A Place Called Bliss (21 page)

His thoughts swung to Mr. Hugh and Mam’s devotion to the man. It was a devotion based on far more than the Galloway estate provision for Kezzie’s old age, though that spoke clearly of the gentleman’s reciprocation of his nurse’s love.

How deeply moved Kezzie had been when, about three years before, “her” Mr. Hugh had written to tell them he was coming for a visit and requested that it not be revealed to anyone back east—Margaret, Cameron supposed. To the surprise of all, Mr. Hugh had been intent on purchasing property, not a homestead that would require his presence for a certain amount of time each year but a place that someone was desiring to sell. Such a place was available, and right here in Bliss—none other than the Bliss place itself.

Old Mr. Bliss, having homesteaded many years ago and having worn himself out in the process of proving up his land, needed to move back east to a daughter who could care for him in his crippled condition, and he had been a ready seller, counting himself unbelievably fortunate to have cash in hand. Except for personal items, everything had been left for the new owner—cattle, horses, machinery, and, of course, the buildings.

Of next importance was to leave the property in good hands. Cameron, then twenty-two years of age and looking for an opportunity to homestead for himself, had listened to Mr. Hugh’s arguments and arrangements and felt his fortunes to be wonderfully blessed and himself favored by the plan. He, Cameron, would farm the Bliss place as if it were his own, actually receiving a salary just like dozens of other Galloway employees, perhaps hundreds of others. Though Cameron hesitated at first to give years of his life to something that would not in the end be his, still he rationalized that, with the funds accumulated, he would be in a position to purchase his own place when the time came. Just when that would be, he had no idea—Mr. Hugh had made no mention of himself retiring here. And now he was, apparently, dead.

Cameron tipped back his hat, put a boot up onto the dash, and considered what this letter would mean to his own future, if it did indeed bring news of Mr. Hugh’s death. Perhaps the place would be sold. If so, perhaps he could be the purchaser. The thought widened his blue eyes and silenced the jaunty whistle abruptly.

He could hardly love the Bliss place more if it were his own, he realized, and something in him stirred with a hope he had not known an hour ago. The new owner, probably the only child of the deceased, Margaret herself, could not be expected to have an interest in the place, much less live here permanently. Soon, in one way or another, his—Cameron’s—future would be decided. If it was to leave the Bliss place, he would find a homestead though it might mean moving some distance away from Bliss and his loved ones. It would be hard on Mam. Not long for this world, her frailty was obvious. Could she survive another harsh winter? Would the sad news of the letter be a means of pointing her toward the Savior who waited so patiently for her? Cameron urged the horse to a trot and soon saw the well-loved outline of the Bliss place ahead.

Surrounded still by bush in spite of much clearing of fields, meadows, and garden space, the buildings were almost snuggled in a leafy embrace. The original Bliss cabin had eventually been replaced by a well-planned, well-built structure furnished for comfortable living, with the kitchen at the far end, the remainder divided into bedrooms. Poplars from its own land had been carefully squared and so tightly fitted that very little chinking had been necessary. Left to color naturally outside, the inside was whitewashed regularly, keeping it bright and, even in dark weather, light, with its deep windows entirely adequate for the purpose—too many homesteaders fretted the winters away in depressing dimness. Each fall storm windows were added to help keep out the cold. It was a comfortable, welcoming house that, with the coming of Mam to stay with him, was indeed a home. Just whose home, now, was questionable. Perhaps the letter would tell.

Mam was in her rocker when Cameron laid the letter in her lap. Her old hand trembled as she held it.

“Mr. Hugh,” she whispered.

“Let me open it for you,” Cameron said gently and did so, replacing the single sheet of paper in his grandmother’s hand.

“Read it, laddie. I’m afraid I can’t see . . . just now.” True, her eyes were full of tears.

Cameron read; read of Mr. Hugh’s final days of illness, his death—a blessing, Margaret admitted, ending months of suffering. He read of Margaret’s despair and her loneliness, in spite of Winfield Craven who, she wrote, “was her rock of Gibraltar at this time.”

Winfield Craven, he read, had pointed out the advantages of an early marriage. Winfield Craven, Margaret said, would take on himself the tremendous responsibilities of the Galloway estate and holdings. Soon, Cameron read, Margaret would sign her letters Mrs. Winfield Craven.

Cameron’s voice died away. Kezzie sat staring into space, back across the years, Cameron supposed. But when she spoke, it was not of Hugh Galloway.

“Did she say,” Mam asked tensely, “‘I’ll see you soon, Granny Kezzie’? Did she finish her letter that way?”

“No, Mam. She finished it, ‘Love always.’”

“Then,” Kezzie said, and the tears started down the withered cheeks, “I’ll never see my angel girl again. And what’s more—you’ll never see her. Mary will never see her. . . .”

“Perhaps she’ll come yet,” Cameron said, trying to comfort his grandmother. “No doubt she’ll inherit everything, including this place—”

“She doesn’t even know about this place.”

“But she will. And it may give her an excuse to come . . . perhaps to sell it.”

But it was meager comfort. Cameron knew as well as Mam that Winfield Craven, known by letter better than Margo could have imagined, would not spend his time and energy and interest on a small Galloway holding in a place far away, reached
only by many days of miserable travel, and with only rude accommodations upon arriving.

