With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (4 page)

Supposedly residing in the most refined part of the country—the East, for which she was profoundly grateful—Charlotte Maxwell was tried to the limit with the lack of proprieties. Just to be proper and orderly didn’t seem too much to ask; obviously it was. Certainly if a higher scale of living were possible, the Maxwells would have had it. Money was no object; desire was strong; but there was no spit and polish to be obtained at any price!

Throughout what was to be known as the “Victorian” age, the new nation was largely made up of frontier settlements, developing towns, and farms, farms, farms. Just previously, the census had shown that only 12 percent of the population lived in cities; even now the entire nation numbered only 4,833,239 in total population (Canadian families could expect to bury one child out of five). Of that number, the Sebastian Maxwells shone among the few with money and power. Charlotte had the good sense to realize that it wasn’t difficult to be upper crust when competition for status was so limited, and when the hoi polloi were farmers, farmers, farmers.

Unknown and unrealized now, the vast plains, touted far and wide by Clifford Sifton, a lawyer from Brandon, Manitoba, and Minister of the Interior in charge of western settlement, were on the verge of turning into the nation’s breadbasket. Very shortly a hundred thousand sod-busters would descend, bachelor by bachelor and family by family, on the world’s last free land and some of its most productive. Ontario and the maritime provinces were emptying their immigrants—no longer heading south to the United States but west to the prairie provinces. The West meant opportunity. And when opportunity knocked, countless land-hungry men responded, willing to do what was necessary, though it meant almost unbearable hardship, years of grinding work, and risking one’s health and very existence.

Most of them arrived with little or no money. For housing and even for food they had no choice but to make do with what the land had to offer. Their huts were made of sod; they slept under umbrellas or oilcloth when it rained; they papered their shacks with newspaper, existed on oatmeal and rabbit stew, and battled mosquito hordes in summer and fierce blizzards in winter.

Just getting to the area of their choice was a major undertaking. Trails were littered with furniture and equipment abandoned along the way. Sebastian Maxwell grew richer by the day as he and his connections provided goods that would—many of them—prove to be impractical and end up discarded along the trail. But he did it with a good conscience, enjoying the expansive feeling of helping to populate the country he had adopted as his own. He relished the fruits of his labor, living what could be called the good life—or as good as was possible at the time—even as his customers lived like field mice in the earth, bought, at times, with their life’s blood.

There was about Sebastian an aura of self-satisfaction that came from the certain knowledge that he was of good stock—the best stock. He was of the Scotch Maxwell clan who boasted connection with one James Clerk Maxwell, educator, scientist, and winner of the coveted Adams prize at Cambridge for his essay, “On the Stability of Motion of Saturn’s Rings.” His recently published “Theory of Heat” was even more prestigious. Sadly, his fame had made little impact on Canada; Sebastian felt the poorer for it and strove to be recognized personally by philanthropy and good deeds. Consequently, when the call came to take in his wife’s profligate brother’s only child, he had encouraged her to do so. “After all,” he said, “you were willing to take on my sister’s child.”

And it was so; Frances, orphaned and in poor health, had been a member of the Maxwell household since she was twelve. Now fifteen, a sweet child making no demands, needing only food and clothing, a little education when her health permitted, and a few medicines, her presence at Maxwell Manor barely caused a ripple in Sebastian’s well-run household. Could one more child make much difference?

Just how great that difference could be weighed uneasily on Charlotte Maxwell’s mind as the carriage brought her, with that child, closer home.

And no wonder; the newest member of her household was spouting some obscure Scripture: “‘Heaviness in the heart of man—’” Kerry was quoting, and explaining earnestly, “I think that means women, too, Aunt, and maybe even children,
speshully
children—‘Heaviness in the heart of man maketh it stoop.’ Did you ever have a stoop-ed heart? I know I did.”

