The Meeting Place (6 page)

“Ah, Harrow. Summoned yet again?”

Andrew stifled a groan and turned a blank face toward the approaching officer. Lieutenant Randolf Stevenage had long considered Andrew a rival, and not just over his new wife's affections. Stevenage's father, a regimental commandant, had granted his son officer status through the ancient right of ancestral assignment. Stevenage held a resentment bordering on loathing for the more capable younger man whose position had been bestowed on merit.

Andrew calmly replied, “The general sent for me, yes.”

Randolf Stevenage leaned his bulk against the railing. A year of eating at the governor's table in Halifax had further padded his already substantial form. “Come tomorrow, you'll be using a mite more respect when you address me. I've been promoted to captain.”

Andrew was far from surprised. Stevenage's ambitions were matched only by those of his new wife, Priscilla. Though Halifax was four days' hard ride from Fort Edward, and the Stevenages had been wed for less than a year, already the rumors of greed for power were filtering back. “Permit me to offer my congratulations.”

“Kind of you.” He smirked out over the waters. “Yes, the governor decided his new adjutant required a bit more authority behind his orders.”

“So you're to remain stationed in Halifax?”

“Indeed. There's trouble afoot, and the governor wanted the best man possible for the posting.” Randolf Stevenage squinted out to where music rose in the distance. “What is that confounded racket?”

“It sounds like a celebration of some sort. It appears to be coming from the village of Minas.”

“Ah, of course. Those Frenchies will dance at the drop of a hat.” He turned his back to the music and the peaceful scene. “Speaking of celebrations, that's quite an attractive little lass you've found for yourself.”

Andrew could trust himself only with “Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. Not at all. Astonishing how such a rose could grow from these muddy colonial climes. But there you are. No doubt you will manage to train her in time.” Stevenage stared at Andrew's face for a moment, and a note of satisfaction crept into his voice. “Of course, these colonials can be such a stubborn lot. But you've had years of training menials, haven't you? No doubt you're up to the task.”

Andrew was saved from checking a superior officer by the general's booming voice. “That will do, Stevenage.”

The heavy man forced his girth off the railing. “Sorry, sir. Didn't hear your approach.”

“No. So I noticed.” The general's stony gaze did not waver. “For your information, I found Harrow's fiancée to be a most remarkable young lady. It bodes well for the new acting commandant of Fort Edward to have shown such discrimination in his choice of a mate.”

“Yes … that is—I beg your pardon, did you say—?”

“Yes, I said ‘commandant.' Ah, the governor neglected to mention that, as you were not party to that discussion, were you? No.” The general swiveled his gaze like a pair of gray gun barrels toward Andrew. “Word of your work as acting commandant found its way back to Halifax. I am happy to report that the governor feels, and I quite agree, that you should be granted a further nine months to test your mettle. Of course you will be granted the rank of captain, subject to your successful completion of these new duties. Of which I have no doubt.”

General Whetlock's cold gaze returned to Randolf Stevenage. “Naturally, you would like to be the first to congratulate your fellow officer.”

Stevenage forced the word through a constricted throat. “Congratulations.”

Andrew could not fully hide his elation at the news. “Thank you.”

“Now then, Stevenage. Be so good as to allow me to have a private word with Harrow here.” The general grasped Andrew's arm and led him up to the quarterdeck, the private domain of every ship's commander. When they stood by the higher railing, the older man said in a conversational tone, “This area strikes me as holding a strong inclination to frigid storms. Even here in June I smell the coming snow, if you catch my meaning. Tell me, young Harrow. What is it like here in the twilight of winter?”

“Cold, sir.” Andrew was truly grateful for the general's gift of a moment to collect himself. “Uncommon cold.”

“That I can well imagine.” An eye that looked to be experienced at judging men fastened upon him. “And yet you choose not only to serve here but make it your home.”

