The Birthright

by T. Davis Bunn

  Anne nodded slowly. “I think I understand.”

  “Never mind me. This is your day and your news.” Nicole squeezed her fingers, which were as slender and delicate as the rest of her. “I am so happy for you.”

  But Anne’s face remained solemn, her gaze searching. “You’re going to England, aren’t you?”

  Nicole found herself unable to respond.

  “That’s it, is it not? You’re going to accept Charles’s invitation?”

  “I don’t know. But I think…” She felt it impossible to complete the thought. Speaking it aloud would grant the words too strong a focus, too great a potency. “One thing I do know, and only one. If I decide to go, I’ll need you with me when I tell our parents.”

  “Our parents,” Anne whispered, tightening her hand over Nicole’s. “Whatever will I do when the roads close and we are separated?”

  “You will write, and you will pray. Just like me.” Nicole’s mind was suddenly filled with other partings. She no longer thought of the snowbound roads between them, but of the vast and desolate seas. “And don’t you worry, not for an instant. I have not gained a sister and a family only to lose them again.”

  Chapter 3

  Anne could not say what left her more distressed, the morning nausea that accompanied her pregnancy or the news that continually sifted in from every side. No one was able to decipher which of the rumors were true and which were not. Even so, it was disturbing to hear of the many battles and rising conflicts. She wished she could shut it all out, for she wanted to welcome her baby into a sane and wholesome world. War had already touched her life in far too many ways.

  Had it not been for the warmth of her home, both in the fireplace and in Cyril’s constant care for her and their coming baby, Anne may have deemed the winter too much to endure. But the excitement of the coming child and this new dimension to their life together made it impossible for her to feel dispirited for long. God had been good, had given them so much. Counting her blessings always began with the miraculous yet heart-wrenching way He had intervened in her own infancy.

  Whenever such memories invaded her mind, Anne pressed a hand tightly to her abdomen. The very thought of giving up this little one filled her with a new understanding of what Catherine and Louise had suffered on her behalf. How did they live through the sorrow of losing a baby? Anne couldn’t imagine the pain it would bring.

  But God had been gracious in allowing them to be reunited. A miracle—that is what it was. Only a miracle of God could have brought them all back together again.

  And Cyril? Anne felt that Cyril was another of God’s miracles. She had thought her love to be complete the day she walked up the aisle to be joined to him as man and wife. She knew now her love was only a bud then, waiting to burst into full bloom with the passing of days and the binding of hearts. The child growing in her womb had meant a new intimacy, a new reason to cling to each other. To plan. To promise. To build a life and a home fit for such a gift from heaven.

  She knew that Cyril felt similar stirrings.

  Anne sighed, then moved from her chair by the fireside to add another log to the hungry flames.

  Cyril had been coming home so tired and worn. It had been weeks since he had managed a decent night’s rest. Almost every night, as his head settled on his pillow, another pounding came on the heavy wooden door. Someone begging for the doctor to tend a desperately ill family member. Ailments always increased with the snow and cold of winter’s fury. But a greater number were now coming down with grippe and inflamed chests. Cyril had already begun losing patients to the winter infirmities. This troubled him deeply. On such days he returned home with features stricken by the agony of failure. Anne hated to see the darkness in Cyril’s eyes, the grim set to his jaw, the way his hand stole to the back of his neck as though the tension building there was almost too great to bear. With all of her heart she longed to shield him.

  But she dared not leave the warmth and safety of their home. Cyril had forbidden it. Her husband had decreed that, for her own and the baby’s sake, she mustn’t expose herself to the winter illnesses. Even as Anne appreciated his concern and love, she chafed at the order. Over the months of working alongside him, she had learned much about caring for the sick. Now it seemed wrong that she was not using her skills to ease the burden Cyril carried. Yet Anne couldn’t disregard his wishes, so she stayed at home and fed the fire and stitched little garments to add to the drawers where she caressingly placed the baby things.

