The Sacred Shore (24 page)

Nicole drew the child in close to her chest, seeking to draw comfort from the little body. Not only did she feel as though the answer was hidden, she felt she was unworthy to even search. She was homeless, rootless, without haven or purpose, drifting upon an endless gray sea.

With the ease that came from sorrow and exhaustion, Nicole found herself drifting away on a second ocean—that of memories. This time the image seemed clearer than the surrounding gray vista. It was a vision from their time upon the road. Another time when the journey had seemed endless. Nicole rocked the baby and wondered how she had ever forgotten how measureless that trek had seemed. She stood there upon the rocking deck and gave herself over to the wash of remembrances.

The clan's trek from Carolina to Louisiana had taken almost a year, for they had stopped three times to work and earn enough money to keep going. The journey had scarred her middle brother the hardest, and even two years after they had arrived and founded their village and begun building their homes, still he awoke the family with his nightmares. When asked by her father about these, the boy had cried that he could still remember the day they had passed through a village in Georgia that had greeted them with stones, calling them scum and gypsies and thieves. Perhaps that's all they were, the boy wept. Welcomed nowhere, never to know a home of their own.

Henri had been silent for a long time that day, his silence drawing Nicole from the cooking fire to where she could see them clearly. Finally Henri had stood and walked over to the nearest tree and pulled down a great fistful of Spanish moss. He had come back over and seated himself by his son and said, “Do you see this? It is trash, is it not? It grows everywhere, covering this good tree and so many others throughout this land. We pay it no attention whatsoever. And yet even this has purpose. Many purposes. We burn it to make the smoke to keep away the insects. We mix it with mud to make the mortar to build our houses. We knot it into ropes to bind our boats to the shore.”

Henri had shaken the gray lichen and said, “If the Lord our God can take something so common as this and give it such meaning, such a
vitalpurpose
, just stop and think what He must have in store for you, my son. What
grand
purposes. What
glorious
meanings.”

Nicole paced the deck, reflecting upon her father's love and strength and words. She wondered what purpose God might have for her own life.

Perhaps it was a sudden jolt from a passing wave, perhaps a blast of wind. Whatever the reason, it seemed as though a hand reached down from the gray sky above and touched her very soul. The words appeared in her mind, fully formed and as clear as if they had been shouted in her face.
Ask God
.

So simple, yet so challenging. It meant bowing her head and acknowledging that God did indeed exist. Not only that, it meant accepting that she
needed Him
. That she could not find her way on her own. That the Lord knew more than she did, had answers she could not find by herself. It meant learning to trust Him. Completely.

Nicole wiped her face, clearing away more than just the rain. She noted that Guy had moved over close to his wife and was holding her. By the way their heads were bent, almost touching, she knew they were praying. They were doing much of that recently, as though finding in this simple gesture the only source of strength that mattered in this cold and mysterious world. Hesitantly she walked toward them. They would not mind if she joined them. No, surely not.

Chapter 27

The gray sky had descended until the sea was the color of slate and utterly without motion. Even the ship's sails were gray, hanging limp and empty of wind. Every rope, every surface, every mast and sail and hat and cloak dripped rain.

Charles had been trapped on board the ship within this storm-less rain for two days. Two days of knowing his goal moved further and further from his reach. Charles's present impatience, two days of constant frustration and alarm, was precipitated by what he had learned in his second meeting with the vicar.

Charles closed his eyes to the fog and the shadowy day, recalling his second visit with Pastor Collins. The day after that first encounter, Charles had received word that the ship was ready to sail. He had returned to the seminary to thank the old man and say farewell. The professor had held on to his hand for a very long time and then finally added, “Would it be proper of me to ask what is the purpose of your journey?”

Charles had found himself tempted to respond simply that he was returning to his brother's village. Yet the closeness he had felt to the old man during his first visit and the power of the reverend's words remained with him still. “It is all rather complicated,” he said tentatively.

“Ah.” Again there was the patient nodding, the quiet invitation to continue.

So Charles had told him briefly what lay behind his quest. As he spoke, the reverend's eyes grew rounder and wider. Finally Charles could not help but declare, “You seem surprised, sir.”

“Indeed, surprised is the correct word. Amazed, in fact.” He tugged upon his beard, then sighed, “My new friend, you must prepare yourself for what I am about to tell you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Since your first visit I have wondered if I should tell you about a previous ‘chance encounter' that related directly to your brother Andrew. But what you have told me now indicates that it also relates directly to you.” Pastor Collins' chest swelled with a great breath, then he announced, “She was here.”

“Who?”

“Nicole. She was here.”

The realization of what the pastor was telling him had struck Charles with the force of a lightning bolt. He leaped to his feet, toppling his chair over with a clatter. “You're not saying that you have seen Nicole—Andrew and Catherine's daughter—”

“In this very mission,” Samuel Collins affirmed.

“It can't be!” His mouth worked in time to his panting chest.

“Elspeth was her name originally, yes? Strange that I would recall this after all these years.” Samuel Collins rose to his feet, moved around Charles, lifted the chair, and set it back in place. “Please, sit down.”

But Charles was no longer listening. His thoughts had tumbled forward, confused and mocking, over and over in his mind. His niece. Here. So close. Yet so far. He had been right in the city, holed up in a dismal inn, marking time till the ship was ready by accepting social engagements in which he had no interest whatsoever. “She has left, you say?”

