The Sacred Shore Read online

  Henri’s voice regained its strength. “Always remember, my beloved one, you can never be where God is not. There is no place where you can outdistance Him. No dark corner where you can hide where He is not already there waiting for your arrival. No deep recess of your heart or soul that He does not know of. No secret that He does not share. And He does have power. To change, to keep, to do the impossible.”

  “He did not do the impossible for you,” Nicole threw out.

  “Ah, but He did. In all my circumstances He kept my heart from bitterness. He made my faith grow so I would cling to Him like the moss clings to the branch. For me, on my own, that would have been impossible. My soul would have withered and died. He did indeed work the impossible.”

  Louise and Henri looked at each other, then back to their daughter. Both parents took comfort in Nicole’s inability to refute her father’s statement. Louise took the first easy breath since they had arrived at the docks. Her daughter was leaving, yet despite her bitterness over the loss of Jean and the sudden realizations of her own heritage, Nicole was unable to utterly cast them aside or discount her heritage. Meager comfort in this moment, but somehow it seemed enough.

  “I pray you might discover Him for yourself,” her husband went on, “for without Him, nothing of importance is possible. We can only fumble and stumble in darkness. But with Him there is light, even in the harshest of times.”

  Louise heard the rough call of stevedores and the clinking of iron and creaking of ropes. The dog barked again, straining against its tether. Louise felt as though her own life were being tossed adrift upon a restless sea. And yet, even here, she heard the truth of Henri’s words. And in them she knew a glimmer of peace. Even now.

  The peace granted Louise the power to see Nicole anew. What did she believe? At the moment, Louise realized, Nicole truly did not know. She had cast aside her childlike faith, but she had nothing to stand in its stead. Inside was anger and sorrow and bewilderment. Outside was heat and dust and confusion. Louise studied her daughter and saw a woman who wished to be free of restraints from the people she had known as her parents—yet at the same time she wished to cling to them. She was an adult, yet still a child. She wanted to find her own way at the same time she feared the darkness of the unknown future. She wished to cast aside all attachment to her French heritage, yet she wished to remain one of them for all time.

  This newfound ability to see her daughter with fresh understanding gave Louise the strength to set aside her sadness. It would return, she knew, and the trail home would be awash in the sorrow of having lost yet another daughter. But for now she could offer this wonderful woman-child a smile and the words, “I love you, my daughter. And I trust God enough to see the future with hope.”

  Nicole seemed to be caught unawares by the words. “What, Mama?”

  “I am certain you shall pass through your voyage safely, and from it you will come to know us better—your family here on earth, and your Father in heaven.”

  The appeal in Nicole’s face burned with such intensity that tears formed in both women’s eyes. Nicole whispered, “Oh, I hope so.”

  Increased activity on the dock drew their attention. It was time for Nicole to hoist her carpetbags and walk the gangplank that would separate her from all that she knew. Louise held her breath as Henri reached for them both.

  “Let us pray,” he said, and his voice seemed to boom across the expanse of wooden platform.

  “Father, our dear child is leaving us today and our hearts are heavy with our grief. But you understand all about parting. Your own Son stepped from your side to make an earthly pilgrimage. His journey took Him to a cross. Our daughter has but to go to the land of her birth. Keep her safe. Make her faith to grow. May she find not just her parents but her heavenly Father to be real, and there. And when her pilgrimage is over, bring her safely back to us. To our home. To our love. In the name of your Son. Amen.”

  Chapter 12

  Charles had never felt so trapped in his entire life. Not even the Atlantic crossing had left him feeling so helpless. At least there he had a ship’s company at his beck and call. Here in Andrew’s village he was not only unrecognized, he was unwelcome.

  He had started off badly. Georgetown had but one inn, and Charles had criticized the innkeeper’s only daughter for bringing him a breakfast platter of black tea and bread husks so hard he could scarcely bite through them. The innkeeper had heard Charles out, then coldly replied, “Feel free to get your own breakfast, for my family will serve you no longer.” Nor had they. When he had complained a second time, the innkeeper told him straight out the only reason Charles did not find himself sleeping in the forest was because he was the pastor’s brother, and a finer man God had never made—a pity the same could not be said for the reverend’s kin. It was the last word anyone within the inn had spoken to him.

  That had been five days ago.

  Since then, Charles had taken his meals with his brother’s family. When he walked the village lane he was met with cold stares and hostile faces. One word he heard most often muttered just within earshot—“arrogant.”

  Yet he had no choice but to stay in the village. Andrew had refused to further his search for Elspeth in any way, unless or until God directed their actions. When Charles had demanded to know how long that would take, Andrew had replied in his gentle but straightforward manner, “That too is in God’s hands.”

  Charles remained utterly mortified at his brother’s poverty. Certainly Charles had peasants who lived in far worse circumstances. But it was an affront to the Harrow name to live without a single item of furniture or clothing that could be considered fashionable. The village was a thriving market town and could well have afforded to support their pastor. But Andrew did not seem to expect it. He raised vegetables in his front garden, he kept two cows and two dozen laying hens, and he used a small shed attached to the back of their house as a leather shop. The fact that his brother spent every free hour making shoes and bridles insulted Charles’s sensibilities.

