Where Trust Lies Page 5

  Mother nodded at the familiar name.

  “What kind of criminal, Beth?” Margret almost whispered.

  “Nothing dastardly and dreadful—a moonshiner who operated from our area.” It’s nearly a lie to phrase it so carelessly. She wished she’d had more time to plan her wording.

  “I knew it!” Mother cut in. “I knew that saloon where you taught school was just a front for drinking. I should have sent your father to bring you home the minute I heard it was to be your classroom.”

  Well, this has quickly spiraled out of control. “I’m fine, Mother. The man was apprehended. And I never saw a trace of alcohol at the pool hall. I did not see anyone breaking prohibition laws. The whole point of the story is that Jarrick and the other officers involved sought out and put to an end the criminal activity.”

  “Yes, by the grace of God you’ve come back to us—”

  “Precisely,” Beth agreed, reaching for Mother’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “By the grace of God, under whose protection I was not for a moment in jeopardy.” She sat back and hurried on to another tack, addressing Margret. “Jarrick traveled frequently. He was in and out of Lethbridge, often making deliveries in our area when he returned. He was a great friend of our local pastor—if you could call him local, since he moved from community to community every week. The two of them once shared living quarters in Calgary. So I think sometimes, especially on Sundays, Jarrick came to see Philip—that is, Pastor Davidson.”

  “Hmmm.” Mother was not willing to give ground about her issues with the location of the classroom.

  “Go on,” Margret coaxed. “How did you discover you were interested in each other?”

  The question caused Beth to cast another sideways glance at Mother. But she determined to answer Margret despite Mother’s uneasiness. Beth’s mind quickly sorted through what she might say. Should Edward’s role be mentioned? Would it be gossip? But what’s left if those details are skipped—the lost luggage, return of the violin, his misleading comments to Jarrick? On the other hand, if all this is omitted, will there be a story left to tell?

  “Well, for a long time Jarrick believed I was already spoken for—that I was already committed to someone else.”

  Margret’s eyes were as large as teacups. “He did? To whom?” Even Julie had not heard this part of the story. She leaned forward, motioning for Beth to continue.

  “I’d prefer not to go further with that,” Beth was quick to add. “Suffice it to say that Jarrick was respecting what he understood to be the case. And it wasn’t until—”

  Julie jolted upright in her seat. “Edward! It was Edward! Unless you mean Philip, but Jarrick knew him far too well for that. It would simply have to be our Edward. There’s no one else.” Julie drew in a sharp breath. She whispered loudly, “Edward told Jarrick he had already spoken for you? Isn’t that rich!”

  Beth’s heart was pounding, and she knew her face was flushed with embarrassment. Her gaze dropped to the floor, then shifted toward Mother. Did Mother too assume that Edward had offered marriage? More than that, had Father shared with Mother his telephone conversation with Jarrick? Was she already aware that he had officially begun courting me?

  The only response from Mother came with a careful nod. “Do go on, Beth.” It was impossible to decipher the guarded expression Beth saw on Mother’s face.

  Clearing her throat, Beth continued, “It wasn’t until Jarrick learned that I was not attached that he chose to express his feelings. It was, in fact, not until he was driving me to the train station on my way home.” Beth chose to defer at least a portion of her secret for the time being. “The only other thing I’ll tell you about him is that I’ve observed his conduct for almost a year, and I think he’s a perfectly pleasing man. That he’s just the sort of person . . . well, I could see myself marrying. I’m praying fervently for wisdom, for clear direction from God . . . one step at a time.” It was a rather sensible summary of something very personal—of emotions that ran deep.

  “Well,” Mother said, seeming pleased, relieved, “there’s not much to it, then.”

  Clearly, Father had not shared Jarrick’s courtship request.

  “Not much?” Julie exclaimed. “You should have seen the way he looked at her! And how handsome he is—most especially when dressed in his uniform!”

