The Sacred Shore Page 8

  Their trek was marred by a tension that floated with the pale dust. Finally Nicole asked, “What was my name, Mama?”

  “Your name,” Louise replied with a firmness she did not feel, “is Nicole.”

  Again there was the disconcerting calm. “What was the name given to me at birth?”

  Louise felt the sorrow burn not only her eyes, but her throat as well. “I was wondering when you would ask me that.”

  “Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember. I would never forget such a thing. Never.” To her own ears, her voice sounded as flat and dry as the dusty trail. “Your name was Elspeth. Elspeth Harrow.”

  They entered the final copse of trees that separated the village and the bayous from the hot plains. The air was instantly cooler, tinted with the fragrance of spring blossoms and new leaves. The silence held them almost to the forest’s other side. There Nicole said, “I have to know who I am.”

  “You are my child. My beloved daughter.” Louise felt a heaviness constricting her chest, a lifetime’s sorrow pouring forth to be lost in the hot Louisiana sunshine. “You are a precious gift God has given to me.”

  It was as though Louise had never spoken. “I need to know who I am. I need to know who these British are, the people who sired me, who gave me life. I have spent years hating them.”

  At this Louise whirled to face her. “Now you listen to me,” she said, her voice grating deep with intensity. “You were blessed with the most genuine parents a girl could ever have. Your mama—she was all love. All sweetness. This—this exchange never would have happened if she had not possessed the heart of an angel. She loved and fussed over you like I never saw another woman do. But she knew I loved my little Antoinette in the same way, yet I was watching her die. Before my very eyes she was fading away. That’s why she offered to take her to the doctor. Our baby would have died, sure enough, if Catherine …”

  “Catherine? Was that my mama’s name?”

  Louise caught herself short. She hadn’t meant to let that slip. Now she had no choice but to reply with, “Yes. Catherine and Andrew Harrow.”

  Nicole quickly said, “I didn’t mean I hate them in particular—but their kind. Sometimes I think I don’t want to know them. Ever.” Louise watched closely as Nicole turned to sweep the landscape with a sorrowful gaze. “I must sort this out,” she said slowly, as if speaking to more than Louise. “I must find out who I really am. I … I feel that I’m two people. Part of me belongs to all this, and part of me is lost. I have to find myself. I must put the two pieces of my soul together again.”

  “But—”

  “I may never learn to forgive them. I don’t expect to ever be able to love them. But I must know them. I must. The love I felt for Jean …” Only here did the resolute calm seem to shiver and threaten to break. But Nicole stiffened and continued in the same tone as before, “I need to make up my own mind now. I need to meet these people, and to know this other part of my heritage. And, I hope, come to know myself.”

  Louise was not only defeated by the calm, she was terrified. “I don’t know if I have the strength to let you go,” she whispered through trembling lips.

  “It will be hard for us all.” The sunlight filtered through the trees and already beat upon them with the intensity of coming summer heat. Up ahead the boys spotted them and shouted their thirst and their hunger. As the four started toward them, Nicole finished, “So hard for us all.”

  Chapter 11

  Louise felt as though her heart were being squeezed in a blacksmith’s vise. Nicole, who sat silent and pale beside her, was soon to board a ship that would carry her from their sight to a great unknown future.

  It had been useless to try to protest further. Louise knew that from the start, even before Henri held her close and whispered, as he patted her back with work-roughened hands, that they could not, dared not, try to hold this young woman, their beloved Nicole, who also belonged to another set of parents.

  The trip itself was not Louise’s biggest fear. Oh, she fretted about the perilous sea voyage, but that had not caused her sleepless nights as the wind sighed through the cypress trees. No, it was the thought that once gone, Nicole might never return. Louise could not imagine life without her daughter.

  “I’ve lost one daughter,” she had mourned to Henri that dawn. “Now it appears that I am about to lose another.”

  He had tried to console her, but she knew his heart was heavy also. No matter how hard he struggled to maintain a brave front, his visage reflected her own sorrow.

