Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (13 page)

Still Pearly hesitated, wishing, secretly, that Anne’s case might have been settled first.

Slowly she spelled out the terms of the agreement: “Dairy farm near Sask-a-toon . . .”

Miss Dobrie, a buxom female with a highly colored face, tightly corseted and creaking at every movement, retrieved the paper from Pearly and read speedily and rather sharply, her patience at an end: “Dairy farm near Saskatoon. Companion needed for housewife. Mainly housework, some outside chores.

“They have agreed, of course, to the Society’s stipulation regarding pay, as has been outlined for you already by Mrs. Mountjoy. They also stipulate that you shall have every Sunday evening off after six p.m. If you work overtime, you shall receive the fair sum of fifteen cents an hour.

“Well, Miss Chapel, what do you say? Eh?”

“Where is this place?” Pearly asked, her pansy-purple eyes innocent as she stalled for more time.

“On the prairies, of course, where most of the girls have gone or will go. About thirty miles from the hamlet of Red Fife—named for their wheat, no doubt—and about seventy miles from Regina. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, not really. What I mean is, is it in Manitoba—”

“Saskatchewan. That’s where Regina is—originally called Pile of Bones—Saskatchewan.”

“Pile of Bones,” Pearly repeated, fascinated in spite of herself.

“No matter; you probably won’t see Regina once you pass through on your way to Red Fife. Someone, probably Mr. Belknap himself, will meet you. This is,” Miss Dobrie inspected the paper in her hands more closely, “an English family. You should feel right at home with them, I expect. Any more questions, Miss Chapel?”

Pearly’s mind seemed to be a blank. The great moment was upon her; the reason she had left London. Now, this minute, her future hung in the balance, for happiness or despair. All it required was her signature. Suddenly Pearly was very glad she had prayed about it; from the beginning she had prayed about it. Anne or no Anne, she would delay no longer; it had a right “feel” to it.

Drawing a deep breath, Pearly took the paper dangling before her, noted the line marked with an X that Miss Dobrie told her should have her signature, licked the pencil handed to her, and painstakingly wrote her name, ending with a flourish. Yes, this was the right place.

“You will take the train to Regina,” Miss Dobrie said, “and ride with the mail from there on out to Red Fife.

“Now I suggest you work on your wardrobe if any of it needs laundering or mending. You will be apprised of the departure date and time. Next!” Miss Dobrie, triumphant once again, yodeled the command.

Dismissed, Pearly made her way to where Tierney and Anne awaited, curious, a bit anxious. Pearly told them all she knew
about her assignment, which was only what Miss Dobrie had said.

“A’ reet,” Tierney said firmly, turning to Anne. “One of us is settled. Now we know what to look for, what to hold out for. Whichever one of us is next must insist on Saskatchewan.”

The girls had already determined to stay as close together as possible, so that, perhaps, in case of some emergency—God forbid!—they could be available to each other. At least they would not feel totally deserted and alone knowing someone else was not too unreasonably far away—like at the tundra, the gold fields, the north woods!

Hearing of the plan, Ishbel Mountjoy had said, “Don’t be silly, girls. It’ll be well nigh impossible to be anywhere near each other; this is vast territory, and you have waited too long to have a choice. You’ll have to take what’s left. Tundra indeed! Where do you think you are—the Yukon?”

Ontario may have seemed like civilization compared to the Yukon, but the girls weren’t convinced. Even in the “settled” east, their hearts had turned cold at their glimpses of the domiciles of those settlers as seen from the train windows—small dwelling places, slapped together with whatever material the land allowed,
lonely
. All of the domestics had grown strangely silent as they went, ever deeper and wilder, into more isolated areas. The train had hooted its brave way across plains, through dense woods, past land-locked lakes and sloughs, always with homes scattered, separated from each other by many miles. If a house were within hailing distance of the train track, householders would sometimes step outside to wave. As the train pulled away, the settlers looked indescribably desolate, growing smaller and smaller until, like a splinter tossed on an ocean, they disappeared.