  And over and over she prayed. She prayed for the end of winter. For the world to turn to peace again. For all those who were ill. For the child she was carrying. But mostly for Cyril, that God would give him strength and rest and wisdom. That God would hold him close and assure him of her love. That God would grant her strong, capable husband safety as he made his way through storms and dark nights, caring for those who no longer could care for themselves.

  The weather broke enough for Andrew, Catherine, and Nicole to make the trip to Halifax to join Cyril and Anne for a belated Christmas celebration. Nicole felt thankful for an opportunity to shake up the routine of her days. And until their arrival in Halifax, she would have no idea how Anne was faring that winter.

  Tears streaked down Anne’s face as she opened the door to greet them. “You’ve come!” was all she was able to say, and then she flung herself into three pairs of arms all at once.

  The ladies were hustled into the house and over to the warmth of the fire. While Andrew went to care for the team, Anne set the kettle on the hearth, promising to serve everyone just as soon as he came in from the cold.

  “I thought Grandfather might agree to come,” Anne said, joining her mother. Her excitement kept her on her feet.

  “We pleaded, but he said no. He does not find the cold agreeable,” Catherine said. “Besides, he said he’d manage the fires while we are gone.”

  Nicole rubbed chilled hands together, scooping up heat from the open flames. Everyone knew it was important to have someone to care for the fires when the winter winds threatened to glaze the windowpanes with patterns of heavy frost. In a matter of hours, everything within a home could be frozen solid. Had it not been for Nicole’s own restlessness and the intense desire to see Anne again, she would have remained there with him. The trip down had been freezing.

  Nicole turned back to her sister. “How have you been keeping?”

  Anne looked down at her still-slender waistline. “Confined. How else could I be when Cyril hardly lets me lift a hand? And he won’t let me out beyond the doors. He’s so afraid I might come down with the grippe.”

  “And rightly so.” Catherine extended her feet toward the orange-red flames. A crackling log sent out snapping sparks, making her withdraw again. “The season has been beastly. I think it has been one of the most miserable winters I remember. One day brings more cold and snow, then a milder snap but with a horrid damp. Then a wind that goes right through. A body can wrap up to hold off the cold, but not the dampness and the wind that drives to your marrow. I fear that is why so many have been ill. No number of layers of clothing seem to help.”

  “I suppose,” agreed Anne, her face slightly shadowed.

  Nicole felt that she gave little thought to the words. “Your nausea has eased?”

  Anne laughed. It was a soft, awkward sound that prompted Nicole to think she may have had little to laugh about over the preceding weeks. “Finally,” Anne replied. “It probably did not last as long as it seemed at the time. Some days I thought I’d never be able to eat another breakfast. But I have a voracious appetite now. Cyril teases me.”

  The door was pushed open, and then Andrew appeared. He shook snow from his fur cap and brushed it from his shoulders. “It’s snowing,” he announced needlessly. “I fear we made it just in time.”

  Anne helped him with his wraps. “I have the kettle on. Tea will soon be ready. Get close to the fire and thaw out your bones.”

  Andrew stomped his feet thoroughly on the heavy wov
en mat by the door and moved to do as Anne had directed.

  “Met a fellow out on the road. Said the war to the south seems to have picked up momentum.”

  Nicole saw Anne freeze midstep. Her face went pale. “There are always rumors,” Anne replied, “but no one knows the truth of the matter.”

  “Well, this man said there are those who continue to flood into Halifax bearing tales of a coming conflict.”

  Nicole watched as Anne’s hand went unconsciously to her aproned front, but she did not speak.

  “I’ll get the tea,” Anne finally said. “Have a seat, Father.” Then she quickly left the room and disappeared into the small kitchen at the rear of the house.

  Andrew and Catherine exchanged glances. “Perhaps the news of war disturbs her,” Catherine said in a soft voice.

  “News of war disturbs us all.” Andrew crossed to the offered chair and lowered himself with a deep sigh.

