Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3)

by Ruth Glover

  “It certainly seems to work for her,” Tierney admitted and waved as Pearly cast another glance back. “Maybe . . . maybe it would work for us.”

  Anne shrugged. Free of the despair of going to an unknown place with an unknown man, her burdens seemed not so great, after all. Let another fearsome moment come, however, and Anne, too, would have no alternative—now that Pearly had left her “testimony” to ring in their hearts—but to think seriously of the availability of an Almighty God.

  Tierney and Anne stood alone in the street, watching the wagon trundle around the corner and out of sight, feeling more alone than they could have imagined. Was it just the absence of one, depleting their number by one-third, or was it a strangely vulnerable feeling of being out from under the covering of Pearly’s prayers?

  And yet Pearly had tried, earnestly, to instruct them in how to approach God, how to make Him an integral part of their lives, bringing, at the same time, the comfort and strength they so badly needed to face the days ahead. With the bright sunshine of another Northwest day pouring its light over and around them, Tierney and Anne were still groping their way through darkness in more ways than one. Had Pearly’s brief time to “testify” been enough? Would there yet be a harvest from the planting she had done?

  Nothing of this, of course, passed between the two girls; it may not have been definite, coherent thought. But the seed was planted, and stirring and struggling for life.

  “There she goes,” Anne said inadequately, from a tumultuous mix of feelings: guilt, that she herself had not fulfilled the contract, that she would be responsible if Pearly stepped into a hotbed of misery and abuse, and relief—great, sweeping relief—that it was not she driving off with a strange man, into an unknown situation, in a new and, in some ways, terrifying land.

  “We’ll probably never meet up with her likes again,” Tierney added with a tightness in her throat and unexpected tears stinging her eyes. “She’s a rare one, she is. Somehow, I think, we willna lose touch. After all, she’s not impossibly far awa’. Thirty miles, did he say?”

  “That’s from here, where I’ll be,” Anne reminded practically. “An’ if they coom to town for supplies, as they’re bound to do, and Pearly persuades them to let her coom wi’, I, for one, will get to see her. Knowing summat o’ my plans, that I’ll be workin’ here, she’ll surely look me up.” Anne slanted a glance at Tierney.

  “Ye’re remindin’ me that I really have no idea where I’ll be. That you’ll be here in toon, or so it seems, and I—”

  The unknown future stretched, blankly and darkly, before her, and Tierney, having come so far with fortitude and courage, faced the hardest part of all—the end of the journey and the purpose for which she had come.

  If she found herself settled into a miserable situation, what could she do about it? On a farm she could be stuck many miles from “civilization”—if this raw Saskatoon town could be termed civilized—and with no one, no one at all, to whom to turn. Ishbel Mountjoy had washed her hands, so to speak, of the girls when they were placed; Anne, quite helpless herself in many ways, could offer sympathy but probably no real solutions; and Pearly, whom she was now recognizing as a tower of strength, would be isolated on a farm out there, somewhere, in the vastness that was Saskatchewan’s prairie. And Robbie? Robbie Dunbar was as lost to her as though he had stepped off the end of the world.

  It would be weeks, perhaps months, before she could hope to hear from Binkiebrae. She hadn’t, as yet, given James an address to which to write. Once settled—out there, somewhere—and finally able to finish and send the epistle she had been working on, giving James a return address, how would it get to a post office? How long would it take to cross this wilderness to a ship going to Scotland? How long would it take to hear back—back across the ocean, back across the wilderness, back to this unknown farm? In spite of herself, Tierney shivered. Isolation—she was beginning to understand the meaning of the word.

  Though her future was unsettled, hopefully Anne was taken care of, and that was a relief to Tierney. With a job and a place to live, though she might be surrounded by strangeness and strangers, there would be one small place of familiarity and security for Anne—the hostel, which was already beginning to seem like an oasis in a desert of immense dimensions.

  Knowing Anne well and loving her dearly, Tierney was unselfish enough to be glad it was Anne who was settled and she who must still face the unknown future.

  When the wagon had disappeared from sight, when the very dust of the street had settled, when the last of Pearly Chapel had been seen, Anne and Tierney turned back toward the hostel and their room.

