The Meeting Place (5 page)

“I love your daughter, and I have asked her to bind our futures together, to become one until—until the end of time.” His stumble on the last phrase was rewarded with a murmur of encouragement from everyone at the table. Henri took another breath and finished with the customary petition, “I ask the blessing of Louise's father, our chief elder, and of all the clan.”

Jacques Belleveau rose and drew his daughter up with him. The arm which settled around her held a strength so familiar and comforting that more tears filled her eyes. Jacques boomed, “Daughter, do you love this man?”

She wanted simply to nod, keep her face lowered, and hide her tears from view. Yet if Henri had the strength to endure the public spectacle, so too did she. When she raised her face, she found her mother staring up at her, and once again Louise recalled earlier difficult times and her mother's newly offered peace. Louise took a long breath and said the words she had heard said by women of her clan for as long as she could remember, “He is the one for me and for my life.”

“Then you both have my blessings.” Jacques Belleveau reached out another arm in invitation to Henri, combining the traditional benedictions on this union from his roles as father and clan elder.

The young man stumbled as he stepped over the bench and was steadied by a grinning uncle. When Henri joined them, Jacques intoned the words, “May you join as one. May your roots dig deep into this fine land, may your children stretch out across the years and the fields and the time beyond time.”

Louise watched Jacques embrace the shorter Henri with fierce pride, knowing he had always had a special place in his heart for this young man. His voice boomed as he allowed his joy to shine with the words and the sun and the day. “May the Lord shine His light upon you. And may you be blessed with many sons!”

The laughter and the cheering died gradually away as Marie Belleveau rose to her feet. Even for Louise, who knew her mother as well as anyone, it was hard to predict what the woman would say.

Marie clasped her hands across her fine apron and raised her head so that the bonnet no longer masked the light in her eyes. She did not look at Louise, but rather at Henri. And she said in a voice meant for the entire gathering, “Henri Robichaud, I have known you your entire life and watched you grow from a tragedy that would have crippled most men. I have watched you become a man who is a mark of pride for the parents who are no more.” She stopped then and turned to her daughter with eyes that sparkled dark and calm. But her words remained for the man and for the table. “It will give me great joy to invite you into our clan and our home. When you hear me call you son, know it is a word I use with pride.”

The cheer that rose was one of unbridled joy, for Marie was a woman known more for her caustic tongue than words of praise. Louise felt her fiancée grasp her hand and draw her around the table to where they were both embraced by Marie Belleveau. Louise was bumped and jostled as people made room for them to sit together at the table. She heard a call for music and another call for a toast, and then listened as the pipes and fiddle and accordion started off on a merry tune.

All the while Louise wondered how it was that her mother had known all along what the day was to hold.

Henri's strong hand squeezed her own, and she raised her gaze to meet his. His voice low, he asked, “Did I do it well?”

“You did it perfectly,” she said, glad for the music to mask their words. “I am very proud of you.”

“You know I am not one for speaking before others.”

“It makes what you did even nicer.”

He grinned his special smile, the one that filled his eyes with that passion for life and for her that stirred her soul. He started to say something else, but hands reached for Henri's shoulders, drawing him up and around to accept congratulations.

Louise smiled in response to the well-wishing she scarcely heard. Then her attention was caught by the scene down below their orchard and their celebration. The general's ship sat in the middle of Cobequid Bay, blocking the waters with quiet menace. Despite the joyful music and her friends gathered here on this brilliant day, Louise felt a shiver run through her frame. It seemed as though the ship was a warning lurking upon the outer edges of her day.

Chapter 3

Tinny strains of music floated through Catherine's window as she prepared her father's evening meal. It was one of the many chores that defined her day. Only now the tasks held a special poignancy, because it was only three weeks until she would no longer be the one to add comfort and order to her father's world.

Though it was the middle of June, the breeze drifting through her window carried a hint of chill. Still she did not close the shutters, preferring instead to tighten the shawl about her shoulders. The air held the fragrant spices of blooming trees and the music of songbirds. The sun descended toward the western hills, turning the Cobequid waters to gold. Catherine could just make out the general's ship, a somber shadow cut from the waters and the light. Even in the safety of her home, she was conscious of the threat it represented, resting there in the calm waters of her homeland. She shook her head and went to stoke the fire. Her father would soon be home.

The door creaked back on its leather hinges. “Daughter?”

“Good evening, Papa.” Catherine used the towel to wipe the flour from her hands. “How was your day?”

“Passable. Fair and passable.” He stopped in the alcove and used the metal staff to draw off his muddy boots. He watched as she picked up his house slippers from beside the fire and brought them over. “I saw your young man at dockside. He was on his way out to the general's vessel.”

Catherine's face flushed at the mention of Andrew, but she kept her poise as she extended her hand to her father. “Here you are.”

As he fitted on the fur-lined slippers, her gaze lifted to glance out the open front door. The ship filled the waters and the evening with a brooding menace. “I won't be sorry to see the last of that,” she murmured.

“Eh?” John Price straightened and followed her gaze. “Strange for you to say such a thing, daughter. Especially as the general has offered to convey his commendation of your marriage to Andrew's family in England.”

“I can't help how I feel.” She sighed as she wiped her clean hands on her apron and walked back to the kitchen. “Did Andrew say how long he would be?”

“The lad will be there as long as the general requires his presence.” John Price limped with a heavy tread across the raw planked flooring. “General Whetlock is under direct orders from Governor Lawrence. That he would send for Andrew at all can only be good for the lad's career.”

