The Sacred Shore Page 11

  “To begin with—the colony of Louisiana. Do you know it?”

  “I sailed there last year on my way to Mexico.”

  “Excellent.” Charles had heard enough to make a decision. “Captain, I wish to employ your vessel.”

  “We are contracted to take on a shipment of timber, furs, and raw gold,” the man replied cautiously.

  “But you are free to accept new cargo and destinations?”

  “My owners are Portsmouth and Boston traders, m’lord. They would be happy to consider any offer that promises additional profit.”

  “As your owners are so distant, I shall discuss my needs with you.” Charles leaned forward. “I wish to hire your vessel for the entire season. It may not be required for so long, but I cannot take that chance. You will first take me to Louisiana, then perhaps call on other ports in the American colonies or the West Indies. You may trade as you see fit, so long as I have the authority to change destinations and departures. Eventually, you shall transport me back to England.”

  The officer measured him carefully, finally murmuring, “Most irregular.”

  “But profitable, I assure you.” He turned to the banker. “I assume my paper is good?”

  The plump financier nearly rubbed his hands in glee. “Most certainly, Lord Charles. Most certainly.”

  “Excellent. I wish to appoint you as my agent in these proceedings. Be shrewd, but be fair.” Charles rose to his feet. “I shall take a turn around the town while you conclude these negotiations.”

  The captain rose cautiously to his feet. “This is rather sudden, is it not?”

  “By necessity, Captain. I wish to depart as swiftly as possible.”

  “Might I ask the nature of your quest?”

  Charles hesitated, not through a reluctance to divulge his information, but rather because of the captain’s final word. Quest. It reminded him once more of Andrew’s words and how he might be searching for something else entirely. With an effort he pushed aside the reminder of his confusion and replied, “I seek Lady Elspeth, the future viscountess of Harrow Hall.”

  Chapter 14

  Charles walked the deck and listened to sounds that had become so familiar they seemed to form the song of his life. The wind was taught a man-made tune by the halyards and the masts and the sails. While the waves rose with crests decorated in white salty lace, the lookout shouted into the wind, the words sounding like a copy of the cawing gulls. The sailors’ bare feet padded swiftly about the deck, compelled to labor by the officers’ bellowed orders. Only Charles was silent, aloof, alone.

  He stared westward, across the high seas with their wind-whipped froth. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay land. Two weeks and two days they had chased their way south, the days growing ever warmer. Though the land was never seen, it was always there, haunting his dreams and lacing the offshore breeze with hints of green and life that was alien out on the salty depths. He had taken to spending hours standing by the landward rail, feeling his troubled heart plucked and unstrung by the constant wind.

  He had not yet achieved what he had left England to do, no, yet the time in Nova Scotia had gone far better than he could have ever expected. Instead of the battles and the shame and the bitter feuding Charles had been prepared to face, Andrew had granted him a family welcome. The memory stung his eyes still, the hugs and the hospitality and the openhearted reception. The Harrows had showered him with such a richness of affection that here and now, a thousand leagues south, he remained bound by it still.

  A fierce blast of wind struck him, causing Charles to grab the nearest halyard. Richness. Such a strange way to describe a family caught in such poverty. And yet, despite Andrew’s rejection of his own attempts to place them in a more comfortable situation, Andrew was rich in ways Charles had no words to describe.

  His eyes flickered over waves painted a scattering of blues and greens and golds by the clouds and sun, and he remembered the farewell. Andrew had insisted upon seeing him on board the ship. He and Catherine had come into Halifax along with Anne because she wanted to find a position with a doctor. During their journey to the town, she had explained her desire to help people, particularly mothers and children, with their medical needs. Georgetown had no one to turn to in times of illness and pain. She wanted to learn enough to treat the basic complaints. Through a Halifax pastor friend of her father, she had learned of a newly arrived doctor, a man of strong faith, who was in need of an assistant. Her parents wanted to meet him and see that Anne found a safe and appropriate place to reside.

