Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3)

by Ruth Glover

  © 2001 by Ruth Glover

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3934-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Scripture is from the King James Version of the Bible.

  To

  Ruth McDowell,

  a perfect minister’s wife

  and my dear friend

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  The harsh winds had ceased their howling down the glens, but not before they had scoured the ancient hills to their bare bones. The scattered growth of bracken, defeated by a lifetime of battling with the elements, rested, spent and torn, under the touch of a tender sun and a rare, blue sky.

  High on the hillside above the small village of Binkiebrae, Tierney Caulder sat on a rock wall, sunning herself. Her hand-loomed skirts were spread around her; with a quick brush of one slender foot against another she was rid of her heavy shoes, and her toes, free of winter’s cumbersome wool stockings, lifted toward the warmth of the sun, wriggling with pleasure at the unaccustomed freedom. Unknotting her kerchief, she tossed it aside and ran a slim, rough hand through the rich mass of hair that tumbled about her shoulders, glinting auburn in the sun’s rays.

  Placing her hands on the rocks on which she sat, Tierney leaned back, allowing her hair to fall free, lifted her face toward the warmth of the skies, and closed her eyes. For the moment, she savored the peace that so easily escaped her in the hurly-burly of her days.

  Below her the seashore stretched white in the light of the late afternoon, and beyond, the dazzling sea—ever restless, usually turbulent, always bound to the lives and doings of the people of Binkiebrae. On its tempestuous bosom her father had worn out his youth and his manhood and, eventually, his strength. On it her brother James even now prepared to make his weary way home from a day’s fishing, the size of his catch the indication of his mood.

  Under the shading of her hand, Tierney’s eyes searched for and could find no sign of the fishing fleet’s approach; the fine day would keep them at their task for hours yet. God grant each man—she prayed automatically, but no less fervently—first safety, then a bountiful catch. The brief request of the Almighty had been the plea of wives and mothers and sisters for as long as mankind had called this hard region home. Too often, anxious eyes searched in vain; too often one boat, watched for above all others, failed to return. That Malcolm Caulder, hard worker that he was, had survived to the age of fifty-nine, was a wonder and a miracle.

  Malcolm had survived; it had been his wife, Tierney’s mother—weary with watching, exhausted by the weight of life and its unrelenting burdens—who had folded her thin hands in a rest not known for fifty-five years, and gave up work and worry for a better land. How true the old hymn they had sung at her burying—“Land of Rest,” they called it.

  O land of rest, for thee I sigh!

  When will the moment come

  When I shall lay my armor by, [they sang “burdens”]

  And dwell in peace at home?

  Remembering that occasion of a few months past, for a moment the melody ran through Tierney’s mind, and she recalled the words of the chorus and found them just as fitting, for every Binkiebrae resident, as the verse: We’ll work till Jesus comes.

  Life, for Tierney Caulder, as for everyone on this windswept Scottish shoreline, had never been easy. She was always aware that her “mither” and her “da” loved her; still that had not prevented her from understanding, early on, that life was hard. If it were not the cruel biting of the wind and the wearing anxiety over the safety of their menfolk that pressed down on their spirits, it was the constant need for peat and coal to warm the wee homes, and the ever-pressing need to provide food. Food and warmth—everything else came second to those.

  Like all frugal cooks, nothing went to waste in the Caulder household. Even the faa, or insides of an animal, were eaten. Tripe was cleaned, stuffed with meat, onions, and dried fruit, if such were available, then boiled and eaten hot, or when cold, sliced and fried. Oats—for the morning’s porridge and for oatcakes at all times—were a household staple. And of course they were needed to make that less than glorious but famous dish, haggis. Oats were added to sheep’s liver, heart and lungs, onion, and chopped mutton suet; it was all mixed together, stuffed into the stomach bag of a sheep, boiled for about five hours, and served with tatties and neeps (potatoes and turnips). No, nothing went to waste.

  Even now, as Tierney basked in the sun, enjoying a stolen moment for herself, the oatcakes were baked and ready, and the kettle was on the boil for tea. Thinking of it and whether indeed the fireplace was burning as it ought, she sought out the one small dwelling that, among two dozen or so, she called home.

  “Sma’, too sma’,” she murmured with a sigh and a shake of her head.

  And indeed it was. Though snug and warm, the “hoosie” was small. Her father slept in the one bedchamber, she slept in the loft, and James slept at the fireside, pulling out a pallet at night and folding it away in the daytime. A small scullery at the back of the house was used for washing up and storing dishes and cooking utensils, cleaning vegetables, and similar work. The cooking and baking were done at the fireplace in the main room, the area in which they lived.

  Da would be sitting there now, at the fireside, dreaming away his last few days, content just to be warm and fed, free of the need to go out in tempest and storm, snow and sleet, mist and fog, to cast the nets one more time. His once massive frame was pathetically shrunken; the disease eating at his lungs kept his thin body shaken with coughs much of the time. There was no mistaking the touch of death on Malcolm Caulder’s pale face and crimson cheeks.

