Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (29 page)

It was thus Will found them. Coming across the room he put his hand on Lilyan Brokaw’s shoulder and said the words
that would set her free for the remainder of her life, her working, serving, giving, helping life.

“You did what you could. Now, dear friend, will you help me one more time?”

The reservoir on the range yielded enough hot water for the final cleansing. Before they were through, Tierney and Lilyan—while Will sat in the kitchen with his head in his hands—dressed the cooling body of Lavinia Ketchum in her wedding dress, wrapped her in a quilt, and went, quietly, to inform Will that all was ready.

Tierney stood in the background, fighting horror; Lilyan Brokaw opened the outside door. The wind blasted in, hurling snow before it, almost snuffing out the lamp on the table. Will, in his heaviest coat, an ear-flapped hat tied under his chin and gloved hands gripping his burden, carried the mortal remains of his beloved wife out into the winter’s bitterness, to lay her to rest, for the time being, on boards placed on sawhorses in a nearby shed. Then to return for the small bundle that was his son and struggle through the storm one more time, placing the babe—before her arms stiffened—on the breast of the one who had borne and given her life for him.

There, in the shadows and ice, they waited the far-distant spring and the thawing of the land, land which had called like a siren, and which, in the end, had demanded the ultimate payment.

The din of dishes clattering, people talking, and wind sweeping around the hotel, all served to create a turmoil that had Anne’s head in a spin. It was almost time for her to go home, however, and so she straightened her aching back and smiled faintly at Mrs.
Corcoran as she asked for a fresh supply of coffee in the dining room.

“Coming right up,” that efficient lady said, brushing a wisp of graying hair out of her eyes. “Spalpeen—where’s that kid when he’s needed?
Spalpeen!
”

The boy, growing into a gangling youth, came galloping from the pantry, his mouth obviously stuffed with food. But did he have the grace to look abashed? Not at all. He knew who his friends were, and Mrs. Corcoran, lovely Irish colleen that she was—or so he was always telling her—was at the top of his list, and wouldn’t begrudge him a treat or two.

Next on his list was Anne Fraser. And now here, truly, was a lovely—not colleen, but, being Scottish—lassie.

“Ah, Mrs. Corcoran, darlin’,” he lilted now in her Irish brogue, “and what can I do for ye?”

“Fill the coffeepot, you rogue!” Mrs. Corcoran directed, and with a grin Spalpeen went to do as bidden. One thing about Spalpeen, he served—not only faithfully but cheerfully.

Spalpeen, everyone had to admit, was certain to make his mark in the hotel; already he’d risen from general flunkie to Mrs. Corcoran’s right-hand helper. He would not be called a man for some time yet, but he was growing and filling out under the good and plentiful food and the tender consideration he received, in spite of the slapping and chaffing and haranguing that were signs, actually, of the cook’s affection for him.

“How are you makin’ it, lassie?” that good lady asked Anne. “You look weary tonight.”

“I’m glad it’s the end of the day for me,” Anne admitted, preparing to go back for another half-hour’s work in the dining room.

Anne was making a fine waitress. Her naturally sweet nature and desire to please stood her in good stead, and she found satisfaction in filling the needs of the people who passed through the Madeleine’s dining room. Some were regulars, living in the hotel and working in the town, but most of her customers were transient, going or coming from their homesteads, dealing with
the sale of land, working for the railroad or the fur trade, going to the gold strikes, lighting out for the Yukon, all traveling across the continent now that the railway had connected coast to coast. It was a country filled with raw vigor, a new nation made up of many nationalities, and a wide smattering of them came through the Madeleine’s big dining room.

Passing from table to table with her coffeepot, filling cups, Mr. Whidby approached her.

“That table by the window?” Mr. Whidby said, flicking a speck from the shoulder of her spotless waist, then resuming the rubbing of his hands together in his usual manner (Anne thought, at times, he’d wear them out, so religiously did he perform the rite of rubbing). “That’s a bunch of remittance men. They need special attention, and I want you to take time, before you leave, to see that they get it.”

Mr. Whidby knew money when he saw it; that table would be worth a nice bounty for the coffers of the Madeleine, and wouldn’t hurt his own record and reputation, if handled correctly. No one would do it more satisfactorily than the beauteous Anne. These diners, being young men and full of “ginger,” might be induced to indulge in dessert after a generous dinner as well as numerous cups of coffee. Moreover, proper service would encourage them to come back. No one knew just how long remittance men would stay in one place, but, being winter and with travel difficult, they might be around for a while. The Madeleine was as good a place as any to spend the money that flowed so freely, and which they had done nothing to deserve.

Remittance men—a term used only here, perhaps, although Australia also had its share of scapegraces, or ticket-of-leave men, called delinquents in another age. Rascals mostly, ne’er-do-wells, slothful or careless sons of the wealthy and titled. An embarrassment at home, in trouble with the law, hunted by some outraged father of a used and abused female, they were shipped off to another continent, there to play, laugh at their own stupidity as though it were a great lark, and, in general,
lead useless lives, of interest only to each other and of importance to no one.

Anne sighed; Mr. Whidby’s word was law. Worn out as she was, she was in no mood to deal with the shenanigans of foppish and foolish young males, with whose mischief, and worse, she was already well acquainted. Having too much money, they lived from month to month for the check, or remittance, from home, and most of them felt the rubes in Canada were below their consideration, except as objects of fun.

Patting her hair, tucking into place a few recalcitrant curls, smoothing her apron and clutching her pad and pencil, Anne approached a table of six of these young men. Already they were laughing and shoving each other, too loudly and too pointlessly—no doubt they had visited a saloon before entering the Madeleine—their faces flushed, their eyes bright, their color high.

“Yes, sirs,” Anne began. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“What we want isn’t on the menu,” one dandy said with a snicker, and the entire table laughed uproariously.

With her new fearlessness in the face of such waggishness, Anne bit her lip and hoped her cheeks would refrain from flushing—it would only add to their amusement—and prepared to speak cool words of dignity, somehow getting through this day’s last assignment. Drawing in her breath, she opened her lips to speak.

Her mouth fell open, but no words came. She felt her eyes staring . . . staring . . .

Across from her, his mouth as wide as hers and slowly widening even further, a look of surprise on his face and a dawning of comprehension in his eyes, sat Lucian MacDermott.

“Well, what have we here?” he drawled, and the table fell silent, all eyes turning from him to the girl at whom he looked, standing before them with her lovely face as white as her apron, her eyes sick, her comely form frozen in time and place.

“Well, if it isn’t Fanny.”