Place Called Bliss, A (Saskatchewan Saga Book #1)

by Glover, Ruth

  “Sorry, Miss Galloway.”

  Margo attempted to speak calmly. “Doctor, my mother is dead. There is no one, no one else at all but me. I want to be a help—”

  With a slight shake of his head, the doctor turned, received his hat and bag from the waiting Casper, bowed to Margo, and left the house.

  Casper, who had been with the Heatherstone menage since the Galloways had come to Canada, looked with pity at the girl’s face. Usually so free of care of any kind, pleasant, even lovely, it was now twisted with concern. He saw the dark eyes fill with tears, understood the utter bewilderment on the flushed face.

  “Casper,” she whispered, “why?” Knowing she shouldn’t, to a servant, still she did, allowing the very proper staff member a glimpse into her personal feelings.

  It was more than Casper could stand. Having already broken faith by advising her that Hugh was ill, Casper went a step further.

  “Missy.” He had called her that when she was a very tiny girl of two and three, many years ago, and it came naturally now. “Missy—I’ve felt for a long time that you should know. Your—that is, Mr. Hugh—is ill. Very seriously ill, I’m afraid. In fact, Miss Margaret . . . he’s not going to get well, and I think you ought to know. Ought to be able to plan. Ought to be able to—” Casper’s voice trailed off before the anguish in the two dark eyes before him.

  Putting a fatherly arm around the shaking shoulders, Casper helped Margo to her room.

  “Try to put it aside—get some sleep,” he said. “I assure you, your father will be asleep, too. The doctor gives him morphine. The medicine ran out tonight; that’s what the trouble was.”

  “Morphine! Oh, Casper, what’s wrong with him?”

  “It’s a cancer, Miss. Somewhere—in his stomach, maybe in his lungs.” Not knowing whether he felt better or worse for having told her, Casper turned away, confident only that here was a woman, not a girl, and one who was left entirely too much in ignorance of life as most people knew it.

  “Thank you, Casper,” Margo managed. “I needed to know. I truly needed to know. And,” she added wisely, “I’ll not let on. But, from now on, I can act more like a daughter to him.”

  And though it was difficult to accomplish, Margo spent more time with her father. His visits to his office and other interests grew less and less and finally ceased altogether. His meals at the table were discontinued and, eventually, Hugh was bedfast. Margo read the paper to him and attempted to bathe his forehead if he seemed to be in pain, a personal touch that he resisted more often than not. There were three months of misery, for Margo as for Hugh, though in a different way. Her pain was an inner one, and morphine wouldn’t touch it. To her, it seemed her father was slipping away, and she didn’t know him, had never known him.

  Hugh’s business partners and associates, at first, visited frequently. His lawyer was often in evidence. Hugh displayed the characteristics that had made him a rare businessman and was just as careful in his dying as in his living.

  “Papa,” Margo asked, more than once, “shouldn’t I be in while Fletcher Wren is talking to you? Can’t I help . . . shouldn’t I—”

  “No, no,” Hugh would answer impatiently. “There’s no need, no need.”

  Two things made her turn toward the waiting arms of Winfield Craven. First of all was the need to talk about her father’s affairs; Winfield, to a small extent at least, was privy to some of the estate’s vast tentacles. Connected in a minor way with the construction business under the Galloway name, Winfield was in a position to understand, Margo felt, her helplessness and her concern about her ignorance.

  To Winfield she was able to say, “Ralph Greeley was in today; he and Father talked a long time. Surely it was greatly important and yet—”

  “The railroad,” Winfield supplied. “Greeley is vice president. They’re talking about the extension into the Territories, back of beyond, I guess you’d say.”

  “But shouldn’t I know?” Margo would ask anxiously, twisting her hands.

  Winfield would take those tense hands in his, smile gently, and assure her that everything could quite reasonably be put under one person’s leadership at her father’s . . . passing. And he, personally, would be dedicated to helping her find that man.

  “I’m sure,” he said, more than once, “your father has it all down in writing. He has confidence in his associates and knows you will be able to depend on them. And, if you wish, I’ll stand by to help interpret, explain, perhaps relay some of your desires and wishes concerning, well, all kinds of things.”

