The Sacred Shore (28 page)

He squinted through the bright sunlight beyond the garden gate. No, not one form. Two of them. Standing and looking in to where he sat upon his little bench, his back against the home, surrounded by Catherine's rosebushes and blooming wisteria and birdsong. Andrew sat up straighter, not certain whether he had become trapped in his own afternoon dream. For it seemed as though Anne had suddenly appeared at their gate, but she was not scheduled to return for another two weeks. And she was standing with another young woman, a bit taller than Anne, who seemed familiar, yet remained a mystery because of the sunlight and his dreamy state.

Andrew squinted against the light and the mystery and felt his heart rate surge. It seemed to him that he was staring back through the years, back to a time of memories and fragrant dreams. On this perfect summer afternoon, he was granted the impossible gift of seeing Catherine as she was on the day of their marriage, her shimmering youth and vibrancy. The vision was so powerful he actually heard the village bells peal in celebration. But no, no, it was not the wedding bells he heard, but the bells of their very own chapel, chiming as they did every Saturday afternoon. And this was not an image of the past. No. It was a real person, one who was standing beside his own beloved Anne.

Andrew struggled to find the strength to stand up. His hands moved across the surface of his bench but could not find purchase to push himself erect. And he saw that familiar but unfamiliar face there beside his Anne's shed tears. He wanted to say, “Don't cry, all is well, all is truly well.” But he could not speak. And suddenly he could not see her at all, for his own tears poured out from a heart filled to overflowing. Yet he was not certain of the reason, for his mind seemed unable to form a single coherent thought. He was crying and could not tell why.

Then from the open window behind him came a gasp and a sound like an infant's first cry. There was the crash of broken glass, and a second cry, this one more piercing than the first and coming from the doorway. Andrew turned, and there upon his wife's face he found the answer his mind seemed unable to form for itself. He turned back to the figure cloaked in the afternoon light, and though he could not shape the word, could not name the name, he knew. He knew. With the realization he wondered why he had not known it immediately. Catherine had. He could tell that by the wrenching exclamation of joy, the steps that flew down the pathway.

He finally found the strength to stand, then watched as Anne stepped back. She had been welcomed home by open arms many times, but this was not her moment. This moment belonged to her mother and Elspeth.

Andrew struggled to keep his balance. The whole experience had sent his head to spinning. This day that in his mind he had been sure would never come, but in his heart had yearned for, had arrived. Unexpected. Shockingly. He had dreamed about a day like this, some waking and some sleeping. But always there were first hints, leads, follow-ups, and finally distant contact. Never, never this sudden appearance of their firstborn at the gate. He staggered down the path after his wife.

As Catherine reached the gate, the young woman seemed to hold back, uncertain, hesitant, but at the last possible moment she moved forward, her own arms lifting to welcome the embrace.

By the time Andrew reached them they were locked in each other's arms, swaying gently back and forth. He could hear Catherine's broken sobs. “My daughter. My little baby.” All the sorrow and loss and pain of the many years seemed to be captured in those few words.

Andrew could only wait his turn. Anne moved toward him and he took her in his arms. He noticed through his own tears that she, too, was weeping. “It's a miracle. A miracle,” he whispered in his daughter's ear, and she nodded her assent. He had no idea how long it would be until Catherine relinquished their daughter so that he might welcome her also. But he would wait. He'd gladly wait.

Chapter 31

After the embrace, the tears, the laughter, and the tears again, the mother and daughter realized the bittersweet reality; they had found each other, but they were total strangers. Their worlds, their lives, their speech and dress and manners and customs—everything about the two was a contrast. Nicole found it confusing and difficult. Despite Catherine's brave and quiet smile, Nicole believed this mother of hers was finding it difficult as well.

“We cannot expect the years to vanish like smoke. Your life has been much different than ours,” Catherine commented one evening. Her years of teaching French to Anne were standing her in good stead, she had explained to Nicole. As they sat by the fire, each with needlework occupying her hands, Catherine continued, “Though we too have faced lean years, we have not faced your sort of trials. I thank God that Henri and Louise have kept the faith and raised you to know that God is the one to whom we turn in time of need. I have prayed for you—every day of your life.”

Though the words disturbed her, Nicole loved the sound of the voice. There was a comfort in sitting with Catherine in this small cottage while wind rushed about the sturdy outer walls. Anne had left the very next day, drawn back to her work and her Cyril. Evenings such as these, Andrew and John Price had taken to visiting parishioners, granting mother and daughter an opportunity to be alone together.

Nicole felt herself studying Catherine as from a great distance, connected and yet utterly apart. Struggling to sort through the tumult in her mind and heart.

“Would you try to paint for me a picture of your village in Louisiana?” Catherine asked. “I'd love to try to walk with you through one of your days. To follow you about and sense and feel and see your world. I have missed that, the
knowing
.”

Nicole tried to do just that, but she knew her words were inadequate. Never would Catherine understand the feel of village dust upon sun-browned feet as she raced toward a father coming home from his fishing. Never could she know the musty smell of the bayou or see the murky pools that lay dark and dank beneath the overhang of Spanish moss. Never would she understand the depths of what it meant to struggle for years to arrive at a place they could claim as their own—today and tomorrow and every day that followed.

Though Catherine's interest did not wane, Nicole soon realized that the telling was causing more homesickness than she could bear. Her voice trailed off, then fell silent. Catherine did not press her further.

