The Meeting Place (3 page)

The ladies were lifted to the deck in what Andrew had called a bosun's chair and piped aboard by two fresh-faced youths, then greeted by the general himself. They were led to the aft stateroom and directed to carefully arranged places about the glittering table. The stateroom and the meal were much grander than Catherine had expected to find on board a ship. The cleanliness of everything surprised her as well. Andrew had said that the general, a friend of his father, would do them proud. But she had never expected to find such a welcome, and in such distinguished surroundings.

Catherine was so overcome that the meal was almost finished and she still had not managed to find her voice. But no one seemed to notice, since most of the talk swirling about the table was of war.

“I take my hat off to you, sir,” the general declared to Catherine's father. “Keeping close watch over this garrison's supplies, locked in a backwater colony with the enemy for neighbors, that is one assignment I would run from. You have your work laid out for you, I daresay.”

“Major Price served in His Majesty's forces for over a decade,” Andrew pointed out.

“Well I know it. The notary of Fort Edward is highly spoken of in Halifax and Annapolis Royal both. The governor is well served to have you, sir. Well served.”

John Price's expression did not change, but Catherine could see the flush on his cheeks and knew he was pleased. “I'd give my good leg for the chance to go back into service, I don't mind telling you, sir.”

“Now, now. Ten years and a wounding you've managed to survive is more than enough service for any man.” The general wore long muttonchop sideburns, which were almost as white as his powdered wig. He was a large man with a booming voice, commanding the table with the ease of one born to rule. “Plus I might add that the service you continue to grant the Crown here and now is valued most highly.”

“You are too kind, General.”

“Not so,” the general argued. “With the storm clouds gathering, there will be honor for all, no matter how they serve.”

Priscilla Stevenage's husband, a broad-faced lieutenant with glittering green eyes, demanded, “Have the latest dispatches reported anything more?”

“Nothing except what any man with his head attached correctly would expect. War is coming, mark my words,” the general said heavily. “The king of France is allying himself with anyone who is willing to put pen to paper. Princes in Spain, dukes of Sicily and Sardinia, even the ruler of the Ottomans, if rumors are to be believed.”

Catherine did her best to ignore the discussion. Talk of war disturbed her greatly, especially when it dealt with the French. She was born and raised in the province of Acadia. This was the name given the land by the original French settlers who had arrived over a hundred years before the English had landed. For as long as Catherine could remember, there had been talk of this war or that, always far away, and always against the French. Yet she had lived under the shadow of Fort Edward all her life, with the French village of Minas so close she could see the rooftops from the fort towers. And there had never been any trouble with her unseen neighbors. Not ever. Though she had never laid eyes on a Frenchman outside the markets of Cobequid Town, she could not call them enemies. Mysterious, yes. Threatening, no.

She cast a glance around the room, taking in the darkened beams and the silver candelabra. The light flickered and danced over the silver and gold plating. The general's table was a broad slab of aged oak, polished with beeswax so she could see her reflection in its surface. Great iron hooks in each corner revealed how the table was raised and latched to the cabin's ceiling when not in use.

Her reflection twinkled back at her from a score of surfaces. The center of the table was lined with gold and jeweled ornaments, all of them polished until they shone like perfect mirrors.

Catherine wondered if it was as evident to the dinner guests as it was to her that she was a provincial lass. She had sewn her dress herself, using drawings from an English journal and a bolt of the finest material brought last season from England. She wore it off the shoulder as the magazine had indicated but felt a bit uncomfortable with this, even though the June night still held to a bit of chill. She resisted the urge to reach up and lift the ruffles. Instead she touched her burnished brown curls and drew them forward over her shoulders. Her hair was her finest feature, she felt. That and her amber eyes, which were almost the identical color.