  “At least,” Anne said as they stepped inside—and Tierney appreciated the attempt to turn the conversation to something of a lighter nature—“we won’t be so crowded in that beddie!”

  “Pearly—wee lass—dinna take up much space,” Tierney reminded, and thought, with a pang, She scarce made a ripple under the covers but leaves a big emptiness in our hearts.

  “I guess,” Anne said, “I must go and see aboot the job. Will ye coom wi’ me, Tierney?”

  “I’ll coom,” Tierney said, not certain it was a good thing to do. Anne must immediately learn to stand on her own two feet. Soon she would be as alone as the one clump of bracken atop Tierney’s barren hillside back home in Binkiebrae. That bracken had bent and bowed to wind and weather and had remained unbroken. Anne, sprung from the same Scotch soil, so to speak, would demonstrate that same stern ability to adapt and endure. Tierney counted on it. There was no alternative.

  Shaking their heads over the condition of their clothes, the girls, dressing to go to the hotel, settled once again for their serge skirts—which had survived better than anything else—and smoothed out their waists as much as possible. Still they looked wrinkled and limp, and they decided, sighing, to wrap themselves in shawls, pulling them neatly around their shoulders and clasping them in front and more or less covering up the pathetic waists.

  Downstairs at the counter they asked directions to the Madeleine, finding it was not far away, a fine thing if Anne should be working nights, a finer thing when she would be working during blizzardlike conditions.

  “Ye know,” Tierney needed to explain to the clerk at the desk, “that I’m lookin’ for a family named Ketchum to coom fer me. I dinna ken if ’twill be today or no’. I dinna like to gang sae far awa’, in case they coom—”

  The face of the clerk was becoming curiously strained, perhaps embarrassed. For not only had Tierney, in her concern, slipped into pure Scots, but she was speaking rapidly and rolling r’s richly; the young man was obviously not comprehending what was being said to him.

  “Whoa!” he said finally, stemming the flow of words. “Begin again, willya? I’m used to all kinds of people, from all kinds of places, with all kinds of languages and accents, but you’ve got me stumped for sure, lady.”

  Tierney paused, flushed slightly, breathed deeply, and apologized, and began again. But slowly. “I’m sorry. Now, sir . . . if you could be . . . on the watch . . . if you please . . . for a family . . . by the name of Ketchum. . . . They may coom . . . come . . . lookin’ for me—”

  “Of course,” the young man said smoothly. “I understand plain English very nicely, you know. No need to treat me like I’m deef and dumb. Ketchum, you say? I’ll just make a note of it. You’ll be back after breakfast, I suppose?”

  “Aye. We’re actually goin’ on . . . on business. But I guess we’ll eat while we’re there.”

  “Looking for work, eh?” the clerk said wisely. “Well, good luck. Ketchum, you say . . .”

  “He certainly won’t forget the name,” Tierney muttered to Anne as they made their way to the street and turned in the proper direction, still smarting from her slip into “jargon,” which Ishbel Mountjoy had often warned them against.

  The Madeleine, a four-square, unimposing, two-story building, was, as reported, close by, not more than two blocks away. Anne and Tierney made their way to a dining r
oom crowded with customers. The clientele seemed largely of the rugged, mostly male, variety.

  “Yes, ma’ams?” A slim, middle-aged, thin-haired man stepped toward them. Dressed in dark clothes, with a badge on his lapel that, on close inspection read “Host,” he exuded authority.

  “May I seat you?” this paragon of propriety asked, rubbing his hands together.

  Though neither Anne nor Tierney were judges of the patrician and aristocratic, even they could see that it was a serviceable room rather than elite. The floor seemed scuffed as if from heavy boots, the table coverings, though white in color, were oil cloth rather than linen, and the customers were of the hearty, hungry variety rather than the fastidious and fashionable. Still, there was a certain raw energy about the place, and a young woman—in serge skirt and with an apron cinched around her waist—was pouring coffee to a table of men seated near a window.

  At the man’s approach, Anne had stepped just behind Tierney’s shoulder.

  “Well?” the host asked, eyes turning a little frosty as he studied the two females standing before him in wrinkled clothes and having, truly, rather weary faces. To Anne’s weary countenance was added distrust.

