Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  In the wagon, packed and ready, was the baggage they would take with them.

  “Good-bye, Mum, Da,” Molly murmured in the arms of Mary and Angus. “Thank you for everything.”

  In her grandmother’s arms Molly was speechless; love had its silent language. The hardy little Scotswoman had promised to be around to dance at Molly’s wedding, and though the church’s influence might mean self-disciplined feet, hearts were free to dance all they wanted, as often as they wanted, as wildly as they would. If Mam’s blue eyes meant anything, her heart was doing a merry jig.

  But in all the farewells, there were no tears. It was a radiant Molly who started on her life journey, her wife journey, having so recently promised, “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the LORD do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me” (Ruth 1:16–17).

  Sitting on the high seat of the wagon between Cameron and Parker, Molly turned for one final wave to the watching, waving, cheering crowd.

  “You’ll miss out on the shivaree,” Cameron said, feigning sympathy, clucking to the horse and starting the wagon on its way.

  “Thank goodness!” Molly and Parker chorused with fervency.

  Theodora Figg, her little finger curled elegantly, lifted a teacup to lips that, Allison suspected, were enhanced with a touch of artificial coloring. And she felt sure her mother viewed their guest with less than complete approval, for Letitia’s head was lifted in a regal manner, as it was prone to be in the presence of lesser individuals, and her nostrils were pinched, as they were prone to be when something didn’t entirely please her or come up to her standards.

  As for her father, who applauded himself always for being a keen judge of character, he was quite clearly bemused, caught up in the obvious attractions of his daughter’s “custodian,” blind to any hint of Theodora Figg’s unsuitability. Letitia watched him, her face tight, quite clearly thinking, Silly male!

  “I advise a special kind of luggage trunk,” Miss Figg said in her somewhat nasal voice and with an accent that was affected, as she continued with the litany of things to be done for the voyage, items to be taken, items to be struck from the list Letitia had prepared. “It’s known as a steamer and is specially designed to fit into the fifteen-inch space between the berth and the floor of the luxury- and saloon-class cabins. If you don’t have such a piece of equipment, I’d advise you to purchase it.”

  What Theodora Figg didn’t mention was that the presence of such a trunk was a telltale sign that a young man using it and coming into any western Canada community was probably a remittance man. Nor did she mention that the luxury- and saloon-class cabins would be overflowing with these young scalawags, the offscourings of British society. Had Letitia known, she would have swooned; Quincy himself might have balked at the arrangements he had made for his wayward daughter.

  “You did reserve the best, did you not?” Miss Figg cocked her eye rather sharply toward Quincy, who hastened to assure her that he had paid for the finest accommodations offered by the Griffin.

  “Fine,” she said, sinking back with relief. “Some parents do otherwise, having a need to economize, I suppose, although I’m sure you don’t fall into that category. I cannot abide traveling steerage. It’s a trip that’s uncomfortable enough, I assure you, under the best of circumstances.”

  Theodora Figg wanted it known that she was expending great effort, making concessions, to accommodate the Middleton family’s need. “More than uncomfortable,” she continued. “A veritable trial to the nerves.”

  Allison had no trouble believing her, having read J. Ewing Ritchie’s To Canada with Emigrants. “Nothing can be drearier than a trip to Canada,” he reported. “Now and then a whale comes up to blow hard, and that is all; the foghorn blows dismally every few minutes . . . the icebergs are monotonous—when you’ve seen one, that is enough. . . . In the saloon, we are a sad, dull party; even in the smoking-room, one can scarcely get up a decent laugh. I pity the poor emigrants in the steerage. ”

  “Now,” Theodora said, setting aside her cup and dabbing her lips daintily with her serviette, “about the young lady’s funds—”

  “All arranged for,” Quincy said, coming to himself with a start as his flow of thoughts concerning the woman—whatever they were—were interrupted. “I’ve looked into this matter carefully and am advised that letters of credit can be redeemed in all parts of Canada—”

  “Your banking house?” Theodora asked shrewdly.