  Beth took a breath, drew the knotted handkerchief and its shrinking mound of fragrant rose petals from her handbag, and carefully opened it. “These are from him,” she said softly. “I found a box of long-stemmed roses in my cabin after I boarded the train. Somehow he was able to make arrangements for them to be waiting there for me.”

  Margret whispered in awe, “How romantic!”

  A firm knock sounded through the compartment. Julie opened the door to Miss Lucille Bernard, her narrow face and thin lips pressed together as she announced, “Mrs. Bryce, it is now nine fifty-five.”

  Margret rose unsteadily to pass her already sleeping son to the nanny.

  The gray-haired woman frowned. “How long has he been asleep?”

  “I’m not certain. We were . . . talking.”

  “Humph. This does not bode well for a happy day.”

  Miss Bernard turned away and disappeared without another word. Margret dropped back down onto her seat.

  “It’s for the best, Margret,” Mother assured her. “You’ll see. He’ll be all the better for it in the end.”

  Watching Margret’s crestfallen face, Beth tucked the rose petals away, wishing she’d had a chance to share more of their significance. She suggested quietly, “It’s almost time for morning tea. Should we find the Montclairs and see if they would like to join us in the dining car?”

  Chapter

  5

  HOW ON EARTH is one to drink tea while this train is clattering along?” Julie grumbled as she wiped at her mouth, making Margret giggle.

  “With a firm grip on one’s cup and a napkin in hand,” advised Beth, joining her sisters in their levity. Only Victoria, who shared their table, remained withdrawn and distracted—staring out the window as she munched on finger sandwiches.

  Beth searched for a topic of conversation that might capture the interest of their young companion. “I wondered, Victoria, did you bring along your violin? I had given some thought to bringing mine, but decided against it—with the humidity and all.”

  The girl’s eyes met Beth’s. “Oh, yes, I did—but only my old one. I couldn’t have come at all if I wasn’t allowed at least to bring that!”

  “I understand how you feel, dear. I’m afraid I’ll miss playing mine a great deal. It’s relaxing and . . . well, heartening, somehow.”

  “It feels like being home to me, even when I’m not.”

  Here, at last, were sentiments from Victoria that Beth could share. “I’ve had such difficulty carving out practice times. But I’m sure you’ve been very faithful.”

  “Oh, yes.” The girl nodded vigorously. “Mother complains that I practice too much. But it isn’t really practice to me, it’s playing. And I love to play. Why should it matter that there’s no one to listen?”

  Margret smiled warmly. “Well, we’d love to hear you play sometime, Victoria. That would be very nice.”

  “If you like.” The young girl shrugged and returned to gazing out the window. But suddenly she looked at Beth. “Elizabeth, you can play my violin whenever you want. I’d like to share it with you.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind. I would appreciate that so much.”

  And just as suddenly Victoria looked away again.

  Julie lifted her brows in dramatic response, shifting her eyes from Beth to Margret about the odd youth. Beth spent a quiet moment regarding Victoria. She was such a study in disparity. The girl was indisputably attractive—dark curls down around her shoulders without any adornment. Her delicate features, perfect complexion, and striking coloration set her apart. And yet she seemed entirely unaware of her appearance.

  Yet even this natural appeal was worn carelessl
y by Victoria, giving not a nod toward the common social graces. She could be found sitting cross-legged in a corner at many a social gathering—the skirt of a lovely new dress selected by her mother bunched up and crushed beneath her. When Beth had observed her at the Montclairs’ home, Victoria was usually sprawled out on a rug next to a dog seldom away from her side.

  In addition, Victoria might complain of some need to her mother, and Mrs. Montclair would stop all else in order to attend to her daughter. It had been so for as long as Beth had known the family. Mother considered the child to be spoiled and difficult. Margret often stood up for her, expressing that there was “more than meets the eye.” However, they all had been rather surprised that she had not grown out of her peculiarities as she’d reached her teen years. At any rate, the offer of Victoria’s cherished violin—so freely extended and without selfish thought—had given Beth pause to reconsider what she knew about Edward’s young sister. Perhaps it is possible to understand Victoria better. To be an influence. To encourage her interactions with the group.

