The Meeting Place (22 page)

“I climbed to the meadow the other day,” Catherine said as she and Andrew lay side by side in the darkness. She felt him stir beside her and knew that his face no doubt showed disapproval. He said nothing.

“I had to see Louise,” she went on.

Again silence. Catherine swallowed. She wished he would speak.

“I needed another woman to talk to.”

“Wasn't it risky to venture so far when you have not been well?”

Catherine nodded in the darkness. “It probably was,” she admitted.

Silence again.

“So, did you see her?”

“Yes,” Catherine answered quickly. “I intended to leave her a note to arrange to meet me. But I felt bad about having gone there when I knew you would not approve. I know I certainly shouldn't climb the hill again without your agreement. I was just leaving when she came.”

“That was convenient,” said Andrew, but his voice sounded strained.

“Yes. I think it was an answer to my prayer.”

Andrew made no reply.

“Louise brought me an herbal potion, Andrew. Her mother prepared it.”

“Brought it? But how did she know you needed it?”

“She didn't. Not until she saw me. Then she insisted that she run home and get it.”

“And you waited there in the meadow? What if you had gotten a chill?”

“It was a warm day. And the fresh air did me good.”

“So you have this … potion?”

“I have been taking it for the past three days.”

Andrew was silent. Catherine knew he was wondering if it was safe for his wife to take medication made by a Frenchwoman.

“I've been much better,” continued Catherine. “I even had some poached eggs for breakfast. And I kept them down.”

Andrew stirred then, reaching for Catherine in the darkness. “You've been able to eat again?” he asked, drawing her close.

“I have. I am sure that soon … soon I will be feeling like myself again.”

“Oh, to see the color back in your cheeks. To see you put on some weight again. I have prayed for that.”

Catherine smiled softly as she nestled closer, her cheek brushing against his hard-muscled shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “Undoubtedly I will be putting on weight.”

Andrew made no comment, but she felt the shift of his body.

“We are to be parents,” Catherine whispered and felt Andrew's body tense. His hand moved in the darkness to turn her face toward him, though he would not have been able to see her eyes in the dim light.

“Catherine, is this true?”

“Indeed it is. You are to be a father.”

Andrew's arms pulled her close.

“Oh, Catherine,” he said into her hair.

Chapter 17

Captain Andrew Harrow walked from the fort to his house. He tipped his hat to Widow Riley but did not stop. The latest dispatches from his regiment's home fortress in Windsor offered official congratulations for his promotion, but that was the only good news from England.

He paused at the point where his cottage path turned off from the main lane and looked out over the bay. The waters sparkled like burnished pewter beneath a cloud-flecked sky. He could hear calls of several boats but could not determine the language. He was struck by the fact that out there upon the waters, French fished alongside British, yet did not speak nor acknowledge the other. With no borders out there upon the bay, there was no way to define which patch of water might be English and which French. Andrew sighed. If only it were that simple to forget boundaries and histories and conflicting claims.

Reluctant to turn away from the lovely sight below, he thought about the golden days of summer and how aptly they described this Acadian season. So brief, these days of warmth and light, yet so packed with goodness and life. For a too-brief period each year, the entire world exploded in a frenzy of recreative power. The bay was packed with fish. Sometimes the boats coming back were so full with the day's catch that water sloshed over both gunnels at once. The village farmers were predicting another bountiful harvest, the seventh in a row. Game almost jumped into the pot. Andrew himself had shot a wild turkey in his back garden just three days earlier. There was so much beauty to this golden land, so much offered to all who called it home. If only—

“Ah, Andrew, good to see you. Were you waiting for me?”

Andrew turned to greet Catherine's father coming up the lane. “In a manner of speaking, yes. How are you, sir?”

“Passable. Bit of the grippe … hits me every year about this time.” The older man was indeed limping more heavily. “Always say I know the coming of winter long before anyone else in this land.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Good of you and Catherine to have me over for dinner tonight.” John Price began making his way up the path. “My empty house seems to echo most loudly after sunset.”

Andrew did not know what to say. John Price was not a man given to speaking of his own internal state. The older man filled the silence with, “Can't say how good it was to hear that Catherine is with child. A little one about the place will do us all a world of good. How is my girl holding up?”

“She was a bit under the weather at first, but she seems to be doing fine now.” Andrew did not mention the days and nights of horrid sickness, leaving her so weak she could hardly stand. Nor was there any need to mention the fact that the cure had come from Minas. “The midwife seems most pleased with her progress.”

“Good to hear. Of course, I wouldn't expect anything else from my Catherine. She always was one for getting on with things. I'd imagine the pregnancy hasn't slowed her down a whit.”

“I wish it would,” Andrew chuckled, then turned serious. “She does far too much for a woman in her condition.”

“Nonsense. You mustn't worry so, man. Catherine has always been hardy.” Price limped onto the stoop, then said, “I suppose the dispatches confirmed your appointment as fort commander.”

“Yes, they did.” Andrew did not ask how Catherine's father had come to hear of the dispatches' confidential contents. As the controller of Fort Edward's supplies, John Price wielded considerable influence, both within the fort and the town. He had sources that preceded Andrew's tenure by some years.

“Then accept my congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

John Price halted outside their door. “The rest of the news, it affirms what we long suspected?”

“Yes.” The word was almost a groan, its burden of worry was so great. “The king has ordered that we attack France upon all fronts.”

