Kirsten's Journal: Book 3: Reidar & Kirsten in Missouri (The Hansen Series - Martin & Dagny and Reidar & Kirsten) Read online

  Also By Kris Tualla:

  Medieval:

  Loving the Norseman

  Loving the Knight

  In the Norseman’s House

  Renaissance:

  A Nordic Knight in Henry’s Court

  A Nordic Knight of the Golden Fleece

  A Nordic Knight and his Spanish Wife

  18th Century:

  A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery

  A Discreet Gentleman of Matrimony

  A Discreet Gentleman of Consequence

  A Discreet Gentleman of Intrigue

  A Discreet Gentleman of Mystery

  and

  Leaving Norway

  Finding Sovereignty

  Kirsten’s Journal

  Regency:

  A Woman of Choice

  A Prince of Norway

  A Matter of Principle

  Contemporary:

  An Unexpected Viking

  A Restored Viking

  A Modern Viking

  *****

  For Aspiring Authors:

  A Primer for Beginning Authors

  Becoming an Authorpreneur

  Kirsten’s

  Journal

  by

  Kris Tualla

  Kirsten’s Journal is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  © 2014 by Kris Tualla

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

  ~ 1782 ~

  Cheltenham, Missouri Territory

  November 10th

  I have been in the tiny town of Cheltenham, the Missouri Territory, in the United States of America for one month now, and my life here is shockingly different from my life in Philadelphia.

  My husband warned that it would be so, but I could not imagine the things he described. I have determined to document my experiences, in the event we are someday blessed with children, and possibly even grandchildren, so that they may understand a little of what life was like on a land grant in Missouri in the year 1782.

  My name is Kirsten Sven Hansen, and my husband, Reidar Magnus Hansen, has been living on this land since the middle of May. That is when he and our neighbor, James Atherton, received their adjoining five-hundred-acre plots. James has been a Godsend, as he is both friendly and wealthy—a sadly uncommon combination.

  James’ wife, Beatrice, is as eastern as I, having moved to this wilderness from her parents’ plantation in North Carolina. The difference between them and us is not only financial, however. The Athertons own slaves, two hundred of them.

  I shall write more about that issue on another day. For now, I shall document the state of our temporary home. By this time next year, we should be able to winter in our large stone house, even if it is not yet completed.

  As we traveled the nine-hundred miles to this spot, Reid told me he built every inch of our single-roomed log cabin with me in mind, even though we had parted ways before that, and never expected to see each other again. When he finally decided to return to Philadelphia and gather me up, he was forced to leave his land before the cabin’s construction was completed.

  For that reason, my new husband very kindly offered to ensconce me in a comfortable hotel in Saint Louis, and visit me weekly, until the cabin was finished. I, of course, staunchly refused, stating that I preferred to remain in my husband’s presence, in spite of the admittedly rough accommodations.

  (I later came to believe that when I made that claim, I was experiencing a moment of what I shall delicately refer to as post-coital lunacy. And yet, once my bed was made, as it were, I was quite prepared to sleep in it. Lumps and all.)

  My first view of the cabin surprised me—it was larger than I expected. I have to admit, that was a relief. From his descriptions I imagined sleeping on top of the kitchen table. Reid proudly pointed out that he had given it a Norwegian sod roof, and I was suitably impressed.

  While I no longer held any love for our shared ancestral home, that solid roof assured me we would be warm and dry in the coming winter. (Already, this has proved to be true.) There were solid shutters to be installed, and a hefty door leaning in the doorway. The entire house rested on a stone foundation extending nearly three feet above the ground.

  Standing beside the cabin were two large draft horses, a stallion, and a pregnant mare, both belonging to Reid. And, because Reid sent word of our arrival ahead of us, James and Beatrice Atherton were waiting there to greet us.

  Beatrice had been thoughtful enough to bring four of her slave girls to clean Reid’s months-empty cabin, so at least our sturdy little home was fresh and unsoiled. Clearly, she understood how tired I would be after weeks of traveling. I appreciated her kindness more than diamonds at that moment.

  I did not give much thought to the fact that the cabin had a solid wooden floor until Beatrice pointed it out.

  She said, “Most temporary homes have dirt floors, but Reid wanted better for you.”

  And then she pointed to a square place where the boards were cut and hinged on one side, with an iron ring on the other side.

  She said, “And that is how you get to the space underneath.”

  My heart swelled a little at that moment, knowing my husband loved me enough to prepare a place for me, even though I had already refused him twice.