“Just two days ago. She is truly a lovely girl. Andrew and Catherine will be so thankful to have her home again. Imagine. After all these years. A miracle. That's what it is. A miracle.” He had smiled at the memory. “She stayed with us over a week, she and her uncle's family. They all arrived on a vessel that had lost its mast in a storm.” Pastor Collins cocked his head to one side. “Why, Charles, you've gone pale as a ghost.”

In a voice so hoarse he scarcely recognized it as his own, Charles groaned out, “She said she was French.”

Samuel Collins registered surprise of his own. “You mean to tell me you have
met
her?”

Charles's legs finally gave way, and the chair kept him from sprawling on the floor. “That was my vessel. We were all together for three weeks. I never …”

“She did not say who she was?”

“Not a word.” Charles struggled to make sense of it all. “You are certain we are speaking of the same young lady? Tall, willowy yet strong—”

“Hair the color of autumn's foliage, eyes like a sunlit summer meadow. An independent lass who radiates strength and determination.” The smile flickered upon the pastor's lips. “I shall miss her. She had a seeker's heart and a teacher's mind. Such a combination. She reminds me of her father.”

Charles's mind reeled from what he had heard. He had missed his niece by a hair. Had unknowingly shared a ship with her for days. What incredible irony. Was God playing tricks on him? Was He mocking the venture that to Charles was so important? Or did He have something far more important ahead than simply allowing Charles to find an heir?

He realized the pastor was watching and waiting. The only response Charles could think of was, “Sir, I am at a loss.”

“Not altogether a bad thing,” Samuel Collins murmured, then spoke as though he were able to read Charles's thoughts. “Sometimes the greatest challenge to finding the right answer is learning to ask the correct question. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I … I am not … yes, perhaps.”

“Good. So what you might want to ask yourself is, Why would God bring you together and yet keep you apart?” The pastor's gaze seemed to reach across the distance separating them, illuminating the deepest recesses of Charles's heart. “Could it be that the Lord has something else in mind for you than your earthly goals? And if so, what do you need to do to discover His purpose?”

Somewhere overhead the chapel bell rang, and the vicar moved forward. “I fear I must go before they come looking for me. A meeting.” He offered Charles his hand. “Know you shall journey onward with my prayers in attendance.”

Charles accepted the hand and the clear smile and the illuminated gaze, yet could not find any words to say in reply.

The vicar had seemed pleased with his reaction. “I wish you well, sir. And success with
all
your quests.”

As Charles stood upon the rain-washed deck, he envisioned the vessel carrying Elspeth catching the wind and flying away to places he could never find. It did not help to know she was headed for Halifax and her family. What if she became lost upon the way? What if her ship went down with all hands? What if she became ill, or ran afoul of brigands, or … Charles resisted the urge to beat his fists on the rail and roar out his frustration.

All that time, through that awful storm, the journey, the forced docking in Boston, Elspeth had been with him. He could not believe it when the vicar had told him, and could not believe it still. Even if it were true, still it was impossible. What strange fate had placed them so close together and yet held them apart? Why was he, the eighth earl of Sutton, made a mockery before men, before God?

Charles stared sightlessly over the sea. His hat gathered the mist and dripped rain like a triangular funnel. He watched the front peak drip steadily, knowing within his heart that all of his strivings and all of his battles and all his acrid hunger had done nothing, nothing at all, save bring him to the point where he was forced to admit his own helplessness. Trapped within a storm that refused to blow, blinded by mist so thick he could not even see the ship's other side, much less his destination. Lost from the world and all that had mattered so much, left with no choice but to accept that alone he was nothing and going nowhere at all.

Yes, what reason did God have
not
to mock him?

Charles had been touched by the vicar in a strange and stirring way, but he had not yet sought out the Scripture as he had then promised himself. There was, deep within his being, a hesitancy. A pride that could not allow him to acknowledge the need of a God. But he could not escape the truth he was seeing presented in the lives, in the words, of people he had recently encountered.

He recalled the struggle his brother Andrew had known that day in the pulpit, and the moment of transformation he had beheld. It had emphasized his own empty lack. All of that had been repeated anew within the vicar's high-ceilinged chambers. If the journey had taught Charles anything, it was how to be honest with himself.

So why? Why was he holding back? What had he to lose, he who was becoming more and more conscious of his own inner emptiness, his powerlessness? What might he gain if he could only let go?

Charles stood at the railing, stared at the enveloping mist, and knew exactly what the answer was. He was still insisting upon doing it on his own, accomplishing his goals by sheer force of will.

He gripped the railing with both hands and lowered his head until the hat's front corner poured a stream of water upon his wrists. He closed his eyes and struggled through the inner storm of thoughts and emotions to find words, just a few, that might be directed beyond himself.
Help me, Lord God
. He stopped then, as though drawn up short by a soundless whisper. Then he went on, and this time the words seemed to come easier and more clearly.
Help me to know you. Help me to understand who I am and why you should want to draw me near. Help me to know what you want me to do
.

He raised his head and opened his eyes. It was not much, as prayers went. But it would have to do. He turned from the railing, feeling only a sense of confusion over why he had refused for so long to do something that had come so easily, at least once he had started.

Chilled and drenched, Charles walked toward the stairway leading to his quarters. He would need to change before joining the captain for dinner. As he reached the steps, it seemed to him that a faint hand reached under his hat and stroked his cheek. He stopped and turned back. From somewhere in the locked quarters of his mind, there sprang up a vague memory of his mother singing to him a nursery rhyme about the touch of an angel's wing.