This chapter was originally finished several days ago, then my laptop crashed and I lost about 7k words, or about a chapter and a half. I wanted to cry. I tried to recreate the chapter I lost, but the words came out differently the second go-round. :(
Thank you, as always, for still reading along with me after all these years. I've been toying around with doing a short story just about Phelan, maybe centered on the night at the theater he attended Don Juan Triumphant.
Ch 151
I returned to my own bed an hour later, having grown tired of being elbowed and kicked every time my brother changed positions. He was worse than Alex jostling about, but not as terrible as Bessie, who managed to rake her nails down my spine or lick the roof of my mouth when I yawned.
With the plate of cookies beside me and telegrams on my outstretched legs, I turned up the kerosene lamp and read for a while as my mind had not yet settled for sleep despite the chorus of crickets outside the hotel and cool night air breathing into the suite.
Alex's telegram continued to amuse me, such was his style of writing that was entirely like his manner of speaking. Whatever came to mind, he committed to paper, and I imagined the party responsible for the transmission was most likely equally amused by his words.
Lisette was quite proficient at utilizing every available word for her telegram and I found myself impressed by the way she managed to fill in the entire card.
Julia mentioned that Claude and Marco had been painting in the back garden together and that Antonio had personally dropped off Claude's first commission check for the program, as well as an envelope for me with a few 'minor changes' to the performances that he had approved.
I read and re-read the same two lines several times.
M. le Blanc delivered the final draft of the program for you and mentioned that there were some minor changes. He has approved them on your behalf.
My pulse quickened, my jaw clenched as I wondered what he had changed without my permission. He would not be pleased with my reaction if Debutee had been omitted from the performances. Theaters, after all, were known for their accidents.
I sat back and stared at the ceiling. No, I reasoned. The theater would not be prone to any mysterious stroke of bad luck. There was far too much to jeopardize, far too many people whose lives were intertwined with mine. If there were changes that I did not approve of, I would meet with Adrian and Antonio like a civilized adult-whatever the hell that entailed.
I returned the telegrams to the nightstand, exchanging pieces of paper for another cookie, and wished there was some magical form of communication where the letter at my house could be instantly transferred into my possession rather than agonizing for a week.
At last I finished my nightly routine, cleaning my teeth and relieving my bladder before I settled into bed and stretched out alone, legs and arms spread from one side of the mattress to other, and fell into a most pleasant, interrupted sleep–quite possibly the best I had ever enjoyed in my life.
That is, until I woke to the sound of my brother counting from the foot of the bed.
"Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight…"
"What in the hell are you doing?" I muttered.
"Warming up," Phelan answered.
I had no desire to open my eyes. "Warming up what?"
"Rigorous, blood pumping exercise."
"At five in the morning?"
"Four, actually."
At last I opened my eyes and sat upright, aggravated that my rest had been interrupted. My brother, in the midst of a squat, stared at me from the end of my bed at the end of the bed, barefoot and in his pajama pants. He looked every bit like a Greek sculpture from the neck down. It irritated me to no end.
"Why are you awake at this hour?"
"I guarantee you, Kire, Toke and Hilda have been awake for at least an hour."
"I am delighted for them. Why are you awake?"
"Because we are on Skyderhelm time and farm work needs to be done."
This had not been part of any discussion at any time as I was certain I would have remembered my brother, overcome by a moment of sheer madness, telling me that he intended to wake at four in the morning.
"I am usually retiring for the night at this hour," I grumbled.
"Yes, I am aware. Madame Giry told me all about your deplorable sleep schedule."
He had the audacity to tsk me.
"Did you eat all of those cookies?" he asked, nodding toward the half-empty plate on the nightstand."
"Of course not. The work of mice, most likely," I said under my breath.
He had the audacity to tsk me for a second time.
"I will be more than happy to oblige your routine closer to eight in the morning," I impatiently replied, falling back onto the gloriously cool satin pillow.
"Kire, those are composer hours," he said as he began to do jumping jacks, clearly hell-bent on being obnoxious. "Which are similar to artist hours. But this week, we are on farming hours. Get out of bed."