  When Malcolm would be laid to his final rest, Tierney and James would find the house adequate for their needs. She could move into their parents’ room; James could take the loft.

  More than likely, however, it would be the other way round. James, young though he was—at twenty-three just five years his sister’s senior—was in love, seriously in love with Phrenia MacDonald. Seriously enough in love to be talking marriage. Tierney approved his choice, even loved Phrenia, whom she had always known. But she shrank from the thought of infringing on the privacy that sh
ould be theirs, especially during those first months of marriage. And when the children came, as they surely would, the loft would be needed, and she, with no other choice, would take the pallet by the fire. It was a dreary, even humiliating future, though no different than many a home subscribed to, with a single, unmarried relative to care for.

  Never, never would James deny his sister a home, but even that generous gesture on his part pained her by its very necessity.

  But she needn’t worry—there was Robbie Dunbar . . .

  At that moment, as though stepping from dream into reality, Robbie appeared at the foot of the hill, shading his eyes, looking upward. Looking for her.

  Tierney saw him with a quickening beat to her heart that she could no more help than she could stop breathing. Raising her arm, she waved her kerchief, signaling him . . . calling him.

  Watching him climb, she went over the sweet story of Robbie Dunbar in her thoughts.

  How long had she loved him? If not all of his life, then all of hers. First as a friend of James, then as her own friend and confidant, then as . . . she faced the breathtaking thought fully—as more than friend, more than confidant. Robbie was—her future.

  Was anyone more dear than Robbie? Just to follow his rugged form as he leaped from rock to rock, to note his eyes—which she knew to be as deeply blue as the sea and just as familiar—glancing up at her from time to time, to see his lips curl in a smile meant just for her, filled her heart with happiness.

  Tierney’s love for Robbie had grown in such a natural way—not bent and battling like the bracken, but straight and lovely, healthy and true, like her mother’s potted geranium in the window recess. To use Scripture: First the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear. That’s how her love for Robbie Dunbar had grown.

  It had seemed that there was no need to hurry what would last a lifetime. There were no surprises, no problems. It had always been, it would always be—Tierney Caulder and Robbie Dunbar. Together. Forever.

  Tierney and Robbie, sometime, someplace, would settle onto a croft of their own, and life would go on as it had, but filled with the supreme joy of being together.

  It was so simple, so right. It flowed along, in her mind and heart, as sweetly as the River Dee, and as steadfast. Love—hers and Robbie’s—could be counted on, like the unchanging hills.

  That Robbie loved her as she loved him, Tierney never doubted. Unspoken between them, never yet put into words, still that love existed.

  And what was the hurry? These were days of sweetness stored up, sweetness to last a lifetime. Tierney and Robbie were young and all of life lay before them, here, where the Dee met the sea. Life for them would be as sure and unchanged as the loves and lives of countless generations before them. From the beginning, life had gone on as it always had. Tierney, content, counted on it, rested in it, bloomed because of it.

  At last, breathless, Robbie reached her side, to throw himself down and stretch himself on the grass at her feet.

  To lay himself at her feet, and by a few words, tear her world apart. Her world—so dependable, so solid, so unchanging—came crashing down, never to be the same again.

  Her first clue that something was amiss, before ever he spoke, was the fact that Robbie’s blue eyes, usually as sunny as today’s sky, looked hot with something akin to anger. Neither did he give her smile for smile.

  “Robbie?” Tierney murmured haltingly, questioningly.

  “It’s decided, then,” he said abruptly, leaning on one elbow, looking blindly at the skyline, plucking at a blade of grass. “It’s decided, and there’s naething to be done aboot it.”

  “Decided?” she asked, puzzled. “What’s decided, Robbie?”

  “That Allan and I,” he said in a strange, distant voice, “are awa’ to Canada.”

  Tierney was stunned into silence. Surely she had misunderstood. Had he said he and his brother were away—to Canada, of all places?

  Not waiting for a response, perhaps expecting none, Robbie continued, grimly, “Aye. Awa’ to Canada. Me father and me mither hae made the plans. The shop . . . it’s no’ makin’ a guid livin’ anymair. And Allan and me, neither o’ us cares for the thoughts of goin’ to sea. Still, we were for it, but me father said na, na. He’ll no hae it, lassie. Not the sea; Dunbars hae niver been for the sea, he says. We’re for Canada right enow, me and me brother, and sometime, hopefully, the rest o’ the family will join us.”

  “Your da,” Tierney said gropingly, “he’d hae you leave Scotlan’? Leave Binkiebrae? And he’d go himsel’? I canna believe it, Robbie! Dinna he askit if ye’ll go?”

  “Na, he dinna askit. He has spoke, lass, for the good o’ the family, and there’s no denyin’ him his right to do it. I canna tell him nae. And so it’s settled, lass. I’m awa’ to the new land, the far land, and verra soon.”

