Seasons of Bliss Read online

  Before the cool beauty of this Molly, Tierney felt sorely bedraggled and travel-worn. It had been a long day.

  “Molly, this is the young lady come to help Lydia and me. I think you may have known we were expecting her. The good preacher prayed about it in church a time or two, you may remember. Her name is Tierney Caulder. Miss Caulder, meet Molly Morrison.”

  Tierney nodded, at a loss for words before this vision of grace and energy. Molly Morrison was a natural beauty. Simple, lovely lines of body, and a lively expression on a piquant face under a mane of wild black hair, made up the wholesome person who smiled at Tierney now. Her voice, when she spoke, was kind and friendly. Here was a rare gem indeed, Tierney decided on the spot—one who had everything going for her and either knew it not or cared not.

  “Welcome to Bliss, Miss Caulder.”

  “Ta . . . that is, thank you,” Tierney responded.

  “And guess what?” Herbert was continuing. “Miss Caulder is an old friend of that newcomer down the road, Robert Dunbar by name.”

  “Is that so? How wonderful to come so far and meet someone you know. But it won’t take you long to feel at home, Miss Caulder. Homesteads are filling in, and there are many like you, new to the area, looking for friends. We need each other here. There are not many strangers in the territories.”

  The young woman’s horse was fractious and not inclined to stand. Molly was distracted as she hauled on the reins, her small feet braced against the buggy’s dash, her slender form curved in her effort to keep control.

  “Well, Molly, Kip isn’t going to give you any time for visiting today,” Herbert Bloom said, obviously acquainted with the horse. “And Lydia is waiting and wondering where in heaven we are. So—”

  Herbert loosed his grip on the reins, and his buggy inched forward; Miss Morrison did the same.

  “I’ll look forward to getting to know you better, Miss Caulder—”

  “An’ I hope to get better acquainted with you, Miss Morrison.”

  The last Tierney saw of the sparkling eyes and vivacious face of her new acquaintance was when Molly turned long enough to call over her shoulder, her horse once again commanding her attention, “Molly! Call me Molly!”

  “Do you suppose,” Herbert Bloom asked as soon as horse and buggy were back in the center of the road, “she’ll ever settle down to making a minister’s wife?”

  “I’m verra sure she will,” Tierney answered wholeheartedly, fully won over by the charm and graciousness of Bliss’s Molly Morrison. “Is a weddin’ day set?”

  “Gracious no. As far as I know they’re not even promised to each other. But the preacher is definitely looking her way, and our Molly, without any doubt, has her cap set for him. Half the community thinks she’ll never tame down enough to fill the bill, if you know what I mean—”

  “I suppose I do. You mean she’s too . . . too full of life?”

  “That’s a good way of saying it. Full of fun, full of laughter. Can such a one escape the criticisms that a preacher and his wife get?”

  “I dinna know,” Tierney said uncertainly. “Is it like that?”

  “I think so,” Herbert said, “though Lydia and I try to be thoughtful and supportive. And, for the most part, the pastor is well loved, I believe, and doing a good job. It’s just that . . .”

  “Just that?”

  “Well, there are others . . . other females, who think a good-looking, well-educated young man should look a little farther afield and not settle for a local. One in particular, I guess I’d have to say. Perhaps she has her eyes set on him herself.”

  “But I thought there were hardly any available women in the territories.” Tierney well knew how single women, whether young and unmarried or widows, were actually inundated with offers of marriage.

  “Mostly that’s true. We just happen to have imported one recently . . . she’s visiting relatives, and . . .”

  Herbert’s voice trailed off, and he gave his attention to the horse, for it was quickening its pace.

  “Ah, I’ve said too much now,” the man finished. “Anyway, Parker Jones—that’s the preacher—can take care of himself. I think. As for Miss Molly Morrison—never fear but what she can take care of herself, too.”

  With that Herbert let the horse go and, knowing it was nearing home, it stepped out briskly, causing the buggy to bounce rather alarmingly.

  Tierney clung to the side of the seat, silent for the moment, reflecting on the events of the day. First, meeting her prospective employer and finding him wonderfully acceptable; meeting Molly Morrison and finding her friendly and approachable; and last—wonder of wonders—running full tilt into the man who had filled her dreams, waking and sleeping, ever since she had lowered her hemlines. Forgotten for the moment was his final, strange reaction to her presence in Bliss.

