Unconventional Daughters: Families' Storytelling Trilogy, #1

By Bruce Bishop

When a widowed mother and her adult daughter vie for the attention of the same man, tension escalates and threatens to destroy their family.

 

This situation is one of many dilemmas facing the women of a family separated by the Atlantic Ocean and a world of secrets and deception. Can Eva Carroll, a young feminist and budding journalist, placate the conventions of the day?

 

The Great War is over. Everyone is optimistic. Eva is the daughter of one of three sisters who have already been leading unconventional lives. Although born in Boston, she now lives with her mother, Elisabet, and Swedish grandparents in the small Canadian coastal town of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.

 

Eva's two aunts who had spent time in Sweden decide to return to Canada to rejoin their sister. One aunt, obsessed with social status, has bought her title of 'countess', while the other has a quiet loving relationship with her female housemate. When the siblings get together, their family background in Sweden is laid bare as they learn the truth about their parents and a brother they had never known.

 

As Eva finds herself caught in the midst of rivalries among the three sisters, and a growing mental health issue concerning one of them, her marriage and familial relationships are threatened. Now her future faces unexpected personal turmoil. Her life has definitely changed during the Roaring '20s and into the Great Depression.

 

Unconventional Daughters is the first book in a series of family and friends stories nestled in unique historical settings. If you like compelling characters, fascinating locales, and surprising plot twists, then you'll love Bruce W. Bishop's debut page-turner. The second interlinked novel is Uncommon Sons and the third is Undeniable Relations.

 

Purchase your copy today and unlock the secrets of Eva Carroll's unusual family!

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"[Unconventional Daughters] …riveting and downright fun!...I love the intrigue this story presents….[it's] simply an all-round satisfying read. BRAVO!" – Sandra Phinney, author of Waking Up In My Own Backyard: Explorations in Southwest Nova Scotia

 

"WOW! What an opus. I'm simply blown away by … the sheer scope of this book as it criss-crosses oceans and continents, reflecting the history of Canadian immigration along with the vagaries of human nature. …the cast of characters is rich and varied and each one is deftly drawn." – Isobel Warren, author of In Them Days

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce W. Bishop
• Release date: Jun 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781777414115

Bruce Bishop

Hello readers! I'm a former travel & lifestyle journalist and guidebook author who switched to writing novels in 2020.  I live in one of Canada's Atlantic Provinces and I often set my novels in this beautiful part of North America. (And because of my backgound in the travel industry, I can't resist including other destinations from Sweden to Singapore, where my characters may find themselves in!)

Book preview

"…‘Ah me!’ said he, ‘what might have been is not what is!’

With which commentary on human life, indicating an experience of it not exclusively his own, he made the best of his way to the end of his journey.

Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens, 1864-65

ONE

Gothenburg, Sweden, Monday, November 6, 1882

Bishop Gustav Daniel Björck of the Diocese of Gothenburg sat at his desk in the rectory next door to the Gothenburg Cathedral waiting for his first appointment of the day. His office, which normally smelled musty, had a scent of lemon oil in the air after a thorough dusting and cleaning by the housekeeper.

If there was one part of the job he hated, it was having to process adoptions. He disliked the administration involved, and he knew that some children—through no fault of his own, of course—ended up in circumstances much worse than those they had known.

At the age of 75, he wearied of the daily routine of his spiritual calling. He hoped today might turn out to be one of beneficial closure, and dare he presume, happiness for all involved, including a measure for himself.

He had been briefed that he would be meeting Jacob and Signe Burcharth, a young local couple married the year before, who were hoping to adopt children recently rendered homeless and under the Church’s guardianship.

The local orphanage was unfortunately full, and it was up to the Church of Sweden to care for illegitimate or abandoned children. As he looked over the papers of the case spread before him, he reflected on the pitiful circumstances that led to the children being brought to the Cathedral.

The circumstances were horrific.

He heard a gentle tap on the door as the housekeeper ushered in the couple, and she motioned for them to have a seat opposite the Bishop.

As Jacob and Signe settled into the uncomfortable and clunky wooden office chairs, Bishop Björck appraised the couple. The man appeared to be in his early twenties and his wife looked to be about the same age. Where the husband appeared to have a bright countenance, his spouse kept her eyes downcast.

