Where Trust Lies (9781441265364) (4 page)

“Of course,” answered Mrs. Montclair. “Why, we were just—”

“Wonderful, Edith. Thank you very much for allowing us to interrupt your conversation. Now, just to review the itinerary,” he continued quickly, looking at a sheet of paper in his hand, “your train departs Monday morning at eight thirty. You'll change trains in Montreal, and then you're off again to Quebec City. Each of these is an express train, so you won't
be stopping frequently but will still arrive rather late. You'll spend two nights at Le Château Frontenac—a lovely place, and one of Canada's hotels built by the railroad. I've stayed there twice, and it was splendid. Tuesday will be sightseeing in the Old Town. Wednesday morning your cruise begins from the harbor there. You'll want to be on board just after breakfast.” He looked around at the group, nodded, then hurried on.

“Now, on board we've booked three suites with two bedrooms in each, situated as closely together as possible. You should all be very comfortable. For the Thatcher suites, Priscilla, Beth, and Julie will share the first. Margret and JW will be across the hall, with the nanny and Emma in the second room.”

Beth hadn't heard that Emma would be going too and was pleased. Their domestic was only a few years older than she was, and they had become friends, though her mother wasn't sure that was quite proper. Beth hoped Emma would have at least some time free to enjoy the sights, but she likely would be washing and ironing and keeping up with their many belongings for most of the trip.

Father was saying, “The Montclairs also have a suite together—as I understand it, mother and daughter sharing one room and their lady's maid in the other. Emile has chosen a room on a lower floor—”

“So nice for you, Priscilla!” Mrs. Montclair interjected. “You have a room to yourself. I would have done so, but Victoria refuses to share with anyone but me. She could have been so comfortable with Lise, but she simply wouldn't hear of it!” While the words were said a bit proudly, Beth could see Victoria was put off by the comment.

“As I was saying,” Father persisted, “that should cover the room assignments. There will be several stops at hotels along the way. Emile's primary concern is your safety.” He looked
once again around the circle, and Beth thought his gaze lingered a bit longer on Julie, who still needed particular attention because of her tendency toward risk taking. “He will see to it that all luggage is loaded and transported to the appropriate places. He will also accompany you whenever you're touring and will handle all matters pertaining to payments required. Those will be his main roles, but he's willing to help out in whatever capacity along the way.” Monsieur Laurent nodded his agreement. Then Father added gravely, “I'm certain no one will take advantage of his kindness.” Father kept his eyes on the paper, and Beth avoided looking at Mrs. Montclair.

Beth's head filled with all the details of the trip, the places she had longed to see for many years—Prince Edward Island, the setting for
Anne of Green Gables
, one of her favorite childhood books; Nova Scotia, with its beautiful lighthouses set atop rocky escarpments; the Bay of Fundy, with its extraordinary tides. Watching Julie's face, Beth knew that for her, the cruise was merely incidental until they arrived in New York City.

After the meeting with Monsieur Laurent and the Montclairs, the furor in their home only seemed to heighten. Another day of shopping, then a long day of packing and repacking to get everything stowed into a reasonable number of trunks and cases. Beth found herself on several occasions repeating Margret's prayer—for courage to endure all these blessings.

In her dressing gown, Beth crept down the long stairs and into Father's study. She had awakened early and begun thinking about what books she should include for the journey. Perusing Father's extensive collection, she spent some time accumulating a tall, tidy stack on the corner of his desk.

“What's this? I thought I heard a burglar,” Father quipped. “Beth, what on earth are you doing up so early?”

She laughed and hurried across the room for a good-morning hug. “I couldn't sleep any longer. There's so much commotion with all the packing, and I don't feel I've had nearly enough time to plan what I
really
need.”

Father shook his head. “You're not taking
all
of those, are you? You won't have time to leave your room and see anything!”

“Oh, no, I just can't decide. What would
you
suggest, Father?”

He followed her to the desk and scanned the titles. “It appears we have a bit of a theme here, eh?”

Beth quickly explained, “I thought perhaps some stories about travel would suit.”

“Ah, yes, a good idea. That might just serve you well. Would you consider
Don Quixote
?” He pointed toward its place on his bookshelf.

