The Birthright

by T. Davis Bunn

  Now, with thirty minutes or more before sunrise, all the world was a soft silver. A mist swept about her feet and ankles, lying close to the earth. Her footsteps stirred up delicate tendrils that danced in the gentle light, then disappeared.

  Nicole emerged from the woods and halted. The squat tree trunk looked like a frozen throne in the mist, sparkling its welcome. The little meadow was a royal chamber in white and crystal, walled not with trees but with ice. Icicles and frost clung to every branch, trapped in reverent stillness as if waiting for the dawn. She held her breath as she walked over and sat down. Beyond the frozen point, the world dropped off and then vanished altogether. The sea was utterly masked by the low-lying fog.

  The sound of crunching footsteps whirled her around. It was too early for Grandfather Price to be up and about. When the weather was cold he rarely got out of bed before the sun was high in the heavens. To her amazement, Andrew emerged from the wooded trail. He took a long, slow look around, then whispered, “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not.”

  He treaded quietly over and lowered himself to the trunk. “It has been far too long since I last enjoyed a sunrise like this.”

  “But you are always up before dawn.”

  “And always with something to fill my hands.” Although their voices were scarcely more than whispers, their conversation sounded loud to Nicole’s ears. “Anne will be so glad to know you are enjoying her favorite spot.”

  “At times like this, I feel that God is almost close enough to touch.”

  Andrew nodded slowly. The predawn light softened the weathered features and eased the years of strain that lined his brow. He wore a well-patched greatcoat and a fur hat so old it was no longer possible to tell its color. From beneath its rim his hair was lightened with strands of gray. Yet there was a strength to the man, an authority and wisdom that left him ageless in Nicole’s eyes.

  “It’s good to know places and times where words aren’t the only bridge to God,” Andrew said, “where prayer would only hold God at bay.”

  They sat together in silence for a while, their breath soft plumes that drifted out to mingle with the rising mist. The rim of the earth turned orange, then fiery gold. Down below, the fogbound sea became a billowing realm, a reflection of divine light. Then the sun’s upper edge peeked above the unseen horizon, and Nicole was forced to turn away. The light was too pure, too powerful. She studied how the world reflected the sun’s beauty, how every tree limb was now a prism. How the mist was infused with color, with life.

  “Glory, glory,” Andrew murmured beside her. “All the world reflects God’s glory.”

  They sat there till the dawn became day and the cold filtered so deep Nicole could feel it in her bones. When she shivered a second time, Andrew stood with her, and together they started back. On the way, he asked, “Do you miss your home?”

  Perhaps because the sunrise was still freshly impressed on her senses, Nicole was able to respond to the question with honesty and ease. “I don’t know where my home is anymore.”

  Andrew’s voice came quietly from behind her as they walked the trail. “Did you ever?”

  She stopped and faced him. “What a strange thing for you to say.”

  “I’ve observed you and loved you through an Acadian winter,” Andrew replied. His words were spoken softly, but they still had the power to rock her. “And I see that you have been given a restless spirit as a gift. One which thirsts for the new and the challenges of the unknown.”

  “I don’t know,” Nicole confessed, “if I would call that a gift.”

  “In another it might not be,” Andrew agreed. “In someone who does not have your strength and your confidence, it could be a terrible burden.”

  “But I don’t feel strong at all.” The confessions came easier now. “I feel confused and lost.”

  “No one who has been found by God,” Andrew replied, “can ever count themselves as lost.”

  “Then why does the answer elude me?”

  “Oh, I think you have come upon your answer.” He smiled, but it quickly faded with the knowledge of what he was to say next. “I think you have known for months now.”

  Nicole opened her mouth, shut it, then tried again. But the words wouldn’t come.

  “Did you think we would not notice? Did you think we, your parents, couldn’t see what direction you would probably seek?”

  Finally she found the strength to ask, “Catherine knows, as well?”

  “Of course she does. She saw it before I did.”

