Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (18 page)

“It’s our privilege, mine and Molly’s,” Parker Jones said simply, laying his Bible aside, “to share with you our exchange of vows. Brother Temple—if you will kindly step forward . . .”

From the back of the room, Rev. Temple, an itinerant preacher who was known to many of them, worked his way through the desks. Reaching the front, he embraced Parker Jones, shook his hand, and turned to face the congregation, a smile on his cadaverous face. With little or no physical beauty, Rev. Temple exuded the simple love of the Lord. Everyone knew his devotion, his dedication, his sacrifice, and they gave him their attention now.

Parker gave the bemused Sister Dinwoody a quick glance, and with a start and a blush, she turned to the organ. As prearranged, she played, as soulfully and meaningfully as she could, “Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us.” The second time through, the tempo became quicker, the sound more vigorous; it was a sign to the breathless audience. As one person they turned and followed the direction of Parker Jones’s eyes.

Through the door, walking alone, stepped Molly—head lifted regally, slim shoulders straight, face flushed prettily, her vibrant hair intertwined neatly with ribbons. Lightly she came, brightly, gladly, through the aisle that opened for her.

No petal-strewn path or flower-decked arbor was ever trodden by a bride more proudly than Molly Morrison walked the oiled schoolhouse floor; no cathedral held guests nobler than the pioneers crowding into Bliss’s scarred desks;
no bride looked into faces more supportive than those that turned to Molly now.

There were no flowers; there were none to be had. Though vases of budding boughs had been placed strategically at the front of the room, the earth had not produced one crocus as yet, no brave early violet to pin to the bride’s shoulder. But the sweet fragrance of lily of the valley perfume accompanied her, and in her hand Molly carried a small Bible.

Straight and true she went—brave in her navy Kersey with its jabot of frothy white—to the waiting Parker Jones. His face was alight, as though he had seen or was even now seeing a vision. With never a falter Molly walked through the crowd and into arms that came out automatically to receive her.

It was so unexpected, the embrace, so spontaneous, that the crowd, awed and silent until now, broke into applause. Only then did Molly turn and Parker raise his head—as though waking from a dream and astonished to discover they had an audience—to smile at their audience, then step apart and turn to face the minister.

Afterward Molly was to say she heard only the familiar “Dearly beloved” and nothing more—although she was assured she gave her pledge at the proper time—until Rev. Temple directed the new husband, “Salute your bride,” and Parker, in front of a deeply moved, even tearful congregation, kissed her as his wife, Mrs. Parker Jones.

There was no recessional; there was no way a path could be made through the packed building. Rather, friends and family crowded around, with hugs and handshakes, pats and kisses being the order of the day.

It was not a day for dispersing; it was a time for fellowship, for reminiscing. It was a time of eating together. No home was large enough, no hall available. Though it was not yet really warm, it was sunny. The snow was gone, the earth was drying; it was possible to set up trestle tables in the school yard.

Every household in the district, and several from surrounding districts—well-wishers who had come for the wedding—
produced boxes containing every taste treat imaginable. It was a celebration. Who would want to go home to a cold dinner eaten alone when special food was available for the taking, with conversation flowing richly?

Winter’s hardships were still sharp in the memory; spring’s promises were not yet fulfilled. This day, with its food and fellowship, was a time of transition, a laying aside of the old, a laying hold of the new.

Parker and Molly, as was right and proper, took time to go from table to table, group to group, even family to family, expressing appreciation for each guest’s presence, assuring one and all of their return. But it was obvious they were biding their time, and they turned gladly toward Molly’s brother, Cameron, nodding their willingness to be on their way when he looked at them inquiringly. Cameron was to take them to Prince Albert where they would spend the night at the Maple Leaf Hotel. The next day they would take the train to points east and Parker’s childhood home.

In the wagon, packed and ready, was the baggage they would take with them.

“Good-bye, Mum, Da,” Molly murmured in the arms of Mary and Angus. “Thank you for everything.”

In her grandmother’s arms Molly was speechless; love had its silent language. The hardy little Scotswoman had promised to be around to dance at Molly’s wedding, and though the church’s influence might mean self-disciplined feet, hearts were free to dance all they wanted, as often as they wanted, as wildly as they would. If Mam’s blue eyes meant anything, her heart was doing a merry jig.

But in all the farewells, there were no tears. It was a radiant Molly who started on her life journey, her wife journey, having so recently promised, “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the L
ORD
do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me” (Ruth 1:16–17).

Sitting on the high seat of the wagon between Cameron and Parker, Molly turned for one final wave to the watching, waving, cheering crowd.

“You’ll miss out on the shivaree,” Cameron said, feigning sympathy, clucking to the horse and starting the wagon on its way.

“Thank goodness!” Molly and Parker chorused with fervency.

T
heodora Figg, her little finger curled elegantly, lifted a teacup to lips that, Allison suspected, were enhanced with a touch of artificial coloring. And she felt sure her mother viewed their guest with less than complete approval, for Letitia’s head was lifted in a regal manner, as it was prone to be in the presence of lesser individuals, and her nostrils were pinched, as they were prone to be when something didn’t entirely please her or come up to her standards.

As for her father, who applauded himself always for being a keen judge of character, he was quite clearly bemused, caught up in the obvious attractions of his daughter’s “custodian,” blind to any hint of Theodora Figg’s unsuitability. Letitia watched him, her face tight, quite clearly thinking,
Silly male!