"And if I do not, what will you do? Jump on me?"
He paused from his jumping about and placed his hands on his hips. "Of course not. I'll simply leave without you."
His tactic was no different than the one Meg used on Alex when she was ready to walk to the market and my son had not bothered to look for his shoes. Being that I was not eight years of age, being left behind should not have been a threat, but I found myself upright and with my feet on the rug, lamp turned up to see my brother as he ran in place, knees practically to his flat, hardened chest.
"Fine," I grumbled.
Phelan dropped to the floor for a set of push-ups while I miserably walked past him to my trunk and rummaged around for clothing suitable for farm work. "Must you do that in my suite?"
"I suppose not." He finished and hopped to his feet. "I will see you in front of the hotel in ten minutes."
"Are you going to lift the hotel from its foundation?" I dryly questioned.
"I don't believe the owners would approve," Phelan said over his shoulder. "Ten minutes, Kire!"
oOo
We walked beneath the moonlight to the farm, greeted by the two large, white dogs, who followed us up the path to the house and then ran toward the field once we were inside.
"Where is Toke?" Phelan asked as soon as we entered the house and found Hilda preparing the table for breakfast by candlelight.
"Barn," she answered. "Eat first, grandsons."
She piled food generously onto our plates before taking a seat opposite where we sat.
"You are awake early," Hilda commented.
"Erik's idea," Phelan brightly replied. "He simply could not wait to start chores."
Hilda gasped and smiled at the two of us. "Such thoughtful boys," she said, patting the back of my hand. "How did you sleep in that hotel?"
"Comfortably," I answered.
"Good," she said brightly. "This is an important morning. Must be bright-eyed."
"Important?" I asked, wondering if there was a Danish holiday being celebrated, perhaps a reason for another cake similar to the one we had enjoyed the previous day. "What makes today important?"
"We are making cheese," Phelan replied in between bites.
I eyed my brother. "We? I am fairly certain I am better suited for observing than creating."
Hilda inclined her head. "You are my grandson," she said firmly. "You are a cheesemaker."
I was most certainly nothing of the sort, but with breakfast consumed and the sun peeking over the horizon, the sky blazing with gold along the dark blue of night, I followed my brother and grandmother out of the kitchen where Hilda dumped the uneaten food into two dishes for the dogs and led us toward the barn.
Hidden from view on the other side of the barn was a smaller white building with plumes of smoke coming from double chimneys on either end. Hilda led us inside of a long room, the walls of which were painted white, with several tables, two sinks, and four separate stoves as well as multiple shelves with jars of spices, salt, and rows of strainers and metal buckets. There were herbs in small clay pots growing by the long windows with fresh cuttings hung out to dry by twine beneath a line of empty jars.
"This is the out kitchen," Hilda announced as she ushered us inside. No sooner had we stepped into the room that she began issuing orders for an enormous pot to be placed on the stove to our right and milk brought in from the barn.
Phelan took it upon himself to see to the milk delivery, calling to our grandfather as he walked from the out kitchen to the barn while I retrieved the pot and watched our grandmother line up several bottles of spices along the table to the right of the stove.
"What are you making?" I asked.
"We," she insisted, "Are making havarti. A fine Danish cheese and your brother's favorite."
"Will it be served with supper tonight?" I questioned.
"Heavens, no. Cheese must rest and age, but I have something for you to try." She patted my shoulder and waddled across the room, complaining under her breath about her aching hips.
She disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the room and down several stairs into a dark room that smelled of sour milk and earthy undertones. A moment later she returned with two small wheels of cheese and placed them on the table in the corner.
"Your milk," Phelan announced as he returned seconds later with two silver pails in hand, the first of which he poured into the pot on the stove.
"Let your brother have a turn!" Hilda admonished as Phelan reached for the second pail.
My brother stepped aside, allowing me a turn while our grandmother doled out excessive praise for a simple task. I indulged her desire to clap her hands in approval before she sent me off to the other side of the kitchen to retrieve a jar with a substance that looked like a large glob of yogurt.