  It was all too much. Tears, of weariness, incredulity, relief, and inexpressible joy welled up in her eyes.

  “Here,” Herbert Bloom said kindly—apparently understanding, and sympathetic—and handed her a big red bandanna handkerchief.

  Whoa there, Daisy!”

  Daisy stopped chewing her cud long enough to look around, perhaps with disgust, at the rather inept fumbling taking place in the area of her nether quarters.

  She was a new acquisition on the Dunbar homestead and, if cows have memories, could remember the expert milking of her former owner. And if cows sigh, certainly she heaved a big one. Daisy, it was clear, recognized a novice, had little or no patience with the unskilled bungling she was being subjected to, and shifted again impatiently.

  With a sigh of his own, Robbie tucked his head into the cow’s flank in proper style, reached again for the turgid teats, and started over.

  Why, he wondered, and not for the first time, did I agree to keep the beast here rather than Allan’s place? It had seemed a novelty, of course, and, craving butter—having gotten by with slatherings of bacon grease on his bread, if anything—Robbie had gladly (poor, foolish lad!) taken the cow into his care when he might just as well have let Allan have the privilege. In fact, he thought now, rather sourly, he should have insisted on it.

  Ping ping—the milk gave a few splashes into the pail clutched between his knees, even suggested the beginning of a satisfying froth. Robbie flexed his cramping fingers and, with another soothing word to the long-suffering Daisy, continued his task. Chores, morning and evening, for Robbie Dunbar, were becoming routine. What had seemed like a richly gratifying experience in the beginning was fast becoming a tyrannical master.

  It wasn’t only the milking; it was the further work of caring for the stuff that, in bottles, seemed so soothing and innocent, giving no hint of the work and worry it gave its producer. Herkimer Pinkard, a neighbor, stopping by one evening when Robbie was settling down to milk, had grinned and asked, “Do you know why cream costs more than milk?” and continued, “Because little bottles are harder for the cow to sit on.” Oh that it was that easy!

  After milking, there was straining the milk and putting it in flat pans that allowed for easy skimming after the cream rose, as it did unfailingly, astonishing as it seemed. Eventually there was enough cream so that mouth-watering, sweet butter could be churned out, worked free of buttermilk, washed, salted, and shaped into acceptable pats or pounds, adding its delightful flavor to meager fare. There was nothing like a good helping of butter soaking into a baked potato, dripping from pancakes, or melting on a warm biscuit.

  But the work to obtain it didn’t end with the milking and the churning. Milk pail, strainer, skimmer, churn, butter spade, and mold, all had to be washed in hot, soapy water, dried, and covered against the storm of flies that were ever present. Perhaps if one had a wife to turn such chores over to—Robbie’s heart missed a beat as he thought of Tierney showing up in this remote corner of the world, and certain dreams came alive.

  “Whoa!”

  Daisy fidgeted again and quickly brought Robbie from fancy to fact.

  With summer just around the corner, he
was seriously considering ordering a couple of items from the catalog that would, he felt, enhance his milk and butter production.

  Preservaline: “A harmless substance which, when added to milk or cream, will keep same for weeks in an absolutely perfect and wholesome state in any kind of weather—even through thunderstorms—without requiring ice or any refrigerator; absolutely tasteless, odorless, simple and cheap to use; does not affect the flavor or quality of the milk . . .”

  It seemed incredible—milk kept sweet for weeks? But the catalog promised it.

  Ozaline: “The finest disinfectant for creameries and dairies. Has no smell and gives out none. Removes every offensive smell at once. Positively marvelous in its actions. Prevents flies in creameries [Would anything actually do that! Robbie thought, fanning away the usual horde]. Kills all germs in the air, gives off oxygen, and thus keeps the air pure. A small quantity of Ozaline sprinkled on dung heaps and in manure pits, in outhouses, and on anything having a bad odor, will remove all smell at once and for good. It will also prevent chicken lice. Price, in small quantities, 6c per lb.”

