by Janette Oke
Footsteps crunched behind her, and she turned quickly, shocked to see Mother picking her way carefully over the uneven stones. Beth stood and hurried to her, hand held out to take her arm. “Mother! I thought you were walking with the others along the beach.”
“I was, darling. But you seemed so alone. I wondered if there was something troubling you. Is there, Beth?”
Yes, your questions about Jarrick have been troubling me—your doubts about him. “I’ve just been praying about . . . about everything. What we talked about this morning concerning Jarrick.” But before Mother could respond, Beth added, “Tell me about your courtship, Mother. Please. I know you and Father met at church, but I’m sure there’s much more to the story than I’ve heard before.”
Brushing at a spot on the log and spreading out a handkerchief, Mother lowered herself gently, sitting rather stiffly on the unfamiliar bench. Beth joined her. “You don’t want to hear about that,” Mother said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It seems a different lifetime now, it was so long ago.”
“Oh, but I do. I truly do.”
For a moment she wondered if Mother would answer. She was shaking her head and trying to push stray strands of hair back into place under her hat. But at last she said quietly, “We were very young—or rather, from my perspective now, we seem to have been awfully young. In truth, I was almost an old maid by then, all of twenty-four.”
“Did you know immediately that he was the one?” Beth asked.
“The one? Such a notion!” her mother said with a chuckle. “He was a sensible choice, or so I felt then. My parents, however, were not entirely convinced. He hadn’t proven himself yet, had not risen much above his rather meager beginnings. But he was clever, and such a good listener. And he remembered things—like your grandmama’s favorite candy, and the kind of fishing lures your grandpapa liked best. He was a true gentleman by nature, and in his own quiet way he won them over.”
“What sorts of things did you do together . . . before you were married?”
“Oh, my darling, we weren’t ever allowed to be alone! It wasn’t at all proper in our social order. We could sit in the parlor together so long as the doors remained wide open”—she swatted away a fly—“and my father was near at hand. And we might walk together along the main road of town with at least one of my brothers trailing behind, though never too many steps away.”
Beth shook her head and laughed aloud. “They didn’t trust him? We’re talking about Father!”
Mother joined in the laughter. But she had turned serious again when she said, “Trust must be earned, and that’s still true today, darling. Expecting anything less was considered poor parenting, like letting a fox in among the chickens, so to speak. So, you see, I’m not as strict as your grandparents were. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Beth only nodded, and they sat in silence as the wind whispered around them. At last her mother spoke again. “I haven’t thought of that time for so many years. About the way we were then—your father and me. Margret came along in our second year of marriage, and then all my attention seemed to be focused on her. Father was gone much of the time, in the earliest days when he was working hard to build the business. I had no one with whom to share my days and my nights. I was happy, of course, but I was rather lonely too—setting up a household, without any experience hiring a staff, raising a child, expecting a second . . . who turned out to be you.”
She reached for Beth’s hand. “You might not think so now, but I do understand what it is to be married to an adventurer, to in effect manage a home alone. I wouldn’t choose that for you if it were up to me. But you must make up your own mind. I can only guide you with advice in the way I see things.”
“I appreciate that, Mother. I do understand that you want what’s best for me. I do.”
Your will, Father God, Beth prayed silently as they sat together. Neither Mother’s nor my own. Your will alone.
Chapter
17
WITH NO FURTHER PROMPTING from Beth, Julie produced three finished paintings during a quiet day at sea. The fjord with whales breaching, a small fishing village tucked among the trees with a row of bobbing boats tied to the pier, and the intricate ocean-carved shoreline that Beth had sketched out herself. She was thrilled with each, amazed that her sister had captured not just the correct shapes and colors but the feel of each locale. And even with the lovely details, Beth found that she most appreciated the water—the many shades of blues and greens in the waves, the sense of movement—as though she could hear the roar and smell the salty spray. She was mesmerized.
“They’re magnificent!” Margret complimented their sister. “How did you ever . . . ? That’s just how it looked!”
Julie smiled and accepted their laudatory comments before dashing off to be with her friends, obviously enjoying the seagoing portions of their travels over the ports of call. Beth tried not to wonder if her sister preferred the new friends to her family, and hoped it was simply the appealing pace of activities on board.
They were set up in the familiar deck area, where JW spread out his favorite toys, now tiny boats and a tub of water. He splashed happily next to Mother’s chair, sometimes bringing a dripping toy to share with “Annie Bet.” Margret left to rest below. They lapsed once more into the comfortable rhythm of life at sea.
“Mother, I believe I’ll go for a short walk.”
“Of course, darling. Be sure to take your hat. Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“I won’t be long,” Beth promised.
The seed of an idea had been forming. She had tried to set it aside as absurd, but it had remained. Why not send another telegram to Jarrick? I could suggest a time for us to speak again.
Beth walked to the ship’s office once more, the click of her heels echoing in the corridor as she neared her destination. As she reached for the door handle, she hesitated, then moved on past toward the deck beyond. She leaned against the rail and gathered her thoughts. What would I say—exactly? Who might also read it? Should I send it to the RCMP post in Lethbridge, or could it be sent to Jarrick personally?