“I attempted that once, and it was a little too much. Of course, I was younger then.”

“Give it a few more years, my dear. When I've grown old enough to reach my ‘jousting at windmills' age, you'll find you have more ways to relate to the story.”

“Oh, Father! You'll never be like that.”

He moved several of the books, one at a time. “You might try
Huckleberry Finn
, or
Heart
of Darkness
,
The Odyssey
—have you read them already? Yes, I suppose you have.” As he contemplated each volume, Beth could see him growing more pensive. At last he placed a book with a blue cover in her hands. “It's a funny thing about travel narratives, Beth. I think you'll find it's often the sort of journey which the protagonist doesn't desire to take that ends up telling the greatest story. The kind that has the most to teach us.” He smiled a bit wist
fully. “I wish I could have arranged things to come with you all on this voyage.”

Beth reached out to touch his arm. “I know, Father. I especially will miss you. I've just gotten back—” But she could say no more.

He smiled and nodded his understanding. He looked as if he were going to depart, then paused. “If you'll allow me, Beth dear, please don't forget that the summer will be all too short. And perhaps you'll be leaving us again. I wish you would—that is, I
suggest
that you use your days wisely.” His expression deepened, graying brows drawing together in contemplation of the words. “I realize Mother can be—what shall we say?—difficult at times, but only if you misunderstand how she thinks. Could you spend some time, some effort, in getting to know her better, dear? Stepping away from the shadow of the image you've come to accept as your mother? She's a remarkable woman, really. Pay attention to her many gifts. I know that you can grow to appreciate her—the manner in which she loves, her unwavering faith—if you just try.”

Beth dropped her gaze.
Have my
frustrations been so obvious?
“Of course, Father. I'll do my best.”

M
ONDAY
MORNING
,
bright and clear, turned out to be an excellent day to launch their adventure. Most of the luggage had been sent on ahead to the train station, but now the family loaded the last bags into Father's car and a taxicab—both would be necessary to convey them all.

“When do you suppose your ship will pass ours, Father?” Julie asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Well, Julie,” he answered thoughtfully, “Mr. Montclair and I will board our train on Friday, but our ship won't depart Quebec City until Saturday afternoon. I suppose the ship will pass yours sometime the day after you're done watching whales in Saguenay Fjord.”

Julie held his arm. “Won't that be exciting? But we'll miss you so much, Father. It's a shame you have to go on another trip. Have you ever been to Caracas before?”

“No, dear,” he chuckled. “I've never been to anyplace in South America before. We won't be watching whales or seeing many of the sights.”

She hurried on, “But you said you'll meet us in Florida, won't you? On your return trip?”

Father placed Julie's bag in the trunk of the automobile, slammed the top down, and turned back to her. “Yes, we plan to meet you in Florida. That is, we'll do our very best. But much could happen between now and then. So I'm grateful to know you'll be in the hands of Providence in the meantime . . . and our good friend Emile.” He pulled Julie close and motioned for the others to join them. “I'd like to pray together before you leave.”

He drew Mother to him with his free arm, and John and Margret with JW stood near. With a warm smile, Beth reached out to link arms with Emma. Only the nanny, Miss Lucille Bernard, stood alone, though Beth motioned her into the circle too. Father led in a short prayer, expressing his gratitude that God would have His hand on all these loved ones while absent from one another. Murmured amens followed Father's.

With kisses and hurried words of farewell, the travelers were bundled into the waiting automobiles. Beth cast a glance back toward Father as he stood next to John, both waving. Her throat felt tight, and she wished to the core of her being that she could have spent more time with him.
But even if I wasn't
leaving, Father will be gone anyway,
she reminded herself.

Beth found herself in front of the first oversized step of their waiting train—it had been only last Tuesday when she'd arrived at this same station. At least this would only be a one-day trip on the rails. Best of all, she would not be alone. In fact, Julie, who had grand ideas of documenting each stage of the journey with her new Brownie camera, had already enlisted the aid of
a bellman to take a picture of the Thatcher women and JW in their traveling compartment—“for posterity.”

In their small compartment, Beth settled beside Mother and across from her sisters, waiting for the train's departure. JW, thrilled at everything he was observing, climbed and wriggled from one lap to another, exploring all around the tiny room with the curiosity found in someone almost two. Emma and JW's nanny were in their own compartment.