  Andrew alone had accompanied Charles on board the vessel. Charles noted Andrew’s smile as he observed the officers’ sharp salutes and his brother’s response. When Charles had demanded what he found humorous, Andrew had replied, “You are far more comfortable with power than I could ever be.”

  Charles led his brother to the forecastle’s relative isolation. “I have been waiting for a private moment to thank you properly, brother.”

  “You do not need to thank me.”

  “Ah, but I do.” Charles reached into his coat pocket, his hand curling about the hefty purse. But for some reason he hesitated to bring it out. Everything in his experience told him it was the correct thing to do, to give his brother the gold. But Anne’s remembered words seemed to rise with the noise of the harbor market, accusing him anew of not giving but merely buying. His unease left him stiffly formal. “I can only hope that I might be able to ease your burdens somewhat with this gift of—”

  “Stop.” Andrew reached forward and gripped his brother’s hand through the fabric of his coat. “No. Please. Do not.”

  “I … I merely wish—”

  “Don’t even speak the words.” Andrew’s gaze seemed impossibly strong at that moment. “Just listen to what I am about to say. It is not that we don’t need your money. We do. But I cannot accept it, and I would rather you not alter this moment by offering.”

  Reluctantly Charles withdrew his hand. “I fail to see how my largess would change anything.”

  “Listen, then, and I will try to explain.” His brother’s gaze seemed so clear as to look through to his soul. “Charles, my dear brother, I did not agree to help you for your own sake. I did it for God. There is only one thing I can accept from you at this point. One gift that will not distort God’s peace and guidance, which Catherine and I have received.”

  Charles did not know why his brother’s gaze left him feeling so naked. Nor was he certain that he wanted to know. “And that is?”

  “That your quest be not just for Elspeth. That you seek God as well. And that your heart be honest when you find Him.”

  Charles did his best to hide how the words churned through his heart, his entire being. “I shall think upon what you say.”

  “I can ask for nothing more.” Andrew had embraced him with such strength that Charles found it hard to draw a proper breath. “I love you, my brother,” he heard in his ear. “May the Lord God bless your leaving, your quest, and your swift return.”

  Now as he balanced upon the wave-splashed deck, Charles felt as much as heard the wind’s chant. Your leaving, your quest, your swift return. A burning rose from his chest to his eyes, and he was grateful for the privacy of that windswept planking. How could he, the eighth earl of Sutton, one of the richest men in all England, be brought low by the thought of his penniless clergyman brother? How could a man overlooked by the keepers of power and so destitute he worked leather with his own two hands leave Charles feeling utterly bereft? How could he think of his brother’s clear-eyed gaze and yearn for things he did not even know how to express?

  Chapter 15

  “Ah, your lordship, what a pleasure it is to welcome you into my home.” The portly New Orleans dignitary wore a cloak of silvery blue, his accent heavy but the words correct. He bowed as only a Frenchman could, leaning over his cane and sweeping a frilly sleeve almost to the floor. Hundreds and hundreds of candles sparked and flickered from silver chandeliers and gilded wall candelabras. “I do
so hope you enjoy our little fête.”

  “You are too kind, sir.” Charles responded with a courtly bow of his own, aware that every eye in the manor’s forecourt was upon him. “I was most gratified to receive your invitation.”

  “My wife is momentarily … ah, here she is.” He turned and spoke in French to a woman heavily powdered in the fashion of the day. “May I have the pleasure of introducing the earl of Sutton.” In English he continued, “My wife, Madame LaGrange.”

  Charles sought fragments from his long-unused French. “Your servant, my lady.”

  “Ah, the honored gentleman speaks our tongue.” The woman’s hair, piled in silver ringlets, caught the candles’ light, along with the jewels about her neck and wrists and fingers.

  “Not well, not any longer, I’m afraid, madame. Please forgive me. My studies were many years ago. And only twice in the past ten years have I had the opportunity to visit your fair land.” The effort of finding those words left him feeling slightly stifled within his velvet longcoat and frilled shirt. Not to mention the evening’s humid heat.