  “We must leave her in God’s hands,” he finally had answered. “Since we are also in His hands, we will be joined together always, though the distance is a little longer.”

  “You call this a little longer?”

  “In God’s eyes there is neither time nor space,” he had replied, both his tone and his gaze beseeching her to take heed, to hold fast.

  She stifled another outburst, knowing it would lead to fury. The dawn was already too heavy with coming loss. She could not bear the load of useless anger as well. Not this day.

  Now Louise stood in the shade of high-stacked bales and tried to focus upon the sweltering scene. Dark-skinned laborers loaded the awaiting ship, grunting and sweating in the hazy afternoon heat. Dockside at the Mississippi Delta, there were no trees to block the sun’s intensity. No whisper of breeze nor stir of air. Louise found it hard even to breathe.

  “Mama, why don’t we go over to the shade of that shed?” Wordlessly Louise allowed Nicole to lead her away. Away from the smell of sweat. Away from the barrage of shouts that she could not understand though they rang loud and profane in her ears. Away from the bustle of bodies and the swing of ropes and chains and pulleys and bales and crates and cartons. She shuddered as she walked. Ships brought back too many unpleasant memories. She didn’t know how Nicole could even think of boarding one now.

  “Sit down here,” Nicole was saying, patting a forgotten bale over which she had spread her shawl.

  With a sigh Louise managed to settle herself on the shawl. Nicole sat down beside her.

  “Where is your papa?” asked Louise, fanning herself in a futile attempt to get some air.

  “He went with Uncle Guy to see to the passage.”

  The passage. Another reminder of things to come. “You’re sure …”

  “Mama, we’ve been through all that.”

  It was true. They had been through it, but Louise kept hoping, praying, begging God to make Nicole change her mind.

  “When you see Catherine—”

  “I may never see her.”

  “I thought that was why you’re going.”

  Nicole hesitated, as though fearful to look that far ahead. As though she dared not get her hopes centered on such a possibility, lest she be dreadfully disappointed. “We do not know if she’s still there. If she is even alive, for that matter.”

  Louise shivered in spite of the heat. “She’s alive.”

  “How do you know? It’s been more than eighteen years. She might—”

  “I’d know. I’d feel it.” Unconsciously Louise placed a hand over her heart.

  Nicole turned her eyes to the hazy sky. Not even a bird disturbed the shimmering haze. There was only the stifling heat and noise and dust and confusion of milling bodies, both man and beast.

  The three-day trek from Vermilionville had been grueling. Even Henri had looked exhausted by the time they had reached the mouth of the Mississippi. Guy’s young ones, who had begun the journey with all the excitement of childhood, now stood solemnly and mutely upon the docks in a bewildered, weary little group. The youngest child had fretted constantly from the irritating heat rash covering his entire little body. The crying baby wore on nerves already stretched to the limit.

  Louise sat beside her daughter and spotted Henri bending his way through cargo and milling bodies and coils of hemp rope. She watched as he approached an officer in the ongoing negotiations to secure passage for the travelers on the
boat that rested in the harbor. She could not bear to watch, so she turned her eyes back to where her daughter sat and gazed over the deep-running waters. We should be talking, thought Louise. We should be saying all those things that we’ll wish we had said once the boat pulls up anchor. Yet she could not think of a single comment or question. Perhaps they had said it all. Perhaps they were too fatigued from fighting feelings and the elements and the heat to be able to converse. Perhaps they didn’t want to speak—for speaking meant thinking, and Louise was not certain she could bear to think of what lay ahead.

  It was Nicole who broke the silence. “Would you like another sip of water?”

  The water jug lay near at hand. Louise knew that she should drink. But the water was warm and insipid. What she would give for a cup of cool water from the village well, or a refreshing glass of cider brought up from the depths of the cellar. She shook her head.

  “In this heat you should drink, Mama.” Nicole lifted the jug to her own lips and swallowed several times. A trickle of water dripped from her chin and she lifted a hand to wipe it away.