No, Kezzie was right to loose forever her dream of yet sharing something of life with Margaret Galloway . . . Margo. Seeing the sad acceptance of it in Kezzie’s drooping shoulders and dropped head, Cameron knelt beside her chair, took her hand in his, and once again urged, lovingly, “Mam, don’t you see how much you need Jesus? Only He can comfort your heart. Why, Mam, why won’t you pray with me?” Cameron had long ago faced the possibility of his precious Mam’s death and had tossed reluctance and hesitation to the winds. There was no time to lose, and there was eternity to win, an eternity with the Lord. And so he lovingly and faithfully pressed on Kezzie, again, the claims of Christ.

And, again, he saw the dear face stiffen, saw the blue eyes close, as if in pain, understood the wordless shake of the frizzled gray head.

With his arms around her, Cameron offered up one more prayer for the salvation of his grandmother. “Whatever the means, Lord,” he prayed silently, “bring her to yourself.”

C
old the atmosphere in which Margo came to herself after her collapse in her father’s study. Cold, cold the eyes of Winfield Craven.

In fact, those eyes had brought it all back with a rush—the reading of the will, the stunning bequest of little or nothing to herself, the entire estate to Wallace. Her plummet into darkness had been marked by the cold eyes of Winfield. Furious eyes. Now that she was awake and aware, the face seemed less furious, but the eyes remained as cold.

Needing him so much, Margo reached a hand, beseechingly, toward him. It was taken and held, after a moment, by Dauphine.

“You’ve given us such a fright.” The usual stern countenance of the housekeeper was softened by concern. Casper was closing the door on the other servants who had, apparently, stood around helplessly until life and color surged back into the pale cheeks of their mistress. And yet not their mistress.

With consciousness came remembrance: Heatherstone—handed over to Wallace. Margo’s eyes flew to Winfield. What she saw there was as clear to her as though it were spelled out:
Margo the pauper was not nearly as attractive as Margo the heiress.

“It was the shock,” Dauphine was saying. Fletcher Wren, hovering in the background, had the grace to look ashamed, as the means by which the shock had come. He shuffled his papers, looked around blankly, and seemed relieved when Casper appeared with his hat, coat, and umbrella.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he mumbled in Margo’s direction. “If I can be of help . . . perhaps explain. . . .”

Margo made no response, but her closed eyes may have spoken for her. Fletcher Wren made a hasty retreat and, one felt, closed the door gladly behind him.

“Help me up,” Margo managed, and Dauphine did so.

“Sit here, Miss,” the housekeeper advised, leading a trembling Margo toward a comfortable chair at the side of the fireplace. “Or do you feel up to the climb to your room?”

“Not yet,” Margo said, and anyone who knew her would have noticed the set to her shoulders and the resolute tone of her voice. There was no use putting off what had to be done. “You may leave us,” Margo continued. “I’ll call you when I need you.”

Casper offered a rug, which Dauphine tucked around Margo; then, with grim glances at Winfield, who stood at the window looking out at goodness knew what, the housekeeper and butler left the room.

“Winfield.”

Slowly the man turned; reluctantly his eyes met Margo’s.

“Yes.” No hyperbole now. No passion of eye or suggestion of tone. Not even the pretense of his former avowed devotion, and for that Margo was grateful. It made it much easier to do what needed to be done.

If she hadn’t felt so ill, she might have played with him a little. “Winfield,” she might have said, “darling. After all, we have our love. Surely that’s all that matters.”

She wasn’t prepared to say it, wasn’t prepared to deal with Winfield’s stumbling escape from bonds that were now obviously odious to him. And unnecessary.

So she said, quietly, “In view of my uncertain plans, Winfield, I think it’s best that I be free.”

Having said it, she was surprised how true it was and what relief it gave her. Her future might be uncertain, but it certainly didn’t include an alliance with Winfield Craven. In spite of sorrow over her father’s death, in spite of the shocking news of Wallace’s inheriting, in spite of her own bleak hopes, she felt a surge of relief that made her almost giddy again.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I fully understand.” Even as he spoke, Winfield was moving toward the ring Margo had taken from her finger and was holding out to him. As it dropped from her hand to his, so easily, so finally, a riffle of hysteria broke the surface of her calm. Hearing the sound, Winfield’s handsome face flushed, then darkened. Pocketing the ring, he spun on his heel and made for the door.

“I wish you good day, Madam,” he said stiffly, “and good luck.”

“And,” Margo couldn’t help but respond quietly, “better luck to you.”

At Margo’s express wish and with Fletcher Wren’s approval, the staff stayed on. All except Bailey, Hugh Galloway’s personal attendant, who, with his pocketed inheritance, made his quick way back to his home in England.

But life at Heatherstone was at a standstill. After years of Hugh Galloway’s vital presence, after his months of illness and death, after plans and preparations for a wedding, Heatherstone seemed in a vacuum where the days and weeks slipped by, one much the same as another.

Margo, with distaste, disposed of the wardrobe she had accumulated with Winfield’s suggestions and guidance, walked each
day in the nearby park, read a great deal, and waited. Waited for she knew not what. Waited for healing, perhaps; waited for comprehension of the incomprehensible will and its revelation; no money . . . no future, except through Wallace’s gratuity . . . no Heatherstone.

To be deprived of father, lover, and home in one moment—it was almost too hard to grasp. Eventually Margo came to grips, or tried to, with the most puzzling part of all: the bequest of a “small holding” in Bliss. Why would her father leave this remote property to her? No sensible reason presented itself to her except that Kezzie was there. Perhaps, anticipating her bewilderment, her father had added that cryptic sentence, “for reasons she may ascertain should she care to do so,” with something in mind. But what? She cared, almost frenziedly, to understand, to be able to solve the staggering mystery. And why, she eventually wondered, did her father say the Galloway estate was to be left in Galloway hands? Weren’t her hands Galloway hands?