Reverend Bishop, thank you very much for meeting with us today. My name is Jacob Burcharth, and this is my wife, Signe, Jacob began. The Bishop remained seated; hands clasped before him.

It is my pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Burcharth. I understand you are here today to confirm the adoption of the paupers who were recently orphaned due to a terrible occurrence regarding their parents.

Yes, that’s correct, Reverend Bishop, Jacob replied. My wife and I are planning to emigrate to the United States next year, and we feel that we would like to give the same opportunity to unfortunate local children so they can have a better—, he was stopped in mid-sentence.

Presumably, you are not able to have children of your own? inquired the Bishop, looking directly at Signe and expecting an answer from her.

Umm…that’s right, Jacob said. Signe remained motionless and quiet in the seat next to him.

Ignoring Jacob momentarily, Bishop Björck kept his attention on Signe.

Mrs. Burcharth, the Church of Sweden would not want to separate these children by placing them in different homes. Having more than one child may be considered a formidable task for some women. Do you feel that you can mother them adequately?

Signe looked up for the first time and addressed the Bishop.

Yes, Reverend Bishop. With God’s will and the help of my hard-working husband, I’m sure we can bring up the children in a safe and loving home, Signe said, and again averted her eyes.

The Bishop sighed. He wished she were a bit more enthused, a bit more maternal in her demeanor, a bit happy. He felt she was more resigned to the fact of becoming an immediate parent rather than excited at the prospect.

Well, all right, then, he concluded. "Since you have the means to support the children, this is not a case of fattigauktion— in other words, you are not expecting the Diocese to pay you an amount per month for a year of their care. Am I correct?"

Jacob nodded his assent.

There are still a considerable number of forms to complete and attend to, and I will also be asking both of you questions separately before the children are released to your care.

Jacob appeared relieved that the first and perhaps biggest hurdle had been cleared.

The Bishop began shuffling the papers before him and read.

All right, then. We have Martin, age twelve; Elisabet, age five; Collan, age four, and Katarina, the baby, at age three.

Signe looked up, sheer panic crossing her features.

Oh, no, Reverend Bishop. There were to be the three girls. I, that is, we, did not plan on a fourth child, she said quickly. Turning to her husband, she continued, Jacob, isn’t that right? We had not planned on taking care of four children, surely—.

Jacob floundered. How could he have missed the fact that there were four children left behind? He looked plaintively at the Bishop.

I do believe there is a misunderstanding, Reverend Bishop. My wife and I were extremely happy and blessed at the thought of becoming parents to three, but not four, children at the same time. I know that my, uh, our budget does not extend to caring for a fourth child. He paused. And did you say that the boy is twelve years of age?

Glancing again at the papers on his desk, the Bishop nodded.

Yes. There is a seven-year age difference between the boy and his eldest sister.

Could one not assume that a boy that age might become a very worthy servant, or apprentice, in a decent Gothenburg family, Reverend Bishop? Jacob asked. I mean, I was told that a family who bids the lowest amount of money it needs from the parish can be issued a child, especially one who is twelve or older. Surely there are rich Gothenburg families who need extra labor on their estates?

The Bishop sat back in his chair and smoothed his ample white sideburns. He considered Jacob’s query. He had hoped the adoption of all four children would go smoothly, but it was not the first time he had encountered difficulties in the process.

I must think and pray over this situation, the Diocesan leader said gravely, not conceding to Jacob’s correct assumption. I will notify you when to return for further questioning. Please be aware I am hesitant to take the boy from his siblings, but you do have a valid argument regarding his future welfare. His sisters, though, should be placed with loving adoptive parents as soon as possible.

He stood from behind his desk.

Thank you for meeting with me, and I will be speaking with you again in the near future.

TWO

Captain Jacob Burcharth – Boston, Massachusetts, Wednesday, June 20, 1883

My dearest parents,

I trust you are both well and healthy since Signe and I left Gothenburg with our precious cargo—the three girls—in what seems to have been a lifetime ago.

On the voyage, Elisabet, Collan and Katarina were perfect angels; adorable at the ages of five, four and three. Having sisters so close in age seems to create a special bond that others may not understand. But I doubt anyone will ever break that bond either.