But the talk remained upon battles past and those yet to come. Priscilla Stevenage, the other woman at the table, sat across from her husband and offered supporting comments whenever he spoke up—which was rather often. Catherine found the voice of Lieutenant Randolf Stevenage to be particularly grating. A weak chin and flaccid features seemed an ironic contrast to his loud and aggressive manner. Catherine and Andrew exchanged glances when Stevenage had made a particularly belligerent comment. She knew what Andrew's feelings were about the French.

But the others at the table seemed utterly at ease with savagery and conflict. Suddenly the gold and silver gracing the table lost its glitter, and Catherine saw it for what it was—booty from previous battles. Prizes won at the cost of blood and suffering and fear and death. A flash of shivering premonition seemed to hold a trace of her own future.

Andrew leaned forward and murmured, “Are you cold, Miss Catherine?”

“No, I'm fine.” She managed a smile and took strength from his concern. He was such a good man. Other women might have pursued him for his title and his dashing looks, the raven black hair and eyes the color of a winter sky. But she saw in his care and understanding all the other qualities which she loved most and which she vowed to nurture all her life long. The gentle nature he strived to hide from the world, the intelligence and the questing spirit, these were prizes far richer than all the gold in all the ships in all the world. Her smile rose to fill her gaze, giving to him all she could not put into words. Not there.

The general's voice boomed from the table's far end. “Miss Price, I fear we have bored you with all our talk of conflict.”

“Not at all, sir.” She hoped her sudden flush was hidden by the candlelight. “I am honored to be included among your distinguished company tonight.”

The general smiled for the first time that evening. “A proper lady, with manners of one highborn. I shall report as much to Lord Harrow. Have you ever met the earl?”

“Alas, sir, I have never been to England.”

“That is England's loss, my dear. One soon to be remedied, I hope.”

To Catherine's relief, the table's attention was drawn away from her by the arrival of dessert. The general's two servants brought in steaming platters of bread-and-butter pudding, spiced with cinnamon and other scents of distant lands. They wore their hair in long tarred pigtails and had gold earrings. The man who served Catherine had a most remarkable design upon the back of his right hand. Inked into the very skin, a serpent coiled up his wrist and disappeared into his uniform's starched sleeve. As he put down the plate in front of Catherine, the serpent seemed to writhe and hiss at her. Another shiver coursed through her.

The general's attention returned to her after the servants had bowed themselves out. “What manner of activities keep you occupied, Miss Price?”

Despite the battery of gazes directed at her from every place around the table, Catherine was able to keep her voice even. “I keep my father's house, sir. My mother died when I was very young.”

“She also helps with my records,” John Price added, pride coloring his tone. “A finer hand with a pen and figures you will never find.”

“A lady of talent and good sense.” The general gave a ponderous nod and turned to Andrew. “I hear you are to be congratulated, young sir.”

“Your words are perhaps a bit early, General, but I thank you nonetheless.” Andrew reached across to clasp Catherine's hand. “I have indeed asked for Miss Price's hand in marriage, and I am happy to say that she has accepted, and her father has kindly granted his approval.”

A chorus of murmurs rose from about the table. The general banged his knife loudly upon the surface. He rose to his feet and proclaimed, “Our ship is honored to be graced with your presence and your news. I am sure my officers will join with me in wishing you both a long and happy life together.”

Chairs and benches and boots scraped as the men rose and joined with the general in saluting the pair. Only Priscilla Stevenage remained seated across from Catherine, her haughty stare and manner distancing herself from any well-wishing.

Catherine lowered her gaze in embarrassment at all the attention. This brought her again face-to-face with her reflection on the table, and for some reason this disturbed her even more than the other woman's cold gaze.

Chapter 2

Louise Belleveau stood before the small pier glass in her bedroom and brushed her hair with forceful strokes. The dark hair beneath her brush crackled and sparked, as though catching her nervous fear. Henri Robichaud had been delaying for almost a month, arguing that they must wait for the proper moment. Something this important, he repeatedly told her, something which would change the course of their lives forever, needed the right time. But with everything that was happening, the perfect time might never come. Today would have to do. Henri must tell her family. She would insist on it.

