by Ruth Glover
Mesmerized, eyes staring, Tierney could see that it wasn’t enough. Before their very eyes, Lavinia Ketchum was bleeding to death.
Will dropped to his knees beside his wife, murmuring her name brokenly, pleading for her to hold on, to stay with him, and, finally, to know that he loved her . . . loved her . . . loved her.
As the packing grew more and more brilliant, Lavinia’s face grew more and more colorless. Her very life, it seemed, was flowing from her, collecting in a few towels while her husband pled his case and Tierney and Lilyan stood helplessly by.
Finally, feeling that she was listening in on things too private and personal to be shared, Tierney slipped out of the room. She stood in the kitchen, hands to her temples, weeping uncontrollably. How quickly autumn’s glory had fallen prey to winter’s invasion; how quickly health and vigor had surrendered to death’s cold beckon.
It wasn’t long until Lilyan Brokaw followed Tierney to the kitchen, her hands full of towels bearing her neighbor’s life’s blood, and feeling herself to be the cause of it all.
Lilyan all but collapsed onto a kitchen chair, staring blankly at the fire flickering around the range door. “I did it,” she whispered.
“Of course you dinna do it!” Tierney answered, falling to her knees beside the suffering woman. “Someone had to do something. Will begged it of you. There was no doctor available . . . no doctor anywhere—”
“I shouldn’t have done what I did . . .”
“You had to do it, Mrs. Brokaw! You had to! There was no other option; there was no one else.”
Lilyan’s gaze shifted to Tierney’s face. As a thirsty person yearns toward a spring, so she looked for reassurance from Tierney.
It was a burden not to be borne for the rest of her life! It was a guilt that should not eat her heart out forever—so Tierney concluded. “Listen to me. Mrs. Brokaw, listen to me. Mr. Ketchum went for you. You had no choice but to come. Think—if you had turned him doon, which you had every right to do, being so stormy and all, how you’d feel now. In the midst of a blizzard you left your fireside and your children and came. The baby wouldna be born; it simply wouldna coom! I had watched by her side for hours and did nothing . . . could do nothing. You did what you could. It had to be done.”
Anguish filled the fading eyes of the middle-aged woman.
“Listen,” Tierney urged, feeling she had not yet banished the question of guilt, “the alternative was to leave her alone, let her struggle herself to death. Isna that so?”
Lilyan, finally, recognized and accepted the truth, releasing her own self from the blame that had fastened on her. With a sob she fell on Tierney’s shoulder, her own thick shoulders heaving with the release of tears that came.
It was thus Will found them. Coming across the room he put his hand on Lilyan Brokaw’s shoulder and said the words that would set her free for the remainder of her life, her working, serving, giving, helping life.
“You did what you could. Now, dear friend, will you help me one more time?”
The reservoir on the range yielded enough hot water for the final cleansing. Before they were through, Tierney and Lilyan—while Will sat in the kitchen with his head in his hands—dressed the cooling body of Lavinia Ketchum in her wedding dress, wrapped her in a quilt, and went, quietly, to inform Will that all was ready.
Tierney stood in the background, fighting horror; Lilyan Brokaw opened the outside door. The wind blasted in, hurling snow before it, almost snuffing out the lamp on the table. Will, in his heaviest coat, an ear-flapped hat tied under his chin and gloved hands gripping his burden, carried the mortal remains of his beloved wife out into the winter’s bitterness, to lay her to rest, for the time being, on boards placed on sawhorses in a nearby shed. Then to return for the small bundle that was his son and struggle through the storm one more time, placing the babe—before her arms stiffened—on the breast of the one who had borne and given her life for him.
There, in the shadows and ice, they waited the far-distant spring and the thawing of the land, land which had called like a siren, and which, in the end, had demanded the ultimate payment.
Dearest Annie,
I should be in bed, but the days are so full that I hardly have time to write except now when things are quiet. Of course you understand, for you have had more than one letter from me before this, telling you of the horrible, awful thing that happened two months ago—the death of dear Lavinia. Being left here with Mr. Ketchum, without his wife, is strictly against the Society’s policies, I know, but I feel that in some circumstances it is an unreasonable rule.