  Suddenly Tierney, tired, and tired of it all, stepped aside, revealing a startled Anne, and simply waited for her to speak.

  “Well?” the man said again, more than his eyes frosty by now; his voice also revealed his suspicions about these two.

  Anne gulped, but managed, “I’ve coom . . . come aboot . . . about a waitress job. Can ye . . . you direct us to the proper person to talk to aboot . . . about it?” With each correction Anne’s color rose and her eyes glazed a little more.

  “The back door,” the man said rigidly, “would have been the proper place to come. But,” he added, more graciously, “I am the person to see. Step this way, if you please.”

  Anne gave Tierney an anguished look as they followed the stiff back of the dining room’s “host.” I’d hae been better off wi’ Frank Schmidt! Anne was obviously saying silently. Tierney forced herself to ignore her. The time for action had come; there would be no more shilly-shallying.

  The small room off the dining area seemed to be an office, and here Tierney and Anne were seated.

  “I’m Mr. Whidby,” the man said, having seated himself at a desk. “I have charge of the dining room and kitchen. You’ve come to the right place.” The long face took satisfaction in the small moment of power. Watching, Tierney didn’t have a good feeling about this Mr. Whidby. But Anne had showed herself capable of looking after herself back in Binkiebrae, and she could do it again, though Tierney hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

  Mr. Whidby, as many others had done before him, was now assessing sweet Anne with half-closed lids. He obviously liked what he saw, which had nothing whatsoever to do with her ability to work.

  “Ah, unfortunately,” Mr. Whidby said, and he did indeed seem sorry, “there is no opening at the present time in the dining room.”

  Tierney’s heart plummeted; Anne actually seemed relieved, in spite of her pressing need to get settled with a job.

  “But—” Mr. Whidby continued, clearing his throat and twiddling with a pencil on the desktop.

  Tierney’s hopes lifted; Anne’s face went still.

  “—there is an opening in the kitchen.” It was spoken regretfully. “If you’d rather wait,” he added, looking hopeful, “until an opening for a waitress comes along . . . ?”

  “Na, na,” Anne spoke up quickly. “The kitchen will be fine, jist fine. In fact—”

  Tierney was sure Anne was going to say “I prefer it,” but Anne seemed to collect herself, stumbled a bit, and finished, “—I’m sure I’m better suited for kitchen work.”

  “You’ve had experience, then?” the surprised man asked.

  “Well, hasn’t every woman?”

  “Oh, you mean general kitchen work, like in the home. I’m afraid,” Mr. Whidby said somewhat superciliously, “restaurant kitchen work is a good deal different. But,” he added, half-closing his eyes and studying Anne again, “you’ll catch on quickly, and do very well. I, personally, shall supervise you.” And again—that hand rubbing.

  Rather than blanching, as Tierney had feared Anne would do, she flushed, and her eyes—those lovely eyes—glittered. Anne was fighting back. Hurray for Anne! Tierney cheered silently. Anne would work at the Madeleine, but Anne would be prepared.

  “We’ll go back and introduce you to the staff,” Mr. Whidby said, rising. “If you wish, you may start right away. Ordinarily you’ll work from six to six, or ten to ten. Just now they’re preparing for the dinner hour, which will soon be upon us. A train arrives about then, and we usually have an overflow crowd.”

  Once again the man led the way, down a hall, to the back, and into a large, hot room abustle with activity. At least three women and two girls were busy at tables or bending over one of the three ranges lined up along one wall. A boy was bringing wood from the outside, plunking it down noisily into a wood box. Everyone turned momentarily to stare at the newcomer.

  “This is cook,” Mr. Whidby said, indicating a red-faced, hefty woman of forty or so. “Mrs. Corcoran. Mrs. Corcoran, this is . . . ah, what did you say your name was, young lady?”

  “Anne Fraser.”

  Mrs. Corcoran reached a sweaty but clean hand toward her new help, and her fleshy face creased in a smile that seemed sincere.

  “Welcome aboard,” she said. “Glad to have you. Now, that’s Maysie, that’s Dora, and . . .” Mrs. Corcoran gave up on the introductions. “Ah, shucks, you’ll get acquainted as you work. This, though,” and she indicated the merry-faced lad, “is Spalpeen. Not his name, of course—it’s unpronounceable, some foreign concoction or other. Spalpeen seems to fit him.”

