With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (16 page)

Something did get Franny’s attention. Something brought a gleam into her lackluster eyes. Something brought a faint pink into her colorless cheeks. Something quickened her breath. Finally, lying back with the paper clutched to her, Franny thought seriously and for a long time. When Gladdy brought lunch in and attempted to remove the paper, Franny let it go with these instructions, “Put it right here on the bedside table. And, Gladdy, when you come back for the tray, please bring pen and ink and paper.”

Franny spent a good part of the afternoon on the project. Her composition was covered over when anyone came into the room, and she waited politely until the room was her own again, and then resumed writing. It seemed to take a while—several pages were crumpled and discarded. At last a satisfactory document was completed. Reading it over, with eyes aglow and cheeks flushed, Franny signed and folded it and inserted it into an envelope. When it was addressed and ready to go, she sealed it and slipped it under her pillow.

“Gladdy,” she said later when the maid was replenishing the wood in the fireplace, “please send Gideon up to me. And, Gladdy, don’t say anything to anyone. All right?”

What could she do? As devoted to Frances as was Kerry, Gladdy promised.

It was Gladdy, many days later, who secretly brought an envelope to Franny, noting as a matter of course that it was addressed to Miss Frances Bentley in care of B. Gideon; this was not surprising, since it was Gideon himself who had handed it to her, rather slyly, as though he too had his instructions not to “tell.” Franny clutched the envelope to her, waiting to open it until Gladdy was gone and she was alone. This scenario was repeated numerous times, and each time it was accomplished in secret, with no one else in the family aware of what was happening under their very noses.

Gladdy wasn’t the only one to notice that Franny’s cheeks blossomed like a rose, that her eyes regained their sparkle, and that she resumed her yawning exercises with new zest. One and all were amazed when she forsook her bed to begin twirling, bending, stretching, performing many more movements than the yawn exercise called for. And thriving on it.

Soon she was rising and dressing immediately after she finished eating her breakfast, followed by occasions when she appeared at the table in the dining room, her presence adding to the feeling of relief and happiness in the household. Miss Frances was well again!

At first Kerry felt extremely gratified—her efforts had paid off. Either Franny was responding to the health regimen in a marvelous way or a miracle had been performed.

There came a day when Franny, with Kerry accompanying her, made a foray into Toronto’s shopping district, a bold experiment indeed. She survived it very well, and was, moreover, exhilarated past all explaining.

When caution was urged upon her, “I’m fine, just fine,” she insisted, flourishing a list of “things” she needed to purchase, and arranging another shopping trip.

The girls had a delightful time together, like nothing that had marked their relationship previously. Once Gladdy accompanied them, and it seemed like an outing for pleasure.

“I’ve needed times like this,” Franny said. “I promise we’ll have more of them.”

“‘Why,’” a smiling Kerry quoted, prompted to the use of Scripture by the jovial mood that was upon them, “‘gaddest thou about so much to change thy ways?’”

Little did she know just how much Franny’s ways were changing and would change.

Franny’s inheritance, until now, had meant little or nothing to her, accepted with supreme casualness. Now she spent money freely. But on what? The latest in couture? Not at all.

It was because of the unsuitability of her purchases that Kerry began to suspect something was not quite right. Franny’s choices were far from the rich, fancy, or fashionable. Rather, they were basic, plain, serviceable. And when Gideon had deposited them in her room, Franny laid them carefully into a trunk that Finch toted down from the attic for her.

“You’d think she were going on the Grand Tour,” Olga reported to Finch, having been in Franny’s room and had a glimpse into the open trunk. “Except no self-respectin’ crayture would step foot in the auld country wiff such a wardrobe as she’s accumulatin’, the lamb. Looks like she were plannin’ a trip to the north pole, it does! And how long do you fink our Miss Franny would survive at the north pole, the precious!”

Kerry had some of the same dark thoughts. When Franny ordered a “bicycle suit,” it was more than she could stand and not burst with curiosity. The bloomers, in particular, were startling.

“A bicycle suit! Franny, whatever for? You’ve never ridden a bicycle in your life! Are you about to start now? And if so, why haven’t you ordered—of all things—the machine itself?”

Franny’s delicious, tinkly laugh, once again ringing musically wherever she went, was her only response, aside from a tantalizing “You’ll see!”

