Place Called Bliss, A

by Ruth Glover

  “This is the River Dee,” Kezzie said as the carriage left the ship behind and approached familiar territory. She seemed to feel it necessary to apologize because now, at low tide, it was all a sea of mud.

  “The Dee empties into the sea here at Kirkcudbright. When the tide is in, Kirkcudbright is one of the best-looking burghs of the Stewartry, in my opinion,” Kezzie continued.

  “Birds!” Margo interrupted. “Canada geese.”

  “Greylag geese, lassie. Below the town is where you’ll find birds—herons. Oot there,” Kezzie nodded in the general direction of the sea, “on St. Mary’s Isle, there’s been a heronry for centuries. Perhaps we can go see it while we’re here. We can visit the old priory ruins at the same time.”

  “Priory?” Margo questioned.

  “A religious hoose,” Kezzie explained, and Margo, none the wiser, blinked her dark eyes and nodded.

  Hugh, listening idly—while Sophia leaned her head back, her eyes closed—added, “The old home of Lord Selkirk is there, too.”

  Making a connection between the history of the old home and the new, Sophia opened her eyes to ask, “Didn’t Lord Selkirk help establish the Red River Colony?”

  “That he did; made quite a name for himself overseas.”

  There followed a brief discussion, meaningless to small Margo, concerning certain Scots and their contributions to society beyond their homeland: Andrew Carnegie, of course, who started work as a bobbin boy, following the skill of the weaver father who took his family from Dunfermline to the new world to make a fresh start; Canada’s first and second Prime Ministers were Scots—John Macdonald and Alexander Mackenzie; Canada’s Fraser and Mackenzie rivers were named for Scotsmen; and of course there was John Paul Jones, founder of the United States Navy, who came from Solway’s shores.

  Scotland had, indeed, a superior educational system and was turning out “lads o’ pairts,” or lads of talents, but, with no appreciable place or way to use those talents at home, emigration was the answer for many. The 1800s were years of mass migrations, triggered by economic factors such as a fall in the price of kelp, one of the few Highland industries; a fall in the value of the small Highland beef cattle; and a failure of west coast fishing. Most hurtful of all were the infamous Clearances when large numbers of Highlanders were evicted from their long-held ancestral crofts—landlords had come to realize that mutton and wool brought better profits into their coffers and needed fewer workers than beef and dairy products.

  As is so often the case, something good came from what was a terrible upheaval and misery. And Angus Morrison was a prime example; thrust, by necessity, from everything his people had known for untold generations, he would find a new challenge and future—not only for himself but for his children and his children’s children—in a new land.

  “A few miles east are the ruins of Dundrennan Abbey,” Kezzie was murmuring quietly to a wide-eyed Margo as she peered from the carriage window. “Of course you dinna know aboot her yet, but you will—Mary Queen of Scots spent her last night in that Abbey—”

  “Oh, look!” Margo pointed to the quaint town coming into sight: Kirkcudbright.

  “Don’t point, dear,” Sophia said automatically, while Kezzie whispered, “Home!”

  Accustomed to the noise and confusion of a vigorous city, Margo couldn’t restrain her cries of pleasure at the color-washed houses with their blue slated roofs.

  “The Tolbooth . . .” Kezzie breathed as they rolled past the ancient prison with its slender Mercat Cross dating from 1610. “Witches were tried here, lassie . . . as late as 1805. . . .”

  “Enough, Kezzie,” Sophia said sharply. History or not, her child should not be subjected to topics of witches or burning.

  The shadow cast by this reference to witches was nothing compared to the fear that was to haunt Margo upon their arrival at Heatherstone.

  It was pleasant enough pulling up to the courtyard of the massive house so like her own home in Canada with but subtle differences; the greetings by staff and Hugh’s brother Ian were, as expected, cordial. Margo’s eyes went automatically to the only other child present, her cousin Wallace, in his early teens.

  Gangly, small-eyed, and already pimply faced, handsomely clothed over narrow shoulders and thin legs, Wallace watched his father kiss Sophia and stoop to kiss the cheek of the child, and he followed suit. Lifting her round cheek for his kiss, Margo jerked and barely restrained an unacceptable shriek when the boy pressed his lips further and took a quick nip at her ear.