  “This is not a good time to be worrying her with what cannot be helped,” Catherine went on. “With God’s grace this present conflict will not touch us where we are.”

  Andrew ran a hand over his grayed beard. “Every conflict the world over touches us in some way.”

  There was no further mention of war, however, during the remaining days of their visit. Talk was of cheerier things, like the baby, springtime, and the summer sun. By the time they had to say another temporary good-bye, Anne was laughing quite naturally again. The shadows seemed to have left her eyes, and her spirits lifted as she counted off the weeks before their home would be graced with a new little life. “I do hope the sun will have cared for the winter ills,” she said rather wistfully. “I want Cyril to have time to enjoy his new son.”

  “Son?” Andrew raised a teasing brow.

  Anne laughed again, a merry laugh that bubbled up with joy she felt deep in her heart. “We say son,” she admitted. “We’ve even named him—John, after Grandfather Price. Cyril says he’s sure it’s going to be a boy. And he is the doctor,” she laughed.

  “More than one doctor has been wrong on that score,” Andrew chuckled, picking up on Anne’s lighthearted mood.

  “Well, should Cyril be wrong, there will be no grieving in this house,” Anne said. “A daughter would be just as wonderful.”

  Nicole moved for her turn to embrace Anne as they said their good-byes. Inwardly she had to admit that, though she was thankful they had made the trip, she was also glad their visit had come to an end. It had been rather depressing to be in Halifax, sharing Anne and Cyril’s home, being reminded daily of their great affection for each other. And the intensity with which they looked forward to the baby’s coming became hard to bear. For some reason it had planted a longing in Nicole’s soul, but a longing she couldn’t identify nor express, not even in her prayers.

  She had intended to have a talk with her father and mother during the days of leisure with Anne and Cyril—days away from the demands of the village parish and household chores. But the time had never seemed right. She wondered now if they had already guessed what her answer would be to her uncle Charles. If so, they had said nothing. Now as Andrew led them to the waiting team, and Anne called one last good-bye from the open door, Nicole felt a strangeness within her being. Sadness and uncertainty and a longing for closure regarding God’s leading all in one. She forced a smile and turned to wave to Anne standing in the doorway, bundled in a heavy shawl against the damp cold of the day.

  Back in Georgetown, Nicole found it easy to take up her familiar routine. The weather held stubbornly to its lower temperature, encasing the East Coast in an icy grip. Cold sea winds blew off the frigid water and pulled at the sleeves and hems of cumbersome coats, whipping the ends of scarves used to protect faces and ears from frostbite. The cold fought its way through the heaviest of woolen shawls draped over hunched shoulders.

  There were days when Nicole felt she did little else but feed the ever-hungry fireplace. But in truth she did much more. Increasingly she was able to help Andrew with his parish duties. As much as she had come to appreciate the time spent with her mother, she enjoyed getting out and stirring about the village. As the days grew longer and warmer she was even taking the horse and sleigh now to visit her uncle Guy and the other Acadians in their newfound settlement that lay a half day’s ride down the road. Nicole enjoyed expressing herself once again in flowing French, rather than stumbling around for the proper English word. She always returned after a few days’ visit feeling reinvigorated.

  Andrew joined Nicole on one visit to see Uncle Guy and found himself so warmly welcomed that he encouraged Catherine to make the trip, also. Soon they were all traveling from Georgetown at least once every month. Nicole was thrilled by their coming along with her, for she felt her two worlds were at last beginning to blend. Even as she translated for her English and French families, the old and the new gradually melded, making her feel she now belonged to this homeland she’d come to love. She felt more whole, more at peace with who she was. Perhaps soon God would show her how the past was to be played out in her future. Surely there was some purpose for the events of her life, some way that they would benefit her, and others, in the days to come. If she could just discover what that might be, she knew she could make peace with her past.

