The Sacred Shore Read online

  Henri remained silent for several more minutes, then he rose, wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his shirt, took a deep breath, and proceeded on the path that led to home.

  Louise was in the kitchen shaping the morning bread with sure and practiced hands. She looked up only briefly, then spoke with her eyes turned back to her work.

  “You are back. I did not know when you would return. I have yet to make the porridge. I did not know what business of the clan had called you off on such sudden notice. You’d think they could let a man get his crops in before calling him down to Plaquemine. Surely there is nothing so important that one should be dragged from his fields to—”

  “It was important,” said Henri, fighting for calmness when in truth his heart was pounding.

  Louise did not even lift her eyes. “Ah, I suppose so. To men, all things to do with land and boats and nets and—”

  “It was not of such common things.”

  Louise glanced over, then turned back to her kneading. “I am sorry to be late with your breakfast. Without Nicole’s help …” She did not finish.

  Henri remained silent. He still did not know where to start, and Louise had given him no opening. He studied his hands, then began to rub them together. He could feel the calluses. The roughness of the palms. He cleared his throat. But he did not speak, for Louise was speaking.

  “I had the strangest dream last night.”

  He noticed the emotion in his wife’s voice, as though she was musing yet deeply touched.

  “Yes?” he responded.

  “It was of Antoinette.” Her voice broke on the name, and for a few moments she was not able to go on. Henri waited, willing himself not to hurry her.

  “She was no longer a baby,” Louise said softly. “I thought … I thought that strange. In the many dreams I have had of her, she has always been a child. The infant I left with Catherine. I always see her as I saw her last, bundled in her blanket, her face pinched and pale with pain.” She stopped and shook her head again as though trying to make the pieces of the dream fall into some pattern that would make sense. “But not last night.”

  Henri noticed the brightness of her eyes, the unshed tears, before she turned back to the dough. Still he held his tongue.

  “She was not a baby. She was grown. And her face … her face was no longer pinched. She looked so peaceful. I couldn’t see her features clearly. There was a fog or a mist or something. But I sensed that she had a tender smile, as though she knew something she wished to tell me. She stood in the meadow and she … she reached out her hand to me. And then she was gone.”

  “Did it make you sad?” asked Henri, his voice husky. But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. The tears that Louise struggled to hold back were not tears of distress. Her face was calm, her manner relaxed. She was simply sharing with the man she loved an experience that had touched her soul.

  “No.” Louise put the baking pan in the clay oven and turned to make the porridge. “Something about it put my heart at rest.”

  Henri cleared his throat again. “A man has come back with me. He is visiting our village.”

  “From Acadia?” she asked.

  “Well … yes … but no,” he tried to explain. “He comes from England.”

  He saw her eyes grow dark. Though the bitterness had been dealt with long ago, the mention of the English still brought pain.

  “He was in Acadia on his way here. He … he has kin there.” At the look in her eyes, he added, “He has brought some news.”

  Louise stood as a statue, pot and spoon in hand.

  “He had spent time with his brother and wife.” A deep breath, then, “His name is Charles Harrow.”

  His wife’s face went deathly pale. He poised himself in case he should need to leap to her side. But Louise did not faint. She crossed to a kitchen chair and lowered herself slowly. Her eyes stared, unseeing. Her lips trembled as she worked at words that would not come. She put the bowl down but held the spoon limply in the hand that settled in her lap. Henri knew he had to quickly finish with the telling.

  “He … he met our Antoinette.”

  “Antoinette.” Just the name, but spoken with such depth of feeling. Such anguish of soul. But holding such thankfulness. Henri crossed to her quickly and took her in his arms. They clung to each other, their tears mingling, their bodies rocking in tune to the song in their hearts. It was many minutes before either of them could speak, but there was really no need. All that was necessary for the present had already been said.

  Charles was ushered into the Robichaud home as though he were an angel in disguise. Louise had found her tongue and bustled about, seeking first his comfort and then plying him with questions. Over and over he had to tell them of Anne. How she looked, how she spoke, how she moved. Did she bear family resemblance? What color was her hair? Her eyes? Was she tall? Short? Dark or fair? Did she know of them? Charles answered them with courtesy and patience. He wished he had studied the girl more closely, but in most instances his memory served him well.

  They were pleased to know that Catherine had taught their daughter her own French tongue. Louise, brushing at constant tears, exclaimed that it was so much like Catherine. The news that the girl was seeking to learn from a doctor so she might help those who were ill was particularly moving to her parents. When it came to their question of the girl’s personal faith, Charles was at a loss as to how to describe what he had seen. He did not know the words. He’d never had the experience. So he told them of Anne’s conversations concerning her deep trust in God. The news seemed to touch them most deeply, and they clung to each other’s hands and dipped their heads in silent thankfulness.

  Charles could only watch. If he had expected anger or hostility from this French family, he could not have been more in error. Even the sons of the home greeted him with respect. And the faith that he saw reflected in faces of people who had suffered dreadfully at the hands of others, at the hands of his fellow Englishmen, shook him to his very core. How can people who have been harassed, plundered, nearly destroyed, look to God with so much open trust?

