The Sacred Shore (6 page)
In truth, it was hard to concentrate upon anything this night except his daughter. Nicole had remained distant and withdrawn since their discussion a few nights earlier. She refused to be drawn out on anything. She did her work and drifted about the house like a wraith. To stand helpless as his passionate and spirited daughter faded to sorrow and shadows left Henri feeling as though he had used the carving knife on his own heart.
Out of the darkness there came the sound of pounding feet. The meeting halted in midflow as Guy, Louise's brother, raced up the stairs to pant, “A letter has come!”
Instantly the entire gathering was on their feet. Letters arrived once or twice a year, if that, so the fact that one had arrived was enough to stir the entire assembly. One of the elders demanded, “From where?”
Guy waved the stained and crumpled parchment over his head, his face taking on an excitement that mirrored his voice. “Acadia!” he called loudly. “A letter has come from
home
!”
Winston Groom returned to the carriage and announced, “We've arrived, m'lord.”
“Excellent.” Charles alighted from the high-wheeled conveyance and could not hide his dismay at the sight. “What did you say was the name of this town?”
“Georgetown, m'lord.” Groom took a deep breath. “I say, this is quite the lovely place.”
Charles glanced over and decided the man was not being sarcastic. He turned back and tried to put aside his dismay at where his brother had chosen to live. Where his niece had been raised. Here, as far into the back of beyond as Charles could imagine.
The carriage had halted upon a rise, where hills fell in gradual waves to the distant waters. The village below contained perhaps a hundred houses, clustered within a shallow valley and surrounded by vast groves of trees. Charles asked, “With all this land, why on earth must they crowd together so? Are they serfs?”
“Not hardly, m'lord. My guess is they own all the land you can see, right to the water's edge.” Winston Groom sounded envious. “They build their houses close together because it is safer.”
“Ah. You mean Indians.”
“No, m'lord. Winter.”
Charles thought back to the voyage and the winds and the cold. One night the halyards holding the sails had frozen so hard one had snapped with the sound of shattering glass. “I understand.”
“Governor Lawrence offered every able man who would settle these parts a hundred acres, a plow, an ax, and two bags of seed.” He inspected the vista for a long moment, then added, “Two more years I have in service, then this is where I'm headed. The air is free here, m'lord.” He took a deep breath. “Free.”
“Yes, well, you have been most helpful.” Charles pulled out the second pouch of sovereigns. “I will go on alone from this point.”
Winston Groom clutched the pouch of gold to his chest. “But the governor ordered meâ”
“Tell Governor Lawrence I am most grateful for his hospitality and the kind gift of his transport.” From the carriage's rear gate, Charles untied the horse he had purchased in Halifax and swung into the saddle. “I wish to meet my brother alone.”
“But the road back to Halifax can be most perilous to a man traveling by himself, m'lord. You should really allowâ”
“I seriously doubt,” Charles offered in parting, “that I shall make the return journey alone.”
The closer he drew to the village of Georgetown, the more dismayed Charles became. Even though on closer inspection the village was not disorderly. Far from it. He owned many such hamlets within his own estates, and few if any bore such an air of quiet dignity and careful maintenance.
Though unadorned and stark, everything was well constructed. The apple groves were weeks away from budding, but the vast stretches of trees appeared carefully tended. The houses themselves were sturdy and snug, built of stone and thick local timber. The animals he saw were shaggy with winter coats, yet healthy and clearly well fed. The lanes were bordered with tall posts, no doubt to mark them after hard snowfalls. The entire village seemed strong and patiently ready for the coming spring.
But visits through his own holdings had shown Charles clearly the kind of people who settled and raised offspring in this kind of bucolic settingâstrong, boisterous, hearty souls who were best left on the land. Not at all the type of person he required.
A farmwife ensconced on a wide front porch halted in her industrious weaving to watch him pass. Charles doffed his hat and received a pleasant good-day in return. He started to ask her where Andrew lived, then decided to head straight for the church. But he truly dreaded the coming encounter after so many years, after so much hostility between himself and his brother. So many years of quarreling and struggle, especially after their mother had passed away. In truth, he had always feared his brother. Andrew had been a strong and handsome lad, clearly his mother's favorite, and a threat to Charles's full inheritance. But Charles had won in the end, gaining both the riches and the title. And yet here he was, hat in hand, having set out across the North Atlantic to search for a brother he had not heard from in over twenty years.
His jaw clenched in frustration and his heels dug into the flanks of his horse. He might as well finish what he had begun.
The church steeple was the tallest structure in Georgetown, taller even than the highest trees. The building was whitewashed and as sturdy as all the other structures, set in a clearing bordered by fields and the descent to the Bay of Fundy. If Charles had not been so on edge, he probably would have found it attractive in a quaint sort of way. As with the rest of the village, there was no sign of wealth to the church, no stained glass or ornate decorations. Yet there was also none of the poverty and filth he always associated with English villages of comparable size.
Charles hitched his horse to the gatepost and mounted the church steps. He hesitated there, drawn to stillness by all the anguish that plagued his nights, by all that was hanging on this meeting. He glanced up to where the village lane joined with the road to Halifax. The surrounding hills still bore stained drifts of late snow, the air still held a wintry bite. By this time his own English gardens would be in full bloom, the air fragrant and full of birdsong. Charles had a fleeting fierce desire to leave this humiliating encounter behind, just ride away and take the next ship back to England and home.
Angrily he turned away from the road and the hills and the sunlit day. He had no choice. None. He struck the door latch with his fist and was sorry to find the church unlocked.