  “Yes, Lord Charles did indeed visit France,” his host for the evening explained, pacing his French no doubt for Charles’s benefit. “Once as his king’s emissary!”

  “Hardly an emissary, sir.” But the message was clearly understood. Someone with contacts to the French court had heard of Charles’s arrival and no doubt instructed the trader to invite Charles in the hopes of determining what he was doing in Louisiana. “I was merely one of a very large number of guests hosted by His Majesty,” Charles demurred.

  “Oh, to be invited to the court of Versailles,” the woman enthused coyly. “What was it like, m’sieur?”

  “Most impressive.” In truth, he had thought it rather outlandish. But the Harrow estate included holdings near Bordeaux that had been stripped away when the latest war had broken out. Charles had agreed to be part of the king’s mission in the hopes of recovering some of his holdings. It had been a most difficult and fruitless month. The food in particular had been appalling. The royal banquet had contained nineteen different courses—one had been snails cooked in cream and wine and garlic, another consisting entirely of the tongues of small birds, yet another of peacocks stuffed with an oily fish. And upon the streets of Paris, Charles had seen poverty unlike anything at home, a beggary that had left him speechless. “Grand and glorious, madame. It was an honor to attend,” he reported to her rapt attention.

  “And now the English earl is here in New Orleans,” the jolly trader announced to all who listened. The trader, according to the ship’s captain, was one of the wealthiest men in New Orleans and a confidant to emissaries of both Spain and France. “No doubt to study our readiness for war!” And then laughed uproariously as if his words were merely in jest.

  “In fact, I am only passing through.” Charles spoke loudly enough to be heard above the din. “I seek a guide into the land of the Acadians.”

  This brought murmurs of astonishment. “You must be joking,” the trader said in English.

  One of the onlookers added scornfully, “They are uncouth and ill-bred, the consort of pirates and escaped slaves.”

  The trader waved his guest to silence, then continued to Charles, “M’lord, for a man of titles and wealth, even for a Frenchman to travel into Acadia would be suicide. For an English gentleman to do so—well …” The trader shrugged eloquently. “You cannot do this.”

  “But I must, m’sieur.”

  “Then you will die.” The words were spoken with matter-of-fact regret. “The loathing they hold for the English is beyond belief.”

  “Where are your manners, Patrique?” his wife chided. “We have not even offered our guest refreshment.”

  “Of course, of course. Forgive me, m’lord.” He waved the crowd through the ornate double-doors into the sparkling and candle-lit ballroom. “Let the festivities begin!”

  The house was built in a strange mixture of Parisian grandeur and Louisianian necessity. The ballroom was high ceilinged and ringed by great double-doors. Each set of doors was curtained with a gauze so fine it invited in the night breeze, perfumed with the flowers that bloomed everywhere in the city, yet kept out the smallest mosquito. Charles had never seen such profusion of flora, nor such variety. Even the city streets were bordered with exotic bushes and blossom-laden vines.

  The problem was the heat. Even now, three hours after sunset, Charles felt it difficult to draw in a breath of the hot and humid air. At midday it had been almost intolerable. The streets were empty of life for three hours, from noon to midafternoon, and then activity resumed when dusk purported to bring relief. And this was only early June. Charles could not fathom what this place would be like in August.

  But the New Orleans society crowd did not seem to mind the heat. They laughed and danced and ate with a gusto unlike anything he had known in England. Or France, for that matter. The inhabitants of this charmed city seemed to have created a culture that was truly their own.

  The men were attired in evening wear that resembled his in form alone. The cut was sharper, the material much lighter. When Charles asked about it, they proudly displayed a broadcloth woven not from wool, as was always the case in England, but rather from cotton. Their shirts were linen or silk and light as the evening breeze. The women wore gowns that appeared to be made from layers of chiffon, dyed a rainbow of colors and adorned with pearls and ribbons. They carried fans dipped in perfume that wafted aromas as sweet as the flower-scented air.

  It was only after hours of chatter and eating and smiling and a dozen dances, two with the hostess, that Charles was able to draw his host to one side. “May I have a word in private?”