And all this before ever the travelers reached the prairies that were famous—or infamous—for their vastness and loneliness!

Seating herself, eventually, before the battered table and Miss Dobrie, an equally battered employee of the British Women’s Emigration Society, Anne braced herself, determined to hold
out if it took her last breath: She would not,
would not
, submit to signing on for a place where there was any possibility of male dominance or abuse.

After once again explaining her mindset where men were concerned, Anne added, politely but firmly, “Then too, Miss Dobrie, it has to be in the territory of Saskatchewan.”

“My dear Miss Fraser,” Miss Dobrie said frostily, weary from a day’s haggling and dealing, “what gives you the option of choosing where you’ll go? You’ve dallied too long as it is. We are doing our best, so no, my dear, you’ll have no favors. Saskatchewan? Why is it any more special than Alberta or Manitoba?”

Because Pearly will be there, Anne came near to explaining; instead, she looked mutinous, said nothing, and set her chin stubbornly.

“All right, let’s see what we have here,” Miss Dobrie said, picking up a sheet of paper. “Well now, harumph . . . if this isn’t something. It so happens,” Miss Dobrie looked almost disappointed, “that the place Mrs. Mountjoy personally selected today to bring to your attention, is in . . . I find it hard to believe . . .”

“Yes?” Anne’s lovely face took on a most becoming pink tinge, and Miss Dobrie had an instant understanding of the problem Anne might face where unscrupulous men were concerned.

“Yes?” Anne prompted, her lips parted, her eyes dewy, her expression eager.

“Saskatchewan.” The word was dragged reluctantly from Miss Dobrie.

“Good!” Anne almost chortled in her satisfaction. “Now tell me aboot the people—who they are and a’ that.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt,” Miss Dobrie read, and Anne stiffened.

Maybe she expected too much. How she could presume to think there would be a setup with women only, in the wilderness of the territories, took more faith than Anne could honestly muster. And yet she had hoped.
Mr
. Schmidt.

“Franz Schmidt, age sixty-eight; Augusta Schmidt, sixty-three. This is a small farm, as farms go on the prairie. I suspect it’s not true prairie at all but near the bush line, perhaps partly in it. The nearest hamlet is named Hanover—sounds German to me, perhaps a settling of Germans. Should be a community of good thrifty people.”

“Why do they need a domestic?” Anne asked, curious about this couple in spite of her caution.

Miss Dobrie read, “‘Augusta Schmidt laid up with rheumatiz,’ is what someone has written here. ‘Help needed for farm chores, as well as usual household tasks.’ Well, there you have it, Miss Fraser. Now what can you find wrong with this one?”

Anne thought about it. A man. But an old man—safe as a butterfly, hopefully. Anne suddenly had a great feeling of relief. How wise it had been to have Pearly pray!

“I’ll take it,” she decided. “How about wages, time off, and so on?”

Miss Dobrie went over the details; everything was in line with the rules and regulations of the Society. “Now then,” she said, hurrying on before the temperamental Miss Fraser could change her mind, “sign right here.”

“Saskatchewan!” Anne reported blithely to Tierney and Pearly. “And Pearly, please thank God for me. It’s verra good o’ Him to gi’ me jist the kind of place I need.
And
in Saskatchewan!”

“Call unto me, and I will answer thee,” Pearly quoted wisely. “But you can thank Him fer yourself. Y’ know that, don’t cher?”

“Oh my, no, I couldn’t,” Anne, accustomed to a ritual of prayer rather than spontaneous conversation with the Almighty, insisted. “I wouldn’t know how to go aboot it. Besides, I don’t know Him that weel. And anyway, ye’re the one who asked ’im.”

“Well, I’ll thank ’im, but you gotta learn to do yer own askin’ and thankin’. No tellin’ when ye’ll need Him. I won’t always be with yer, y’ know. You jist have to—”

“I know, I know,” Anne said quickly. “You’ve told us many’s the time. When I’m gone awa’ from ye, and ye’re no’ there to pray fer me, then maybe—”

Pearly shook her head. “I’ll be gone, gone to Red Fife, and ye’ll be in this Hanover place. But God’ll always be nearby.”

