erlend’s ankle.
They were so happy. Happy as kings. Happier than I would ever be.
I reached into my bodice and tore up the letter.
Gunnar already had so much taken from him. I couldn’t be the one to take his happiness. Instead, I’d return to rehearsals and savor what little time we had left. This would be our last play—the one where we’d kiss while the whole town looked on. I’d pull him close, push my fingers through his hair, and gaze at him with all the reverence in my heart, doing everything I could to make our final performances together unforgettable.