  Spalpeen grinned a gap-toothed smile, touched a hand to his forehead, and made a face at Mrs. Corcoran behind her back.

  The girls couldn’t hide the grins that lit their faces spontaneously.

  “What’s he up to now?” Mrs. Corcoran asked comfortably, reaching back, taking the towhead by an ear, pulling him toward her. “Your face will freeze that way if you’re not careful. More wood, boy,” she commanded, “and bring a bushel of potatoes while you’re at it, if you’ve got all that energy to waste, makin’ faces an’ all.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Spalpeen said smartly, and he sidestepped the pudgy hand that reached to smack him lightly.

  “Too smart for his own britches,” the cook and kitchen queen growled, but happily. “Just off the boat. Like you?”

  “I guess ye could say that,” Anne answered. “We coom from Sco’land—”

  Perhaps it was the “Sco’land,” but Mrs. Corcoran rolled her eyes and interjected, “What else! Scotland, of course. We have a Swede, a Hungarian, and a coupla Irish gals here; why not a Scottish lassie?”

  Tierney was feeling better and better about leaving Anne at the Madeleine. She had no doubts about Anne’s ability to work, and work satisfactorily, and now the work place seemed to be all they could want. Almost . . . almost, one could forget the slit-eyed Mr. Whidby. Surely the redoubtable Mrs. Corcoran would be more than a match for him, particularly here in her own domain.

  “Lay aside your shawl, my dear,” that round figure of authority was saying, “and we’ll give you an apron, a big one that’ll about swallow you up but will keep that nice skirt and waist clean. I’d suggest you save it for . . .” Mrs. Corcoran’s eyes narrowed as she studied Anne’s buxom figure emerging from the wrap’s encompassing folds, “for the day you’re invited to join the waitresses in the dining room.”

  Before Tierney turned away, to return to the hostel and a further wait for her phantom employer, she saw Anne settled at a dry sink with a paring knife in her hand and a mountain of potatoes at her elbow. A piece of the first one to be peeled was popped into the pink mouth, and Tierney remembered that neither of them had had any breakfast. Anne would find plenty to nibble on, for fresh bread was being withdrawn from a cavernous oven by one of
the workers, and Spalpeen was lugging in a basket of carrots. Even as she watched, Mrs. Corcoran was pouring a cup of coffee, waddling with it to Anne, and settling it beside her. Never mind that Anne would much prefer tea; she was here, in the new land, and its ways would, without a doubt, soon be her ways.

  But not completely. With the influx of domestics came their ways, their habits, their practices, their values, to shape and mold the new land into something unique. From the new mix would come—Canadians. Along with the hundreds, yea thousands, of females who would pour in from the British Isles came strong Victorian social values to become established as the norm for prairie society. Tea, coffee—typical of the blend of the new breed being established, rooted and grounded, in the virgin soil of the Northwest Territories.

  Hungry herself, with no raw potatoes to munch on, Tierney took a place in the dining room and ordered tea and toast. She longed for a scone and vowed that as soon as she was settled in a kitchen again, those missing treats would be available once more, a breath of home and a satisfaction to a stomach grown flat and a body grown thin on fare to which they were unaccustomed, and to which they had not adjusted.

  Always slim, Tierney was now bone-thin, a condition that was obviously unacceptable in the eyes of Mr. Whidby when he approached the table, rubbing his hands, studying her critically.

  “Would you be looking for work too, Miss—”

  “Caulder. Na . . . no, thank you. I have employment,” she answered stiffly, liking neither him nor the rasping sound of his dry hands.

  “Ah, well then, I won’t put in a good word for you—above stairs. As a maid, you know. We have three dozen rooms here . . . a thriving enterprise.” Mr. Whidby, an employee as much as anyone else on the floor, wouldn’t be associated with anything second-rate, it was clear.

  With a sniff regarding Tierney’s reference to her “employment,” Mr. Whidby moved on, to rub his hands at the side of a table where three ladies dawdled over pots of tea and their husbands took themselves off to whatever business had brought them here.