For, Annie, what am I to do? For one thing, how would I get away from here? We are snowed in. Mr. Ketchum makes a trip to Fielding whenever weather permits, which isn’t often, but I’m here with Buster, poor boy, who can’t understand it all.
I haven’t had word from you, nor from Pearly, since before Christmas, which, of course, was a dreary affair. Mr. Ketchum tried to make it cheerful for Buster’s sake, but it turned out being more sad than anything else. Of course we have no trees here, but Buster hung up his stocking, and we gave him the things we bought when we were last in Saskatoon. He can’t really remember other Christmases much anyway, so he was satisfied. And we hung up some bells and other decorations that were in the attic. Mr. Ketchum brought in a frozen turkey that he had been saving, and I did the rest toward preparing a special dinner. I must say it was a dreary, dreadful day.
If the food wasn’t satisfactory, he didn’t say anything, but ate it as he has all else that I’ve fixed since Mrs. Ketchum died. What a chill it gives me, Annie, when I think of her and the babe, lying out there just a few yards away in the shed. I peeped in once when I was on my way to the toilet . . . I won’t say anything more about the frost in there, on everything. They’ll be buried when the ground melts. It is too awful for words.
The other reason I can’t leave, of course, is Mr. Ketchum and Buster. How can I go off and leave them alone? Maybe with spring, and the thaw, they can find someone else to take my place. I know I really shouldn’t be here. But Mr. Ketchum is so nice, Annie, you can’t imagine what a gentleman he is, at all times. I don’t feel a bit uneasy.
Mr. Ketchum says he has written to Mrs. Ketchum’s family, who live north of here in the bush, in a place called, of all things, Bliss. How I wish that were a guarantee! I would go in a minute. Well, maybe not a minute. I don’t seem to be going anywhere at all at the moment. He thought someone from Bliss might be able to come help him, for I’ve talked to him about how I should be moving on, going someplace else, or the Society will not like it and he may get in trouble. He’s had no answer from Bliss . . . maybe they never got his letter. Mail delivery is uncertain at this time of year, with terrible blizzards from time to time, even worse than the one when we came home from Saskatoon. I wrote you all about that!
Word from James tells me that they are all well. The wedding has taken place, and Phrenia and he seem very happy. In spite of all that’s happened here, Annie, I cannot wish myself back in Binkiebrae. With no Robbie there, it isna . . . isn’t the same place at all. I know he is over here, someplace. I feel a certain nearness to him just being on the same continent. Now isn’t that silly!
Mr. Ketchum and Buster are asleep. Perhaps I told you that he couldn’t bear to sleep in this downstairs room after his wife died. So we spent one afternoon switching things around—I’m downstairs and he is with Buster upstairs.
I admired him before, Annie, and my appreciation for him has grown during these hard days and months. I declare I don’t know how he’ll carry on without Lavinia. When the chickens arrive in the spring and the workload increases . . . well, he’ll need more help than I can give him, and he certainly needs more loving attention. Poor man. It is nearly midnight and I’m not sleepy, can’t seem to sleep tonight, missing you . . . missing Pearly . . . missing Robbie, wondering what the future holds.
Love, Tierney.
The din of dishes clattering, people talking, and wind sweeping
around the hotel, all served to create a turmoil that had Anne’s head in a spin. It was almost time for her to go home, however, and so she straightened her aching back and smiled faintly at Mrs. Corcoran as she asked for a fresh supply of coffee in the dining room.
“Coming right up,” that efficient lady said, brushing a wisp of graying hair out of her eyes. “Spalpeen—where’s that kid when he’s needed? Spalpeen!”
The boy, growing into a gangling youth, came galloping from the pantry, his mouth obviously stuffed with food. But did he have the grace to look abashed? Not at all. He knew who his friends were, and Mrs. Corcoran, lovely Irish colleen that she was—or so he was always telling her—was at the top of his list, and wouldn’t begrudge him a treat or two.
Next on his list was Anne Fraser. And now here, truly, was a lovely—not colleen, but, being Scottish—lassie.
