With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (24 page)

News of Kerry’s and Gladdy’s presence in Bliss had infiltrated the community. No one could understand why two single, apparently financially independent young women would look Bliss-ward, with the entire West beckoning. But hadn’t they, the people of Bliss, had a choice also? And hadn’t they made that choice the beautiful and bountiful Bliss? This generous description of Bliss was hastily amended. That it was beautiful, no one questioned, but Bliss’s bounty was capricious. How the vagaries of the weather tried the soul of the homesteader! It bent their frames permanently, roughened their hands, toughened the complexions of their women, and, some years, tightened the belts of everyone dependent on the land for their very sustenance. Late June and early August frosts were not unheard of, and in the best of times the frost-free period as far north as Prince Albert was just over one hundred days. Every year was a gamble; they were all pawns to the whims of the weather.

Kerry and Gladdy, with Aunt Charlotte’s guidance, had bought and packed clothing that they felt was serviceable, muted as to fashion or decoration or uniqueness. Still, they felt like peacocks among prairie chickens as they made their entrance that first Sunday morning. Perhaps it was the newness of their ensembles and the fact that neither girl felt quite natural in them; perhaps it was that, simple in cut and style though the garments were, they were cut from excellent material and sewn with great skill. Their figured moire and grosgrain skirts, though black in color, were rustle lined and velvet bound, and each featured a four-yard sweep, a width that was restrained—according to their Toronto seamstress—but of splendid proportions in the eyes of the good women of Bliss. Gladdy’s jacket, of gray covert cloth and quite the finest she had ever owned, fitted her slim form perfectly, and she couldn’t resist walking like a queen while wearing it. Kerry’s short, flaring cape, “Havana” in color, trimmed with jet and lined with silk serge, was eye-catching. Their hats were small according to fashion but featured folded ribbons, loops of lace and plume and discreet rosettes. Looking around at the tired headgear of the Bliss women, Kerry determined to rip some of these decorations off before another Sunday rolled around.

The congregation was milling around, visiting, choosing seats, greeting one another, but all shifting and talking ceased when the girls stepped inside the door. The young men of the district, in their assigned cloakroom area, backed up out of the way until the coat hooks on the wall behind jabbed them unmercifully.

Ida Figbert bustled forward to greet them. Taking each girl by an elbow, she ushered them forward, skirting the heater that reigned majestically summer and winter, up to a double desk. Here they were introduced to the people who flocked around. Without exception they were smiled upon, their hands were clasped warmly, the few words of greeting were spoken heartily and honestly.

“Brother Jones,” the happy Ida was beckoning, “come meet the newcomers.”

In a dark suit already somewhat dated, white shirt with cuffs and collar beginning to show wear, the pastor of this group of believers stepped forward to smile, shake hands, and welcome Kerry and Gladdy to their midst. Not a large man, there was about Parker Jones a restraint, a neatness, a quietness of demeanor that each girl found tremendously appealing. Without trying, the man of God witnessed to the grace of God.

Taking his place at the front of the room, Parker Jones, by his very presence, commanded attention. “Let us come into the Lord’s presence with thanksgiving in our hearts,” he said, and he bent his head in an opening prayer.

Kerry was so enthralled with the uniqueness of the place, the gathering and the meeting, that she missed the announcement of the first hymn. It was hard to believe that in a matter of days she had been transplanted from civilization to the rudeness of the frontier. She watched with some amusement the faded little lady who played the small organ, accompanying the singers, her hips churning with vigor, driving her feet like pistons as she pumped forth the melody.

“Oh, glorious hope of perfect love!” they sang, with spirit if not with harmony:

With conviction they sang it. With full confidence they feasted with Jesus’ priests and kings. In their patched, outdated Sunday best, they feasted. With their garners empty of store after a long winter, they feasted. With their cellars yielding only a few of last summer’s withered potatoes, they feasted.

And Kerry, in her “Very Knobby” cape, her “Vici Kid” button shoes, and her “Sweet Creations” hat, hungered. With her purse on her arm filled with more money than these people saw in a year of hard work, she hungered. Hungered and wondered why and for what.

