responsible for the building and grounds. He liked being the first one there on a Sunday morning to unlock the door, to spend a little time in prayer as he swept the steps and made sure the hymnals were straightened in the racks.
The varnished brown doors opened without a sound, and he left them wide, letting in the fresh air. Six pews on either side of a central aisle led to the pulpit. His boots sounded loud on the red-painted floor, and he glanced up to the pale blue arched ceiling with exposed white rafters like ribs.
In an alcove behind the pulpit, the church’s prized stained glass window glowed in the sunlight. Ruby, turquoise, emerald and gold pieces of glass created flowers and vines around a cross. The window had come all the way from Germany, paid for by the saving and scrimping and generosity of the small congregation.
Elias opened windows, propping them with short pieces of wood to allow the cross breeze to circulate. In winter he hauled coal and had the place toasty by the time the first parishioners showed up, but in summer his job was to get the building as cool as possible.
People began arriving, neighbors and friends, greeting one another, filing into their customary seats. The pastor came in, holding his big Bible, his thinning hair combed over his pink scalp. His little wife, her hair in tight silver curls, edged into her front-row pew.
All the while, Elias kept an eye on the doorway. The Halvorsons were late. Per Halvorson had a well-earned reputation for being early, often arriving at the same time as Elias and helping ready the church, but today there was no sign of him.
Had something happened? Was there an illness in the house? Everyone had seemed fine yesterday when he’d delivered Savannah home.
His parents entered. Pa nodded and put his hand on Ma’s lower back, guiding her to a seat. Elias liked that about his folks. They weren’t inappropriate, but they were affectionate toward one another in small ways, even in public. If he ever married, Elias wanted to still be that close with his wife after almost thirty years.
Ah, there was Per Halvorson, but his normally sunny face looked like a thundercloud. He ushered Lars and Rut ahead of him, and Agneta hurried in behind.
Where was Savannah? Hadn’t she come? Surely she was a churchwoman. Tyler would never hire someone to teach who had no faith...
Savannah came through the doorway, and Elias’s breath hitched. She looked just as if she’d stepped off the cover of the Godey’s Ladies’ Book his mother liked to pore over. The pale green material of her dress shimmered as she walked. Tucks and frills and furbelows everywhere, even more elaborate than the dress she’d worn on the stagecoach.
And her hair, that ripe-wheat-in-the-summer-sun hair, was swept up and back on her head to a mass of ringlets and curls tucked under a pale green hat that sported ostrich-tip feathers.
Heads turned, eyes widened, elbows hit ribs and whispers scurried through the air. She paused in the doorway. Most seats were full, and the pastor was headed to the front. Mr. Petersen plucked the single string of the psalmodikon as the pastor took his hymnal and found the correct page.
Savannah caught Elias’s eye, pink flying in her cheeks. Her eyes asked, Where do I sit?
He moved to the door and took her elbow. “Good morning.” The congregation got to its feet, rustling and moving. “My mother would be pleased if you sat with us.”
Savannah gave him a grateful nod, and he led her up the right-hand side of the church, letting her enter the pew before him to sit beside his mother. Elias edged in after her, and when he sat, her voluminous skirts brushed his leg.
It seemed to take forever for her to arrange her furled parasol, her handbag, her fan and her Bible. Elias waited, holding the hymnal as the congregation began to sing. At last she was ready, stood, and grasped her half of the book.
She took one look and gave him a bewildered glance. Of course, the hymnal was written in Norwegian. All around him the hearty voices of farmers and housewives and children sang of the Rock of Ages in their native tongue, but Savannah was mute.
Elias sang, but his mind was on her. Overdressed, nearly late, and everyone around her spoke a different language. What kind of church experience would this be for her? Why hadn’t Tyler found someone from this part of the country to be the new schoolteacher? The poor girl had to be miserable.
Then she began to hum the tune. Her eyes closed, as if the music was seeping into her soul.
Elias sang softly so as to be able to hear her. She had a nice voice. Admiration rose for her. Worshipping in spite of the unfamiliar surroundings.
The song ended and they sat. She fussed with her skirts again, arranging them just so. Why did women wear such cumbersome garments? When she turned to smile at his mother on her left, the ostrich feathers on her hat brushed Elias’s head. He leaned away, swatting them out of his face, but the tickle made him sneeze.
“God bless you,” she whispered, oblivious to the cause of his predicament. “What is that instrument?” She looked at where Mr. Petersen sat.
“It’s a psalmodikon. Most Norwegian churches have one.”
She nodded and watched as Mr. Petersen played it while the offering was gathered in.
The sermon was probably excellent, but Elias had a difficult time concentrating. Her dress rustled with her every movement, and every time he inhaled, he breathed in her perfume. Roses? Violets? Some sort of flowery, girlie smell. In profile, her pert little nose tilted up a bit at the end, and her lashes skimmed her cheeks when she blinked.
He caught a movement down the way—his father leaning forward with a one-eyebrow-raised look and a nod Elias’s way.
Which was when Elias remembered telling Pa that the new teacher was pretty. That was Pa. Subtle as a sledgehammer through a windowpane.
Evidently Pa wasn’t the only one who thought Miss Cox pretty. After church, everyone flocked around, waiting for an introduction.
“This is Peder Bergdahl. Peder, Miss Cox, the new teacher.” Elias spoke in Norwegian, translating for Savannah.
She nodded to the burly young man. “A pleasure.”
“This is Samuel Eggleston. Miss Cox.”
Knut Dotseth.
Jespar Rosedahl.
Magnus Haugen.
Every bachelor in the county. Elias shifted his weight and looked at his watch as, one after another, they elbowed each other out of the way to meet her.
Then came the families with children. He translated greetings and pointed out her students. The women hung back a little, whispering, eyes troubled. Elias caught snatches of their comments, and he found his jaw tightening.
Savannah excused herself and sought out Mr. Petersen. Thankfully, he spoke a bit of English and was only too happy to show her his beloved psalmodikon. He pointed out the flat stick marked with the finger placements for various notes and the pegs for tightening the single string. Savannah nodded, asked a question, and Mr. Petersen beamed. Stepping aside, he motioned for her to go ahead.
Elias was amazed. Sven Petersen never let anyone touch the musical instrument. He’d made it himself as a young man in Norway and brought it to America. He cherished and guarded it and played it with loving care.
Voices stilled as Savannah played, picking out the tune to “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” She never missed a note, and when she finished, everyone was smiling. Her own smile was especially bright, and Elias sucked in a breath. How had she conquered the instrument so quickly? She hadn’t known what one was before, and yet she played it well.
Finally, only a few families remained, including the Halvorsons. Per Halvorson took Elias aside. “You need to tell her we leave for church at nine-thirty and not a minute after. Never have I seen a woman take so long to prepare for church. The dress, the hat, the shoes. And then the hair. Did you know that women heat up an iron stick and wrap their hair on it to make curls?” He snorted. “If God did