Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (21 page)

One day the previous week, Vesta Dinwoody, a dumpling of a woman trying to cool her heated neck, had casually pinned her hair on top of her head, had found she rather liked it that way, and had continued the practice. Accustomed to the rigid bun on the back of her neck, Adonijah, for some reason, had found himself aggravated by the change—perhaps it was the
heat, perhaps he was overtired. He had simply frowned at first, then, when she ignored his disapproving glances, he fussed a little. Still Vesta went her own blithe way, and Adonijah, more and more churned up about it, demanded, then commanded, that she return to the modest hairstyle of previous days, calling the new arrangement worldly, even scandalous.

Vesta had laughed. She laughed! In fact, she had laughed merrily. She had laughed and ignored what her husband considered his better, wiser judgment.

Adonijah Dinwoody—wishing he’d never started the controversy but driven, somehow, to insist on having his way—found himself helpless to do anything about his wife’s dereliction from her known duty to obey her husband and brooded all week.

Having been married for twenty-five years and both being of easygoing natures, Vesta and Adonijah had gotten along together very well until now, amicably solving any problems. This was the first time he had tried to exert his masculine prerogative, and he had failed. Stung, Adonijah grew moodier as the week progressed.

Vesta put her hair on top of her head in the morning and left it there all day, with only an occasional swipe of her hand to catch up any recalcitrant curls that, surprisingly, appeared in the short hairs on the back of her neck. Rather than enjoying them, Adonijah found himself glowering at these marks of Vesta’s independence.

“For goodness’ sake, Ijah,” Vesta had eventually been driven to say, “quit grumbling about such a small matter. Go out into the highways and byways and reform the drunkards and gamblers and leave women to their few simple pleasures.”

There was nothing left to Adonijah but silent indignation.

Quite thoroughly silenced at home, defeated on his own turf and resenting it, the poor, foolish man had used the pulpit as an opportunity to expound on the subject. No matter if his wife, listening in surprise and dismay, spluttered and fumed silently; no matter if—as soon as they got into the buggy headed for home—she took her turn at preaching.

Brother Dinwoody had taken as his text the twenty-fourth chapter of Matthew. His topic was the abomination of desolation, a controversial topic at the best of times and one better left in the hands of biblical scholars.

Undaunted, he had plowed through the list of coming tribulations, culminating in verses sixteen and seventeen with the instructions regarding fleeing to the mountains for refuge during those dreadful days. “Let him which is on the housetop not come down to take any thing out of his house.” It was a simple enough verse with a clear enough message: Let no one on the roof of his house go down to take anything out of the house.

But Brother Dinwoody, wholly untrained and untaught and with a bone to pick with his spouse, had isolated the words “top not come down,” giving them a meaning never intended, a twisted meaning. Perhaps in his ignorance he really believed “top not” meant “topknot”; perhaps he misquoted it purposely to use it against his wife.

“Topknot, come down,” he thundered with appropriate thumps on the pulpit, and numerous topknots had quivered—whether from the wearer’s laughter or indignation was not clear.

“It was the most flagrant misuse of Scripture I’ve ever seen,” Angus had declared to Mary as they made their way homeward, leaving bedlam of a sort behind them. “I don’t know if we’ll survive until our pastoral replacement arrives. We can’t have any more fiascoes like this one.”

“He’s taken his turn,” Mary soothed, “and won’t need to do it again for four weeks. Surely by then the new man will be here.”

Angus sighed, the responsibility of the church heavy on his shoulders.

That afternoon, at the board meeting following The Sermon That Would Never Be Forgotten, Brother Dinwoody, fresh from his wife’s scouring and scorning, looked to his fellow board members for some crumb of support.

“The proof of the pudding,” Herkimer offered finally as the men sat contemplating Brother Dinwoody’s unorthodox sermon, “is in the eating. If topknots come down all over the district, we’ll assume you were a sower whose words fell on good ground. On the other hand . . .” he mused. Herkimer had heard the preacher of the day castigated by the usually long-suffering congregation.

“I declare!” more than one had said with some heat.

“What next!” “For heaven’s sake!” “Saints above!” These comments and others had accompanied the shuffling feet out the door.

“Poor Sister Dinwoody,” a few had murmured.

“Poor Brother Dinwoody!” most had concluded.

“Well,” Angus said, clearing his throat and getting the wandering attention of his board members, “I think no damage, no permanent damage, was done.” And that, apparently, was the only solace he could come up with.

And with that, the strange case of Brother Dinwoody’s pulpit ministry came to a conclusion, in the church if not at home.

More than a little surprised at the ruckus he had raised and struggling between satisfaction and embarrassment, Brother Dinwoody’s thoughts turned to the vagrant curls—the cause of it all—that had sprung up damply on the nape of Vesta’s neck, and he fought against developing a liking for topknots.

Anyway, he thought with mixed feelings, he had concluded his pulpit assignment. In spite of the repercussions, he had quite enjoyed the renown.

“Let us move on,” Angus said finally and turned to two letters laid out before him on the table.

“This first one is to me and my family,” he explained, “and I won’t read it aloud but just report that Parker and Molly arrived at their destination safely, have settled in, and Parker is finding much to do to help his mother and sister.”

