Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (16 page)

I
f she had felt like skipping when she came downstairs, she felt like flying when she went back up. But already in big trouble and all on account of her unpredictable behavior, Allison’s feet walked sedately enough—Buckle in faithful attendance—while her spirit soared.

With the click of the key in the lock behind her, decorum forsook her, however; propriety fled, pretensions collapsed, and Allison, holding her full skirts up and out of the way, kicked up her heels in a jig as full of fancy as of freedom and circled the room. Finally, collapsing on the bed, she gasped out her feelings in tears and laughter.

It was too unbelievable. The very thing she longed for, the chief desire of her life—freedom—was to be hers, and without any conniving or arranging on her part. Of course, she reminded herself guiltily, her unprincipled actions had brought it about. Even so, she couldn’t find it in her heart to be sorry. Except for Mum . . . her mother’s tears.

Thinking of them, Allison sobered. The excitement of the moment was shadowed by the remembrance of her mother’s weeping. And then she recalled the heartless recriminations her mother had all but spat at her and rallied from her brief pang of compunction.

With nothing else to do, she settled herself for the time of waiting. Without some guidelines about Canada and what would be needed and suitable for that place and that climate, there was little she could do to prepare herself. But inertia, for Allison, didn’t come naturally; often in the next days as she watched the approach of spring from her window, she felt cooped, restless. At times she paced the floor, devising ways to keep her mind engaged and her courage up. Imagining, planning, dreaming. Urging herself to be patient; what her father had ordained would come to pass.

Sarah was finally allowed to come to her sister’s room. Allison recognized the tentative
taptap
immediately and had to admit that—at the thought of talking with another human being—her heart leaped at the sound she had once spurned as bothersome and interruptive. Mrs. Buckle’s duties had brought her into the room from time to time to clean, to gather up laundry, to change the bed; Becky—with Buckle standing guard—brought trays of food three times a day. But Mrs. Buckle was grim and speechless, by nature and by design, and Becky, though her eyes rolled speakingly and her mouth grimaced soundlessly, was speechless by command.

“Come in,” Allison caroled in response to her sister’s knock, her welcome evident in her voice.

The key rattled in the lock, and Buckle held it open as Sarah stepped past him into the room; he then closed it and—both girls realized—waited just outside. It could put a damper on the visit.

Buckle might hear, but he couldn’t see. And even his crusty heart might have been touched to see the girls bound across the room to each other, meeting in the center, embracing, weeping a little, rocking each other, all in a manner never experienced
before. They had missed each other; they were aware of the approaching separation that would part them for years, perhaps forever.

“Come, Sister,” Allison said at last, drawing back and taking Sarah’s hand and leading her to a seat on the edge of the bed. It seemed a spot much more conducive to sharing, to whispering, than the chairs set in neat isolation on each side of the fireplace.

“Oh, Allie,” Sarah said, weeping rather freely now, “I don’t believe I can bear it—you going off so far from England. From home. Oh, Allie!”

“Come now,” Allison said as cheerily as she could, “it’s really not so bad.”

“It’s bad!” Sarah insisted. “Especially for you; partly for me.”

Allison hesitated—how could she tell her sister that she was truly looking forward to the Grand Adventure, as she had termed it in her thinking.

“I’ll be fine, Sarah. You mustn’t worry about me.”

“But, Allie—Indians! Think of the Indians! Indians scalp people! And your hair is so pretty—” Sarah’s voice choked.

“Nonsense, Sister. I don’t believe Canadian Indians ever did such things. But if they did, it was ages and ages ago. And anyway, you’re talking about the West; I’ll be in the East, in Ontario. Everyone knows someone who’s been to Ontario, and I’ve always heard it’s quite civilized, really.”

“But so far away. Oh, Allie!”

Allison seemed unable to stem the tide of her sister’s tears, until in desperation she confided, “But, Sarah, I quite like the idea. Now don’t look so upset; that was meant to comfort you.”

“You
like
the idea?”

“I do; truly I do.”

“Is Stephen Lusk,” Sarah asked, looking up darkly from the handkerchief she was holding to her wet eyes, “waiting for you over there?”

“Not at all! Stephen Lusk is a thing of the past. I’ve seen the last of Stephen Lusk, I’m sure, and probably heard the last of him.”

Sarah’s slender face filled with sympathy. “Ahhhh . . .”

“It’s all right, Sarah! It’s all right. Can’t you see that this development—going to Canada—is much more exciting, much more to my liking?”

Sarah was on the verge of disapproval, of exchanging her sympathy for agitation. Obviously she was struggling with this shifting of passions.

“I’m sure it wasn’t God’s will for me to marry Stephen,” Allison said piously, hoping to be rewarded by Sarah’s acceptance of such a strong argument.

It was the wrong approach. Incensed now, recalling Allison’s recent flagrant ignoring of scriptural admonition, Sarah demanded hotly, “What do you know about God’s will, Allie? You’re a big fraud, that’s what you are! If you cared two pins about God’s will, you would be a little more prayerful, a lot more careful about finding it.”

“All right, all right,” Allison soothed. “So I’ve got a little to learn about God’s will—”

“A lot to learn!”