  “I hope it is not about your journeying inland, Sir Charles. I would rather not be party to such a dangerous endeavor.” But the trader led him into a side parlor, with the gilded mirrors and painted walls that Charles recalled from the manors around Paris. The trader offered him an inlaid box, half of which was full of hand-rolled cigars, the other half containing clay pipes and cut tobacco. “Do you wish to smoke?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  The trader waved Charles into a seat, selected a cigar, and waited until it was lit and drawing well to say, “Whatever you seek to acquire from the Acadians, m’sieur, I can get it for you myself. Furs, wood, indigo—”

  “I seek a man.” Before the trader could continue, Charles held up his hand. “Please hear me out. He is an Acadian by the name of Henri Robichaud. He comes from the village of Minas on Cobequid Bay. He is married to a woman named Louise, or at least he was eighteen years ago.”

  The trader eyed him with a cautious merchant’s gaze. “This village, Minas, it is in the northern colony of Acadia?”

  “It was. In the region now called Nova Scotia. Yes.” Charles pretended not to notice the change in expression that came with mention of the renamed province. “Henri Robichaud was formerly a clan leader. If he is alive, he might still be so today.”

  “If he is alive. You do not know this for a fact?”

  “I know almost nothing. I am trying to pick up the pieces of a trail that has been lost for over eighteen years.” Charles hesitated, then continued, “He may have a daughter.”

  Through the cloud of smoke came the question, “Her name?”

  “I do not know. She was an infant at the time. She would be eighteen now.”

  “I see.” Several puffs, then, “You seek a man who was expelled eighteen years ago from a province at the top of the continent. An expulsion in which almost half of the people perished, if the rumors are true.”

  “I realize it is a difficult task—”

  “M’lord, c’est impossible!”

  “—But I have no choice. I must seek this man.” Charles let his genuine desperation seep into his voice. “I must.”

  The trader inspected his cigar, pursed his lips, and released a thin stream of smoke. “You must be willing to pay and pay dearly.”

  “I will offer a hundred gold sove
reigns for the journey.” Charles had spent the four weeks of his voyage south planning this. “Twenty now, eighty upon our return.”

  “That should be sufficient.” Another puff, then, “And if this Monsieur Robichaud is found?”

  “Then,” Charles replied, “I intend to grant them both money and land.”

  The man rocked forward in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Everyone I speak with tells me the same things. The Acadians are still arriving here by the boatload. They are desperate for land they can call their own,” Charles replied grimly. “I understand the Spanish grant them a small plot. And that there is more land available if one has means. I shall offer them enough for an entire village. Here or back in Nova Scotia. It is their choice.”

  “But, m’lord—”

  Charles leaned forward and said with all the quiet force he could muster, “I must find this man. And his daughter. If they exist at all.”

  Chapter 16

  A morning mist rose from the bayou to greet the dawn. The rowers lifted and dipped their oars in a steady rhythm, the gentle creaking of the oarlocks echoing the birdsong in the air’s stillness. They traveled a watery tunnel twenty paces wide and roofed by interlocking branches. Here and there sunlight lanced through the leaves, slender golden pillars that seemed to hold the bayou and the trees and the morning in proper place. Spanish moss hung from trunks and branches and along the banks. The motionless gray veils suggested to Charles that here, in this place, it was not just wind that was unable to reach through the verdant growth. Here not even time held much sway. Days and years and even centuries could come and go, and it all would remain untouched. In the distance a wild animal screamed shrilly, adding to the mysteriousness of this place and this world.

  They had already been traveling for two hours in the early morning light. The guide had ordered them up and into the boats while the night was still black as the grave. His name was Albain, an Acadian who never spoke unless it was to order them about. There was something else to Albain, a dark shadow that had etched itself deeply into his eyes and his face. Had the New Orleans trader not insisted that the man was to be trusted, that he was the only man with any likelihood of getting Charles in and out alive, Charles would never have stepped into Albain’s boat, much less traveled upriver with him.