Was it strange then that the man of God, who had prayed earnestly and long over today’s message, would take his Bible and read Luke 1:53—“‘He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.’”

These people, these poor people, these hungry people, God had filled with good things. Parker Jones understood it; Parker Jones described it. Parker Jones offered it—the satisfying portion in Matthew 5: “‘Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness,’” he said, “‘for they shall be filled.’”

They sang, “‘Fill me now, fill me now; Jesus come and fill me now. Fill me with Thy hallowed presence; Come, O come and fill me now.’” They sang, and a broken sinner made his way to the small, rough bench that had been brought in and set at the front of the room for this very purpose. It became, under his tears and prayers, an altar, and when he stood up, to the hearty “amens” of the congregation, his face was wreathed in smiles. “Jesus saves me,” he proclaimed, and not a soul doubted it. Not understanding, Kerry believed him.

Saved.
It was a funny word. It was a tantalizing word, a word that was to fix itself in Kerry’s mind and in her heart, until the one should understand it and the other believe it.

Folks who hadn’t had an opportunity to get acquainted at the opening of the service came around now, shyly for the most part, always warm and welcoming. Heads nodded agreeably, names were given, kind voices murmured words of greeting, smiles were sincere.

But when one name was spoken, all else faded away. The light from the window was blocked momentarily by a tall figure, his elbow held firmly by Ida Figbert as he was propelled forward.

“Keren . . . Gladys . . . this is Connor Dougal.”

Kerry’s smile stayed in place—fixed. For that she was to be ever thankful, because her heart turned to ice. All thoughts of hungering and thirsting and the need for “good things” fled in a breath; here was reality, and it wore the casual clothes that suited it so well, that spoke of a gentleman, that cried “good taste” without slavishness and that emphasized masculinity without bravado.

For a moment Kerry’s eyes met Connor Dougal’s. If the man’s straight glance meant anything, if the pleasant smile meant anything, if the well-spoken words meant anything, here was a foe of considerable stature. Kerry was prepared for a bumbling backwoodsman, yet here was self-assurance and poise. She was prepared for a man of little wit, yet here was a keen-eyed, thoughtful man; prepared for an oaf who could entertain himself at a woman’s expense without concern, yet here was a man of some charm and the grace not to emphasize it.

Putting out her gloved hand, Kerry was surprised to have it clasped—swallowed—in a hand that was accustomed to hard work, but understood courtesy. Here was a voice with some culture; the introduction was acknowledged in manner suited to the finest drawing room.

Ah,
she said to herself,
but this man is clever. It will make winning, and the working at it, all the more stimulating.
Something in her heart thrilled at the quality of the man and the challenge he presented. She hadn’t guessed it would be an exciting game as well as a satisfactory one. Seeing his masculinity, his demeanor, she reveled in the victory that would bring him down. For, looking around, she knew her competition was nonexistent. She was counting heavily on the fact that this man was of an age to want . . . need, a wife, and here she appeared as though out of the blue, perhaps—would he believe?—an answer to prayer!

“Miss Ferne,” someone was saying, a someone with midnight black hair almost as uncontrollable as Gladdy’s, “I’d like to invite you and your friend to take Sunday dinner with us. We’re always prepared for a full table. Reverend Jones—Parker, that is—usually eats with us every Sunday noon, as well as others. It would give us an opportunity to get acquainted. And perhaps we can help you in your search for . . . a homestead, is it? Ida has shared with us that much of your purpose here in Bliss.”

About to refuse the invitation, Kerry noticed that Connor Dougal was making his way out of the room with Parker Jones, and she was struck by the realization that he was to be included in the invitation. When better to begin her campaign? To warm up to him innocently, in good company, to flirt discreetly, and do it all this first day! With luck Franny would be avenged and she and Gladdy out of here before snowfall.

“Why, thank you,” she said to the young woman, a little older than she, a little taller, and of vivid coloring. “Molly Morrison,” the pleasant speaker was saying by means of introduction.

