Place Called Bliss, A

by Glover, Ruth

  “I noticed,” Margo said. “Such tiny cabins—”

  “My folks started off like that. What they have, they’ve worked for, believe me. But we’ve been happy and contented, and I remember the good times more than the bad. It was a tough time when my mother was so ill. That’s when I did my first serious praying.”

  “That’s when Kezzie came.”

  “Yes, and how we’ve loved having a grandmother, Molly and I. Did you know she lives with me now? Well, of course you know, hearing from her regularly.”

  “I knew, but what I didn’t know was that it was on land owned by my father.”

  “I see,” Cameron said thoughtfully. “So this has all been a surprise to you.”

  With the buggy turning in at the one and only building that could possibly be a general store, Margo was spared an explanation of her surprise regarding her father’s property and his will.

  Leaping from the buggy as lithely as he had gotten into it, Cameron came around the rig to offer his hand to Margo.

  “Might as well get down and stretch,” he said. “It’s another three miles home. But we’ll stop first at my folks’ place—that’s two miles from here. They are eager to meet ‘Margo’.” Cameron smiled.

  “Where’s Granny Kezzie?” Margo asked, walking beside the tall man toward the false-fronted building.

  “At my . . . your place.” Cameron made the correction quickly. “She’s not really able to climb in and out of a buggy anymore. Once in a while we lift her into the wagon and have a chair in there for her to sit on, and take her home, maybe for Christmas or some special day, like a birthday. Sometimes we have everyone over to our . . . your place, but Mam isn’t physically able to fix meals for a crowd. She takes care of me, though, to the best of her ability, and it’s great to have her with me. These are days I’ll always cherish, I can tell you that.”

  Cameron was holding open the door and ushering the newcomer into the store. One end was given over to food supplies, and here a man was checking a list held in his hand; a small pile of goods was before him on the scarred counter. Both he and the proprietor looked up and watched the approach of Margo and Cameron with interest.

  “Hey, Cam,” the proprietor said.

  “Cameron,” the customer said, politely and warmly, and both men shifted their gaze to the woman at Cameron’s side.

  “Hey, Barn,” Cameron replied in kind, and “How are you, Parker? Struggling over what you can afford, I guess. Miss Galloway, I’d like you to meet our right Reverend Parker Jones. He’s a good man, but just to make sure, we keep him on short rations. This other character is Barnabas Peale. Gentlemen—Miss Galloway.”

  Margo offered her hand, to have it soundly gripped and shaken.

  “Welcome to Bliss,” each said, while the minister quickly removed his hat.

  After a moment, “Barn” went about filling the list the minister handed over to him. “Do your best with it,” Parker Jones said. “You know my salary as well as I do . . . and my tastes.”

  “Yeah. They run to the cheap—beans, mostly.”

  Parker Jones turned his attention to Margaret. His smile was sweet, for a man, and Margo’s first and natural impulse to criticism and perhaps skepticism because he was a “man of the cloth” melted away, and she found herself quite liking the man without knowing him.

  “They like to make light of my housekeeping abilities, Miss Galloway,” the minister said sadly. “I’d like to see how well they’d do by themselves. Cam, here, had to call into service his aging grandmother to take care of him, and Barn, poor, desperate man, just married for the third time.”

  Cameron didn’t linger; he picked up what mail had arrived for his household and his parents’ and turned to go.

  “Mam is waiting to see her dear Margo,” he explained, and his tones came across as tender ones. The other two nodded, murmured their good-byes, and Margo and Cameron returned to the buggy and the final lap of their journey.

  The town of Bliss—what appeared to be several business establishments, including a barbershop and livery stable, interspersed with a few small houses and, at the end of the street, a white frame schoolhouse—soon disappeared as the buggy was enveloped once again in bush.

  “The church?” Margo asked, thinking of Parker Jones and his congregation, of which, she supposed, Cameron was a part.

  “The school serves as the church here, as in many places across the Territories. We just double up on its usefulness. It’s a good plan. The schoolhouse is central to everything in these new districts and is often the first building to go up. Canadians are serious about good education.”