  Around her, everyone was busy—Kezzie helping with the unloading, the adults getting reacquainted, the staff turning back to the house, their arms and hands full. Margo clapped a hand to her stinging ear and stifled her outcry but was not quick enough to hold back the tears that filled her eyes. Wallace stepped back, keeping hooded eyes on Margo’s face. As young as she was, she understood the satisfaction on his countenance and determined then and there that, come what may, she would never give him such satisfaction again. It was a vow that was tested repeatedly.

  “Come, cousin,” Wallace said calmly. “Let me show you around.”

  “Thank you,” Margo managed in a shaking voice, “but I need to . . . to . . . go with Kezzie.” And she fled into the wide hall of Heatherstone and up the stone stairs following closely at the heels of Kezzie, who seemed to know just where to go.

  The children’s supper was served in the nursery, with supervision by someone named Beadle, a sharp-eyed, needle-thin woman who apparently knew her charge well and kept a keen eye on Wallace. Nevertheless, his booted, swinging foot managed to cruelly crack against Margo’s shin time and again, until she turned sideways in her chair, to Wallace’s amusement and Beadle’s disapproval. Beadle was even more grim of face when Wallace, watching for a time when the woman’s face was turned, overturned Margo’s glass, flinging its contents not only all across the table but onto Margo and—heavens!—Beadle as well. This fiasco came as near bringing the shaken Margo to tears as anything could have; not for her own sake, but for Beadle’s. With tears burning her lids and her voice thin, Margo managed, “I’m sorry, Beadle,” but she was rewarded by that lady’s sigh and Wallace’s smirk.

  Too young to defend herself, too young, really, to understand, the child Margo suffered countless humiliations and numerous physical hurts during the next two months when, mercifully, the visit was shortened and the Hugh Galloways returned home.

  Kezzie, who had cared for Wallace when he was small, was not blind to what went on; she was not always available, however, to protect her young charge. But she was as ready to leave as Margo, having visited the graves of her husband and three dead children, made a few visits to old acquaintances, and taken Margo, and often Wallace, on various expeditions around the area.

  With the carriage at the door and farewells being said, Margo had come prepared. With care she had stood before the mirror after Kezzie had fastened her small hat on her head, and worried and worked a hat pin into it so that it thrust itself out over one ear but was concealed by her hair.

  Sure enough, Wallace, with considerable delight that he had her at his mercy for the moment, and after he had dutifully kissed Sophia, backed Margo against the carriage wheel and brought his face down to hers. Turning her cheek toward him and quickly raising her hand as if to hold her hat, she waited the proper moment. Wallace kissed the proffered cheek and, with purpose, pressed his face toward her ear. Margo gave the pin a thrust with the hand already raised and in place. With a gasp Wallace jerked back his head, his hand going to a lip that had promptly showed a drop of blood.

  Frightened and trembling, Margo turned and clambered into the carriage. The last she saw of Heatherstone, Scotland, was her cousin Wallace, handkerchief to his lower face, his eyes slitted with fury, one fist clenched at his side.

  “Well done, lassie,” Kezzie murmured as she made a show of rearranging her young charge’s hat.

  Through the passing of the next uneventful years, Margo was almost able to put Scotland
and its bad memories from her mind. Heatherstone, Canada, was all and in all, and her world rarely extended beyond its borders.

  When, at age thirteen, another visit to the “old country” was planned, Margo barely gave Wallace a thought, believing he would have outgrown his foolish childhood. Consequently she looked forward to the trip with some excitement; it would be a welcome change from the ordinary routine of her life.

  Now in his early twenties, Wallace had lost most of his pimples, but his complexion was pallid, his mannerisms languid, his eyes too knowing, his hands too free.

  Though the outright physical injuries ceased, Wallace’s attentions were just as physical in another way. At five the child Margo had been shaken and appalled at actions she couldn’t understand; at thirteen it was no different. Innocent as a Scottish bluebell, she was again shaken and appalled at actions she didn’t understand: a hand run up and down her arm, a leg thrust against her own, kisses—no biting of the ear, but attempted nibbling of her lips—and glances that, not understood, sent shivers up and down her back. She left Scotland a much wiser girl.