  And yet, and yet … after the shock of the dire straits of Andrew’s family had worn off, new undercurrents had begun to unfold. Hints of a life that left Charles feeling unsettled and challenged.

  As usual, Charles walked the lane soon after sunrise, leaving the inn before the other patrons rose. Georgetown sat on an elbow of land, with forest and steep hillsides to its back. To the west stretched the Bay of Fundy, so broad the other banks were seen only on the clearest afternoon. To the north opened Cobequid Bay. Trading vessels plying these waters called here in Georgetown, which was why there was an inn at all. Twice each week a market drew settlers from numerous outlying hamlets.

  “Charles, good morning to you!” The old man, John Price, hobbled into view. “Grand morning, is it not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He stared at Catherine’s father. A stick figure, he seemed hollowed by age and illness. “How is your wound?”

  “It pains me most mornings.” The man’s gentle smile did not seem the least bit disturbed by the acknowledgment. “Only thing I know to do is get out and walk.”

  “Shall I carry your burden?”

  “Kind of you, son.” He handed over the basket. “One of the neighbors offered us fresh-baked bread and ten still-warm eggs.”

  Charles overlooked the offense of being called “son” by such a decrepit elderly stranger. “I’ve noticed that you have found a warm place in the villagers’ hearts.”

  “They have warm hearts for Andrew, you mean. They do indeed revere your brother.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that too.” The fact rankled, but it could not be denied. Andrew’s passage down a village street was enough to draw a smile and a greeting from even the most gloomy face. Charles had seen it happen.

  “Andrew is without a doubt the worst leatherworker in Nova Scotia.” John Price made the statement in a tone as jolly as the early spring birdsong. “But he never lacks for work. And he occasionally chides his customers for overpaying.”
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br />   Unwilling to discuss his brother any longer, Charles asked, “Where did you pick up that wound of yours?”

  “France. Fighting the king’s war.” Even this was said with the gentlest of smiles. “But that was in another lifetime, son. Before Catherine and Andrew led me to my knees and introduced me to our Lord.”

  There seemed no way to escape an uncomfortable conversation. Charles tried to head it off. “I find it rather curious to be addressed as anyone’s son.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you do.” This was good for a chuckle. “You may find it hard to believe, but I recognize myself in you—at least the man I once was.”

  Charles bit down hard on the sharp retort that rose hot in his mouth.

  “Yes, I was a senior officer in the King’s Own. Highly decorated—I imagine the medals and decorations are still around somewhere. After my battlefield wound I was appointed notary to the region around Fort Edward.” John Price’s gaze held Charles’s without embarrassment or apology at the obvious inference. “Filled with my own importance and the power that came with my position, I was. And I turned into as cold and hard a man as you’ll ever care to meet.”

  Charles found himself trapped by these turbulent emotions. On the one hand, he wanted to lash out and put this strange old man in his place, and right sharp. On the other, he felt tugged by something mysterious, as strange as this early spring sunlight, crisp and cold and warming all at the same time.

  Before he could recover sufficiently to say anything at all, however, John Price stooped to open the gate to their little cottage, then turned to take the basket from Charles. “Thank you, son,” he said. And the look from those twinkling eyes seemed to suggest that he knew exactly what was going through Charles’s mind.

  “Good morning, Grandfather.” Anne’s sweet voice sang the greeting through the open doorway. “Your water is warmed and ready.”

  Charles settled onto the bench outside the kitchen window. He listened to Anne assisting John Price, sharpening his straight-edged razor and laying out soap and a clean towel, all the while chatting and answering questions about the day ahead. Price’s small pension saw to many of the Harrows’ day-to-day needs—neither Andrew nor Catherine seemed to find any shame in admitting how much the pittance helped them. But Anne’s lovingkindness toward the old man went much further than just repaying his generosity. When Price’s wound ached, Anne seemed to notice it even before the old man spoke and was always there to help him. She clearly adored the old gentleman. Charles shifted on the bench, uncomfortable in the knowledge that here was a bond Charles had never known in his entire life. And between two people who in truth were not even of the same blood.

  Anne appeared in the doorway beside him. “You take your tea black, do you not?” Now that the truth was known, she treated him with kindly ease.

  “Yes, thank you.” He accepted the steaming mug, took a sip, and sighed through its steam.

  Anne remained where she was. “This is very hard for you, isn’t it? The waiting.”

  He looked up at her. “I fail to see why it should be such an enormous decision to permit me to search for my niece and offer her the Harrow legacy. Andrew may not care about it for himself, but he does seem to care about me. And about his daughter.” He looked quickly to see if she was offended by the use of the term “daughter.” But she stared back at him without flinching, her smile unwavering.

  He expected her to repeat the arguments Andrew had set out. But instead Anne asked, “May I join you?”

  Charles shifted along the bench. “Please. By all means.”

  “Thank you.” She seated herself, then took a long moment to look about at the day. The light turned the dusty lane beyond their garden as white as the snow on the upper hillsides. “I do so love this time of year,” she exulted. “The birds begin to sing again, life is returning to the earth, everywhere there is a sense of great expectancy.”

