The Birthright

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Ah. You like my library, do you? I am so very pleased. I spend as much time here as I can.”

  The chamber was as tall as the long gallery but included two balconies rather than one. Two of the walls were covered by glass-fronted cases, and every case was crammed with books. The third wall had shelves as well, but these were built to rise up and frame a huge marble fireplace. The fourth wall was given over to a beautiful leather-topped desk flanked by tall windows. The furniture was simple compared to the rooms they had just left behind: a great Persian carpet spread over the polished wooden floor, leather settees, and tables piled with books and documents. Books everywhere. “May I come back here?” she asked.

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure. We shall claim this chamber as our own, shall we? The place where we meet in the evening and speak of our day.”

  Above her confusion and all the opulence, Nicole heard her uncle’s desperate plea for her to be happy here. She patted his arm and said, “You are such a good, dear man.”

  Charles seemed to deflate, releasing the tension he had been holding since her arrival. And long before. Suddenly she was looking into the face of the man she had come to know in Halifax. “You must be tired from your journey,” Charles said. “Come, let me show you to your private chambers, and you can have a rest before dinner.”

  Nicole started to say she had no intention of resting, but her mind was caught when Charles had said private chambers.

  Down the staircase they went, through a trio of rooms somewhat less regal than those upstairs, yet only by degree. Then through a doorway with an odd point at the top and up another flight of side stairs, narrower than the front hall and much older. The steps creaked a gentle welcome beneath her feet. The railing was made of dark wood and appeared scarred from centuries of use.

  Charles tapped on another of the tall peaked doors, set now in frames carved from stone. “My chambers are through here,” he said. He then led her down a hall decorated with tapestries to another doorway. “And here is where you may reside.”

  He pushed open the door and waited for her to enter. Though it was very hard, Nicole forced herself to move forward.

  Before her stretched an array of four rooms. The front room held a writing desk, settees, and bookcases, with ancient-looking windows shaped like the doorway. The walls were comprised of carved wood, oiled so that they shined a rich welcome in the afternoon light. And on the left and right sides of the entrance were fireplaces, so tall she could have stepped inside them. Nicole gasped when she looked into the next chamber and saw the vast canopied bed. To one side there was a narrow doorway, open to the afternoon breeze, which revealed a balcony and stone railing smothered by blooming lilacs.

  “Your dressing chamber and washroom are through there,” Charles said, pointing. “I shall leave you now and give you a chance to settle in. Welcome, my dear, to Harrow Hall.”

  Chapter 13

  Anne’s and Catherine’s prayers and their unrelenting care could not keep Cyril’s fever from returning. And five days after Anne’s fearful admission, both women were now exhausted from the work and the strain.

  Anne emerged from the house in time to greet the symphony of twilight. She eased her back with one hand and clung to a porch post with the other. As she squinted at the globe dipping behind the western hills, she felt resentment over the day’s closing beauty. How could the heavens be so gloriously lit? How could the air hold such a warm promise of summer?

  Then the door opened, and Catherine came out to stand beside her. “Is he resting?”

  “Finally.” But what got Anne’s attention was not her mother’s question. Rather it was the odor that had escaped through the door with her. She knew the smell. She had faced it many times in the homes of Cyril’s patients. He had once told her he could often tell the degree of illness long before he examined his patient, simply by being exposed to the home’s odor. She did not have his gift or training. Nevertheless, she had studied hard and learned much, and she knew what she smelled.

  Her eyes were then drawn toward the raucous shouts coming from the lane beyond their front garden. Their planting had been over a week late. Finally that morning, three of Cyril’s former patients had stopped by to dig the small furrows and plant some vegetables. The neat rows of tilled earth gave off a fragrant promise Anne found easier to ignore. Instead she focused on the three men sauntering by on the other side of the white picket fence.

  The governor had ordered that two fields beyond their home be turned into garrisons for soldiers on their way west. One of the fields was now home to a hodgepodge of adventurers, mostly German mercenaries who had come to fight alongside the British. Late at night when Anne lay in bed, she could hear their carousing.

  The three men brandished sabers, wore high muddy boots, and carried themselves with a jaunty air. One of them spoke in a language she did not understand. Anne felt no fear, no anger over their leering and rough talking. Having nothing to say, nor the will to hide what she was feeling, she simply stared back at them. And something in her gaze was enough to silence them. They turned away from whatever they found in her and her mother’s face, continuing on without another word.

  Not long after the soldiers had passed, Anne heard a horse trotting. She did not turn, though, thinking it was one of the motley officers responsible for the garrison. Then she heard her mother gasp.

  Catherine flung herself down the path, struggled with the gate, then raced toward the horseman. The figure was caught in the glare of the setting sun, so that at first Anne could only see that both the rider and horse were near exhaustion. For the horse’s head drooped almost to the ground, and the rider’s shoulders were bowed, with the head leaning slightly to one side.

  Then she suddenly realized this was her father.

  Anne started down the stairs, but it seemed that suddenly balance was impossible to maintain. It occurred to her that this was not just the result of fatigue or her being with child. She found herself needing to grip the railing with both hands, to pause on each step, breathe, and then gather herself for the next step. She watched as Catherine reached up and embraced the exhausted Andrew. She heard the quiet weeping, the first tears Catherine had shed since her coming.

