With Love from Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  “Heard of it—it’s east a’ here about nine miles.”

  “Would you be available to take me out there say, day after tomorrow? In,” she added hastily, “a buggy?”

  “Could,” Gus answered, laconically. “Will, too, if you say so.”

  Arrangements were settled, drayage costs paid, and Kerry followed Gladdy toward the boarding house and a climb of two long flights of stairs to the small room under the eaves. Here Gladdy was already making her “nest,” removing her hat and gloves, opening bags, laying out certain items, preparing to wash in the enamel basin that was all, obviously, a hired girl rated. Having been a “hired girl,” most of her life, Gladdy was right at home.

  “Not bad,” Gladdy said, “considering.”

  “Considering?”

  “Considering that I have gone back into servitude.” And Gladdy made a small grimace.

  “I paid Mrs. Pilgrim for a week’s rent and for two meals a day during that period. I’ll work out the rest. You can pay me your share—in cash.” Gladdy was a sharp businesswoman. “It’s nice and clean, at any rate. And I’m used to the climb, you may remember. . . .”

  Kerry was paying no attention to her traveling companion and roommate; rather, she stepped to the low window, bent, and peered out. The window faced east. Out there, about nine miles away, was a false-hearted blackguard, unaware of the fate that awaited him.

  “First step accomplished,” she said half aloud, with satisfaction. “Step number two coming up day after tomorrow. It shouldn’t take more than six or seven steps, and it will be fait accompli. Connor Dougal, enjoy your last few carefree days!”

  Aside from Gladdy’s chores, which dealt mainly with the preparation and serving of meals, Kerry and Gladdy were free, the day following their arrival, to get themselves and their clothes in order. Rinsing her hair for the third time, Kerry remarked, “I feel like I’ll never get all the smoke out! Some of those men in that car smoked like chimneys. Ugh! And any time anyone opened a window to try and get fresh air—”

  “Or throw up!”

  “—smoke from the engine came in, even cinders.”

  “We wiped dirty smudges from our faces more than once.”

  “Yes, and our handkerchiefs may never be white again. Have you talked with Mrs. Pilgrim about using her tubs and lines and doing some laundry?”

  “It’s a good thing water is abundant; this is a land of waters—blue, blue waters. You’ve used enough of it on your hair alone to bring on a drought! Yes, I’ve made arrangements with our landlady, and when I finish my morning chores tomorrow, I’ll do up our laundry while you take yourself off to this . . . place of Bliss.”

  “If there’s one thing it’s not,” Kerry said darkly, “it’s blissful. At least as far as I’m concerned. I don’t expect to get any fun out of the ordeal. But satisfaction? You can be sure of it!”

  Then, like an orator breaking into impassioned speech, she delivered feelingly, “‘What indignation, yea, what fear, yea, what vehement desire, yea, what zeal, yea, what revenge!’”

  Gladdy’s reaction surprised both of them. Not a church girl by any means, still Gladdy said, uneasily, “Are you sure you always quote these amazing verses at the proper time and give them the proper meaning?”

  “They’re just words, Gladdy, wonderfully expressive words, nothing more.”

  “I suppose so,” Gladdy said. “Well,” she continued eventually, “how will you go about this vengeance? Travel to Bliss, ask for this Connor Dougal, and go confront him? And then what?”

  “I’d like to smite him hip and thigh, but I suppose that wouldn’t do. I’m not big enough for one thing. Secondly, it would be over too soon. No. That man,” she brooded, “is going to suffer.”

  Gladdy sighed. Now that they were here and it was all so beautiful, so unspoiled by man, it did seem a shame to sully it.

  “First of all,” Kerry said, “I’ll find a place in Bliss where we can board for a while, if that’s possible in such a small burg. We’ll move out there, and then take it day by day.”

  Making their plans, the girls took turns combing out each other’s curls: Kerry’s still thick and dark and curly, worn tidily and fashionably up but always prone to small curls slipping out of control and ringing a face that even in early adulthood retained a certain pixielike quality; Gladdy’s still bushlike, curly as frazzled wool from a lamb’s back and violently red, an unusual head of hair that got fascinated attention wherever she went. Now, freshly washed, it sprang up like a tumbleweed and heartily resisted every effort to tame it.

