The Sacred Shore

by T. Davis Bunn

  Pastor Collins continued, “And how is that possible? How can I achieve this transformation from confusion to calm? There is only one way I have found. And that is by choosing correctly at the very outset. By turning to God.

  “Every time the doubts arise, every time I am unable to decide, every time I feel the choices are too hard to make, I must wait upon my Lord. I must fall to my knees and confess that though I am strong in some ways, I am weak in so many others. And I need Him as much where I think I am strong as where I know I am weak. It is only through His strength and His wisdom that I can see my way clear.”

  For much of that day, Nicole found herself moving through the mission in dread of her next contact with the pastor. Though his words had been kind, they had also been deeply personal. It was not that he had delved where she did not wish, she finally decided, so much as that he had quietly urged her to do so. She was left feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Nicole remained so quiet and removed that both Guy and Emilie asked if she was coming down with a fever.

  But when Pastor Collins came searching for her, he came at such a rapid pace she had no time to duck away. He drew her to one side of the bustling commons room and announced, “I have located a ship traveling north. One with berth space for all of you.”

  The confusion she had known that morning returned in full measure. “I suppose I should go speak with the others,” she answered slowly.

  “That is precisely why I wanted to speak with you first,” he countered. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to settle the decision in your own mind before telling your family.”

  His meaning was clear. The invitation she had found so appealing and yet also frightening was again there in his gentle features. She sighed, “I wish I knew what to do.”

  “Have you prayed about this?” When she hesitated, he answered his own question with, “You find it difficult to separate a confusion over your faith from the confusion as to your journey, is that so?”

  “Yes,” she sighed, relieved that he would not condemn her for this lack as well.

  “Then I shall pray for you until you are able to do so yourself,” he replied, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. “Perhaps it would help me if I knew why you were traveling north.”

  Again Nicole paused, then responded with, “My uncle received a letter … no, that is not it, not it at all. That is his reason. Not mine.”

  He did not seem the least put out by her ambiguity, or her need once more to halt and struggle to make sense of her thoughts. Finally she decided it was not just that he deserved the truth, she wanted to tell him. “In truth, sir, my birth parents are English.”

  His reaction was astonishing. The clergyman’s features paled, and a deep tremor shook his portly frame. “I beg your pardon?”

  “English.” She took no satisfaction in his bewilderment. “It is the truth, m’sieur, though I speak almost none of your tongue. I did not know of this until only a few weeks ago. It is a fact. My English mother offered to take an ailing French baby to an English doctor, and I was left with the French family. The plan was that it would be only for a few days. But during that time the English”—her voice faltered on the word—“drove the French from Acadia. …” She drifted to a stop and watched in alarm as the pastor reached up with one tense hand and began massaging his chest above his heart.

  “Would you happen—do you know the name of the village where you were born?” he asked in obvious agitation.

  “Even that is a part of the confusion,” she confessed, finding that though this good man was distressed, still she found comfort in speaking with him. “I had always thought it was a village called Minas. That was the place my French parents spoke of all my life.”

  “Minas,” he repeated, the word almost a moan. “Minas.”

  “All the tales of my childhood, all the comfort we found in the hardest of times, came from the stories they told of Acadia and our village of Minas.” She took a shaky breath. “But I learned this very spring when I was told of my true heritage that I was born in the neighboring English settlement of Fort Edward.”

  A second hand reached up to grip his heart. “And your English parents … do you know their names?”

  “Yes.” She was watching him curiously now, wondering at the man’s sudden affliction. Surely he was not offended that she was in fact English—as he was himself. “A-Andrew and Catherine Harrow.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” he moaned and reached toward her with a shaky hand. “Dear, sweet Lord above.”

  “What’s the matter?” she cried as she felt the tremors of his hand through his grip on her arm. Shivers of uncertainty and wonder ran over her own frame.

  “My dear child, come over here and sit down.” But he was the one who leaned upon her now for support, walking unsteadily over to a side table, all eyes in the room following their uncertain progress as she helped him settle on the bench.

  Once he was seated, Nicole asked, “Can I get you something? A glass of—”

  “Sit, please, child, sit, I am fine. It is consternation, nothing more.” He examined her with a new frankness. “Yes, I see the resemblance. How remarkable. Perhaps I noticed it before on a deeper level. But, yes, now I can see it for certain.”

  “M’sieur, you are beginning to frighten me.”

  “Fear not, my dear sweet child.” But his eyes were clouded by tears as he laid one trembling hand over her own. “For this day we stand in the presence of God’s holy power, a God who sees the end from the beginning.”

  “I don’t … you are not—”

  “You are so much like your mother,” he said, smiling and trembling now together. “So much. I can see her—”

  Nicole pulled her hand from his grasp. She gripped one hand with the other to stop their trembling. “What are you saying?”

  “Your mother … and your father both,” he said through trembling lips and eyes full of tears. “My dear, Andrew and Catherine Harrow were here.”