A strong ocean breeze pulled at her hair, with more strands coming loose by the minute. Beth knew if she stayed much longer, she would look even more outlandish than she felt.
Resolutely, she stepped inside and ran her hands over the unruly locks. Drawing back her shoulders, she moved toward the office. “I’d like a form to send a telegram, please.”
The young man seated on the other side of the desk slid a sheet of paper across to her. “Fill this out exactly as you intend it to be read. We charge per letter, so you’ll want to be as brief as possible.”
“Yes, thank you.” Beth assured him, “I’ve sent one before.”
Stepping to the other end of the counter, Beth hunched forward around her project. What would Mother say if she knew? And worse, Mrs. Montclair would scold her being so forward! Beth steeled herself against the mental lectures. It’s Jarrick. He won’t mind. He will understand; he will want to know.
Carefully she wrote the words in pencil, erasing only once or twice to edit it all.
Questions from Mother—STOP—need to talk—STOP—best time for call Halifax Sunday PM—STOP—Barthum House—STOP.
Beth set the pencil on the counter beside the form. She could think of no other way to indicate what she wanted him to know. She fervently hoped that anyone other than Jarrick who might see the telegram would have so little information, they would make no assumptions from it.
She slid the form back to the man behind the desk. He scanned it and smiled. “Spell the name again for me, miss.”
“J-A-C-K T-H-O-R-N-T-O-N,” she answered, remembering in time that no one else referred to him as Jarrick.
“And you want it sent to the RCMP post in Blairmore, Alberta?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Uh-huh.” He smiled again but made no further comment.
Beth counted out the money. It was more than she had ex
pected, since Monsieur Laurent had instructed her to charge the previous telegram to her room.
Hurrying back through the narrow corridor, Beth hoped she had done the proper thing. The expression on the young man’s face had etched itself in her mind. It seemed as if he had seen right through what she had hoped was the unspecified nature of her message.
Chapter
18
WHEN BETH AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to a cloudy, dripping sky, the ship was already docked in Halifax Harbor. If Jarrick had received the telegram yesterday, this could well be the day he would call. The thought sent a shiver of excitement, as well as apprehension, through her. How would he react?
“Bethie, are you awake?” Julie’s sleepy voice mumbled from the other side of the small room.
Beth turned from the window and shot a questioning glance at her sister. Julie had not yet emerged from under her jumble of covers. “Yes, darling. I’m up. And you should be too. Or Mother will be knocking at the door.”
The blankets shifted, but Julie did not appear.
“We’re in Halifax. We must have docked during the night.”
“Are we doing another tour? I hope not.”
Beth smiled. “No, sister dear, it’s Sunday. We’re going to church instead.”
Julie groaned.
“Don’t be like that. I know you want to be with your friends. But why don’t you invite them along?”
One hand reached out and drew the covers away from her face. “Do you think Monsieur Laurent would let them ride with us?”
“Well, Mother probably would. I’m sure she’d be in favor of them attending with us.”
Bare feet slid out from beneath the blankets to the floor, and Julie rose slowly. “That’s a good idea. I’ll ask them after we eat.”
For the first time in several days, Margret made an appearance at breakfast. She had dressed for church and seemed determined not to allow any further nausea to keep her in. “I lined the inside of my bag,” she whispered to Beth. “Just in case.”
“Oh, my goodness, I certainly hope you don’t need to use it!” Beth clutched at Margret’s hand.
“Mercifully, by the time we reach church I should be feeling better. I don’t want to miss the service from fear of embarrassment.”
Then a dejected Julie returned. Her invitation had been declined. The travelers made their way to the taxis.
“It’s strange,” Beth remarked as she looked at the passing scene. “The trees are all so small here. Monsieur, don’t trees grow well in this part of Nova Scotia?”
He turned to answer, a serious expression on his face. “Oh, no, miss, that is not the case. But I applaud your attentiveness. What you’ve noticed is due to the massive explosion in Halifax Harbor during the war.”
“It knocked down all the trees?” Beth had been in her teen years when she’d heard of the calamity. She couldn’t imagine such an event.
Monsieur Laurent nodded. “It leveled almost everything in this part of the city, blowing out windows for miles in every direction. The shock wave from the blast was felt as far away as Cape Breton and Prince Edward Island. Much of what you saw near the harbor is new construction. And though the city is working hard to rebuild itself, the sad truth is that the vacant lots we’re passing now once held thriving businesses.”
All of this area laid waste! Those poor people! Beth silently mourned.
Mother said, “Oh, gracious, I can’t even imagine. It was caused by a collision of ships, was it not, Monsieur Laurent?”
“Yes. One was loaded heavily with explosives, destined for the war. When the two collided, a fire resulted on board which spread very quickly, detonating its cargo all at once.”
“I remember reading about it in the newspaper,” Mother said.