It was not his clergyman brother who stood startled by his sudden appearance. Instead a young lady with broom in hand, her eyes round with surprise, faced him and asked, “Can I help you?”
“I ⦔ Charles found his anger fading as fast as it had appeared. What to say to this young woman? “I ⦠I was riding by and found myself wishing to enter the church.”
To his own ears, the words were feeble. But she seemed to find nothing unusual in them. She offered him a polite curtsy and said, “You are most welcome.” She backed up a pace, but her eyes did not leave his face. “Have you visited Georgetown before?”
“No. Not ever.”
“I thought not. I know everyone here, and most of their relatives and friends.” She gave a genuine smile. “It is a pastor's lot to be involved in the lives of all around us. Even the outsiders we come to know at least by sight.”
“Yes, I suppose you must.” Charles sat down in the nearest pew and studied this woman intently. “You are related to the pastor?”
“I am his daughter. My name is Anne.”
His heart leapt with the urge to blurt out his own identity. To ask of his brother's welfare. But he bit down on the question and fought to keep his voice even. Controlled. “I'm honored to meet you, Anne. Miss Anne.”
She smiled shyly, nodded an acknowledgment, and resumed her sweeping. “And I am glad to find a gentleman who is willing to take time from his day to stop in God's house. Time with the Lord should not be left only for the Sabbath, do you not agree?”
“Yes,” Charles managed to affirm after a moment of hesitation. “I suppose so.” He draped both hands over the pew in front and leaned forward, watching her as she moved gracefully at her task, his thoughts far from the exchange about church attendance. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. This was no rough-hewn village lass. Anne Harrow was raven-haired, lithe, and slight, somehow holding to a fragility more suited to a formal parlor than a primitive country village church.
Dressed in homespun and a small lace cap, with no jewelry or adornment whatsoever, she was evidently poor. Yet she possessed the calm demeanor and confidence of a true lady. Charles felt his heart race with anticipation. Perhaps fate's hand was finally turning toward him.
“Excuse my chatter,” she said, starting to move away. “You no doubt wish for solitude.”
“You are not disturbing me at all,” he quickly assured her. An idea took shape in his mind. Perhaps he did not need to go hat in hand to his brother at all. It was possible he could avoid the need to beg him for anything. He could speak his piece here and now to this newly discovered niece and present his brother with an accomplished fact.
Anne walked over to put her broom in the corner. “My sweeping can wait. I should leave and permit you to speak with God in peace.”
“No. Wait. I ⦠I wish to speak with you.”
She showed quiet surprise. “With me?”
“Yes. You see, I ⦠well, I come from England.”
“England.” She clasped delicate hands before her. “Oh, I have always dreamed of seeing England. My father comes from there.”
“I know.” He was making a terrible job of this. Charles tried to swallow down his nervousness. “Would you sit here for a moment? Please. This is important.”
She hesitated, her dark gaze wary now. When she did nod and move forward it was to slide into the pew opposite his own, sitting on the very edge. “What could be so important about a village church that it would interest a gentleman from England?”
“It is not the church. It is you.”
Her eyes widened. “Me?”
Charles nodded. “I have traveled all this way to find you. And I must say, my dearâ”
But Anne was already on her feet. “Perhaps you should reserve further speech for my father, sir.”
“No, wait! I beseech you, Anne Harrow, hear me out!”
She halted midway to the door. “How did you know my family name?”
“Because it is my name as well.” Charles rushed on, hurrying now to say what he had planned for months and months. “I am your father's brother. Charles, the eighth earl of Sutton. Has your father not spoken of me?” When there was no reply, only a shocked look on the girl's face, he hurried on. “I am wealthy, my dear. I don't know how else to tell you. Rich beyond your wildest dreams. I am also childless. My second wife died last autumn, leaving me no heir. I have braved the North Atlantic in late winter because I had to find you. I wantâ”
“No ⦔ Anne's feet seemed unable to move in time to her body. She stumbled against the last pew, caught herself, stumbled again. “I must ⦔
“I want to take you away from all this, give you the kingdom! I mean just that!” He started toward her, then stopped midstride, fearful of driving her away before he could say it all. “I will make you a proper lady, introduce you at court, give you everything you have ever dreamed of owning and more. It is all yours, Anne. Titles, land, riches, everything!”
Her hands scrambled over the door, found the latch, and flung it open to flee down the steps. Charles stood with one hand outstretched, listening to her footsteps grow distant down the village lane. In his heart he knew he had bungled everything. Smacking a fist into his hand, he chided himself for his impatience and insensitivity. After coming so far and enduring so muchâhe had totally mismanaged the encounter. Now he would need to start over and attempt to rectify the damage he had done. He was used to having his own way without question or resistance. But now he had frightened Anne half to death. It would be a long, slow road to trust. He uttered a curse under his breath, then turned to leave through the still-open door.
It seemed to Henri that all Vermilionville spoke of nothing except the letter. That was hardly a surprise, as it was the first message received from Acadia since their arrival. Some, mostly the young and unmarried, spoke of it with a sense of adventure and yearning. Others, mostly the old and weary, spoke of it with dread. Should they trust it, should they listen, should they respond to its invitation? As Henri walked alongside his horse through the village to his fields, he spotted another boatload of people arriving at the town dock and shouting questions to the first who passed.
Where was the letter?
It was not enough to hear the news. They wanted to see it for themselves, make sure it was real. The letter awoke passions and memories like an August brush fire, bringing Acadia from the realm of a distant memory to the here and now.
