Place Called Bliss, A

by Ruth Glover

  “Wee Margo” buried her face even deeper in Kezzie’s lap and clutched the ancient knees in a tighter grip. Something—perhaps years of loneliness—was spilling itself out. Spilling out and being wiped away.

  Cameron backed away. “I’ll tend the fire,” he said quietly, “and start supper.”

  The large room that served as the living area for the home’s inhabitants—braided rug surrounded by comfortable furniture, lamps, and books, and across the room a kitchen/eating area—absorbed the soft sounds of loving comfort at one end and the muted thumps and clanks of Cameron’s domestic efforts on the other. When Cameron pulled the roasting pan from the oven and the fragrance of the crisp-skinned chicken filled the room, he looked through the gathering dusk to see Margo sitting back on her heels, looking up at Kezzie, sunshine on her face. For a moment Cameron thought it was a glow from the girl herself. With a shake of the head at his own foolishness, he recognized it as a touch of the setting sun through the lace-curtained window.

  Nevertheless, it was as they sat at the table, under kerosene lamplight, with her dark eyes puffed and her nose shiny, that Cameron, for the first time all day, gave Margo his full attention. Before she had seemed a rather rumpled but perfectly outfitted doll; he now saw the girl herself. And was strangely, suddenly, jolted. Before he might determine what this strange reaction was, he checked it firmly.

  “More chicken?” he asked quickly, offering the platter.

  If Margo hadn’t taken that moment to raise her eyes to his, all might have returned, safely, to normal, and Cameron might have persuaded himself that he had been mistaken. Now, caught in the web of her lashes, he looked and couldn’t stop looking.

  Here was no coy miss; here was no façade; no games were being played such as he had experienced with other young women. Gazing into the honest, vulnerable face, before the thick lashes came down over the tear-washed eyes, Cameron gave an almost visible start.

  “Thank you,” Margo said. “It’s so good. It’s all,” and her eyes swept not only the table but the entire area, “so good.”

  Cameron’s gaze dropped to his plate, blankly. His mind seemed equally blank, as time stood still. Then, Oh no! he groaned soundlessly. No no no no no no! The mindless denial went on, No! No! and he never knew that one final “No!” escaped his grim lips until he saw the surprised faces of Kezzie and Margo.

  “That is—no, thank you.” Then, to the puzzlement of those watching, he proceeded to spoon gravy over his potatoes until, with a start, he realized the savory goo was spilling over onto the tablecloth. I’ve lost my wits as well as my heart, he thought.

  The eyes Cameron raised to his grandmother were eyes of despair. With a deep breath, Kezzie put her hand over the hard, brown hand clenched beside his plate.

  “Laddie,” she said gently, and oh, so knowingly, “it’s all right. It’ll all come out . . . satisfactorily.” But whether she meant the gravy seeping into the tablecloth or the warm sensation creeping into his heart was not clear. In either case, it was up to him to get rid of it.

  Pushing back his chair, he said, “Clumsy of me. If you’ve finished, I’ll serve the pudding later. Right now I’ll clear the table and put this to soak. It’ll wash out . . . with a little effort, it’ll wash out. Won’t it, Mam?” The eyes he turned on Kezzie were imploring.

  “Put it to soak for now, laddie. That’s the wisest thing to do.”

  “I’ll help,” Margo said. And though she’d never done such a chore before, some basic woman-instinct gave her joy in handling the family’s china and deft fingers in piling the soiled plates in a dishpan of hot, sudsy water.

  “Don’t,” Cameron said, more harshly than he had meant to, and he softened it immediately with, “Please don’t. I’m used to such chores. I’d feel better if you’d just go sit with Mam.” But even the smile with which he said it did not change the resolute tone of his next words: “Mustn’t forget . . . you’re the owner of this domain, and a lady.”

  “Still—”

  “You like Mam’s blancmange, I understand. It will remind you of Heatherstone and her time there with you. Simple as it is, she insisted on making it for you. It’ll not be served in the cut-glass crystal that you’re accustomed to, and the spoon will not be solid silver. . . .” He tried to sound wry; instead he sounded grim.