“Yes, madame. Sadly there were thousands of dead and wounded. My son Henri passed through the harbor not long afterward. He could scarcely put words to the devastation he saw. But much progress has been made since—a great deal more than when I was last here.” He turned his face away, his voice trailing off a little. “But God is good. He can restore. It’s what He does so masterfully. The new green growth for now . . . and one day, even loved ones who have been taken from this world.”
“Amen,” Beth whispered softly.
The small church the families visited had clear glass windows, though the photograph displayed in the foyer showed the lovely stained glass which had once been. There was a box set beneath the photo for donations to replace what had been destroyed.
The faithful devotion of these people was more compelling to Beth’s heart than the message from the pulpit. As Beth filed out behind her family, she dropped what money she had into the collection box. She noticed that Mother and Mrs. Montclair had done the same. Even Monsieur Laurent had made a point of contributing something.
“Bethie, sit down.” Julie had already complained several times, although Beth had no idea why her movement seemed to matter so much. “You’re making me dizzy.”
There was little for Beth to do but pace around the hotel room. Reading had become impossible as she waited. Victoria’s violin was heard from the bedroom next door. Though she played beautifully, Beth wondered if perhaps the sound was what was taxing her sister’s patience.
“Want to play mahjong, Julie?”
“No.”
“How about chess? I saw a set in the parlor.”
“No—you know I can never beat you.”
“You might if you didn’t give up halfway through.” Beth shook her head. “Checkers then? What about that?”
Julie lifted her head from the small canvas in front of her. “If I could just get some peace and quiet, please. I’d like to finish this lighthouse. Isn’t that what you’ve been pestering me to do? How can you nag me now while I’m working?” She shook her head, but looked only mildly annoyed. She clearly did enjoy painting.
Beth dropped onto the bed. It was already well past two. She had visited the front desk enough times that she knew they were starting to be perturbed. She stretched out across the bedspread and stared up at the ceiling.
Giving up at last on remaining in their room, she descended again to the lobby alone, taking a seat near the window. Shortly after four o’clock she heard the page’s voice. “Miss Elizabeth Thatcher, there is a call holding for you at the front desk.”
Beth bolted from her seat, almost knocking into the young man approaching her. He pointed at the small room off to the side of the lobby in which a telephone waited on a small desk with a wooden chair drawn up beside it. Beth closed the narrow door and lowered herself onto the seat, grateful for the unexpected privacy.
Lifting the receiver, she spoke breathlessly, “Jarrick?”
“Yes, Beth, it’s Jarrick. I got your telegram. Is something wrong?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just—I’ve been—that is, we have been discussing things, and . . .” The carefully planned speech had already evaporated from her mind. “It’s been so hard to reach you. We weren’t really able to talk back in Charlottetown. And then Mother . . . well, she began asking questions that I couldn’t answer. I so badly wanted to speak with you.” Beth’s faith in her own judgment was wavering.
“I see.”
“I hope you don’t mind. I knew a letter would take so long.”
“But, Beth, it’s just that . . . I was worried when I read your telegram. I thought maybe there was a problem.”
Beth coiled the telephone cord around her finger. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just thought I’d speed up the process a little—for Mother’s sake. And mine too.”
“I was away from our post here. They told me about your telegram when I radioed in. So I drove back out to Lethbridge this morning to speak with you.”
Beth felt herself go weak. “Oh, Jarrick, I’m so sorry. I had no idea it would cause problems for you. I’m very, very sorry! I don’t even know what to say.” The words were choked by her regret and humiliation. So Mother was righ
t after all! This is a mistake.
The sound of Jarrick clearing his throat crossed the hundreds of miles of telephone line until it resounded in Beth’s ear. His words came gently. “It’s all right, Beth. I’m just relieved there’s nothing wrong—and, well, it’s worth the trip just to hear your voice again. I was disappointed too about our last conversation being over all too soon. I had so much more I wanted to say.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“Really, there’s nothing to forgive.” An awful pause lingered between them before he took charge. “How is Halifax?”
Beth tried to laugh but it sounded rather hollow. “It’s fine. It’s nice. We saw a great deal of evidence of the explosion, but the city seems to be recovering quickly . . .” Then she stopped, repeating once again, “Jarrick, I truly am sorry.”
“Please don’t mention it at all. I know you’d be the last person on earth to deliberately put someone out. You’re considerate to a fault, Beth. Please, let’s just forget all about that now and enjoy the time we have to talk. Who knows when we’ll get the chance again?”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
They chatted awkwardly for a few moments about the places the vacationers had seen most recently, and Jarrick explained some of the work that had been keeping him so busy. Beth felt herself grimace as he described how frequently he was required to travel through his large posting.
At last he seemed to remember the urgency in her message. “You said your Mother had questions. I can only assume they were about me. What is it that she would like to know?”
“It’s really not that important now,” Beth said.
“If not now, then when?”
Taking a deep breath, Beth steeled herself. She had made such a mess of it, and this was very different from the way she had envisioned the conversation. “Well, for starters, I suppose I should know how old you are.”
He laughed. “Yes, I guess you should. I’m twenty-nine. My birthday is in December.”
