Place Called Bliss, A

by Glover, Ruth

  “Tea . . . syrup . . . oatmeal; oh yes, oatmeal—some poor bachelors, I understand, exist on oatmeal and rabbit,” Sadie informed them. “Dried beans, rice, lard—though you can render your own from most any meat you butcher or hunt or trap. You do have a rifle, I guess?” And on and on the needs went. Mary was grateful, having felt dismayed at the prospect before her of being isolated for long periods of time, with travel impossible except, she supposed, on the aforementioned snowshoes. And did they need to buy snowshoes?

  “Come over for supper,” Sadie invited cordially, “and we’ll get better acquainted. It won’t be fancy,” she explained but without apology. “Not much fanciness here, seein’ as how everything has to be freighted in or handmade. You’d be surprised, though. There’s a piano or two and some very fine silver and dainty china that managed to make it through. But not at our house.”

  The Morrisons were welcomed to the LeGare log house with cheerful kindness, and they thoroughly enjoyed the fresh bread, so often missing on the trip, and the roast beef with fresh vegetables.

  The dessert was sweet strawberries with mounds of whipped cream. When Angus and Mary “mmmmmmed” their appreciation, Pierre LeGare, a short, dark man of undoubted Indian as well as French ancestry, quoted, “Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did.”

  Pierre LeGare was a freighter, “gone a lot of the time,” he admitted. He and Sadie were childless and took immediately to Cammie and Molly, sitting them down after supper to sorting through a box of arrowheads.

  Sadie and Mary settled themselves with a last cup of tea, and the men went for a walk, where Pierre told Angus, “The plow is the most important investment you can make. And a grub hoe and of course an axe or two or three. . . .”

  When, finally, the Morrisons left for their own camp, they felt they had made real friends. And in spite of the almost over-whelming list of things to buy, things to do, they were not discouraged, and only a little daunted.

  “Neighborliness goes beyond tolerance,” Angus mused, “and it is so freely offered. Pierre tells me that dislikes and likes, religious affiliations and political persuasions, though not stifled or forgotten, do not interfere with neighborliness or being accountable to one another. A good feeling, that.”

  “Cooperation—it seems to be incorporated into the building of the frontier. Sadie says there are working bees—”

  “As opposed to drones?” Angus asked, grinning through the late evening shadows.

  Mary smiled. “Bees where people come and help each other with their work, like putting up their buildings.”

  “And we’ll need to be quick to do our share.”

  “No locks on doors, Sadie says. Well, maybe on places of business but not on cabins out in the bush where someone might need to have shelter or food.”

  “It’s a whole new way of life, that’s for sure,” Angus said as he scooped a weary Molly up into his arms. “Give us two or three days, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “To Bliss.”

  L ike a bird on the wing Sophia flew up the stairs, the voluminous wrapper skirt drawn out of the way of her hurrying feet.

  For once she failed to take in and appreciate the charm of the nursery she had so lovingly and carefully designed, decorated, and furnished for her child. The walls were daintily papered, the windows were adequate to allow plenty of light. There was a rosy carpet on the floor, and cherub-figured lamps sat on cherry tables and hung from the ceiling. In one corner stood an intricately curled-iron bed. The sides were made to be let down; the pillars, or corner posts, were topped with brass rods, or vases, and it was fitted with a “superior wire-woven” mattress, covered now by snowy linens and frothy, lace-edged “comforts.”

  In the center of the room a handsome cherry cradle moved silently on its patented hangers, as promised by its builder. At its side, her hand resting on the cradle, sat Kezzie in a rocker of the finest curly birch, the seat upholstered in satin brocatell of a vivid blue, its back panels ornamented with heavily scrolled carving now clearly seen as the old nurse leaned forward, her eyes on the child in the cradle.

  Sophia’s gaze was fixed on the cradle as she flew across the thick carpet.

  Margaret was asleep, or at least the long lashes lay dark on her flushed cheeks. When Sophia touched her forehead, she found it startlingly hot, and she drew her hand back in alarm. Her eyes, frightened and questioning, turned to Kezzie.

  “What’s the matter with her?” she whispered.