  Anne then heard her father say, “I left just as soon as I received your letter. I’ve ridden straight through. How is he?”

  She managed finally to get to the bottom stair and take the first step along the path. She noticed how her mother did not respond with words but with weeping, stronger than before. Her father then slid from the horse without releasing Catherine. Rubbing her face back and forth on Andrew’s shoulder, her mother clung to him with a look of desperation, her body shaking from the irregular sobs.

  Anne’s feet could no longer hold to the path, nor her eyes see to find her way. The stench from the house, their little cottage, wafted out and wrapped its cruel tentacles around her. She felt the moist earth beneath her feet, and it seemed to her that she stood at the edge of a grave. She knew her father had turned toward her, yet how she knew this she could not have said. It appeared as though the odor now blinded her to all but the sudden realization. She had been at Cyril’s side when other pastors had come. Other ministers, some strangers and some friends, called to the bedside with urgent haste. There to help, to offer the final solace. There to pray.

  She did not so much faint as give up. All the strength she had been holding, all the will she had left—all was suddenly gone. It felt to Anne that the ground had risen up and caught her. The last thing she remembered was the scent of soft, sweet earth.

  Chapter 14

  Gradually Anne began to return from the land of unconsciousness. But her eyes resisted focusing, and her mind struggled to sort out what was going on around her. Ghostlike images drifted in and out of the mist, murmuring words she couldn’t comprehend, touching her with hands she did not feel. She wanted to scream in her confusion and protest, but only a groan escaped her lips. It brought immediate response from the ethere
al figures hovering over her. A hand reached out to stroke her brow. Then she felt it and understood its meaning.

  A voice spoke, her mother’s. She fought to make sense of the sounds, trying hard to focus her eyes on the face that wavered before her. She licked dried lips and finally found a voice to express her confusion. “What happened?” The words were weak and breathy, and she did not recognize them as her own.

  The hand again. Stroking her forehead, brushing back the hair that had somehow escaped from her carefully pinned topknot, now wisping uncontrollably about her face. “We’re here. Your father and I are here,” the voice above her said.

  That I know, but why? Anne wanted to respond. What has happened? She felt the urge to scream. Why was she in this peculiar state? She had to know. The questions pounded through her benumbed brain.

  “The doctor has left. You—”

  But Anne interrupted. “Doctor? Why was a doctor here?”

  “You have a son,” her mother murmured, trying to bring some lightness to the strange announcement.

  “A son?” Anne fought to raise herself from her prostrate position.

  Catherine’s hand forced her back against the pillows. “Just relax. You are still very weak. You must conserve your strength.”

  “A son?” Anne still puzzled. “How? When…?”

  “A short time ago.”

  “Is he…?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “But he’s early. He was not to arrive…”

  “I know.” Anne relaxed against the pressure of the hand on her shoulder. She did not have the strength to push herself up anyway. Her eyes searched frantically around the room for clues as to the bizarre happenings. If she could only think clearly.

  “Please,” she implored her mother, searching for some sense of her world. “Start at the beginning.”

  She saw Catherine blink back tears. This was not the way a new grandmother usually delivered the news that a baby had arrived safely. Anne felt terror grip her soul.

  “You fainted,” Catherine began.

  Anne struggled to remember. Yes, she had fainted. Just after her father had arrived. Her father. Was he here? She strained through the fog of uncertainty. Perhaps it was he by the foot of her bed.

  “I fainted,” she agreed with a barely perceptible nod of her head. Somewhere in her dim memory came the remembrance of pain. Pain. It was all so strange. “But why?”

  “Cyril has been…ill.”

  Cyril. Of course. It was Cyril. It all rushed in on her now. Cyril was ill. Desperately ill. She must go to him. She must. She pushed against her mother’s hand, exerting all the strength she had left in the attempt to raise herself up.

  “You must remain calm,” Catherine said, but her words blurred with tears.

  Then her father moved up beside her. “You went into early labor—because of the strain and anxiety,” he said. Even his voice sounded different to Anne. “The baby’s small but quite strong. He’s a little fighter. And he’s going to be fine.”

  “Cyril?” mumbled Anne, shaking her head in hope of clearing the confusion. Was this all some horrid nightmare? Would she soon awaken to have her world restored again?

  Andrew took her unresponsive hand and rubbed it between his two strong hands. It was some time before he found his voice. “Cyril’s prayer was answered,” he said softly. “He was able to tell his son that he loved him.”

  Anne puzzled. What a strange thing to say. So strange it cleared some of the fog from her brain. “What are you saying?”

  Again a long pause. “My dear…I would give my life not to have to say this to you, but…your beloved Cyril has left us and gone to glory.”

  “What…?”

  “Cyril passed away, my dear. Not long after he held his newborn son in his arms. His last prayer was for you—and your baby boy.”

  “You’re mad,” Anne screamed as she heaved herself to a sitting position, despite the hands that tried to hold her. Never had she spoken to her father in such a way, nor to anyone, but she was beside herself with fear. “I want to see Cyril,” she demanded. “I want to see my baby.”

