Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (13 page)

It had been a long three days. Allison had grown increasingly impatient with her enforced incarceration. Once each day Mrs. Buckle had appeared to escort her to the bathing room, had shut her in, and apparently had stood outside the door until Allison was through with her ablutions. The inflexible presence in the hall had a dampening effect on the girl and kept her from dawdling over her bath, as she might have done otherwise. No, it was wash, dry, dress, and return to the prison of her room. Three times a day Becky scurried in with a tray of food, Mrs. Buckle once again standing guard outside the door.

Of Sarah there had been no sound. Perhaps her attempt to communicate with her sister had been observed and reported to their father. At any rate, there was no further contact, though once Allison had thought she heard a snuffling at the door.

“Fifi? Fifi?” she had called, lifting her head and listening.

Soft footfalls rapidly fading had been her answer.

Sitting by the window at times, dreaming of flight, Allison could see why she and Stephen had abandoned the idea of escape by means of the window—it was a long way down to the ground. Even Allison’s intrepid courage faltered over the thought of descending, reaching freedom by such means, though she spent a few moments pondering the possibility of sheets tied together, making a rope of sorts. But she wasn’t sure her knots would hold, and she could picture herself plummeting into the bushes below, to be ignominiously fished out and, once again, herded back to her room. And if she did make a safe descent, what then?

Allison’s first spate of meekness, due perhaps to her weariness, was fast fading. If her father had called for her that first day or come to her room to see her, he might have found her tearfully begging for forgiveness, promising irreproachable behavior forevermore. As it was, with each passing hour she grew more restless, then peeved
that she should be subjected to such humiliating treatment, then angry that it continued so unreasonably.

So when Buckle tapped on the door, was granted permission to enter, turned the key, and came in, Allison was already belligerent.

“Yes?” she demanded.

“Your father wants you downstairs, Miss.”

So the moment of confrontation had come. Good! She was ready!

“I’ll be ready in a moment, Buckle.”

Still Buckle waited.

“You may leave, Buckle. I can find my way down, you may remember.”

“Yes, Miss,” Buckle said with a slight dip of the head. And he withdrew, to stand, she realized, just outside the door, still waiting.

It didn’t help her attitude.

There was little to do to prepare herself; she was dressed—there had been nothing to do all day except see to her own needs, her toilette. Still, she fussed around a bit, banging this, rattling that, clattering her shoes back and forth across the room. In the end it availed nothing; Buckle still stood, and stood still, waiting for her.

At the last, as ready as she could be, she snatched up a shawl, a pretty thing of black cashmere with a five-knot silk fringe eight inches deep, and a favorite of hers. Its splendid richness gave her a dignity, she felt, which she badly needed. And besides, though her room was warm and her father’s study would be warm, the passageways and corridors between were unheated and bitterly cold. The promised thaw had come but had not appreciably permeated the stone walls of Middleton Grange.

Passing Sarah’s room, Allison ran her fingernails along the paneling, tapping gently. A muffled yap was the only response; if Sarah was in, she gave no indication of it.

It seemed good to be free. Young, vigorous, weary of being pent up, and still coltish in some respects, Allison could have kicked off
her slippers, hiked up her skirts, and run along the stretching halls and down the wide stairs. Could have but did not. Buckle would have been scandalized; Allison giggled momentarily, thinking of the staid servant’s predicament if she fled ahead of him, and the damage to his dignity if he was forced to chase after her, galloping along uncharacteristically and feeling severe humiliation.

Arriving at her father’s door, Allison paused and tossed her shawl more gracefully around her shoulders, waiting for Buckle to step forward and open it. Once she was inside, Buckle closed the door and she stood before it, uncertain, for there was a grim atmosphere in the ordinarily comfortable room. It came, no doubt, from her father’s expressionless face and her mother’s bent head. Allison had to fight against the unreasonable sensation of being seven years old again and full of dread.

“Come here,” her father said, and she half expected him to open the desk drawer and draw out a strap. A stinging blow across the palm had been his practice when dealing with childish disobedience. Allison had hated it not half so much as his coldness of manner.

Drawing in a deep breath, Allison stepped forward. “Good morning, Mama,” she said politely, a faint quaver in her voice. “Good morning, Papa.”

Letitia stirred but didn’t respond or look up. Quincy’s gaze, fixed on Allison’s face, never wavered. Though there was a chair at the side of the desk, he did not motion her toward it.

This is ridiculous
, Allison thought and asked, “May I sit, Papa?”

“There’s no need,” he said. “This won’t take long.” Letitia spoke at last. One word. “Quincy—”

“Quiet!” was the one-word response, and Letitia subsided. “Papa—” a one-word attempt.

“You’ll be quiet, Miss,” he ordered, and Allison, like her mother, subsided into silence. But after all, she thought, what was there to say? Squaring her shoulders, Allison determined to take her punishment calmly, even placidly. She was ready to get it over with and move on, back to her normal life. There was so much ahead to
look forward to, not the least of all being the birthday ball that had been in her mind the last three days when she had had little else to occupy her thinking. Her ball gown would be of the handsomest silk moire, green, shot with silver—

“I needn’t tell you that you’ve disgraced the family and the name of Middleton,” her father began.

“I’m sorry, Papa—”

“Be quiet! If you think an apology of yours can wipe out the damage you’ve done, the pain you’ve inflicted, the shame—”

Allison closed her eyes as her father’s wrath lashed out at her bitterly.

