Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (10 page)

“Come now,” she said to Lydia, with an effort producing a small laugh, “I can take off my own shoes.” Lydia had begun the job of undoing eight buttons per shoe.

“We’ll just have us a little interlude,” Lydia proclaimed, relinquishing the shoe buttons and turning toward the tea things. Having attended a play years ago in Ontario and enjoying the “light, farcical interlude”—the short break, or interval, between acts—Lydia had forever after termed teatime an interlude. “It’s a break in the day,” she explained. “It shouldn’t be considered routine, like a meal. Not ever. It’s a time for pleasure, for relaxation. For recuperation, perhaps.” At other times, depending on her mood and the need, she referred to teatime as “sheer magic,” “medicinal,” “restorative,” even “pure bliss,” depending on what it accomplished.

Any time, according to Lydia, was suitable for tea. Tea was perfect in the early hours, setting the tone for the day, opening one’s
eyes without the
zing
of coffee; it was wonderfully warming after a cold drive or walk, without the cloy of sugared cocoa. A good cup of tea settled worn nerves after a busy day much better than Bromo Vichy, purported to be “A Morning Bracer, A Headache Reliever, A Brain Cleaner, A Nerve Steadier.” All this and more a cup of tea would do, in Lydia Bloom’s opinion. Perhaps best of all, it bonded friend with friend as conversation blossomed and barricades dissipated.

Pouring the boiling water into the pot, shrewdly noting Birdie’s puffed eyes, Lydia depended once again on the magic of teatime.

Teatime called for dainty cups and for serviettes, a sense of the luxurious even in the distant reaches of the Canadian bush. Putting the lid on the pot and setting it to steep, she reached into the cupboard for the bone china cups. Treasures indeed, these items had been escorted across half a continent, held in abeyance through the Blooms’ first season in a tent, and finally unpacked and set with pride and satisfaction in the kitchen of a house still smelling of wood shavings—a touch of home, a touch of class.

The tea was piping hot; the gingerbread was warm, the whipped cream rich. Birdie sipped and let the tea work its magic. Lydia, wise Lydia, neither questioned nor pressed for conversation, least of all an explanation.

But Lydia had seen—in the material Birdie had set down on the table—a letter partially exposed between the layers of books. An unopened letter; a letter that strangely resembled one received not more than a week ago, brought home by Herbert on the occasion of his last visit to the post office. That one, like this one, bore no stamp but had obviously been slipped in the Bloom box, bypassing the postmaster. Written, then, by a local.

Lydia saw the very minute Birdie’s gaze left off its weary enjoyment of the cake and tea and strayed toward the letter. Saw the flicker of her eyes, heard the drawing of a quick breath.

Birdie laid aside the dainty cup and the serviette Lydia always deemed a necessary part of a decent tea, glanced apologetically toward her friend and landlady, and said, as she got to her feet,
“Thank you, Lydia. This was so special and more important than you may know—”

Not so
, Lydia’s wise eyes said.

“And now, I think I’ll make my way up to my room and change into something cooler perhaps—”

And read your letter
, Lydia’s silent lips spoke, adding to herself with great sympathy,
Oh, my dear, I hope you’re not going to be hurt again
!

The words, had she heard them spoken, would have astonished Birdie. Wrapped into herself as she was, so secretive, so
alone
, who could possibly have suspected that underneath was a secret that she had no intention of revealing, even of fully facing anymore? As far as Birdie was concerned, bygones should be bygones and Bliss a new beginning.

But in finding a home—not a boardinghouse but a home—Birdie had laid herself open to intimacy and to observation. It hadn’t taken much, Lydia would have been the first to confess, to realize something... someone, had hurt, and hurt desperately, the empty shell that answered to the name of Birdie Wharton.

Shutting the door to her room behind her, Birdie relished once again the comfort the Blooms had provided: white flocked curtains at the window; one straight-backed chair pulled up to a small table for study purposes with a bookshelf above; gracefully scrolled white iron bedstead; bright quilt across the foot of the white tufted coverlet; chiffonier—a dresser with a beveled oval mirror set in a fancy swing frame and decorated with carving. “Of choice oak,” Lydia had said, quoting the catalog, “handsomely finished, with swell front and two small and two large drawers fitted with cast brass knobs and handles and having locks and keys.”

And though the keys had been handed over promptly to the new roomer, Birdie had found no use for them—until
the letter
. Then, though with a feeling of shame, she found herself locking the small drawer in which it was kept.

Dropping the books on the bed, exposing the envelope, Birdie laid aside the shoes she had been carrying. With deliberation she unhooked the numerous buttons on the black shirtwaist and skirt
she was wearing, slipped out of them, dropped the waist in a box at the foot of the bed to be laundered the following day, and hung up the skirt.

Finally, hesitant, she stood in the center of the room, clad in a white muslin chemise (the plainest the catalog had offered, $0.45 or two for $0.86), thin, alone, uncertain. If she had realized how vulnerable she appeared, she would have snatched up a stiffly starched dress and put it on, hiding behind it, a uniform as surely as though it bore medals for bravery in combat.

As it was, half-clad and not caring, barefoot and not noticing, Birdie unlocked the dresser drawer and withdrew the letter hidden there. Shoving the clutter of dropped books aside, she reclaimed the second letter. Sitting on the bed, her legs curled under her, she opened both letters and spread them out before her.

Teacher first and foremost, Birdie couldn’t help but study the paper—torn from a scribbler and not real stationery—and the writing itself, which puzzled her, raising questions, revealing nothing.