  All kinds of things, Margo knew, would be overwhelming alone. Winfield, at least, knew enough to calm her fears and more—to actually take on the work that would, undoubtedly, fall upon her at her father’s death. It was a source of comfort to Margo, and she clung to it rather desperately. Certainly, without Winfield, she would be absolutely alone.

  The other reason that made Winfield indispensable was more personal—Margo simply had no one on whom to lavish the love that hungered for an outlet. Like a pent-up dam that finds a small leak, lets a droplet through, then another, to find all energy eventually pouring through the small opening, so Margo’s emotions, so long pent up and so denied any outlet at all, catapulted through the opening that was Winfield Craven.

  There came a time when, after her father’s oft-recurring battle with pain, Margo had left his room, shaken, tearful, desperately alone, to find Winfield’s arms open and his shoulder available. More and more often this happened, until it seemed a natural haven.

  One day, leading her to a comfortable seat in the drawing room, Winfield seated himself by her, drawing her head to his shoulder and patting her, as he had often done before. This time, however, he tipped back her head, dried her eyes with his own handkerchief, and kissed her lips. So tender was it, so natural after the many embraces, that Margo could not object. Nor was she sure she wanted to. After all, she was twenty years old, mistress of Heatherstone, heir to millions, and able to make up her own mind concerning her future. And she was alone, terribly alone.

  Moreover, she was healthy and had a young woman’s normal physical response. In spite of herself Margo felt her breath quicken, felt the pound of her heart, felt, in fact, quite dizzy with her response. So ignorant, so unpracticed, still her lips responded with a warmth and urgency that surprised her and, apparently, surprised Winfield. Surprised and pleased Winfield. Recognizing that he had an advantage, he was not slow in following it up. Three kisses he allowed, no more. Then, gently, wisely, he looked into Margo’s bemused face and murmured, “Darling Margaret, may this sweet privilege always be mine! Tell me I may look after you always . . . keep you in my arms always. Marry me, Margaret.”

  What was there to say, to do? Having thus committed herself, Margo could not withdraw from his embrace declaring it was all an act on her part or something she indulged in without meaning. It was easier to offer him her lips, again, in capitulation and assent.

  “You’ve made me the happiest man on earth!” Winfield said fervently. “When may we marry, my dearest?”

  “Why,” Margo stammered, drawing back, “not for a long time, I’m sure. Not while Papa is sick. Not after . . .”

  “But, my dearest,” Winfield said, brushing the hair back from her brow, drawing her near, and giving her another lingering kiss, “that may be too long to wait. Don’t you think?”

  “No, no . . . not at all . . . not at all. . . .” It was hard for Margo to sound positive with his lips so insistent on hers and hers so absurdly responding.

  Winfield bided his time. A beautiful ring appeared, an announcement of the betrothal was made, and Winfield’s unrelenting plans for the marriage made it all more real day by day.

  One place Winfield was no help—in the sickroom. Though he seemed to suffer Margo’s presence at times, the one time Winfield entered, to stand supporting her at the bedside, Hugh had roused with an agitation that brought the nurse swiftly to his side.

  “What’s he doing here?” the inval
id’s voice demanded. “Get that pecksniffian weakling out of here!”

  Ugly red surged up into the handsome face at Margo’s shoulder, while her own face turned pale. “I think you should go,” she urged, and with a dark glance at the man in the bed, Winfield left the room.

  “Whatever did he mean?” Margo asked Winfield later. “Pecksniffian—I never heard the term.”

  Neither had Winfield, but “weakling” he well understood. “Remember, my dear,” he said with an effort at rationality, “the man is not responsible for what he says. He’s clearly raving.”

  “Papa is a great lover of Dickens,” Margo said thoughtfully. “He often read his works aloud to Mama . . . sometimes to me. There was a Pecksniff in Martin Chuzzlewit as I remember. Not a savory character . . . selfish and corrupt behind a seeming display of benevolence. Whatever could have possessed Papa—”

  “As I said, clearly out of his mind. He’s back in Dickens’ days, living them out in his imagination.”