And there was so much of Catherine's world that Nicole would never know or understand. Why was it necessary to put the lace cloth, just so, on the tea tray? Why must one always put the kettle on to boil at precisely ten to four? Why did one add starch to a kitchen apron?
Not
stitch a bright border to the hem of a skirt? Put both butter
and
jam on a piece of bread? As day followed day, Nicole knew that she and Catherine both had become more and more conscious of the differences of their two worlds.

Yet they were making the attempt to close the rift that time and circumstance had hollowed between them. As they sat in the comfort of the evening blaze, silent now, hands working adroitly, Nicole chose to look for the similarities, not the differences, and noted with some satisfaction that their hands were shaped alike. Moved alike. Louise's hands were broader. More direct and solid in their approach to a task.

“Anne will be home this Sabbath,” Catherine cut through her thoughts with a sigh. “I cherish each of her visits.”

Nicole lifted her head.

“Soon she will be caring for a home of her own and the visits will be fewer. …” She paused and looked at Nicole. “I had wondered—have thought that it would be—I mean, would you be interested in visiting the meadow?”

She had Nicole's complete attention. “Could we?”

“It's not so far. I'd like to. Just the three of us.”

Nicole smiled. It would be hard to wait.

His Excellency the Viscount Charles, eighth earl of Sutton, adviser to His Royal Highness King George III, former member of the royal embassy to the court of His Majesty King Louis XIV of France, holder of the Royal Garter, royal magistrate for the counties of Devon and Somerset, rode wearily down the Fundy Trail. Instead of the gilded carriage and eight black Arabian stallions that normally transported him, he rode upon the scruffiest nag it was ever his displeasure to approach, much less mount.

Instead of advisers from the court of Saint James, for company he traveled with a group of itinerant carters taking a load of barrels into apple country. He had forsaken his dress of frills and silver buttons and peacock feathers and velvet; instead, he wore what the carters wore—breeches of buckskin, a white shirt tied shut at the neck, simple trail boots, a slouch hat, and a long woolen coat thrown open to let in the midday warmth.

Earlier that morning, the trail from Halifax had meandered inland, and now the sea was lost to all but his nostrils. All around him pines and hardwoods rose to towering heights, higher than the steeple of St. Paul's. Instead of pealing church bells and choir, he listened to a sea breeze hum through the branches and birds sing a constant refrain to a summer too slow in coming, too swift in passing.

His sense of bafflement was not caused by his state or his companions. These he had chosen himself. While the governor of Halifax had been away on official business, the city had been seized by a frenzy of work unlike anything Charles had ever known in England's balmier climes. Here, he learned, people worked while the weather permitted. August and September were the most important months for preparing shipments of furs and hardwoods and minerals and produce. Everyone involved in trade of any sort, and this seemed to be almost everyone in Halifax, worked day and night and day. Even now, when the world was blooming a thousand different hues and the forests and fields were alight with green and gold, winter was only a hairsbreadth away.

But Charles had not required the company of his peers for this jaunt inland, nor had he wanted an official escort back to Georgetown. Instead, he had gone to his banker and requested the company of trustworthy, trail-ready folk. The banker had taken in Charles's simple seagoing attire, and the easy manner now set between the ship's captain and Charles, and said simply, “You have had a good journey.”

Charles started to object, to say he had not completed his quest. But in truth he was no longer sure exactly what his chief objective was to be. So all he said was, “I am here because of Captain Dillon's skill and that of his crew.”

“Lord Charles has proved himself to be a solid gentleman in the storm's crush,” Captain Kedrick Dillon replied. “And, if I may be so bold as to add, a worthy mate to have at one's side when the tides of time go against you.”

“I am deeply honored,” Charles said, inclining his head.

The banker looked from one man to the other and repeated, “A good voyage indeed.”

The banker lost no time in finding Charles a company of teamsters headed inland. Being a market town, Georgetown was a common enough stop, and no question was made of Charles's desire to surround himself with protection against the uncertainties of the trail. Finding a horse was another matter entirely; no steed of worth or beauty could be had for any amount of gold. Charles had waved the banker's apology aside and accepted the nag as simply another part of the journey's mystery.

Now that the trail had curved back inland, the forest fell away in the graceful swiftness that was possible only in the highlands. A vista was revealed, one that reached toward an infinity of greens and blues. In the far distance, slender columns of smoke drifted upward. Charles squinted and thought he could make out the man-made needle of a church spire.

He prodded his horse and rode forward to the lead teamster's wagon. “Good sir, is that Georgetown up ahead?”

The driver paused to spurt a brown stream of tobacco juice over the wagon's side. He shifted the chaw from tongue to cheek and replied, “I ain't your good sir, but you've pegged the town right enough. We should be there by midafternoon, unless we throw another wheel.”

“Then I shall bid you a pleasant journey onward and ride ahead alone.”

“All right, matey.” The teamster waved his whip handle in farewell. “Stick to the main trail and you can't go wrong.”

Charles hid his smile at the offhand parting by lifting his hat. He spurred his horse, and the two moved down the trail at a commendable pace.

He did not know what he was going to say once he arrived at his brother's house. Did not even know why he was hurrying so. But after a voyage of six months and one week, after crossing from England to Halifax, after journeying up and down the eastern coastline, after storms and frustrations and journeys into the mysteries and tragedies of life, he was finally coming to the end of the trail.

The closer he drew, the faster he urged his steed. The nag seemed to have caught the sense of destination, for it showed a greater turn of speed than Charles would have thought possible for such an ungainly beast. Hooves the size of plates drummed down the dusty trail. The swayed back rocked like a ship in heavy seas. Charles lowered his head almost to the rangy hide to keep from being knocked off by low branches. He gripped the reins with one hand and the mane with his other, and his heart raced in anticipation.