  Louise, watching silently, suddenly felt moisture on her own chin. But it was not water. It was a tear that splashed a trail down her cheek, followed closely by another. Nicole reached out and took her hand. “What are your thoughts, Mama?”

  Louise stirred and blinked back more threatening tears. She lifted her other hand to brush at the wetness on her cheeks. “So many things,” she eventually managed to answer. “So many things. Things I have pushed back for so many years. You—your leaving has brought them all to mind again.”

  Nicole leaned away and showed her mother yet again this strange womanly gaze. One so full of calm and strength Louise could not observe it without thinking that she had already lost the child she loved.

  She breathed hard, seeking to press her thoughts into shape. “I wonder what it is like in Acadia. I wonder if the spring still comes to the meadow in such lavish color and brightness. I wonder if Catherine still has that way of smiling that lights her whole face and makes her eyes sparkle. I wonder if her faith is still as strong. If Andrew is still with the army after all those horrid …”

  She struggled to sort through the tumult in her mind and heart. “I wonder where the others are. If the orchard is still there. If my room is still under the eaves.”

  She was silent for some minutes. “Most of all, I wonder what little Antoinette is like now. Is she shy and retiring, or bold and self-assured? Does she walk like her papa? Has she learned how to cook, how to keep house? Is she strong and healthy? Does she have a beau? She could even be married—a mother. It is not unheard of.

  “Your leaving for Acadia brings all of those questions to my mind once again,” Louise went on, looking searchingly into Nicole’s face. “I had put them aside for so long and now … I wonder. I wonder if she even knows about me. If she knows that her father is a good man. Strong of faith and spirit. She should know that. She should know about her father.”

  “Mama, please. You are only making it more difficult for yourself.”

  Louise felt the heat and the coming loss solidify into a burning lump at the center of her being. “You speak of difficult. You have never known difficult. Not like I have known it. God grant that you never shall. To have your baby—your own flesh and blood—torn from you. To sail away, knowing that she is still onshore. To watch the land fade away in the darkness of night and know that it is too far to swim should you cast yourself into the sea. And that you might never, never be coming back.” The tears were flowing unheeded now. Louise made no attempt to check them.

  Nicole’s gaze darkened and her face flashed with the spirit Louise had taken as natural from her daughter. Instantly Louise regretted her outburst, and tried to swallow away the ache and the irritation. She reached out a hand to her daughter. “But there was you,” she said in a softer tone. “There was you—or I would have died. You smiled and cooed and you needed me. The flame of love I had lost was lit again by the new love that you brought to my heart.”

  But Nicole’s eyes did not lose their glint. “I cannot imagine what you have felt, what you have endured,” she said, “but you also can’t know what I have felt and suffered.”

  Louise knew the look all too well, the brooding that flashed into sudden anger, the eyes like dark pools. There was a new edge to her voice, yet another sign that her daughter was changing. Growing apart from her. “I never meant—”

  “I have been forced to give up the only man I have ever loved. Then I learned that I am not who I always thought myself to be.” Her voice sounded hot as the day. “I have parents I do not know. English parents. A homeland I cannot recall. I do not know if my family is alive—or dead. If I have brothers or sisters.”

  “You have us. Your brothers are—”

  Nicole stood to her feet in one swift motion. “My brothers are no more my brothers than those men toting the bales,” she answered with vehemence. Louise sucked in her breath. “It is true,” went on Nicole. “There is no blood tie between us. Why, I could marry Josef and the law would not frown upon it.”

  “Sit down,” demanded Louise. She slapped the shawl beside her. “Sit down now.”

  Nicole hesitated, then seated herself again on the bale.

  “Stop that right now.” Louise’s voice came in tight little gasps. “You may have been—cheated, not knowing your rightful parents. I grant you that. But you have also been blessed.”

  “Blessed?”

