Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (20 page)

Still, there was truth in what the girl had said; it was apropos, to be sure. Allison allowed herself to think of it fleetingly: In essence she was saying the past is over and done. Move on; forget it. The future is ahead, offering new opportunities, another chance at happiness and fulfillment. Paul or no Paul, Scripture or not, the concept was a good one and worthy of consideration.

With a sigh, the girl turned her back on the distant dock and the hope of waving one final time to her loved ones. “It’s just as well, I suppose,” she said. “I need to get used to the idea that they are no longer part of my life. I made my choice, knowing it would cost me my family. It’s one of the prices we pay for going so far away. We might as well be going to the moon, as far as seeing them again is concerned. But I’m not sorry for my decision!” The girl’s voice had no hesitation in it, no hint of second thoughts.

Though Allison was reluctant to pry, she was intrigued. “Ah, mmm,” she said cautiously, “it was that important to you, then?”

The deep-set eyes turned to Allison with a fervor that might have lit the eyes of Joan of Arc.

A pioneer! The girl was consumed with the passion of the pioneer. Allison was sure of it. “Well, then,” she said, “you are heading for the Canadian prairies, perhaps, to take up land?”

The girl looked surprised. “That may well be,” she said. “But that’s not my reason—”

“So why,” Allison found herself asking, “are you going? What is so compelling as to take you halfway around the world, leaving your family—”

“That’s an easy question to answer. I’m going to Canada to be married.” The words sang, the young woman’s eyes shone, the mouth couldn’t help but smile.

Remembering her own abortive attempt at marrying, Allison was tempted to feel a belated pang of regret. But then she recalled Stephen’s too-willing acceptance of her investment in his future and arrangement for his escape and was filled with
a profound thankfulness that she had found him out in time. Allison Middleton could never settle for a weak man.

“I think we should get acquainted,” the young woman at her side was saying. “My name is Georgina Barlow—”

“And I’m Allison Middleton—”

“Georgie for short—”

“Allie—”

With a burst of laughter, the two young women sealed a friendship that was to mean more than they could have known.

David Abraham had felt the pull of the land. Free land! It was a magnet drawing men from all parts of the older world to the Canadian Northwest, and David Abraham, a day laborer mired in a meaningless job and destined to slave at it for the rest of his life, had broken away. Though it meant leaving the girl of his choice behind, he had dared take the chance in order to make a new life for both of them.

“It was three years ago,” Georgina said, recounting the story, and Allison thought she could see in the girl’s eyes the painful price that had been paid.

And now it was to pay off.

“David has been working in Ontario, saving his money,” she explained, “but is ready to take up homesteading at last. One shouldn’t go West without a certain amount of money, you know, or the entire experience may be a failure. It’s a gamble anyway, with many terrible stories of defeat. But David and I are young and strong, and—” Georgina’s voice lifted, “we’ll be together.”

Allison realized how quickly, how easily, she and Stephen had forsaken their plans and each other, and recognized that love, true love, had not been experienced by either of them. How blessed to have that sort of love, the kind of commitment that endured. The “until death do us part” kind of commitment.

“David will come to Quebec City to meet me, of course,” Georgina said. “He will quit his job at that time and have things in readiness for us to head for the Territories where we’ll file for our quarter-section of free land. We’ll be married right away and head off together.”

Off—into the unknown. Into drudgery, into sacrifice, into backbreaking labor harder than they had ever known. Into challenges they could not imagine, deprivations of the meanest sort, and discouragements to daunt the hardiest soul. And do it willingly, happily, even eagerly.

Allison felt humbled before such dedication, such commitment. Consequently, her answer to Georgina’s inquiry into her own plans began as a mumbled sketch.

“I’m going to, that is, hoping to . . . Oh, fiddledeedee, Georgina! I might as well start off by being honest with you. You see . . .”

What followed was an outline of home, hopes, plans, failure, and repercussions—the whole story in a nutshell. “I can see now what a childish thing it was I tried to do and how foolish. It was a romantic venture, I suppose, certainly not love. I don’t know what love is, at least not love such as you and David have for each other. And I’m not a bit sure of what lies ahead for me.

“This Maybelle Dickey, for instance, who is meeting me and into whose care I’m to be placed—I’ve never met her. In fact, my parents have never met her.” For the first time, Allison admitted a sense of desperation, even fear, regarding the unknown future.

“So you don’t know where you’ll be, or what you’ll be doing,” Georgina said thoughtfully, quite neatly summing up the entire situation.

“That’s it, I guess,” Allison acquiesced, wondering where her bravado of earlier in the day had gone. And gone so quickly. And so totally. She was, she realized, a frightened girl . . . child—for she felt terribly young, terribly ignorant, dreadfully alone.

“Georgina!” It was a voice calling for their attention.

Suddenly it dawned on the young women that the ship was moving, had been underway for a while and they had not realized it.

