Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (30 page)

D
o you know this fair maiden?” someone asked mockingly, as all stared admiringly at Anne.

“Do I know her! Not as well as I will, given the chance!” came the drawling answer, Lucian licking his lips suggestively.

“And,” he continued firmly, smirking horridly, “I plan to get the chance. You,” he turned to Anne, “remember where we left off in our little, er, encounter, I’m sure. You see, men, Fanny and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”

Anne’s heart was racing, her mind whirling. And yet part of her was icily cold. Here, there would be no tussle and display of physical force. No, here she was safe. For the moment, she was safe.

While her heart pounded, her voice responded coolly. Habit and practice took over. “Sirs,” she continued, as though she had not been interrupted, “may I take your orders, please?”

“Oh, she’s a cool one, all right, Lucian. She’ll be more than a match for you!”

“Lucian, I think you’ve met your match!”

“What do you have in mind, Lucian?”

These and other remarks swirled around as Anne stood, pencil poised, chin lifted, prepared to take their order. Finally, one after another, they decided what they’d eat. Anne wrote, tucked her pencil behind her ear, turned on her heel, and managed, in spite of shaking legs and weak knees, to walk to the kitchen.

Here she changed into another person entirely. White of face, trembling of limb, she flew to Mrs. Corcoran.

“He’s here! He’s found me! That man out there . . . Lucian—”

“Hush lassie,” crooned Mrs. Corcoran, recognizing instantly that something serious had happened. She put her big arms around the quivering girl and patted her back soothingly. “Now,” she continued, “tell me what this is all about. And who is this Lucian fellow?”

“From Sco’land, he’s from Sco’land. An’ he’s the reason I got awae from there! Oh, Mrs. Corcoran, I dinna know wha’ to do! He came near tae killin’ me, he did; oh wha’ shall I do?”

“Sit down, my dear. Now,” she raised her voice to the kitchen crew standing around, transfixed, “get yourselves back to your work! None of your business, here!”

“He’ll find oot whaur I live, I know he will; I’m no’ safe from him anywhaur, it seems!” Anne, seated on a straight-backed chair, buried her face against Mrs. Corcoran’s comfortable middle and shivered uncontrollably.

“Now, my dear, let’s think—”

“I’m gettin’ oot o’ here, Mrs. Corcoran! Oot o’ toon!”

“Think sensibly, Anne. Where on this earth could you go, out of town? And in this weather!”

“Tae Pearly; tae Tierney. Aye, tae Tierney; tha’s whaur I’ll go—”

Anne sprang to her feet, wringing her hands, eyes wild. “I’ve got to go, I’ve got to get home and get things packed and get oot o’ here!”

“Annie, Annie,” soothed the cook, but to no avail.

“Dinna tell anyone . . . dinna tell Mr. Whidby; he might tell Lucian. Jist say I’m sick or summat as that. Gi’ me a chance to get awa’!”

Anne pressed through the encircling arms, brushed past the clinging hands of her concerned friend, ran to the wall where coats and hats were hung and beneath which overshoes were placed.

“Send someone else to wait on those daft loons,” Anne directed, donning her wraps feverishly. “An’ tell her to be slow aboot it. I’ve got to hae time to get awa’!”

Without her week’s pay, without a formal termination of her job, Anne fled the premises of the Madeleine, unsure of where she would go or how she would get there. But her heart turned toward Tierney. Tierney, to whom she had fled when Lucian MacDermott had attacked her before. Tierney, who would understand, help her, hide her.

At the hostel she dragged her bags from under the bed and stuffed and rammed her belongings into them, lamp turned low all the while, blinds pulled and door locked. Every step in the hall caused her to stiffen, listening in agony until it faded away. Finally, she wrote a note to Fria (Fria knew all about Lucian MacDermott), but not revealing what she was going to do.

For in her mind a plan was shaping up: She would indeed go to Tierney. But first of all she would go to Pearly, because Pearly lived in or near a town that was on the railway—Hanover. With such a devious circuit, surely Lucian would be stymied, unable to follow, should he care to. And he would care to. His anger was too hot, his shame at her treatment of him too great, to be taken without retaliation.

