With private bath? She looked in at the pink, green, and black tiled walls and floor, claw-foot tub, and water closet. “Whoever owned this house must have treated his servants very well.”
He stood in the middle of the room, pointing out the brass wall sconces and elegant gaslight hanging above.
Marta looked at the floor. “What is that stain you’re standing on?”
“Water.” He stepped aside. “But as you can see, there’s no serious damage.”
Marta shuddered inwardly.
Monsieur Sherbrooke headed for the door. “There are four bedrooms on the second floor and two more on the third.”
Marta followed him, walking around inside each room, opening and closing windows. The two bedrooms on the third floor were very small, with slanted ceilings and dormer windows, and in winter they would be very cold.
Monsieur Sherbrooke ushered her downstairs. “It’s a wonderful house, with a good location near the railroad and well worth the price.”
Marta gave Monsieur Sherbrooke a dubious look. “It needs considerable work.” She enumerated the costs she would have to bear in making repairs and getting the house ready for habitation before making her offer, considerably lower than the asking price.
“Mademoiselle!” He sighed in exasperation. “You cannot expect me to take such an offer seriously!”
“Indeed, I do, monsieur. Furthermore, you have a moral obligation to inform Monsieur Charpentier of my offer.”
His eyes flickered and then narrowed as he looked her over from head to foot, reconsidering her. “Do I understand you correctly, mademoiselle, that you know the owner, Monsieur Charpentier?”
“No, monsieur, but I do know what went on inside this house and why it has stood vacant for eighteen months. The stain you were standing on in that back bedroom is not water, but blood, as you well know. Tell Monsieur Charpentier I can pay the full amount I’ve offered. I doubt he will receive a better bid.” She handed him a slip of paper with the garment shop’s address. “This is where I can be reached.” She decided to press for whatever advantage she could. “If I don’t hear from you by the end of the week, I have another property in mind. Unfortunately, it is not one of your listings. Good day, monsieur.” She left him standing in the entry hall.
A messenger arrived at the shop on Wednesday. “Monsieur Charpentier accepts your offer.”
As soon as the papers were signed and title received, Marta quit her job in the garment shop and moved into the house on Union Street. She bought pots, pans, dishes, and flatware and left everything in boxes until she finished scouring the stove, counters, and worktable and scrubbing out cabinets and pantry. She set to work scrubbing the floors, sills, and windows. She found a wholesaler and bought material for curtains. She watched personal ads and furnished the rooms with bargain-priced beds, dressers, and armoires and the parlor with two sofas, two pairs of wing chairs, and side tables. She bought a long dining table and twelve chairs at an auction, adding lamps and a few rugs.
It took six weeks and everything she had to get the house ready. She paid for a small ad in the newspaper:
Room for rent. Spacious. Quiet neighborhood close to the locomotive works.
She posted a notice on the church bulletin board and hung a Vacancy sign in the front window. She framed and hung the house rules on the foyer wall:
Rent due the first of the month
Linens changed weekly
Breakfast served at 6 a.m.
Dinner served at 6 p.m.
No meals on Sunday
With the last of her money, she invited her neighbors to a Saturday afternoon high tea. As she served Ceylon tea, apple Streusel cake, chocolate éclairs, and spicy chicken sandwiches, she announced that her boardinghouse was open to renters.
The evening after the newspaper came out, Howard Basler, a railroad man, showed up at the front door. “I don’t need much space.” He rented an attic bedroom. A railroader’s wife, Carleen Kildare, came with her two small boys to ask if Marta could accommodate a family. She showed Carleen two adjoining bedrooms on the second floor with a bathroom between. Carleen brought her husband, Nally, back that evening, and they said they would move in at the end of the month. Four bachelors, all railroad men, doubled up in the last two available rooms on the third floor. Once Marta covered the bloodstain with a rug, she slept quite comfortably in the downstairs bedroom.
Only one small third-floor bedroom remained vacant.
One of the neighbors mentioned Marta’s high tea to Carleen, and the boarders teased her about when they might be served like English lords and ladies. Marta told them she’d serve them all high tea on Saturday and they could talk then about whether it would become a regular event. As she served egg and cucumber sandwiches, Welsh rabbit fingers, honey spice cake, and strawberry tarts, she told them how much she would have to raise their rent to give them this added service. After a few bites, everyone agreed.
The income exceeded Marta’s expectations.
So did the work.
* * *
Dear Rosie,
Warner told me the truth when he said I would work harder than I ever have in my life running my own boardinghouse. I am up before dawn and fall into bed long after everyone has retired.
Carleen Kildare offered to do the laundry if I could give her and her husband, Nally, a discount on their rent. I agreed. She works when Gilley and Ryan are napping. She also helps me prepare high tea on Saturdays. Enid’s Dundee cake is always a great success, as is Herr Becker’s Schokoladenkuchen. I have to hide the second cake or I would have nothing to offer at the fellowship hour after Sunday services.
I received my second marriage proposal from Mr. Michaelson this morning. He is one of the five bachelors living in my house. He is forty-two and a pleasant enough gentleman, but I am content as I am. If he persists, I shall have to raise his rent.