  Again Margo raised those clear, honest eyes to his, and Cameron faltered. This time, her gaze held a small speculative look, as if to say, “Why is he doing this—reminding me of Heatherstone and its luxuries?”

  I’ll have to be very careful, Cameron warned himself, that in my defense against her, I keep from going overboard. And smarting under the obvious fact that a defense was necessary, he served up the blancmange in breakfast bowls rather than the daintier sauce dishes Mam expected.

  “The cream, laddie?” Kezzie asked gently, looking down at the lumped concoction in the crockery in her hand. “And the jelly?”

  Lips tight, Cameron recovered the bowls, added the cream that was whipped and ready, then a dollop of Mam’s brilliant pin cherry jelly.

  “You’ll not have had pin cherry jelly, Missy,” Mam explained to Margo when once again the dessert was placed in their hands, this time with a serviette.

  Desperate to escape, Cameron excused himself. “It’s time to start evening chores. No matter how pleasant the company . . . in fact, no matter how poor the health or bad the weather, chores have to be done. Day in and day out . . . summer and winter . . . in sickness and in health. . . .” Cameron’s muttered explanation died away as he made his departure. “I’ll do the dishes when I come back in, along with the separator parts,” was his parting shot.

  Kezzie was staring into her pudding. But she could only do that for so long. Eventually, raising her eyes, she met the straight, calm eyes of her bairn and understood their look completely.

  “He’s right, you know,” Kezzie said gently. “He belongs here . . . you belong at Heatherstone. What you are thinking—it’s not possible. And Cameron knows it, even if you don’t. Don’t play with him, lassie.” Kezzie’s voice was pleading. Loving both of them, she could see only misery ahead. “Why are y’ here, anyway, when y’re supposed to be gettin’ marrit?”

  It was much easier to tell, sitting at Kezzie’s feet. Laying aside the remainder of her pudding Margo crept back to put her arms on Kezzie’s knees and tell the entire story: her father’s illness and death; Winfield’s pressure to marry; his abrupt departure to better prospects; Wallace’s arrival and his loathsome suggestions.

  “Then, lassie,” Kezzie said, “y’re runnin’ away, aren’t y’?”

  Margo looked surprised, thinking about it. “I don’t think of it as that,” she said finally. “I think I’m running to something.”

  “And what’s that, lassie?”

  “A future . . . my future.”

  “In Bliss, lassie? All those things Cameron has been spoutin’—strikin’ out blindly is what he’s doin’—they’re all true. Life here isn’t easy, much as it has improved and the worst over with. You can’t know what you’re sayin’.”

  “I think I do, Granny. You haven’t heard everything yet.” And Margo gave the details of her father’s strange bequest.

  “So it came to that,” Kezzie whispered, and put her head back and closed her eyes.

  “To what, Gran?”

  But Kezzie made no explanation. Rather, she stroked the tumult of hair in her lap, her face strangely pale.

  “So you see, I have no choice,” Margo finished, raising her head and looking firmly at her old nurse. “I can’t go back; I can’t abide living with Wallace. I have no money to speak of—a ‘stipend’ only and that until I marry. I’m . . . I’m a pauper, Gran. And I don’t understand why. Papa said . . . in the will he said I would be able to understand should I care to do so, or something puzzling like that. What did he mean, Gran, what did he mean?”

  Kezzie sat in frozen silence, her face, if possible, whiter than before.

  “You can tell me,�
� Margo said slowly, studying the white face and closed eyes and hearing the ragged breath. “You can tell me . . . if you will.”

  Kezzie struggled to her feet, her frizzy hair wild about her face, her eyes as wild as her hair.

  The twisted lips, as Kezzie loosened herself from Margo’s arms on her knees and turned toward her bedroom, whispered what sounded, to the astounded girl, like “Never . . . never . . . never. . . .”

  Margo was up bright and early, charmed from sleep by some unknown bird’s song. Dressing hastily she opened her door to a quiet house. But there was a fire in the kitchen range, and what looked like a pot of porridge simmered on the back lids.

  Having watched Cameron, the previous night, dip water from the stove’s reservoir, Margo took the enamel basin from its stand at the side of the door, dipped water, which was comfortably warm, and returned to her room for a sketchy wash. Briefly she thought of Cameron’s reference to a “zinc tub” and decided she’d settle for that before another day went by.

