A Place Called Bliss (25 page)

Apparently she was the only one to have seen it; the others were busy with introductions and comments. Margo looked at the most recent family arrival, Molly, and saw her only as a young woman about her own age; probably older, if memory served her right. A girl with boundless energy, vivid face, and a mass of unruly, blue-black hair. Countless people have unruly, blue-black hair in this world, Margo realized. Molly’s father, Angus, for instance. Though Molly’s excessive curl was like her mother’s and her mother’s mother, the color was her father’s. Angus’s thick thatch, however, was touched with gray now. More than once Margo had heard her mother make reference to Angus Morrison’s “thatch” and Mary’s red “mop.” Margo, a lonely child with no relatives near, had pressed her mother for accounts of the old Scottish home, every phase of life there, the momentous move to Canada, the disastrous sea voyage, her
own birth and the birth and death of Mary Morrison’s baby, or “sma’ one,” as Kezzie called her. For Kezzie, too, recounted the story, making it live for Margo until she almost felt that the absent Morrisons, Kezzie’s family, were her family, too.

“And she never had a name?” Margo liked to ask, hearing again that Mary had never even seen her “bairn” but called her “angel.”

“Like you call me,” Margo would say, cuddling close to Kezzie, to have her curls fondled lovingly and a kiss placed on her forehead.

“For such y’are,” Kezzie would declare, and Margo thrived on the assurance in Nanny . . . Granny Kezzie’s tones.

“Mam is so anxious to see you,” Mary was saying now, “so we won’t try to keep you. But Sunday, if Mam feels well enough, you’ll all come over for dinner. Our pastor, Parker Jones, will join us—”

Margo noted Molly’s quickly heightened color and the flash in her blue eyes.

“Dinner,” Molly explained, “is our noon meal, you know. Our evening meal is supper. And bush protocol doesn’t call for dressing for dinner, either.” Molly’s impish smile took any sharpness from her voice; neither did the farm’s simple way of life come across as anything but natural and good. Margo was feeling more and more at ease. She would accept and adjust to rural ways; after all, they would be her way from now on. What would the Morrisons say when they learned that she was to become a resident of Bliss? If she were to suddenly burst forth with “I’m staying on, you know,” what would their reaction be? Unbelieving, most likely, a rich girl’s whim. But if they understood her reduced means and the absolute necessity of making a go of it somewhere other than at Heatherstone, after their first shock would they accept her as plain Margo, as dependent on the land as they were?

Taking the last mile of the trip with Cameron from the Morrison homestead to the Galloway place, Margo tried, hesitantly, to introduce the subject.

“If I stayed . . . would there be room at your . . . that is, the Bliss place, for me?”

Watching the bronzed face intently, Margo saw no telltale emotion, good or bad. But the moment of silence hung heavily between them before Cameron spoke.

“Your father had the Bliss house enlarged; it’s quite roomy. We always kept a room ready for him, though he never came back after that one trip. It’ll be your room now, of course, and for as long as you wish, naturally. But I doubt that you’ll want to stay on into our winter. Bush life, for a sort of a lark, is fine . . . for a holiday. You’ll appreciate civilization all the more for having experienced life in the bush. Sponge baths, for instance, or a dip in a zinc tub; keeping a fire in the cookstove all the time just for the simplest kinds of meals; making bread a couple times a week . . . gathering garden stuff for supper; a path to the . . . ah. . . .” Cameron’s description of life in Bliss faltered.

“I understand,” Margo said quickly.

If only
he
understood. It didn’t matter how crude the lifestyle; not matter the inconveniences. She had no choice. It was life in the bush on the farm deeded her by her father or the impossible situation at Heatherstone with a groping Wallace and no hope of anything better.

He didn’t understand! He didn’t know that Wallace’s gross insinuations had spoiled forever her Heatherstone home. He didn’t know that the defection of Winfield Craven, upon learning of her penury, had released her from any last tie with the former life.