  Charles could only shake his head in wonderment. It was beyond his understanding.

  Chapter 19

  The long lane connecting Halifax’s harbor to the central square was a broad thoroughfare, lined on both sides by buildings of stone and timber. The effect this day was one of a funnel, directing the wind and the stinging rain straight into his face, but Andrew did not mind. The weather was in fact rather bracing, coming as it did after one of the mildest springs in memory. He welcomed the brisk salt air. He always enjoyed his visits in Halifax. He found the city an exhilarating and uplifting experience after weeks or months in his tiny village. If truth be known, his only concern this gray and blustery day was his daughter’s mood.

  Anne walked alongside him, her face hidden beneath the brim of her bonnet. But he had seen enough to know that her eyes were troubled, her expression guarded. For the life of him, Andrew could not understand why. Though her accommodations were spartan, her rooms were clean and located in a fine Christian home. The landlady seemed genuinely taken with his daughter, and she had even gone so far as to say that Anne had become one of the family.

  The young doctor she worked for was equally impressive, a tall Welshman with the fine red hair and freckled complexion of his heritage. He was a clear-eyed, intelligent young man, and from the three visits Andrew had made to Halifax since Anne’s arrival here six weeks earlier, he had gathered the impression that Dr. Cyril Mann knew the Scriptures and lived their creed.

  Yet something clearly was now troubling Anne. She did not respond beyond a few murmured acknowledgments to his comments about her mother or events in the village. She had concluded her errands with a minimum of words, barely returning the market woman’s warm greetings. Andrew could not help but appreciate the fact that Anne was being warmly accepted by these townsfolk. But today she seemed guarded and withdrawn.

  Andrew checked his pocket watch
. It was approaching midday, and he had planned to depart for Georgetown that afternoon. But with the distraction Anne was showing, perhaps he should postpone his return one more day. Catherine would worry, but certainly they would both worry more if this immediate concern was left unanswered. Andrew slid the watch back into his vest pocket and cast a tentative glance over his daughter’s bonnet. Anne was a child no longer. He had observed the way the patients in Dr. Mann’s outer chamber treated her, showing her similar respect as they did the doctor. He had watched the way Anne had responded, with warmth and concern and a special love for the ailing children. Andrew’s heart had swelled with pride over her manner and her genuine gift of compassion. Yes, his little Anne was a child no longer.

  They crossed the final street and walked down the covered plank sidewalk to the building where Anne worked. The wood bore new gilded letters announcing that this was the office of Dr. Cyril Mann, trained in the arts of medicine at London and Edinburgh. A small placard included the information that the office was closed over the noon hour from twelve o’clock until two. Anne used her own key to open the door, then stepped aside for her father to enter first. Andrew watched as she closed and locked the door behind them. She put down her basket on the bench by the window, calling out, “Dr. Mann?”

  When there was no answer, Anne briskly turned from him and walked to the back room, calling once more.

  When she returned, it was to announce, “He is not back. Good. Father, please sit down.”

  “Anne—”

  “Sit down, Father. Please. There is something I must tell you.”

  Her agitated and rather formal tone only increased his unease. But Andrew felt he had no choice except to do as she said. Indeed, she was a child no longer.

  Anne stood before him, her arms crossed and hands clutching her elbows. She started to speak, then released her hold on her arms to untie her bonnet. She lifted the hat and shook her head, allowing her hair to spill down over the back of her dress. It was a gesture Andrew knew so well, one he had seen her make a myriad of times. Only today it seemed to forebode change and mystery both.

  She looked down at him, her hands clenching and unclenching at her side. “Father, I wish to ask you your impressions of the doctor.” Her words came in a practiced rush, as if she had carefully planned each one.

  “Well, I—”

  “Please. I must know what you think, Father.”

  “He seems to be a fine man,” Andrew replied quietly. “I do not know him well, but my impression is of a good Christian and a caring, skilled doctor.”

  “He is that and more. He … I …” She seemed to struggle to find breath.

  Andrew nodded. He could see where this was heading. He found himself wanting to smile and weep at the same time. But he forced his emotions back with a noisy swallow.

  “I know this is very sudden,” she hurried on. “I know we have not known each other even two months. But we have been working together every day, and we have had opportunities to talk at length—about our families, about our interests, about faith.” Anne stopped suddenly and carefully searched Andrew’s face. She then said, “Cyril and I have come to love each other.”

  Andrew observed the tension in his daughter’s face and knew she had spent sleepless hours preparing what she would tell him. He held himself very still, granting her the time to say this at her own pace. But in truth his eyes were burning slightly, and he wanted nothing more than to take out his watch and turn back the dial. Just a few more hours. Another day or two to cherish her as the beloved daughter who had been a light to his and Catherine’s life. Another week of knowing her as theirs and theirs alone. But he said nothing and made no motion except to blink very hard. Time stood still for no one. Not even a father who wished to weep bittersweet tears for a daughter who was a child no more.