“That's as it should be, then.” John Price stared out over the forested hills rising on the fort's other side, beyond the river, which sparkled as it fell into Cobequid Bay, out to where ribbons of smoke rose from the unseen village of Minas. He thumped his fist upon the doorpost and muttered, “We must teach those Frenchies a lesson they will never forget. Never.”

Andrew bit back his angry response. Arguing with John Price would not change the man's way of thinking one jot. Which was as sad in its own way as the dispatches themselves, for John Price represented the attitudes of Andrew's superiors in Halifax and Annapolis Royal, almost to a man. He waited until the possible outburst was safely stowed back down deep, where it would not disturb his wife's welcome or the evening repast. But he could do nothing for the sense of futile helplessness, which left him so weary he felt his words carried little more strength than the evening breeze. “Shall we go inside?”

Captain Andrew Harrow led his troop along the mountain trail but did not make the turning at the fork. Instead he continued straight down from the watcher's knob. He heard the guard corporal spur his horse forward and readied his response. The man reined in alongside Andrew and said, “Begging your pardon, sir, but did you mean to take this trail?”

“I did indeed, Corporal.”

“But, sir,” the young man hesitated. He knew his captain was approachable, but no doubt was uncertain how far he should press it. “If I'm not mistaken, this leads down to the Frenchie village.”

“Correct.” Andrew kept his voice calm, though his heart was racing far ahead of their steady pace. “Tell me, have you ever seen the French village?”

“Me, sir? Why, the only Frenchies I've ever seen, face-to-face like, are the traders that come into Cobequid and Annapolis Royal.” The corporal gave a nervous glance down the trail. “They've their ways, we've ours, and never the twain shall meet. Least, that's my way of thinking, sir.”

“Indeed. But if we are to engage the …” But he could not even say the word “enemy,” could not include it as part of the ruse. “It may do us good to have a look at their own preparations.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Right. Go back, make sure the line is dressed and the men are fitted properly for a visit. And order the standard unfurled.”

“Yes, sir.” The corporal wheeled his horse about. Andrew did not turn to make sure his orders were carried out. His thoughts remained locked upon what lay ahead. The corporal's sharp commands to one private to button up his tunic and straighten his braces came and went without conscious acknowledgment. Finally the corporal returned to say, “Requesting the captain's permission to carry the standard.”

“Granted.” The regimental standard was a colorful flag, triangular in shape, sewn in gold and red and russet hues of finest silk, with tassels to catch and snap in the breeze. It was always carried in a saddlebag whenever the commandant or adjutant were leading a troop. The corporal moved his horse to a half pace behind Andrew's, the standard strapped to a pike riding high upon his pommel.

The village of Minas was silent, as would be normal in the middle of a workaday afternoon. The first person to catch sight of their arrival was a young girl, not more than five or six, dressed in a starched white cap and a sky blue dress. The little one turned, caught sight of the company of riders, and stood as if transformed to stone.

Andrew winced at the look of stricken terror on the young face. It reminded him of the expression in Catherine's eyes the night before when her father was staring into the fire and spouting forth about the coming conflict. The uncertainties and tragedies of war for women and children were all too clear, and he felt anew his own helplessness.

Catherine had told him last night, when they were alone, of Louise's request. During their last meeting upon the meadow, Louise had spoken of how the village wished they could have some solid sense of the world's events, not just rumors and bits of gossip picked up on market day. It would so help them in making decisions for their future. Andrew had heard Catherine out, knowing from the first instant exactly what was to be done, asking when she was finished only if she knew which of the villagers might speak English.

His thoughts snapped back to the present when the little girl found her voice and gave a shriek that seemed to go on forever, too high even for the birds to imitate. She turned to flee, only to fall headlong into the dirt. She did not seem to even notice, did not halt her shrieking for an instant. Finally she regained her legs and raced away, screaming as she fled. Andrew's face blanched. She was but a child.

“Troop, slow walk,” he called, reining his horse back and patting its neck to calm it. He did not know exactly where he was going, or how he would ask for the vicar.

A woman's frantic face appeared in a window. He called out, “Where is your priest?” He was answered with yet another shriek and a slamming of the shutters. Andrew led his troop onward, to where their lane intersected a broader way. He breathed a sigh of relief when up to his right he spotted a steeple. “Troop, right face!”

The village itself seemed to unfurl away on either side like a scroll. Andrew's mind was so captured by the risk he was taking and the need that squeezed his heart that he rode almost to the church courtyard before his first impression of Minas actually registered. That notion was of
history
. Every house he saw here in the center of the village spoke of an age more in tune with what he recalled in England than anything in Edward or the other English settlements. The church itself was lime washed in an ancient style, built of stone and wood and roofed with silver birch bark. The effect was stunning, a stately crown set upon the green of the village.

A black-robed figure appeared in the church doorway. Andrew slid from his horse's back and walked to meet the man, carrying the reins. But not too far. Not too quickly. He did not want to alarm the vicar, and he could not afford for his men
not
to hear what he was about to say. The vicar hesitated a long moment, then walked toward him. To Andrew's vast relief, the man called out, “You are English?”

“We are that, sir. My name is Captain Andrew Harrow.”

“Ah.” Relief softened the man's features, but only for an instant, for Andrew frowned mightily and gave his head the tiniest shake. Immediately comprehension lit the cleric's eyes. “And why are you here?” he demanded.