"Clabber," Hilda explained before turning to Phelan to see if he wished to stir the simmering milk, which he declined.
"What is clabber?" I asked.
Hilda frowned at me. "It is simply clabber."
She unscrewed the lid to the jar in her hand and spooned large globs into the pot of milk, then instructed me to retrieve a large whisk from the wall to the right of the stove.
"Slowly," she said as I began to stir. "No need to hurry. Cheese takes time, beloved."
Phelan took a seat on a stool in the corner of the room and turned the wheels of cheese on end as he observed in silence while Hilda continued to hover over me, often taking a hold of my hand when she thought I stirred too quickly.
"This was Gyda's favorite part," our grandmother said gently. "She was so wonderfully patient."
I kept my eyes trained on the surface and swirl of liquid while the steam rolled toward the ceiling. I tried to envision my mother as a young girl, perhaps ten or twelve, white apron over her blouse and homespun dark skirt swaying at her knees while she gently guided the whisk through a large pot of simmering milk being transformed into cheese.
I imagined her cheerful in the home where she had been born, surrounded by her family that spoke the same language. Surely she had experienced joy in her youth, long before she had been taken from Skyderhelm and become a young mother in a foreign village.
"Gyda didn't teach you?" Hilda asked.
I shook my head, longing for childhood moments I had been denied, lessons I had never been taught, and a life I had never been allowed to live. "She did not."
"Ah. No cows and clabber in France, I suppose" Hilda sadly replied.
My heart ached for a past and a person who would never be truly known to me outside of stories and shared farm chores.
"What was her favorite type of cheese?" I asked, voracious for bits and pieces of her life in Skyderhelm.
"To eat? My Gyda loved rygeost."
I glanced at Phelan. "What is rygeost?" I asked.
"Smoked cheese," my brother answered. "You would like it."
"I brought some out for you to taste," Hilda promised. "But first, Phelan, please bring me the–"
"Rennet, yes, I know," he said before she finished.
Hilda grinned back at him, all wrinkled lips and gums. "You are a natural, my beloved Phelan, a born cheesemaker to your very bones."
Once the rennet was added, I was tasked with continuing to stir for a while longer until everything was sufficiently combined to Hilda's satisfaction. The lid was placed onto the pot and I was sent around the kitchen to retrieve a large bowl, strainer, salt, and towels while Phelan was given the task of adding the dried herbs to the glass jars and creating labels with dates and types of spice.
"Phe-lan!" Toke shouted from the barn.
"What are you up to now, Toke?" my brother muttered as he placed the pencil on the table and slid off the stool. He pecked Hilda on the cheek and excused himself before briskly walking out of the door.
Hilda sighed to herself once he was gone. She waddled toward the corner table and cut through one of the wheels of cheese.
"Here, you try some rygeost," she said. "The most Danish of cheeses we make."
The rygeost was soft with a bit of a sour scent to it, but when I took a bite, I found it was indeed smokey with a hint of sweetness to it.
"It's good," I said, sampling another bite.
"It's sweet," Hilda said. "You have your mother's taste."
I found myself smiling at her comment, appreciating the comparison. My mother and I had music and rygeost in common.
"Tell me about your wife, beloved," Hilda said, grasping my forearm. "What is she like?"
"Julia? She's wonderful," I answered. "And I couldn't imagine my life without her."
"She keeps the house in order?"
"She keeps our family in order."
Hilda smiled up at me. "Does she have sisters?"
"Several."
"Unmarried?"
I furrowed my brow. "I don't believe so."
"What about unmarried friends? Nice, Christian ladies looking for a sensible artist husband."
I blinked at her, uncertain of how to respond as I was now certain she was attempting to marry off my brother with my help.
"Or perhaps you, grandson, know of a nice, unmarried lady in search of a strong, dependable husband? One who has a home of his own in Brussels that could use a lady of the house?"
"I…well…" I cleared my throat, imagining what my brother would say if he walked in while our grandmother spoke of his marital status. "I do not typically find myself in the company of unmarried women."