  “Brown, Shipley & Company.”

  “The best,” murmured a sagacious custodian. “Such letters are a fundamental requirement for anyone going to North America.

  “It is also recommended,” she continued, “that the traveler carry along with her a goodly sum of Bank of England notes; these are salable in large towns at full value. But in case a person finds herself to be in the smaller outback towns of the West—not that this is pertinent to Miss Allison—it is advisable to carry small denominations of Canadian circular notes. This will avoid problems with exchanging Bank of England currency.”

  “Ah, yes—”

  These small bills, Allison knew from her perusal of The Englishman’s Guide-Book to the United States and Canada, could be cashed on sight without the necessity of providing references or identification.

  “Your knowledge is to be commended,” Quincy said admiringly, while Letitia’s nostrils pinched until they were white. “And your counsel is much appreciated, I assure you. It’s good, indeed, to have someone with such a grasp of the situation to take charge of our daughter and her affairs. We shall feel secure, I’m sure, in the fact that she is in capable hands.”

  Miss Figg smiled and dipped her head in a brief acknowledgment of the compliment. “No doubt my previous clients have assured you—”

  “We’re having a little trouble,” Letitia inserted, “contacting any of them. The Bridgeman family, for instance—”

  “Oh,” Theodora said, surprise in her voice, “are they abroad again? It’s that time of year, I suppose.”

  But it wasn’t; it was too early to go gallivanting abroad; much of Europe was still frozen, the haunts of the rich and famous shut down for the winter.

  It was not, however, too early for a ship to the colonies. Such ships began plying the oceans the first of April and continued through the first of November, departing weekly. It was from the port of Liverpool that most remittance men sailed, and so would Allison, heading for North America, putting ashore at Quebec City some two weeks later.

  These were the glory days of steamships; steamships reduced the time and torments associated with sailing vessels. Though these vessels still operated, Allison would not be submitted to such an ordeal, largely because Miss Figg, who was to accompany her, had made it clear she would refuse the assignment unless it was by steamship.

  “And Lord and Lady Paxton?” Letitia pursued. “Are they abroad also?”

  “No doubt they haven’t come to London yet; did you contact their country estate address?”

  “You gave us the London address—”

  “There’s hardly been time to hear from them,” Theodora said peaceably. “Mr. Middleton first contacted me less than three weeks ago. We can delay our departure if you wish, until you have time to hear from the Paxtons and the Bridgemans . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Not at all! Not at all!” Quincy spoke quickly, placatingly, and gave his wife a shriveling glance. “I have contacted Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

  “Kryzewski. Johann Kryzewski,” Theodora supplied. “Yes, Mr. Kryzewski knows me well and my work.”

  “But who is he?” Letitia asked bluntly, only to be glared down again by her husband. Flushing, she subsided.

  A few more things were discussed, the hour of meeting was set, last-minute instructions made, and Theodora Figg rose—a woman in her early thirties, curvaceous because she was tightly corsete
d, dressed with an indefinable air of too much, too cheap, too redolent—to speak her gracious good-byes and take her departure.

  “I don’t feel good about that woman,” Letitia said with a sigh as soon as Buckle had accompanied Theodora out of the room.

  “She’s the only possibility that presented itself,” Quincy stated firmly, once again himself since the woman was gone. “And anyway, what could happen? Buckle will see them aboard the ship, and Maybelle will meet them when they arrive. All Allison has to do is behave herself on board ship, follow instructions, and that’s it.”

  “You hope Maybelle will meet them,” Letitia reminded him. “You haven’t heard from her, either.”

  Quincy grunted and directed Allison back to her room; her parents were still quibbling when Buckle closed the door on them.

  Allison’s final moments with her sister were the most painful she was to endure. Sarah’s tears flowed freely.

  “Oh, Allie,” was about all she could manage, and this she kept repeating in broken tones.

