The Sacred Shore Read online

  The Sacred Shore

  © 2000 by Janette Oke & T. Davis Bunn

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  E-book edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-5855-8877-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover by Dan Thornberg

  This book is dedicated to

  one who was

  a special friend

  and enthusiastic reader

  Laura Lohmeyer

  who, at age sixteen, is now in His hands.

  Books by Janette Oke

  Return to Harmony • Another Homecoming

  Tomorrow’s Dream

  ACTS OF FAITH*

  The Centurion’s Wife • The Hidden Flame • The Damascus Way

  CANADIAN WEST

  When Calls the Heart • When Comes the Spring

  When Breaks the Dawn • When Hope Springs New

  Beyond the Gathering Storm

  When Tomorrow Comes

  LOVE COMES SOFTLY

  Love Comes Softly • Love’s Enduring Promise

  Love’s Long Journey • Love’s Abiding Joy

  Love’s Unending Legacy • Love’s Unfolding Dream

  Love Takes Wing • Love Finds a Home

  A PRAIRIE LEGACY

  The Tender Years • A Searching Heart

  A Quiet Strength • Like Gold Refined

  SEASONS OF THE HEART

  Once Upon a Summer • The Winds of Autumn

  Winter Is Not Forever • Spring’s Gentle Promise

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place • The Sacred Shore • The Birthright

  The Distant Beacon • The Beloved Land

  WOMEN OF THE WEST

  The Calling of Emily Evans • Julia’s Last Hope

  Roses for Mama • A Woman Named Damaris

  They Called Her Mrs. Doc • The Measure of a Heart

  A Bride for Donnigan • Heart of the Wilderness

  Too Long a Stranger • The Bluebird and the Sparrow

  A Gown of Spanish Lace • Drums of Change

  www.janetteoke.com

  *with Davis Bunn

  Books by

  T. Davis Bunn

  The Book of Hours

  The Great Divide

  Winner Take All

  The Lazarus Trap

  Elixir

  Imposter

  Lion of Babylon

  All Through the Night

  My Soul to Keep

  ACTS OF FAITH*

  The Centurion’s Wife • The Hidden Flame

  The Damascus Way

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place • The Sacred Shore

  The Birthright • The Distant Beacon

  The Beloved Land

  HEIRS OF ACADIA†

  The Solitary Envoy • The Innocent Libertine

  The Noble Fugitive • The Night Angel

  Falconer’s Quest

  *with Janette Oke †with Isabella Bunn

  JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife, and she grew up in a large family full of laughter and love. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward, and they were married in May of 1957. After pastoring churches in Indiana and Canada, the Okes spent some years in Calgary, where Edward served in several positions on college faculties while Janette continued her writing. She has written forty-eight novels for adults and another sixteen for children, and her book sales total nearly thirty million copies.

  The Okes have three sons and one daughter, all married, and are enjoying their fifteen grandchildren. Edward and Janette are active in their local church and make their home near Didsbury, Alberta.

  T. DAVIS BUNN has been a professional novelist for twenty years. His books have sold in excess of six million copies in sixteen languages, appearing on numerous national bestseller lists.

  Davis is known for the diversity of his writing talent, from gentle gift books like The Quilt to high-powered thrillers like The Great Divide. He has also enjoyed great success in his collaborations with Janette Oke, with whom he has coauthored a series of ground-breaking historical novels.

  In developing his work, Davis draws on a rich background of international experience. Raised in North Carolina, he completed his undergraduate studies at Wake Forest University. He then traveled to London to earn a master’s degree in international economics and finance before embarking on a distinguished business career that took him to more than thirty countries in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East.

  Davis has received numerous literary accolades, including three Christy Awards for excellence in fiction. He currently serves as Writer-in-Residence at Regent’s Park College, Oxford University, and is a sought-after lecturer on the craft of writing.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Prologue

  Catherine stood within the shadows of the kitchen and watched her daughter pass before the open window. She glanced at the delicate face framed in dark hair and knew instantly where Anne was going. Catherine began to call out to her, to tell her that it was time to prepare dinner. But she held back. Though it had always been difficult to allow Anne to be alone at times like this, Catherine knew with a mother’s instinct that she must give her daughter these moments on her own.

  Her daughter. Catherine moved closer to the window to watch the slender figure continue down the village lane. Anne was headed for the cliffside, a high promontory with far-reaching views. Just beyond the village borders, the sparkling blue Bay of Fundy joined with Cobequid Bay. When Anne was still a young child, she had taken to walking out there with her grandfather, and she had selected an ancient tree trunk as her favorite spot. Catherine had joined them on several occasions, and she knew Anne still went to sit there and be alone with her thoughts.

