Indigo Christmas (32 page)

“It's pretty, darlin', but what's it all about?” asked Patrick when the song was finished. “And why so early in the mornin'?” He yawned widely.

“It is
Sankta
—Saint Lucy! This is her day, but I had forgotten. This is a custom in Sweden. I will tell you all about it, but it is too cold here, and I must go down and let them in, and make coffee. Dress quickly, Patrick. They will have breakfast for us.” She called out something in Swedish, then slammed the window shut and put on her slippers.

“Breakfast?” Patrick scratched his head as Hilda darted out of the room.

When he got downstairs, a lively scene met him in the kitchen. Hilda's family crowded around the big work table, eating fragrant buns studded with raisins while Hilda poured coffee. Birgit's crown was sliding a bit on her head, but as the candles had been blown out, there was no danger. Rapid Swedish conversation was punctuated by laughter.

Patrick hesitated in the doorway, watching Hilda with her family, having a wonderful time. Would he spoil the fun if he entered? He, an Irishman who knew none of their customs, who practiced an alien faith, who understood not a word of their strange language?

He had been determined to marry Hilda from the first time he saw her. Oh, he understood all the problems, or thought he did. Both families would object, but he and Hilda would bring them around.

But they were so slow to come around, slow to accept each other's cultures. Look at the way his family, yesterday, had been downright rude to Hilda. Hilda's family were less hostile, in part because they owed Patrick and his uncle Dan a good deal for their kindness, but they were not yet warmly disposed towards the Irish, all the same. Only young Erik, to whom the dashing Patrick was a hero, welcomed him unreservedly into the family.

Had he hurt Hilda by marrying her and separating her from her family? The thought nagged at Patrick.

It was Hilda's mother who saw him first. “Come in, Patrick, and have some of our good
Lussekatter.
I do not know the word in English.” Her manner was a bit stiff, but at least she had invited him into the circle, and had courteously switched to his language. The rest of the family followed suit, and Sven stood to offer Patrick his chair.

“This is your place, at the head of the table,” he said gravely. “Ah, but you're our guest. Stay put. Erik, ye lazy scamp, give your sister your chair. You and I can stand easy enough. Gudrun, did you bake those buns? Whatever their name is, they smell like a little bit o' heaven.”

“Mama and I, we made them,” said Gudrun, the oldest sister, coloring a bit. “It is an old recipe handed down from
Mormor
—Grandmother—and old before that. It is part of the custom.”

“Mm,” was all Patrick could reply through a mouthful of bun. They were deep yellow in color and rich with spice.

“We will tell you about it,” said Hilda. “
Sankta Lucia
—Saint Lucy—”

“Let me tell!” interrupted Erik. “It is an old Swedish tradition,” he informed Patrick, and gave Hilda a smug look, proud of the fancy word in English. “every year before Christmas—”

“On December thirteenth—” Hilda prompted him.

“On December thirteenth,” Erik hurried on, “that's today, very early in the morning, only we're earlier than usual because we have to go to work and school today, but very early anyway, one girl of the family gets up and makes coffee and puts on a white robe and a wreath of candles and brings the coffee and the Lucia buns, the
Lussekatter,
to the rest of the family, and she's supposed to be,” he paused for a quick breath, “supposed to be Saint Lucia bringing light to the world because it's been getting darker and darker and now it will start getting light again, and so the girls sing that song about her. And it's usually the oldest girl in the family only that's Gudrun and she's too old, so sometimes it's the youngest if she's old enough, so it's Birgit this year, only she can't keep the crown on straight.” Erik poked Birgit, which made the crown slide still farther over one ear, and they both started to giggle.

Freya took up the tale. “In the village in Sweden where we lived, there was a procession, with one girl from the whole village chosen to be the
Lussibrud
, the Lucy Bride, Saint Lucia. of course all the girls who were old enough wanted to be chosen; it is a great honor.”

Erik jumped in again. “And the boys, too—the very little boys are
stjärngossar
—star boys—it is a silly thing. The big boys are
tomtar
—I do not know the word in English—”

“Little demons—like you,” said Hilda, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Be quiet now and eat your breakfast.”