Beth pulled an illustrated children's book from Margret's bag. “Here, darling,” she called to JW. “Come sit with Auntie. I'll read to you.”

His arms reached out to Beth, and she cuddled him in her lap, opening the book. There was time to read only a little from each page before the small boy was busy turning to the next. But what she had wanted most was an excuse to hold him—and give Margret some rest.

Julie leaned over. “Margret, I'm surprised the nanny permitted you to have him for the morning,” she teased. “She hardly lets him out of her sight.”

Margret allowed herself a weak smile, but Mother quickly put in, “Lucille Bernard is a well-educated, well-respected professional nanny. We are lucky to have her. I only wish I had found someone half as good as her when I was raising you girls.”

Julie caught Beth's eye before affecting an innocent reply. “Why, Mother? Didn't we all turn out as well as you'd hoped?”

Mother waved away Julie's nonsense. “She employs the latest and best practices of child rearing. You would do well to cooperate with her, Margret. Who knows how many important people she's had a hand in raising.”

Julie suggested, “Henry the Eighth, perhaps.”

“Julie Camille Thatcher, that's quite enough.”

Beth returned her attention to the child on her lap and read a little more in a dramatic tone, pointing at pictures of ducks to keep JW interested.

“Duckies, Annie Bet. Duckies.”

Margret sighed. Sitting directly across from Beth, the frustration written across her sister's face was obvious. “She wants him with her at ten o'clock sharp. She's insisted that he's going to take his nap as usual.”

“As well he should, Margret.”

“But, Mother, he's going to have such a difficult time napping on the train. And she won't rock him to sleep—the most she'll do is pat his back. I'm afraid he just won't fall asleep today without even a crib, just on the settee beside her. Don't you think that I could—just this once?”

Mother reached across and patted Margret's knee. “Darling, she knows what she's about. Just let her do her job.”

Margret shot a miserable glance toward Beth. And in one small moment, Beth construed that the two had been struggling for quite some time. She tightened her arms around JW and determined to provide whatever support and encouragement she could to Margret.

Beth heard the signals of the train's departure and waited for the blast of steam she knew would follow. When it hissed past the window and the cabin lurched forward, JW scurried across onto Margret's lap. In no time he had settled in for the ride, seated comfortably with his mother and sipping water from a little engraved silver cup. Beth noticed that his eyes did look sleepy, yet he seemed perfectly content nestled in right where he was.

As the miles rattled past, Beth too settled into the pleasure of chatting with her sisters and mother. There was much she needed to catch up on, and she was delighted to hear that
Julie's paintings had been given a wall at a local art gallery—three of her still lifes had already sold, and also that Margret's husband, John, a stockbroker with a well-known firm, had recently been promoted.

Margret sounded rather astounded at how successful John had quickly become in the booming investment market. “Sometimes he tells me what our stocks are worth and I can hardly believe it! It seems so unreal.” She added with amusement, “I almost chuckle when I hear him speak about stocks with Father. The two see things very differently.”

“Dear old Father,” Julie laughed. “You should hear them, Bethie. John keeps insisting that Father should invest more—that he wouldn't have to work nearly as hard if he were making the great gains to be had through investments. But poor Father can't seem to understand the modern era.”

“Julie! That is quite enough,” said their mother. “I won't stand for one word of criticism of your Father.”

“I'm sorry, Mother.” But the gleam in Julie's eyes spoke a different sentiment.

Beth listened to discussion of their shared circle of friendships and the social events she had missed. It was pleasant and satisfying simply to be with her mother and sisters again.

Then Julie exploded the calm. “I was just thinking, Beth, now that Father can't hear us . . .” She scooted forward and cast an eye about for support. “Shouldn't we be discussing what we'd all like most to hear?” Margret nodded encouragingly, and Beth winced as Julie said, “Tell us all about your Mountie, big sister.”

Beth's eyes moved sideways to Mother next to her. She found no suggestion of an escape. “Well, I . . . I'm not sure what to tell.”

“Everything,” Julie said with a grin.