“All right—a lot. Maybe,” she added coaxingly, “I’ll learn all about it in the—”

“The wiles of Canada, Allie?”

“Not wiles, Sister. Wilds.”

“Are you so sure?” Sarah said with wisdom far beyond her knowing.

Letitia came. Again Buckle stood guard.

“Why is Buckle stationed outside all the time?” Allison asked rebelliously. “It seems the silliest of precautions. Where do you think I might go if I got out of my room?”

Settling herself in a comfortable chair at the side of the fire, Letitia looked at her daughter—flushed, perturbed, the picture of imperious indignation—and spoke more sharply than she might have otherwise.

“You ran off once, and we certainly hadn’t anticipated such an action on your part. Who’s to say you wouldn’t do it again?”

“Going to Canada—that won’t be running off?”

“Under your father’s direction. And of course this time we’ll know where you are,” Letitia pointed out. “And if you choose to associate with runagates, well—” Unspoken the thought that foolish actions on Allison’s part would no longer bring embarrassment to her father and mother.

Allison was silent for a moment, the color coming and going in her face. Finally, quietly, almost humbly, she asked, “Mama, don’t you care that I’ll be so far away?”

“Of course I care,” Letitia said. “I care that it’s necessary; I care terribly. It gives me great pain.” And Letitia bowed her beautifully coiffured head into her hands.

Although she didn’t rush to bow at her mother’s knee again, Allison repeated her apology to the best of her ability, wondering at the same time how meaningful it was if it was only half meant. And she
was
sorry, she realized, to have caused hurt, even shame—more thoughtless than intentional though it had been—but not sorry to be
going to Canada!

Letitia dabbed tearless eyes, sighed, and changed the topic of conversation.

“I’m going to see that a trunk is brought down to you, and you can begin to sort through things, deciding what to take with you.”

“Mama,” Allison said, “I don’t have any idea what to take. Are there any guidelines? I mean—will I be on a farm? In a city? Can I buy things there that I find I need?”

“I have no idea,” Letitia said helplessly. “All I really know is that it gets cold, wherever you might be. Be sure to take heavy garments.”

As a result of the conversation, a large trunk was deposited in a corner of Allison’s room; she eyed it with a mix of dismay and enthusiasm. The first things to go in, down into a deep corner, were the Balmoral boots and petticoat.

But whether or not they would be necessary, she didn’t know. Recalling the cold of Gretna Green, Scotland, Allison left the Balmoral garments in the trunk and added the warmest gloves she could find.

Finally, her father came. It was the first time Allison had seen him since their encounter two weeks earlier in his study.

Startled at the unexpected sound of the key in the lock, Allison glanced up from the book she was reading, then stood as her father entered, her expression calm enough but her heart racing. Were there to be more recriminations? Was there a change in plans? Had—heaven forbid!—Stephen been located and drawn into the whole miserable affair once again?

Until now she had never considered what would happen if Stephen was tracked down, overcome, and dragged back to Midbury, and her father—full of righteous indignation—demanded that Stephen marry his daughter. It was an unsettling thought. Was it possible?

She was a little chagrined at the relief she felt when her father’s first words put her uneasy conjectures about Stephen to rest.

“Plans are coming together very nicely,” he said, gesturing her to sit, himself taking the other chair. “I’ve obtained passage on the
Griffin
for you and your custodian.”

Custodian!
Allison hated the word, hated the thought, dreaded the association.

“The sailing date is exactly ten days from now.”

“Ten days, Papa?” It was actually going to happen.

“A week from Friday. So speed up your packing, my girl. Mrs. Buckle will assist you. I understand she has a relative in Canada and can give advice about the sort of things to take. She will also have the funds to purchase anything you may need.”

“This . . . this custodian, Papa?”

“Miss—ah, here it is.” Quincy fished a slip of paper from a pocket and read, “Theodora Figg.”

“Have you met this Theodora Figg, Papa?”

“Buckle procured her services. I understand she does this sort of thing regularly—accompanying women or children, overseeing the sick or elderly, doing a little nursing if necessary, delivering her charges to their destination. Very capable, I’m sure. Highly recommended, of course.

“Once on the shores of Canada, she will transfer her obligations to . . . to . . .”

Quincy fished once again in a pocket, drew out another paper, and continued, “Maybelle Dickey. Mrs. Dickey will be there to meet and greet you—”

“You’ve heard from Mrs. Dickey?” Allison asked, surprised.

“Well, no, there’s hardly been time. But if there is some slipup, Miss Figg will continue your oversight for as long as is necessary. Everything, I feel, is under control.”

It sounded very tenuous to her, quite uncertain, rather alarming. But the adventurous spirit in Allison rose to the challenge; she wondered fleetingly, in that moment, if she were a pioneer at heart.

Not much more was said. Quincy, businesslike as usual, said what he had to say, then turned to leave. At the door, his back to her, he never saw Allison’s hand, tentatively outstretched, never saw the pleading in her eyes.

“Papa?”

“Yes?” he asked and turned. Asked too crisply, turned too late; the hand was down, the eyes shadowed.

“Nothing. It was . . . nothing.”