  What was there to say? Of what use were words? Nothing would change their father’s decree. What had been, was; what was to be, would be. No comments were necessary.

  But they both understood it was the end of life as they had known it. Sarah, shy and reclusive, would be more alone than ever; Allison would never again experience undemanding love such as her little sister had given.

  Locked in each other’s arms, wordless for the most part, it was Buckle’s approach that allowed them to regain a semblance of normality. Allison wiped her eyes and attempted to speak briskly: “Take good care of Fifi for me. When you come to Canada, she can come with you.”

  Sarah shook her head in despair, refusing to be cajoled.

  Her small face twisted with misery, Sarah thrust into her sister’s hand a small purse—Grandmama’s contributions to her across the years. It was to be a gift more meaningful than they could have imagined.

  Standing in the great hall, coated and wrapped, her baggage being carted out to the coach by Buckle, Allison spoke her good-byes to her parents. If her face was white and her eyes large, luminous with unshed tears, her parents were unaffected.

  Her father reached a large, white hand and patted her shoulder. “You have Maybelle Dickey’s name and address,” he said. “You have your letters of credit. You have Miss Figg to see that all goes as planned.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Allison said, as one frozen in time and place.

  “And may this . . .” he began judiciously but, to do him credit, hesitated without adding the useless and pointless and hurtful words teach you a lesson.

  Her mother, to do her credit, did not pretend grief she did not feel. She planted a cool kiss on her daughter’s brow, as though she were leaving for the season in London. “Be a good girl,” she said, as though sending off her child to an overnight stay with a friend.

  With blind eyes Allison turned and walked woodenly through the door of Middleton Grange, down the steps to the coach where Buckle held open the door for her and Jenks held the reins. Stepping inside and taking a seat beside Mrs. Buckle, she left behind everything she knew and faced everything she didn’t.

  Eventually she loosed her grip on the farewell gift her mother had handed to her at the last minute and which she hadn’t looked at until now: a generous supply of Cockle’s Antibilious Pills.

  Once aboard ship, Theodora dropped the respectful form of address, forsaking the “Miss” for simply Allison. Allison, who wouldn’t have thought a thing about it in most circumstances, found herself strangely nonplussed. Since she deemed Figg to be a most unseemly name, one that she had trouble uttering without a snicker—a childish reaction that she avoided—she followed her chaperone’s example, promptly dropped the “Miss,” and called Theodora by her given name. Anyone hearing the two of them would have supposed they were friends traveling together. This, too, Allison found unsettling. She had never considered herself a snob, thinking she had little to be uppity about, but she was sorely tempted where Theodora Figg was concerned.

  Though she controlled her baser instincts sternly, Allison was enough her mother’s daughter to leave the housekeeping chores to the hired help. And the longer she knew her, the more she considered Theodora Figg hired help. Certainly she was hired, though her help, as the trip progressed, was to become more and more in question. Allison had no idea of the amount paid for her services, but knowing Theodora a little and having noted her father’s fatuous reaction to her charms, she was sure he had opened his purse generously, perhaps lavishly.

  When the steamer trunk had been fitted snugly into its allotted place, Allison escaped the small compartment, leaving Theodora frowning over arrangements, and made for the deck. Though there were busy goings-to-and-fro behind her, the rail was comparatively empty of people. No doubt other passengers aside from herself had made an attempt to peer through the drifting fog bank, found it hopeless, despaired of waving farewell to family and friends on shore, and abandoned the idea in favor of warmer quarters.

  It was April at its worst; the fog hung heavy and gray, curling about the small, distant figures on the wharf until they seemed disembodied, unreal, nothing but voiceless actors in a pantomime. Occasionally a shouted word emerged from the gray, shifting curtain; occasionally an unseen boat sounded a warning out of the murky shroud. Waves lapped dismally against the side of the ship; debris slapped against the hull, resembling soiled and tattered petticoats hemming a billowing skirt.