“Oh, goodness.”
Where to begin?
“I met him one Sunday after church. He wasn't stationed in Coal Valley, but that was one of the communities for which he was responsible. So his work brought him frequently to our area. I got to know him rather well in the months I was there.”

“What was he doing?” Margret asked, shifting JW to another position and offering him a new toy, which was immediately flung to the floor. Unflustered, Margret added, “I've always wondered what they—the Mounties—actually
do.
”

Beth confessed, “I don't really know that much. He came and went—and seemed to know everyone. He said once that there wasn't much of a jail at his post, but I'm sure he was involved with law keeping somehow. And I know there was some detective work toward the end of my year, though what he did at other times, I can't really say.”

This seemed only to intrigue Margret further. “What
kind
of detective work?”

Beth would need to tread cautiously. It would never do to go into detail concerning Davie Grant and his bootlegging misdeeds, or how little Wilton Coolidge had unwittingly imbibed some of the noxious drink and been rushed to the hospital many miles away. It was perhaps best that they not hear that Beth had stumbled upon Mr. Grant when she was alone in the woods and been threatened if she didn't leave his town at the end of the school year. She would never forget the look of hatred and anger on his face when at last the Mounties led him away in handcuffs, never to return to their little community.

As matter-of-factly as she could manage, she answered, “Jarrick was working to catch a particular criminal. Actually, Edward was also called in to help. I was told he's quite a natural at such work.”

Mother nodded at the familiar name.

“What kind of criminal, Beth?” Margret almost whispered.

“Nothing dastardly and dreadful—a moonshiner who operated from our area.”
It's
nearly a lie to phrase it so carelessly.
She wished she'd had more time to plan her wording.

“I knew it!” Mother cut in. “I
knew
that saloon where you taught school was just a front for drinking. I should have sent your father to bring you home the minute I heard it was to be your classroom.”

Well
, this has quickly spiraled out of control.
“I'm fine, Mother. The man was apprehended. And I never saw a trace of alcohol at the pool hall. I did not see anyone breaking prohibition laws. The whole point of the story is that Jarrick and the other officers involved sought out and put to an end the criminal activity.”

“Yes, by the grace of God you've come back to us—”

“Precisely,” Beth agreed, reaching for Mother's hand and giving it a squeeze. “By the grace of God, under whose protection I was not for a moment in jeopardy.” She sat back and hurried on to another tack, addressing Margret. “Jarrick traveled frequently. He was in and out of Lethbridge, often making deliveries in our area when he returned. He was a great friend of our local pastor—if you could call him local, since he moved from community to community every week. The two of them once shared living quarters in Calgary. So I think sometimes, especially on Sundays, Jarrick came to see Philip—that is, Pastor Davidson.”

“Hmmm.” Mother was not willing to give ground about her issues with the location of the classroom.

“Go on,” Margret coaxed. “How did you discover you were interested in each other?”

The question caused Beth to cast another sideways glance at Mother. But she determined to answer Margret despite
Mother's uneasiness. Beth's mind quickly sorted through what she might say.
Should Edward's role be mentioned? Would
it be gossip? But what's left if those details
are skipped—the lost luggage, return of the violin, his
misleading comments to Jarrick? On the other hand, if all
this is omitted, will there be a story left to
tell?

“Well, for a long time Jarrick believed I was already spoken for—that I was already committed to someone else.”

Margret's eyes were as large as teacups. “He did? To whom?” Even Julie had not heard this part of the story. She leaned forward, motioning for Beth to continue.

“I'd prefer not to go further with that,” Beth was quick to add. “Suffice it to say that Jarrick was respecting what he understood to be the case. And it wasn't until—”

Julie jolted upright in her seat. “Edward! It was Edward! Unless you mean Philip, but Jarrick knew him far too well for that. It would simply have to be our Edward. There's no one else.” Julie drew in a sharp breath. She whispered loudly, “Edward told Jarrick he had already spoken for you? Isn't that
rich
!”

Beth's heart was pounding, and she knew her face was flushed with embarrassment. Her gaze dropped to the floor, then shifted toward Mother.
Did Mother too assume
that Edward had offered marriage?
More than that, had Father shared with Mother his telephone
conversation with Jarrick? Was she already aware that he had
officially begun courting me?