The Meeting Place (24 page)

The surrounding trees created three walls from nature's finest hues, even in winter. The fourth vista was more splendid than any stained- glass window he had ever seen in England. Andrew's eyes drank in the sight of Cobequid Bay and the slow rise of smoke from many chimneys. From this height, it was easy to blur the boundaries between British and French enclaves. He turned, taking in the forest and snow-capped hills behind. It was as Catherine had described. Her meeting place with the Frenchwoman was indeed inspired, holy ground.

A slight motion from the meadow's western side spun him about. A man stepped from the trees, his stocky girth made broader by his winter coat. Black hair was almost hidden by the coonskin cap, and the equally dark eyes flashed as he stared at Andrew.

Andrew did not need to even think about his next move. He tossed his gun from him and stood with arms outstretched and empty. The action was rewarded with a broad grin, and Andrew knew instantly it was the man Catherine had described.

“Henri?”

“
Oui, c'est moi
.” The burly man stepped forward, and offered Andrew his hand. “
Et vous êtes Andrew, n'est-ce pas?
”

“Andrew. Yes.” It was the first time he had shaken a Frenchman's hand in years. Henri's grip was strong as iron.

Reluctant to release the handshake, the two men studied each other. Finally Henri flashed another great grin and circled his arms in a barrel-shaped girth before his belly. “
Louise—elle est trop grande
.”

Andrew had to laugh. Henri joined with him, their laughter echoing back and forth about the hills.

Henri reached inside his coat and drew out a leather-bound satchel. He opened it, showed Andrew some pages of writing, and beneath it a tightly bound packet of dried herbs. He made a nest in his arms and symbolized rocking the baby to come. Andrew's smile and nod reflected the anticipation in his heart. Henri smiled in return and said, “
Pour Cat'rine. Après la naissance, pour la santé
.”

“You want Catherine to drink this after the baby has come. I understand.” Andrew loosened his belt, reached inside his own coat and extracted a tightly wrapped bundle. He handed over the letter Catherine had been writing almost since the first snow, a diary of her winter. Then he untied layer after layer to reveal Catherine's little gift and offered it to Henri.

His eyes wide with surprise, Henri accepted the present with both hands. Andrew said, “We know your ships have not arrived this year. Catherine still remembers your wonderful feast and all the flavors. She thought you might be needing pepper and cinnamon and other spices.”

Henri held the tiny packages up close to his nose and drew in one fragrant aroma after another. Andrew had never seen a man take such pleasure from simple seasonings before, but on this strong man it seemed perfectly natural. Reluctantly, Andrew pointed at the setting sun and the trail behind him. “I must be off.”

Henri folded the letter and the gift and stowed them away, then grabbed his hand a second time. Andrew nodded his understanding and thanks, then walked over, picked up his musket, and started for the trees. At the beginning of the trail, he turned back. Henri waved, then made a single fist and pressed it firmly over his heart.

Andrew nodded agreement and turned away. Henri's final message warmed his way down through the shadows of the descending trail.
Friend
.

Chapter 19

Henri carried the Bible with him out into the dawn. Here it was late March, and already they had experienced two solid thaws. He stood and breathed in air caught between the freezing blade of winter and the first hint of coming life. The wind rising from Cobequid Bay carried enough of a bite to make him draw the sheepskin coat up tighter around his neck as he walked down to the barn. But he did not enter. He sat on the bench by the east-facing wall and, sheltered from the wind, looked out over the steel gray waters and the hills and the land.

His orchard raised gnarled black arms in silent greeting to him and the day. The sun lanced through the clouds and blazed a path across the fields, turning the patchy snow into burnished shields and the bay a brilliant mirror. He took a heady breath, clasping the Book in his work-worn hands.

He opened it and tried to concentrate, but anticipation fought with nervousness, joy with apprehension, and the words swam in and out of focus. He did not mind. The power and clarity he had found that winter within its pages brought the same sense of peace he had come to know and love. For many winter nights he had sat with Louise by the fire, listening more and more carefully as she read to him, occasionally speaking up with thoughts of his own. The parable of the planter and the seeds falling upon three types of soil had touched him deeply. He had sensed a seed being planted deep within his own soul, taking root and growing strong. He desperately wanted the seeds planted within him to thrive.

A familiar voice called to him, and he rose to shout, “Over here!” He stood and watched Jacques Belleveau approach with his rolling gait. His father-in-law said, “No man should be alone on such a day as this. How goes things?”

“The midwife and Mama Marie, they said nothing except to go away.” For once Henri's famous smile failed him. “I came here to be away from Louise's moans. They tore at my heart.”

“Aye, I still have nightmares of hearing my Marie the night before Louise was born. The women, they say it is forgotten as soon as the baby is laid upon them, but not I.” Jacques pointed at Henri's hands. “What is that you hold?”

“Louise's Bible. Come, sit here with me in the sunshine.”

Jacques eased himself slowly down onto the bench beside Henri. He had suffered through a long and lingering illness that winter, one which even now was not yet gone. The wasting cough was finally easing, but the slow recovery had cost him much in energy and wellbeing. Jacques remained a burly man, but his age was showing. “She has you reading it now as well?”

“I tell you, Papa Jacques, it is my greatest source of strength.”

Jacques Belleveau wheezed a laugh. “Of all the men in all the world, you are the last I would have thought needed more strength than you already have.”

“I am not even sure I understand well enough to say the words. But one thing I do know.” It felt good to talk, to have something weighty enough to draw his mind away from all that was going on inside their little farm home. “There are things which I cannot face alone. I have feared these things all my life long. Ever since the day you found me in the fields, I have been terrified of … of defeat.” He grimaced an apology at the older man. “I am sorry. I do not say these things well.”