Then out into the night she went, slipping past the desk when the clerk was absent from it. She was not far from the station; she remembered the way well and trudged toward it through the falling snow and the sweeping wind. Here she bought a ticket for Hanover, set her bags at her feet, and slumped on a bench in a corner of the waiting room among others who came and went.

Hours later, on the train, she relaxed a bit, though she studied everyone who entered the car, before settling back. It wasn’t a great distance to the first stop, which was Hanover—towns were few and far apart on the prairie, but important, and rarely passed without a stop—to let someone off, let someone on, unload supplies, or take on cans of cream.

It was mid-morning; the storm was over, and the day was crisply cold and brilliantly beautiful, with a myriad scintillating diamonds displayed everywhere one looked. The town seemed snowed in and was quiet and peaceful in the storm’s aftermath.

No one else got off the train, and Anne breathed a great sigh of relief. Carrying her bags, she went into the station house, up to the window, and spoke to the man there who was openly watching her. Anne, lovely Anne, drew attention wherever she went. For once she regretted it, knowing that, if he were to be quizzed, he would remember her, perhaps vividly.

She spoke quietly, respectfully . . . still, he’d remember. “Can you tell me where the Schmidts live? The Franz Schmidts?”

“Sure,” the man said promptly, eyebrows raised—after all, the Schmidts already had one domestic. “Out thata way,” and he pointed, “about three or four miles.”

“The road—would it be open?” Anne was prepared to walk a dozen miles, if necessary.

“Not yet. Someone is sure to come in from that way sooner or later. Sit down and keep warm, Miss, if you wish, and we’ll see what develops.”

Again Anne sat and waited, her baggage at her feet. Fortunately she had eaten her supper last night at the Madeleine before Lucian had made his appearance, but she longed for a good cuppa.

Finally, “Miss, Miss,” the same man called, and beckoned. “There’s a team coming now from that direction. Seems to be—yes, it is—Schmidt’s neighbor.”

Anne rose indecisively to her feet, looking out the window at the rig slowly plowing its way toward the nearby general store.

“Want I should talk to him for you?” the man asked kindly, and Anne nodded her grateful appreciation.

Coming back in, stamping the snow from his feet, the stationmaster said, “Duncan—that’s his name—has agreed to let you ride out with him. He’ll be leaving in a half hour or so, probably less. Just needs to get the mail, drop off a cream can, do a little shopping. He’ll give a wave when he’s ready. Keep your eyes peeled. . . .”

Pearly was putting the last touches on a dried apple strudel; Gussie Schmidt sat nearby, comfortably rocking, having taught Pearly the rudiments of rich dough and confident it would turn out well, as did most everything under the quick fingers and alert mind of Pearly Chapel. The little London starveling had learned a lot from the elderly German woman. She had learned a lot from Frankie, the grandson. Learned a lot without many words being said; Frankie was not a garrulous man. But he was expressive in stolid, persistent ways, and Pearly was not slow in reading his eyes, his mind, his heart.

“There,” she said, popping the strudel into the oven, “it’ll be ready for dinner,” and turned with interest toward a window, having heard the sound of sleigh bells.

“It’s Mr. Duncan,” she informed Gussie, who had paused in her sock knitting to raise curious eyes; visitors were rare in winter. “Frankie’s comin’ from the barn to meet him.”

Gussie rose from her chair at the side of the stove, standing with Pearly at the window. So intense was the cold that only a small spot in the center of the pane was clear of the thick riming of frost that made it difficult to peer through, except for one person at a time.

“Look,” Pearly said, relinquishing the viewing angle.

“Dat’s Duncan,” Gussie said. “And zomebody’s mit him—a voman, seems.” She gave the spot to the more bright-eyed Pearly and resumed her place at the side of the kitchen range. Oh, it was good, all right, to have the quick legs and strong
arms of a domestic. And not just any domestic—Pearly Chapel of the happy heart, the willing spirit, and the vibrant Christian witness.

“Yes, and she’s gettin’ down and comin’ in.”

