Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3)

by Ruth Glover

  No, there were no intimacies shared these days in the Caulder household.

  So Tierney had made no reference to the devastating news that Robbie Dunbar was leaving Binkiebrae and did her best to carry on in normal fashion. It was surprising and touching, then, that her father, even in his self-preoccupation, appeared to have noticed that something was amiss. Perhaps Tierney had lapsed in her usual cheerful demeanor.

  “Is anathing wrong, lass?” he asked gently, watching her prepare to go out. “Ye seem cast doon some wa.’”

  Da was not to be burdened! His remaining days were to be peaceful! Flinching guiltily at telling a bald-faced lie, greatly touched by her father’s insight and concern, Tierney ran a hand lovingly through his skimpy gray hair and said, with as much reassurance as she could muster, “I’m fine, Da! Just fine. Dinna worry about me.” Then she added, by way of explanation, “I’m jist takin’ the afternoon to go see Annie and pick up some eggs. You’ll like one for your tea, I know. And remember—Fenway is coomin’ to sit wi’ ye.”

  Quickly past the few dwellings and businesses of Binkiebrae, with her shawl over her head and wrapped closely around her shoulders, Tierney turned her back on any inquisitive eyes, turned her face toward the sky, and wept along with it. Twin tracks of tears—those from a more than generous heaven, and her own—ran down her cheeks, the first tears she had allowed herself. Truth to tell, until now she had been too stunned, too numb, to weep. It had been as though she were caught in a web of thick, agonizing silence, where nothing seemed real, only—Robbie Dunbar, leaving Binkiebrae and Scotland. Forever. It was all too unreal. It was all too real.

  Anne saw her friend approaching, had, in fact, been watching for her, certain she would come in response to the reference—the double-meaning reference—to eggs.

  “Well, here ye are then,” she said, opening the door before Tierney could knock. “Coom on in oot o’ the rain.”

  Urging her friend inside, Anne removed Tierney’s damp shawl and spread it out before the fire to dry.

  Shivering a little, Tierney held her hands out to the small blaze, which did little to lighten the gloom, but which warmed the small room adequately.

  “I guess it were silly o’ me to coom today, the weather so bad and all,” Tierney remarked, “but I had need to get oot o’ the hoose. Besides, Annie, I’m full curious aboot yer signal yesterday. What’s it all aboot? Do you really have eggs, then, or is it sum’at else? It is, isn’t it? It’s sum’at else.”

  To Tierney’s dismay, tears sprang into Annie’s eyes. As Annie bent over the fireplace, fumbling with the teakettle, her tears were quickly hidden, but her voice, when she spoke, was unsteady.

  “Aye, there’s eggs. But there’s . . . sum’at mair.”

  “Tell me, dear Annie. Tell me anythin’ ye wish to. I, in my turn, hae something to tell ye.”

  “It seems to be a day for sharin’ confidences,” Annie said, trying to smile through her tears. “You go first, Tierney.”

  “Na, I’ll not,” Tierney declared, “until I hear tell of wha’s troublin’ ye.”

  “Well, then, I’ll pour the tea, and butter the scones—”

  “A rare treat, Anne.” And with appreciation Tierney took the cup and a scone, and in silence the two friends ate and drank, a time-proved healer of many hurts.

  At last, looking blindly down into her half-empty cup, Annie could stand it no longer. Once again the tears ran, this time unchecked. With a small exclamation of concern Tierney set her own cup aside and knelt swiftly at her friend’s side, her arms going around the shaking shoulders.

  “Annie, Annie,” she crooned, holding the dark head against her shoulder, and stroking the soft hair. “Is it so bad then? Your da, your brothers—is sum’at wrong wi’ them?”

  Unlike Tierney, Anne did not have a kind father and sympathetic brothers. The Frasers were angry at life as they knew it. There was a great restlessness going on in the world, with some people having an opportunity to better themselves as never before. Paul Fraser, finding himself still under the heel of an oppressor—his landlord—and unprepared for any other sort of life, was bitter and short-tempered. With Mrs. Fraser gone, the home was a rough one, with much complaining, some roaring, and plenty of impatience with a young sister who, after all, could do nothing but give her strength and time to keeping house for the three of them. It was a thankless job.

