Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (16 page)

Tierney closed the door, turned and faced the girls, and knew immediately she’d have to go to work on Anne or have her eventually left high and dry and alone here in Saskatoon when she and Pearly had dispersed to their respective places of employment.

“What a nice young man,” she said cheerfully. “Did you see him?”

“Looked like a pudding to me,” Anne said unkindly. “All suety like.”

“Not at all. Verra polite and well-spoken. An’ anyway, suety puddings are perfectly harmless.”

“Ha! Who is he, anyway? Nae mention was made o’ any grandson; I clearly specified no men!” Anne sounded as if the whole thing was an underhanded plot against her personally.

“Annie, Annie—doesn’t it stand t’ reason there’d be relatives? Once one member o’ the family emigrates, others soon follow. And if the Schmidts are old, they’d need someone, o’ course, to come to get ye. And who better than a young, strong grandson. Be sensible, lass!”

“I’m not goin’ off into the wilderness with . . . with any strange man, I can tell ye that!” Anne declared, rising, nevertheless, from the bed and beginning the search under the side of the bed for her boots.

Pearly was at the washstand, dashing water onto her sleep-puffed face; there was no way she was going to be left behind in the room when there was drama going on below. Besides, they
were in this together. Sink or swim, they’d do it together, if it were at all possible.

In spite of her determination to have nothing to do with this Schmidt person, as she kept muttering, Anne was attempting to bring order out of the chaos of her hair.

“My clothes,” she wailed, “look like they’ve been slept in.”

“As indeed they have,” Tierney said firmly, “an’ he’ll understand that. He’s not a picture of high fashion, himself. Looks like a farmer in his Sunday-go-to meetin’ clothes. And looks like they might hae been slep’ in, too.”

With Anne drawing back, still muttering, lagging behind the others, the three made their way to the small room that was waiting room and parlor. Frank Schmidt was there; he surged to his feet, his small eyes twinkling above his plump cheeks.

“Good day, young ladies,” he started politely, as though meeting them for the first time and wanting to do it properly. “My name is Frank Schmidt.”

“Aye,” Tierney said with a small sigh, “so it is. An’ I’m Tierney Caulder, an’ this is Miss Pearly Chapel, an’ this,” Tierney pulled Anne forward, “is Miss Anne Fraser.”

Pearly and Anne nodded stiffly, Anne from her safe position behind Tierney.

“I been waiting at the station,” Frank Schmidt said, “all day yesterday, and no one came. Nobody can tell for sure, it seems, chust when trains pull in. Yours must have been sidetracked somewhere, yah?”

“Yah, that is,” Tierney corrected herself, “aye, we had several layovers, and so on. We never really knew why we were delayed. But,” she said firmly, “we’re here now, and Miss Fraser has a contract with—your grandparents, is it? Franz—”

“Yah,” the burly youth confirmed. “My grandparents, Franz and Augusta . . . Gussie. They couldn’t come, of course, the age they are, so here I am.” His broad face beamed. “It’s a full day’s trip to Hanover. Wouldn’t be much sense in startin’ now; it’s too late in the day. I been bunkin’ in my wagon and will do so again
tonight. I see you got a room and will be all right tonight. Yah?” Frank looked at the girls hopefully.

“Aye, we’ll be a’ reet for tonight,” Tierney agreed, wishing Anne would speak up and take charge of her own arrangements. But Anne was stubbornly silent. She was, in fact, looking at the young man with hostile eyes. One bad experience, and Anne was ready to condemn all males, it seemed.

“Well then,” Frank continued, “I’ll be here about six in the morning—that too early?”

Now he looked directly at Anne for the first time. Startled, no doubt at her fresh, young beauty, the young man blushed and, for the moment, lost his self-assurance. Having proceeded thus far with a certain poise, in charge of the situation, he lost his equilibrium almost completely.

With the small eyes fixed wide and the color high in his round cheeks, he stuttered, “Six o’clock—will that be good, Miss . . . ah, Miss Anne?”

“I’m not a bit sure—” Anne began coldly.

“That’ll be fine, Mr. Schmidt,” Tierney said crisply, giving Anne a pained glance.

Frank Schmidt couldn’t be blamed for looking confused. He stood, irresolute for a moment, then, twisting his cap, turned to leave.