Pearly let the curtain fall back into place and hurried to the door, opening it to the bundled female form that turned out to be—Anne Fraser.

“Annie!
Annie!
I can’t believe it! Come in, come in.”

Pearly pulled Anne into the house, and in spite of her bulky clothing, wrapped her in loving arms, laying her warm cheek alongside the icy one, blending tear with tear until, at last, they stepped back from each other, laughing and weeping at the same time.

“It’s Annie, Oma! Annie, who came across the ocean with me. Annie, this is Gussie, Frankie’s grandmother—Oma.”

Noting the surprised look on Anne’s face, Pearly laughed and explained, “I call her Oma, same as Frankie does . . . she asked me to. Oh, Annie, it’s good to have a grandmother. You know—I told you all about it. And here comes Frankie—”

Pearly began the task of unwinding Anne from the scarf around her face and neck and removing her heavy coat and snowy galoshes.

Frankie had bidden the neighbor good-bye and followed the figure of Anne into the house. Anne! Anne, who had refused to come with him to Hanover. Anne, who had sniveled at the very idea of riding across the prairie with him. Anne!

Frank Schmidt stepped into the warm, cozy kitchen of his grandparents’ home, with its gay curtains at the windows, its coffeepot bubbling on the range, the aroma of apple strudel sweet in the air, and with the precious form of Pearly Chapel in the midst of it all, and could only thank God that Anne Fraser had crept her way out of his life and future.

And so he too was able to greet the newcomer with a welcoming, if cold, hand, and a tentative smile. Anne, shamefaced only for a moment, recalled all the good things Pearly had said
in her letters, and immediately was released to feel at home, accepted, even loved, perhaps for Pearly’s sake.

Nothing would do but that Anne should sit up near the stove alongside the grandmother’s rocking chair and accept a good cup of hot tea, Pearly knowing it alone would warm the depths of her friend’s being, seeping into her very heart, if such were possible.

“Soon,” Pearly promised proudly to her friend’s blissful face, “there’ll be fresh strudel. It’s Oma’s recipe, but I made it.”

Following the noon dinner hour and the doing up of the dishes, in which both girls shared, talking lightly the while, Gussie kindly encouraged Pearly to take her friend to her room, to do the serious talking that was necessary to get to the root of this business! For it was most unusual for anyone to brave the winter weather for a social visit alone; there had to be something serious behind it all. Gussie dozed beside the fire, content with her life and the wonderful turn of events a good God had brought her way in the thin figure and winsome face of Pearly Chapel.

At the table that night, as soon as supper was over, and with cups of coffee and tea in their hands, Pearly, with Anne’s permission, made the necessary explanation to the family. She had already told—long ago, in the quiet, comfortable moments when she and the family sat of an evening around the stove, eyelids heavy, shoulders drooping, bodies wonderfully relaxed following a hard day’s work—all she knew about her friends.

Now she had but to take up the tale: “That man that treated her so bad? That Lucian? He’s showed up again! In Saskatoon! Right in the hotel dinin’ room! An’ in front of everybody, he threatened her. Yes, he’s after her again! Of course she had to git away! I told you how he nearly kilt her before, and that was why she decided to come to Canada. Oh, he’s evil, that ’un. Looks like a civil gentleman, acts like the worst of blackguards. He’s a scurvy scoundrel—”

Poor Pearly; her vocabulary simply wasn’t enough to express her feelings. Collecting herself with some effort, she remembered—a
little belatedly, it’s true—her teaching on compassion, and added, rather lamely, “I just hate the sin, you understand, but I . . . I—” Pearly paused a moment, and plunged on virtuously with what she thought to be right and proper, “but I love the sinner.”

Pearly looked quickly around the table, fearful that her tirade of condemnation had exceeded her attempt at justification. As indeed it had.

“Well,” she said, drawing a deep breath and being honest at last, “I’m
trying
to love the sinner.”

Gussie, “Oma,” patted the heaving shoulder. Frankie reached a sympathetic hand toward her. Franz, “Opa,” smiled tenderly. Only Anne was left with flaring nostrils and heightened color as she contemplated the knavery of the absent Lucian.