  No wonder Tierney suspected something was wrong where Anne’s father and brothers were concerned.

  “Na, na. Not me da nor me brothers,” Anne managed. After a spate of tears, she dried her eyes. “Ah weel, I canna talk aboot it yet, after all,” she finally said with an indrawn, quivering breath and a straightening of the shoulders. “I’m not certain sure I should talk aboot it at all.”

  “But Annie,” Tierney said, aghast, “ye must. Ye need to. Who else do ye have to talk with but me?”

  “Na, na, I canna, I canna,” Annie said, stubborn now. “It’s been enough jist to see ye. I’ll think on it somemair. It may be that the whole thing is made up of a feeble lie after all. To spread abroad something that issna true—na, na, I canna bring meself to talk aboot it, though I thought I might.”

  Now Tierney, knowing her friend well, was absolutely certain that something was quite seriously wrong. Nevertheless, she sat down again, shaking her head somberly, and sighing, turning up her damp shoes to the fire. “Ah, Annie,” she reproached.

  “But Tierney,” Anne said, turning the conversation away from herself after a sip or two of the heartening brew, “what’s wrong, for ye? I know ye well, and there’s sum’at wrong. Yer da jist too much for ye today? ’Twouldn’t surprise me; ye’ve had a long haul there. And not done yet. I’m glad ye came. Let’s talk aboot it. . . .”

  It was all Tierney needed. The tears, having been loosed on the way, had not dried up, and now they tumbled forth unstopped.

  “Dearie! Dearie!” Annie said, greatly troubled, greatly astonished. Her own troubles faded in comparison to what seemed to be a serious problem with Tierney.

  Anne waited for her friend to give her the reassuring words, “’Tis naething,” but they were not forthcoming.

  “Can ye no’ tell me, dear friend?” Anne asked, her own heart greatly troubled now, and not for herself but for Tierney. What a day it was for rain and tears!

  “’Tis Robbie,” Tierney mourned, gazing blindly into the cup in her hand. “Ye’ll find it hard to believe, Annie; I do m’sel’. But Robbie . . .” Tierney’s voice rose to a broken squeak, “Robbie and Allan are off to Canada any day now—”

  “Na, na! It canna be so!”

  “Off to Canada to stay. To file for a farm and ne’er coom back to Binkiebrae. Ne’er coom back, Annie!”

  “Ne’er coom back?” Anne repeated gropingly, finding it hard, perhaps impossible, to accept the thought. “Ne’er coom back? But Tierney, what aboot ye? I know where ye’re heart is. Oh, Tierney, I canna grasp what all this means to ye! And to Robbie—how’s he takin’ it?”

  “Like an innocent sheep harried by a rogue dog,” Tierney cried. “He dinna know where to turn; he dinna know anything he can do. His da has spoken, ye see; it’s the law laid doon, for him and Allan. An’ o’ course we know many who’re goin’; it’s not all that unheard of. There are so many who’ve gone, had to go, chose to go, niver to coom back. Nae, it’s not that surprising, I guess—”

  “But Robbie! Did he tell ye, Tierney? Did he tell ye himsel’?”

  “Aye, he did that. Bitter, he was, bitter and desperate. An’ trapped. But not because of Canada. Hoots, na! He’s happy enow to get awa’, I think. It’s because o’—” Tierney’s tears, dried for the moment in the heat of her passion, flowed again. “It’s because o’—us!”

  Anne set aside her cup and came and knelt at her friend’s damp skirt, reaching to console her, comforting Tierney in a pain she could only imagine, herself being heart-free.

  “It’s the end, then,” Anne whispered. “But how much better, lass, that i
t came before you and he . . . before you and he—”

  “I think I canna bear it, Annie,” Tierney wept, in her friend’s arms. “T’ niver see Robbie again! I think I canna bear it.”

  Staring into the fire over Tierney’s damp head, aching for her friend, Anne momentarily forgot her own troubles. Tierney not only had the care of a dying father—that same care dragging out and nibbling away the sweet days of Tierney’s youth—but now Robbie, in whom every dream was invested, would be taken from her. It was, indeed, a sad prospect. As a female, Tierney had no choice, no alternative; she was caught as a rabbit in a trap.