“Ah, Mrs. Corcoran, darlin’,” he lilted now in her Irish brogue, “and what can I do for ye?”
“Fill the coffeepot, you rogue!” Mrs. Corcoran directed, and with a grin Spalpeen went to do as bidden. One thing about Spalpeen, he served—not only faithfully but cheerfully.
Spalpeen, everyone had to admit, was certain to make his mark in the hotel; already he’d risen from general flunkie to Mrs. Corcoran’s right-hand helper. He would not be called a man for some time yet, but he was growing and filling out under the good and plentiful food and the tender consideration he received, in spite of the slapping and chaffing and haranguing that were signs, actually, of the cook’s affection for him.
“How are you makin’ it, lassie?” that good lady asked Anne. “You look weary tonight.”
“I’m glad it’s the end of the day for me,” Anne admitted, preparing to go back for another half-hour’s work in the dining room.
Anne was making a fine waitress. Her naturally sweet nature and desire to please stood her in good stead, and she found satisfaction in filling the needs of the people who passed through the Madeleine’s dining room. Some were regulars, living in the hotel and working in the town, but most of her customers were transient, going or coming from their homesteads, dealing with the sale of land, working for the railroad or the fur trade, going to the gold strikes, lighting out for the Yukon, all traveling across the continent now that the railway had connected coast to coast. It was a country filled with raw vigor, a new nation made up of many nationalities, and a wide smattering of them came through the Madeleine’s big dining room.
Passing from table to table with her coffeepot, filling cups, Mr. Whidby approached her.
“That table by the window?” Mr. Whidby said, flicking a speck from the shoulder of her spotless waist, then resuming the rubbing of his hands together in his usual manner (Anne thought, at times, he’d wear them out, so religiously did he perform the rite of rubbing). “That’s a bunch of remittance men. They need special attention, and I want you to take time, before you leave, to see that they get it.”
Mr. Whidby knew money when he saw it; that table would be worth a nice bounty for the coffers of the Madeleine, and wouldn’t hurt his own record and reputation, if handled correctly. No one would do it more satisfactorily than the beauteous Anne. These diners, being young men and full of “ginger,” might be induced to indulge in dessert after a generous dinner as well as numerous cups of coffee. Moreover, proper service would encourage them to come back. No one knew just how long remittance men would stay in one place, but, being winter and with travel difficult, they might be around for a while. The Madeleine was as good a place as any to spend the money that flowed so freely, and which they had done nothing to deserve.
Remittance men—a term used only here, perhaps, although Australia also had its share of scapegraces, or ticket-of-leave men, called delinquents in another age. Rascals mostly, ne’er-do-wells, slothful or careless sons of the wealthy and titled. An embarrassment at home, in trouble with the law, hunted by some outraged father of a used and abused female, they were shipped off to another continent, there to play, laugh at their own stupidity as though it were a great lark, and, in general, lead useless lives, of interest only to each other and of importance to no one.
Anne sighed; Mr. Whidby’s word was law. Worn out as she was, she was in no mood to deal with the shenanigans of foppish and foolish young males, with whose mischief, and worse, she was already well acquainted. Having too much money, they lived from month to month for the check, or remittance, from home, and most of them felt the rubes in Canada were below their consideration, except as objects of fun.
Patting her hair, tucking into place a few recalcitrant curls, smoothing her apron and clutching her pad and pencil, Anne approached a table of six of these young men. Already they were laughing and shoving each other, too loudly and too pointlessly—no doubt they had visited a saloon before entering the Madeleine—their faces flushed, their eyes bright, their color high.
“Yes, sirs,” Anne began. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“What we want isn’t on the menu,” one dandy said with a snicker, and the entire table laughed uproariously.
With her new fearlessness in the face of such waggishness, Anne bit her lip and hoped her cheeks would refrain from flushing—it would only add to their amusement—and prepared to speak cool words of dignity, somehow getting through this day’s last assignment. Drawing in her breath, she opened her lips to speak.
Her mouth fell open, but no words came. She felt her eyes staring . . . staring . . .
Across from her, his mouth as wide as hers and slowly widening even further, a look of surprise on his face and a dawning of comprehension in his eyes, sat Lucian MacDermott.