  She took every opportunity to improve her halting English. Catherine helped her add words to her vocabulary. In their daily Bible study together, they bent their heads over the Book and read and talked and learned. But it was more than Bible and language study; it was also a wonderful opportunity to bond as mother and daughter. It soon became Nicole’s favorite time of the day, and when she looked at Catherine’s glowing eyes, she felt her mother shared the feeling.

  Catherine prayed in English, her words slow and deliberate. Nicole knew this was for her sake, not the Lord’s, who understood perfectly every language on the face of the Earth. Nicole knew it was Catherine’s way of helping her become at ease in talking with her heavenly Father in her mother tongue.

  In these shared times together, Nicole struggled to say her prayers in English. But she believed that God was an understanding God. In her private times of prayer, she went back to the familiarity of the French, pouring her heart out with abandon.

  She still treasured the worn French Bible given to her by Louise and Henri, yet she was equally touched by the new English edition from Catherine and Andrew. It was another indication to Nicole that she had been richly blessed to have two sets of loving parents.

  It had been many months since they had heard from Henri and Louise. Their last letter said they had returned to Louisiana safely, but the news of unrest had met them at every port. They were much relieved to be home once again. But since then, Nicole had received nothing.

  Surprisingly her uncle Charles’s letters had not been delayed by the threat of war. A fresh bundle of post arrived with each ship that pulled into the Halifax harbor. They were family letters, written to inquire about family affairs. Though Charles never pressed Nicole for an answer, he shared newsy items about English life and continually assured her that he was praying God would lead in the matter. In one such missive he was bold enough to request that, should she consider his offer, she not come for a short term but remain at least two years. It takes time to adapt to something so totally new, he reminded her.

  Nicole continued to pray for God’s guidance, but in her heart she felt she’d already been given her answer. To refuse to go, she felt strongly, would be denying what God had been gently urging her to do. One day she would agree with the plan, her body tingling with excitement, then the next day she would draw back, fearing the unknown. But in her heart she did not waver in her decision. She would go in obedience. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to discuss it with Andrew and Catherine. Nicole dreaded the thought of fighting through another decision that would rend herself from the family she loved.

  Chapter 4

  After nine days of wind and pelting rain, the morning was shocking in its silence. Nicole made her way out to the po
int, walking the now-familiar trail through a frozen world. To everyone’s surprise the early March storm had been warm—warm, that is, for winter in this northern world. No matter what she might have thought while living in the bayou country, March in Acadia was certainly not a month of spring.

  After the winter she had just endured, the early morning freeze was almost pleasant. At least now the air was still and dry. In fact, she had come to cherish such times. The winter winds could be unbelievably powerful, sweeping in from the Atlantic and gathering immense force in their journey. They could transform flakes of snow into stinging bullets and make a walk from one house to the next a deadly trek for the weak and elderly. The winter storms imprisoned all but the hale and hardy and seemed to last forever. The cottage’s front room became like a cage then. And the patient manner in which Andrew and Catherine sat by the fire, reading Scriptures or talking silently or just watching the flames, only added fuel to Nicole’s irritation over being shut inside.

  But in spite of the harsh weather, she had come to dearly love this place and the people who inhabited it. There was no logic to these thoughts, and if she had been asked to describe herself, she would have said she was a child of warm days and soft green waters. Even so, along with the adverse weather and shorter days, she had come to feel a deep appreciation for these people and the world they had made for themselves. In the depths of the winter now passing, when the storms raged and the darkness settled at midafternoon, Nicole had found herself astonished at how the villagers had not merely endured but prospered. She would have thought it easier to carve homesteads from solid stone.

  And then there were mornings like this one, when frozen silence captured the essence of the tempest now past. Every leaf was transformed to a work of jewel-like precision. Every blade of grass shined. The sunrise appeared impossibly long, the hours before dawn so gradual that when the sun finally revealed itself, it then rose triumphant, as though not night had been vanquished, but winter itself.