  “I dinna know, Mum. She didn’t sleep well, first off, so I held her most of the night. She’s only got so feverish this last couple of hours.”

  “Is she eating?”

  “Keeps turnin’ her head away from the bottle, Mrs. Hugh. Takes a sip or two and then throws up.”

  “Spits up, you mean?”

  “No, it’s more of a vomit, I’d say. I think we better get a doctor, Mrs. Hugh.” And Kezzie’s lips trembled with an unusual display of concern that served to frighten Sophia most of all.

  “Tessie,” Sophia said, turning to the girl who had followed her up the stairs and into the nursery, “go tell Mr. Galloway to send for a doctor. He’ll know one, I’m sure.”

  Tessie ran to do her mistress’s bidding. As Sophia watched, the small body jerked spasmodically, and Margaret woke with a wail. Kezzie reached for her, but Sophia was quicker.

  “Oh, my darling,” she crooned, lifting the babe and laying its hot cheek against her cool one. Almost immediately there was a convulsive move of the small body, and a dark, wet stain spread itself foully through the child’s wrappings and ran onto Sophia’s garments.

  Horrified, Sophia’s eyes flew to Kezzie, who reached for Margaret and hurried her toward a padded tabletop in the corner of the room.

  Holding her stained gown pinched out away from her body, Sophia, momentarily, seemed unsure what was happening or what to do.

  “Go change, Mrs. Hugh,” Kezzie said practically.

  “Has she been doing this . . . this . . . bowel thing, before now?”

  “Nae, Mum.” Kezzie was filling a china basin with water, unwrapping the child, and preparing to draw the soiled clothing out and away from her.

  With one anguished glance toward the baby, Sophia turned toward her own room and a hasty discarding of the smeared morning gown. Washing herself thoroughly, still it seemed the sick, unnatural odor lingered in her nostrils. She dressed herself quickly and hurried downstairs to Hugh.

  “Something’s dreadfully wrong with Margaret—”

  “I’ve sent for a doctor. Now sit down and have a cup of tea; you look sick yourself, and that won’t help.”

  “I can’t drink a drop,” Sophia declared, then proceeded to do so, turning eagerly at any sound that might mean the doctor had arrived, her cup wavering in her hand.

  Hugh rose politely when Casper showed the doctor into the room.

  “Doctor Wiggins,” the man said, holding out his hand.

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor. Our daughter seems to be ailing. This is Mrs. Galloway—”

  “Doctor—” Sophia began, wringing her hands.

  Hugh interrupted smoothly, “Relax, my dear. All will be well now. Casper, please direct Dr. Wiggins upstairs. Doctor, if you will please stop in here on your way out—”

  “Certainly, Mr. Galloway.”

  Sophia made as if to follow the doctor from the room. Quietly Hugh drew her back, seating her and saying kindly, “You can’t be any help up there, my dear. Things will go better if you keep calm and in control.”

  For an instant a spark of rebellion at her husband’s authority caused Sophia’s lips to tighten. But, not really being emotionally ready to cope with a severe illness anyway, she allowed herself to be persuaded that Hugh, after all, knew best.

  But after the doctor had made his examination, reporting in ungeneral terms a “flux” complicated with symptoms of colic and teething and saying he had left medicine with the child’s nurse, Sophia, with an apologetic smile
for her husband, made her way quickly upstairs. Kezzie, almost as flushed as the baby, was rocking Margaret. Her blue eyes smoldered.

  “What does he know! I tell you, Mum, I don’t have much confidence in this modern mumbo-jumbo. The old ways will do, I’ll be bound. Teethin’? Not at her age! I know teethin’ when I see it!”

  Sophia picked up the dark bottle the doctor had left and read from its enscrolled label: “Useful and a sure cure for any form of diarrhea, cholera morbus, cholera infantum, sour stomach, etc.”

  Sophia blanched. The diagnosis was worse than she had thought. “This sounds worse by far than teething.”

  “Well, if it is, we’re prepared,” Kezzie said grimly, pointing to more bottles on the table beside her, which she had obviously set aside.