  “I suppose so,” Margo said rather doubtfully and, at the first opportunity, when Hugh had a good day and was lifted into a chair by the window to watch the snow as it fell and the chickadees as they fed, she sat beside him and hesitantly brought up the subject of Winfield and her proposed nuptials.

  “Papa, you know I’m engaged . . . you remember I told you about that?”

  “Of course I remember. I haven’t got cancer of the brain.” Hugh spoke more harshly in his sickness than ever in health.

  “What do you think of it?”

  “Every woman should be married, I suppose.” Hugh was supremely indifferent.

  “To Winfield Craven, Papa.”

  “As good as any, I suppose. I imagine you have your full wits about you. He certainly has.”

  “Why do I get the impression, Papa—” Margo’s voice was smothered as she dared ask the question, “that you don’t like him? You do like him, don’t you, Papa?”

  “Like him? Like him? Is it necessary that I like him?” Hugh watched the scene outside the window for a moment, then, with a return to his usual politeness, said, “Marry him, my dear. Yes, yes, you must go ahead and marry. I think,” he swung his sunken eyes toward her, “if your mother were here, she would urge you toward marriage. Believe me, I’m thinking of your best interests. If Winfield Craven is your choice, so be it—marry.”

  Margo sighed. Everything, it seemed, herded her toward Winfield and marriage. The alternative—life alone, with no family, and with the burden of the Galloway estate to care for by herself as unready as she was—was too dreadful to contemplate.

  Margo’s helplessness and aloneness were emphasized when Hugh slipped away in his sleep, in the middle of the night. Margo was not even at his bedside. Casper woke her and broke the news to her, but aside from his sympathetic face there was no one to whom to turn, no one to put an arm around her, no one to advise her. When, later in the day, Winfield arrived, Margo threw all reserve and training to the wind and flung herself into his arms.

  It was now, when she was at her lowest ebb, when his presence and help were so desperately needed, that Winfield pressed his advantage and urged an immediate marriage.

  “Oh, no!” Margo whispered, horrified at the thought of the impropriety of it.

  “My dearest, who is to care? Let us please ourselves rather than society at this time. I can’t bear to leave you—tonight or any night hereafter. I can’t bear to let you out of my arms, when you need them so.” And Winfield held her tenderly, wiping her tears away, soothing her fears, assuaging her loneliness.

  In Margo’s weakness and need, Winfield did indeed appear as a tower of strength, and it wasn’t difficult for her to be persuaded. Especially when Winfield loved her so and pledged such devotion and faithful attention to her needs.

  With Margo’s tearful acquiescence, Winfield stepped in to take charge of the countless details in regard to the funeral, any business problems, and the running of the Heatherstone staff. “With your permission, my dearest,” he had said, and Margo had gladly turned all such matters over to him. How desperately, after all, she needed him!

  “One week, Margaret,” Winfield eventually persuaded. “One week after the burial. That’s enough time, isn’t it, my dear, to be ready? After all, it will just be us, the staff, and a couple of close friends. Then—oh, then, my love,” and Winfield’s voice deepened with the thrill of “then.”

  Margo was persuaded.

  D ear Margo, my angel child , Margo read. In a miasma of bewilderment, sorrow, and depression, her old nurse’s love, coming clearly through the pages of the letter, stole like balm into Margo’s battered heart. Oh, if only those loving arms were here now, what comfort they would bring. Even after all these years, Margo felt a rush of warmth toward the distant Kezzie and a very great yearning to lay her head on the withered bosom and feel the tender pats of consolation on her shoulder. With Kezzie, one never wondered about one’s acceptance, never had to deserve that acceptance, never doubted its steadfastness.

  But Kezzie, growing old and infirm, was thousands of miles away, wrapped in the vastness that was the Northwest Territory, in one small district called, strangely, Bliss.

  I could do with a little Bliss, Margo thought a trifle grimly, not certain that even the coming wedding would supply it. Perhaps it was just because Kezzie was there, perhaps it was her strange desire to flee the present circumstances, but Margo picked up the letter with a sigh, and, shaking her head as if to rid it of the impossible dream of Bliss, a dream that had often gripped her heart ever since Kezzie’s arrival there, read on.