“I advise a special kind of luggage trunk,” Miss Figg said in her somewhat nasal voice and with an accent that was affected, as she continued with the litany of things to be done for the voyage, items to be taken, items to be struck from the list Letitia had prepared. “It’s known as a steamer and is specially
designed to fit into the fifteen-inch space between the berth and the floor of the luxury- and saloon-class cabins. If you don’t have such a piece of equipment, I’d advise you to purchase it.”

What Theodora Figg didn’t mention was that the presence of such a trunk was a telltale sign that a young man using it and coming into any western Canada community was probably a remittance man. Nor did she mention that the luxury- and saloon-class cabins would be overflowing with these young scalawags, the offscourings of British society. Had Letitia known, she would have swooned; Quincy himself might have balked at the arrangements he had made for his wayward daughter.

“You did reserve the best, did you not?” Miss Figg cocked her eye rather sharply toward Quincy, who hastened to assure her that he had paid for the finest accommodations offered by the
Griffin
.

“Fine,” she said, sinking back with relief. “Some parents do otherwise, having a need to economize, I suppose, although I’m sure you don’t fall into that category. I cannot abide traveling steerage. It’s a trip that’s uncomfortable enough, I assure you, under the best of circumstances.”

Theodora Figg wanted it known that she was expending great effort, making concessions, to accommodate the Middleton family’s need. “More than uncomfortable,” she continued. “A veritable trial to the nerves.”

Allison had no trouble believing her, having read J. Ewing Ritchie’s
To Canada with Emigrants
. “Nothing can be drearier than a trip to Canada,” he reported. “Now and then a whale comes up to blow hard, and that is all; the foghorn blows dismally every few minutes . . . the icebergs are monotonous—when you’ve seen one, that is enough. . . . In the saloon, we are a sad, dull party; even in the smoking-room, one can scarcely get up a decent laugh. I pity the poor emigrants in the steerage. ”

“Now,” Theodora said, setting aside her cup and dabbing her lips daintily with her serviette, “about the young lady’s funds—”

“All arranged for,” Quincy said, coming to himself with a start as his flow of thoughts concerning the woman—whatever they were—were interrupted. “I’ve looked into this matter carefully and am advised that letters of credit can be redeemed in all parts of Canada—”

“Your banking house?” Theodora asked shrewdly.

“Brown, Shipley & Company.”

“The best,” murmured a sagacious custodian. “Such letters are a fundamental requirement for anyone going to North America.

“It is also recommended,” she continued, “that the traveler carry along with her a goodly sum of Bank of England notes; these are salable in large towns at full value. But in case a person finds herself to be in the smaller outback towns of the West—not that this is pertinent to Miss Allison—it is advisable to carry small denominations of Canadian circular notes. This will avoid problems with exchanging Bank of England currency.”

“Ah, yes—”

These small bills, Allison knew from her perusal of
The Englishman’s Guide-Book to the United States and Canada
, could be cashed on sight without the necessity of providing references or identification.

“Your knowledge is to be commended,” Quincy said admiringly, while Letitia’s nostrils pinched until they were white. “And your counsel is much appreciated, I assure you. It’s good, indeed, to have someone with such a grasp of the situation to take charge of our daughter and her affairs. We shall feel secure, I’m sure, in the fact that she is in capable hands.”

Miss Figg smiled and dipped her head in a brief acknowledgment of the compliment. “No doubt my previous clients have assured you—”

“We’re having a little trouble,” Letitia inserted, “contacting any of them. The Bridgeman family, for instance—”

“Oh,” Theodora said, surprise in her voice, “are they abroad again? It’s that time of year, I suppose.”

But it wasn’t; it was too early to go gallivanting abroad; much of Europe was still frozen, the haunts of the rich and famous shut down for the winter.

It was not, however, too early for a ship to the colonies. Such ships began plying the oceans the first of April and continued through the first of November, departing weekly. It was from the port of Liverpool that most remittance men sailed, and so would Allison, heading for North America, putting ashore at Quebec City some two weeks later.

These were the glory days of steamships; steamships reduced the time and torments associated with sailing vessels. Though these vessels still operated, Allison would not be submitted to such an ordeal, largely because Miss Figg, who was to accompany her, had made it clear she would refuse the assignment unless it was by steamship.

“And Lord and Lady Paxton?” Letitia pursued. “Are they abroad also?”

“No doubt they haven’t come to London yet; did you contact their country estate address?”

“You gave us the London address—”

“There’s hardly been time to hear from them,” Theodora said peaceably. “Mr. Middleton first contacted me less than three weeks ago. We can delay our departure if you wish, until you have time to hear from the Paxtons and the Bridgemans . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Not at all! Not at all!” Quincy spoke quickly, placatingly, and gave his wife a shriveling glance. “I have contacted Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

“Kryzewski. Johann Kryzewski,” Theodora supplied. “Yes, Mr. Kryzewski knows me well and my work.”

“But who
is
he?” Letitia asked bluntly, only to be glared down again by her husband. Flushing, she subsided.

A few more things were discussed, the hour of meeting was set, last-minute instructions made, and Theodora Figg rose—a woman in her early thirties, curvaceous because she was tightly corseted, dressed with an indefinable air of too much, too
cheap, too redolent—to speak her gracious good-byes and take her departure.

“I don’t feel good about that woman,” Letitia said with a sigh as soon as Buckle had accompanied Theodora out of the room.

“She’s the only possibility that presented itself,” Quincy stated firmly, once again himself since the woman was gone. “And anyway, what could happen? Buckle will see them aboard the ship, and Maybelle will meet them when they arrive. All Allison has to do is behave herself on board ship, follow instructions, and that’s it.”

“You
hope
Maybelle will meet them,” Letitia reminded him. “You haven’t heard from her, either.”