  Thank God for his stubborn Norse tenacity. What a fool I had been.

  Reid had not been living in the cabin for very long before returning to Philadelphia, so the large stone fireplace appeared to be scarcely used. One iron pan and one covered pot sat on the hearth beside it. Surprisingly, a tin bathing tub claimed a corner—another gift from Beatrice.

  I knew at that moment, I had come home.

  November 11th

  Not that the reader will be able to tell, but I was called away from my initial discourse to make yet another attempt at cooking squirrel. These furry little creatures, so engaging in life, are an entirely different matter when skinned, gutted, and lying headless atop a wooden table.

  Reid has shown me how to butcher the cleaned carcasses, and then brown the bits in lard. I am supposed to add water at just the right time—a skill I have not yet mastered, I must confess. Squirrel meat must be allowed to simmer for almost two hours, but too often I am busy, and get caught up with another task. I forget to check on the condition of the meat, the water evaporates, and the meat burns.

  My loving husband has never berated me for this; he merely picks at the edible pieces, always claiming this was my best effort to date. Reid is nothing if not kind.

  But I am well aware that he now brings three squirrels at a time, not two—I suspect to allow for the scorching.

  The worst part about burning the meat, is then I cannot make edible gravy from the drippings. And if I am truthful, the gravy is helpful for my biscuits, which are not as light as I would wish. Tonight I will try frying the squirrel instead, and perhaps will find some measure of success there.

  I shall now resume the description of my first days here.

  I spent two days unpacking and finding places to stow the household items which we brought wi
th us. Reid carried in milled planks and built me several deep and sturdy shelves, high above the floor.

  He said, “In case any critters decide to explore.”

  I was startled by that unexpected thought. I never considered that we were the intruders, living in the animals’ natural habitat.

  I said, “Might you cut the door in half, in order that the bottom half could remain closed at all times?”

  He said, “That is an excellent idea, Prinsesse. The next time we go to Saint Louis, I shall purchase the hardware to do so.”

  And now, here is an inventory of the furnishings which we carried from Pennsylvania:

  For the kitchen: four large crockery plates, four smaller plates, four crockery bowls, four mugs, a single large platter, two differently sized mixing bowls, a large pitcher, and a small pitcher.

  There are six pewter forks, six large spoons, six small spoons, a gravy ladle, a slotted spoon, and a two-pronged serving fork.

  For the house linens: two sets of sheets with two pillow cases each, three tufted blankets, four large towels, and eight smaller towels, plus four braided rugs, each about six feet in diameter.

  Having the rugs under my feet has been wonderful as the weather has chilled substantially, though having a foundation (God bless Reid!) does keep the floor dry. We have experienced some brief snow flurries, but not enough snow has fallen to accumulate as yet.

  We traveled to Saint Louis during my second week here, and Reid bought the extra hinges and latches to refit the cabin door. Now I have light through the top half, and safety from curious little creatures on the bottom.

  While we were there, I also purchased another pot and another pan. I have been washing the dishes in the bathing tub which Beatrice gave me. Since I have not yet had time for a full bath myself, I am glad to put the tub to a good use, beyond simply filling an otherwise empty corner.

  I am wistfully making a list to mail to my mother of the finer things I was not able to carry here, in the event she or Father might ever make the journey to visit me. Though we have no place for either these things, or visitors, in this little cabin, I will want both when the stone house is finished. We shall see.

  November 12th

  I discovered that squirrel meat cannot be simply fried—it must be boiled for at least an hour and a half before it is tender enough to fry. Reid said nothing about the meat, but he did compare a strip of rib meat to the leather hinges on his basket of nails.

  Today he has brought me four fresh fish from the stream which traverses our property. I believe I can manage a decent fish fry.

  November 15th

  Reid bought a cow! I am so glad we will now have fresh milk and butter. Beatrice says she has a slave girl who makes wonderful cheeses, so I hope to make a trade soon—milk for cheese.

  My husband even now is out of doors, chopping and shaping trees felled from a storm this past spring which he calls a ‘tornado.’ His plan is to make a leaning wall against the side of the cabin, where the fireplace is, to create a warm winter shelter for Posy, as the cow is named, and the two draft horses.

  I have never milked a cow, but Reid says it is not difficult as long as the cow is not startled. I am looking forward to learning the skill. I know my cooking will certainly improve with the addition of fresh dairy products!

  Post Script: A cow is startled by cold hands.