“Does he mention when he’ll come home?” Bly asked hopefully, all the while knowing it could not possibly happen before next Sunday and his pulpit assignment.

“No. I think he’ll stick by his plans as outlined to us when they left. It’ll be several months, I’m sure, maybe even taking us into winter.”

Bly Condon groaned inwardly but brightened; nothing, nothing could be worse than Brother Dinwoody’s pulpit performance.

“That’s fine,” Herkimer said. “It’ll give us time to complete the parsonage.”

The discussion switched to the building, its progress, its problems. It would be a fine substantial home when completed, of that they were confident and to that they were committed.

“Now, Angus,” someone said, glancing at his pocket watch, “do you have some word for us from the Bible School of the Dominion?”

“Aye.” Angus read the brief epistle assuring the church at Bliss that a man had been selected and would be on his way shortly.

“His name,” Angus supplied, “is Ben Brown.”

“How old?” someone asked.

“They dinna say. Young, I would assume, since he’s been a student at the Bible school for a couple of years.”

Brother Dinwoody stroked his chin thoughtfully. Chances were the youthful preacher would not be a fount of knowledge where the Bible was concerned; end-time prophecy would surely be beyond him. There was, Adonijah thought with relief, only the faintest of chances that this Ben Brown, greenhorn, might ever speak on the twenty-fourth chapter of Matthew and the housetop.

The board meeting was adjourned, and the weary men turned their rigs homeward for evening chores, a short night’s sleep, and another week of struggle to wrest their livelihood from land that, some years, seemed to frustrate their efforts at every turn, and grudgingly at all times granted its bounty.

Contemplating a cold supper that would certainly be coolly served, Adonijah Dinwoody’s suspicion—that he might yet favor topknots—became a positive fact, a sure thing.

Quite anticipating the happy results, he clucked to his horse and hurried home.

W
ith the British Isles lost behind her in the fog and the Dominion of Canada hidden somewhere in the fog ahead, Allison had the sensation of being a leaf cast on the sea of life, a speck in a mighty universe, disconnected. For a few days she floated free, unanchored, her beginnings gone and her future uncertain.

Perhaps the feeling was shared by others, and celebrated, for in the ship’s salon a general air of bonhomie existed. These sportive passengers—Allison noted as she stood in the doorway, hesitant to enter and perhaps break up the party—were men.

They were young, they were well dressed, they were spendthrifts. They were the sons of the aristocracy. The graceless sons.

Since medieval times Britain had operated under primogeniture inheritance laws: The eldest son inherited the real property of the family estate. Second sons, though living like young princes and attending the best schools, had no
preparation for any worthwhile contribution to life and no guarantee of a means of livelihood. While it was unfair, it was a reality, and it caused upheaval in many families for centuries.

British schools had an obsession with teaching classical languages and literature such as the works of Cicero and Virgil, and the very students who needed preparation for life were poorly taught in practical matters. They excelled at games—rugby, cricket, tennis. They were dedicated rowers in colorful regattas and were able competitors in track and field.

Their code included being loyal to their own kind, but they were not always thoughtful of anyone else; in fact, they were prone to bully less fortunate individuals. Elite, in a class by themselves, they enjoyed the moment, carousing much, studying little. Schoolmasters were tolerant of their escapades as befitting sons of the upper class, demanding little in the way of discipline and getting no more than they expected. In short, many of them were hellions, troublemakers living aimless, useless lives.

Eventually these libertines were turned out into a world as unready for them as they were ill prepared for it. As charming rakes, they were in demand as weekend houseguests, excelling at riding, playing games, drinking, gambling. But as for the serious task of doing something worthwhile, benefiting society, they were totally unfit.

Some settled eventually into a career in the army, while others chose to become clergymen, hoping to obtain a well-to-do parish where they could have a good living and mix with a congregation of similar class stature; England’s spiritual life was in the hands of clergymen who chose the calling for purely practical reasons rather than in response to a higher call.

Most, however, led purposeless lives, their time and attention given over to cavorting and carousing. Besides being an embarrassment to their families, they were a drain on the family revenues.

One solution that had come into favor among aristocratic families was to send a superfluous son to a far corner of the
empire; it was a simple solution that brought sighs of relief to worried parents. Once a young man was on a distant shore, a small payment from home each month would support him until he was able to do something useful, perhaps buy land or establish himself in business.

The transition from the old life to the new was luxurious, however, as these men traveled to their destination “saloon” or first-class. Taking approximately two weeks by steamship, they ate well the entire time, slept well, bathed and shaved each morning, and spent the day with other chaps equally unregimented, playing cards, smoking expensive cigars, and drinking.

It was into this melee that Theodora ushered her charge.

“Heavens!” Allison murmured, standing in the salon doorway, bombarded with sights and sounds never before encountered.

“Go ahead, Allison,” Theodora said impatiently at her elbow. “The salon is provided for the pleasure of all of us, not just these rogues.”

While Allison hesitated, a good-looking youth leaped to his feet, raised his glass in a salute to her, and made his way to her side.

“Bertram Wallingford at your service, ma’am, better known as Binky,” he said with a courtly bow.

Allison was taken aback and wordless for the moment.

“Come join us,” Binky Wallingford invited cordially; then he added in a merry tone, “We’re harmless, I assure you.