Marta took off one day a week and spent half of it at the German Lutheran Church. She liked to sit near the back, observing people as they entered. A tall, well-dressed man came every Sunday and sat two aisles in front of her. He had broad shoulders and blond hair. He never came to the fellowship hour after services. Once, when she came outside after services, she saw him shaking hands with Howard Basler. She saw the gentleman again a few days later walking along Union Street.
Lady Daisy wrote to her.
I am delighted to hear you have attained your goal of owning a boardinghouse. I told Millicent you received a proposal already, but she refuses to be persuaded.
One morning after a winter storm had dumped three feet of snow on Montreal and the autumn mud had frozen, someone knocked on Marta’s front door. Since boarders had their own keys, she ignored the interruption and went on adding up expenses. When the knock came again, louder this time, she left her books, expecting to find some poor, half-frozen door-to-door salesman outside her front door. A flurry of snowflakes drifted in when Marta opened the door.
A tall man stood on the porch, swathed in a heavy overcoat, scarf pulled up over the lower part of his face and his hat pulled down. He didn’t have a sample case. “Ich heiße Niclas Waltert.” As he touched the brim of his hat, snow slipped off the rim. “Mir würde gesagt, Sie haben ein Zimmer zu vermieten.” He spoke High German with a northern accent and had the manner of an educated gentleman.
“Yes. I have a room for rent. I’m Marta Schneider. Please.” She stepped back. “Come in.” She motioned when he hesitated. “Schnell!” Wood and coal cost far too much, and she didn’t want all the warmth going out the front door.
Removing his hat and coat, he shook them both free of snow and stomped his feet before stepping inside. She wished her boarders showed such courtesy.
Marta’s heart leaped when she looked up into eyes as clear and blue as the Thunersee in spring. “I see you at church every Sunday.” She felt her face heat up as soon as the words escaped.
He apologized in German and said he didn’t speak much English.
Embarrassed, she tol
d him she had one small attic room available and asked if he would like to see it.
He said yes, please.
Heart thumping, she thought if he saw the parlor and dining room first, and knew about the high tea served each Saturday, he might be more tempted. He didn’t say anything. She took him upstairs and opened the door to the empty bedroom. The room had a narrow bed, dresser, and kerosene lamp. There wasn’t room for a chair, but there was a bench under the dormer window that overlooked Union Street. When Niclas Waltert stepped in, he bumped his head on the slanted ceiling. He gave a soft laugh and drew the curtains aside to look out.
“Where do you work, Herr Waltert?” When he looked back at her, she felt a fluttering in her stomach.
“I’m an engineer at the Baldwin Locomotive Works. How much for the room?”
She told him. “I’m sorry I don’t have better accommodations to offer you. I think the room is too small for you.”
He looked around again and came back to the door. He took his passport from his pocket, removed several bills he had hidden there, and held them out. He had long, tapering fingers like an artist. “I will be back early this evening, if that will be convenient.”
Her fingers trembled as she folded the bills into her apron pocket. “Dinner is at six, Herr Waltert.” She led the way downstairs and stood in the front hallway while he took his woolen scarf from the hook and wrapped it around his neck. He shrugged into his coat and buttoned it. Everything he did seemed methodical and full of masculine grace. When he took his hat from the hook, she opened the door. He stepped over the threshold and then turned back, tapping his hat lightly against his side. “Will I meet your husband this evening?”
An odd, quivery sensation spread through her limbs. “It’s Fräulein, Herr Waltert. I have no husband.”
He gave her a polite bow. “Fräulein.” Putting on his hat, he went down the front steps. As she closed the door, Marta realized she was trembling.
* * *
Niclas arrived in time for dinner and sat at the far end of the table. He listened, but he didn’t join in the dinner table conversation. Nally and Carleen Kildare had their hands full that night with Gilley and Ryan, and Marta worried Herr Waltert would find them annoying. But he called them by name and performed a trick with two spoons that had both children awed. “Do it again!” they yelled. When his gaze met hers, her heart flipped over.
After dinner, the men moved into the parlor to play cards. The Kildares went upstairs to get their boys ready for bed. Marta picked up the empty meat platter, all too aware of Niclas Waltert lingering in his seat. “Don’t you have a servant to help you, Fräulein?”
She gave a short laugh. “I’m the only servant in this house, Herr Waltert.” She set an empty vegetable dish on the platter and reached for another. “Carleen helps with the washing. Other than that, I manage to get things done.”
“You’re a fine cook.”
“Danke.” When she came back from the kitchen, she found Niclas stacking the other dishes at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. “You don’t have to do that!”
He stepped back. “I thought I should do something of use before asking a favor, Fräulein Schneider.”
“What favor?” She picked up the dishes.
“I must learn English. I understand enough to do my job, but not enough to carry on a conversation with the other boarders. Would you be willing to teach me? I would pay you for your time, of course.”
The thought of spending time with him pleased her greatly, though she hoped it didn’t show too much. “Of course, and you needn’t pay me. People helped me learn and asked nothing for it. When would you like to start?”
“This evening?”