"Perhaps not, but I am hopeful my beloved Phelan will find a wife of his own, someone better than the first one."
My head snapped up at her comment.
"You are aware he was previously married, yes?" she asked, searching my face.
"I am."
"But you didn't meet her?"
"No, I was not acquainted with Phelan at the time he was married."
"Ah. I didn't care for Daphne," Hilda said, making a face of utter disgust. "She was not good for your brother. She took an interest in my broom while she was in my house, the wicked little volva. I knew what she intended."
I kept my gaze pinned on the stove, having no idea what a 'volva' was, but deciding quite adamantly against asking for my grandmother to clarify.
"I was not aware that you had met her," I said, finding myself surprised that my grandmother knew any details of my brother's wife and failed marriage.
Hilda shrugged. "I knew from the moment she walked into our home she was not the one for my grandson. I can tell these things," she said, crossing her arms. "I had to rid my home of her bad spirit once they were gone back to Paris and then I prayed my beloved would find his rightful path."
"How did you and Toke meet?" I asked, attempting to guide the conversation away from my brother.
I could tell my grandmother was disappointed by the change of topic, but she didn't protest.
"At a family gathering," she answered. "Two days before we were wed."
I raised a brow. "Two days? That was...swift."
She nodded. "Herr Ostergaard and my father had known each other for a while. They got to talking at the spring livestock auction, and after my father purchased a dozen lambs for our farm, Herr Ostergaard mentioned that his youngest son had not yet found a wife. At supper, Father told me the good news and two days later we celebrated our engagement."
"What did you think of him when you first met?"
She chuckled. "Not much, grandson. He had a wild look about him," she answered.
"Wild?"
"Yes, with his long, pale hair and scratchy beard. He was thin like you, but with braids of hair and long, lumbering strides. He looked like a viking warrior who had lost his ship and found a herd of cattle." She grunted, more to herself than to me. "He was not the most handsome man I'd ever seen, but he had a good family and their farm brought in a decent income. It was a sensible match, once he was tamed."
I couldn't imagine bidding on livestock while arranging my daughter's marriage. Lisette deserved far better than a marriage agreement over lambs and cattle sales–and a life that was more than simply sensible.
"Did you tame him?" I playfully asked.
"No, no, not me. Gyda and Greta were the ones responsible. The twins made him a good man. I never made him a good husband, as much as I tried."
Before I could ask what she meant, the door opened again and Phelan strolled in, his trousers covered in straw and dirt. "What are we discussing?" he asked quite jovially.
"Marriage."
My brother's pace slowed noticeably. "Yours, I hope."
"I worry for you, grandson," Hilda said with a solemn shake of her head.
"You shouldn't."
"There has to be a nice woman who would accept an offer of marriage," Hilda said. "One of child-bearing age who would not hold a previous marriage against you."
Hilda looked to me to translate for her as she spoke in Danish, and I reluctantly explained what she said to my brother.
Phelan's nostrils flared, his posture turning more rigid. "That is quite enough discussing my marital shortcomings, Hilda," he insisted. His gaze briefly flashed to me, but not nearly long enough for me to offer a silent apology.
"Grandson," she pleaded. "You are almost fifty!"
Phelan impatiently looked to me.
"She says you are almost fifty."
"Fifty indeed, Hilda. I am forty-five!" my brother exclaimed. "And I am not looking for a wife. Is that understood?"
Hilda gave a sigh of frustration once I translated my brother's French to her. Clearly aggravated, she returned to the pot on the stove and didn't speak to either of us for a long moment.
With the help of a step stool, she removed the lid and used a knife to slice through the middle of the cheese that had formed in the pot.
"A clean break," she said to herself. "My sweet Erik, if you would be of assistance."
Hilda allowed me to make several cuts into the large, white mass floating on the top before she finished to ensure each curd was of relatively the same size. Once she cleaned off her knife on her apron, she handed me a wooden spoon and I continued to stir while my grandmother stood watch, neck craned to make sure I didn't damage the cubes.