Andrew looked out over the bay a moment. He held his tongue more comfortably this time. The general knew his family, so there was no need to speak of his older brother, the new earl of Sutton. It had been his beloved father who had seen the coming sibling conflict, and when he had grown ill that final time had ordered his younger son to depart for the colonies. The king's law was clear on this point. The splitting of noble estates was expressly forbidden. The land, the house, the vast majority of the family's wealth, all was destined for the elder son's hands.

And still Andrew's jealous brother had considered him a threat.

Andrew's father had done the best he could under the law's constraints. A commission in the King's Own Regiment and a stipend established in his name granted Andrew a career. But Andrew had been banished to the colonies—there was no other word for it—and instructed never to return. Andrew had accepted the edict because it had been his father's final request. “I hope you understand, Andrew,” he had gasped out on his deathbed, “this is for your protection.”

Andrew turned back to the general and replied simply, “This is indeed my home.”

“Yes, well. On to business.” The general turned and started pacing across the holystoned deck. “As you know, Fort Edward is our only bastion between here and Annapolis Royal, four days' hard ride to the southwest.”

The general motioned a torch-bearing sailor to enter the quarterdeck and light the two lanterns. Their glow joined with light from the rising moon to dispel the dusk. “The governor has requested I make this journey up Cobequid Bay to ensure the roads stay well patrolled. Those men you brought in, your new troops. What did you make of them?”

“Raw recruits fresh off the boat from home, sir. English farm boys, most of whom have never handled a musket before.”

“Well, you are expected to whip them into shape, and be swift about it.”

Andrew gave a short nod, but he took the opportunity to voice the doubts that had accompanied him all the way back from Annapolis. “England is four thousand leagues distant, sir. Surely the conflict cannot engulf us here.”

“Can and will, Harrow. Can and will.” The general stomped to the portside railing and stood staring out toward the glimmering lights of Minas, warm and inviting. The sound of cheerful music drifted over the water. But the general's tone remained cold and battle hard. “The trouble may not reach us this year. Perhaps not even next. But it is coming, you mark my words. It is most certainly coming.”

Chapter 4

Catherine's fingers tugged gently at the strings of her bonnet. She wished she could push it back onto her shoulders and let the slight breeze blow through her hair and cool her flushed face. But she feared being seen, even on this remote trail. Some patrolling British soldiers would be scandalized to see a young woman out walking without proper head covering.

Though it was a warm day, that was not the only reason the blood raced through her veins and flushed her cheeks. Tomorrow—tomorrow was her wedding day. It was finally arriving, close enough now for her to feel the long wait at last coming to an end. She really was to become the wife of Lieutenant Andrew Harrow. Her cherished cedar chest, filled with bed linens and kitchen stock, was at the very moment being delivered to their recently acquired quarters. Her personal belongings would accompany her after tomorrow's ceremony.

Yet more than impatient agitation had driven her from the confines of her father's house. On a recent market trip with her father she had spotted a secluded meadow, west and south of town and two ridges higher than the village. It had lain well off the trail, hidden almost entirely by the surrounding forest. Through the greenery of branches she had caught glimpses of bright flower patches. Her father had been busy guiding the two-wheeled cart over the rough hillside trail. She had not mentioned her discovery at the time, but had secretly promised herself that soon she would return to explore it on her own.

She had been totally entranced by the secret spot and found herself thinking of it by day and dreaming of it by night. She had not been able to get back to it before now, just a day before her wedding. She hoped there would still be flowers to decorate the chapel, maybe even her veil.

As she climbed, Catherine imagined the changes that took place in the secret meadow with the advancing of each day's hours. The sun rising over the trees and streaming in at high noon, making the entire sheltered world enriched by a golden glow, then fading to the soft, shadowy blue tints of early evening, and then on to a mysterious wonder-world lit by the mellow moon and flickering stars of night. Catherine caught herself hoping that no one else knew of its existence. It had seemed an almost ideal, ethereal place. She longed to claim it as a place she might escape to, even after she was married. She yearned for a haven, one removed from the rumors and ill-tidings which disturbed her happiness.