  November 20th

  I took a full bath last night. This was in part to lift my own spirits, as my course came once again upon me, proving I have not yet conceived. I know we have only been married a few months, and I should not worry so quickly. But after what happened to me in Norway, the spectre of never bearing a child hangs over me. The other reason to bathe, of course, was to wash away the filth left behind by several days of wearing bloodied rags. Reid surprised me afterwards by producing a bottle of wine from beneath the house.

  He said, “I have saved this wine for a special evening with you.”

  I said, “Tonight is not special.”

  He said, “Every night with you, Prinsesse, is special in one way or another.”

  Then he made love to me in such a tender and creative way, that I cried with joy afterward. He held me tightly against his chest, and whispered once more the promise which he made long before we married: that he would rather have a childless marriage with me, than spend his life without me.

  I should not have been surprised that he discerned the reason for my oppressed mood. And while I still pray that God will bless us, I need to learn to trust that my very honest husband’s words are true.

  December 2nd

  Yesterday was the first Sunday of Advent, and the wooden church in Cheltenham was quite full. While I knew there were land grants all around ours and the Athertons, with each plot being a full five hundred acres, the homesteads are rather far apart. And because the Missouri landscape is comprised of rolling hills and forests, no one can see if he has neighbors.

  I sat beside Beatrice, and we were flanked by our tall and attractive husbands. I mention this, because the congregation was mostly comprised of single men of all ages. Either they were not married, or they left their wives and children behind until they could establish some sort of secure home—the way James and Reid had (one by intent, the other by circumstance). In any case, Beatrice and I were the recipient of countless curious gazes.

  Having Reid drape his arm protectively across the pew behind me did give me some measure of peace. As a former Continental Army officer with eight years’ experience, my husband carries himself in a certain way by habit; and it is the sort of way which declares he is not a man to be crossed. Reid’s impressive stature, combined with the hardness of muscle honed by months of physical labor, should certainly dissuade any fool thinking of dallying with his wife.

  I have not taken the time, I realize of a sudden, to give my impressions of James and Beatrice, so I shall do so now.

  James is an absolute dear. Standing almost as tall as my six- foot-five husband, he has auburn hair and hazel eyes. He is admittedly a bit of a flirt, but owns a loyal heart of pure gold.

  James and Reid met in the land grant office, struck a bargain concerning the borders of their conjoined plots and subsequent land usage, and have been fast friends ever since. If it were not for James and his generous spirit, Reid could not have made the nine-hundred mile trek to fetch me and finally make me his wife. For this, I will pray for that man every day until I die—and long afterwards, if such a thing proves possible!

  Beatrice has rich, honey-colored hair, darker than my pale blonde, and her eyes are light blue—similar to mine but with a touch of green. She and James will have beautiful children someday.

  Beatrice admitted to me that she has been quite lonely since coming to Cheltenham. Sitting in the service yesterday proved one reason why. There simply are not very many women in the territory as yet.

  And those women who do reside in the lands surrounding the tiny town center are working as hard as I am to carve out their own homes. In contrast, Beatrice has slaves. Men who are building their house, tending to their livestock, and reaping the fields—plus women who cook, clean, and sew.

  She has leisure time. I do not.

  In spite of this, Reid insists that I visit her once every week and spend the day with her. I suspect a portion of his reasoning is to help raise her mood and ease James’ mind. But even if my visits were not beneficial to her, they are quite beneficial to me.

  For the few hours that we are together, I am able to hold light and amusing conversation, drink tea from a delicate china cup, and enjoy at least one meal that does not consist of items either burnt, raw, or tasteless.

  Beatrice always sends me off with a basket of food—and is probably another motive for my poor husband to be so resolute that I go.

  Tales of my own culinary woes are certainly one reason why James heartily urges us to join him and Beatrice for supper on every Sunday that there is a church service (the traveling preacher visits Cheltenham every three we
eks).

  I also believe that James might be worried for Reid who, I must admit, has lost a bit of weight since we arrived here in October.

  December 15th

  I am too astounded to sleep, so I am staying up to write this by candlelight while my husband snores in his sleep nearby. Reid has purchased me a cook!

  Well, not actually purchased, because the slave we brought home from the Atherton’s tonight is now a freed man. Reid paid James what he called a ‘stipend’ to reimburse James for the costs of housing and clothing the man for the last year. And then he freed the man—whose name is Remy—and will pay him a salary for his services.

  Then Reid turned to me, took both of my hands in his, and in the kindest way imaginable said to me, “I love you, Prinsesse. You are the most amazing woman I know, and I am so proud of your uncomplaining willingness to create a life here with me.”