Place Called Bliss, A

by Glover, Ruth

  © 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 978-1-4412-3932-7

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

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  To

  the dear people

  of First Christian Church

  in The Dalles, Oregon:

  Thank you for nine wonderful years!

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  Scotland—1878

  S ophia Galloway had been assured by the best medical advice in Kirkcudbright that her child would not be born on board ship. Whether on land or on sea, its safe arrival came first, of course. But land, with her own doctor officiating, was imperative; Sophia was no heroine, and the comfort would be best assured at home in Heatherstone, in her own bed. And it wouldn’t hurt to have Hugh standing dutifully by, helpless, as she went down into the vale of death for the sake of a Galloway heir.

  But Sophia was not selfless in her desire for a child. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted a child, someone to call her own. Wanted it more than the wealth, which, she had been informed constantly across the years by her debt-ridden brother, was imperative for the Gowrie family coffers and could be obtained only if she married well. Wanted it more than the marriage itself, though, as she understood it, marriage was necessary.

  Because of the urgent demands that she marry money, if not a title, and because she had no marriage proportion whatsoever due to her brother Preston’s profligacy—his licentiousness and dissipation had all but impoverished the Gowrie estate—marriage proposals had been few and far between. The two or three young gallants who had shown an interest in Preston’s charming sister had backed off quickly when her lack of a dowry was discovered.

  And so Sophia, restless and frustrated and chafing sorely under the limitations placed on women of her station, had reached the less than acceptable age of twenty-five before marrying.

  Her marriage, then, was stunning; all the more so if one considered money a factor. And of the importance of this she had been reminded often and pointedly by her graceless brother.

  It was more than a marriage for Sophia; it was an escape. An escape from a disintegrating house that had been plundered by Preston of its saleable items, an escape from the shire of Wigtown where the Gowrie fall from pride and position to poverty and humiliation was well known and where no bachelor would look her way except with embarrassment and, sometimes, faint regret.

  Be it said forever in his favor, Hugh Galloway, with magnificent aplomb, seemed never to see the signs of faded fortune in the Gowrie estate. He treated Sophia not as a bargain but as a prize. Though she could not say she was in love with the forty-five-year-old Scot, and though she fretted over the fact that his previous marriage of fifteen years was childless, she liked him and respected him. That was enough. And surely children would follow!

  Though she thought it a waste of money, Hugh Galloway, without hesitation, transferred a generous dowry into Preston’s pockets.

  Sophia knew the Galloway name, of course, from the adjoining shire of Kirkcudbright, and it was an old and honored one. Hugh Galloway had been a widower for several years. Now, for some reason, he had decided to remarry.

  Secretly, at first, Sophia wondered what had fixed the Galloway man’s attention on her—overage, impoverished, and with a brother whose reputation had dimmed any earlier glory obtained through centuries of Gowrie ancestors and their notable services to king and country.

  Hugh Galloway, quite frankly, told her why she had been his choice. Any lesser quality of person than Sophia Gowrie might have been chagrined, perhaps offended, but Sophia took it as a compliment from a man whose opinion she was beginning to prize.

  Hugh Galloway’s future included living on the Canadian frontier. “Ontario, where we’ll be, is no longer the frontier,” he explained, visiting with Sophia one Sunday afternoon in the ravished hall of the Gowrie manor, “but it certainly is far removed from the culture and customs to which you have been accustomed.”

  Canada! Something in Sophia, as in Hugh himself, was challenged.

  “And you, my dear,” Hugh had said, fixing her with measuring eyes, “strike me as just the woman to face it with me.”

  Unexpected color had surged into Sophia’s cheeks, for she felt elevated in his—as well as her own—opinion.

  “My departure date is a year and more away,” he said, adding with a smile, “I thought I should get this important part of the preparation struck from my list.”

  And even then Sophia felt no part of any list. Or, if she did, it was to feel contentment that she was at the top of it.

  The banns were read and the marriage performed. Preston, in his cups as usual, bade his one sibling farewell with a maudlin display of affection that would have been missing if he had been sober. As for Sophia, she stepped into the Galloway carriage, waved to the few friends standing by, turned to her husband, and said, with a smile, “Now for the great adventure.”

  It seemed to please the ordinarily taciturn, often dour, Scot. Along with these characteristics and the frankness he had already exhibited, Sophia was to learn of his impatience with ineptness, pride of name and position, a certain ruthlessness. But all of it was tempered with a rigid sense of fair play.

  At her comment, Hugh took her hand in the first show of intimacy between them, and somehow it conveyed the regard of which he had yet to speak and which he was to demonstrate by his actions rather than by his words.

  An apartment at Heatherstone became their first home. Hugh had little time for the games society played, and though he only rarely introduced Sophia to the aristocratic circle of which he was undoubtedly an accepted part, she never felt it was to her detriment. It was, simply, that Hugh was fixed on the move to Canada and regretted meaningless interruptions.