  “Parker Jones—he keeps house for himself, I gather.”

  “Now he does. He started off, about a year ago, living around with the church families; a month here, a month there. Not good. He had a terrible time, no place to study, bunking with the boys of the family. And then there’s this: people shouldn’t know every intimate detail of their pastor’s life. Just imagine every woman in the congregation having washed your underwear, for instance, or knowing your best pair of socks is full of holes.”

  Margo couldn’t restrain a laugh at the very thought of Parker Jones suffering such indignities.

  “So, what was the solution?”

  “We built him a house . . . cabin, of course, mostly called shack hereabouts. One that’s big enough for now and can be added onto should the need arise. You’ll hear it here first,” Cameron said with a grin, slanting Margo a look, “but my sister, Molly, is already decorating that cabin—in her mind, of course, and, I imagine, in her dreams at night.”

  “And how does Parker Jones feel about all that, or does he know?”

  “Oh, he knows, all right. His dreams—nightmares, possibly—probably have to do with making his small remuneration stretch to feed one more mouth. I can’t call it a salary; whatever comes in in the offering plate, that’s it. People are good about taking in garden stuff, baked goods, and so on. And he seems to have a knack of dropping in for a call near mealtime. But who am I to fault him for that? I hated being a bachelor so much I prevailed on Mam to take pity on me. It’s not only the meals and all the work they mean, it’s the company. Especially in winter. But there—I don’t imagine you’ll be here that long. Make a quick visit, check on your investment here, and get back to civilization, right?”

  “Well—” Margo hesitated. The buggy seemed a poor place to talk business. “We’ll need to discuss . . . everything.”

  After a keen glance at Margo’s face, Cameron offered, “Of course, I expect that. Anytime, Miss . . . by the way, is it all right if we just dispense with formalities? They seem out of place, having known you through Mam for so many years, and with the ties my father had with yours, and with his more recent business dealing with me. What do you say? I’m Cameron to most people and just plain Cam to a few—take your choice.”

  “Cam . . . Cameron, of course. And you have a choice, too—Margaret, as most folks call me, or Margo, as Kezzie has always called me.”

  “Who do you think of yourself as?”

  “Margo.”

  “Margo it will be. Well, Margo, here we are at the Morrison homestead.”

  And it was as “Margo” Cameron introduced her to Mary, then Angus when he had made his way in from the barn. Their welcome was warm and sincere, not surprising after Sadie LeGare’s friendly greeting and Cameron’s easy camaraderie.

  “Come in . . . come in! We’ve looked forward to meeting you, especially since your father visited us a few years ago.”

  Margo was ushered to a comfortable seat, and conversation ran naturally along the lines of her father’s last illness, old memories, and earlier connections. Never had Margo been made so welcome, never had she felt so comfortable.

  The door slammed, and everyone turned toward the sound. The doorway framed a girl—young woman. Perhaps she had been running; perhaps she was excited. Her piquant face was delicately flushed, her black-lashed, blue eyes were sparkling. And her hair, smo
kily riotous, had escaped the ribbon that had tried to restrain it and curled in pure abandon over her forehead and around her ears.

  Automatically, Margo reached a hand to her own head to tuck up the stray curls. For one fleeting moment, gone as quickly as it came, she had the giddy sensation that she was looking into a mirror.

  T he moment went as quickly as it came. Like a lightning flash on a dark night, for one split second giving startling clarity, so the moment came and went, as if it had never been. And indeed, had it?

  Apparently she was the only one to have seen it; the others were busy with introductions and comments. Margo looked at the most recent family arrival, Molly, and saw her only as a young woman about her own age; probably older, if memory served her right. A girl with boundless energy, vivid face, and a mass of unruly, blue-black hair. Countless people have unruly, blue-black hair in this world, Margo realized. Molly’s father, Angus, for instance. Though Molly’s excessive curl was like her mother’s and her mother’s mother, the color was her father’s. Angus’s thick thatch, however, was touched with gray now. More than once Margo had heard her mother make reference to Angus Morrison’s “thatch” and Mary’s red “mop.” Margo, a lonely child with no relatives near, had pressed her mother for accounts of the old Scottish home, every phase of life there, the momentous move to Canada, the disastrous sea voyage, her own birth and the birth and death of Mary Morrison’s baby, or “sma’ one,” as Kezzie called her. For Kezzie, too, recounted the story, making it live for Margo until she almost felt that the absent Morrisons, Kezzie’s family, were her family, too.