Catherine's step quickened along with her pulse. Would the meadow really be as magical as she had envisioned? Was it still there? Was it owned by another? She hoped with all her heart that it could be claimed as her own.

She hadn't told her father or even Andrew about her destination. John Price had merely nodded absentminded assent when she had said she was going to gather flowers for her bridal bouquet. She had not divulged that the meadow she sought was a good distance from the little village. She knew he might object to her traveling so far alone. Not that there was any real reason to be concerned. It was rare indeed that the Micmac Indians came so close to the settlement. In her entire lifetime, Indians had not entered the village more than three or four times. Occasionally she saw them fishing the tidal basins, but normally they preferred to hunt and fish farther from the white settlements. Nor had Catherine ever sought association with the French. But neither had she been given any personal reason to fear them. Still, she knew that her father, especially with the renewed war rumors, might hold to an entirely different view.

She couldn't wait to fill her arms with the brilliant colors of meadow flowers. They would not only grace her wedding bouquet but would lift her heart to beauty, giving her an inner strength that she knew she would need to be the wife—and perhaps one day the mother—that she should be.

Her thoughts naturally turned to Andrew, and her cheeks flushed even more deeply. How she loved and admired him. She longed to be all that he thought her to be. She wanted to be a part of his world. To understand his thoughts. To share his deepest feelings. Much of himself he had shared with her. She loved him all the more for it. But when it came to matters of his calling—his duty as a king's soldier—he seemed closed off. Apart from her. When she tried to draw him out in conversation, he seemed reluctant to speak. Women were not to concern themselves with military matters, he had kindly told her on one such occasion. But, she had objected, they were not just military matters, they were matters that would affect each and every member of the small settlement, and more importantly, they would greatly affect the life and safety of her future husband. And as his wife she wished to be a part of every facet of his life.

He had squeezed her hand and smiled. “And so you shall be, my dear,” he had insisted. “You shall pack my provision kit and kiss me good-bye and be waiting with a light in the window for my return.” Though she sensed that was all the information about his chosen career he was willing to divulge, she knew that his eyes had warmed with appreciation at her concern. He had seemed to be proud that his wife was genuinely interested in the affairs of state and how it affected her community as well as the man she was to marry.

Catherine supposed she must be satisfied with the areas of his life that he was presently willing to share. Perhaps in time she would win his complete trust, and he would open the details of his life more freely.

She slowed her steps, feeling a sudden hesitancy. At long last her meadow was to be explored. She was about to step into the meadow from the shadows of the protective forest. She took a deep breath. Would it be as she had imagined?

She swept aside low-lying branches of a willow tree and stepped past, her long cotton skirts pulling at the green of the bushes.
Yes
. The meadow was as beautiful as she had remembered. And no one was about to disturb her solitude.

Surrounded on all sides by towering trees, the glen extended before her like a great outdoor cathedral, canopied by a sweep of glorious sky. Birds flitted across the arch of blue, calling to one another. A large gray squirrel granted Catherine a chirping welcome.

She couldn't help but smile as she moved forward, letting the branch swing back into place like a door closing behind her. She was alone among flowers and birdsong and lazy-drifting clouds high overhead. It was exhilarating. Breathtaking. She sank down on her knees and buried her face in the closest bank of blossoms, breathing deeply of their fragrance. Then she lifted her eyes heavenward and spoke from a full heart. “Thank you.”

The words surprised even herself. She was not accustomed to spontaneous, heartfelt prayer. Her prayers had been learned. Structured. Repeated in a formal litany. But her overflowing heart could no more have stifled her gratitude to God than her hands could have kept from reaching out to the nearest flowers. “I will have the most beautiful bouquet a bride ever carried up the aisle,” she whispered to herself. But she did not hurry to collect the dainty blooms. She wanted time. Time to enjoy the luxury of this world set apart. Time to feel the warmth, the strength, the hope that this new place of peace instilled in her heart. This was exactly what she needed to refresh her soul.