Molly Morrison. Ah, Parker Jones’s intended, or so Ida Figbert had hoped and had relayed to Kerry. She would be a good match for the minister. Well-spoken, lovely, she would grace a parsonage whether in downtown Toronto or backwoods Saskatchewan.

“I can’t speak for Gladdy—Gladys, that is,” Kerry said. But Gladdy, who was chatting easily with new friends, was quick to accept, and so the arrangements were made.

Kerry and Gladdy rode in the Morrison wagon with Molly’s father and mother, Angus and Mary, while Molly and Parker Jones rode with Molly’s brother Cameron and his soon-to-be wife Margo. Following were two buggies with the additional guests, Connor Dougal and Gregor Slovinski. Angus Morrison, a gray-haired, large and sturdy Scot, explained again to the girls how Connor and Gregor had been discipled personally by Parker Jones and what a joy it was to see these rugged men of the north bow to the plans and purposes of God in their lives.

Keeping her plan in mind, and its inevitable outcome of humiliation and embarrassment for Connor Dougal when he was unmasked, Kerry could almost feel regret for the sake of these good people who so admired the false-hearted man in their midst. But she hardened herself immediately. When the community learned what a beast he had been, how cruelly careless of another’s feelings, they would realize she had no choice. This false reputation that the man was building for himself, how frail it was, after all.

He buildeth his house as a moth,
Kerry said to herself with bitter satisfaction, and she savored the Scripture and the thought.

There was one more member of the family to meet: Kezzie Skye, well-loved grandmother whom they all called “Mam.” Herself a new Christian, her joy fairly radiated from her, her joy and her peace. Kerry sensed a story here and hoped her stay would be long enough to include the hearing of it.

Mam was too frail to suffer the jouncing trip to church but well enough to keep the range stocked with wood, and when the group reached home the oven dinner was done to perfection. Kerry, with some embarrassment, realized how little she knew of housework, having lived “upstairs” at Maxwell Manor and having received no training of any sort in her earlier years in lodgings with her father.

Gladdy, however, was in her element and busied herself immediately, setting the table, making gravy, slicing bread. What a wife she would make for some pioneer, Kerry thought with admiration. What would become of Gladdy when Kerry left?
It would require some serious consideration on Kerry’s part, for the frazzle-headed young woman was dear to her.

Seated at the vast table, Kerry and Gladdy bowed their heads over a meal for the first time in their lives and felt the food was all the better for the blessing Angus Morrison pronounced and the thanks he expressed.

Kerry found herself seated next to Connor Dougal, and conversation, due to his easy persistence, flowed naturally.

“I, too, came across country but much more uncomfortably, I imagine. You see, I’ve been here over the three years necessary to prove up my land, and that means I made the trip before the railway came through. I came by prairie schooner. Now Gregor,” and Connor included the man who sat across the table and who smiled as he listened, “hasn’t been here as long as I have. He went farther north first, to the Peace River country. His homestead backs on mine—”

“Your homestead backs on mine,” Gregor said peaceably with a thick accent.

Everyone laughed as though at an old joke, and Connor amended, “We’re back-to-back.”

“Lissen, Miss Kerry,” the big man said seriously, leaning across the table, “ve understan’ you may be lookin’ at property here in Bliss. Yah?”

Kerry hesitated. Strange, how difficult it was to talk sensibly about her nefarious plan while she was surrounded by these people, these people who so freely offered friendship and fellowship. The Scripture
There were giants in the earth in those days
came to mind, and she felt it suited the men and women of the bush—of average size physically but of indomitable will and unquenchable determination. But qualms could not be countenanced! Buying or at least looking at property was indeed the scheme she had mentioned as a way of explaining her purpose in the community, and she would pursue it now.

“Yes, that’s right,” she answered, confirming her half-formed plan. “I’ve had some funds willed to me, and I feel this may be a good investment. But I’m in no hurry; we’re well and comfortably settled at the stopping place, and I can take my time about any decision. Do you know of any homestead that’s for sale?”