  “And she never had a name?” Margo liked to ask, hearing again that Mary had never even seen her “bairn” but called her “angel.”

  “Like you call me,” Margo would say, cuddling close to Kezzie, to have her curls fondled lovingly and a kiss placed on her forehead.

  “For such y’are,” Kezzie would declare, and Margo thrived on the assurance in Nanny . . . Granny Kezzie’s tones.

  “Mam is so anxious to see you,” Mary was saying now, “so we won’t try to keep you. But Sunday, if Mam feels well enough, you’ll all come over for dinner. Our pastor, Parker Jones, will join us—”

  Margo noted Molly’s quickly heightened color and the flash in her blue eyes.

  “Dinner,” Molly explained, “is our noon meal, you know. Our evening meal is supper. And bush protocol doesn’t call for dressing for dinner, either.” Molly’s impish smile took any sharpness from her voice; neither did the farm’s simple way of life come across as anything but natural and good. Margo was feeling more and more at ease. She would accept and adjust to rural ways; after all, they would be her way from now on. What would the Morrisons say when they learned that she was to become a resident of Bliss? If she were to suddenly burst forth with “I’m staying on, you know,” what would their reaction be? Unbelieving, most likely, a rich girl’s whim. But if they understood her reduced means and the absolute necessity of making a go of it somewhere other than at Heatherstone, after their first shock would they accept her as plain Margo, as dependent on the land as they were?

  Taking the last mile of the trip with Cameron from the Morrison homestead to the Galloway place, Margo tried, hesitantly, to introduce the subject.

  “If I stayed . . . would there be room at your . . . that is, the Bliss place, for me?”

  Watching the bronzed face intently, Margo saw no telltale emotion, good or bad. But the moment of silence hung heavily between them before Cameron spoke.

  “Your father had the Bliss house enlarged; it’s quite roomy. We always kept a room ready for him, though he never came back after that one trip. It’ll be your room now, of course, and for as long as you wish, naturally. But I doubt that you’ll want to stay on into our winter. Bush life, for a sort of a lark, is fine . . . for a holiday. You’ll appreciate civilization all the more for having experienced life in the bush. Sponge baths, for instance, or a dip in a zinc tub; keeping a fire in the cookstove all the time just for the simplest kinds of meals; making bread a couple times a week . . . gathering garden stuff for supper; a path to the . . . ah. . . .” Cameron’s description of life in Bliss faltered.

  “I understand,” Margo said quickly.

  If only he understood. It didn’t matter how crude the lifestyle; not matter the inconveniences. She had no choice. It was life in the bush on the farm deeded her by her father or the impossible situation at Heatherstone with a groping Wallace and no hope of anything better.

  He didn’t understand! He didn’t know that Wallace’s gross insinuations had spoiled forever her Heatherstone home. He didn’t know that the defection of Winfield Craven, upon learning of her penury, had released her from any last tie with the former life.

  He didn’t understand that . . . that something unexpected had touched her heart at the moment she laid eyes on him. Something that even now tripled the beat of her heart and shortened her breath. Something that caused Heatherstone to fade into insignificance and Bliss to blossom with happiness and hope.

  No, this, in particular, Cameron didn’t understand. And thank goodness! How foolish could one be! Never had she imagined such a scenario: herself, weary and rumpled from the long trip, wrenched from all former things and unsure of the future, coming face-to-face with a man—a stranger in all but name only, but vital and masculine and magnetic—and, in that instant whirled off into depths and heights of emotions such as never for one moment suspected or experienced in her engagement and marriage plans.