  Nicole felt the rising swell of confusion about to surface. “It all seems so impossible to me!”

  Andrew crossed his arms. “Tell me what distresses you.”

  “Everything.” She cast a worried glance about her. Sunlight now entered the forest glen, filling the world with light, though its warmth could not penetrate the season’s cold. Nicole was reminded of the passage of days and seasons, counting down toward another time of change in her life. “The Acadians are starting a school, and they want me to teach. I am French and I know the English. I am English. I could help them come to know the people, as well as the language.”

  “It seems a natural fit. Your English has improved more than I would have thought possible. But this new work may not be enough to grant you fulfillment, am I correct?” When she did not respond, Andrew continued, “So you have prayed about this. I know you have. I have seen the worry and the fervor with which you have turned to God.”

  The dripping world seemed louder now, so clamorous she felt propelled toward what she couldn’t see. “Then why has God not answered me?”

  “Oh, I think He has.”

  She studied the lean, reserved man, saw both the strength and weakness of his sorrow. She hurt because she was the one causing him pain. “But what if I don’t want to go?”

  “God’s gentle response may be because of your indecision,” he said. “You are a believer now. You are a member of His family. Of this I have no doubt. Perhaps He’s willing to let you decide, knowing that you will serve Him wherever you are.”

  She heard a different cadence to the morning now, a dripping sound like that of tears, as though the day were weeping softly. She seemed to hear Acadia crying because she would need to leave. Strange how all the world knew what she had not yet accepted: that she would depart for England.

  Then Andrew said, “But God has granted you wondrous gifts, of beauty and strength, and also this restlessness. You will find your greatest fulfillment in putting these to use for His glory.”

  Nicole found herself thinking of Henri Robichaud and the wisdom he showed in such impossible times. “How can you speak to me like this and release me so easily?”

  “It is not easy and it will be harder when the day arrives.” Andrew’s eyes held a mixture of peace and sorrow. “But God’s gentle voice has been speaking to me. And to Catherine, too. And He has made it clear what is to be our next challenge.”

  “What challenge?”

  Andrew reached over and took hold of Nicole’s quivering fingers, then whispered, “Letting you go.”

  The last Tuesday in April was very much an English sort of day, with low scudding clouds and a cold wind so heavy with moisture it seemed to carry an invisible rain. Lord Charles, the eighth earl of Sutton, paced impatiently near the manor’s front gates. The carefully tended gardens that flanked either side were ringed by cedars planted by his great-grandfather, grown now until they stood taller than the manor. Their narrow fingers bobbed and weaved, tracing the clouds’ swift flight. The distant fields—already knee-high with grass and ready for the yearlings to gambol and graze—looked as windswept as a stormy sea. The meadow flattened and shimmered, reflecting the impatient energy that found Charles the hour after sunrise striding back and forth between his great stone gates.

  His ear caught the faint sound of a horse clip-clopping along the cobblestone lane. As soon as the horse and young rider came into view, Charles broke into a run. “Any news?” />
  “Aye, m’lord.”

  The rider was the youngest son of the married couple who essentially ran Charles’s home. Gaylord Days was the chief butler, and his wife, Maisy, was in charge of the kitchen and scullery. Will was their youngest of six and everyone’s favorite, a bright lad with a laugh that seemed to chime louder than the Sabbath bells.

  Will waved a newspaper over his head and shouted, “A battle, sir! A big one as well, over a thousand of the rebels against our brave redcoats! Someplace called Bunker Hill.”

  “Never mind that.” Charles rushed up to where Will had reined in the dappled gray mare. The boy exercised two of Charles’s favorite horses. In exchange, he rode out to meet the mail coach making the semiweekly run from London and Southampton. Charles gripped the stirrup and demanded, “Any letters from the colonies?”

  “Aye, m’lord. From Nova Scotia.” Will unslung the leather pouch that he carried under his oilskin. “A new hand this time. A fair one.”