The door burst open again and Toke walked in carrying two more pails of milk, which he placed onto the table.
"Why do you look angry, wife?"
"Not angry, but disappointed."
"Oh, for God's sake," Phelan said under his breath.
"My grandson," she dramatically answered. "He doesn't want to be married."
Toke furrowed his brow. He looked sternly at my brother, then Hilda, and finally shrugged. "Good for him."
Hilda's mouth dropped open and she gasped. "But he would be happier married."
"Nonsense. A wife is not necessary to live a happy life. Sometimes, a wife prevents joy, like when she will not make her husband a cake for his birthday."
Hilda's eyes widened. "Shame on you! Back to the barn!"
Toke waved off her words. He took out his pocket knife, cut through one of the cheese wheels, and retreated back into the barn while Hilda filled an empty pot with water and set it onto the burner.
"Is your arm about to fall off?" Phelan asked after a long and dreadfully uncomfortable moment of silence.
"Not yet," I answered, grateful for conversation that had nothing to do with marriages. "Lisette would enjoy this," I said over my shoulder to my brother.
"Alex would not have the patience for so much stirring," Phelan retorted.
"Indeed." I could already hear my son grousing as he tilted his head back and groaned while having to wait between the steps. Quite frankly, I wasn't certain I had the patience to continue much longer.
"Allow the pot to rest for a moment," Hilda said. "Let's see if the curds sink."
I held my breath as the mixture stilled and the cubes slowly drifted to the bottom of the pot–a sight that proved oddly satisfying.
"Strainer and bowl," Hilda requested like a surgeon asking a nurse for instruments.
"Pour out the whey until the curds are at the top of the mixture," Hilda instructed. "Then we add more water and stir again."
"Despite his lack of patience, I think Alex would find the pressing part of cheese making to be rather amusing," Phelan said. "And Lisette would be horrified to see books abused for the sake of forming cheese."
"I'm afraid Alex inherited his lack of patience from me," I said while concentrating on the pot tipped over the strainer and bowl. "Thankfully Lisette is the embodiment of her mother."
"I wonder if Marco has ever made cheese, given his affinity for cuisine," Phelan said absently as he peeled off the wax from one of the cheese wheels.
The moment the words left his mouth, his posture stiffened and he looked from me to Hilda, who took the pot of water off the burner and slowly poured it into the curds.
"Who is Marco?" she asked over her shoulder once the pot of water was empty.
Phelan inhaled and screwed the lid onto the nearest jar, taking his time to respond.
Toke unexpectedly flung the door open and strolled inside, slamming it behind me while he mopped his face with his handkerchief.
"Why so silent?" Toke grumbled. "What have you done now, Hilda?"
"Do you know who Marco is?" Hilda asked her husband.
"No. Why?" Toke asked.
"Marco is my son," Phelan answered.
The room went silent. I stood awkwardly near the stove, grasping the handles of the curd-filled pot.
Toke grunted and continued through the room and toward the unused sink where he washed and dried his hands.
"How old is your son?" Toke asked, turning to face my brother.
Phelan's expression was oddly blank. He continued to write on the small pieces of paper while not immediately answering.
"He is twenty-six," my brother said at last.
"Months?" Hilda asked.
"Years," Phelan answered.
Our grandfather grunted.
"Is he married?" Hilda asked.
"No, he is not," Phelan said without looking in her direction.
"Good, he is smart like his father," Toke said. "Wife, you need more milk?"
Hilda continued to eye Phelan. She waved a hand toward Toke. "No, no more milk."
"No more milk, no more cheese making," Toke said. "Come, we have bales to store," he said, nodding at me and then Phelan.
I placed the pot onto the stove and awaited my grandmother's next instructions, but she simply gestured toward the door where Toke and Phelan had already strode toward the barn.
"I can do the rest," she said.
"Are you certain?"
Hilda forced a smile and nodded. She reached up toward my cheek and I turned my head instinctively. Her head dipped and she turned away.
"I am certain, grandson."