He didn’t understand that . . . that something unexpected had touched her heart at the moment she laid eyes on him. Something that even now tripled the beat of her heart and shortened her breath. Something that caused Heatherstone to fade into insignificance and Bliss to blossom with happiness and hope.

No, this, in particular, Cameron didn’t understand. And thank goodness! How foolish could one be! Never had she imagined such a scenario: herself, weary and rumpled from the long trip, wrenched from all former things and unsure of the
future, coming face-to-face with a man—a stranger in all but name only, but vital and masculine and magnetic—and, in that instant whirled off into depths and heights of emotions such as never for one moment suspected or experienced in her engagement and marriage plans.

“I just thought it well to prepare you,” Cam Morrison was saying now. “I’m sure you’ve never known such primitive ways. Actually, it may end up seeming like a sort of memorable visitation. I hope so, anyway,” he finished lightly.

Unseen by Cameron, Margo frowned. How was she going to explain to him that there would be no going back?

And would Cameron, when he found out, give up his place as resident farmer? If so, who would take his place? The farm must be kept productive; it would be her only source of income. She—Margo Galloway, one-time pampered child of the rich—was as dependent on the land as any poverty-stricken settler in the Territories. The sponge baths, the kitchen range, the bread baking, the garden planting and tending, the
path
—all were to be as much a part of her life as that of the latest immigrant from the ghettos of Europe.

And when Cameron Morrison learned that this poor little rich girl was to be his employer, and a live-in one at that—

The final leg of the buggy ride was never to be remembered as Margo plunged into a half-frenzy of despair. Having met Cameron and realizing he was no
servant
such as she’d known but a man who would have goals and aspirations of his own, she saw how futile it would be to expect him to stay on, working for someone else. Especially a woman, especially when that woman had little or no funds to pay wages.

“Here we are . . . and there’s Mam, bless her, waiting on the porch.”

At Cameron’s words Margo’s worries fled for the time being, and she turned eager eyes on the house coming into view. But the sturdiness of the buildings and the beauty of the setting were ignored in favor of her first glimpse of the only grandmother she had known. Nanny, nurse, friend, all wrapped up
in the dear, stooped figure awaiting her in the heart of the Canadian bush.

If this isn’t home
, cried Margo’s heart,
where on earth would I find it?

W
hen Cameron had unhitched the horse, watered her, and turned her into the corral, he returned to the house. As he opened the door quietly, his breath caught in his throat in a strange way: seated in her old rocking chair, Kezzie, her withered cheeks wet with tears, was bent over the figure of the graceful girl who had flung herself with complete abandon on the floor and buried her face in the aproned lap. Kezzie’s bent fingers stroked the tangled hair with remembered gentleness.

“Whoosh, whoosh,” she was murmuring tenderly, in what Cameron was sure were remembered tones.

Feeling that he had intruded on a scene too private and too precious to be shared, Cameron turned to go. His movement caught his grandmother’s eye.

“Come in, laddie,” Kezzie invited. “Wee Margo is one of us. This is her home in ways more than ownership.”

If I ever saw a lamb come home to the fold
, Cameron thought,
this has to be it. How will Mam bear it, when separation time comes?
Well, that would be two or three months away, he supposed, months that were vital to his own future. He wouldn’t
wait too long to bring up the subject of the homestead’s purchase; surely that would, quickly and happily, settle Margo’s business in Bliss. And settle his own uncertain future happily and quickly
if
she agreed to sell to him. Aside from the fact that he could make only a partial payment, needing terms for the remainder of the purchase price, he could foresee no problem. And who, if anyone, would have the full amount to give her? With her wealth, a small arrangement such as this one would be of little consequence. To her. To him, it would be everything. So much of himself had gone into the Bliss place, with so many tentative dreams concerning it, that it would be hard indeed to turn it over to anyone else.

“Wee Margo” buried her face even deeper in Kezzie’s lap and clutched the ancient knees in a tighter grip. Something—perhaps years of loneliness—was spilling itself out. Spilling out and being wiped away.