“I’ll come to the parlor when I’ve finished the dishes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Marta stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him leave the room.
It took an hour to wash the pots, pans, and dishes and put everything away. She wondered if Niclas Waltert had given up and gone upstairs. She heard the men talking over cards as she came down the hall. When she entered the parlor, Niclas stood and set his book aside. When she came closer, she saw it was a Bible, with Niclas Bernhard Waltert engraved in gold on the black leather cover. “You are a religious man, Herr Waltert?”
He smiled slightly. “My father intended me for the church, but I learned early I was not suited to the life of a minister. Please.” He stretched out his hand, inviting her to sit. Marta realized he would not take his seat until she was comfortably settled in hers. No man had ever treated her so respectfully.
“How are you not suited?”
“A minister’s life belongs to his flock.”
“Our lives belong to God whether we’re in church or outside it, Herr Waltert, or so my mother taught me.”
“Some are called to greater sacrifice, and some things I was unwilling to give up.”
“Such as?”
“A wife, Fräulein, and children.”
Her heart raced. “It is a Catholic priest who can’t marry, not a Lutheran minister.”
“Yes, but the family forfeits for the sake of others.”
He fell silent. When she met his gaze, she was frightened by the feelings he stirred in her. Is this what Rosie felt when she looked at Arik? or what Lady Daisy felt for her Clive? Marta glanced away, lifted her chin, and looked back at him. “Shall we begin our lessons?”
“Anytime you wish, Fräulein.”
Marta found Niclas waiting for her in the parlor every evening after dinner. While the other Canadian bachelors played cards, she taught Niclas English.
“Mr. Waltert seems quite taken with you,” Carleen said one day while gathering the sheets for washing.
“He asked me to teach him English.”
She laughed as she piled the sheets in her arms. “Well, that was a handy excuse.”
“As soon as Herr Waltert learns enough to carry on a conversation, he’ll be playing cards with the other men.”
“Not if the way he looks at you tells me anything.”
“He doesn’t look at me in that way, Carleen.”
“You’re saying you don’t like him?”
Embarrassed, Marta gathered the rest of the sheets and stuffed them into a basket. “I like him as well as any of my other boarders.”
Carleen grinned. “You never blushed when Davy Michaelson looked at you.”
* * *
“I don’t have your gift of languages, Fräulein. I’m not sure I will ever learn.”
“No German, remember,” Marta insisted. “English only.”
“English is a difficult language.”
“Anything worth learning is difficult.”
“Why can’t we just talk in German for a while?”
“Because you won’t learn English that way.”
“I want . . . learn more . . . you,” Niclas said in faltering English.
Clearly frustrated, he switched to German. “I want to find out if we are suited to one another.”
He could not have said anything more shocking. She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“I can see I’ve surprised you. Let’s dispense with English for now so I can speak clearly. I want to court you.”
Marta raised her hands to cover her burning cheeks. Davy Michaelson looked toward them while the others spoke in low voices. Quickly regaining her composure, Marta lowered her hands and clenched them in her lap. “Why would a man like you want to court someone like me?”
Niclas looked astonished. “Why? Because you’re an extraordinary young woman. Because I admire you. Because . . .” His gaze caressed her face and drifted down over the rest of her in a way that made her body go hot all over. “I like everything I see and know about you.”
Was this what love did to a person? Turned her inside out and upside down? “I’m your landlord.”
His mouth tipped. “Do I have to move out to court you?”
“No.” She spoke so quickly she felt
the heat flood her face. “I mean . . .” She couldn’t think of anything coherent to say.
“Will you attend church with me this Sunday, Marta?”
He had never used her given name before. Flustered, she let out a soft breath. “We’re in church together every week.”
His expression softened. “I go. You go. We don’t go together. I want you to walk with me. I want you to sit beside me.”
Feeling entirely too vulnerable, she looked for escape. She knew if she said no, he would never ask again. She would end up like Miss Millicent, living in regret for the rest of her life. Hadn’t she come to Canada on the slim chance she might find a suitable husband? Niclas Waltert was far more than suitable.
He searched her eyes. “What troubles you?”
That he would find her unworthy, that after a while he would see she wasn’t suitable at all. She hadn’t even gone to high school—and he was an engineer. He was handsome. She was plain. He was cultured. She was the daughter of a tailor.
She searched her mind frantically and blurted out the first excuse that came to mind. “I don’t even know how old you are.”
“Thirty-seven. Not too old for you, I hope.”
She stared at the pulse beating rapidly in his throat. “No. No, you aren’t too old.” When she raised her eyes, she saw light come into his as he smiled.
“Then you will come with me this Sunday? Ja?”
“Yes.” She gave a prim nod. She glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. I think we can dispense with our English lessons.”
Niclas stood and held out his hand. As she stood, her hand in his, she knew she would go anywhere with him, even a bedouin tent in the middle of the Sahara.
12
1913
Dear Rosie,
I am married!
I never thought anyone would want me, and certainly never a man like Niclas Bernhard Waltert. He came to Canada a year before I did and is an engineer for the Baldwin Locomotive Works. He is tall and very handsome.