  “Hello? Beth? Are you still with us?”

  “I’m sorry, Julie, I’m afraid I was thinking . . .” She shook her head briefly and picked up with the conversation.

  “I’m going back to the cabins,” Margret finally announced, placing her napkin on her empty plate. “Perhaps my little J-bird is awake now. I’d like to walk around with him for a little while. Would you care to come?”

  “Of course,” Beth and Julie answered in unison. Even Victoria rose to join them.

  They made their way through the cars until they reached their assigned rooms. Margret knocked softly on the cabin door where JW had napped.

  Beth looked at her empty hands and touched Julie’s shoulder. “I’m going back to the dining car. I think I’ve left my handbag.”

  “You should hurry, Bethie dear. You never know who might claim it—such a . . . an interesting old bag.” It obviously was not a compliment, merely Julie’s way of poking fun at her less fashionable sister.

  Hurrying back again, Beth approached the dining car, pausing just inside the doorway. Even from here she could see nothing left on their table—all had been cleared away.

  “Miss,” a voice called. The man was holding up the familiar bag. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  “Oh, thank you. I’m afraid I left it behind.”

  The smiling waiter bowed slightly. “You’re very welcome, miss. Have a nice day.”

  Mother and Mrs. Montclair were just rising from their places. Beth decided to wait for them. She ducked out of the way into a short hall off to one side, allowing two diners just arriving to pass. She could hear Mother and Mrs. Montclair as they approached.

  “I’ve told you, Priscilla, you’ve been far too lax in attending to Beth. Mark my words, she’ll end up wed to someone far beneath her station, raising umpteen kids, and poor as church mice.”

  Beth pressed herself deeper into the corner, frozen in shock while they passed. They paused just outside the doorway. Only the back of Mother’s dress and her carefully pinned hair remained in view.

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Edith” came her mother’s hushed voice. “But I’m not certain what to do. She can be so headstrong and uncooperative. I’ve said as much to her, but she does not listen. And now here’s a man we know nothing about, who turns out to have designs on her. I’m beside myself with worry. Is it the money he wants? Is it William’s influence? We have no way of knowing. And I’m all too aware that Beth’s idealized view of the world will hinder her from making a rational decision.”

  “Well, it’s a shame she wouldn’t accept my Edward. Goodness knows, he tried. He could have attempted no more.”

  Beth could see Mother’s head shaking with her dismay. “Yes, I have always tried to help her see Edward’s good qualities, but I’m afraid she doesn’t value my opinion—on anything. After all, her aunt Elizabeth married a Mountie too, and what a treacherous, nomadic existence that produced. I do not want that life for my fragile daughter! She was not made for such trials—her health is not up to it.”

  Beth could feel her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She closed her eyes and willed the women not to look in her direction before continuing, their conversation growing fainter.

  “As soon as we arrive in Quebec, dear,” Mrs. Montclair was saying, “I’ll call my Edward and ask him for any information he can share with us. I’m certain he’ll cast some light on the situation.”

  “Thank you, Edith. I’d consider that a great kindness . . .” And the two moved beyond Beth’s range of hearing.

  The exchange was a crushing blow to Beth. She had not realized how poorly Mother still regarded her decision-making ability or her physical stamina. If you’d only seen me, Mother. If you’d only allow yourself to believe what you read in my letters. I managed just fine—for almost a year. I don’t need to be mollycoddled. I’m not a child.

  Beth tried a brave face when she arrived at their shared seating compartment, but she could not bring herself to join Margret, Julie, and Victoria as they wandered through the train and entertained the toddler. It appeared that Mother had gone into Mrs. Montclair’s compartment to continue their chat. Beth withdrew to their now-empty cabin, heartsick and pacing for some time before rustling through her bag for a book to read. She finally chose the novel Father had recommended. She was determined to put her attention to reading rather than crying.

  “Father dear,” she whispered to the empty seat beside her, wishing he were there, “you’re right. I don’t understand Mother. This doesn’t feel like love. And I’m afraid I’m not off to a very good start at keeping my promise to you.”