“I’ll be here,” he said again, “at six. If you’ll be ready, please—” He cast a rather desperate look at Anne and made his departure.

He was no sooner out the door than Anne said, “I’m not goin.’”

“Of course ye are,” Tierney said patiently.

“Not a bit o’ it. Nae indeed,” Anne said, sitting down on a horsehair sofa and looking mutinous. “Wi’ that suety fellow? Never in a’ the world.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Pearly asked curiously. “I thought he were a sort o’ pleasant chap, meself.”

“Well, you go then,” Anne said crossly, then, seeing the stricken look on Pearly’s face, added quickly, “I’m sorry, Pearly. I’m jist upset. I said no men, remember?”

“He’s not much more’n a boy hisself,” Pearly said and withdrew from the field of battle.

“Now listen here, Anne,” Tierney said, “you’ve got to go. You’re bound, more or less, to go.”

“I dinna have to. I dinna want to.”

“But Annie, ye do have to. Ye signed a contract, remember. Your word—”

“No matter,” Anne said stiffly. “They broke the agreement—I said no men!”

“You dinna askit him—does he live wi’ his grandparents? P’raps he doesn’t.”

Anne muttered, and admitted, “I ne’er thought o’ it. But I dinna want to ride oot there wi’ him.”

“Every man isn’t tarred with the same brush, ye know. Just because Lucian MacDermott—”

“Dinna speak his dirty name!”

“But it’s true. Ye cannot blame Frank Schmidt for Lucian’s sins.”

“Are you sayin’ you’ll put me in that wagon and send me off alone wi’ that strange man?”

“Annie,” Tierney explained, still patient, “Pearly and I will be doin’ the same thing, perhaps even yet today.”

“You have to have faith,” Pearly piped up, having been quiet long enough. “We prayed about it, you know.”

“
You
prayed about it, you silly girl,” Anne said with some heat.

Once again Pearly looked hurt.

“There’s nae need to strike oot at Pearly,” Tierney said quenchingly. “Get hold o’ yersel’, lassie.” It was as near disagreement as they had come to on the entire trip. Tired, tense, weary, they were near to straining the dear, treasured bonds of friendship.

Anne burst into noisy tears. “Almost . . . almost I wish I were back in Binkiebrae!”

Tierney had little sympathy for her. “Aye,” she said grimly, “and that’s whaur Lucian is. Now listen, Annie. Try and remember
what an adventure this was . . . an’ is. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, reet? Coom now, let’s go up and get yer things ready and clean up a bit; then we’ll go oot and hae a bit of supper, and you’ll feel better aboot it all . . . we’ll all feel better.”

Anne was persuaded to dry her tears and go back to the stuffy little room. The girls threw open the window, opened their bags, withdrew fresh clothes and, after a wash, donned them, whether wrinkled or not, and felt better for the doing.

Supper, after conferring with the young man at the desk, was taken at a hotel not far away. Counting out their few coins carefully the girls ordered discreetly. Their general mood improved along with the plentiful, warm food. Good humor reasserted itself, and even Anne managed a few smiles.

“Mr. Frank Schmidt,” Tierney pointed out, “is as much like Lucian MacDermott as a spavined nag is like a blooded stallion—with Lucian bein’ the spavined nag, o’ course.”

With this the laughter erupted until tears—of relief as much as hilarity—spilled over. It had been a long trip thus far, with tensions unlike anything they had experienced previously, and the girls little knew or understood the pressures they were under, and had been for weeks. Like a safety valve the laughter and tears flowed until, gasping and wiping their eyes and aware of curious glances from other diners, they managed to bring themselves and their emotions under control. It was a healing moment.

Perhaps it was Tierney’s comparison of Frank Schmidt and Lucian MacDermott that settled lingering fears for Anne. But the next morning, as the girls stood shivering in the morning’s coolness and a wagon lumbered up to them with the sturdy form of Frank Schmidt on the seat, Anne, though pale, was courageous.

Perhaps it had been Pearly’s prayer. About to leave the room, with Anne’s baggage and purse and cape and shawl in their hands and over their arms, Pearly had paused and looked at the others expectantly. Though tempted, Anne withstood
the urge to roll her eyes skyward and said, instead, in an unusually humble voice, “Well, Pearly, we a’ know ye’re goin’ to pray. So—why not get aboot it?”