The sailing across to New York was not as bad as we had anticipated. You know I have had ‘sea legs’ my whole life, and God spared us any terribly inclement weather which would have made the trip onerous and uncomfortable.

I remember reassuring you that Swedes are very welcome in the United States, and we were! We had no difficulty with immigration authorities upon arrival. Unlike so many Scandinavians who want to go to Minnesota for the free land being offered, I told the officials of my desire to apply for a captain’s position and to stay on the eastern coast of this continent.

To that end, we did not stay in New York very long—I believe it was only three days—and then we took the train to Boston where I was told there are many opportunities for trained pilots on the new steamers sailing to Canada.

I am so enormously proud to tell you that I have been offered a position on the S/S Dominion, owned by the Nova Scotia Steamship Company. It is a marvelous vessel that sails between Boston and Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, every Saturday. The crossing is a mere 20 hours and will carry not only cargo, but many visitors from the New England states who are desirous of the cooler temperatures found in Nova Scotia during the summer months. How delightful that this new country is also a tourist destination!

Signe and the girls are extremely excited about our big adventure, and we will immediately be seeking a place to live in Yarmouth, as the real estate there will be so much more favorably priced than it is in Boston. Signe doesn’t mind forsaking city life in Gothenburg for a smaller-town environment. She will begin taking English classes immediately, and I know that the girls will adapt very well to learning a new language.

We have also realized that moving to Canada will offer our family the tale of a lifetime! How many people do you know in Gothenburg who can say they have a son living and working in a country that is younger than the son himself?

I will write again as soon as we are settled in Yarmouth, and I keenly anticipate news from you, as well.

With great affection, I remain,

Your loving son,

Jacob

* * *

Jacob set his fountain pen on the desk at which he was seated in the lobby of the Parker House Hotel in Boston. He and Signe and the girls were enjoying an overnight stay in the city’s largest hotel, and the accommodations were superb.

He finished the letter to his parents. Now would be a good time to have a sherry and a cigar, he thought, before meeting his wife and daughters for dinner in the dining room.

A bartender was on duty in the quiet lobby lounge. Mathieu Robicheau was a chatty young man with a slight French accent. Surprisingly, he was a valuable source of information about Yarmouth. His father, an Acadian woodworker, was living there, and Mathieu had spent a great deal of time in southwestern Nova Scotia.

I think you and your family will enjoy living in Yarmouth, sir, Mathieu said. It’s quite an up and coming community. The Indians are called Mi’ kmaq, and they’ve been there forever, but the area was settled by Planters from right here in Sandwich, Massachusetts. It was about a hundred years ago that the township of Yarmouth was born.

He noticed Captain Burcharth was listening attentively.

Where are you from, sir?

My family and I are from southern Sweden, young man, Jacob said in his carefully worded English. I’ll be captaining one of the steamers that sails to Yarmouth.

"Mon Dieu, that’s an impressive job, Captain! You know, my people are French immigrants called Acadians, and we sailed there in the early 1600s before the English Planters, Mathieu stated proudly. We wouldn’t pledge allegiance to the French or English crown, so we were expelled—or maybe you say ‘deported’?—by the British in 1755. My own family ended up in Louisiana and didn’t return until 1767."

Jacob took a puff of his cigar and picked up his glass of sherry, nodding to indicate that Mathieu should continue his story.

Later, in the dining room of the Hotel, Jacob felt re-invigorated by his choice to move his family to Canada after his chat with the bartender, which had almost seemed like a monologue, but a useful one.

He looked with affection at his wife and three daughters. He knew the trip to date had not been easy on Signe, as she much preferred land travel, and now had the added responsibility of three small children.

Elisabet, stop fidgeting and eat your soup, Signe instructed her eldest daughter. You see how quiet your baby sister is. You should act more like her.

Elisabet picked up her soupspoon and sullenly sipped more of the vegetable-laden soup.

Katarina, at only two years of age, had only two concerns: hunger and sleep. For now, she was content accepting mouthfuls of sweetened oatmeal. Signe noticed that Collan had finished her soup and sat quietly, anticipating more food to come.