“I wish the general and his ship were gone.” Catherine regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Her father could turn hot and sharp at the drop of what he considered a single improper comment. He was a good father but stern, and his anger was never too far from the surface. It was said about the garrison that John Price excelled at his work precisely because of these qualities. He could make the most recalcitrant drover move lively and could squeeze the truth from a stone.

But today he awkwardly shuffled to the fireplace and stood looking down at the fire. The old war wound had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other, causing him to rock back and forth as he walked. John Price said to the flames, “Your mother did not like the ships either.”

Catherine's hands stilled over her work. She could not recall the last time he had spoken of her mother.

“She used to call them harbingers of doom,” John Price continued. The hearthstones glowed ruddy and bright, and the light reflected upon her father's features, turning his features old and sad. “She said that whenever they appeared they trailed the flag of war behind.”

Catherine forced herself to move, to reach for a mug from the wall hook and pour a cup of steaming cider. She walked over and said softly, “Here, Father. You must be parched.”

“Thank you, daughter.” He lifted the pewter mug to his lips without raising his gaze from the fire. When he had sipped the hot brew, he went on, “It will be a lonely house when you have gone.”

She tried for a cheerful tone. “I shall only be just down the lane. You know Andrew has taken hold of the old Elton place.” Her laugh sounded strained to her own ears. “That should keep the parish carpenters busy for years to come.”

“Yes.” He drained the mug and handed it back, his eyes rising to fasten upon her face. “You cannot imagine how much you have come to resemble your mother.”

“I wish I had known her.”

“No more than I do, child. She was the finest woman God ever made. She …” The gaze dropped back, as though memories were too heavy to keep aloft. “When the fever took her the second year after you were born, I thought for certain I would never make it alone. You were so tiny and there was so much I didn't know.”

“You did a good job, a fine job. The best anyone could have.”

As though John Price had not even heard his daughter's words, he continued, “Thank God for our neighbors. The village wives took turns with you through that first winter. It seemed that none of them would allow us to be on our own. Then the Widow Simmons offered to help out. You remember her, of course.”

“I think so.” She had memories as fragile as winter sunlight of a woman whose face was seamed and ancient. Yet whose eyes had been bright and clear, and whose hands were always open to receive her.

“Mrs. Simmons lived in the room off the back, where your mother and I …” John Price turned and limped over to his chair. He lowered himself into the seat and stared again at the fireplace flames. “She stayed with us until her chest grew foul. I think that was your fifth year. She went and lived with her son after that, until she departed this life the next midwinter.”

He was talking to the fire and not to her, Catherine realized, allowing the memories to rise and drift with the crackling blaze. “Then the rector's wife decided to set up our little school. That was a blessing, I don't mind telling you. You were so excited to be off to school, so eager to go in the mornings I could hardly hold you to tie the sash on your dress.”

Catherine used a swift gesture to clear her eyes. She did not want anything to disturb these recollections. Normally John Price lived as though the past did not exist. Even to her simplest questions as a little girl he had sharply replied that nothing could be gained from dwelling upon what once had been. So she stood, scarcely breathing, quietly wiping her eyes only enough that she could see her father clearly.

“You were handling the broom before your little hands could even reach around the handle. Following the charwoman about the place, copying her motions. Learning to cook from the neighbors. Even the garrison cookhouse woman had told me how you had pestered her with questions until she couldn't remember whether she was coming or going.”

His ruddy features stretched into a sad smile. “The rector's wife liked to tell me how you would energetically take on your lessons, until you were sitting with the children twice your age. Smart, you were. Smart and quick and eager to help your old papa with the housework. I was sorry you had to grow up fast, but there was little I could do about it. Your mother was gone, and I watched you try as hard as you could to take her place, even before you knew exactly what it was you were doing.”

He looked at her then, but Catherine was not sure he was seeing much beyond his own memories. “I hope Andrew realizes just how lucky a man he is, taking you to his home.”

Catherine found enough of her voice to reply, “I think he does.”

He returned his gaze to the fire and the past. “It's a shame your mother will not be there on your wedding day.”

“Thank you, Father.” The words seemed so inadequate, but nothing of their quiet life together had prepared her for this chance to say all she had on her heart and mind. How his gruffly abrupt ways had forced her to work hard, ever hoping for a word of approval. How she had missed the woman she had never known, how her heart had ached for the touch of a mother. How even seeing a villager carrying a child or smiling over a crib had sometimes brought tears to her eyes.

Since the words could not be found, she took refuge in the work that had shaped their life together. She reached into the back of the corner shelf and drew out the last jar of the previous summer's fruit. She used the knife to break the wax seal and announced, “We'll have your favorite dessert tonight, Father. Plum pudding.”

The room behind her was silent for a long time, quiet enough for the sounds of merrymaking to drift over from the distant French village. Finally her father murmured, “Your mother would be very proud of you, Catherine. Very proud indeed.”

She didn't even notice the tear that dripped from her chin into the pudding.

Andrew heard the music rise from the French village as he stood against the ship's railing. He did not care much for ships and the sea. Far too confining, with four hundred and fifty men crammed into a vessel less than two hundred paces long. With the cannonballs well stacked and the smell of gunpowder everywhere, it was impossible to move far from the stench of war on a ship of the line. The burly, tattooed sailors with their long pigtails might be jolly jack-tars and the backbone of the British Empire, but Andrew was far more comfortable ashore. Ships like this always reminded him of his departure from England and all he had left behind forever.