  “Hush, my dear, hush.” Catherine sought to comfort her. “You will only bring harm to yourself. You must think of your child. I’ll bring him to you. It’s true that his father is gone, but the baby is right here with you. You must think about him now. That is what Cyril would want.”

  As Andrew held Anne tightly, trying to still her trembling while the sobs shook her body, Catherine turned and left the bedside. Soon she returned and placed a small, frail bundle in Anne’s arms. Her son. With all the strength she could muster, Anne gathered him close to her heart. It was true. She had a son. But her mind couldn’t escape the accompanying fact: that it must also be true Cyril had lost his battle with the ugly disease that consumed his body.

  Tears of grief streamed down her cheeks as she mourned for the man she had lost. How would she ever live without him? How could she bear to spend her days and nights alone? What would happen to the child in her arms? Baby John, whom they had looked forward to welcoming to their home. The little one who was to bring them such joy and make their family complete.

  Oh, dear God, her heart cried out silently, please, please help me.

  Chapter 15

  Three weeks after her arrival in England, Nicole and Charles set out for London. As with everything else to do with life in Harrow Hall, their departure was an enormous affair. Gaylord and Maisy had left the day before. One of the maids shared the wagon’s front bench, young Will perched himself high on a heap of belongings, and a footman went along as driver and guard. Charles had explained he wouldn’t have subjected her to a journey so soon after her arrival, but the London season was drawing to a close. And it would be more fitting if they attended at least one event.

  Nicole did not mind at all. Little seemed to touch her very deeply these days. The contrast between England and everything she had known previously was so extreme, it had left her without a profound reaction to anything. Her days had been occupied with a flurry of activity as she learned her way around the manor. Yet nothing seemed to reach beneath the surface. Charles doted on her as did the household staff, everyone seeking to anticipate her wishes. But she had none. It was proving hard enough to accept the idea she had been brought there so that she might become heir to Charles’s estate. So that everything she saw—the house and gardens and furniture and paintings and opulent fittings—would become hers someday.

  The staff gathered to see them off, a duty made pleasant by their genuine smiles. Then, just as Nicole was settling into the coach, one of the gardeners came rushing down the long, tree-lined front lane waving the familiar leather packet over his head. “Just arrived, sir! Just arrived!”

  “Well done, Harry. This is a good sign for the journey ahead, wouldn’t you say, my dear?” Charles accepted the post through the window, then called out, “Let’s be off, Jim!”

  “Right you are, m’lord!” The young driver cracked his whip, and the horses wheeled about and headed off with a clatter of metal shoes on cobblestones.

  “Is there any word from home?” Nicole asked.

  Charles had to work at masking his wince over the word home. But Nicole caught sight of it and immediately understood how hard he tried to be happy for her as he hefted the thick envelope from among the others. “I say, this is a gift towards a good journey!”

  “Finally!” Nicole’s hands shook as she took the envelope and broke open the wax seal. She unfolded the letter, and then a second page fell out. “Look, I also got a letter from Mama Robichaud!” she cried.

  Charles sat in silence and let her read, then reread the two letters. Nicole devoured the pages, one in English and the other in French. The first one was all Catherine, brisk and bright in spite of the heartache she felt over Nicole being so far away. Catherine closed with a further note that caused Nicole to raise her head. “Anne does not write. Apparently she’s busy tending Cyril, who has come down with the chest ailment
.”

  Charles showed not the least worry. “He’s a strong young man and a wise doctor. He should have no difficulty in throwing this off, particularly so late in the season.”

  “Yes, you must be right.”

  “What do your relations in Louisiana have to say?”

  Nicole found it helped to translate the letter. Otherwise there was the threat of losing herself in the soft French words, the sweet memories of fragrant green waters and of a home far removed. “They say all the family are fine, and the spring harvest was the most bountiful anyone can remember. But there are signs of trouble on all sides.”

  Charles’s expression hardened. “The war?”

  “Yes, it seems to be coming ever closer. The English occupy the fort at Baton Rouge and have warned the Spanish in New Orleans not to become involved.” She could not hold the tremor from her voice. “My family and Vermilionville are directly in the middle.”

  “I should not worry.” This was not Charles the kindly uncle who spoke now but rather a man of power and knowledge. “No doubt they hold Baton Rouge to keep the Spanish well apart from this conflict. They shall now go after the main strongholds farther to the north and not scatter their forces by trying to occupy the smaller villages. Especially when the locals are deemed noncombatants.” He stared out the window, seeing strategy and harsh images. “What utter nonsense this whole affair is, what balderdash, what tragedy.”

  “You are against the war?”

  “More than that, my dear. More than that. I am against the principle of this war.” He drummed his fingers on the window-sill, his face as serious as Nicole had ever seen. “These are not foreigners within some land our army has chosen to occupy. The largest contingent of American colonists is British! Do you know what it means for them to rebel against the nation that many of them still consider their homeland?”

  She found it difficult to see much further than her own aching heart and the longing she had for places and people across the sea. But the conviction with which Charles spoke helped her to set her homesickness aside. At least for now. “They must be very angry.”