Signe, dear, I was surprised to learn from that bartender that Yarmouth was named the second largest port of registry for shipbuilding in Canada just four years ago! It appears we’ll be living in quite an affluent community.

But the town sounds like a rather small place, Jacob, Signe commented as she delivered another half-teaspoon of oatmeal to Katarina.

Oh, I don’t know about that, Signe. He said there are a great many Bostonians and New Yorkers who sail to Nova Scotia, especially in the summers, and decent hotels are starting to be built there. That’s a darn good idea, you know, since the province sounds like it’s becoming a popular tourist destination for Americans.

That’s nice, Jacob, Signe said, and looked at her eldest daughter.

Elisabet, are you finished your soup? Look—your sister Collan was finished five minutes ago. I’m sure the waiter is ready to serve us the next course. Hurry up now, would you?

THREE

New York City, New York, Sunday, June 15, 1913

Katarina Burcharth and her sister Collan were excited as they emerged from the train that pulled into Grand Central Station from Boston that morning. Both young women, at the age of thirty-three and thirty-four respectively, chattered like schoolgirls. While dissimilar in looks, they still bore a resemblance to their childhood selves who had sailed with their parents to North America in 1883 from Sweden.

Their father, Jacob, had used his considerable influence as a sea captain to secure passage for both his daughters on a one-way voyage to Kristiania, the capital of Norway. Their eventual destination would be his hometown of Gothenburg where his parents still lived.

He wanted his girls to ensure his parents were able to continue caring for themselves. But he was also hoping that either Katarina or Collan might find a gentleman of means to marry, preferably Swedish, of course. He had watched his three daughters grow into determined young ladies, but in his estimation, it was only Elisabet who shared his traditional belief that marrying a good man led to personal and financial security for any woman. She was currently living in Boston with her British spouse and 12-year-old daughter, Eva.

Jacob’s choice of an ocean liner to take his children to Europe was carefully considered. He had been shaken to his core the year before when the Titanic sank, taking close to 1,500 lives. He had felt helpless regarding the recovery efforts. As he was sailing between Yarmouth and Boston when the tragedy occurred, he could not take the time to assist with anything when over 200 of the dead from the famous and ill-fated ocean liner arrived in Halifax.

He decided to book passage for the girls on a ship from the newly established Norwegian American Line christened the S/S Kristianiafjord. Its maiden voyage from the Norwegian capital to New York would be in early June, and he had assumed that by using his influence, he could arrange at least a second-class stateroom for the girls on the liner’s return trip to Norway.

Katarina and Collan settled in the backseat of a taxi, their steamer trunk securely fastened. A throng of cabs surrounded them, and seemingly more people than the population of Yarmouth were bustling around the busy 42nd Street terminal.

Fares are now regulated, ladies, the bespectacled cabbie informed them just before pulling out into the traffic. I’ll have to charge you 50 cents a mile and I reckon that the seaport district is almost five miles from here.

Collan gave Katarina a concerned glance as they were on a strict daily budget.

Katarina winked at her and then turned solemn when she spoke to the driver.

I completely understand, sir. But you’d not be aware of the benevolent mission my sister and I are embarking upon tomorrow. Indeed, we are taking the cremated remains of some of the unfortunate victims of the Titanic back to their loved ones in Norway, she said. You see, we’ve traveled a great distance from Nova Scotia at our own personal expense. Our ship leaves in the morning, and I….

She gasped slightly, as if overcome with emotion.

The cabbie was fairly new at his job and had not yet become the jaded chauffeur he later personified; one who has heard it all. He rubbed his chin and adjusted his glasses, and then turned to Katarina.

I guess I could charge you just a small portion of the regular fare. You’re kind souls to reunite family members, so to speak. He paused, thoughtful. You know, it’s people like you who are a credit to our country, he said.

Oh, no, we’re from Cana—, Collan began, as Katarina nudged her foot.

Cannader, Connecticut, Katarina finished, not wanting to lose the discounted rate. Thank you very much, sir. You are a true gentleman.

The next morning, after a non-eventful night at a guesthouse just around the corner from the South Street Seaport Museum, the two sisters along with hundreds of others were walking on the gangway about to board the S/S Kristianiafjord.

I do wish we had the time last night to visit the Museum to see the Titanic Memorial Lighthouse that was built earlier this year, Katarina commented.

