“Hmm.”
Keeping that smile in place, Else snapped the thread free from the slot in the wooden spool, wound off a length of thread, and snipped it.
“You look sad,” Hemming said. “All evening.”
“I’m fine.” She poked the thread at the eye of the needle, but it blurred. After she blinked away the blur, she threaded the needle.
“Your job?”
Else doubled the thread and tied a knot at the end. Her chin wobbled and betrayed her, but Hemming had figured it out anyway. So she nodded.
“What did he do?” Hemming said with the controlled power she loved.
She couldn’t look at him, at the righteous indignation she knew she’d see on his face, so she sewed. And as she sewed, the story poured out. Hemming probably didn’t understand half of what she said, but he’d understand the important part—she’d been wronged, she’d been wounded, and she’d lose her position.
Else finished running a straight stitch up the length of the gash, and she started a whipstitch around the edges to reinforce the seam against the pressure of hard muscles and hard labor.
As she talked, Hemming’s compassion came through in every grunt and mumble.
“I just wanted to help Knudsen, to tell the truth.” Her voice snagged on her throat, as rough as the fabric in her hands. “All I’ve done is create conflict.”
“Hey, now.” He scooted his chair closer and patted her back. Gave it a tentative rub.
A little sob hopped in her throat. “It was already bad, and I—I made it worse.”
“Nej. Nej.” Hemming rubbed her back in big circles, firm and comforting. “You were brave. You helped your friend. You spoke the truth.”
The whipstitch completed, Else tied a knot. “How is Bohr to know that? Mortensen said one thing, and I said another. Bohr’s known Mortensen longer, and he’s more respected.”
“How about Wolff?”
“Wolff?” She looked up from the black wool.
Hemming sat close, his eyes bluer and kinder than ever. “Wolff knows the truth.”
“He does.”
“Talk to him.” He rubbed circles of sense into her back. “And Bohr is a good man, ja?”
“Ja.”
Hemming nodded that great bearded chin, and the evening sunlight danced off the red and gold and pale blond hairs. “He will do the right thing. I will keep praying for you.”
He prayed for her? Her shoulders went limp from the warmth of it all. “Thank you.”
Hemming Andersen was a man of wisdom and good sense, qualities more valuable than a quick wit or a bunch of letters after a name. Her affection for him wasn’t silly at all, but wholly warranted. He was a fine man.
He still stroked her back, with a look of such tenderness she wanted to...
Her fingers worked into the folds of his jacket. Which she’d finished mending.
She snapped her gaze away, turned the jacket right side out, and inspected her work. “It’s a little worse for wear, but it’ll be fine.” She handed the jacket to him and got to her feet.
“You’ll be fine too.”
“Tak.” What an insufficient word to convey the swelling gratitude in her chest. Entirely insufficient.
Else touched his cheek, the golden beard springy but soft, and she leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead.