“Now, Tierney,” Anne continued, happy to leave the subject of her need of prayer, “ye’ll be next. Jist see to it that ye stay in Saskatchewan. Did ye ask Pearly t’ pray?”

“Miss Caulder!” came the ringing command.

“Now, Miss Caulder,” Miss Dobrie began, after Tierney had seated herself. “I trust you won’t expect to be placed in a specific part of the Territories. We’re getting down to the end of the list, you know. You are bound, by your signature, to take one of these.” And a large white hand indicated a few sheets of paper spread before her.

“I know,” Tierney said, interested now that Anne and Pearly had been settled. “Tell me what you have for me, Miss Dobrie.”

“Let’s see now. We’ll just take this first one here. Name of Ketchum. Chicken farm, it says. Thousands of chickens. A crew of men to cook and wash for. It all seems straightforward enough, strictly housework, laundry, meals, that sort of thing. Pay and time off all in line with our policy. Oh yes, one small boy.”

“There’s a Mrs. Ketchum?” Tierney asked.

“Of course. Would we consider it, otherwise?” Miss Dobrie was offended, sniffed, and brought herself to continue. “Lavinia Ketchum. No problems there, as far as I can see. Now, Miss Caulder, it’s down to the wire. What do you say—will you sign?”

Tierney signed, as anxious to get about the task as Miss Dobrie was to send her to it.

“Thank ye, Miss Dobrie,” Tierney said politely, turning to go. At the doorway, she turned back. “Ah, where is this Ketchum place?”

“What do you know,” Miss Dobrie said wonderingly, all unaware of Pearly Chapel’s prayers, “Saskatchewan.”

N
ot yet fully understanding the extent to which they had been cast on their own resourcefulness, not knowing how truly alone and self-dependent they were to be, still Tierney, Anne, and Pearly felt the first riffles of uncertainty concerning their future, and because of it, clung together as long as was possible. The train ride was the last leg of their journey.

Their destination was not Regina, after all, but a place called Saskatoon; it sounded almost Scottish—Saskatoonie! From here, their paths would diverge—to a chicken farm nearby, to Red Fife and a dairy farm, and to Hanover and a German couple on yet another farm.

It was all thanks to Pearly’s prayers that their postings were not far distant from each other. And it was amazing, to say the least, when one took into consideration the size of the territories and the distances hungry landseekers would go in order to obtain a place of their own. Like tiny ants separating and scurrying across a huge park in all directions, so the emigrants
parted ways somewhere along the way—often at Winnipeg—to trek to the remotest places, each following that glimmering lodestar—property!

Free land! Would the world ever see the like again? The offer was a magnet that drew men and women sick of poverty, yearning for freedom, and actually fleeing from all parts of the old world with its custom of landed aristocracy worked by tenants.

Any man who was the head of a family or who had reached the age of twenty-one could apply for the coveted 160 acres—the filing fee was ten dollars—obtaining full title at the end of three years if he had cultivated part of the land and done some building. He filed on the free, quarter-section acreage, built his houses and barns, and cultivated according to the terms of the Dominion Land Act, and counted himself blessed. Never mind that first buildings, more times than not, were built from the turves—that upper stratum of soil bound by grass and plant roots into a thick mat—of his own land. Though unspeakably crude, these soddies, as they were called, offered immediate shelter to man and beast and, of great importance, qualified as buildings and satisfied the land office’s requirement.

Cattle did well on the nutritious prairie grass, as did sheep, the difficulty being to keep them and not lose them into the grass that swallowed them up, should they stray. As yet there were few if any barbed wire fences around property; there were more important things demanding immediate attention, such as getting ready for a prairie winter, and there were many other things of more importance on which to spend one’s small hoard of money. Still, cattle flourished, tethered securely, or guarded by a child of the family. And when it was discovered that the quick-maturing wheat, Marquis and Red Fife, could be grown with wonderful results on the grasslands, the area that came to be known as the Prairie Provinces was on its way to becoming the bread basket of the world.