  Picking one up, Sophia read, “‘Cures toothache, faceache, neuralgia.’ It seems,” she said faintly, “that we are prepared for anything. Surely something will work.”

  The door opened, and Tessie slipped in with a pan of milky looking water in which a cloth soaked. She raised big eyes to Mrs. Hugh and Kezzie.

  “What’s all this about, Tessie?” Sophia asked.

  “It’s a disinfectant, Mum. Doctor’s orders. We’re to use it on everything. It will purify the air, remove all f . . . f . . . foul odors, and destroy pests of all kinds.”

  “Heavens, let me see the container, Tessie.”

  Tessie set the pan down and withdrew a pint can from the pocket of her voluminous apron.

  Squinting, Sophia read, “‘Can be used to disinfect drains, sinks, gullies, urinals, water closets, farmyards and buildings, chicken pens, rabbit hutches, birdcages, cattle trucks, slaughter-houses, ash barrels, garbage cans—’” As she read, Sophia’s voice rose in pitch until it finally trailed off on a squeak.

  “And,” Tessie added with relish, obviously having read the instructions before readying the mixture, “it destroys fleas on dogs and other animals, lice on chickens, cures mange, and protects from the torment of flies, mosquitoes, gnats, and . . .” Tessie’s memory faltered.

  “This concoction,” Sophia said, astonished, “would make a million dollars, I should think, if the inventor took it to the Territories. Mary and Angus write of the terrible mosquitoes there . . . worse than here, if such a thing could be.”

  “So thick,” Kezzie said, nodding, “that a bay horse looks yellow all covered with them, Mary says.”

  “So,” Sophia asked with a sigh, “what do you suggest, Kezzie?”

  “I’ll bathe the wee bairn in cool water, Mrs. Hugh. That will bring the fever doon. And I’ll not gi’ her any milk for twenty-four hours. We’ll start there.”

  Sophia hung worriedly over the rocker and its occupants.

  “I’ll take care o’ her just like she’s my very own.” Kezzie spoke with a quiet confidence that did more to allay Sophia’s anxiety than anything the doctor had prescribed.

  With relief and guilt mixed, Sophia left the nursery and the child snuffling into the old nurse’s shoulder, not hearing Kezzie’s muttered, “I’ll no hae that doctor bleedin’ this bairn if I can help it!”

  Several of Kezzie’s low-voiced comments were heard, however, in the following days when Sophia slipped unannounced into the nursery to bend over the sleeping child, to take her at times into her arms and rock her. But Margaret, perversely, seemed restless in her mother’s arms and only settled down when the comfortable, known arms of Kezzie were around her. That, in itself, may have accounted for the small worm of jealousy that began to eat at Sophia.

  Coming in quietly one afternoon Sophia heard the soft tones of the old nurse as she crooned a lullaby of her own making to the infant. “Whoosh, whoosh,” she soothed. “Whoosh, wee angel, whoosh.”

  The intimacy of the scene and the sound quite took Sophia aback. With rather more roughness than courtesy she took the baby and, in spite of Margaret’s squalled displeasure, rocked far too grimly for far too long.

  Another time Sophia burst in on her husband’s solitude with such emotion that Hugh’s frown indicated it was uncalled for in civilized people.

  “The child is improving, is she not?” he asked before Sophia had a chance to speak, and giving her the clue to get herself under suitable control.

  Nevertheless she sputtered, impatient with protocol, as she reported. “Do you know what she’s saying now, to Margaret?”

  Sighing, Hugh turned from his desk. “Sit down, my dear, and tell me sensibly.”

  Sophia threw out her hands in a dramatic gesture. “When I went into the room, Kezzie was leaning over Margaret, about to pick her up, and she said . . . she said . . .”

  “She said?”

  “She said—and I’m certain of it, Hugh—‘Come to Granny Kezzie, my angel.’”

  “Nothing wrong with angel, is there?”

  “Oh, Hugh! She called herself Granny to our child!”

  Hugh’s eyes sharpened. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, there’s still no harm done. Perhaps she feels like a granny. She’s that age, you know.”

  “I don’t like it,” Sophia muttered. “Not at all. Just because her grandchildren are away is no reason to be calling herself Granny to someone else’s child. Especially a child of a different . . . class.”

