Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (9 page)

“Go then!” he had finally agreed wearily. “But what I’ll tell the master I dinna ken.” It seemed to be Paul Fraser’s chief concern.

“Tell him he dinna own me. Tell him,” she added recklessly, “he dinna own any of the Frasers.” Paul had growled and shifted uncomfortably, obviously dreading the reaction of the MacDermotts.

Anne’s brothers, Pauly and Sam, when they saw her determination, confessed they would miss their only sister, wishing they were bold enough to go with her.

“Ye’d have to be a lass,” she had told them. “This plan isna for laddies. Find yersel’ somebody that’ll pay yer way, and ye can work it off. A sort of indenture, I guess, tho’ not sae long or binding. The debt could be paid off sooner, and ye’d be free to make yer own way, get your own place. Think on’t!”

The brothers promised, with true longing, to “think on’t,” and gave their sister a hug and kiss, something they had not done in all their lives, to her memory, until this moment. It meant something to Anne; she found herself, at times, thinking “on’t” and rejoicing over the separation more than regretting it. It had been a sweeter moment than any she could recall since the death of her mother, and it did much to wipe out the years of her brothers’ carelessness and unconcern.

The actual moment of their leaving Binkiebrae had been marked by the turnout of most of the small hamlet, embracing, waving, with a few tears making their unaccustomed way down the craggy, wind-worn faces of friends and neighbors. Robbie Dunbar’s family had told her, with regret, “We dinna know whaur Robbie be, Tierney. We havna had time to hear from ’im.” And it was true; there had been, as yet, no communication from the absent sons; it was too soon.

Tierney and Anne turned from the warm show of affection to climb aboard the cart. Looking over the heads of the assembled group they could see a lone horse and haughty rider—Lucian MacDermott.

Before touching heels to his mount and whirling away, Lucian’s malevolent gaze met the startled eyes of Anne. His lips curled in a sneer, his slitted eyes glittered, and he touched his hand to his forehead in a mocking salute. Anne shivered, her gaze caught in his, like that of a snared bird. His presence—towering and menacing—was more threatening than words could have been. Anne’s last impression of Binkiebrae was of impending doom.

“Quick, settle doon, and we’ll be on our way,” Tierney ordered under her breath. “An’ forget him; he can’t reach you or touch you, ever again.”

With more than a hint of hysteria Anne dragged her eyes from Lucian’s hypnotic gaze. At the last his sneer changed to something resembling a smile—a mocking, twisted smile, a smile of . . . what? Disdain? Superiority? Promise? Surely not a promise. And a promise of what? In a day’s time she
would be forever beyond the long arm of the MacDermott clan.
Wouldn’t she?

Tierney and Anne prepared to settle themselves among turnips, not as odorous as the onions of the earlier trip when they had met Ishbel Mountjoy and established their future, but equally dirty. Carefully spreading sacks, they protected their best and finest clothes against starting the journey in a state that would call forth correction or condemnation from the leader of the group. Mrs. Ishbel Mountjoy was to meet them at the designated place and take charge of them from then on; they planned to meet her in satisfactory condition.

What a whirl of activity it had turned out to be! For girls who had never been farther from home than Aberdeen, the world opened amazingly to new faces, new experiences, new speech. Their own speech began to show change almost immediately.

“Girls,” Mrs. Mountjoy had said, looking around the circle of faces in her charge and having listened to the distinctive rolling burr that marked their manner of talking, “it’ll be to your advantage to make an effort to drop the colloquialisms—the regional dialect expressions—from your talk and to discontinue rolling your r’s. It makes it difficult, at times, to understand you. I’m sure, knowing the problem, you’ll work on it.”

And the Scotswomen, astonished that their manner of speech was strange in any fashion or hard to understand, made an attempt to speak more like Mrs. Mountjoy, herself the epitome of all things acceptable, the judge of all things unacceptable.

Upon reaching the ship, they were joined by a group of girls recruited from London, Liverpool, and other cities, and they saw, for the first time, Pearly Gates of the vivid little face, thin figure, and disreputable clothing. If these were the child’s best garments, Tierney and Anne had thought, noting her particularly, how dreadful had been the rags she left behind. No wonder she was taking off for greener pastures—England obviously had not been kind to Pearly Gates.

Aboard the
Lake Manitoba
, making up their beds, Tierney had found herself next to the girl, a mere waif of the streets, she supposed, and had introduced herself.