  “New?” Charles bit down hard on his sudden surge of hope. But he couldn’t completely stifle his trembling fingers as he fumbled with the straps. “This knot is impossible!”

  “Allow me, m’lord.” Will made swift work of the straps and then handed Charles the packet of mail.

  “You’re a good lad, young Will.” Charles flipped through the mail until his eyes froze on a letter. In his haste to unfold his pocketknife and slit open the wax seal, he dropped the remaining post. Charles did not even bother to look up. Will slid from the horse and began gathering the post. The wind picked up one piece and flung it back toward the stone gates. Will pounced on it. Charles did not see a thing.

  “Here you are, m’lord. I think I found them all.”

  But Charles was captivated by the words inscribed on the page. He reread the short letter a third time, then clenched his hands together and raised his face toward the storm-tossed sky. “Thank you, Father. Oh, thank you!”

  “Good news, m’lord?”

  “Not good, young Will, but excellent news! Outstanding news!” Charles searched his waistcoat pockets and extracted a pair of silver farthings. “Here you are, my boy. Celebrate with me!”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Now ride home and tell your father to air out the front rooms and have the curtains and coverlets replaced. And we will need new paint—the finest of everything.”

  Will bounded back into the saddle. “There’s to be company, sir?”

  “Not company. Family!”

  Will’s face lit up. All in the manor knew of Charles’s fervent hopes. “Then she’s coming?”

  “She is indeed. She might well be on the high seas by now. Hurry, my boy.”

  “Like the wind, m’lord!” Will whipped the reins and spurred the horse into a gallop.

  Charles laughed as he watched the lad raise a cloud of dust in his race to the manor. Then his eyes fell back on the letter. It was the first written entirely by Nicole. In the past, she had only penned a few words at the bottom of Andrew and Catherine’s letters. Nicole had always written in French because of her struggle with written English, which she was learning at a much slower rate than spoken English. Yet now she was writing with as fair a hand as Charles had ever seen, expressing words that gave him inexpressible joy.

  My dear uncle, Nicole wrote, I write this letter with my own hand to show you that my English is much improved. But still I make mistakes. I know this, and know also I will make greater mistakes even than this when I arrive. But if you will still have me, then I shall come, and agree to your condition. I shall give you two years of my life in your fair England. I have also decided to return to my given name, and be the Harrow that I was at birth. Yet my French heritage can not and must not be denied. So with your permission I shall be known as Nicole Harrow. I shall do my best to make you proud. Fondly, Nicole.

  Charles laughed heartily as he turned back toward the manor. “Make me proud? By all that’s good, my dear, you will do more than that!” He did not care how his words might sound to anyone who might hear. It was either speak his thoughts out loud or burst. “You will do far more than give me pride! Of that I am—”

  He stopped. The familiar pain whispered to him, which was good, for it granted him a moment to reach the gate and use it for support. Sometimes there was this first faint hint before the real pain struck. Other times it attacked without warning, and that was worse by far. But this time was bad enough. Charles held the pillar with one hand and his chest with the other. The pain made him wheeze. Again he was grateful that so far the pain had only struck where he was able to find a private corner.

  He fought the pain, waiting for some relief. Gradually it subsided, and he was able to rise from his crouched position and walk slowly back to the manor. In truth, Nicole’s coming was not a moment too soon. The matter of his legacy had to be resolved while there was still time.

  Chapter 5

  Nicole walked streets that felt both familiar and alien. Halifax was a town transformed.

  She had moved in with Cyril and Anne to spend the final weeks with them before her departure for England. Anne had not been feeling well. Anne was a delicate woman, and carrying the baby through the long winter had been hard on her. Many winter illnesses were still rampant in the area, and Cyril continued to shoulder a tremendous burden. Therefore, Nicole’s offer to help around the house until her sailing off to England was accepted with relief from Anne and Cyril alike.