“You have a habit, child,” Charlotte said a trifle peevishly, growing more uneasy about her husband’s reaction all the time, “of asking questions and then hurrying on and giving one no opportunity to answer. You’ve left me with my mouth open several times today. Now, what do you mean, stupid heart?”

Kerry’s merry laugh rang out. The impassive face of Gideon seemed about to crack wide open, but he saved himself from such unacceptable behavior by a coughing fit that kept his mistress waiting, with a pained expression, for the child’s answer.

“Not
stupid,
Aunt Charlotte! Stoop-ed, like stoopt. It means bent—”

“I know what it means, for heaven’s sake. Why don’t you just say stoopt, then?”

“I think prob’ly King James would say stoop-
ed,
and it’s his book; it says so right in the front. You don’t say belovd, do you? No, you say belov-
ed
.” Kerry looked at her aunt, discerning the pink nose even in the dimming light. “But,” she added quickly, “I’ve never been called belovd
or
belov-ed, though I s’pose you have. By your husband maybe, and by your children?” It was a question, and for once Kerry waited for an answer. She hadn’t thought of the possibility of children in the household until this moment, and an anxious look touched her piquant face. Kerry’s contact with other children had been limited, and she found just talking to them a strange and often unsettling experience. Children seemed so . . .
childish.
And sadly lacking in appreciation of the Scriptures.

Charlotte Maxwell sighed and leaned back tiredly against the carriage’s “machine-buffed” cushions. “I have no children,” she said, and her tone seemed to give the impression that right now she was very happy about her lack.

Kerry relaxed obviously. “I don’t blame you,” she piped wisely. “Children can be a terr’ble nuisance.”

Again Charlotte Maxwell wondered about the child’s life with Avery her guide, teacher, and example. Knowing her brother—thoughtless and careless in the best of times, hurtful and impatient, even harsh, when crossed—didn’t conjure up a picture of a normal life for any child. And his drinking? Charlotte sighed again and shook her head slightly as if to clear it of unpleasant recollections.

“No children of my own,” she found herself explaining to this unchildlike being sitting at her side and peeping at her nose from time to time. “But there
is
another young person in the household—”

“There is? Who is it, Aunt Charlotte?” There was a quick note of interest in the child’s voice. It might be a boy; she might like a boy; she’d never had an opportunity to find out. With all her heart and soul Kerry hoped it wouldn’t be a girl, like Cordelia, the landlady’s daughter. What a frightening possibility! The very thought of Cordelia sent shudders up Kerry’s spine. Cordelia had been overbearing, haughty, and spiteful. Play had always turned ugly when Cordelia didn’t get her way; and as for reading together, Kerry’s favorite pastime, Cordelia spurned that as wasted time. Kerry’s pleasure in it was cause for jealousy and cruel thrusts, and Cordelia ended up calling her “lumpy toad!” or some other ugly conglomeration of strange and terrible words (for an almost illiterate child, Cordelia had
an amazing stock of insulting words at her command). Kerry had no idea what was meant, usually, but the tone alone was enough get her hackles up and her blood boiling, and she wanted, fiercely, to slap the offender. But Cordelia, with a flounce and a sniff, ran away, scornfully flinging the final indignity over her shoulder: “church mouse!” Kerry rather liked mice, but she supposed that being a poor one would be a hateful thing.

Now, looking down at the young face obviously fearing her answer, Charlotte found herself strangely moved again, and she answered more gently than she would have otherwise. “Frances is the daughter of Mr. Maxwell’s sister.”

Mr. Maxwell!
Here was another cause for worry. Somehow Kerry hadn’t imagined that there would be anyone else to consider—just Aunt Charlotte. Now there was a Mr. Maxwell
and
an unknown girl.

It was all too much. Even the ebullient spirit of Keren-happuch Ferne was overcome. With a sigh she folded up for the day, quite naturally laying her whirling head on the silk moire lap, blending a small tear of self-pity with the tea stain and closing her eyes in sleep.