  “Leave it be,” Gladdy said eventually with resignation. “I’m doomed to go through life looking like a mop-head. It’s a cross to be born.”

  For an hour that afternoon the girls wandered over the town and were pleased to find several general stores, at least two hotels, a druggist, a couple of hardware stores, most all of them located on River Street. There were other stores specializing in novelties; there was a boot and shoe store in combination with a furniture store; there were two dentists, a watchmaker, four lawyers, sign painters, several schools, a newspaper office, sawmill, flour mill, and more.

  The “Palace Saloon of the North West,” known to local citizens as “Woodbine Billiard Parlour,” invited all to “come where the woodbine twineth and the whangdoode mourneth for her young.” Interest greatly piqued, still the girls scurried past the place of entertainment, which they were certain would not have been given a stamp of approval by Aunt Charlotte. Even here, decency and order must prevail.

  At the appointed time, Gus pulled up to the boarding house in a shiny one-horse phaeton. The rig was their best, he solemnly informed Kerry as she prepared to step aboard. She could have told him that it was “hung very low, the bottom step being but fifteen inches from the ground.” She could have pointed out its “black and gleaming body,” its gear “dark Brewster green with suitable gold stripe.”

  Being Kerry, she couldn’t refrain, finally, from “This phaeton comes with ‘whip socket, Brussels carpet, anti-rattlers, and shafts.’”

  Gus was indignant. Any blind man would know it came with a whip socket and shafts! But the anti-rattlers and Brussels carpet? He was impressed in spite of himself and slid Kerry a speculative glance out of the corner of his eye, then said cautiously, “And the horse? What can you tell me about the horse?”

  “I’m ignorant about horses,” Kerry admitted. “All I know is that this one is . . .”

  About to identify the sex of the horse, she caught herself, colored richly, and finished lamely, “that it’s red.”

  “Roan,” he said firmly. Then, his self-confidence somewhat restored, he shook the reins, clucked in a businesslike manner, turned the rig, and they were off.

  “We’ll keep a good pace—a spanking pace,” he said with aplomb, “and get there by noon. Did you bring a lunch?”

  Kerry looked properly abashed. “I never thought of it,” she confessed. Never before had she been so far from civilization but that services were available.

  With his manhood and superiority now fully restored, Gus could afford to be kind. “You can have some of mine. Ma fixed a couple’a san’wiches and stuck in some cake. We’ll get some milk offa somebody, maybe buy it at the store. That is, if Bliss has a store.”

  Bliss had a store. But its wonders were not revealed until Kerry had absorbed the glories of a ride in springtime bush. She was exhilarated by the fresh breeze, noting again its fragrance. Unpolluted by any act of man, sky and land and water and awakening greenery combined to produce a potpourri so distinct that it would remain forever the mark of the bush in Kerry’s mind.

  “I love the breeze,” she rejoiced, removing her hat and allowing the wind to have free play with her hair.

  “Wind—it’s the most persistent element of our weather,” Gus said, perhaps quoting someone wiser and better informed than he. “Even hot summer days are made pretty comfortable by the breezes we generally get. But winter—that’s another story!”

/>   “Bad, eh?”

  “Below-zero weather can become almost unbearable when a strong wind blows, I can vouch for that for sure. I’ve had frozen cheeks, frozen nose, frozen toes. Enjoy this while you can.”

  And with these words of warning and admonition, Gus gave himself to other descriptions of the land, its weather, its birds, its wildlife, its sloughs sparkling and rippling in the sun and breeze.

  I believe, Kerry concluded almost immediately, that I could come to love this land, this wild land, this untamed land.

  But people were doing their best to tame it. Clearings appeared in the bush with some regularity, and the sounds of human presence and influence were heard—the chopping of an axe, the lowing of a cow, the far, faint cackle of a hen. And from time to time a man or woman crossed a farmyard, looked toward the passing rig, and waved.

  “Now,” Gus said eventually, “from here on I think it’s called Bliss, though we’re still a few miles from the town—hamlet, I guess you’d say. The district round about is also known as Bliss.”

  Breaking out of the enveloping curtain of green—such a fresh, new, tender green—they came directly upon a clearing with a few buildings. It appeared as if Bliss had one street only, with a few small buildings on either side of that street, on wandering lanes.

  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.