Franny folded the bicycle suit of “blue repellent cloth, bound in leather all around and consisting of five pieces—jacket, skirt, bloomers, leggins, and cap,” and laid it in the trunk beside the plain black Henrietta skirt, washable linen crash walking suit, double-cape macintosh, over-gaiters, corduroy leggins, and other strange purchases, and Kerry could contain herself no longer: “Franny! Either I’m crazy or you are! And since you’re the one making these far-fetched purchases, I think it’s you. I can’t stand it! What are you doing? Where are you going, if going you are? Certainly these things are not for use in Toronto. You’ll have to tell me,” she threatened, “or I’m not going with you again. And Aunt Charlotte won’t let you go alone.”

“The bicycle suit, Kerry? It comes as near to riding clothes as I can get and not wear trousers. Sidesaddle is out of the question. You’ve read the Duchess of Somerset’s memoirs, how the sight of her riding sidesaddle, exposing her woollen petticoats, caused two mule teams so much alarm that to pacify them and prevent the wagons from leaving the trail, she had to conceal herself behind some bushes until they had passed. If one is to fork a horse—”

“Fork a horse?” Kerry asked feebly. This was worse than she had imagined! “Franny! You’re sicker than I thought!”

“But I’m perfectly well, Kerry!” And Franny whirled across the bedroom in as graceful and useless a demonstration as could be imagined. Falling on the bed, she waited until she had regained her breath. Then, sitting up, she said, with a twinkle, “Are you prepared for a surprise? Perhaps a shock?”

“Depends,” Kerry said briefly, hoping, rather desperately by now, that this secret was good and sensible and that the change in Franny was a healthy one, a permanent one. But
bloomers?

Franny was fumbling in a drawer, withdrawing a packet of letters, tied—of all things—with a blue ribbon!

“Franny! Don’t tell me you’re in love again!” Kerry was more than a little concerned now. Not again could she stand the heartbreak that Franny—as dear to her as a sister—had already experienced, taking her almost to her deathbed.

“Listen, dear. Listen, and don’t talk for a few moments.” The old, gentle Franny was speaking. In a few words she explained that in the magazine Kerry had left with her—as well as many newspapers she had perused—there were numerous advertisements for a wife. Lonely homesteaders were desperate for female companionship and wrote appeals for a wife; bachelors across the West, with no prospects in their community, had written; organizations set up for the purpose had written, extolling the virtues of such a life and urging a response from females interested in “adventure, satisfaction, and true love.”

“Franny—you didn’t—”

“Shh, dear, and listen. No, I didn’t answer them, though I was tempted. You don’t know, Kerry, how lonely and desperate I’ve been, and how completely hopeless about my future. So, I wrote my own letter, you’d call it an advertisement, I suppose.”

“You wrote—”

“Newspapers, magazines—Winnipeg
Free Press, Western Producer,
and others—those that were most likely to be received and read in the West. The great and glorious West, Kerry! Where things are happening! Where there’s
life!
” The near-invalid Franny was replaced for the moment by none other than a fiery fanatic.

“Here,” she said, taking a deep breath and settling down, “see for yourself what I said.”

Silently Kerry took the paper, followed the pointing finger, and read, “‘Single woman, financially independent and with a pioneer spirit, desires correspondence with interested male, age 25–35, serious intentions in mind. Would prefer a gentleman with some education and polish, and whose dreams, along with mine, will bring satisfaction and fulfillment.’” One further line included the request that mail be sent in care of B.Gideon.

“Gideon has been getting answers—there’s been no lack of answers—and Gladdy has been bringing them to me and mailing mine. You mustn’t blame either of them. I threatened them with murder and mayhem if they told!”

“And that stack represents the responses?”

“Yes, and I’ve read them carefully. Out of them all, I selected one, and we’ve corresponded several times. My last letter, Kerry, informed him of my decision.”

“Decision?” Kerry asked half fearfully. “What decision, Franny?”

“I’ve decided to pack up and go to Saskatchewan. That’s why the clothes, which I deem fit for the frontier; that’s what all the secrecy has been about. I’m going West, Kerry!”

“To marry this . . . clod?”