But not before she felt the gloved hand of her Aunt Charlotte brush the tumbled hair back from her forehead in a gesture as old as motherhood. But it was as new, to Kerry, as the ride in a Maythorn & Son carriage, exhibited at Biggleswade and having the first of its thirteen coats of paint rubbed out with pumice.

M
axwell Manor, reached in full dark, was but a large blur to the sleepy Kerry when Gideon lifted her out of the carriage. Her tousled head on his shoulder, eyes only half-open, she had the distinct feeling of coming out of a dark hole into a welcoming retreat. As long as she lived, she was to have that safe feeling whenever she approached the home of her aunt. Somehow cares and fears were left outside, and comfort and a very different kind of care opened their arms and offered a warm embrace.

Late as it was, the Queen Anne double doors with their handsome glazed glass were flung open. Light beckoned softly from the lamp held high in the hand of another uniformed man, older and more stooped than Gideon. The lamplight on his balding head shone a cheery hello and guided the weary travelers across a wide veranda to the sumptuousness beyond.

In spite of the overdone decorating, which was the current rage, Charlotte Maxwell had managed to create a home. As the century waned, clutter was adored, and anything simple or without ornament was identified with pauperism. Parlors boasted stuffed birds, statues, dried flower and human hair wreaths, cupids, japanned trays, swagged window hangings, enameled clocks, heavily carved picture frames hung on golden tasseled cords, ornately framed, stiff and stilted family photographs, and much more; simply to cross a room was hazardous. But one was impressed, all the same, by the tasteless congestion.

The Maxwell home, due to innate good taste and wealth reaching back many generations, was not as unabashedly ostentatious as those of the newly rich, or even of those who had attained middle-class status; goods were cheap and available to them also.

If it was not possible to shop the stores personally, there was always the catalog and its tens of thousands of items—everything from a rubber hairpin to a plow or piano. Ready-made clothes were finally replacing the homemade vintage. And who could resist the pictured articles of clothing, with their enticing descriptions? A woman of modest means could afford “the Latest Style Foulard Percale day dress [one-piece garment as opposed to skirt and waist] with puff-top sleeves, neat turned-down collar, three rows of fancy serpentine braid across bust and back forming yoke; plaited effect from yoke to waist; butterfly epaulets extending over sleeves,” costing only $1.15. As for the massive furniture of the day, a solid oak parlor table cost $1.48, a six-piece parlor “suit,”—sofa, easy rocker, large arm chair, and two parlor chairs—having “easy spring seats with hard edges, the fronts being of plush, handsomely corded; casters free,” cost but $11.35 and could be received at the post office of the most remote settler.

Here, in about seven hundred closely printed pages, was reading material enough to keep an isolated household fascinated for weeks. The far-ranging rural clientele pored over the “wish book” so diligently and avidly that it became known as the prairie bible and the bible of the bush. The choices were staggering. To buy simple sugar, for example, required earnest deliberation and serious decision making. One must choose:

Cubes

Cut Loaf

XXXX Powdered

Standard Powdered

Fine Granulated

Standard Granulated

Mould A

Confectioners’ A

Off A

White Phoenix Extra

Phoenix C No. 2

Yellow No. 3

Yellow No. 4

Yellow No. 5

Golden Brown No. 6

Cuban Dark No. 7

What an age in which to live! Surely no other generation was as blessed. Or as burdened, for the pictured wares were enticing, and “more is better” was the hue and cry of the day.

When Kerry, in Gideon’s arms, was carried across an Axminster rug, she was no more impressed by its richness than by the China straw matting that had graced her landlady’s floor for ten cents a yard. Settled by Gideon, at his mistress’s command, on an elegant upholstered piece called a Turkish Tete-a-Tete, Kerry was no more impressed by its plush “bands and rolls and heavy worsted fringe” than by Mrs. Peabody’s “lounge” upholstered in carpet of questionable age and quality. But it all felt right, good, and blissfully comforting to the poor waif that was Kerry Ferne.