With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (23 page)

At one end of the hamlet was a building that was obviously the schoolhouse. Identified first by the teeter-totters and swings in the yard, it was made of lumber and painted white, with a row of three windows down each side; a neat, serviceable building. The only other significant thing about it was the cordwood stacked nearby, obviously awaiting a sawing day to ready logs for burning in the heater that must be tucked inside the building, below the stovepipe. Wires attached the stovepipe to the roof, anchoring it against the winter gales Gus had mentioned.

“Now what?” Gus asked, slowing the trotting horse.

Be decisive,
Kerry told herself. “The general store—that’s where I want to go.”

Her voice may have sounded decisive, but her heart was pounding and her mouth felt dry. Finally, actually here in Bliss and on the field of battle, she felt very unsure of herself. Only grim determination to avenge Franny’s death kept her going.

Alighting, Kerry entered the general store. Smelling of sawdust, leather, spices, and coffee, it had one long counter down the side and in the corner a walled-off area with a small front opening that was the post office. The beanpole of a man behind the counter looked up from serving the one woman present and watched as Kerry made her way toward him.

His head dipped. “Hello, ma’am,” he said. “Name’s Barnabas Peale . . . called Barn by all and sundry round about here. What can I do for you?”

Lodging—that came first. “Mr. Barn . . . Mr. Peale,” Kerry began, stumbling a little. She wished she had turned toward the store’s supplies first, giving herself time to come up with a sensible reason for being here.

“I’m Keren Ferne,” she finally managed, “and I want . . . that is, I need to inquire about lodging. Is there a place where I . . . my companion and I, might stay for a few days?”

Barn Peale’s eyes went to the phaeton just outside the door and the young man sitting in it. “Your friend, ma’am?” he asked politely, turning eyes like a sad bloodhound’s her way. In them she could read reproach.

Kerry answered quickly, “Oh, not the lad in the rig. No, no. My companion is a female, as I am.”

Kerry found herself blushing furiously, feeling herself so blundering, so stuttering, that it was no wonder the storekeeper’s eyes remained gloomily suspicious.

“Well, now,” he drawled, studying the situation thoughtfully.

“Land’s sake, Barn!” The woman spoke for the first time. She too had watched Kerry’s approach, watched keenly during the short conversation, and seemed to have made up her mind. “You know right well that my place is the only one that could oblige! You trying to do me out of some business?”

Barn looked sheepish. “Well, no,” he began, “I was just bein’ keerful—”

The woman tutted, turned toward Kerry, put out her hand, and said, “I’m Ida Figbert. Yes,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “Figbert. You don’t forget that once you’ve heard it. But you can call me Ida. What do you have in mind, dearie?”

Kerry could have kissed her, so relieved was she. Smiling gratefully, she took the work-worn hand that was extended to her in a grip that managed, in spite of calluses, to be gentle.

“My traveling companion and I,” she repeated, “are interested in lodgings for a while, I don’t know precisely how long—”

Barn opened his mouth as if to blurt “In
Bliss?
”

Mrs. Figbert was before him. “I have a ‘stopping house’ on an acre of land behind the store. ’Twas my husband, Jack, that built this store in the first place, and we lived back there, as I still do. Jack was carried off with the influenza three years ago, and I sold the store to Barnabas here and kept the house. I needed some way to have an income—I had two girls to provide for, both married now—and with no other accommodations between Duck Lake and Prince Albert, it seemed like a good idea to open a stopping house. And we do get a fair amount of traffic through here. People want to rest and clean up a bit before going on into P.A., Prince Albert, that is.”

With that much information quickly imparted, Ida Figbert paused for breath, her bright eyes looking up at Kerry. If she was an advertisement of her lodgings, they must be satisfactory, for she looked content and well fed. Her clothes were of the calico, homemade vintage, and wash-worn. But clean; Aunt Charlotte would approve.

Since it seemed to be the only possibility of meeting her needs and she could see no reason to hesitate, Kerry was quick to say, “It sounds just fine, Mrs. Figbert,” changing it to “Ida,” at the little lady’s reminder.