  Wallace’s farewell kiss this time was proper enough, but his hand, on the side away from the family and servants, pinched Margo—not cruelly, but suggestively—and his face, when he drew back, was filled with that remembered, and hated, satisfaction.

  That pale face with the light of victory in the narrow eyes was Margo’s last glimpse of her cousin Wallace.

  “I’ll never, never come back,” she vowed silently as the carriage whirled away from Heatherstone, Scotland.

  But Wallace—would he come to Heatherstone, Canada?

  Dear Mam:

  Feb. 11, 1879

  One thing I will say about the life of a homesteader: the role of womanhood is greatly respected. Here, on the frontier, our worth is being recognized! While, of course, our physical strength remains inferior to our men’s, our strengths in other areas are far superior. I think history must show it to be so.

  Our special gifts, Mam, are not only shown in the old, recognized ways—housekeeping, child-bearing, and so on, but in nursing, teaching, and all the finer skills that are so often taken for granted. If there is no wife and mother in the pioneer homestead it is a sorry place indeed.

  Pity the poor bachelor! And we have several in Bliss and the surrounding areas. Sometimes they are unmarried, other times the wife cannot or will not submit to the stringent requirements to prove up their place. I figure, Mam, that what Angus must endure, I must also. As for the children, they will remember these days, I think, as sweet in many ways. Certainly the family is close in all ways, for we need each other so. Company is always enriching in one way or another, and every little gain, in any way, is a source of satisfaction.

  Winter is upon us, and it is severe. Hidden away here in our wee ‘hoosie,’ we’re not much different than the rabbits when they burrow away, or the beavers hidden in their lodges. For us all, survival is basic.

  But for us humans there has to be more than food to make us feel fulfilled, and this is where a mother is so important (never have I blessed my role so fervently as I do these days, nor appreciated how important it is).

  It was a great moment when we unloaded our carts and emptied our tent and moved into our cabin. Of this I’ve written before, and trust my letters have reached you. We must go to Prince Albert for our mail and, during this winter weather, that is not often, so we hear from you seldom. I must say, when Angus makes the trip, I am overcome with dread that he will not return, or that he will be greatly delayed somewhere, and we will be left alone here, with wood for the stove running out, food getting low, and the animals in the little barn needing attention. I know this is wrong of me and that I am showing little faith in the love and care of my heavenly Father. I do need help along this line so much, Mam! I feel like I am holding on to a very slender thread, having been taught so little and being so ignorant of spiritual things. All I know is, the slender thread has been enough. I know God won’t let go, and I daren’t. But oh, I need discipling so badly! I read my Bible and pray.

  “Mummie!” Cameron called from the window. Having heard a sound other than the scratching of his mother’s pen, the popping of the fire, and the stirring of his small sister in her sleep, he had hurried to the window, breathed on its ice-furred glass, rubbed and scraped a hole, and discovered the source of the sound, now the jingle of harness, and turned to call over his shoulder excitedly, “Comp’ny! Somebody’s coming!”

  Hastily gathering up her writing material, Mary thrust it aside, gave a hasty glance down at her apron, found it spotted and removed it, and joined Cameron at the window. Sure enough, a horse and cutter had stopped at a hearty “Whoa!” As Mary and Cammie watched, the lap robe was pushed back, and someone reached a foot toward the snow-packed patch of yard just outside the cabin door.

  So bunglesome were the newcomer’s wraps that Mary had the door open and had called a greeting before she determined if it was man or woman (or bear!) that approached. But the voice echoing cheerily through the scarf wound around the head was clearly feminine. Behind her, another figure had gone to the horse’s head, and called, “Is there room in the barn?”

  “Yes, yes, of course!” Mary called back. “Angus—my husband—is there—”

  “I’ll find him,” came the response, and the man led the horse and rig toward the small log barn. The nearer rotund figure had reached the door, stamping at the sill to remove whatever snow had been picked up on the way from the cutter, gray eyes sparkling and the mouth, as soon as the scarf was unwound, smiling.