And pray Pearly did. Never free to pray aloud in her London chapel among her more experienced companions, here, among “heathern,” as she referred to them, she felt perfectly free, even inspired.

“Dear Lord, here we are, poor girls far from home. But You sees us, You cares for us, and You promised You would never leave us nor forsake us, that is—” Pearly took the opportunity to do a little preaching along with her praying, “that is, if we acknow . . . if we take Your Son as our personal Lord and Savior. Even if some of us haven’t done that [two out of three, she might as well have pointed out], still You love us. Please help Annie to know this, deep in her heart, and to be willin’ to look to You for the help she will surely . . . I mean she
might
need, along the way. Keep her safe in Yer care—”

Anne shifted, uneasy under the spotlight of prayer on her behalf and ready for it to be turned from her. Pearly caught the hint and finished with a flurry: “Now and forever, ah-men.”

Bravely Anne nodded good morning to Frank Schmidt; bravely she hugged and kissed the two who had been her companions for so long and on so daring an adventure. Bravely she held, a little longer, onto that special one who had been her friend through trials and joys across the years, now to be separated from her for the Lord only knew how long.

Bravely she climbed aboard the wagon, stepping on the wheel hub, reaching for the man’s hand stretched out to her, and heaving herself up onto the seat beside him.

Bravely she watched Tierney and Pearly toss her belongings into the back of the wagon; bravely she waved as the driver flicked the reins and urged the team forward, the wagon creaking and groaning as it got underway.

But bravery could not conceal the shaking shoulders of the small, hunched form as the rig rolled down the street, turned a corner, and passed from sight.

L
ong after Tierney had turned back to the door of the hostel, Pearly stood in the street, gazing at emptiness, her face a mask, an expressionless mask.

“Comin’, Pearly?” Tierney called gently, touched that the new addition to the friendship was so moved by the loss of one of the group.

If Pearly heard, she made no move. From the other end of the street a wagon approached, soon to be upon the motionless figure.

“Pearly!” Tierney called sharply, and Pearly jumped.

Looking wildly around, Pearly shook her head as though clearing it of dreams, certainly of thoughts, and leaped for the boardwalk. Still she lingered, standing in the hostel’s doorway, looking up the street that had taken Anne—and Frankie Schmidt—away.

Waiting for her, Tierney was puzzled. If anyone was affected by the loss of Anne, it should have been Tierney. She was, after all, Annie’s best friend, had been for years. She was not untouched by the parting.

Risking repetition, she repeated, “Pearly?”

Pearly turned slowly, a light fading from her eyes. Surely her slim shoulders were drooping, surely it was a long sigh that caused her small bosom to heave.

Silently the girls made their way back up to their room. Small, it suddenly seemed vacant now that one-third of them was no longer in it.

Still silent, Pearly sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the floor and her dusty boots. Tierney watched her for a moment, then took a seat beside her. With a start Pearly turned her small face, and a smile—was it forced?—flickered on her lips. She drew a deep breath, as though shoring herself up under a heavy burden.

“Pearly,” Tierney said, “wha’s wrong, lass? I dinna remember seein’ ye in this frame of mind afore. What is it, lassie? Surely ye’re not worrit aboot Anne. I’ll be takin’ off, too, p’raps afore ye do, and ye may hae to watch me go, same as Annie.”

“I’m all right, Tierney,” Pearly said, but slowly, and Tierney was unconvinced.

“I dinna know ye felt sae strong aboot our Anne,” Tierney said, still probing. In her concern, her reversal to the Scots dialect was natural.

“Anne? Anne?” For a moment it seemed Pearly was disoriented. “Oh, Anne.”

“Yes, Anne. Pearly,” Tierney said, urgent in her concern, “coom on, lass, what’s wrong wi’ ye? Ye act like ye’re in a dream or sum’mat. Are ye feeling a’ reet?”

Pearly was silent, as though thinking. Apparently she made up her mind, whatever the problem may have been. “It’s nothing, like I said. I’ll be a’ right in a minute.” But it was spoken dully, and Tierney was unconvinced.