  She would have risen if her legs could have supported her. Her hands went to her lips. She could only stare at him.

  “Here. The both of them. Your father came to study for the ministry, then returned to Acadia. Such a heart for God, your parents have. One heart, I said, and so I meant, for truly they lived and breathed within a holy union that could only have come through the Lord’s blessing.” He blinked, and one tear released to spill over the seamed features. “I remember one night, full of storms and snows and cold, and how they told me of the child that was theirs. Anne is her name. Yes, Anne. And how they had gained her by losing another.”

  “My parents,” Nicole whispered.

  “I remember, I remember …” Pastor Collins lifted one trembling hand to his beard, tugged it hard, as though seeking to hold his voice and features steady. “Your name … it was Elspeth, is that not correct?”

  “Nicole?” Guy walked over and looked from one face to the other. “Is something wrong?”

  When Nicole did not answer, Pastor Collins replied for them both, “No, no, only that your family has both the means and the reason to travel north, m’sieur.” Pastor Collins gathered himself with great effort and pushed to his feet. He looked down to where Nicole remained seated, stunned into immobility. “I shall miss you, my dear. And I urge you to count this day as a gift from the Lord.”

  Chapter 24

  Anne slipped from the wagon seat, looked up at her fiancé, and wished there were some way to express what she was feeling. “Take care, my love.”

  Cyril Mann held the reins with the unease of someone not born to the trail. But he had been the one who had offered to take the place of the ailing Georgetown teamster, saying there was no need for them to hire another since he had to return to Halifax anyway. And besides that, it was time he learned to handle a team. In so doing, he had further cemented his place within this village that took a man’s measure by his ability to be a good neighbor.

  Cyril looked forward, saw the leader was still adjusting the first wagon’s
harness, then smiled at Anne. “I will be the most careful teamster this trail has ever known.”

  She could see he was excited about the journey. She was glad that he was so pleased about learning this new skill. It was a part of him that she loved. And yet she could not help but feel a pang over his eagerness for the new adventure when it meant separation from her. Anne bit her lip, then said, “I will count the days until I can join you in Halifax.”

  “And I the hours.”

  Anne reached for his hand, ignoring the chuckles and jests from the watching bystanders. Cyril pulled his hat from his head and used it to shield his quick kiss. The laughter that surrounded them was friendly.

  Anne searched his face as he returned his hat to his head. He had eyes the color she had always imagined of an English sky, a delicate china blue, and flecked with little golden sparks she liked to think only she could see. “My heart travels with you,” she said for only him to hear.

  A call rose from the front wagon. Cyril straightened in his seat as a whip cracked. He took a firmer grip on the reins and gave her a smile that warmed her heart. “Then I shall have to leave my own here with you. Good-bye, my love.”

  Anne stood and waved until the wagons followed the trail around the curve of the first bend, then slowly turned back toward her village. The two had come for a July visit with her parents, a time for them to get to know their son-in-law-to-be a bit better. She knew it was right for her to stay a few days longer with her family, and yet she missed him terribly.

  Though it was only ten weeks since she had left her home and village for Halifax, Anne walked the trail leading back into Georgetown with wonder. She knew it as well as she knew her own face, yet she saw it as for the first time. Not because she had forgotten, no, but rather because she now viewed everything from a new perspective.

  She took her time, drinking in the sights and sounds and smells. Birds chuckled and chattered, lifting her melancholy over saying goodbye to Cyril. Trees swaying overhead etched quick messages of welcome upon the clouds and the sky. Wild flowers shivered and beckoned. She filled her hands with blossoms and found herself thinking of her mother’s tale of other wild flowers, ones gathered in a meadow above the village of Minas. As she entered her own familiar village, Anne was struck by the sudden idea that it might be nice to go back to the meadow, just the two of them, and see the place as adults. Where her two mothers had become friends and her own destiny was set into place.

  When she pushed through the little gate and walked down the path to their front door, it was to the sound of weeping. She hurried through the doorway, entered the front parlor, and discovered her mother collapsed in the chair by the unlit fire. Catherine’s face was bowed over her knees, and she sobbed so hard her entire frame shook.

  “Mother!” Anne dropped the flowers and rushed over to kneel by the chair. “Mother dearest, what is wrong?” Had something terrible happened? Her father—?

  “Oh my.” Catherine struggled to sit upright. “You weren’t supposed to find me like this.”

  “Why on earth not?” Her voice rose from the strain of forcing out the words. “Tell me what is the matter!”

  “No one was supposed … I thought I was alone for a while.” Catherine wiped her face with the edge of her apron. “I’m just being a silly old woman.”

  “You’re not silly and you’re not old. Please tell me what’s wrong, Mother!”

  “This is so much harder than I ever imagined,” Catherine sighed, staring at the cold hearth. “So very, very hard.”

  Anne gripped her mother’s hand with fear. Her voice did not sound like her own. “What is?”