  The fact that Beth declined lunch surprised no one. She had always been a light eater, and traveling usually seemed to heighten her lack of interest. The train groaned to a stop in the Montreal terminal, and Beth dragged herself along with the others, keeping her head low and trying not to look as downcast as she felt. On the second train, she curled up on the seat by the exterior wall, head resting on a sweater she had rolled up into the corner, and went to sleep. No one seemed to notice the mood that had overcome her.

  “What are you reading so ferociously?” Margret’s query cut into Beth’s solitude. Margret was preparing for bed in their shared room after JW had fallen asleep across the hall with the nanny. The group had arrived in the darkness at the looming Château Frontenac, of which Father had spoken so admiringly. Its shadowy silhouette had towered above them as they entered, but Beth was entirely indifferent, keeping to herself and avoiding any eye contact that might elicit questions. Now that they had settled into their rooms, Beth had retreated once again behind her book.

  “It’s Redburn—by Melville,” she answered.

  “I don’t recall that title. What else was it Melville wrote? I’m certain I should know.”

  Beth sighed. “Moby-Dick.”

  “Oh, yes, I read that. It was very long. I’m not sure I understood it all,” Margret continued, pulling the pins from her hair and shaking it out. “What’s this book about?”

  “A young man going off to sea. His family lost their fortune. But he doesn’t know anything about sailing, so it’s very hard for him.”

  Margret turned away and laughed. “Well, I hope there isn’t a shipwreck, darling. I don’t suppose that would bode well for us at all.”

  Beth gave no response.

  As Margret slipped beneath her duvet and turned off the small Tiffany lamp on her nightstand, she said with a yawn, “Don’t stay up too late, Beth. We’ll be sightseeing tomorrow.”

  “I napped today. I’ll be fine.”

  It was well past midnight before Beth closed the blue cover, feeling as if she had just spent some time with Father, just the two of them sharing the story. She hurried into her nightgown and slid carefully into bed. However, in the darkness and quiet, the dam of pent-up tears began to flow unchecked. Why is it so difficult to earn Mother’s approval? Why is she always so disparaging
of me? Am I truly headstrong and uncooperative? Do I truly have an idealized view of the world, making it impossible to make rational decisions? What am I misunderstanding about our relationship? Will there never be peace and trust between Mother and me? And on and on went her silent questions in the darkness.

  Beth began the next day with her Bible, hoping to improve her attitude. She determined that she could not begrudge Mother her concerns about a man she didn’t know, or her need to confide in a friend. She would honor her, even though she had felt very hurt by the meager appraisal she felt her abilities and judgment had been given.

  Beth chose the simplest of her new dresses and slipped on the sensible new walking shoes. Let Julie complain about Beth’s attire being far from stylish—at least she would be comfortable. While repacking her handbag for the day, she withdrew the packet of rose petals and placed it in a corner of her suitcase where it wouldn’t get crushed. Unable to abandon the keepsake entirely, she withdrew one withered petal and wrapped it in her handkerchief. Somehow she felt as if Jarrick were along for the day, at least in spirit.

  She hurried down the hall to the Montclairs’ hotel room, where the others were gathering.

  “Do hurry, Edith,” she heard her mother urging as she opened the door. “He says we’re to leave in ten minutes. And I’m afraid he’ll go without—”

  “Oh, no, he will not, Priscilla. A man in our employ will not make such demands of me. I simply won’t have it.” The woman sat in front of the vanity, trying on her hat at various angles.

  “It’s just that he’s made all the arrangements, Edith. It seems prudent for us to oblige—”

  “Nonsense! This is my vacation. I have waited patiently for years for it. And I will not surrender its control to a stranger—and a Frenchman at that.”

  Beth didn’t know whether to step into the chaos or not. Margret, JW in her arms, and Julie were waiting just inside the door. Victoria was curled up in a chair, seemingly indifferent to all the hullabaloo.