Katarina, you would’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning if you had tried to enter that exhibit, Collan remarked. I swear, your brazenness shocks me. We could’ve paid the taxi fare from yesterday. How did you dream up that story about us bringing cremated remains to Norway?

Collan, you’re a year older than I, but you’re so naïve! Why on earth should we pay the full price for a taxi when a little white lie can fix things?

Collan looked sternly at her sister but remained silent.

As was the norm, Katarina was the image of innocence, decked out in a wide-brimmed hat with peacock feathers, pinned over her low pompadour hairstyle. They had helped one another to dress that morning, each wearing the latest longline corsets as foundations to their new form-fitting and flattering day dresses. Katarina’s petite stature, compared to Collan’s height, seemed to indicate that she was the younger of the two. She knew this and continued to dress youthfully during their voyage in order to take every advantage of her appearance.

Later, when their steamer trunk was delivered to their first-class cabin, Collan was again noticeably agitated.

Katarina, I nearly died when you insisted on speaking to the Chief Purser to ask for a cabin upgrade from the second-class tickets Father had bought for us, she said.

But aren’t you happy with this much bigger space? Katarina pirouetted in the center of the cabin. It was available, and we didn’t have to pay anything extra for it, so I don’t understand what your problem is.

"My problem is that you said you were a fashion and society reporter for The New York Times, and that you’d be writing about the S/S Kristianiafjord in a very favorable light in an upcoming edition of the paper—that’s my problem!"

"Collan, it’s clearly not an issue if the Chief Steward was too stupid to realize he was being duped. Honestly, dear Sister, this cabin was vacant. Either it didn’t sell in advance, or its occupants canceled at the last minute. Katarina was steadfast. It’s not like we’re stealing anything, Collan."

Collan opened their large steamer trunk and began sorting through the accessories in one of its upper drawers.

"Rephrase that, Katarina. You can convince yourself that you’re not stealing anything. I had nothing to do with this. I’m not like you."

FOUR

Katarina – Aboard the S/S Kristianiafjord – Monday, June 16, 1913

Dear Diary,

I thought that since I am starting a grand adventure, of sorts, I should begin a diary, so I’ll be able to remember what happened on my first trip to Europe to meet my grandparents. (Well, at least Father’s parents—Mother never talks about her parents, and I don’t know if they’re even alive and well.) And of course, I must recount here how I met handsome Mr. Carminati, whom I have set my sights on. Yes, I have!

At dinner last night, Collan was distant with me, and for all intent seemed to want to punish me for the white lies I told yesterday. That is so ridiculous! No one was harmed, and I simply wanted to make our voyage a little more comfortable. I just don’t understand her sometimes.

This morning, after a fairly decent and typically Norwegian breakfast of marinated herring, cheeses, cold boiled eggs, black bread, and some fruit, Collan retired to the stateroom complaining of fatigue. I’m fairly certain she did not toss and turn all night—at least I didn’t hear her having a fitful sleep—so I just have to accept that she continues to be moody with me. I slept as well as one is able in a ship’s berth.

There was a mix-up at breakfast with seating arrangements or some such nonsense, so we were asked to dine in the second-class dining saloon instead. I was not pleased after all the trouble I went through to be put in our first-class lodgings, but what can one do?

The second-class saloon has tables of sixteen people each. They are long and narrow with a row of eight individuals on each side sitting opposite one another, as if we were eggs being placed in some kind of oblong container. While it’s not uncivilized, the seating is far too close for my comfort. Second class.

I am now sitting in the second-class music room, because apparently the first-class music room is being cleaned due to an emergency. I mean, really! What kind of emergency can happen in a music room, for goodness sake? This is only the ship’s second voyage and yet the service is not yet up to par, in my opinion.

A young man of about sixteen is playing You Made Me Love You on the piano here—that big hit from last year—and he doesn’t even have the sheet music in front of him! I remember those piano lessons I took in Yarmouth before I was eighteen, but can’t say I was thrilled about them. Still, if one can play at least a couple of recognizable tunes, it does bode well for a lady’s reputation for being cultured.