“I’m Tierney Caulder, from Binkiebrae, near Aberdeen,” she said, and added, “seems we’re to be bunk mates. That’s my friend, Anne Fraser, up there above me, makin’ up that bunk for hersel’. She’s also from Binkiebrae.”

“I’m from Lunnon,” the wisp of a girl had said, holding out a small, clawlike hand, “and me name’s Pearly Gates.”

Only Tierney’s kind heart kept her from repeating the name and exclaiming in amused tones, “Pearly Gates!”

“Laugh if y’ want ter,” Pearly had sighed, as though reading her thoughts. “Most people does. I have a bruvver named Garden; he gets as much fun poked at him as me, though he looks sharp at people when they do it, and dares ’em to laugh at ’im. Gets in lots of fights, me bruvver Garden. Me muvver’s got a new babby comin’ any day now, and me favver says he’s goin’ ter call it Heavenly, no matter if it’s a boy or a girl. I guess I should be grateful he dint name me lych-gate.”

“I guess so! Pearly—it’s really verra . . . nice. Your favver . . . father must have a rare sense of humor.”

“Oh, he’s a real card, me favver is. Especially when he’s in his cups.”

“Is he in his . . . cups often?”

“Often, and always when a new babby is born.”

“I imagine,” Tierney said, trying to be sensitive and yet friendly, “ye will miss sich good humor, as well as missing your father and mother, Garden, and, soon now, Heavenly, o’ course.”

“And Thelma and Winifred and Maisie an’ . . . about eight more. Yes,” Pearly said, “I s’pose I’ll miss ’em, about like they’ll miss me. Among so many it’s easy to fergit someone.” Pearly sounded a bit forlorn, as though loneliness in the middle of a crowd was a common thing.

“Weel,” Tierney said, not yet correcting her speech to any marked degree, “ye’ll just have to take on Annie and me. We’ll be yer family, if ye want.”

It was the only invitation needed; Pearly Gates attached herself to the two girls, particularly Tierney. In an instant Tierney gained the sister she had never had until now, though Annie had come close.

Pearly Gates, not quite certain of her age (“older than Garden, younger than Jack”), was probably no younger than Tierney, but in size she was indeed a “wee” sister. Even the poor food the ship’s galley provided—and it was better for them than for many of the others, Ishbel saw to that—was received gratefully and almost greedily by Pearly; so poor was her condition from the beginning that she actually began to show signs of improvement. Her color was better than her London pallor, her dull eyes brightened, and most important of all, she seemed to relax and enjoy herself to a degree unequalled by the others, most of whom complained rather bitterly, at times, about numerous miserable aspects of the voyage. Yes, whatever Pearly’s lot had been up to now, the poor fare and harsh conditions of the ship were an improvement.

Now, standing in line, waiting to “ascend,” the three girls huddled in conversation, running their fingers through their damp hair occasionally, impatient to go up on deck.

“Your name, Pearly,” Anne said, returning to the conversation begun earlier and laid aside, “I was wonderin’—why don’t ye change it? This would be the time, when ye’re leavin’ one place an’ goin’ to another.”

“Why not!” Pearly responded quickly. “I’d like that!”

“What name do ye like? Ye could take yer pick, ye know.”

“It’d have to be me last name . . . I don’t mind the Pearly part, and I’m used ter it. Yes, I’ll change me last name.”

“But that’s yer family name,” Tierney reminded. “Ye’d lose that tie wi’ yer family.”

“Don’t matter,” Pearly responded stoutly. “They won’t miss me none, and since none of ’em can write, and me only a little, we won’t be keepin’ in touch.”

“Well then, how about Smith. Isn’t that a good English name?”

“Smiff!” Pearly sniffed. “I’m gonna get me a name that’s all mine . . . there’s too many Smiffs now.”

The order to “ascend” being delayed for some reason or other, Tierney asked, “What name did you have in mind?”

“You’ll laugh . . .” Pearly said, looking around cautiously as though about to reveal some great secret.

“Na, na. Promise!”

“Well then—Pearly Chapel.”

Though the chattering around them didn’t abate, there was a small pocket of silence around Tierney and Anne. You could almost hear them thinking—
Chapel?

Pearly drew closer and spoke earnestly. “See, I went to this chapel fer a year or more . . . made a big difference in me life. If I call meself Chapel, I’ll always remember them good times.”

“What chapel was that, Pearly?”

