Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (2 page)

“Robbie?” Tierney murmured haltingly, questioningly.

“It’s decided, then,” he said abruptly, leaning on one elbow, looking blindly at the skyline, plucking at a blade of grass. “It’s decided, and there’s naething to be done aboot it.”

“Decided?” she asked, puzzled. “What’s decided, Robbie?”

“That Allan and I,” he said in a strange, distant voice, “are awa’ to Canada.”

Tierney was stunned into silence. Surely she had misunderstood. Had he said he and his brother were away—to Canada, of all places?

Not waiting for a response, perhaps expecting none, Robbie continued, grimly, “Aye. Awa’ to Canada. Me father and me mither hae made the plans. The shop . . . it’s no’ makin’ a guid livin’ anymair. And Allan and me, neither o’ us cares for the thoughts of goin’ to sea. Still, we were for it, but me father said na, na. He’ll no hae it, lassie. Not the sea; Dunbars hae niver been for the sea, he says. We’re for Canada right enow, me and me brother, and sometime, hopefully, the rest o’ the family will join us.”

“Your da,” Tierney said gropingly, “he’d hae you leave Scotlan’? Leave Binkiebrae? And he’d go himsel’? I canna believe it, Robbie! Dinna he askit if ye’ll go?”

“Na, he dinna askit. He has spoke, lass, for the good o’ the family, and there’s no denyin’ him his right to do it. I canna tell
him nae. And so it’s settled, lass. I’m awa’ to the new land, the far land, and verra soon.”

Then, into the silence that fell between them, a silence of sheer unbelief and shock on Tierney’s part, Robbie spoke. With his eyes still on the horizon, Robbie said the words that had never been spoken before; the words that she needed to hear, that he needed to say, and that would make no difference at all. No difference at all.

“There’s only one thing that’s kep’ me here this long, lass. One reason I find it hard to go.”

And then Robbie turned those blue eyes on her, and all the things he had left unsaid across the years, he said in that one look.

D
a,” Tierney said, “I’m goin’ to Frasers’. You hear me, Da?”

“I hear ye, lass,” Malcolm said, rousing himself from a mid-afternoon doze. “I hear ye.”

“Ye’ll be a’reet, Da, till I get back?”

“I’ll be a’reet, lass. Gang awa’ and dinna worry.”

“Fenway is coomin,’ any moment, an he’ll stay wi’ ye till I get back.”

Malcolm nodded his understanding.

One thing could be said about Malcolm: He was an agreeable patient, seldom causing any problem. The most difficult part of his care was getting him in and out of bed, morning and night. If James were home, he took care of it, but often he was gone, either fishing or courting. At those times, or any time of emergency, old Fenway, their neighbor, was always ready to help. Today he would come and stay with the invalid; they would talk a little, smoke their pipes, perhaps drink tea if Fenway could stir himself to make it.

Once Malcolm was out of bed of a morning, dressed, and seated in his favorite chair by the fire, Tierney took charge of combing his thin hair, giving him his meals, wrapping him against the drafts of the room. No matter her own mood, she spoke cheerfully to her father, sharing any news with him concerning the ongoing life of the home and the community, keeping up his spirits, giving him a little interest in things around him, things that were so silently fleeting away.

Occasionally an old friend would stop by, and Tierney would serve tea, grateful for any small break in her father’s long days and, she supposed, longer nights. Malcolm seemed more a part of the next world than this one; it was, surely, just a matter of time until he slipped away, as quietly and simply as he had lived.

But life went on, and Tierney, as homemaker and cook since the passing of her mother, had a routine to keep. Today it was the trudge of two miles to the home of her friend, Anne Fraser, for a replenishment of their egg supply.

In the Fraser household, as in the Caulder, there was no mother and wife. Anne, only fourteen at the time of her mother’s death, had, like Tierney, naturally slipped into the role of housekeeper, caring for her father and two brothers.

The Frasers lived on a small croft that was part of the huge MacDermott estate. Paul Fraser, and young Pauly and Sam, his sons, worked at the stables and on the grounds, as had Paul’s father and grandfather before him. With such unrest in the land, and with so many families being turned out, willy-nilly, from their crofts, the Frasers were an uneasy lot. Constantly at the beck and call of the MacDermotts, they hardly dared call their name their own, let alone their possessions and their time.

Anne was often called into service in the big house and had the care of the hens and other poultry and the disposing of the eggs. By careful reckoning she was able to come up with a few extras from time to time, and it was worth the sacrifice to share them with Tierney and her family, just to have Tierney come out and visit for a while.

Yesterday, at kirk, as the girls passed each other in the aisle, piously silent, Anne had whispered, “Eggs,” in a conspiratorial tone.

There had seemed to be something more pressing than the fact that a few eggs were available. Lovely though they were and filling a real need, especially for a treat for the invalid Malcolm, still Anne had never announced their availability before this.

So, though the day was gray and overcast and the low-hanging clouds were spitting rain, Tierney arranged for Fenway to come over, settled her father with a rare newspaper and a cup of tea, fed the fire, picked up a small basket, and turned her steps out of Binkiebrae in the direction of the Fraser croft.

Rain or no rain, it seemed good to stretch her legs, and she strode out, grateful to have a few moments to herself, if only to think helplessly of her future and the hopelessness of it. Though in the past few days she had moved, worked, talked, as though nothing had changed, still on the inside there was despair over the news of Robbie’s leaving and grief that it was so.

Tierney hadn’t seen Anne, privately, since that black moment in the sunshine on the hillside when Robbie Dunbar had shattered her dreams, her future, her very life, with his stark announcement. And Annie, her dear and lifelong friend, was the only one Tierney would ever think of telling.

Even if James and Malcolm had heard that the Dunbar boys were to leave for Canada, their inclination would be to keep their thoughts to themselves. Malcolm was close to being past all earthly caring and would burden himself no further with useless and vain problems; James was immersed in his own plans and concerned about how they could come to fruition, what with his father sick and his sister caught up in the womanly round of keeping house for her menfolk.

Hadn’t it been that way since time began? The elderly loosing their hold on life and turning responsibilities over to their sons and daughters, girls taking over where mothers left off, tending the home fires and the needs of their men? Sons stepping in and taking over the family business or craft? It all made
perfect sense to James; he expected no other lot than the one he had been handed. But just how and when his own future should be worked out, he couldn’t yet see. Phrenia, he could sense, was impatient, even as he was, for life to settle down for them in the prescribed pattern.

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.