  There they stood—two strangers—smiling so happily at each other that they might have been bosom friends for many years. And indeed, if it hadn’t been for the bulky, snow-flecked wraps, Mary might very well have drawn this new acquaintance into a warm, welcoming embrace. As it was, her voice rang with the sincerity of her feelings.

  “Oh, do come in. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you. I’m Mary Morrison—”

  “I know,” the voice emerging from the scarf said. “Sadie LeGare told me.”

  God bless dear Sadie!

  “We were in town last week. Sadie saw me in the store and told me about the new family in Bliss.” Removing her gloves, stuffing them in her pockets, and beginning to unbutton the fur coat that made her almost as round as the beavers it had originally graced, the woman added, “We’re the Raabs. I’m Cee, short for Celia, and Bela, my husband. No children—yet.” And the removal of the coat revealed the reason for the rolling gait and the round form: Cee Raab was very much “with child.”

  “Due—soon?” Mary asked, though it was not too difficult to assume as Cee seated herself to better remove the overshoes on her feet and even then, with a laugh, needed to submit to Mary’s help.

  “Very soon. And that’s one of the reasons I’m here. Though I’d have come anyway—to get acquainted.”

  “I’m so glad you did,” Mary said fervently, setting the overshoes by the stove and hanging up the coat and scarf on the nails beside the door where her own family’s wraps hung.

  “This is Cameron, our son,” Mary said, turning to the boy standing expectantly at her side. Like a man, Cammie extended his hand, his warm, small one going into the icy-cold one, in proper fashion.

  “And this,” Mary added, having caught sight of Molly’s black, tousled curls peeping around the curtain that had been strung to partition off part of the cabin in an effort for privacy for sleeping and dressing, “is Molly.” In a flash Molly was across the floor and to her mother, burying her head in her mother’s skirt; it had been a while since the Morrisons had had “comp’ny.”

  Mary moved her guest to the comfort of a rocker and the warmth of the spot at the side of the stove. While Cee spoke to the children, Mary stuffed fresh wood in the range and pulled the kettle toward the front where it would quickly boil. Tea—good, hot tea—that was the next step in protocol, whether in croft in Scotland or cabin in Canada. Tea—it would bond the two new friends
as they sipped together, equally as important as the warmth and comfort it would minister to the traveler.

  While the water heated and the teapot warmed, Mary turned to the newcomer, seating herself and saying, “Now, tell me about yourself, Celia Raab.”

  “Well, for one thing, we live about four miles from you. We’re closer to town, near enough to the road so you could stop and see us whenever you go.” Cee Raab looked hopeful as she said this. She was, obviously, as lonely as Mary, but without the company of children and the attention and time they consumed in a long, isolated day.

  “I’ll get my story over quickly,” Celia Raab said, adding, “I’m interested to hear yours.”

  And the two friends settled down while the kettle came to the boil, to begin a friendship, knowing they had all the time they needed to share whatever they wanted. If time ran out today, all the better; there would be another trip and another visit to look forward to, a small glimmer in a dark winter.

  “I may as well tell it first as last,” Cee said. “If I don’t, someone else will. It’s not unheard of, but unusual enough to cause considerable interest. You see, I’m a mail-order bride, I guess you’d call it.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “Hold it,” she said, “while I get the tea things. I must hear all about this.”

  Mary made the tea and, as it brewed, set out the remains of a gingerbread cake she had made the day before. Flushing with satisfaction, she drew her few dainty cups and saucers down from the shelf where they were on display, brought from her trunk four crisp serviettes, and served up the treat.

  “You’ll stay for supper, of course,” she said, thinking ahead.

  “ ’Fraid not,” Cee Raab said with regret. “It gets dark far too soon these days, and we’ve a distance to go. And if you haven’t learned it yet, you will—there are the everlasting chores to take care of. Feeding, milking, egg gathering, not to mention straining the milk and washing the pans and all those things. I guess,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m grateful for them, keeps me from going crazy, I suppose.”