Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) (8 page)

Obviously the Blooms’ need had not only been what Tierney could do for them physically. Deprived of their daughter and her family, isolated as they were so much of the time, getting older and not always in good health, Lydia and Herbert would get their money’s worth from the pleasure Tierney’s very presence would bring. Responding to this need and sensing the sincerity of Herbert’s and Lydia’s reaction to her being there, Tierney counted herself blessed and determined to be all that they had expected, and more.

“Now, Herbert,” Lydia was continuing, “it’s a good thing supper will be later tonight so that this Robert Dunbar can get his chores done and eat with us, because you’ve had three . . .
three
scones.”

“So I have, my dear,” Herbert said comfortably. “Do you make anything else, Miss Tierney? Muffins, perhaps?”

Lydia’s color hinted at apoplexy. “Herbert!” she said severely, taking up the plate of scones and rising, hurrying them out
of reach, “enough of that! Now, Miss Tierney, shall we adjourn to the kitchen and see how the roast is coming along?”

The Blooms were among the fortunate few to have an icehouse, thus keeping meat available even in warm weather. Already Tierney had found opportunity to marvel at the goods and chattels in the well-stocked pantry, and, indeed, the house itself, so well furnished, so comfortable, so generously equipped. The little home in Binkiebrae, two rooms, a loft overhead for sleeping, a scullery for washing up—that was it. Yet it had been cozy, homelike, fitting the Caulders and their simple needs. Tierney thought of it now with nostalgia. But realizing it held James and his bride with little or no room for her, she counted herself blessed to be here, surrounded by the generosity of a couple named Bloom, who, not knowing her, had seen fit to take her to their bosoms. And generous bosoms they were, in all ways.

A little hymn of praise rose in her heart, even passed her lips. With all these blessings the chief one, now and forever, was the faithfulness of the One in whom “all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”

What safety she felt!—held in the everlasting arms of God and placed in the hands of these good people.

When Robbie appeared, slicked and shined and obviously fresh from a bath, Tierney found herself restrained, bashful. There was, now, none of the heedless rushing into his arms. He, too, looked a little uncertain.

“Hello, Robbie,” she greeted him, subdued, remembering her impulsive rush into his arms the day before and his spontaneous response, and blushing a little. Then she excused herself and returned to the kitchen, to fumble ineffectively with the roast and to bumble through the making of the gravy. Lydia Bloom, after a keen look at the younger woman’s flushed face, stepped in, and soon supper was on the table.

Herbert stepped to the porch and rang the bell hanging there. Thus summoned, the hired man, Ahab, soon joined
them. With little ceremony they sat up to the table. The food was simple but bountiful, and, as appetites were hearty, the meal progressed with few interruptions as they filled their plates, cleaned them, sat back with satisfaction, and awaited the inevitable pudding that Lydia, English through and through, had provided.

Over a final cup of coffee, Herbert spoke. “Ahem!” and everyone perked up their ears. “Ahab told me this afternoon that he is leaving us.”

Lydia looked up, surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is anything . . . wrong?”

“Not a bit of it,” the hired man assured them, digging into his blancmange after flooding it with thick, golden cream and stirring it thoroughly. “It’s just that I’ve finally saved up enough to get started on my own place. I think I mentioned that to you before—it’s been my plan from the beginning. I can’t get started any younger,” he finished quite seriously.

Lydia nodded, relieved. Her kind heart could not countenance any problem that she and Herbert might have contributed to.

“Of course, I think we knew that. But we’ve been so satisfied—”

“He has to go, Mother,” Herbert interrupted, “if he’s to get a cabin up before winter. Just where is this place, Ahab?”

“It’s in the Nipawin area.”

“There’s still some land around here—”

“I know, but my cousin is over that way, and I’d like to be near him.”

“Can’t say as I blame you. But this puts us in the way of needing to look for someone to take your place. Do you have any suggestions, Robert?”