“My friend is in Prince Albert, and I need to get back there tonight,” Kerry continued. “We could pack up and get out here in a couple of days, if that suits you.”

Ida Figbert was pointedly silent while giving the interested Barn a patient look. He took the hint and shambled out of hearing, but regretfully—why anyone would want to lodge in
Bliss, of all places, and for a matter of weeks, maybe longer, was a puzzle and a curiosity.

“I am sure you have your reasons, dearie,” Ida said conspiratorially. “No need to spread them around. You are safe with Ida Figbert.”

She counted out some money, laid it on the counter, picked up her basket, and turned to go. “See you, Barn,” she called. “Come, my dear, you’ll be needing your dinner, and there’s no other place to get it. We can talk while we eat. You can see the room, and we can talk about prices.”

Ida Figbert’s entrance into the picture was so encouraging that Kerry found herself relaxing, feeling that plans would work out fine, just fine.

She was so certain of it, in fact, that as she followed this new acquaintance around back and across a grassy plot of ground, she couldn’t refrain from quoting, with a definite lilt to her voice, “‘The blessing of her that was ready to perish came upon me: and I caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy.’”

Ida looked up with surprised eyes. “Well, yes, it makes me happy. But—her that was ready to perish?” she questioned, blinking a bit.

“Well,
him,
actually. You see . . .” and Kerry found herself once again, as in days of long ago, explaining that it was quite proper to suppose, in the Bible, that
him
included
her.

Ida Figbert appeared a little confused by it all. Nevertheless, she rallied and said admiringly, “It’s a fine Christian woman you are, it’s plain to see.”

“Oh, no,” Kerry said quickly. “It’s not that at all. You see, as a child I learned all these more or less disconnected bits of Scripture. . . .”

She faltered, unwilling to douse the approval in Ida’s eyes. It was obvious she had presented herself in a way that was far from the truth. A fine Christian? Wasn’t everyone? Everyone, that is, aside from lawbreakers, drunkards, and such, including that wretch Connor Dougal! Oh, he was a low, despicable person!

“And it’s a wonderful memory you have!” Ida was complimenting. “Now here’s my place, as you can see from the sign on the fence.”

IDA’S STOPPING PLACE, the sign read, and they opened the gate and walked down the path to the house, around the side, and to the stoop of a lean-to, obviously the customary entrance. Out back was a log barn and what appeared to be a chicken coop.

Gus, following, tied the horse to the fence, opened his lunch under a nearby poplar where, shortly, Ida brought him a mason jar filled with milk. Thereafter, he dozed, his cap over his face.

Besides the lean-to, which was the kitchen, the main body of the log house was divided into an area that was dining and living room combined and two small rooms that were obviously bedrooms.

Ida bustled around making tea and serving up two bowls of the stew that was simmering on the range along with slices of excellent bread. She and Kerry sat at the round table in the “room” and talked.

“Yes, you’ll find stopping places here and there,” she explained in answer to Kerry’s question. “You’d be surprised how eager women are to sleep somewhere other than in the open or under a wagon. I put the women in that room,” and she pointed, “and the men have to make do in the barn; they don’t seem to mind. But I make it plain that I want no smoking out there!

“I charge twenty-five cents per person for supper and the same for breakfast. Folks seem to find that reasonable. Oh, and twenty-five cents for the bed. For each person,” she added. “Now you and your friend can have that room and take your meals here, even do your laundry and take your baths and all, for a dollar a day. Each, that is. That seem fair to you?”

Kerry hastened to assure her that it was and that they would take her up on her offer. “You see,” she explained, thinking fast before the inevitable question put her on the spot, “I am looking for some property around here, an investment, you might say.” There, that would give her time to execute her revenge on Connor Dougal and also explain any roaming of the area she might do, including a visit to the Dougal homestead now and again.

Ida Figbert was repeating, slowly, as though the idea were incomprehensible to her, “Invest . . . Bliss. . . .”