  The trouble was obtaining the six cents necessary to give it a try. And then there had been Herkimer Pinkard’s reaction. Herkimer, hearing Robbie through as he recounted the marvels of Preservaline and Ozaline as outlined in the “wish book,” had given a great shout of laughter, until the bib on his overalls vibrated with his mirth.

  “Milk keeping for weeks! Hahaha! All smell gone from manure! Never heard the likes of it,” the large man declared when at last he could restrain his hilarity.

  Robbie was in favor of anything that would, in particular, keep flies away. But perhaps he should save his money for the purchase of a churn. Currently he had no choice but to put cream in a jar and shake it vigorously until it separated and butter appeared.

  Yes, farming, not to mention housekeeping, was challenging.

  While Robbie struggled with the responsibilities of Daisy and her daily output, Allan, for his part, was feeding baby turkeys and slopping the sow they had purchased and that would “bring forth” anytime now (Robbie didn’t know the proper term for the birth of a sow’s progeny).

  He was ignorant about so much, and of course so was Allan. What a pair of greenhorns they were! Herkimer Pinkard’s good-natured chortles of laughter over their efforts was often the only sign that, once again, they were doing something all wrong. At that, it was better than severe criticism, Robbie and Allan agreed. Herkimer Pinkard was a sort of measuring stick for them.

  Greenhorns or not, they hadn’t done badly, so far.

  Still, Robbie was dissatisfied. Having gotten a few acres and a few belongings, he yearned for more; Robbie was ambitious. His homestead was the promised quarter of a section; he dreamed of an entire section, 640 acres, one square mile. Only the quarter section, however, was free. The rest would have to be bought, or . . . there were other ways, ways that were in his thinking, even in his planning. It would all come right, given time.

  And, in the meantime, he was breathing free! In any moment of crisis, even of discouragement, he had but to remind himself of that and the fact that life could be, would be, what he made it. He had that much power; he had that chance.

  He, Robbie Dunbar, was blessed. Looking over his acres, he well knew that many a Scottish highlander, back home, was being forced by the land enclosures to board starvation ships and seek a new life elsewhere; shaking his cream into butter, he knew that the Irish were starved out of their ancient home. Canada’s population, it seemed, was derived almost entirely from people whose causes had been lost elsewhere. There was little or no future at home; there was hope and opportunity in abundance here.

  Robbie thanked God for the shove—his father’s edict—that had thrust him into a place of such possibilities. Here men and women of varying cultures were working together in harmony, united by doggedness and purpose; here a great democracy would arise above the differences of religion, language, or blood. It was exhilarating to be a part of it.

  “Le Bon Dieu est Canadien!” was the expression the French Canadians used to express their faith in their country’s future, and Robbie shared their confidence. Robbie could feel the expectancy in the very atmosphere, along with the inevitable bowing to bitter sacrifices in order that the dream might be realized. And for those with a will to hold steady, it would come true.

  “All right, old girl, we’ll call it quits for today,” Robbie said, rising from the small, three-legged stool he had cobbled together and giving the tried and tested Daisy a pat on the rump.

  Walking with the brimming pail to the house, the cat Whiskers trotting at his heels meowing piteously for his share of the milk, Robbie glanced around with all the satisfaction of a good beginner and all the hopes of a dreamer.

  His thoughts turned again to Tierney’s unexpected appearance, and his blood quickened. How Tierney would appreciate everything he had accomplished! How he looked forward to showing it to her!

  And then, remembering how he had stumblingly put off having supper with her and the Blooms, and the reason for it, his joy faltered.

  “She’ll understand, when I tell her,” he told Whiskers. “She’ll understand.”

  But would she?

  What an exceptionally pretty young woman, was Molly Morrison’s thought as she pulled away from the Bloom buggy and her brief conversation with Herbert Bloom and the new arrival, Tierney Caulder. Perhaps she and I can be friends. It’ll be nice to have another single girl around.

  Not that there weren’t a few. And Molly’s brow darkened at the thought.

  Vivian Condon. Bly Condon’s niece. Come to visit with Bly and Beatrice. Come to visit for the summer and already making one and all aware of her presence, and spring was still saying a lingering farewell.

