The Distant Beacon

by T. Davis Bunn

  Up ahead, rising from the browns and grays of an early spring landscape, rose the slender spire of her father’s church. It seemed only fitting that this be the first signal of her return.

  Nicole flew back to the carriage. “Hand down that small trunk! Please. No, not that one, the other bound in leather.”

  Gordon was standing at the door of the carriage, watching her curiously. “What is it?”

  She accepted the trunk from the driver, set it on the ground, and found her hands to be trembling so much she made hard going of the straps.

  “Nicole, what’s the matter?” Gordon asked again.

  She finally got the trunk unlatched and flipped open the lid. On top, wrapped in clean bunting, was the dress she had decided upon while still on board the vessel. A white frock, the simplest she owned, the only decoration was tiny mother-of-pearl buttons and a froth of lace rising from waist to neck and adorning each wrist.

  “Nicole, my dear, Georgetown is but an hour’s ride ahead of us.”

  “Yes, that is so. You don’t think I can meet my parents wearing four days of road dust, do you?” She dug through the trunk to find a pair of shoes of ivory kid leather. She glanced at Gordon. “Do you have anything finer to wear than that dusty old greatcoat?”

  The rains came just as Andrew had predicted, and just as she was putting Father to bed for his midday rest. The old man was so much like a child these days that even his eyes had taken on a newborn’s milky unclarity. She would never have admitted such a thing to anyone, but it seemed as though her father was waiting for something. What, she did not know exactly. But when it arrived, he was intending to leave. Or even more shattering to her lonely spirit was the thought that God was intending for him to go. Because with this thought came a second impression, that both God and her father were merely waiting for Catherine to let him go.

  She sat by his bed as she had many times through the difficult winter, when ice and snow had closed the roads and she couldn’t make the journey to her beloved French settlement a day’s ride northeast of Georgetown. She would sit here by her slumbering father and listen to the snow and wind and think about her earlier days with a clarity that words could never provide.

  She would recall her beloved friend Louise and their meeting place high above their two villages—and the day they exchanged babies, the journey to Halifax for the doctor to see to her little one. Then came the horrible day of Acadian expulsion. Those nearly two decades of not knowing what had happened to her baby, to Louise and Henri. The years of loving and raising little Anne as their own. Here there was no pain to the memories, not even over the loss of her own Nicole. She thought of her by that name now, which was as it should be. And she prayed for them all.

  By the time she emerged from Father John’s room, the rain had ceased its thunderous drumming on the roof. A few moments later, while she was washing the midday dishes, the sun reappeared. The air beyond her kitchen window sparkled with a special clarity now, every scent etched against the backdrop of wet earth and a clean spring breeze. The church bell rang the hour, and all the world seemed to shimmer in cadence with the chime. Even a gentle birdsong held a strength echoed by the whinny of a horse determinedly shaking its bridle.

  A driver’s whip cracked through the clear afternoon. Catherine paused in her chores and squinted out the window. Beyond her range of vision, an angry driver used his whip a second time and shouted, “Ho there, you! Pull your weight now, giddap!”

  The horse neighed in protest. No, not just one horse. Obviously several of them were straining hard against a heavy load and the mud from this most recent rain. Catherine stood there amazed that any driver in his right mind would attempt to force his steeds through the aftermath of a spring downpour.

  Then, to her astonishment, four horses rounded the corner, heaving and straining to pull a stately carriage. Catherine raised a hand and rubbed her eyes. The picture seemed drawn from a childhood fairy tale, yet there it was. A royal crest adorned the travel-stained door.

  She watched as a young man leaned out the window and called, “All right, that’s far enough.”

  “And high time too,” the driver shouted back. Even in his mud-spattered state, the man was dressed in regal finery. And the horses. Though with muck dripping from their chests and each one foam draped and blowing hard, she knew these were magnificent animals. The driver slackened the reins and threw on the hand brake. “Whoa there, ease up now.”

  It seemed to Catherine that half the village followed in the lane behind the carriage. And all of the children. Well they should, for it was only the fact that she could see them chattering and pointing that allowed her to believe her own eyes.

  The driver climbed down from his high perch, when the carriage door opened and the young man said, “No, no, Samuel, you go ahead and see to your horses.”

  As the driver moved away toward the horses, Catherine saw he was dressed in the formal blue of a naval officer, with long hair tied back in a blue velvet ribbon. He inspected the muddy lane by the carriage, then reached inside and pulled out a greatcoat, rather the worse for wear. He stepped down, ignoring his polished boots now in muck beyond his ankles. Then he did the most gallant thing Catherine had ever seen. He spread his coat to make a clean path from the carriage to their stone front walkway.

  He turned and reached up a hand, and Catherine’s hands went to her mouth at the sight emerging from the carriage. Too young for a queen, a duchess, perhaps. The young lady’s white dress seemed to float about her. An awestruck murmur rose from the villagers gathered around as she stepped carefully to the ground and trod across the greatcoat.

  She arrived at the gate and fumbled with the latch as one blind. She was crying. Raising her head to search the housefront, she called, “Mama?”