“The Meffodist Chapel. Somebody invited me. . . . I was glad to go, wif noffing much else to do that meant anyfing. That’s when . . .” Pearly’s little face glowed, and she faltered in her account of the chapel and its affairs.

“You dinna need to tell us if ye dinna want,” Tierney said kindly, while Anne put a spontaneous arm around the girl.

“I don’t mind. Fact is, I sorter like ter tell it. That’s where me life changed—at the Meffodist Chapel. Me heart, I mean.”

“I see,” Tierney said, not seeing at all. Anne looked equally baffled.

“Yes, changed. Changed from noffing to somefing. You see, that’s where they told me about how Jesus loves everybody, even me. That’s where I believed it. That’s where
I got saved!
And that’s me testimony, see?”

“Saved?” Tierney repeated weakly. It was like no term she had heard in Binkiebrae’s small kirk.

“So I love the name Chapel. Or,” Pearly said, her face ashine under her wet hair, “I could call meself Christian. I have a right to that name, I bin told. Pearly Christian. How’s that?”

“It seems to me,” Tierney said cautiously, “that Pearly Christian, though it’s nice, verra nice indeed, might get ye a few
raised eyebrows, same as Pearly Gates. Not from me, o’ course,” she hastened to add.

“Or me,” Anne added quickly.

“Well, then,” Pearly concluded and just in time—there seemed to be indications that the line was about to move—“I’ll be Pearly Chapel. It’ll always remind me of the love of those people, and what happened ter me because they cared about me. Chapel—that’s a posh name! I’ll hafta tell Mrs. Mountjoy to change me name on her list.”

And now, at last, Mrs. Mountjoy was ready to maneuver her “girls” up the companionway to the deck above.

“Girls—commence ascending!” she commanded, and Pearly Chapel’s story was discontinued for the time being. But Tierney, for one, found herself unsettled in her mind and wondered about it. What was there about the pinch-faced girl and her cheery “testimony” that was so captivating?

Drying her abundant auburn hair in the warm sun, rocked hypnotically by the surging seas, Tierney thought on her future. Thought more seriously than she had thought before. She and Anne, yes, and Pearly too, were at the mercy of Ishbel Mountjoy and the British Women’s Emigration Society. But surely, with the Canadian government back of the plan, it could be depended on. Mrs. Mountjoy seemed, in all ways, a rock of Gibraltar, a paragon of all virtues a woman would strive to have in her life. Added to the attraction of those virtues was the one thing Tierney desired most of all: freedom to be herself, freedom to make her own way, freedom to succeed or lose by her own merits. It was a heady opportunity for a poor Scotch lassie; it was worth taking a chance on.

Mrs. Mountjoy had continued daily—after devotions were completed—advising, explaining, extolling the wondrous works of the Society.

“You’ve gotten in on a marvelous opportunity,” she had said that morning. “It’s true that single women are more enthusiastic and adjust better than childbearing women. For them, pioneering is hard; they often submit to it at the will of their husband.
The ‘reluctant pioneers,’ we call them. You have made your own decision; you go into it with an open mind. And for you all the details have been worked out; for you there will be no heavy burden of anxiety over facing another long day’s journey across the wilderness over mostly trackless ways.

“That is indeed difficult, and women who undertake it are to be admired; they pay a great price to follow their men into uncharted territory. But for women like you, full of zest and enthusiasm and the confidence that the Society brings, it can and will be an adventure. Each of you will have a fabulous story to tell, some day.

“Even now, you can begin to consider your options and choices, deciding what appeals most to you personally. Let me share one opportunity with you.” Here Ishbel adjusted her spectacles and read from the
Regina Leader Post:
“‘Wanted—Housekeeper for Canadian bachelor, age thirty-nine, on his own homestead, quarter section, near school, five miles from town, offers permanent position if suited. Apply Box 223, Gray Wolf, Sask., state starting wages, particulars, nationality.’

“Now, isn’t that challenging? But if not, there are many more open doors. Requests keep coming in to the Society and, once in Canada, we’ll have access to current openings.”

At the reading of the advertisement there had been considerable tittering from her listeners, some blushing, a few frowns. “Of course,” Mrs. Mountjoy concluded, folding the paper, “this is just one letter. There are countless homes across the territories that are simply begging . . . waiting for you to come and fill a need. Be assured that you will, each of you, find the place best for you. The Society will see that you are satisfactorily settled, and they will be available for any further needs you might have.”