  “E’en if it weren’t for Da,” Tierney said finally, “’twould be hopeless. I couldna go with Robbie and Allan. Neither can I hope to go meet them later, when me da . . . I dinna know whaur they’ll be, in that vast country. And me without money, or friends, or any idea whaur to go or who to contact—nae, Annie, ’tis no good thinkin’ on it. Robbie hasna even mentioned my going; he knows as well as I do that there’s nothing in the whole world to be done aboot it.” Tierney’s last words were a cry of despair.

  Anne couldn’t argue; there were no sensible alternatives to offer. All that Tierney had said was true. There was no money; there was no way. Robbie would disappear in the vast and stretching prairies of the Canadian territories about which they were constantly hearing, and he would be as lost as a single raindrop in that same landscape.

  For love to shrivel and die away before ever it had been allowed to bloom! Anne found no words to comfort her friend. Trying, she started, weakly, “There’ll coom along the reet one . . . some day—”

  Tierney’s flashing eyes, even in the dim light, brought Anne’s foolish comfort to a halt.

  And so the young women, bound by custom, by poverty, by forces beyond their power to change, mourned together.

  Quickly the remainder of the afternoon passed, the rain increasing and the gloom thickening. Recognizing the lateness of the hour and remembering the meal waiting to be fixed when she arrived home, Tierney stirred restlessly at last.

  “I maun be off home,” she sighed and then recollected Anne’s own personal need to talk.

  “But first, Annie, tell me, will ye not—what’s wrong? Please, dear friend. It canna be too bad to tell me—”

  But Annie answered stoutly, “Na na, Tierney. It’ll wait. ’Tis nothing that canna wait. I promise I’ll tell ye all aboot it . . . some other day.”

  And no matter what Tierney said, Anne shook her head, insisting it “wasna all that bad,” and even managed to smile about it.

  Surely, then, the confidence could wait; Tierney had no choice but to accept her friend’s decision.

  Wending her way back to Binkiebrae through the dusk, she wondered uneasily if she should have persisted. But the afternoon had gotten away all too quickly. What a dear and good friend Anne was . . . had been, across the years. Without a mother or a sister for either of them their relationship had the bonds of a deep necessity—they needed each other! Tierney felt that, in sharing her misery with her friend, she could bear it better. Regretfully, she had not persuaded Anne to divide her burden by sharing it. Another day . . .

  Clutching her small basket of eggs and anticipating the boiling of one for her da’s supper, Tierney sighed—life’s dramatic moments were punctuated with such small concerns—and hurried homeward.

  For two weeks Tierney wondered—had she said her goodbyes to Robbie Dunbar? Would there be no more opportunity for meeting? And if so, would it be wise?

  Wise? Tierney almost laughed aloud at the thought. Wise, where Robbie Dunbar and her future were concerned? Given half a chance, Tierney would have forsaken all—home, kirk, friends—and sailed away, in a heart’s beat, with Robbie Dunbar.

  But Robbie knew, as did she, there was no future in such a scheme: He was destined to go with his brother; she was destined to stay. He couldn’t ask her to do otherwise; she couldn’t offer. But her wild Scottish heart may yet have broken all bounds, forsaken all sense, except for one thing: Da.

  Desperately as Tierney’s thoughts sought a way out, passionately as she, at times, threw reason to the winds, all roads led her back to Da and his need of her. Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine herself saying good-bye to Da, shutting the door, turning away, and leaving her father in his final illness. And, as the days slipped away, it was increasingly difficult to leave him at all, even for the buying of food and the collecting of fuel. Rarely was she outside, for any purpose.

  The little house, kept especially warm for the invalid, grew heavy with the odors of illness, and Tierney, at discreet moments when her father was abed in his room, flung open the windows and door, and in spite of the chill, gave the home a good airing.

  Always, the hilltop called to her, and her silent, secret place beckoned. Only up there would it be possible to breathe deeply, to clear her head, to begin to understand the dreadful import of what was happening to her. Down below, acceptance eluded her; she found herself bitterly resisting the fact that Robbie, any day now, would be gone.

