Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) by Ruth Glover Page B

challenges to be met; the tools they used were their own hands, their heads, but mostly their hearts. Herbert, a follower, coming along with his money, felt almost an onlooker, an outsider, warming his hands, so to speak, at other men’s fires.
    But, Herbert excused himself, why should he struggle and suffer, at his age? He could well afford to be a gentleman farmer, or so he seemed, he supposed, to his hard-pressed, hardworking neighbors.
    Luxuries, for them, such as tea with the ladies of an afternoon, were neither expected nor enjoyed; hardships and tragedies, on the other hand, were expected and endured.
    So now Herbert sat back, thoroughly enjoying the warm scones so recently taken from the range’s oven.
    Tierney, who was beginning to feel more like a daughter than a domestic, and in such a short time—she hadn’t been in Bliss twenty-four hours!—sat down with the elderly couple for their tea. Though Herbert and Lydia had persuaded her to “Sit! Have a cup of tea with us,” she felt a little uncomfortable in the doing, as though Ishbel Mountjoy might pop in at any moment, to gasp and frown at the unacceptable arrangement.
    Scones were one thing Tierney knew how to make, and make well. Her thoughts flew briefly to Binkiebrae and the fireplacewhere all her cooking and baking had been done. Thank goodness the foibles of a cookstove had been learned on the prairie, in the Ketchums’ kitchen, before coming to the bush, and under the gentle tutelage of Lavinia, who, like her parents before her, had flouted the employer/employee system, becoming, along the way, a friend.
    “We mustn’t linger too long, of course,” Mrs. Bloom was saying. “After all, that young man, Robert Dunbar, is coming to have supper with us, remember.”
    As if Tierney needed reminding. Her head was still awhirl from the unbelievable joy of running full tilt into Robbie Dunbar.
    Herbert reached for another scone. Though Lydia looked at him sternly and shook her head, he stubbornly persisted. He was rotund already, and the generous jam on the rich scone was as icing on the cake, and thoroughly enjoyed. “Herbert,” his wife said reproachfully, “we’ll have to restrict our teatimes if you don’t show a little restraint.”
    “But we haven’t had tea and scones like these since . . . well, perhaps ever.”
    “I know, but there will be more tomorrow . . . and the day after that. If we curb our passions, that is.”
    And that good woman pinked straightaway, having, in the heat of the moment, allowed herself the use of a word that had connotations not at all acceptable when a young, single girl was present. Tierney was gazing modestly into her teacup.
    “Now look what you’ve done!” Lydia said, flustered, having slopped her tea in her distress.
    Tierney set aside her cup, took her serviette, and dabbed the damp stain on Lydia’s generous bosom, feeling, once again, more like a daughter than a domestic. Everything, to this moment, had been pure pleasure. Pure Bliss? Tierney wondered momentarily if the community would, for her, live up to its name.
    When she and Herbert had arrived at the two-story Bloom house—made of lumber and still new enough to have retainedsome of the original color of the boards, and rising out of the bush like a ship in a green sea—Lydia had stepped outside to welcome them. Indeed, you’d have thought a daughter was coming home. Tierney was to understand more and more, as the days came and went, just how deeply the elderly couple mourned the loss of Lavinia, and to love them for their generosity in reaching out to her, Tierney, and accepting her wholeheartedly into their home and their hearts. And it was hard—in light of that—for Tierney to act the part of a true domestic. Even that first evening, donning an apron and attempting to assist with supper had but seemed as if she were the child, Lydia the mother.
    Tierney had fallen quite naturally into helping, and Lydia, into allowing it. Soon, Tierney