But it was impossible for any of them to be quiet. They chattered in English and Swedish, and Erik pretended to be a
tomte
and chased Birgit around the kitchen until Patrick captured him and tickled him into submission. At some point an outraged cook stomped in, demanding to know what devilment was going on in her kitchen, followed by an equally outraged and starchy nurse, but the Lucia buns placated even them.

After an hour or more the Johanssons departed, stuffed with buns and coffee, and Hilda and Patrick made their way upstairs. “That was fun,” said Patrick as he watched Hilda brush her long blond hair, braid it, and pin it into a coronet on the top of her head. “But why're you fixin' your hair? I've things I need to get workin' at down at the store, but it's not time for you to get up yet.”

“There is much to do, Patrick. There is a meeting of the Boys' Club committee this afternoon, and before that—before that I must think some more.”

“Seems to me you're workin' as hard as when you were at Tippecanoe Place,” Patrick grumbled.

Hilda nodded. “That is what O'Rourke said yesterday. I do work hard. I wish I did not have to hunt for the murderer, Patrick. I do not like it. But I must, because of Norah and Sean.”

“And the baby, and all.” Patrick sighed. “Do what you have to do, darlin'. But don't you wear yourself out, now. Christmas is comin' and I've a lovely surprise for ye, and I don't want to find my darlin' girl too tired to enjoy it.”

Hilda turned from her dressing table and took his hand. “I will enjoy Christmas, Patrick. I enjoyed this morning. It was good to have my family here, with you. Things are better with them, I t'ink—think. But before Christmas can be good, I must clear Sean's name, so Norah will not be angry with me.”

“You gonna tell me about it?”

“Not yet. Not until—later. Soon, Patrick.”

Patrick kissed her and went off to work, not sure whether to be pleased at the improvement in family relations or disturbed about Hilda's continuing involvement in crime.

BANK OFFICIALS IN TOILS
Warrants…Charge Grand Larceny

—South Bend
Tribune
   
December 7, 1904

 

 

32

H
ILDA WENT IN for a moment to see Norah, who was nursing the baby. “And I don't care what that doctor says,
or
the nurse, I'm letting her eat all she wants. And then I'm going to get up and have a bath. I'm that tired of being washed in bed, as if I was a baby meself. And then I'm goin' to eat a lot of breakfast.”

“Good,” said Hilda. “I have brought you something to start. It is a Swedish tradition.” She handed Norah a bun, and explained about Saint Lucia and the celebration.

“So that's what that was all about,” said Norah as soon as she'd swallowed a big bite. “I heard the commotion. Woke Fiona, too, and I tell you it takes a lot to wake her. Sleeps like a baby, she does.”

Hilda giggled.

“And so,” said Norah after another mouthful, “what are you doin' to find out who really set that fire?”

“I know who set the fire,” said Hilda, her giggle silenced.

“
What?
” Norah sat bolt upright in bed, scattering crumbs and disturbing Fiona, who protested loudly. “You mean to tell me you know and you haven't told the police so Sean can get out of jail?”

“I know,” said Hilda dully, “but I cannot prove it.
Yet.
I have a plan, Norah, but I will not tell you or anybody else. No one would believe me yet, anyway. Do not look at me that way. Soon, I promise you, everyone will know the truth.”

She turned her back and left the room, both Norah and the baby screaming imprecations at her retreating form.

Hilda kept to her room most of the morning. She skimmed the newspapers, noting with no surprise that the Democratic-leaning
Times
deplored the rash of bank failures in the area and cited rumors that others were to follow, Henry Townsend's Farmer's Bank perhaps included. The paper predicted dire consequences for the working men of the city and fulminated against rich bankers who took no thought for the poor. The
Tribune
, Republican to the core, made little mention of local banking problems in the news columns, but mentioned those farther afield and editorialized—at length—on the irresponsibility of those who “cried wolf” and preyed on the public's fears.