I noticed a man on the other side of the room when I came in. He was reading a newspaper and was dressed quite well in a dark green sack suit. He appeared to be tall enough to wear this style; I find those baggy suit jackets that extend to mid-thigh should never be attempted by men of a shorter stature. He did smile and nod as I entered and sat down, and I returned his greeting. Perhaps he too was denied entrance to the first-class music room. He looked as if he should be traveling first class, in any event.

Ordinarily, I’m not attracted to swarthy-looking gentlemen as this one appears to be with his striking black hair. I have a morbid fear of, or fascination with, some of these olive-skinned men who sprout unbridled hair in their ears and nostrils. They must surely be from southern European countries…

In fact, he reminded me a little of Antonio Moreno who was in the moving pictures last year with Norma Talmage. A ladies’ magazine recently named him the ‘King of the Cliffhangers’. I wonder if this gentleman creates suspense when he travels?

Today I wore a beige day dress which I’ve always liked to wear, as it is accentuated with black piping and goes well with a black clutch I bought in Halifax a couple of years ago.

Anyway, then a waiter arrived asking if I would like a beverage. I ordered tea and overheard the gentleman on the other side of the room do the same. He got up from his chair and approached me.

Good morning, Miss, he smiled. Since we are two strangers in a music room being serenaded by a likely piano prodigy, might I introduce myself?

He had only the hint of an accent, which I couldn’t quite place, but he spoke English quite well. And he called me ‘miss’.

Please do, I replied.

My name is Joseph Carminati, at your service, he said, with the whitest teeth I have seen in years. Presumably, he does not indulge in red wine or coffee.

I’m Katarina Burcharth, and I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Carminati. Might I be so bold as to ask if this is a leisure or a business trip to the continent?

It’s definitely for business, he responded. I currently live in Kristiania, handling my family’s interest in Norway’s fishing industry. Unfortunately, I have to make the crossing to New York at least twice a year, but I’m not complaining whatsoever. The pace is pleasant on board, and the maiden trip to America on this ship last week went off without any problems at all.

I’m happy to hear that, Mr. Carminati. Please sit down and we can enjoy a sip of tea when it arrives. Will Mrs. Carminati be joining you?

Oh, I am a bachelor, Miss – or is it Mrs. Burcharth? he asked, smiling.

Cheeky guy. (I’m having fun telling you this story, dear Diary!)

There is no Mr. Burcharth, Mr. Carminati, I said, returning his smile.

My, but he was extremely attractive—with not one stray ear or nose hair, I might add!

Then we are two single lonely travelers about to have tea and a pastry of some kind, and some lively conversation, I hope.

The teenager at the piano, as if on cue, started playing When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. I was fine with his choice, although I was certain Mr. Carminati had smiling Italian eyes.

Until next time, dear Diary.

FIVE

Aboard the S/S Kristianiafjord – Monday, June 16, 1913

Collan sat in a deck chair on the Promenade Level with a light blanket covering her legs. She was pensive, as was her nature, as she stared over the open Atlantic. She found she wasn’t able to concentrate on her book, P.G. Wodehouse’s The Prince and Betty, since she had re-read the same page several times. She set the novel on her lap.

I prefer to read in private lest others see me, a thirty-four-year-old spinster, indulging in what some might say is romantic fiction. Still, Wodehouse writes beautifully and with such wonderful humor.

Katarina is up to her tricks again. I know she has a decent heart, but I don’t understand where her compulsion comes from to tell so many lies. She may say they are ‘white lies’ or ‘untruths’, but the fact remains she’s engaging in deception all the time. Some day she will stumble in the middle of one of her wild tales and it won’t be pleasant when that happens.

After breakfast, an invitation was delivered to our stateroom inviting us to dine at the Captain’s table this evening. I fear I’ll have to bite my tongue when she begins answering the inevitable questions about her phony career with The New York Times.

I know I’ll turn many shades of crimson, and I may indulge in too much wine to relieve my stress of being with her. It takes a great deal of effort to change subjects adroitly when in her company. Sometimes her stories just grow bigger and bigger, and the falsehoods pile up like the cars of a train that have careened off the tracks.

I’m only a year older than Katarina, and yet I remember that she seldom spoke when she was a child. I was the chatterbox and read everything in sight; Elisabet analyzed everything without availing herself of