  “After all,” he said, “we’ll have it all to do over when we settle in Toronto. On my brief trips there I’ve made a few acquaintances; we won’t be entirely strangers in a strange land.” He explained to her that his business ventures there were under way, property purchased, and a home, even now, under
construction.

  “It will be almost a mirror image of Heatherstone,” he said fondly, “but better planned. After all these years I know what can be eliminated, what changed, and what improved.” He had planned for the same awe-inspiring impression but with more comfort and utility.

  The next few months were not wasted time for Sophia. Slowly she began to understand the man who was her husband, and to adapt herself to his way of life and to pleasing him. With Hugh’s encouragement and guidance, an entire wardrobe was designed and most of it packed.

  “The ladies in Toronto,” Hugh said dryly, “will study the newest styles avidly. We’re not going to a savage place, by any means. Now as for Angus—”

  This was Sophia’s introduction to the Morrison family, who was to accompany them. Accompany them, and yet only temporarily.

  “Angus Morrison was born at Heatherstone,” Hugh explained. “His father was groundskeeper until his death. Angus was a favorite of my father’s, who saw the boy’s intelligence and character and invested in his education. After all that, Angus came right back here and went to work as overseer—a keen farmer is our Angus. He married Mary Skye, also born and raised at Heatherstone. Mary’s mother, Kezzie—” Hugh’s patrician face softened. “Kezzie has been like a mother to me.” Sophia already knew, and appreciated, the cherished Kezzie.

  “And Angus?” Sophia pursued his earlier comment on savagery in the new land. “You seemed to indicate Angus might be going to Canada, too.”

  “Angus and Mary and the children. Angus wants to be his own master, and I don’t blame him. It’s hard to resist the call of free land, freedom from the serfdom and servitude that has plagued his strata of society for generations. It’s a chance to break loose, even as it is for me.”

  Hugh’s face darkened slightly. Being a second son, the grand Heatherstone estate had gone to his older brother. Fortunately his grandmother’s vast and extensive holdings had been left to him. But to be out from his brother’s shadow—Sophia could see an independent and arrogant man like Hugh would chafe under imperious authority, be it family or sovereign who held sway.

  It had been while riding that Sophia had first met Angus Morrison. Her attention sharpened at her first glimpse of him.

  Pulling her mount to a stop, Sophia asked, rather abruptly, “Who’s that man?”

  The groom who was accompanying her, a youth from the stables—and another who had been born and raised at Heatherstone—shaded his eyes, glanced at the man who had vaulted a low stone wall and was proceeding toward a field where sheep were grazing. “Why, Mum,” he said, “it’s no’ but Angus, our overseer.”

  Overseer and employee, perhaps; nevertheless there was in the man’s entire demeanor an air of authority. Perhaps freedom was a better word. He walked tall, strode easily; his head sat with some pride on his broad shoulders. His clothes, though suitable for a worker and somewhat worn, were quality and fit him well.

  Some impulse drove Sophia’s heels into the side of her horse. It bounded forward, over the wall, and toward the man, who turned at the sound of approaching hooves.

  Breathless, though there was no need for it—it was the mare who had done the running—Sophia looked down into the craggy face of Angus Morrison. Instantly, joltingly, unexpectedly and heart-shakingly, came the thought: Has love come, too late?

  Surely her face didn’t reflect the fact that, momentarily, sound faded and sight dimmed; surely her grip of the reins was not because she felt a reeling sensation. Perhaps the strange physical reaction whitened her face.

  At any rate the man’s face sobered; his hand came out spontaneously toward her, and he asked, “Are you all right?”

  “It was the jump—” Sophia managed.

  The young groom, by that time, had found a way through the wall and was coming alongside.

  “You all right, Mrs. Hugh?”

  Angus Morrison stepped back immediately. “So you’re Hugh’s bride. I apologize for not having been in to meet you before this. It’s lambing time—”

  “And you are Angus Morrison,” Sophia said, feeling foolish and struggling for poise. “Hugh has told me about you. And,” she added quickly, “your wife. Mary, isn’t it?”

  “Mary, yes. And our bairns—Cameron and Molly.”

  “Yes, yes, Cameron and Molly. And you are all coming with us to Canada.” Sophia was aware that she was speaking too quickly.

  “We’re going to Canada,” Angus affirmed, “but independently. Our date of sailing and our ship will be the same.”

  “But you’re going on to the prairies—”

  “Not the prairies,” Angus’s gentle correction continued, respectfully. “The bush country.”

  “The bush! I’m very ignorant, I’m afraid. You mean northern Ontario?” The Galloways would be in Ontario.

  “Not quite!” Angus’s face lit with a smile. “Much farther north and west—northern Saskatchewan, actually.”

  “Saskatchewan—I’ve never even been quite sure how to pronounce it.”

  “Very primitive.”

