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, Fraulein, 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.
“Anytime you wish, Fraulein.”
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, Fraulein. 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?
“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
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