“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 told 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!”