  Struggling with her mostly unmanageable hair in front of the small mirror, Margo remembered yesterday and her first, startling glimpse of Molly Morrison; she frowned. How strange! Common sense told her that the heritage of each of them could easily be traced back to . . . well, perhaps to the Romans and the invasion of England and Scotland by Hadrian, centuries ago. His soldiers could not have built and maintained the stone wall and the many stationary camps, mile-castles, and turrets without great numbers of them. And, being human and far from home, it was not unlikely that, from alliances with the women of the area, dark-haired and dark-browed offspring were born, the coloring to emerge from time to time across the years since. Yes, that was the explanation, that accounted for the color. But the curl! Who was responsible for the curl!

  “Oh, bother!” Margo muttered with vexation; she tied her own “mop” back severely with a ribbon and wished Molly Morrison good luck with her so-similar problem.

  Making her way again across the silent house, Margo dumped her bathwater in the slop pail beside the washstand, set the basin in its proper place, opened the door, and stepped out.

  It was the parkland at its best. Birds flashed around with burst of color and song; the grass was springy underfoot; the bush was sparkling with dew. It would not be hard to fall in love with the bush country! Margo felt its magic and did not resist. Knowing her future was sealed in this place, she did not resist the impulse to happiness and satisfaction. Would they—happiness and satisfaction, peace and comfort—be found here?

  Considering, Margo’s gaze went automatically toward the barn and the faint sounds emanating from it. Soundlessly she crossed the wet grass, entered the open door, studying the dark interior. It was the sight of three cats ranged behind the swishing tail of a cow that gave her a clue to Cameron’s whereabouts. Even as she watched, a stream of milk spurted, straight and true, toward the cats. Never moving except to open their mouths, they received the foamy offering placidly. Margo’s laugh, as happy in its way as the birds’ songs, caused the flow to cease abruptly and the cats to turn their slanted eyes toward her, stand, tails erect, and rub their heads against her hand as she bent to fondle them.

  “Good morning, Princess,” came the muffled voice from the side of the cow.

  So that was how it was to be, she thought, with a sigh. Stepping around gingerly, Margo watched as Cameron stood, lifting a brimming pail, and turned toward her.

  “Good morning,” she responded and, knowing there was nothing to be gained by waiting, added, “We need to talk.”

  “Of course. At your service.”

  “Well—not here.” Margo felt disadvantaged on such strange turf. “Could you step outside?”

  Walking beside her, his old hat on the back of his head, his blue eyes squinting into the morning sun, Cameron was the picture of health and masculinity. Stiffening her resolve, Margo looked around for a likely place of business.

  “Sit here,” Cameron said, gesturing toward the woodpile, and Margo seated herself on the chopping block, Cameron nearby on an upturned chunk of poplar.

  “I love the smell,” Margo said simply, and Cameron’s eyes softened, in spite of himself.

  “You mean the wood,” he said smiling, “not the barn.”

  “The wood, of course. The wood, and the woods, and . . . everything has a fragrance all its own. One could grow accustomed to it, I suppose. Does it lose its charm?”

  “No.”

  “Cameron,” she began, “for your sake, as well as mine, I need to discuss the . . . the . . .”

  “The Bliss place?”

  “This place of bliss.”

  Cameron’s eyebrows lifted. “You make hasty decisions,” he said.

  “I guess I do,” she said, surprising herself as she recalled her vacillations in regard to marriage to Winfield. “Anyway, at present, Bliss seems a refuge for me—”

  “The intended marriage,” Cameron asked casually, “it didn’t come off?”

  “It’s off; no doubt about that. Off, and over.”

  “Is that why Bliss is a refuge for you?”

  “Partly. It seems like a new beginning.”

  “For you. What about the place, Margo? What about the future? I’m sure that’s what you want to talk about. And it’s what I need to hear.”

  Margo took a deep breath and started in. The Bliss place, she told him, was indeed hers, the only thing that was hers. What’s more, she had limited funds with which to run it. She would have to make it pay, to survive. Without money to pay wages, was there some arrangement—half and half, perhaps, on whatever the farm brought in? And would he, Cameron, be willing to stay on with such an arrangement?