Robbie thought a moment and then shook his head. “No, I canna think of anybody, but I’ll keep my ears open and let you know if I hear of anyone. Say,” he brightened, “Herkimer just mentioned a fellow who was looking for a homestead at the Lands Office in Prince Albert and thinking he might need to
work a while first, just as Ahab has done. Tha’s what Allan and I did, you know, and it was worth the wait, I can tell you.”

The men talked it over, and Robbie promised to follow the lead with Herkimer and get back to Herbert Bloom.

Tierney cleared the table and started the dishwashing, only to have Lydia insist she leave the work and spend some time with her friend from Scotland. Going back into the front room shyly, it was to have Robbie look up and suggest, “Can we take a walk, Tierney?”

“Feel free to,” Herbert encouraged. “It’s not only beautiful over toward the lake but smells good, too.”

Fresh grass, spring flowers, breezes over the rippling surface of the water, all combined to bring forth a potpourri that was unique, calling for deep breathing and happy sighs.

Swinging along at Robbie’s side, Tierney lost her touch of reserve, and soon they were deep in conversation. Robbie must hear how Tierney came to make the change to Canada; Tierney must learn all that Robbie and Allan had done to get their homesteads and settle in. They must each report on letters from home, Tierney relaying whatever James had written her, Robbie with news of his family, and both talking of Binkiebrae and home in general.

“We’ve not given up thinkin’ the whole family will coom over,” Robbie said. “We could put ’em up, Allan and I, atween us. Build on a room or two, if we need to.”

“Your hoosie, Robbie, your very own hoosie! I can hardly wait t’ see inside it.” Truth to tell, Tierney could almost see herself as mistress of it. Dreams do come true after all!

It was then Robbie said, “Tierney,” and if his voice sounded strained she had no reason to notice it; she could barely restrain herself from slipping her arm through his as they walked, or, more daring yet, taking his hand. Modesty prevailed, and she waited for Robbie to make such a momentous decision.

“Robbie . . . do ye remember our farewell, there on the hill? The pain of it, the mortal misery? I said—to mysel’, o’ course—that I’d hae gone wi’ ye anywhere, e’en to the ends of the earth.
Anywhere, and yet I couldna follow to Canada.” In her earnestness she slipped into the Scots dialect, forgetting all her efforts to speak more plainly. “And yet, here I am. Dinna see the hand o’ Someone bigger than us in a’ that?”

“Tierney—”

“Oh, Robbie, I’m jist so happy—”

“Tierney!” Robbie spoke, this time, more urgently.

“Aye, Robbie, what is’t?”

“I . . . wanted to tell you aboot my plans . . .”

“And I want to hear. Aye, Robbie, you talk, and I’ll listen.” She was looking at him, contentment on her face.

“Y’ see, I’ve a chance to get more land. Tha’s not easy to do, believe me. I thought I’d have to wait years and years before I had the opportunity. But this land I’m talkin’ aboot is available to me now, and best of all—” Robbie’s face was tight with his concentration, his need to make her understand, “it’s right next to mine. Can you believe that? It seems like the hand o’ fate, or something like that. I can hardly believe it meself.”

“But, Robbie, you can only file for one quarter section of free land, reet?”

“Tha’s what’s so great aboot it—I wouldna have to file for it.”

“Well, what then?” Tierney was clearly puzzled, clearly interested, alert now.

“You see,” Robbie said, speaking quickly, “it’s my neighbor’s land, my neighbor that died just a short time ago. His homestead had been proved up, so it was his own. And his wife’s, I guess you’d say. Well, she’s alone now, an impossible situation; she can’t handle it by herself, no woman could—”

“And you’d take it on for her? But how would that make it your own, Robbie? Or is she wantin’ to sell? Would you have the money to buy it, Robbie?” Tierney was attempting to work this out in her thinking.

“Na na, she dinna wants to sell; she wants to keep it for her boys.”

“Her boys?”

“Two of ’em—Barney and Billy. Just sma’, they are.”

“I guess I don’t understand, Robbie. What else?”

“She’s sick, Tierney. Verra sick.”