“That’s one of the girls I’m traveling with,” Georgina explained, and she waved at the woman, indicating she’d heard and would come in a moment. “I suppose it has something to do with arrangements. You are billeted first-class, I imagine—”

Allison nodded.

“I’m in steerage and happy to have that. But,” Georgina said, stepping away as she spoke, “I don’t know how often we’ll get to see each other—”

“Often, I hope,” Allison said feelingly.

“Perhaps there are rules about the different classes mixing. We may have different times scheduled when we can come on deck. Our meals will be . . . well, let’s just say they won’t be at the captain’s table.” A glint of humor lit the deep-set eyes, the thickly lashed eyes, the kind eyes. “You haven’t said—are you traveling alone, Allie?”

“I haven’t gotten around to mentioning . . . Miss Figg.” Georgina’s eyes were shrewd. “A traveling companion?”

“I suppose she’d agree to that. Just how companionable we are—well—”

“You needn’t feel like you are alone,” Georgina said. “I have a friend I can recommend, and He’ll be with you, stay with you—”

“He?”

“You can talk to Him, and He’ll listen to you—”

“He?
” Allison repeated skeptically.

“Jesus, of course,” Georgina said, smiling, and with the air of introducing a familiar friend. “Just thought I’d mention it. Ta ta for now, Allie.”

A
lthough it was Sunday and not a proper day to meet and transact business, it only made good sense during a hectic summer. And it was, after all, the Lord’s business.

Mary Morrison greeted Bly Condon, Herkimer Pinkard, and Adonijah Dinwoody as they arrived, holding open the screen door, inviting them to join Angus and partake of the lemonade she had prepared for them after their dusty excursion in the middle of a hot afternoon. Where she had obtained the lemons was a mystery; the ice, of course, came from the icehouse, having been stored there the previous winter. If occasionally a leaf or some unrecognized object appeared as the ice melted, the drinkers wisely refrained from speculation and downed the cool and refreshing drink, grateful for it.

Having forgone their usual nap for the meeting, they sank wearily into their chairs, happy for the only rest they would enjoy this Lord’s Day.

No one had an evening to give to board meetings or anything else, aside from dire necessity. Beginning their day at four
in the morning and having completed a normal day’s work by noon, they returned to their fields and barns to put in another eight hours before caving in for the night. Their wives and children spent few if any idle minutes as well.

Angus, before the others arrived, had searched for a Scripture that would be fitting for the occasion of this day’s meeting, deciding against David’s “The king’s business required haste” in favor of Jesus’ words “Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” The work-worn men, hearing it, nodded affirmation and were relieved of any niggling worry they might have harbored concerning the breaking of the Sabbath, and they bent shaggy but humble heads to ask for divine guidance on their deliberations.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Angus said, and the meeting was officially brought to order.

It was obvious that Brother Dinwoody, who had stood in the pulpit and delivered his heart that morning in the sermon of the day, was experiencing some tension. Sitting on the edge of his chair, playing with his drink, looking expectantly around the circle, he was awaiting the reactions of his fellow board members. A desperate light in his eye revealed his poorly hidden anxiety.

“Congratulations on the sermon,” Bly Condon said at last, opening the subject and expressing nothing. Perhaps he was remembering that it would be his turn next Sunday.

Herkimer said thoughtfully, “I never heard that particular Scripture interpreted in quite that way before,” and neatly passed the problem on. “How about you, Angus?”

“Er,” Angus hesitated, then proceeded with caution while Brother Dinwoody waited. “It was a new thought to me, too.”

Brother Dinwoody, dissatisfied, said, “I thought some people looked at me a little strangely afterwards. In fact, it seemed people avoided meeting my eyes, sorta looking through me and past me.”

“Especially the women, I’ll be bound,” Herkimer said with a guffaw, unable to restrain himself any longer.

Brother Dinwoody frowned. “Angus?” he pursued.

“It’s a touchy thing, I suppose, to lift portions of Scripture out of context—”

“But it needed to be said!” Brother Dinwoody defended. “What, exactly, needed to be said?” Angus asked, though he suspected.

“Haven’t you noticed the trend among women of late?” His wife, he meant.

“What trend is that, Brother?”

“Putting their hair up on
top
of their heads!”

“I don’t see—” Bly Condon began, mystified.

“Distracting! Worldly! What’s wrong with a bun on the back of the head?”

The three listening board members obviously struggled with mixed feelings—hilarity over the foolishness of Brother Dinwoody’s opinion and dismay over the public airing of it. In spite of themselves, their weathered faces creased before their grins could be controlled.

Adonijah Dinwoody, his dignity injured, breathed righteous indignation.

The plan for the board members to take turns preaching Sunday by Sunday until the new man arrived had started out well with Angus and Herkimer taking the first two Sundays, and they had all been lulled into a false sense of satisfaction concerning the arrangement. But this morning, from the pulpit, Brother Dinwoody, the most reasonable of men under most circumstances, had taken the opportunity to flail out at his wife in particular and all women in general.