  What is she thinking of today? Catherine wondered as Anne moved out of sight. A child no longer, she was now eighteen, with a quiet yet joyful nature. Even so, there were moments like these when the stillness seemed to gather about her like a shroud. Then her features became as grave and inscrutable as an elderly woman’s, and Anne would wander off on her own.
r />   Catherine could not help but ask herself again if they had done the right thing. Should she and Andrew have told her early on about her heritage? About being born to a French family, then being exchanged for Catherine’s own infant so she could be taken to an English doctor, and then losing contact with her birth parents after the tragic French expulsion—was it right to subject a young child to such truths? Was it proper, as she and Andrew had with great soul-searching concluded, to tell Anne these things while she was still young and able to accept with a child’s loving trust? At moments like these, when Anne’s features became etched with the quiet sorrow of pieces missing from her life, Catherine could not help but wonder.

  Other memories too painful to ponder tumbled through her mind, and instantly Catherine returned to her dinner preparations, the motions as natural as breathing. There were more questions she dared not ask. Not any longer.

  Chapter 1

  Before Charles Harrow set foot upon land, he already loathed the place. Halifax was, to his mind, loud and ugly and utterly unappealing. Nothing about the scene seemed inviting at all. The sun rested on the western slopes and shone upon the town rising in dirty, unkempt stages from the harbor. Jostling throngs filling the harbor square were forced to thread their way through bleating cattle and shouting soldiers. From every corner rang hammers and saws and shouts intermingled with the mewling of the animals. The workmen’s dust was so thick it reminded him of the storm at sea they had recently endured. Charles sneezed into his handkerchief and wished himself back in London, away from these untamed and uncivilized colonies. The fact that a whim of fate had forced him here left him furious. He was not accustomed to doing anything other than exactly what suited him most.

  “As I live and breathe, there’s the Pride of Weymouth,” cried the captain, moving up alongside him at the rail. “Look at her resting there at anchor, calm as by-your-leave. I never thought we’d see her spars again.”

  Lord Charles, eighth earl of Sutton, released an explosive breath. It would do no good to bemoan his fate again. He had survived the journey; he had made the crossing. He snuffled and made rejoinder out of courtesy rather than interest. “Your son is on that vessel, am I right?”

  “Aye, if he didn’t wash overboard like your two servants. The lad shipped as midshipman, against his mother’s wishes. Eleven years old and the youngest of my brood. I’ll rest easier once I learn I don’t have to go back and tell the missus he was lost at sea.”

  Charles Harrow sighed heavily and squinted over the bustling capital of the colony known as Nova Scotia. Halifax was a city that threatened to burst its own seams. My servants. The older man had been with Charles since he was a child, since before his father had died and passed on to him the estates and the money and the power. The old servant had been like a second father, so attached to Lord Charles he could not think of letting him make this journey alone. And now he was gone, buried in the heart of a storm Charles had thought would cost them all their lives.

  As though reading his thoughts, the captain confessed, “There were moments when I thought we all were headed for Davy Jones’s locker.”

  Charles turned to the captain, noting more gray in the man’s beard than there had been at the beginning of their voyage. “It seems strange to look at our rigging and not see icicles long as my arm.”

  “Crossings to Halifax this early in the season remain rare for good reason. But you made it, sir, and arrived here while the hills remain topped with white.” The captain offered the glimmer of a smile. “That’s something for you to tell your grandchildren.”

  My grandchildren. Charles Harrow ground his teeth at this unwelcome reminder of why he had made the perilous journey. “I must be off,” he muttered.

  “I’ll have a couple of seamen carry your gear.” The captain offered a stiff bow. “Whatever it was that sent you over, m’lord, I hope you’re successful.”

  “My thanks.” Charles Harrow returned the captain’s formal bow and started down the gangplank, followed by two seamen laden with trunk and bags.

  His first step on dry land in two months almost sent him tumbling, for a shepherd led a flock of sheep directly into his path. Only the quick hands of one of the seamen saved him from sprawling in the half-frozen muck. Charles waited as his sea chest was hefted from the mud and fleetingly wished there were some way to transport himself back to London.

  But there was no help for it. Fate had dealt him a cruel hand, and he was here. Without power or comforts of wealth and home, and even the familiar faces of his two most trusted servants gone. His only hope was to complete his business and—

  “Lord Charles? Are you Lord Charles?”

  “I am.”

  The mud-spattered young man whipped off his hat and made a parody of a courtly bow. “Winston Groom at your service, m’lord. I bring Governor Lawrence’s sincerest respects. He regrets that he could not be here to greet you himself, but urgent business has called him to the hinterland.”

  “Of course.” Charles pointed at another flock of bleating animals bearing down on them. “Let’s carry on somewhere safer, shall we?”

  “Certainly, your lordship. This way.” The man bowed and scraped in the way of someone awed by Charles’s station, seeking to lead and follow at the same time. Winston Groom reminded Charles of an oft-beaten dog. “Did your lordship have a pleasant journey?”