  “Why . . . why have you chosen that area? Do you mind—”

  “Not at all.” After a long glance at Sophia’s face, perhaps judging whether he might share his reasons, Angus said, “I don’t know if anyone else understands, but how do the names Medicine Hat . . . Elbow . . . Overlook . . . Red Deer . . . Saskatoon sound to you?”

  “I see,” Sophia answered slowly.

  “And, to be more specific—Bliss.”

  “Bliss . . . sounds too good to be true. That’s the name of a place?”

  “The place, specifically, to which I’m going. I’ve been in communication with someone there—an acquaintance—and have plans rather well worked out.”

  “I’d like to hear more about this . . . Bliss. Come to dinner tonight, Mr. Morrison—”

  “Angus, please. Everyone calls me Angus. And thank you. I’ll be happy to join you and Hugh tonight. We have many things to talk about, anyway, details to consider. It’s a big step, at least for me and mine.” The warm brown eyes were lit with the dream that would, after all, come true.

  Somewhat numbly Sophia turned her mount and, followed by the faithful groom, wended her way toward the monstrous rock pile that was Heatherstone and could not stop the thought that crept, like a nibbling mouse, into her head: An attractive man. A virile man. A virile man who has fathered children . . . .

  D inner that evening in the cold and echoing hall at Heatherstone was filled with talk of Canada from beginning to end. Having heard a great deal about Toronto and Hugh’s plans, Sophia now listened to Angus Morrison’s expectations.

  Early on, the Dominion of Canada had implemented a vigorous immigration policy. Agents were sent to Europe, and special fares were offered to immigrants. The provinces and the Canadian Pacific Railway offered inducements also. A revival of prosperity and the extending of the railway brought a brief rush to Manitoba, but settlement there and particularly beyond was slow.

  The “beyond” beckoned Angus Morrison. Expressly the area around Prince Albert in the vast northern part of Saskatchewan and, specifically, a district by the name of Bliss.

  “How enticing!” Sophia exclaimed. “Fancy living in a place called Bliss! The very name stimulates the imagination!”

  Toronto suddenly seemed dull and uninteresting and lacking in adventure. Stricken by her disloyalty, she smiled guiltily on Hugh; just as guiltily she stifled the thought that Hugh’s cold aristocratic demeanor was almost a reflection of Heatherstone, while the challenges of the raw West were a perfect setting for the vibrant man across the table from her.

  “The homestead system,” Angus was explaining, “provides that a settler can have one hundred and sixty acres on condition of three years’ residence and cultivation and a payment of ten dollars, which is a patent fee. You can imagine what that means to oppressed and downtrodden or simply poverty-stricken people.”

  “Angus,” Hugh interjected with a smile, “you’ve never in your life been any
of those.”

  “True . . . true,” Angus conceded. “And most of it thanks to your father. But you, Hugh, are going. Could I stay behind?”

  “All this, of course,” and Hugh indicated the heap of rock around them that was Heatherstone, “belongs to my brother.” Ian Galloway and his family were presently in residence at the family home in Edinburgh, where Wallace, the son, was studying. “Much as I love it,” Hugh continued, “there’s nothing here for me . . . or,” with a small smile in Sophia’s direction, “for my offspring.”

  To all, rich and poor alike, the new land beckoned, with promise of opportunity. The dedicated and devoted and desperate would survive; the weak and wavering would be eliminated by the very challenges they sought.

  Eventually Sophia was to meet Mary and the Morrison “bairns,” Cameron and Molly. Wee Molly was the image of her father, with his black, curly hair, but with the blue eyes of her mother and grandmother. Cammie was, himself, fair and golden.

  Mary, far more than Angus, demonstrated an awareness of their station in life and, though not servile, was self-effacing. Perhaps it was natural, when one knew one’s position to be inferior. Barriers dividing the classes were strong, almost unassailable, as they had been for centuries. To Mary, Sophia was “Mum. Yes, Mum, no, Mum, thank you, Mum,” or “Mrs. Hugh,” while to Sophia, Mary was simply “Mary.”

  Here, at home, it was expected. Canada, Sophia understood, would be different. There would be a great leveling of stations, every man no better or worse than his neighbor. Perhaps it was part of the appeal for Angus and Mary, as for many others weary unto death of oppression.

  But now it made a difference, and Sophia and Mary, though cordial, were not friends. Mary in her small “cot” and Sophia in the colossus that was Heatherstone were miles apart.

  Moreover . . . there was Angus. And Angus was Mary’s husband. Mary lived in a cot, Mary would travel steerage, Mary would endure the rigors of pioneer life, but she would do it all with Angus.

  Like a sickness she couldn’t shake, Sophia’s fascination with Angus Morrison plagued her thoughts in the daytime and her dreams at night. It became almost an obsession with her to test his seeming devotion to duty. Was it real or a cloak to be donned when he approached the family? Was it surface only, the deference he displayed? What would it take for him to break over the boundaries? Could she . . . command his attention?