  Allison drew her shawl around her shoulders and leaned against the rail, searching, in spite of herself, for some familiar form on the dock. There was none; the family coach was long gone. Jenks had held the horses steady while Buckle assisted Allison and Mrs. Buckle from the coach, and while Mrs. Buckle walked to the designated area and met Miss Figg, Buckle had unloaded the steamer trunk. If the housekeeper had expected Allison to follow her, she was mistaken and no doubt chagrined, when she looked back, to find Allison waiting by the coach. Frowning, Mrs. Buckle led Theodora Figg, into whose hands she was placing her charge, back to the coach. Although Allison couldn’t read the expression on the chaperone’s face, she had a feeling her reaction was much the same as Mrs. Buckle’s—annoyance.

  If either woman had expected a meek and sorry girl, humbled by the situation, they were in for a surprise. Allison, more the lady than at any time in her hoydenish life, nodded to Theodora, bade Mrs. Buckle a brief good-bye, managed a smile for the gloomy Jenks, and walked toward the tender that would take her out to the ship. Theodora Figg, with a startled look on her face—after all, she was supposed to be the one in charge—hastened to keep up.

  Allison’s one glimpse back had been a revelation. Buckle, having seen to the disposition of the baggage, turned toward her and gave her what appeared to be a brief, crisp salute. Then, stepping up into the coach beside his wife, he shut the door, leaving Allison with the curious sensation of having received an ovation. But why would Buckle, the quintessential servant, applaud her escape to freedom? Allison would always suspect that, at the last moment, he had given her a glimpse of his dissatisfaction with his own status, before, wordless, he turned sternly back to it. Jenks clucked to the horses, and the conveyance lumbered off, out of Allison’s life as quickly as it dropped out of sight.

  Not even a memory lingered on the dock.

  Every tie was broken, every contact gone. A bell tolled somewhere, a knell that spoke of loneliness and dreariness. Standing on the ship, separated from the shores of England and home, with everything familiar swallowed up in the fog as though it had never been, Allison bowed her head on the railing and struggled with her emotions.

  Could such a journey—so coldly begun, so blindly, so futile as to purpose—end happily?

  Allison was jarred from her reverie when an elbow bumped hers, someone pressed to the rail at her side, and a voice said hollowly, “It’s impossible to locate anyone in this weather.”

  Turning, she saw a young woman not much older than herself. The newcomer’s at
tention was fixed on the shore, her eyes searching, searching. Like Allison she had a shawl—not as lavish or as lovely as her own—clutched around her shoulders and pulled casually over her head. Even so, Allison could see that the face was slender, the eyes deep set, shadowed with sadness at the moment, wet with a dampness that was not of the fog.

  “Yes,” Allison agreed, and she never understood why she added, “but I’m not looking for anyone, so it doesn’t matter, I guess.”

  “Well, then,” the stranger said, still straining to see, “you said your good-byes earlier, at home. But my family, God bless ’em, insisted on being here to see me off. And now I can’t see ’em!”

  “That’s too bad,” Allison said with sincerity.

  “I give up,” the young woman said at last, with a sigh. “Obviously they’ve given up too and are gone. I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, “the sensible thing now is to do what Paul did—”

  “Paul?” Allison prompted when the stranger paused as though hesitant to say more.

  “The apostle Paul. He said something about forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forth unto those things which are before.”

  Another Sarah!

  “And did you,” Allison asked, “have a governess, as I did, who meted out Scripture quotations as a means of discipline or for practice in recitation?”

  “No, indeed,” the young woman said with a small laugh. “There was no governess in my life, I assure you. No, I learned that verse and others because I needed them.”

  Needed them? Allison didn’t ask for an explanation.

  It was too absurd, really, having a conversation at the railing of a ship, with a stranger, about—of all things—Scripture. Perhaps, in a normal moment, it would not have happened, but on this day it was just one more unreal experience.