She put her brush down, but her hair continued to fly at the edges in the dry air. The loose strands accentuated the anxiety reflecting back at her from the glass. Impatiently Louise gathered the long hair and contained it tightly in her fist. Though Henri preferred her to wear it free, shimmering and flowing with each movement of her head, today she would wear it modestly tied back in a ribbon. There was so much else to worry about now, she could not be concerned about her hair.

She lifted a blue ribbon, but it seemed too plain, so she added to it a yellow and a white. She had done this so often she did not even need to watch her fingers as she braided the three ribbons together and then lifted her arms to tie them into place at the back of her neck. Her dress was homespun, as was almost every garment worn by men and women alike in Minas. The English blockade had halted almost all trade with French ships for three long years, and while the markets of Cobequid and Annapolis Royal would accept some French-grown foods and hand-crafted goods, there were far more pressing needs for their meager store of silver shillings than English cloth—not that anyone in the village would choose to wear anything British during the current siege.

Louise plucked at the starched white blouse which emerged from the neck and shoulder straps of her dress, lining up the blue-and-golden floral pattern of its apron. This garment was the finest she had ever made, the homespun tightly woven from threads as close in size and weight as she and her mother could manage, then dyed a lovely sky blue. The buttons up the front were carved by her brother from elk horn, and the silver pin by her lapel had been brought over from the old country by her great-great-grandmother. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin against the uncertainties of this day and the future. She looked almost as nice as any of the English ladies she had seen at market. But no such thought could halt a trickle of fear from racing down her spine.

Her gaze remained locked upon her own face, especially her eyes. She should be happy this day. A lifelong dream was soon to come true, one she knew would please her parents. But she did not see happiness reflected in her face. Only the worry, the nagging unrest over what might lay ahead.

Perhaps this was normal. Perhaps every woman faced distressing thoughts at such a time as this. Perhaps it was simply part of growing up, to feel concerns about Henri, about the day, about the future. But Louise had always envisioned this day holding laughter and celebration and perhaps even a fiddler and dancing.

Still, despite Henri's hesitations and her own worries, she knew they already had waited too long to break the news. Louise turned from her bureau, straightened her shoulders, and started for the door. Today was the day, no matter what.

Their home was built in the manner of French farmhouses in the province of Brittany, from where her ancestors had come over a century ago. The roof was high and steep and fell in protective shelving over the main house. The windows were small and shuttered, meant to allow in light yet guard from winter winds. A sturdy, spacious home, it was older than her father and so big that Louise had a room all to herself up under the eaves. She unlatched the door and started slowly down the stairs, wondering how she could ever think of living in any other home than this.

“Finally!” Her mother bustled from the kitchen, her exclamation in the French tongue sounding sharp in the midst of her busyness. “So, you decide to grace us with your company, after everyone else has worked their fingers to the bone. What kind of daughter is this?”

Louise's eyes moved from the flushed face of her mother to check the expressions of her two cousins and her aunt, who followed closely behind the matronly figure. Their faces betrayed nothing of their feelings.

“I was up before dawn making preparations for the meal,” Louise replied, her voice so low her mother did not hear. The words were intended for the cousins. “I waited until it was almost too late for my bath.”

The aunt's expression softened into a smile as she passed and murmured, “You are a good daughter, my dear. All the village says so, and your mother knows it well.”

The words were a gift, and they did much to ease the shadows Louise had carried downstairs with her. She moved into the kitchen and picked up the final two bowls from the long central table. As she moved toward the door, a familiar figure stepped up. “Here, let me take one of those.”

“I can manage.” Her tone was more abrupt than she meant, and for an instant she heard echoes of her own mother. She glanced at the man she had loved since childhood and thankfully found only his familiar smile. “Oh, Henri. I'm so worried.”