Hilda nodded drearily and cast the papers aside. She thought for a long time, pacing up and down the room. At one point she sat down in front of the wash stand, opened her box of talcum powder, and took up a generous pinch of it between thumb and forefinger.

Eileen, who was making the bed, watched curiously as Hilda rubbed the powder on a piece of black leather and then blew it off. Dearly as she would have liked to ask what Hilda was doing, the little maid didn't quite dare. Mrs. Cavanaugh was a kind and understanding mistress, and had made no objection to Eileen doing the room while it was occupied, but there were limits.

Immediately after lunch, which Hilda ate absentmindedly (and alone, Patrick working through his lunch on this busy day at the store), she went upstairs again to dress for the committee meeting. This time she dressed even more carefully than for the first occasion.

“But don't you want to wear the pink, ma'am? It's your second-best for afternoon, but you can't wear the green, you wore it last time.”

“No, Eileen. The black wool, please. And I will wear my hair in the coronet braids.”

Eileen opened her mouth to protest, saw the look on Hilda's face, and closed it again. In her opinion, that black dress with the white trim made Hilda look almost like a maid again, especially with the braids, but it wasn't her place to say so.

Hilda chose a plain black hat, too, with a minimum of decoration, and went out the door with such a set expression on her face that Eileen whispered to O'Rourke, “She might almost be in mourning, all that black and no smile.” O'Rourke shook his head—there was no accounting for a woman's mood—and helped Hilda into the carriage.

Hilda was a little bit late. That was the way she had planned it. All the other women were assembled in the library at Tippecanoe Place when she walked in. She murmured an apology to Mrs. Clem and sat down in the last available chair. Aunt Molly glanced at her, noted the sober garb, and tilted her head, eyebrows raised. Hilda gave an almost invisible shake of her head. All would be revealed soon.

“Well, now,” said Mrs. Clem, “now that we're all here, we need to make sure we're ready for the party. Mrs. Elbel, you have the floor.”

Mrs. Elbel, too, glanced curiously at Hilda before proceeding. “Thank you, Mrs. Clem. I believe we are very nearly ready. Mrs. Darby, have you a report for us on the decorations?”

Mrs. Darby, looking very young and pretty and just a little shy among the older women, reported that she had obtained generous contributions of a fine fir tree and money to buy the makings for decorations that were not only pretty, but practical. “Apples, both red and green. We'll tie ribbons around them and hang them on the tree, and then the boys can take them home later to eat. And all my neighbors are helping me string popcorn. And we're wrapping hard candies in colored paper and stringing them, too. We also bought candles, but I'm not sure we should light them. With so many boys around…”

She left the sentence unfinished, but heads nodded. Lighted candles on the tree were pretty, but dangerous.

“And when do you plan to put the tree up?” asked Mrs. Elbel.

“I thought on Friday. My neighbors can help, but if some of you ladies could come, too?”

Several of the women spoke up.

“Thank you. That all sounds splendid. Now, Mrs. Brick, I believe you and Mrs. Clem have planned refreshments?”

The reports went on. Hilda listened with only one ear. Her part of the planning was done; she had only to report on the gifts her brother and sisters were making. There would surely arise, sometime, an opportunity for what she had to do, but if not she would have to make her own opportunity.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Elbel at last. “You ladies have worked extremely hard to get all this organized in such a short time. Let's see, now. The hall—we have Mrs. Cavanaugh to thank for that. And she has given us an approximate list of how many will attend. The refreshments sound delicious and Mrs. Darby has done a marvelous job about the decorations. Mrs. Ford, Mrs. Cushing, and I have purchased what gifts needed to be bought, although we have all, I'm sure, been gratified by the generosity of the businessmen and private citizens of the community in donating to our cause. That leaves only the entertainment.” She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Townsend and Mrs. Witwer were to plan the entertainment together. Mrs. Townsend, I realize that you have—um—had other worries on your mind.” An embarrassed little rustle moved around the room. The women looked at their gloves. “However, have you and Mrs. Witwer been able to come up with something to—er—amuse the boys?”