  For me, shut in with my aches and pains, time seems to stand still. At times, now that my Mary is well, I wonder what I am doing here. But, of course, I know there is no need for me anymore at Heatherstone . No need! Now, more than ever, there was a need for Kezzie at Heatherstone. Tears splashed the pencilled pages, tears for Kezzie and her feeling of uselessness, tears for herself, Margo, and her feeling of helplessness. Two great needs—so far apart, with no chance of fulfillment.

  Yes, my Mary, to the uninformed, is well. Those of us who know her, however, know that she is not strong. And that is hard for me, when I can do so little anymore to help. Dear Molly is such a blessing. As you know, she is about two years older than you and has been raised here on the frontier. I guess you could call it the frontier, but we have come a long way. The railroad has made a great difference. Unfortunately it does not come through Bliss but bypasses us for another route to Prince Albert. That growing little city is about twelve miles from us, too far to run in often but close enough to be available for many things not stocked here in our small Bliss store .

  The letter drooped in Margo’s hand; she pictured again, as across the years of Kezzie’s letters, the area called Bliss, in the heart of the bush. Margo had watched, in imagination, as Angus had cleared land, planted, harvested; Margo had lived through the exhaustion of threshing day vicariously and the long, lonely winter days of isolation. She had thrilled to the occasion of the chinook and its warming breeze; she had knelt, in imagination, to brush aside the snow and rejoice in the finding of spring’s first crocus.

  Wistfully, through the written word, Margo had watched as Molly and Cameron, whom she could not remember in person, had grown from youth to maturity. Almost she could see Cameron’s thick, fair hair and blue eyes and Molly’s tossing mane, as black and curly, it seemed, as her own. Margo could picture their injuries, described by Kezzie, laugh at their predicaments—Cameron learning to ice-skate in skates too large, stuffed with paper; Molly determined to ride a calf. She studied the crude drawing of the log cabin, coloring in new rooms as Kezzie reported their addition to the original structure. She studied the wisps of thread and scraps of material Kezzie sent, at Margo’s pleading, so that the child in the east could picture more completely the children in the bush and how they were clothed.

  In imagination she had taken the buggy ride to Prince Albert for supplies, had bundled herself against the cold when the sleigh
made the same trip. She had rejoiced with Bliss’s residents when, at a certain crossroads, a small hamlet had sprung up, with a post office, a store, a smithy, and, soon, a granary, and was named, appropriately, Bliss. None of Kezzie’s often vivid accounts of hardships, blizzards, discouragements, could change Margo’s impression of the place called Bliss. Until she could go to heaven, Bliss would do!

  With her father lying dead in his coffin in the drawing room, with the weight of the family businesses hanging like an ominous cloud over her head, with the responsibility for the running of Heatherstone on her shoulders, and with Winfield waiting impatiently to become a bridegroom, Margo’s youthful dream of Bliss dissolved in the tears that now fell on Kezzie’s letter.

  Molly, it seemed, as Margo resumed her reading, was in a fair way to marry the new, young minister who had come to the recently established church at Bliss. Cameron, Kezzie reported, was managing a superior farm just a few miles away in Bliss; he was, after all, in his mid-twenties. And still single , Kezzie wrote, as she had before. As you know, women here are hard to find—single women, I mean—and not everyone wants to become a pioneer bride. What’s more, Cameron seems to have this idea that God is going to send along the right one, and he needn’t worry about it. You see, Margo , and Margo could almost hear Kezzie’s frustration, this entire family has the idea that God is in control of things. I must say it makes for peace , even in trying times, and seems to give a contentment that I, for one, can’t really understand. But I would like to. The older I get, the more I need peace, Margo. But certain things go along with it—confession, for one. Well , another sigh, Margo supposed, some things are easier said than done . Now what, Margo thought, could darling Kezzie find so hard to confess, when she had been such a good woman? Hadn’t she been, since childhood, a staunch member of the Established Church? Dear Kezzie!

  Margo finished reading her old nurse’s letter, folded it, and put it away until such time as it could be answered. Somehow she would have to make time before the wedding to write Kezzie and tell her of Hugh’s death, her forthcoming marriage. . . .