Nineteen

Britta—March 1887

Britta put her hand on the corner cupboard, took a deep breath, and opened the door. And there it was: the handaplagg.

It was the first time she’d opened the cupboard since her mother Torhild had died four months earlier. Erik had raided their father’s cupboard right after the funeral, finding little beyond some tobacco and spare socks and Halvor’s knife. Britta had been loath to invade Torhild’s private cupboard, as if opening the door would finalize the loss.

But today, she needed to see the hand cloth that had been passed down, mother to daughter, for generations. She lifted it gently from the shelf, carried it to the table, sat down. In the soft glow of a cod-liver oil lamp she contemplated the black designs embroidered on the linen cloth. Trees of life connected earth and sky. Female figures honored the disir who guarded women. Sun symbols summoned all that was good and warm and holy. Square fields, dotted with seed stitches, represented the hope of a bride’s fertility. Sharp angles whorling in opposite directions were intended to confuse evil spirits. Torhild had explained the meanings inherent in the symbols. She’d also explained that Britta might sometimes understand things, feel things, without explanation.

Britta hadn’t grasped everything her mother had tried to teach her. Now she grieved her inability to ask questions. Sometimes she did sense something unknown. But lately, since her mother died, she’d been floundering. “I am in need of guidance,” she whispered, trying to tap into whatever wisdom had been stitched into the cloth, whatever knowledge had seeped into the threads from her ancestors’ hands.

There was no sound in the old cabin beyond the crackle of low flames in the hearth, and the wind’s incessant howl. After a long, dark winter, Erik had taken advantage of the first thaw to take his fiddle and hike down the mountain in search of friends and a chance to play his tunes. Britta had no idea when he’d return. Or even if, she thought, for winter had roared back to the isolated farm, packing snow around the cabin and hurling sleet against the window. Erik wasn’t a hard drinker, as their father had been. But if the storm had surprised him …

Britta sighed. She wasn’t ready to give up on her brother. She understood that Erik needed to get away from time to time. She’d spent many cold winter evenings cleaning fleeces, carding wool, spinning yarn, and listening to him play his fiddle. He’d progressed from sounding out familiar tunes to composing his own. When a piece pleased him, he closed his eyes, looking truly happy. She wouldn’t deny him that.

But she also wasn’t ready to give up on Høiegård. Her grandparents, Lisbet and Lars, had managed to keep the farm going despite Lars’s injury. Her mother, Torhild, had managed to keep the farm going despite Halvor’s neglect. It was a poor piece of land, but it was theirs.

Britta touched the handaplagg, tracing shapes ancestors she’d never met had stitched and additions made by her own mother and grandmother. Once, women in her family had used it to cover their hands when attending weekly church services. That practice had faded, but it was still traditional for women to carry handaplaggs on their wedding day.

And will I? Britta wondered. She liked the idea of using the cloth that her mother and grandmother and more had used. And if she married a strong man without a farm of his own, and bore lots of sons, Høiegård could improve.

But the idea of getting married did not appeal, even though she’d recently received her first proposal.

It had come as a surprise. During the warm spell that had sent Erik wandering, Britta had left the lonely cabin and gone to church for the first time in months. It had been good to leave the high farm, to worship, to chat with friends after the service. When she realized she might be lingering in the churchyard overlong, keeping her boatmates waiting, she quickly said goodbye to the Kinsarvik ladies and turned away.

Svein Sivertsson had been waiting for her by the gate. “God dag,” he’d said, and launched into what appeared to be a well-rehearsed speech. “As you know, my good wife died last year. I am looking to marry a pious woman. You are in need of a husband. I have no property, but you do. I believe God intends us to wed.”

Astounded, Britta had groped for words. Finally she managed, “Thank you, but I am not ready to wed. Please excuse me. I mustn’t keep the others waiting.” And she’d fled toward the beach.

I’m only seventeen, Britta thought now. Plenty of girls her age were wed or promised by now, of course, but she still had time. Slowly she draped the cloth over her hands, trying to imagine Torhild and Lisbet and Gudrun on their wedding days.

And as she stared at the delicate black embroidery, she sensed an affirmation: No. Not yet.

Perhaps it had come from one of those women. Or perhaps it came from her own heart. It didn’t matter. I must make Erik mind his responsibilities here, Britta thought. She carefully folded the handaplagg and tucked it back away.