  “Yes, listen to me, blessed. You have had not only one set of parents who have loved you, you have had two. Two sets of parents who would have died for you had it been necessary. Two. Many do not even have one. Two—do you hear me? Who can boast the same? And yes, I am still your mother. Your brothers are still your brothers, and so they will always be. Don’t you forget that. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  “And Antoinette?” asked Nicole, tipping her head slightly to one side, but her tone less challenging. “What about her?”

  Louise did not back down. “Why, she is equally blessed. She had Andrew and Catherine—and she has us.”

  “You still love her?”

  Louise was shocked at the question. “I still breathe, do I not?”

  Nicole’s tiny nod was uncertain.

  “There you are,” came a booming voice, and Henri pushed his way through the teeming crowd and drew near. His eyes sought out Louise, asking questions without words. Louise had questions of her own but was unable to voice them.

  “They were able to get passage,” Henri announced. “It’s not a passenger ship, but the cargo seems to leave room for people to find space and to stir about. There are some empty berths, so they agreed to take the family. They sail at first light. Guy is busy even now stowing their things on board. The captain wants all those traveling with him to be settled on board before nightfall.”

  So it was happening. Louise turned her attention to a barking dog that someone had tied to the quay. Nearby a sheep bleated. Dust rolled toward them from the mules that brought in another load of bales. Louise heard and saw it all, yet perceived nothing. She brushed at the irritating flies buzzing about her face, then reached out for Henri’s hand. With his help she slowly came to her feet and stood mindlessly listening to the waves that lapped against the wooden dockside. Henri turned to Nicole. “You are ready, my daughter?”

  Nicole was honest in her reply. “I am, and I am not.”

  “You will need to board within the half hour.” Henri seemed to be forcing out the words. “We will miss you while you are gone. It makes the parting harder, not knowing when or how you will make it back home.”

  Back home, Louise’s heart echoed. Once my beloved daughter makes this trip, where will her home be? But she did not voice her thoughts. Nothing was to be gained from asking the unanswerable.

  Nicole then spoke words that surprised them all. “If opportunity arises, what should I say to Antoinette?”

  Louise felt a lance of sunlight pierce the marr
ow of her bones. Yet again there was no answer. All the hope and pain of years seemed to bear down, squeezing more tears from her eyes.

  It was Henri who answered for them both. “What a question. Do you not know us at all?” Their daughter’s head bowed under the weight of Henri’s rasping words. “Speak your heart. You will be speaking our heart as well.”

  Louise struggled to find her own response within her heart. What should Nicole say for her? How to reduce the distance, to overcome the past?

  Henri seemed to read her thoughts, for he went on, “We have longed to see her year by year. We would be blessed to see her even now. But we cannot go back and change what was. Our tears are spent. Time and circumstance cannot be altered. She is their child. There is no way to undo the past.”

  Was Henri speaking to Nicole? Louise wondered. Did he think she was attempting to change the circumstances of their lives?

  Nicole spoke hesitantly now. “But if she wishes to know …”

  “Then may God give wisdom to you both.”

  “God?” Nicole spoke the one word with a coldness that made the breath catch in Louise’s throat.

  “You still question the existence of God?” Henri spoke as though wounded.

  For a moment Nicole did not answer. When she spoke, her words were direct, chilling. It was as though a dark, cold shroud fell over the three who stood together. “If not His existence, at least I doubt that He can be trusted.”

  “Cannot trust God?” Henri sounded incredulous.

  “Didn’t you pray to Him all these years? Didn’t I? It seems that He either did not care, or was powerless to be of any use.”

  A deep sorrow clouded Henri’s eyes. “If you believe that, my daughter, then I have failed miserably as your father.”

  Louise blinked away the tears so as to see Nicole more clearly. She knew this person as well as she knew herself, and yet at this moment she wondered. There was such strength in those lovely features, and yet indecision as well. The girl struggled not with the heat or the voyage or the uncertainties of the future, it seemed, but rather with herself. Nicole forced herself to meet her father’s gaze, but she could not completely hide her hesitancy.