Picking up the first letter, she read again:

Even as she berated herself for being a stupid fool for not tearing it up immediately, Birdie was gently folding the letter, inserting it in its envelope. Nor could she stop the increased tempo of her heart’s beat as she reached for the new letter and, picking up the single page, began to read:

W
e’ll open the service this morning with a hymn of your choice,” Parker Jones said, stepping behind the simple pulpit that had been put into place at the front of the schoolroom. His congregation began leafing through the hymnals that had been brought out of storage for Sunday’s service, looking for their favorite selections.

A vigorous bunch they were. Having spent a week at hard labor, they were—men and women alike—high colored from the Canadian sun, scrubbed until their work-worn faces shone. Hair, if they were male, was freshly cut so that the napes of necks gleamed white above the tan below; beards and mustaches were freshly trimmed. Women, particularly the older ones—having no time and small inclination to fool with curling irons—gathered their hair back into the ubiquitous bun. If they should be so fortunate as to own a hat in reasonable enough condition to be worn, it perched atop their head humbly.

Clothes, old though they might be and well-worn, were in good repair: shirt collars and cuffs being turned until the last ounce of
wear should be had from them; dresses taken in and let out as age and weight demanded; the seats of serge pants shining beneath many a mismatched jacket. The knees of the preacher’s trousers had a glisten to them, which the pious among them equated with time spent in prayer. Women’s dresses, if their owners had been in the bush for any length of time, were by and large of the homemade variety; their offspring wore the remnants of clothing brought from “back home,” cut down and remodeled time and again to fit each child in order. Here and there a newcomer sported something a little more fashionable; here and there someone self-consciously modeled a stiff new garment, probably ordered from the catalog. But for the most part, new garments would await harvest and the sale of the year’s crop.

Whatever the costume, plainness was evident, whether from lack of funds, ignorance of the day’s fashion, or a solemn adherence to the Bible’s admonition in 1 Peter 3:3–4 regarding the wearing of finery: “Let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart....” There was little money for frills in the bush and no patience with folderols. Life consisted of the bare bones where existence was concerned: food, shelter, clothes to keep one decent and warm.

But then, every once in a while there was an exception to the rule. That exception had often been Yvonne Carew, Vonnie of the gang of four. Growing up an only child and spoiled, Vonnie had treats when other children had none, new clothes when castoffs were the existing mode, gewgaws and fripperies when other girls felt fortunate to have a hair ribbon. Her mother, as simple and plain as a cabbage from her own garden, had fondly given up all self-gratification in favor of her adored child.

Once again Vonnie was the exception and, as such, the object of much attention. After an absence of several years, Vonnie, now Vonnie Whinnery and a widow, was back in Bliss. The outbreak of greetings, the hugs, the chatter, had delayed the beginning of the service. Finally Brother Parker Jones, with a tolerant smile, had called his congregation to order. Everyone had settled down,
but latecomers, catching sight of the vision in lavender—their own Vonnie all grown up and returned to them as pretty as ever—were distracted from worship as they flashed greetings her way, smiling and nodding, locating a seat and turning to the business of worship.

“Who has a selection?” Pastor Parker Jones asked as this hodgepodge of people settled into desks too small or backless benches brought in for the service. At the organ, prepared to pump with a vigor to match her enthusiasm, Sister Dinwoody waited, stops pulled, hymnbook in hand, ready to find the hymn of choice.

It was an opportunity little Ernie Battlesea couldn’t ignore.

“Her Golden Hair Was Hanging Down Her Back!” he piped in a clear and carrying treble. His mother gasped, went as red as a turkey gobbler, and jerked wee Ernie by the arm until the lock of unruly hair standing up on the back of his head bobbed wildly.

Poor Ernie, more than one child thought sympathetically. This would be the end of his studying the Home Entertainment page of the catalog, with its enticing Graphaphone display and long list of songs available on its tubular records.

Mothers, on the other hand, were sympathetic with Luella, Ernie’s mother, imagining their own reaction and embarrassment should their child burst forth in public with such a shocking,
worldly
title.

For a moment silence gripped the congregation as they absorbed Ernie’s surprising request, uncertain of the proper reaction. Then, beginning with the young people, there was a titter of laughter. Quickly hushed on this the Lord’s day and in His house, it appeared for the moment that Ernie’s monkeyshines would pass without further reaction and they would all settle down to a worshipful hour.

But the good people of Bliss, pious though they might be when occasion demanded it, were also earthy. Moreover, some of them hadn’t had a good laugh all week, caught up in the serious business of making a living, preparing for the winter ahead.

Parker Jones, though unmarried and childless, saw the humor in the situation and appreciated the problem that faced his people:
to laugh or not to laugh. Smiling, he quoted from the Book of Proverbs into the silence now fractured with a few restrained snickers, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

It was enough to burst the bonds of decorum, and hearty laughter erupted, to Ernie’s dismay but eventual pride and his mother’s further embarrassment. But even she, after a moment, managed a smile, though rather thin-lipped, and one wondered just what Ernie’s fate would be, eventually.

Finally “Stand Up for Jesus” was suggested, and order was restored. It was a good choice, for singers could not remain seated and “lift high the royal banner,” marching, in heart and spirit, from “victory unto victory.” Amid the general hubbub of getting to their feet and turning to the correct page, the service resumed its usual ritual: songs and prayers and sermon, all sprinkled with numerous amens. For after all, did not the psalmist himself say, “Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise”? There were no high altars in the bush.