  “Waiting for word about Charles’s search for Elspeth.” A sob escaped her obvious attempt to control her emotions. “His journey has left me with so many unanswered questions.”

  “I think I understand,” Anne murmured, relieved that it was not something much worse. “I’m so sorry, Momma.”

  “I feel so selfish. I wish I could set all the uncertainty aside and simply be happy for you and this fine man you’ve brought into our home.”

  Anne found it hard not to cry herself. “I’m so glad that you and Father love him too.”

  “Oh, my dear sweet child.” Catherine smiled through her tears. “He is everything I have prayed you would find in a man, and more besides. I truly feel this is a match ordained of God.”

  Anne could only manage a whisper, “Thank you, Momma.”

  “Which only makes my worrying worse. Because I am not only robbing myself of the chance of being happy with you, I am not honoring God. With His hand upon your coming union, I should be praising Him. But I can’t help but think of Charles and his quest—and my other child.”

  A tear escaped and traced a warm trail down Anne’s cheek. Her other child. Anne felt there was such a gift to her in these words. Her hands drew Catherine’s arm over close enough for her to rest her forehead there.

  Catherine murmured, “I am fearful of every answer. As though some questions were just not meant to be asked.” She paused. “As though I was mistaken to believe I was strong enough to hold on to His peace. As though I should have never …” Catherine shook her head and did not finish.

  Anne forced herself to lift her face and search her own heart for an answer, something that might ease her mother’s distress. “I have been afraid as well.”

  “You?” Catherine drew her gaze from the empty hearth. “Why?”

  “Many reasons, all of them selfish.” She did not want to say anything more, not now, not confess her own fears of becoming the second daughter. The love and the grace that filled this home, even now in a time of such uncertainty and remembered sorrow, left her feeling as though the words themselves did not belong, much less the feelings.

  But Catherine said, “Tell me, Anne. Please.”

  “I was so afraid you and Papa would not love me as much.”

  “Oh, Anne. My precious child.”

  “I know it sounds silly. But I was worried that if Elspeth came home, things would not be the same.” Anne felt her mother’s free hand trace its way over her hair and down her neck and back. A touch she had known all her life, given new meaning by the strength of this confession.

  “But what I feared the very most was that I … might be asked to go.”

  “Go where?” asked Catherine, her tone aghast.

  “To … to my other family. Oh, Momma, I know it’s wrong to be so frightened of those who are my own flesh and blood. I love them, yet I do not know them. They are total strangers to me. If I had to leave you and Papa and Grandpa Price—”

  “Shh,” said Catherine, drawing her close. “You are about to make your own home. You and your doctor. You need never worry again about where home will be.”

  Though her own heart had already made peace with her worries, the words brought further comfort to Anne. “I found the strength through God to set those fears aside. To be at peace. To trust that I would always know a place in this home, even though I may have another also. I have felt that you will always remain my family, that I will always be loved by you and Papa.”

  “Of course, my daughter. Of course you will.” The hand continued to stroke her hair, until Catherine finally said, “I have never felt more proud of you than I am at this moment.”

  Anne stared at her mother’s tear-stained face, saw with a woman’s awakened awareness the strength and the weakness, the sorrow and the joy, the love and the price of loving, with a heart opened by God. “Why, Momma?”

  “Because of that peace you speak of. Because of the woman you have become.” Catherine’s smile through her tears touched the deepest place in Anne’s heart. “Would you pray with me now, and ask God to grant me the same strength and inner peace He has given to you?”

  Hands clasped, mother and daughter bowed their heads.

  Chapter 25

  Ten days after his ship had limped into Boston Harbor, Charles returned from points west where he had inspected his newest land grant. The journ
ey had proven more arduous than expected, with signs everywhere of coming tension between England and the colonists. The evening of his arrival back in Boston he was fêted by the finest of the city’s society. Everywhere he found himself surrounded by worrying talk and rumors of uprisings and conflict. Charles endured the social whirl and the political intrigue as best he could. In the days following, he endured the swirl of parties and socials and political discussions and overlong dinners, while demanding daily updates on the ship’s repairs and urging the captain to more speed.

  On the fifth afternoon of his return, Charles had excused himself from attending yet another gathering of the powerful, this one to discuss the rising number of colonists who wished to secede from England. Instead, he made his way on foot along a series of cobblestone ways. Three times he had to stop and ask directions, and on each occasion he wished he had dressed in his seaman’s garb before setting off. His finery drew looks and muttered comments, something that had never bothered him before but now left him wishing he could simply return to his quarters on Beacon Hill and forget the whole business. But a sense of obligation and the tuggings of a confused heart pushed him forward.

  By the time he arrived at the alleyway by the quayside, Charles was in a dark mood indeed. He halted before a man sweeping the broad landing and humming what might have been a hymn. The stocky gray-bearded man wore a vicar’s black coat and starched collar, as well as an odd black hat with a bowl-shaped crown and stiff peaked edges. Charles searched the stone wall to either side, but the copper plaque was in the shadows and he could not read the address.