  Having finished, Margo waited tensely for Cameron’s answer.

  Cameron was slow in responding. A calf, somewhere, bawled; a cat rubbed itself against Margo’s ankle, and a late-rising rooster crowed.

  “You’ve taken me by surprise,” Cameron said, finally. “But I have a solution for you. I’m ready to get my own place—can’t work forever for someone else. Let me buy you out, Margo. I can put down a fair amount . . . enough to get you home again and keep you until you get settled; something will open for you among your father’s business partners. Life can go on for you much the same as always, I’ll be bound.”

  “I haven’t made myself clear, Cameron. I’m not going back. Not ever. I’m here to stay. Sink or swim, survive or perish,” she said firmly, “it will be in Bliss.”

  Looking into those dark eyes, now fiercely determined, Cameron had no choice but to take a deep breath, rise, brush himself off, and say, “Then I’ll need to make my own decision. And that will take some praying. If this is what the Lord wants for you, he’ll be faithful to show me what he has for me.”

  Before he picked up the milk pail and walked away, he asked, “You’ve prayed about your decision, I suppose?”

  “I’m not in the habit—” Margo began stiffly.

  “Perhaps you should be,” Cameron said mildly, but seriously. A faint smile lit his face. “Oftentimes the Lord is leading when we don’t know it. I have a feeling that’s so in your case, ‘wee’ Margo. I’m certain it will all turn out for the best, for all of us. And if you’re looking for a refuge, consider wings.”

  “Wings?” Margo asked uncertainly.

  “God’s wings. ‘In the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge,’” the stalwart man quoted and seemed none the weaker for it in his listener’s eyes.

  Wings, Margo thought as Cameron swung off with his pail of milk, the cats following, tails aloft. What a comforting place to be, hidden away under wings. The only things comparable that she had known were Kezzie’s arms.

  And these, she realized with a pang when she went into the house, were hers only for a time . . . a brief time. For Kezzie, in a wrapper, sitting in her rocking chair with a cup of tea in her hand, seemed frighteningly frail. The morning sun through the window was merciless, etching lines not revealed before and emphasizing the poor color of the sagging face
.

  But Kezzie smiled her fond smile, and Margo stooped to place a kiss on the withered cheek. Who could blame them if each found the moment another time for tears? Margo laid her cheek on the white, frizzy hair for a moment and knew the trip was worth it for this alone.

  Kezzie had set the table, and bread was toasting on the range top. A coffeepot bubbled, and the porridge, when the lid was removed, steamed invitingly.

  “Cameron will get milk from the icehouse,” Kezzie explained to an exploring Margo. “And butter and cream. You’ll want to get acquainted with your icehouse, Margo. What a blessing that’s been. I don’t know what homesteaders do in places where there’s no winter and no ice.”

  Margo discussed her need to learn the farm’s workings at the breakfast table.

  “It will be a good time for us to get our own chickens,” Kezzie suggested. “You can care for them . . . gather eggs. . . .”

  “The garden,” Cameron said. “You might begin to think about berry picking. It’s early, but strawberries are coming on.”

  “The cows . . . the team of horses . . . the plowing,” Margo said, impatient with egg gathering and berry picking. “Hitching up—”

  “Whoa!” Cameron responded, laughing. “It will all come, in time. I have decided one thing—I’ll stay on through harvest. I couldn’t, with a good conscience, leave with the summer and fall work ahead. When the harvest is in, that will be the time for me to turn it over to someone else and leave.”

  “If you leave,” Margo said, her breath catching.

  “If I leave. But I think I may want to, Margo. I can’t be a hired man all my life.” Unspoken, as he watched the vivid face, was the urgent goad to remove himself from this girl’s presence for her own good. Vulnerable, she was, and well he knew it. Vulnerable and wounded in love and open, he felt sure, to being taken advantage of. All the more reason to remove himself. Cameron Morrison and the poor little rich girl? A most unlikely alliance, for sure and certain. No, no. The moment the thought had presented itself, he had soundly rejected it. And too bad . . . too bad. What a choice person she was.