“Kerry!” Franny said reproachfully. “You don’t even know him! He’s a man of some culture, who, like me, wants adventure and isn’t afraid to go after it. He hasn’t asked me to marry him, as yet, but I know it’s coming. I want to see him, get to know him. So I’m not totally foolish after all!”

“‘Thy tacklings are loosed’!” The remote Scripture, which Kerry had never needed before, was a cry from her heart.

Franny tried to laugh, as she so often had across the years when Kerry used Scripture indiscriminately. But the laugh was of short duration, for Kerry’s face, so dear to Franny, was filled with a mix of pain and bitterness.

“Dear Kerry, trust me,” Franny said, putting out her hand in a small gesture of comfort. “I’ve written him and told him I’m coming. I’ll be on my way just as soon as I can get matters arranged about the transfer of funds—I’m so stupid about banking—and take care of a few matters here and do a bit more shopping . . . it’s been such fun, Kerry. You can’t believe how alive I feel.”

“But a trip that far! Franny, you’re attempting too much—”

“Nonsense! See how well and strong I am!” And Franny laughingly flexed a slender arm.

“Not really, Franny!” Kerry cried, hating above everything to confess her concerns. Franny’s health, always precarious, was exhibiting the same symptoms it had when Señor Garibaldi was in the picture; they were false then, and she feared they were false now. Kerry knew, if Franny did not, that Franny’s lungs were involved; she knew that the family doctor was gravely concerned over this flare-up of vitality and vigor. Was it, he wondered, eating away her remaining strength?

“The last thing you need is to be worked to death on some homestead! And it’s too soon! It hasn’t been all that long since you were flat on your back—sick, very, very sick! You need time to prove that this burst of well-being is real and lasting, and not a temporary thing!”

“Real and lasting, or temporary,” Franny said quietly—a Franny not heard from before—“it’s my chance for a life. Don’t try and talk me out of it, Kerry. I’m determined; my plans are made, and I’m going just as soon as I’m sure Connor Dougal has my letter advising him of my decision.”

“Connor Dougal—is that what you know about him—his name? With others to choose from, what made this one attractive, enough so that you’d pledge your life and, I suppose, your love? Or does that come later?” Kerry was very close to tears, and all in a desperate attempt to discourage Franny from the mind-boggling plans she was making.

Ignoring Kerry’s words and her tears, Franny rustled around and drew out a snapshot. It was unprofessional in quality, obviously taken with a small camera and somewhat indistinct, but the man’s face was clear enough. His hat was pushed back, and one lock of hair fell over his brow in attractive disarray. Kerry could find no fault with the square, rugged face, the cleft chin, the open expression.

“How can you be sure this is his picture? How do you know if this is really . . . what’s his name?” Kerry hadn’t really forgotten the name, nor would she ever. Franny had sung it like a paean of praise—
Connor Dougal!

“I’ve read what he has to say, and it grips me,” Franny answered now, finally on the defensive. “And I know this much—he’s a homesteader in the Saskatchewan Territory. Doesn’t that awaken something in you—something that longs for new horizons?”

Kerry’s opinion of far horizons was very narrow at the moment. “I suppose,” she said hollowly, “you’ve sent him your picture, too.”

“Not yet. I want to have a new one taken, now that I look so much healthier—better. But I did send him a gift.”

“A gift? What—”

“I sent him,” Franny’s eyes were very bright, “my father’s vest chain.”

“Oh, Franny! The only thing you have of his! You can remember it shining across his vest and the little charm dangling from it—a small compass, wasn’t it? You played with that charm when he held you on his lap! You’ve told me so, and what a special memory it is! How could you—”

“It was the only masculine thing I had, and I sent it happily. I feel good knowing Connor Dougal—don’t you just love that name—is wearing it.”

“A farmer, Franny! How often have you seen a vest chain on a bib overall?”

“When he dresses up, I mean, of course,” Franny amended patiently.

Kerry, finally, was silent. What was there to say? Franny sounded very, very sure of herself.

“And so,” Franny was saying, “do you know how I finally made my choice among these responses? It was Connor Dougal’s address, the name of his town . . . community . . . where he lives. It’s
Bliss
, Kerry—
Bliss.
Could anything go wrong, with a delightful and promising name like that? I believe it’s an omen!”