Cameron backed away. “I’ll tend the fire,” he said quietly, “and start supper.”

The large room that served as the living area for the home’s inhabitants—braided rug surrounded by comfortable furniture, lamps, and books, and across the room a kitchen/eating area—absorbed the soft sounds of loving comfort at one end and the muted thumps and clanks of Cameron’s domestic efforts on the other. When Cameron pulled the roasting pan from the oven and the fragrance of the crisp-skinned chicken filled the room, he looked through the gathering dusk to see Margo sitting back on her heels, looking up at Kezzie, sunshine on her face. For a moment Cameron thought it was a glow from the girl herself. With a shake of the head at his own foolishness, he recognized it as a touch of the setting sun through the lace-curtained window.

Nevertheless, it was as they sat at the table, under kerosene lamplight, with her dark eyes puffed and her nose shiny, that Cameron, for the first time all day, gave Margo his full attention. Before she had seemed a rather rumpled but perfectly outfitted doll; he now saw the girl herself. And was strangely,
suddenly, jolted. Before he might determine what this strange reaction was, he checked it firmly.

“More chicken?” he asked quickly, offering the platter.

If Margo hadn’t taken that moment to raise her eyes to his, all might have returned, safely, to normal, and Cameron might have persuaded himself that he had been mistaken. Now, caught in the web of her lashes, he looked and couldn’t stop looking.

Here was no coy miss; here was no façade; no games were being played such as he had experienced with other young women. Gazing into the honest, vulnerable face, before the thick lashes came down over the tear-washed eyes, Cameron gave an almost visible start.

“Thank you,” Margo said. “It’s so good. It’s
all
,” and her eyes swept not only the table but the entire area, “so good.”

Cameron’s gaze dropped to his plate, blankly. His mind seemed equally blank, as time stood still. Then,
Oh no!
he groaned soundlessly.
No no no no no no!
The mindless denial went on,
No! No!
and he never knew that one final “No!” escaped his grim lips until he saw the surprised faces of Kezzie and Margo.

“That is—no, thank you.” Then, to the puzzlement of those watching, he proceeded to spoon gravy over his potatoes until, with a start, he realized the savory goo was spilling over onto the tablecloth.
I’ve lost my wits as well as my heart,
he thought.

The eyes Cameron raised to his grandmother were eyes of despair. With a deep breath, Kezzie put her hand over the hard, brown hand clenched beside his plate.

“Laddie,” she said gently, and oh, so knowingly, “it’s all right. It’ll all come out . . . satisfactorily.” But whether she meant the gravy seeping into the tablecloth or the warm sensation creeping into his heart was not clear. In either case, it was up to him to get rid of it.

Pushing back his chair, he said, “Clumsy of me. If you’ve finished, I’ll serve the pudding later. Right now I’ll clear the table and put this to soak. It’ll wash out . . . with a little effort,
it’ll wash out. Won’t it, Mam?” The eyes he turned on Kezzie were imploring.

“Put it to soak for now, laddie. That’s the wisest thing to do.”

“I’ll help,” Margo said. And though she’d never done such a chore before, some basic woman-instinct gave her joy in handling the family’s china and deft fingers in piling the soiled plates in a dishpan of hot, sudsy water.

“Don’t,” Cameron said, more harshly than he had meant to, and he softened it immediately with, “Please don’t. I’m used to such chores. I’d feel better if you’d just go sit with Mam.” But even the smile with which he said it did not change the resolute tone of his next words: “Mustn’t forget . . . you’re the owner of this domain, and a lady.”

“Still—”

“You like Mam’s blancmange, I understand. It will remind you of Heatherstone and her time there with you. Simple as it is, she insisted on making it for you. It’ll not be served in the cut-glass crystal that you’re accustomed to, and the spoon will not be solid silver. . . .” He tried to sound wry; instead he sounded grim.