  “I just thought it well to prepare you,” Cam Morrison was saying now. “I’m sure you’ve never known such primitive ways. Actually, it may end up seeming like a sort of memorable visitation. I hope so, anyway,” he finished lightly.

  Unseen by Cameron, Margo frowned. How was she going to explain to him that there would be no going back?

  And would Cameron, when he found out, give up his place as resident farmer? If so, who would take his place? The farm must be kept productive; it would be her only source of income. She—Margo Galloway, one-time pampered child of the rich—was as dependent on the land as any poverty-stricken settler in the Territories. The sponge baths, the kitchen range, the bread baking, the garden planting and tending, the path —all were to be as much a part of her life as that of the latest immigrant from the ghettos of Europe.

  And when Cameron Morrison learned that this poor little rich girl was to be his employer, and a live-in one at that—

  The final leg of the buggy ride was never to be remembered as Margo plunged into a half-frenzy of despair. Having met Cameron and realizing he was no servant such as she’d known but a man who would have goals and aspirations of his own, she saw how futile it would be to expect him to stay on, working for someone else. Especially a woman, especially when that woman had little or no funds to pay wages.

  “Here we are . . . and there’s Mam, bless her, waiting on the porch.”

  At Cameron’s words Margo’s worries fled for the time being, and she turned eager eyes on the house coming into view. But the sturdiness of the buildings and the beauty of the setting were ignored in favor of her first glimpse of the only grandmother she had known. Nanny, nurse, friend, all wrapped up in the dear, stooped figure awaiting her in the heart of the Canadian bush.

  If this isn’t home , cried Margo’s heart, where on earth would I find it?

  W hen Cameron had unhitched the horse, watered her, and turned her into the corral, he returned to the house. As he opened the door quietly, his breath caught in his throat in a strange way: seated in her old rocking chair, Kezzie, her withered cheeks wet with tears, was bent over the figure of the graceful girl who had flung herself with complete abandon on the floor and buried her face in the aproned lap. Kezzie’s bent fingers stroked the tangled hair with remembered gentleness.

  “Whoosh, whoosh,” she was murmuring tenderly, in what Cameron was sure were remembered tones.

  Feeling that he had intruded on a scene too private and too precious to be shared, Cam
eron turned to go. His movement caught his grandmother’s eye.

  “Come in, laddie,” Kezzie invited. “Wee Margo is one of us. This is her home in ways more than ownership.”

  If I ever saw a lamb come home to the fold , Cameron thought, this has to be it. How will Mam bear it, when separation time comes? Well, that would be two or three months away, he supposed, months that were vital to his own future. He wouldn’t wait too long to bring up the subject of the homestead’s purchase; surely that would, quickly and happily, settle Margo’s business in Bliss. And settle his own uncertain future happily and quickly if she agreed to sell to him. Aside from the fact that he could make only a partial payment, needing terms for the remainder of the purchase price, he could foresee no problem. And who, if anyone, would have the full amount to give her? With her wealth, a small arrangement such as this one would be of little consequence. To her. To him, it would be everything. So much of himself had gone into the Bliss place, with so many tentative dreams concerning it, that it would be hard indeed to turn it over to anyone else.

  “Wee Margo” buried her face even deeper in Kezzie’s lap and clutched the ancient knees in a tighter grip. Something—perhaps years of loneliness—was spilling itself out. Spilling out and being wiped away.

  Cameron backed away. “I’ll tend the fire,” he said quietly, “and start supper.”

  The large room that served as the living area for the home’s inhabitants—braided rug surrounded by comfortable furniture, lamps, and books, and across the room a kitchen/eating area—absorbed the soft sounds of loving comfort at one end and the muted thumps and clanks of Cameron’s domestic efforts on the other. When Cameron pulled the roasting pan from the oven and the fragrance of the crisp-skinned chicken filled the room, he looked through the gathering dusk to see Margo sitting back on her heels, looking up at Kezzie, sunshine on her face. For a moment Cameron thought it was a glow from the girl herself. With a shake of the head at his own foolishness, he recognized it as a touch of the setting sun through the lace-curtained window.