  Phrenia proved to be a blessing; she came often and took her place at Da’s side, sometimes reading to him, sometimes watching him drift in and out of a doze, and dreaming, Tierney supposed, of when the small house would be her own, hers and James’s. Her eyes would roam over the rough walls, mentally cleaning, fixing, changing. As she has every right to, Tierney reminded herself constantly, and felt no better for it.

  And so the days slipped away, lost in the routine of nursing, meals, washing, baking. The normality tended to help Tierney become numb to the reality.

  And then there came the day and the knock at the door. Opening it, Tierney saw Robbie’s younger sister.

  “Please, Tierney,” the girl said brightly, “Robbie wants ye to meet him at four o’ the hzour, atop the hill.”

  “Thank you, Willa. Thank you, I will.” With never a hesitation, Tierney responded. If Robbie Dunbar had asked her to sail for Timbuktu at the cock’s rising, she would have gone, at a moment’s notice. Except—for Da.

  Even now, agreeing to meet Robbie, the thought of Da caught her up short. Quickly she turned back to the door, stepped out, and called, “Willa—come back a moment, please!”

  “Aye?”

  “Willa—if I’m to meet Robbie, I’ll need someone to stay a few moments with me da. Would ye be able to do that for Robbie and me?”

  “I’ll coom back in plenty o’ time,” Willa replied agreeably.

  As good as her word, Willa showed up at the door at the proper hour, and Tierney, snatching up a shawl, stepped outside, paused on the flat rock that formed a stoop before the low door, and looked up. Looked at the high hills, brooding today under a cloudy sky. Spontaneously, without conscious thought, a verse from the Psalms sprang into her mind—suggesting, offering solace: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

  Ah, if only it were so! If only the everlasting hills, having seen so much of life and pain and parting, would speak benignly, promising that in their time and way they would make everything right. Tierney couldn’t believe it to be so simple, and the tentative offer of divine help slipped away and the hills remained, silent and voiceless, as they always had, as they always would.

  Resolutely closing her mind to foolish fancies of divine help, Tierney fixed her eyes on the hilltop and the one spot that was her own special hideaway and retreat, and began to climb.

  Though the sun hid itself most of the way, the day was warmer than she had known, and she soon pulled off her shawl and carried it over her arm. Next, the kerchief came off, and the slight breeze blew the auburn tresses into vibrant disarray; the coolness felt magnificent as it pushed against her slim, young body, challenging her progress, teasing her steps.

  Robbie was not yet there. Looking out over the sullen sea, imagining the far distant place to which its restless movements would take him, Tierney felt its cold unconcern seep into her very heart, and she shivered and drew her shawl around her once again.
Why had she imagined there would be consolation up here? Surely, from now on, the stretching sea and the wide sky would only serve to remind her of the vast distances that served to separate her from Robbie Dunbar.

  Some movement down the glen caught her eye, and she left off searching the sea. Once again—for the final time—she watched Robbie Dunbar climb to meet her. He was, she understood poignantly, no more able to go without seeing her than she was to refuse him.

  To see him, and ache; to not see him, and grieve—those were her options. She had grieved for two weeks; now, seeing him, she ached. Truly their love and the uselessness of it were as sheep’s gall mixed with honey.

  But it would be a strange meeting, this one, like none other. Unless, of course, he were coming to say he would not be going after all. Otherwise, what was there to be said, what done? Not only were their hands tied but their tongues also—nothing that was of import had been said between them, could be said, would be said.

  But nothing could stop the language of the eye, and Robbie—two weeks ago—had spoken all things to her whatsoever she desired to hear and said it passionately.

  Remembering again that moment when he had looked at her, his heart in his eyes, brought an exquisite thrill to Tierney again today, as it had a thousand times in the past two weeks. But it was a thrill threaded with a pang, a pang that was becoming as familiar as the thrill that brought it. Again—the bitter and the sweet.

  He was at her side almost before she knew it, so engrossed in her thoughts had she been. Rather than throw himself at her feet as he had done so often in the past, Robbie leaned, as she did, against the ancient rock wall, breathing deeply—from the exertion of the climb, one would suppose. The effort had tinged his lean brown cheeks with color; his blue eyes, under deep brows, burned darker than she remembered.