  Then, into the silence that fell between them, a silence of sheer unbelief and shock on Tierney’s part, Robbie spoke. With his eyes still on the horizon, Robbie said the words that had never been spoken before; the words that she needed to hear, that he needed to say, and that would make no difference at all. No difference at all.

  “There’s only one thing that’s kep’ me here this long, lass. One reason I find it hard to go.”

  And then Robbie turned those blue eyes on her, and all the things he had left unsaid across the years, he said in that one look.

  Da,” Tierney said, “I’m goin’ to Frasers’. You hear me, Da?”

  “I hear ye, lass,” Malcolm said, rousing himself from a mid-afternoon doze. “I hear ye.”

  “Ye’ll be a’reet, Da, till I get back?”

  “I’ll be a’reet, lass. Gang awa’ and dinna worry.”

  “Fenway is coomin,’ any moment, an he’ll stay wi’ ye till I get back.”

  Malcolm nodded his understanding.

  One thing could be said about Malcolm: He was an agreeable patient, seldom causing any problem. The most difficult part of his care was getting him in and out of bed, morning and night. If James were home, he took care of it, but often he was gone, either fishing or courting. At those times, or any time of emergency, old Fenway, their neighbor, was always ready to help. Today he would come and stay with the invalid; they would talk a little, smoke their pipes, perhaps drink tea if Fenway could stir himself to make it.

  Once Malcolm was out of bed of a morning, dressed, and seated in his favorite chair by the fire, Tierney took charge of combing his thin hair, giving him his meals, wrapping him against the drafts of the room. No matter her own mood, she spoke cheerfully to her father, sharing any news with him concerning the ongoing life of the home and the community, keeping up his spirits, giving him a little interest in things around him, things that were so silently fleeting away.

  Occasionally an old friend would stop by, and Tierney would serve tea, grateful for any small break in her father’s long days and, she supposed, longer nights. Malcolm seemed more a part of the next world than this one; it was, surely, just a matter of time until he slipped away, as quietly and simply as he had lived.

  But life went on, and Tierney, as homemaker and cook since the passing of her mother, had a routine to keep. Today it was the trudge of two miles to the home of her friend, Anne Fraser, for a replenishment of their egg supply.

  In the Fraser household, as in the Caulder, there was no mother and wife. Anne, only fourteen at the time of her mother’s death, had, like Tierney, naturally slipped into the role of housekeeper, caring for her father and two brothers.

  The Frasers lived on a small croft that was part of the huge MacDermott estate. Paul Fraser, and young Pauly and Sam, his sons, worked at the stables and on the grounds, as had Paul’s father and grandfather before him. With such unrest in the land, and with so many families being turned out, willy-nilly, from their crofts, the Frasers were an uneasy lot. Constantly at the beck and call of the MacDermotts, they hardly dared call their name their own, let alone their possessions and their time.

  Anne was
often called into service in the big house and had the care of the hens and other poultry and the disposing of the eggs. By careful reckoning she was able to come up with a few extras from time to time, and it was worth the sacrifice to share them with Tierney and her family, just to have Tierney come out and visit for a while.

  Yesterday, at kirk, as the girls passed each other in the aisle, piously silent, Anne had whispered, “Eggs,” in a conspiratorial tone.

  There had seemed to be something more pressing than the fact that a few eggs were available. Lovely though they were and filling a real need, especially for a treat for the invalid Malcolm, still Anne had never announced their availability before this.

  So, though the day was gray and overcast and the low-hanging clouds were spitting rain, Tierney arranged for Fenway to come over, settled her father with a rare newspaper and a cup of tea, fed the fire, picked up a small basket, and turned her steps out of Binkiebrae in the direction of the Fraser croft.

  Rain or no rain, it seemed good to stretch her legs, and she strode out, grateful to have a few moments to herself, if only to think helplessly of her future and the hopelessness of it. Though in the past few days she had moved, worked, talked, as though nothing had changed, still on the inside there was despair over the news of Robbie’s leaving and grief that it was so.

  Tierney hadn’t seen Anne, privately, since that black moment in the sunshine on the hillside when Robbie Dunbar had shattered her dreams, her future, her very life, with his stark announcement. And Annie, her dear and lifelong friend, was the only one Tierney would ever think of telling.

  Even if James and Malcolm had heard that the Dunbar boys were to leave for Canada, their inclination would be to keep their thoughts to themselves. Malcolm was close to being past all earthly caring and would burden himself no further with useless and vain problems; James was immersed in his own plans and concerned about how they could come to fruition, what with his father sick and his sister caught up in the womanly round of keeping house for her menfolk.

  Hadn’t it been that way since time began? The elderly loosing their hold on life and turning responsibilities over to their sons and daughters, girls taking over where mothers left off, tending the home fires and the needs of their men? Sons stepping in and taking over the family business or craft? It all made perfect sense to James; he expected no other lot than the one he had been handed. But just how and when his own future should be worked out, he couldn’t yet see. Phrenia, he could sense, was impatient, even as he was, for life to settle down for them in the prescribed pattern.