  Charles sipped his tea and said, “You astonish me. Your confidence, your demeanor, your sense of poise. I would never have expected to find such qualities in, well—”

  “A village lass,” she finished for him. If she found anything offensive in the comment, she did not show it. “I owe everything to my parents and my God.”

  “And this religion of yours. If you will forgive me for saying it, it seems so … so all-demanding.”

  “Oh, I forgive you, Uncle Charles.” Another smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He wondered if she used the title to tease him. But her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere as she continued, “But will God? That is the question you have to ask yourself.”

  A second encounter of the morning was turning uncomfortable. Charles shifted on the bench, then said, “We have moved very far from the issue of my searching for Elspeth.”

  “Indeed we have.” Anne folded her hands in her lap. “You may wonder why I became so distraught when you first put your proposal forth, thinking that I was Elspeth. It was not that I feared I would have to depart. I knew you were looking for blood kin, and I knew I was not the one for whom you searched. It was because I feared of what this … this probing would do to my mother and father. The wound of that awful time has never fully healed. I suppose such wounds never do. But their distress has eased. With God’s help it has become bearable. Their Elspeth … they have never forgotten her. Even after all the years of searching, all the letters that were never answered. I know in their hearts they still long to know what has become of her.” She hesitated for a moment while Charles shuffled his feet. “You said you seek to give her the Harrow legacy and its wealth.”

  Charles thought he heard an opening there and hastened to say, “Indeed I do. I have tried likewise with Andrew. I would gladly provide him with a bequest enough to alleviate all this hardship and labor. But he refuses to even discuss it.” He turned to face her. “Surely you would appreciate the opportunity for fine frocks. Imagine, your very own carriage with prancing horses, servants, a grand house, the chance to travel wherever you wish to go.”

  Yet again Anne did not respond as expected. “I would love to see my father be able to take his ease. He is beginning to suffer from back pains and joint ailments, especially in winter. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see it becoming harder for him—the long hours in the cold shed, as well as long treks through the wilderness to visit an ailing parishioner.”

  He felt reproved by her response, the utter lack of interest in anything for herself. “Well, then.”

  Anne shook her head. “You are not offering to give to us, Uncle Charles. You have come to buy, to barter. You want something in exchange. You think that your payment is enough for us to accept the possible distress and disruption.” Her gaze was as clear as the morning air. “We are at peace here. Yes, life is not easy. We worry about my grandfather, and Father labors enough hours for two men. It would be good to have time for rest, and to not have to work quite so hard.” She smiled at him and finished with, “But most of all my father needs to know what is right, what is in God’s plan in this situation.”

  His response was somehow robbed of force by her open honesty. “I merely seek to find Elspeth.”

  A call from her grandfather pulled Anne to her feet. “We are at peace. I think perhaps that was the reason why Father wanted you to stay here until he could pray and ask God what was to be done. He wants you to understand what we have. What we may be asked to give up.” She turned to the doorway, saying simply, “God’s peace is a gift my parents give thanks for every day.”

  The control and confidence Anne felt while speaking with her new uncle did not remain as constant as she would have wished. One moment she was unshakable in her faith, the next her emotions rolled and tossed her so she was left frightened and shaken.

  She now sat staring out over the tranquil waters of Cobequid Bay. She was seated in her favorite place on the stump of a tree so large she and her grandfather had often used it as a table for a little picnic when she was younger. Anne knew without looking up that John Price was approa
ching, for his walk had a certain cadence to it, an uneven step that favored his old war wound. She kept her gaze turned seaward as he came over, stood above her for a time, and finally settled in beside her. They had been like this for as long as Anne could remember, friends so close that words often were not even required.

  But today she needed to speak with someone, and she knew it could not be her mother. Even though the thoughts might distress her grandfather, she had to voice them. “I was thinking back to last autumn,” she began. “Do you remember the big October storm?”

  “I do indeed.” John Price seemed to realize this would not be a short stay, for he settled himself more comfortably and put his walking stick down on the ground. “The first snowfall. Such winds as I thought they might lift me up and carry me off to England.”

  “I came out here that afternoon. Mother would not have let me if she had known. The sea was white as far as I could see, the waves tossed up and torn to pieces, as much froth in the air as snow.” She squinted as she had that previous afternoon, only now the biting winds were all inside. “That’s how I feel right now.”

  “Oh, my child.” John Price laid his hand on her arm.

  “What if Uncle Charles goes off and finds Elspeth?” Anne whispered, despair filling her heart. “What will happen to my own family? This family—the only one I have ever known. Will Mother and Father love me as they have? Will I become the second child in the family, or not be their child at all? If Elspeth comes back, will they make another exchange and send me to live with people I don’t even know?” Part of her knew the answer, but another part wanted to hear it from another.

  “Not now, not ever,” her grandfather replied vehemently but kindly.

  Anne turned and pressed him with, “How can you be so sure? What if you’re wrong? What if … what if they don’t need me anymore?”