“How sick d’ye mean, Robbie? Won’t she . . . get well?”

“Dyin’ sick, that’s how sick.”

“Oh, Robbie!”

“Aye. And she hasna got long to live. And she—Alice, that is—needs someone to take over the farm and to raise the bairns after . . . after she’s gone.”

“Tha’s a big responsibility, Robbie. But we . . . you could do it, for the sake of the farm. Is it settled, then?”

“Aye. It’s all settled. Signed and settled. I’m to do it.”

Tierney drew a big breath. Well! It was a surprise, but nothing she couldn’t handle, for Robbie’s sake.

“You see, Tierney,” Robbie said, staring rather desperately out over the lake, “there’s only one way to do it, if I’m to have the place.”

“Robbie?” Tierney asked slowly.

“Aye. I’m to marry Alice.”

A
t first Molly was astonished to see the Condon buggy in the parsonage yard, knowing that Beatrice rarely felt up to driving herself around, and that Bly would be in the fields this time of year. Perhaps there was a serious need of private counseling . . .

Vivian! The thought struck, quivered, panged.

Molly’s next thought:
What right has she got to be here!

Immediately, shamed, she admitted that Vivian Condon had every bit as much right to be here as she herself did.
After all
, she confessed reluctantly,
I don’t own Parker Jones!

With this thought in mind and determining firmly that she, Molly Morrison, would never,
never
compete for the attention of any man, even Parker Jones, she urged Kip back, step-by-step, until she was clear of the Condon buggy and could begin a tight turn out of the yard.

Too late. The door, which had been left—discreetly—partly ajar, opened, and Parker Jones, calmly and sedately, stepped outside and called, “Molly! Come on in, Molly.”

“I’m off to the store, Parker,” Molly responded, pulling Kip to a halt. “I’ll stop by on my way back.”

“Molly—
please!
”

Anyone else, not knowing Parker Jones well, might not have caught the appeal in his voice. There was a definite cry for help in his tone and in his eyes, though his words were ordinary. Caring as she did, there was only one thing to do.

Turning Kip’s head once again toward the hitching post, Molly automatically hauled back on the reins and stared as a superbly fitted and outfitted feminine figure stepped through the doorway to stand by the side of the man.

Not only was Vivian Condon’s ensemble in the latest style—or so Molly supposed, having only the catalog and rare visits to Prince Albert stores to instruct her along these lines—but richly so. Vivian Condon’s clothes exuded affluence; her demeanor was that of a person who considered herself, who
knew
herself, to be a person of superiority. She was superbly confident.

Molly’s calico, though sprigged with tiny blue flowers, edged with ribbon, freshly laundered and crisp, seemed, in comparison, just what it was—a homemade, second-best dress. And at that moment, particularly, Molly seemed just what she was—a hometown girl. Hometown, perhaps, but never
second-best!

In spite of good intentions, Molly found her jaw tightening just a little. With finesse she pulled Kip into place, turned, and reached a small foot below a neat ankle toward the buggy’s iron step, finding Parker at the rig’s side and his hand outstretched to help her down. Unless she was sadly mistaken, there was a look of desperation in his dark eyes.

“The box—” she said, a little breathlessly, and Parker reached to pick it up from the seat of the buggy.

“I’m afraid it’s rather shaken up,” she offered as they turned toward the house.

“Molly, Molly,” Parker said, shaking his head and smiling, “when will you ever slow down? It’s a good thing Kip likes to run.”

“He’s lucky he’s not hitched to a seeder this lovely morning,” she answered in her defense. “Maybe he was so thankful, he just stepped out.”

“And maybe you just like to hurry through life,” he said, smiling down at her. “Well maybe not
through
life,” he amended, “but
into
it.”

Yes, and eager to get there
, she might have responded, recognizing and loving the light in his eyes. But Vivian still lingered on the porch steps, her lips fixed in a half smile that had no humor in it and no welcome.

Nevertheless, “Good morning, Vivian,” Molly said in a friendly manner, first names having been decided upon around the Sunday dining table.