  “I have seen the way he is at work and at prayer. And he is a man who lives his faith.” Her words were as shaky as her breath. But she pressed on, “I … I love him dearly, and I know that time will only strengthen these feelings. Cyril has asked for my hand in marriage, Father. I know he should be the one to say this, but I wanted to speak with you first and tell you that he is a good man.”

  “I believe you,” Andrew murmured.

  “He is a fine and caring …” She paused. “You do?”

  “Yes.” Andrew forced down another swallow. “As I said, I do not know your good doctor very well. But I know you. And I know that you would take great care in whom you allowed to capture your heart.”

  Her legs seemed to give way, and she sank onto the bench beside him. “Then you don’t object?”

  “To your marrying? No.” He hesitated, then confessed, “Well, perhaps a little bit.”

  “But Father, he is—”

  “Oh, it is not because of him. It is because of you.”

  Anne’s mouth opened, but it took a long moment for her to form the word, “Me?”

  “You are so precious to Catherine and me, I find it hard to think of you ever growing up and away from us.”

  One moment she was a carefully composed young woman, the next her face seemed awash in tears. She flung herself into Andrew’s arms and wept quietly. Andrew held his daughter close and traced her soft hair with one hand. She whispered to his shoulder, “Oh, Father, I was so afraid you would object.”

  “I cannot.” Oh, to hold his child like this for years and years and years. But the time of holding her as his little girl had already passed. He could not mourn the loss but must look to the promises of the future. He cleared his throat and spoke and was amazed that his voice was strong and even. “I shall bless you and give you up. And if you like, upon the day you two choose, I shall wed you before God and pray that He bless your union with a daughter as fine as you.”

  Chapter 20

  In the seven weeks Nicole had been gone from home, less than half the distance to Acadia had been traveled. She gripped her hands together in frustration.

  The ship they had boarded at the mouth of the Mississippi was the largest she had ever seen. Now she realized it was merely a coastal vessel, one made to sail into shallow waters and take on produce from hamlets that could not afford a true harbor. The problem was that such barques kept to no set schedule, halting at every village with goods to transport. Towns hailed the barque by flying a signal flag from a tall pole—or in some of the smallest settlements the flag was hung from a rooftop or a tree. It seemed to Nicole that they had stopped at every hamlet along the entire eastern shoreline.

  Seven weeks after their departure, they were only as far as Charleston. In desperation, Guy had ordered them off the boat. His intention had been to arrive in Acadia before winter, see the place for himself, and either return together or send Nicole back while ships were still able to navigate the northern port. At this rate, he declared, they might not arrive in Acadia at all this season. Nicole had been heartily relieved to see the last of that cramped little vessel.

  Not that being on land proved much better. They had been in the port for three days, all seven of their group crammed into one room of a harborside inn. There were many problems. None of them spoke more than a smattering of English. Returning to Charleston had brought up all the bad memories from Nicole’s half-forgotten childhood in the area. Many of the locals still viewed the Acadians with grave suspicion. The same was true for many of the arriving ships’ captains and crews. From dawn to dusk Guy and Pascal scoured the waterfront, and still they could not find a ship willing to take them north.

  Guy was now off buying food for the family. He had taken over the task from Nicole because she became so enraged with the market folk when they refused to sell her anything. Besides, the prices they charged for meager fruit and day-old bread were outrageous. She was certain they were cheating the family because they were Acadians. But she had no way of knowing for sure, since she spoke almost no English. All she could be certain of was that the carefully hoarded store of silver coins was steadily dwindling.

  Nicole s
at on the stone seawall and made a lunch from two wizened apples and a wedge of hard cheese. On any other day the view would have enthralled her. The weather was balmy, the breeze perfumed with sea salt and spices carried by a nearby ship recently arrived from some faraway land. Tall masts rose from a dozen ships and more, and the quayside was crowded with a rainbow of people. But today she was tired and she was worried. Guy’s youngest child had cried most of the night, and the blanket on which she had lain, with the middle cousin tucked to one side, had not offered much cushion from the hard plank floor. Her eyelids felt gritty from lack of sleep. If only they could find a ship.

  Her eye was caught by a man stepping down from a carriage. He was dressed in clothes so fine and new they seemed to sparkle in the midday sun. His tricorner hat was lined with black velvet ribbon, his cuffs were laced, and his coat buttons shone like new silver coins. All the quayside paused to watch as two servants scrambled down from the carriage roof, both burdened by great sacks of fresh produce. The man carried nothing heavier than a silver-tipped cane.

  On sudden impulse, Nicole found herself hurrying over to him. “Pardon me, m’sieur. Do you speak French?”

  One of the sailors growled at her in what was probably English, but she did not understand. Nor did she care. Her mother would have been horrified to think that Nicole had approached a strange man by herself. She did not care about that either. Heart pounding, all she could think, could hope, was that here stood a man in a powdered wig and clothes worth a king’s ransom. A man of culture and education who might perhaps speak her language.

  He waved the seaman back and replied in French with an English accent, “I speak a little. But you must talk slowly.”

  With her hopes racing ahead so, it was difficult to hold her impatience. But Nicole forced herself to form the words carefully. “My family and I search for a vessel to carry us north.”