  “Don’t be daft, man. Crossing the North Atlantic at any time could hardly be call for pleasantness. A passage between March and April was nothing short of dreadful.”

  “Yes, yes, sir, humble apologies, sir. The Weymouth feared you’d been lost with all hands.” The young man was dressed in what most likely passed for high fashion in the colonies. His shirt collar was starched and his winter coat fur trimmed, but his clothes were as mud-spattered as his boots. “Governor Lawrence will be delighted to hear that you survived the journey.”

  “Is there a suitable inn in this town? A hostel? A wayfarer’s lodging?”

  “Indeed, that is where I am taking your lordship.” He led Charles and the two silent seamen up onto the elevated wooden walkway. The seamen’s clogs clattered loudly over the rough planking. The remnants of hard winter were everywhere: dirty snow remained piled against north-facing walls; tiny icicles still dripped from the walkway’s overhang. The distant hills were more white than brown. Horses drawing wagons and carriages along Halifax’s thoroughfares still bore their rough winter’s coats. Charles picked his way behind the young man across a busy intersection, dodging supply wagons and a trio of mud-drenched horses and two boys leading half a dozen pigs by rope leads. The pigs were the biggest he had ever seen, rude beasts that fit the town perfectly.

  Eventually Winston Groom opened a glass-topped door with a flourish and announced, “Right through here, your lordship.”

  The hotel was so new it still smelled of fresh-cut lumber. But the floor was waxed and there were tallow candles in the chandelier and the owner there to bow him over the threshold. Charles took the first easy breath since stepping off the gangplank. Here at least there was a semblance of civilization.

  The owner bowed a second time and said, “Welcome, Lord Charles. We have taken the liberty of preparing for you our finest rooms.”

  Charles permitted himself to be led up the central staircase, inspected the rooms and announced them adequate. He gave the seamen a silver penny each. When he saw Winston Groom’s eyes widen at the amount, Charles had the impression that here was a man who could be bought.

  The innkeeper said, “We’ve got a fresh haunch roasting on the fire, m’lord, and the last of our winter’s stock of root vegetables making a fine stew. And bread in the oven.”

  His stomach grumbled at the thought of fresh food. “I don’t suppose you have any fruit.”

  The hotelier was a sharp-faced man more suited to the counting room than the kitchen. His laugh held the easy roughness of the colonies. “Not for another month, your lordship. Not till the first vessel arrives from the southern colo
nies.”

  “Very well, I’ll take whatever you recommend.” He turned to the governor’s assistant hovering by the bed. “Groom, is it?”

  “Yes, m’lord. Winston Groom.” The spindly man was all angles and hollows.

  “Perhaps you’ll join me for a private word.”

  Charles watched as the groom’s eyes widened. He was obviously flattered at the thought of speaking confidentially with an earl. “You’re too kind, sir.”

  “Not at all. Not at all.” He extended one arm to direct the young man back down the stairs beside him. “Tell me, Groom. You know your way around the colony. Perhaps you’ve heard tales of another man bearing my name?”

  The step faltered, and the young man grasped the railing. “I’m not … I’m not certain, your lordship.”

  He had. Charles was certain of it. “Come, come. A man who holds the governor’s confidence must have heard something, surely. Andrew Harrow is his name. Some mention would have been made of this when Weymouth reported that I was journeying on their sister ship.”

  Winston did not respond as he was led across the foyer to a pair of tall chairs by the fire. Charles observed the young man’s furrowed brow, the way he started to speak and then cut himself off, the eyes that refused to move in his direction. It was all the answer Charles required.

  “Andrew Harrow,” Charles continued smoothly, his genial tone making it as easy as possible for Groom. “Formerly Captain Harrow, head of the military garrison at Fort Edward. Resigned after the expulsion of the Acadians. Word has it that he was forced out under a cloud.”

  “I … I may have heard some mention, m’lord.”

  “Of course you have.” Keeping his voice light, his tone airy, as though they were discussing the weather on a kind summer day, Charles turned his own gaze toward the fire, seeking to hide his sudden eagerness. “I understand that my brother went off to the American colonies for a time. He and his wife, apparently. A woman he met and wed there in Fort Edward. Boston, I believe, was their destination.”

  But the young man’s attention had been snagged early on. “Did you say brother, m’lord?”

  “Indeed, yes. Andrew Harrow is my only brother.” It cost Charles dearly to hold to his light tone, but he had no choice. No choice but to hide the shame and endure the dreadful voyage and come to a place he had sworn never to visit. All for a brother who had been the greatest threat Charles had ever known, a man he had vowed he would never see again. How wrong he had been. About so many things. But Charles kept his voice easy as he spoke to the fire. “Andrew studied at a seminary in Boston. I have received a letter from the head of the school confirming that, and the fact that Andrew returned here to Nova Scotia. But since then I have lost track of him.”