  Another reason for her visit was that Nicole’s presence was required to help find a vessel. Securing a berth bound for England was proving to be extremely difficult. Cyril had initially thought they could merely contact one of the local shipping agents, pay the money, and thereby book the voyage. But with the troubles to the south, all the ships headed for England had been booked for weeks and even months in advance.

  There was a third reason, not discussed yet known by all. Catherine both knew Nicole’s departure was coming and had accepted it long before the discussion was over. But after the matter was out in the open, a shadow coalesced about Catherine. The daily strain of waiting to hear that a berth had been found and Nicole must leave had been hard on them all, but far worse on Catherine. Then late one night, Nicole had entered the front parlor and overheard Catherine speaking to Andrew in their bedroom. Nicole had heard her murmur how each day that went by was only adding to the hardship of saying farewell. It was then Nicole had known that, for Catherine’s sake, she must make a clean break and get herself to Halifax. When Andrew received the letter that stated Nicole’s only chance for acquiring a berth on a ship was for her to be near the Halifax port—so at a moment’s notice she might take the place of someone who had failed to show—they had all been very sorry, but also a little relieved.

  Yet since her arrival, Nicole had discovered that Halifax was no longer the town she had once known. During the four months since Christmas, it had changed dramatically. The advent of spring had brought many new arrivals: soldiers by the boatload, horses, and Loyalists from the southern colonies. New noises rang out everywhere. All the talk was concerning the impending war and most of it was bad. In winter-clad Georgetown, Nicole had heard none of this, so her walking around the Canadian colonies’ most significant Atlantic port had been quite a shock.

  She gripped her basket with both hands and hurried back from the market, keeping to the raised plank sidewalks that fronted the main streets. It was not the most direct way home, and her basket was heavy. Yet she did not dare use the side streets. Soldiers spilled from the taverns at all hours of the day and night, noisy and dangerous. The constabularies were overwhelmed. The locals had come to refer to all the changes as simply “The Troubles.” Nicole had never heard a more apt description in all her life.

  As Nicole was about to cross a street, she suddenly had to stop and wait for a trio of clanking artillery pieces to trundle by. The horses drawing the cannon seemed as dusty and tired as the soldiers who escorted the weaponry. She tried to muffle her ears to the discourse of war th
at went swirling through the streets.

  There was news about another attack aimed at Quebec, others at forts along the Saint Lawrence River. One man spoke of the defeats that were growing in number, another of the victories, which were almost as troubling as the defeats. Nicole strived not to give thought to her own conflicting loyalties. All she knew was that there was little fighting in Louisiana and none in Nova Scotia. Her two homes were safe for now.

  Watching the warships cram the harbor and the soldiers march on the streets evoked old memories for Nicole. She couldn’t help but recall the adversity her family had endured. What other young mothers would be facing the fear and upheaval of war? No, she wanted nothing to do with English soldiers and this war brewing to the south.

  The troubles all around her seemed to bring out the confusion Nicole felt within. In the eleven days since she had arrived in Halifax, she had come no closer to feeling at peace about going to England. Somehow it was not enough that in her heart and in her prayers she had felt her decision to be the right one. Or that Andrew and Catherine’s prayer time had confirmed the same direction. The sense of harmony with her newly found parents and her God only heightened Nicole’s bafflement. She wanted to go, but she also wanted to stay. She felt a great sense of loss in having to leave this wild, harsh land she had come to love, yet was excited about what lay ahead. It hit her like a pang of hunger. She grew impatient with finding a ship and berth. Still, all the while she was half hoping it would all turn out to be infeasible.

  Nicole arrived finally to the end of the raised sidewalk and continued on along the path that led from town toward the western hills. Halifax was an unpredictable sort of town, thriving and bustling one moment and totally quiet the next. This far from the central market and the harbor, all the houses had fenced-in yards that held geese, chickens, goats, and pigs. Once the last traces of winter departed, a vegetable garden would be grown in many of the yards. Now everything was snow patched and muddy, except for a few irises blooming from porch boxes—the first sign of a season Nicole was destined not to share.