  Molly took a deep breath and determined, not for the first time, to adjust her first reaction, if not her opinion. The tall and stately, beautifully coifed and gowned, assured and vastly self-possessed young woman, first turning up at church two Sundays ago, was sending waves of fascination down the lanes and tracks and country roads of Bliss, into quiet backwoods spots where any news was of interest, and this was of more interest than most.

  Bly and Beatrice, a reserved couple, had introduced his niece to the community that Sunday with, even then, a hint of apology, as though recognizing and needing to explain the splash her presence made, as though a peacock had settled among the partridges of Bliss. Beatrice had, rather anxiously, explained in an aside to a few people that Vivian had suffered through a painful relationship back home and was in need of recuperation and restoration.

  As was the Morrison custom, Bly and Beatrice and their niece had been invited home for Sunday dinner. Kezzie, the Morrison grandmother and “Mam” to many, too frail to stand the jouncing of a buggy or wagon, could rarely make it to church but always tended the stove and the oven’s contents, ready for any number of people at the big Morrison table.

  Of course Cameron, son of Angus and Mary Morrison, was present, and Margo, the girl he was to marry. Present also, this Sunday as most Sundays, was Parker Jones, pastor of the Bliss church, considered by one and all to be a suitor for the hand of their own Molly Morrison.

  “Come on in, everybody,” Kezzie invited, her eyes still startlingly blue, still alive, loving. Kezzie, though aged and bent, declared she would be around to dance at the wedding of her darling Molly. Of course this brought smiles to the faces of Bliss’s believers, whose code allowed for no dancing of the feet but plenty of the heart.

  Vivian Condon’s first mistake was to spurn the fragile person of Keziah Skye. Not that the gentle old lady showed any offense. And her family, for her sake, absorbed the slight silently, as kind hosts, reaching out with loving touches and smiles to the dear family member tolerating the thoughtlessness of the guest.

  “Here, my good woman,” Vivian Condon said, removing her cloak and hat and laying them in Kezzie’s arms. Kezzie’s smile of greeting grew a little fixed but remained just as sweet as
she took the garments without a word and laid them aside. This she had been prepared to do anyway, as a good hostess; it was the condescending “my good woman” that showed the true mettle of the one who spoke it and the one who suffered it wordlessly.

  If Vivian understood before very long that Kezzie was a treasured part of the family and not a household drudge, no word of apology or explanation attempted to correct the situation. Family and guests gathered around the table, Angus spoke the blessing, remembering to ask the Lord to bless not only the food but the friends who shared it, and then the generous platters were passed around.

  It was a bounteous spread. If Mary and Angus Morrison, over the heads of their children and their guests, nodded at each other with thankfulness too deep for words, it was understandable. Having come to Bliss before most of its settlers, they had experienced, and well remembered, the years when their table was not nearly so well nor abundantly supplied. Rabbit, partridge, even venison and bear, sometimes just oatmeal, all had been gratefully received and thankfully partaken of until the land was slowly and painstakingly cleared, plowed, and planted, until the garden began to produce, the hens to lay, the herd to grow.

  As available land was taken and Bliss began to fill up with other new homesteaders, the Morrisons had been as a rock in a weary land to many of them. Their hard work and determination had paid off, it was plain to be seen; if the Morrisons could do it, so can we, more than one discouraged newcomer said, settled down, and made it through. But the Sunday meals, offered to them upon their arrival, the words of encouragement and the parting prayer, made the difference in many a situation.

  The Condons were comparative newcomers; in their log house Vivian would be comfortable but certainly not pampered. Perhaps that was why her eyebrows seemed to arch in surprise over the starched and snowy serviette at the side of each place setting on the Morrison table. Perhaps that was why her eyes widened over the matching pieces of dinnerware, dinnerware that had—if she but knew it—been purchased only a year ago following harvest. Ordered from the catalog and delivered in a barrel (“We have never heard of a broken piece from any we have shipped”) to the post office in Bliss—one hundred pieces had been received for the magnificent price of $7.50. “This genuine English semi-porcelain ware, not first or second grade American, but the genuine English,” the catalog informed, “decorated with a delicate spray of anemone flowers and leaves, put on under glaze, which prevents its wearing off, can be furnished in two colors: Blue and Brown.”