It won’t take long, he had said. But once started, Quincy Middleton was a machine grinding out his grievances. Before he was half done, Allison found her knees trembling and kept her feet still with some trouble. This was dreadful! Never, in her moments of imagining this scene, had she supposed it would be this horrendous. Bowing her head, as Letitia continued to do, Allison let the fury fall around her like rain.

Finally, silence fell. Allison raised her head. Was there more?

There was; she could not have imagined what was to come.

Her father rose from his chair, walked to the window, and with his back to her and to his wife, said, “There’s only one solution to disgrace such as yours. That is—expulsion.”

Allison was puzzled. “Expulsion?” she repeated.

“Behavior such as you have demonstrated cannot be countenanced in a civilized country, in decent society—”

“Oh, Quincy!” Letitia’s voice was strained.

He turned. “There are places for people like you. Scoundrels, scamps, second sons who get themselves in trouble. Remittance men. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

“Well, yes, but—” What was her father saying?

“Shameful actions call for shameful measures. Yours call for nothing short of banishment.”

What was her father saying!

“Pack your things, my girl. You’re bound for Canada and the wild West.”

T
he chinook! Parker rose one morning to find a strange, silent change in the weather. Weary of winter, with a special reason for wanting spring, watching and eager for any sign of melting, he was quick to detect what seemed to be a faint settling of the snowbanks, banks compacted of snow piled on snow for more than eight months. When he opened the door and stepped outside, he was sure there was a softness to the breeze on his cheek. Before long he saw the first drop splash from the eaves and knew the fire in the stove had not yet warmed the roof enough to cause it.

Could it be the longed-for, the dreamed-of, the gentle chinook?

About April each year the people of the bush began that fervent watch, that eager longing for the magical moment—as though Mother Nature would wave a benign wand over the land—that would mean the beginning of the end of their snowbound existence. With warm breath she touched the land
that had been ravaged by the icy hands and wanton will of one—Winter—who had had his capricious way long enough, shrieking out his fury at one time, casually dropping a curtain of near-impenetrable snow at another, obliterating their roads, vibrating their stovepipes, frosting their windowpanes, darkening their days at will.

The chinook. No one really understood the phenomenon, but Parker knew vaguely that it had its origin west of the Rockies. Moisture-laden winds from the Pacific Ocean struck the lofty barriers of the Rocky Mountains, precipitating snow and rain; but somehow, as the winds descended the eastern slopes, they became dryer and warmer until, reaching the prairie provinces, they ushered in a rapid thaw.

It was difficult to settle down to anything, Parker felt now. There was a leaping in his spirit, an expectation. But standing on his small porch and looking out at the softening snow, watching it glisten in the sunshine, he knew it was foolish to get out into it on foot, except for an emergency.

With reluctance he turned back to the house and his studies. Was it too soon for a sermon from that glorious passage—which he appreciated more fully since living in the northlands—about winter being past? “The time of the singing of birds is come,” were the words that sang through his spirit.

Turning to the Song of Solomon, Parker’s eyes settled on the first verse of the second chapter, beginning with the evocative “I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys,” proceeding through “his banner over me was love” in verse 4.

He lingered over verse 8: “The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.”

About to become a bridegroom himself, Parker gleaned new meaning from the rich picture that he had always seen as Christ’s love for His church.

The poignant and beautiful plea in verse 13, “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away,” expressed the longing of his own heart.

As never before, he felt the Lord’s heartbeat through the sweetness and strength of verse 14: “Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.”

He found his cheeks wet with tears; it had all been too much—the breaking of the weather, the anticipation of his marriage, the message of the Lord. Parker Jones, overcome with thanksgiving and filled with expectation, slipped from his chair to the floor, where he knelt and communed. Communed and praised.

A cheery “Helloooo” brought him out of his happy worship and up off his knees. He knew the sound; it was Molly, calling from the cutter.

Opening the door, he stepped out, saluting her with a welcoming smile.

“Can you come?” she called. “I’m going to Bliss. Get your coat and come with me, Parker.”

They were already in the
community
of Bliss; she was going into the
hamlet
of Bliss, perhaps to the one general store, perhaps to the post office, most likely to both, since the post office was in a corner of the store. It was a very small hamlet, just the store and post office, a barbershop in the home of the local barber, the Stopping Place, a few cabins and houses, the massive grain elevator. And at the edge of town—the small white building that was school and church. Here children from all over the district gathered for learning; here the faithful congregated on Sunday for worship.

Small though it might be, the hamlet was the center of Bliss life, and the school/church was the center of Bliss.

Of course, even as Molly called to him to join her, Parker knew it wasn’t quite so simple as snatching up a coat. Overshoes must be pulled on, not only for warmth but because of the wet condition of the snow, sure to ruin shoes. And Parker had one decent pair. Gloves must be located—probably from a warm spot under the stove where they had been drying. A hat or cap was essential. A scarf . . .

Then there was the delay while he put wood into the stove, closed the damper, pulled the coffeepot back where it wouldn’t go dry during his absence. Finally, deeming everything shipshape, Parker could turn to the door with a light heart. It suited him exactly to be getting out into the exhilaration of the chinook.

It was an exhilaration experienced by the entire district, he knew. Having shared their winter, he could understand and share their exultation in the promise of spring. He could imagine faces, reddened and chapped by winter’s harshness, raised joyfully to the blue of the sky. Eyes, weary of squinting into glare, would be catching a glimpse of color again as woodpiles reappeared, as chicken coops rose, like the phoenix rising from ashes, out of oblivion into newness and life once again. Cheeks, frost-nipped, would crack into smiles when caressed by the pleasant wind.