“That is good.” Mrs. Halvorsan nodded, clearly pleased. “That something like this happened because of my Fredrik—that is good.” And she looked as proud as if it had been Fredrik himself offered a scholarship.
“Yes, it is. Now, I would like to discuss this with Tor, if that’s all right with you?”
“Yes, do.” Still Mrs. Halvorsan struggled, obviously, over the dilemma before her. This woman! To have lost so much in such a short time, to have gone through her own dark night of the soul, to emerge from it because of her oldest son who wouldn’t let her succumb—and now to have to contemplate him leaving, as well. Even though it was for his own good. It could not be easy.
Nothing about this place was easy, even when good fortune fell from the sky, no less disorienting than a blizzard.
Raina bundled up in her shawl—it was spring, the sun shining, but still the winds carried the memory of winter. She went out to find Tor, who, when he saw her coming, yelled at the ox to stop. He remained in the field, however, patiently holding the reins, so Raina had to pick her way through the mud, careful not to destroy any of the neat furrows he had already produced, ready for planting.
The earth smelled of manure and promise. The same promise it held every spring. Raina automatically said the farmer’s prayer for a good crop this year. She would always be a farmer’s daughter, she understood. No matter what fate awaited her in Lincoln.
As she approached, suddenly Raina felt shy; she and Tor hadn’t spoken since his father died, when Tor had been so angry at her.
“Hello, Tor.”
“Hello, Miss Olsen.” Tor nodded respectfully.
“You look well—are you?” Anxiously, Raina studied him; he was taller, thinner than he was the last time she’d seen him. But his neck looked thicker, more like a man’s; his jaw, too, had a set to it that hadn’t been there before.
His eyes—
They shone softly with forgiveness, his gaze once again frank and blameless, and Raina had to look away, she was afraid to show him how joyful she was to see it.
There was a long pause, while Tor—like the man he suddenly was—looked at his boots, patiently waiting for Raina—like the woman she had become—to gather herself, blink away her tears. Then she turned to him and they smiled at each other, and Raina felt some missing piece of her heart settle back into place; it was a small piece, but surprisingly important.
“Tor, I’ve been talking with your mother. She seems so much better!”
“She does?” Tor looked so relieved, and Raina understood how much he had suffered this winter, not just with the loss of his brother and father, but with worry for his mother.
“Yes, she does! Almost like her old self!”
“I hoped—I thought so, too. But it is good to hear that from someone else.”
“We’ve missed you in the schoolroom these past weeks.”
Tor hung his head, gestured about him at the field. “Yes, but—you see how it is. I am the man here now.”
“I know. It’s not fair, but I know.”
“I do miss school, though. I have some of your books, that you lent me—I’ve read them many times this winter, but I guess you want them back now?” He couldn’t keep the hungry question out of his voice, and Raina smiled, pleased.
“No, you may keep them. They’re not enough, though—it’s not enough to reread something over and over again. Not for someone like you.”
“Like me?” Tor looked up, astonished. Raina knew that he had never considered himself different from any farm boy. Different, special, deserving—these were not words that homesteaders, particularly Norwegians, approved of when discussing themselves or others. In fact, they rarely discussed themselves at all; introspection was not an asset here.