  Sophia had the grace to hesitate before saying the word and to look uncomfortable after it was out. She well knew Hugh’s feeling for Kezzie and the equality he seemed to allow Angus Morrison.

  Hugh’s lips tightened. He turned to his work, saying tautly, “A child would be blessed indeed to have Kezzie as a grandmother. She’ll never have another, now will she? Leave the situation alone, Sophia.”

  Fume as she might inwardly, Hugh’s word was law. And the child, God be praised, was feeling better. But, for Sophia, some germ, a germ that no miracle concoction could touch, ate away at her from that time on.

  I n spite of Hugh’s assurance that Kezzie’s relationship with Margaret was no problem, Sophia was to watch, helplessly, as bonds very like grandmother and grandchild were woven between her servant and her child. But always, as during Margaret’s illness, the nurse’s service was such that Sophia didn’t know how she would manage without her. Somewhat detached from her child, Sophia often fretted; it certainly was not the way she had planned and dreamed that things would be. Life as the Galloways lived it, however, called for Sophia to be mistress, and children, as ever across the years in aristocratic households, to be seen and not heard. But seen only occasionally.

  Now, during Margaret’s illness, was no time to reprimand Kezzie or jeopardize the delicate situation in any way. And, truly, Margaret was in the best hands possible. Sophia took comfort from that fact and turned her attention to being the companion and hostess her husband needed. Life, for Sophia Gowrie, had indeed turned out remarkably well.

  Margaret’s ultimate restoration to health was due mostly to a service about which the household knew nothing. A small kitchen menial had been added to the staff, replacing a slovenly and undependable woman. Raised in a poverty-stricken but spotless home where dirt and grime were abhorred, Angie scrubbed and cleaned until her poor small hands were red and cracked. Caked nipples and milk-rimmed bottles were put to soak in hot and sometimes boiling water, not because the girl had any knowledge of germs and infection, but because of her fetish to be clean. She took her few cents home at the end of each day, and no one ever knew the daughter of the home owed her health and very possibly her life to a simple country girl with a penchant for cleanliness.

  Kezzie was eventually able to write, sitting near the bairn’s bed, well within the sound of any faint cry or call.

  Dear Mary:

  We have just come through a very bad time. Wee Margo has been near death’s door. Many a time I’ve wished for some of those prayers you write about.

  As you can imagine, I looked on all the bottles the doctor left with little confidence. Modern medicine! There may come a day, but as of now, the old ways are best. Certainly they worked for wee Margo, and she is recovering
nicely.

  As for those bottles, I took one sniff and marched them downstairs to be destroyed. Cook uncorked one, gave the cork a lick, made a face, and agreed with my decision. Geordie, the handyman, was put in charge of getting rid of them and he promised to do so. Just how he did it is not really known, but cook and I thought he seemed unusually frisky for a day or so, and his breath smelled remarkably like alcohol. I will say this—he didn’t show any symptoms of biliousness or colic!

  Out of all of this has come the conviction that I have done the right thing by staying here with the wee bairn, though it means separation from my Mary and her babies. Often I am torn by the separation. But I know you are contented where you are, and I know Molly and Cameron are better off being raised free and proud, rather than in the bonds of service as our people have been across the centuries.

  Let me tell you about Margo, so you can picture her. Her front teeth have come in; she has such a charming grin that it is hard to resist her. Her hair is as dark as ever and loses none of its curl. Her little face is rounding out again. Her paddies are dimpled now, just as Molly’s were, and the little fingers on each wee paddie have that same inward curl to them as Molly’s, making me think often of my darling girl so far away. If you could see her you would love her, Mary, I know you would. It seems a precious task to spend the rest of my life looking after her.

  I t takes a real man to beat the bush,” the hardware man told Angus as he helped him accumulate what he would need to get started, “and Bliss is in the bush. Not little bitty trees and willows, you know, but real trees, big trees. It’ll be chop, chop forever to get your land cleared. First, a place for a cabin, then a barn, then a garden spot . . . a spot for the cattle . . . finally fields—”