“On the contrary.” Jacques Belleveau crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the barn. “You say them as clearly as I have ever heard.”

“The nights my wife and I study the Word together, I find myself looking at what I have always run away from. And I know it is because I am strengthened by something which is not my own. My heart and my mind, they can look into the terrors of my night, and they are at peace.”

Jacques stared out over the strengthening day. From the barn behind him came the sound of cattle shifting into wakefulness, wanting to be milked and fed. “Always before I have thought these ideas to be the realm of the vicar.”

“I as well. But now”—in the air before him, Henri fashioned a thought with his hands—“now I feel as though some of the words I read were written for my heart alone. Some nights I talk over a passage from the Book with Louise, and I feel as though the wisdom I have never known has been laid open there before me, the mysteries revealed.”

Jacques Belleveau stared out toward the horizon a long moment, his breath rasping hard in the quiet air. Finally he said, “Perhaps my wife was right in what she said.”

Before Henri could ask what he meant by those words, another set of footsteps hurried around the barn. “Henri!”

“Here! I am here!” When he saw it was his mother-in-law, the air became trapped in his chest such that he could scarcely manage, “Louise, is she …”

“Louise is fine.” Marie Belleveau gave a flushed and weary smile. “You may come and meet your daughter now.”

Andrew always looked forward to the annual spring journey to Annapolis Royal. The first ships over from England arrived with papers and journals less than four months old. Along with the news, he replenished both his supplies and his troops, arguing with all the other garrison commandants for whatever able-bodied soldiers had been transported over to Acadia from England. He reviewed the winter with his fellow officers and traded information. Most of all, there was the sense of liberation after winter's confines.

But this year there was a special significance to the journey. He breathed the fresh sea air, different here on the Bay of Fundy, more heavily laced with salt and distant climes. The wind was stronger, the town less sheltered than around their beloved Cobequid Bay. Annapolis Royal itself had a solid, patrician air, as it well should. Only Halifax was a larger establishment, and it still held to the raw-plank odor of a brand-new city. In this older town many of the houses were built of fine Acadian stone, solid as the seaside cliffs. The fort was a massive affair as well, with great towers supporting thirty-pound cannons aimed both seaward and inland toward the forests. The sea-born wind snapped countless flags and pennants, and everywhere there was the sound of drilling soldiers and shouted orders and troops on parade.

Yet not even the signs of renewed military preparedness could displace Andrew's deep-seated joy. He entered shop after shop, working down the almost endless list Catherine had given him. Even as he had mounted his horse for the departure from Edward, she had continued to add more items. And he could refuse her nothing, not when she had stood there in the doorway of their house holding little Elspeth.

Elspeth Anne Harrow was named after Catherine's mother, a decision that had brought tears even to stern John Price's eyes. Andrew carried the sound of that little child and the joy of her gaze with him through the entire four-day journey. He smiled as he watched the shop mistress measure out a yard of blue silk ribbon.

“Ah, look here, now. The gallant captain must see this already dressing the lovely lady's hair,” the matronly shopkeeper said with a soft Scottish burr.

“Indeed I do. Her hair and gown both. You're sure this is the finest ribbon you have?”

“The finest this side of London, good sir.” She lowered her eyelashes. “And you'll be hearing that again when your lady-friend lays eyes on it, you mark my words.”

“I doubt that seriously, ma'am. Seeing as how the lady who has captured my heart is scarcely six weeks old.”

“Oh, for your daughter now, is it? And sure it must be your firstborn, seeing the light there in your eyes.”

“It is indeed. The ribbon is for her christening gown.”

“And a lovely day that will be. Where would you be coming from, then?”

“Fort Edward.”

“Hard it must be, having to journey so far away from the little one.”

“Yes. And from her mother.”

“Gallant, handsome, an officer, and a good husband as well.” The shopkeeper shook her head as she rolled the ribbon and tied it with string. “Where would you be when my daughter was looking to wed?”

Andrew paid for the merchandise, returned to his heavily laden horse, mounted, and rode up toward the fort. He entered the main gates and saluted the sentry just as the clock struck three, the time of his appointment.

It was hard to confine his joy and his impatience to return home, now that his errands were completed. But the brisk tension within the fort left little room for the homey emotions which came most naturally these days. Andrew walked to where his sergeant major was surveying the final wagonload. “That the lot?” he queried.

“It is, sir. Only there's been a certain bushy-tailed captain out here looking for you, must be five times now.”

“Stevenage is here?” Andrew felt a chill in his gut. “I thought the man was stationed in Halifax.”

“Must have traveled over with the general,” the sergeant major said, then looked over Andrew's shoulder and stiffened in a salute. “Ten-shun!”

“Ah, Harrow, back from your little gallivanting I see. Good. Come along, then. The general would have a word with you.”

Andrew stifled the sudden rush of irritation, his usual reaction to Captain Randolf Stevenage. He did not bother with small talk, merely followed the man back to the commandant's quarters. Once through the door, Stevenage announced loudly, “I managed to locate Harrow for you, sir.”

“Good, good. Afternoon, Harrow.”

“General.” Andrew snapped off a sharp salute. When it was returned he went into parade-ground rest. The general was seated behind the fort commandant's desk, a red greatcoat tossed over the back of a nearby chair, medals gleaming in the light. Andrew had always liked the man. “I was not expecting to find you here, sir. Otherwise—”