“Is there a better area?” Kerry asked, realizing her reason for an extended stay sounded weak and counting on Ida’s love for Bliss to make the idea acceptable.

“Oh, no, none better. You’ll like Bliss, I’m sure. But—are you planning on staying here permanently? Settling here?”

“Time will tell,” Kerry answered airily, and silence fell.

“Well,” Ida finally offered cheerily, “it’ll be nice having a fine Christian like you to join in the worship at church.”

“Church?” Kerry asked feebly. “I didn’t see a church—”

“We worship in the schoolhouse. No use having a building sit empty over the weekend, is there? Parker Jones, our minister, will be so happy to hear you are moving in.”

“Parker Jones . . . happy . . .” Kerry faltered, growing alarmed.

“I’ll invite him over first thing so he can meet you. I’m sure he’ll agree that you’ll make a wonderful teacher for the Bible class!”

Kerry was aghast. Aunt Charlotte had always warned her that this indiscriminate quoting of Scripture would catch up with her someday. This, obviously, was the day.

“You’ll be here in good time to get settled,” Ida rattled on, “and go to church with us next Sunday. Won’t Parker Jones be pleased! And Connor! Connor has been filling in as teacher of the adult class but admits he’s green at it, having been a Christian a very brief time. You’ll be in his class Sunday.”

Connor Dougal teacher of a Sunday school class? All the better!
Lo,
she said to herself,
how are the mighty fallen!

I
da Figbert was disappointed, on Sunday morning, to learn that her lodgers—newly moved in, with the help of the gangling Gus—were not to accompany her to Sunday school.

“Oh, too bad!” she mourned. “You would be such a blessing, Keren, what with your knowledge of Scripture. And you, too, of course, Gladys,” she added hastily. “No doubt you would contribute much to us all.”

“I’m afraid not,” Gladdy said with a smile, as much a “heathen” as Kerry where spiritual things were concerned.

Though skipping the class, the girls had firm intentions of attending the church service. There, as at no other time or place, they would have an opportunity to meet the people of the community, Connor Dougal in particular. Ida had assured them that barring some emergency on the homestead—the birth of a calf, perhaps—Connor was sure to be there.

“Parker Jones, our pastor, met with him and Gregor Slovinski in Bible study every week a couple of years ago. Long winter evenings are mighty lonely and all the more so for bachelors living by themselves, and Parker Jones wouldn’t be past using it as an inducement to get together. They met at either Connor’s homestead, or Gregor’s, or at the parsonage. They ate supper together—can’t you just see the three of them clearing up and doing the dishes!—and then Parker Jones opened the Word and they talked and discussed for hours. Before winter was over, Connor and Gregor were convinced of the truth of what they were reading and studying and accepted Christ as their Savior. Isn’t that wonderful?” Ida’s face glowed as she reported this victory.

“Wonderful,” piped Gladdy agreeably.

Kerry, tight-lipped, said nothing. As little as she knew about being a Christian, still it seemed that anyone making such a claim would never be a deceiver. Hypocrites, however, she had heard of, and Connor Dougal must be the ultimate in that hateful category. As Elihu to Job, she muttered, “the hypocrites in heart heap up wrath” and counted her wrath heaped high indeed.

“We’ll come along in time for the morning church service,” was what she said.

Ida tripped off alone toward the end of town and the school/church building. She carried her Bible and her quarterly and $1.40 in tithe, the amount owing from the first week’s board paid by her lodgers. How happily she would drop it in the offering plate! There were times when Pastor Jones’s pay was skimpy indeed. It was, she supposed, the main reason he delayed getting married. Bliss’s own Molly Morrison was clearly in love with him, and he—serious, conscientious dear man that he was—put off taking the step that would give him a “helpmeet” and his congregation a queen in their parsonage. That their “parsonage” was just a small log domicile set on an acre of land donated for that purpose mattered not at all. Molly—capable, sweet, dear girl that she was—would turn the wee log house into a home, given an opportunity.