“Well, what have we here?” he drawled, and the table fell silent, all eyes turning from him to the girl at whom he looked, standing before them with her lovely face as white as her apron, her eyes sick, her comely form frozen in time and place.
“Well, if it isn’t Fanny.”
Do you know this fair maiden?” someone asked mockingly, as all stared admiringly at Anne.
“Do I know her! Not as well as I will, given the chance!” came the drawling answer, Lucian licking his lips suggestively.
“And,” he continued firmly, smirking horridly, “I plan to get the chance. You,” he turned to Anne, “remember where we left off in our little, er, encounter, I’m sure. You see, men, Fanny and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”
Anne’s heart was racing, her mind whirling. And yet part of her was icily cold. Here, there would be no tussle and display of physical force. No, here she was safe. For the moment, she was safe.
While her heart pounded, her voice responded coolly. Habit and practice took over. “Sirs,” she continued, as though she had not been interrupted, “may I take your orders, please?”
“Oh, she’s a cool one, all right, Lucian. She’ll be more than a match for you!”
“Lucian, I think you’ve met your match!”
“What do you have in mind, Lucian?”
These and other remarks swirled around as Anne stood, pencil poised, chin lifted, prepared to take their order. Finally, one after another, they decided what they’d eat. Anne wrote, tucked her pencil behind her ear, turned on her heel, and managed, in spite of shaking legs and weak knees, to walk to the kitchen.
Here she changed into another person entirely. White of face, trembling of limb, she flew to Mrs. Corcoran.
“He’s here! He’s found me! That man out there . . . Lucian—”
“Hush lassie,” crooned Mrs. Corcoran, recognizing instantly that something serious had happened. She put her big arms around the quivering girl and patted her back soothingly. “Now,” she continued, “tell me what this is all about. And who is this Lucian fellow?”
“From Sco’land, he’s from Sco’land. An’ he’s the reason I got awae from there! Oh, Mrs. Corcoran, I dinna know wha’ to do! He came near tae killin’ me, he did; oh wha’ shall I do?”
“Sit down, my dear. Now,” she raised her voice to the kitchen crew
standing around, transfixed, “get yourselves back to your work! None of your business, here!”
“He’ll find oot whaur I live, I know he will; I’m no’ safe from him anywhaur, it seems!” Anne, seated on a straight-backed chair, buried her face against Mrs. Corcoran’s comfortable middle and shivered uncontrollably.
“Now, my dear, let’s think—”
“I’m gettin’ oot o’ here, Mrs. Corcoran! Oot o’ toon!”
“Think sensibly, Anne. Where on this earth could you go, out of town? And in this weather!”
“Tae Pearly; tae Tierney. Aye, tae Tierney; tha’s whaur I’ll go—”
Anne sprang to her feet, wringing her hands, eyes wild. “I’ve got to go, I’ve got to get home and get things packed and get oot o’ here!”
“Annie, Annie,” soothed the cook, but to no avail.
“Dinna tell anyone . . . dinna tell Mr. Whidby; he might tell Lucian. Jist say I’m sick or summat as that. Gi’ me a chance to get awa’!”
Anne pressed through the encircling arms, brushed past the clinging hands of her concerned friend, ran to the wall where coats and hats were hung and beneath which overshoes were placed.
“Send someone else to wait on those daft loons,” Anne directed, donning her wraps feverishly. “An’ tell her to be slow aboot it. I’ve got to hae time to get awa’!”
Without her week’s pay, without a formal termination of her job, Anne fled the premises of the Madeleine, unsure of where she would go or how she would get there. But her heart turned toward Tierney. Tierney, to whom she had fled when Lucian MacDermott had attacked her before. Tierney, who would understand, help her, hide her.
At the hostel she dragged her bags from under the bed and stuffed and rammed her belongings into them, lamp turned low all the while, blinds pulled and door locked. Every step in the hall caused her to stiffen, listening in agony until it faded away. Finally, she wrote a note to Fria (Fria knew all about Lucian MacDermott), but not revealing what she was going to do.