  “Nicole!” Catherine flew around the kitchen table, spilling a bowl of vegetables in her haste. She fumbled with her own front-door latch until, with a second cry, she hammered it back with the palm of her hand. Nicole was still standing by the front gate, unable to make it open. Catherine ran down the path and reached over the gate to sweep her daughter up in an embrace so fierce nothing could hold them apart. Not the gate, nor time, nor linen finery, nor life’s changes, nor the cheering of all those crowded along the lane. Nothing.

  Chapter 3

  “I didn’t want the carriage to come down the lane at all,” Nicole said again. She sat, her back straight, with Catherine’s best teacup and saucer placed carefully on her knee. “But the mud was so very bad, and Gordon insisted.”

  “It’s fine, dear. I couldn’t care less about such matters.” Catherine noticed for the first time in years that the handle of Nicole’s cup was chipped, and the cup didn’t match the saucer. Even worse, Gordon’s cup was cracked from rim to base.

  “She halted us an hour’s ride outside the village to change into this fine white frock you see,” Gordon noted with a small smile. He stood by the unlit fireplace, almost as one ready to snap to attention. Not even his stockinged feet could diminish the young man’s military bearing. “I couldn’t permit her to muddy up those shoes walking across your village lane.” He hastily added, “Not that I mean to denigrate your town, madame. Georgetown is as fine a hamlet as I have seen. It puts most English towns to shame, and I mean that most sincerely.”

  “Thank you.” Catherine gripped her cup without raising it to her lips. She wanted to reach out and again draw her daughter close but found herself gazing in awe at this refined young woman.

  Nicole’s poise wasn’t just in her bearing. She spoke with the finest diction, her French accent a mere trace now. Her face was dusted with some powder, and she carried about herself the fragrance of Oriental spices. Her hair was bound up in a fashion Catherine could not even begin to fathom.

  Nicole reached out and took hold of Catherine’s hand. Even here there was discomfort, when she only wanted to recapture the first moments of joy at their reunion. Catherine looked down at the two hands and wished she could hide away her
own, red and winter-chapped as they were.

  “I’m so glad to see you, Mama. I have waited so long, I can hardly believe it is true. How have you been?”

  Catherine willed herself to give back a taste of the love and care she found in her daughter’s eyes. At least this had not changed. And yet it had, for the person who gazed at her was a woman indeed, and the expression had deepened and strengthened such that even here Catherine found herself stumbling over the confession, “Missing you—.”

  “And I you,” Nicole said. A sheen of tears appeared. But the woman who was her daughter showed her strength of will. She lifted her chin and blinked repeatedly, holding back the flow. Catherine wanted to squeeze the hand she held and tell her daughter to let go, to release the tears and weep for them both. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak, and Nicole smiled tremulously at the young officer and said, “Look at me. I’m such a ninny.”

  “Not anything like that,” Gordon reassured her. The young man straightened to full attention as the rear door opened.

  “I heard voices,” Father John said, unsteadily making his way through the doorway, adjusting his suspenders.

  “Grandfather!” Nicole hurried to embrace the old man.

  “Good gracious, child. Could this be you?” The old man’s eyes sharpened as they hadn’t in months. He smiled and said, “You leave a fine young lass and come back to me a duchess.”

  “That is exactly what I thought,” Catherine said, not able to keep the pride from her voice. “A duchess has come to visit us.”

  “My dear sweet Nicole,” Father John said. “You do us all proud.”

  Nicole led the old man over to the fireplace. “Grandfather, may I present Gordon Goodwind, who has escorted me all the way from England.”

  Gordon gave the military half bow. “An honor, sir. Nicole has often spoken of you, and always in the highest possible terms.”

  Catherine watched as the old man’s gaze sharpened further still. “An officer, are you?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Navy?”

  “Actually, sir, I am with the merchant marine.”

  “As honorable a position as any.” John pointed to the rocker by the fireplace. “Give me a hand with settling my bones, will you?”

  “Of course, sir.” With Gordon on one side and Catherine on the other, the old man lowered himself into the padded seat.

  “Gordon is captain of his own vessel, Grandfather.”

  “Then obviously there are others who think highly of you, besides my granddaughter.” Father John pointed to empty chairs. “Sit yourselves down, the both of you.”

  Father John inspected them and said, “If I didn’t know better, I would say I was looking at royalty.”

  Gordon cleared his throat. “Actually, sir—” “Gordon, no,” Nicole protested quietly.

  “They need to know,” Gordon replied. “They are your family.”

  Nicole dropped her eyes to the hands in her lap.

  “Your daughter . . .” Gordon hesitated a moment and glanced at Nicole, clearly hoping for some sign of approval. But she didn’t raise her head. “That is, Nicole . . .”

  “Out with it, man,” Father John said. “We already know her name.”

  “Yes, sir. That is, well, she is actually a titled lady now.” Catherine couldn’t help but stare. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s nothing, Mama,” Nicole said, her face embarrassed. “Really.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Nicole, but I must respectfully disagree.” Gordon continued in a rush, “Charles has elected to make Anne’s son, his closest heir by blood, the lord of the Harrow estate. But he has granted Nicole the title of viscountess.”

  Catherine knew her mouth was open and she was staring round-eyed at this beloved stranger who was her daughter, yet she could think of nothing to say or do.

  Father John, on the other hand, chuckled with glee. The sound was enough to lift even Nicole’s uncomfortable gaze. “Is this youth speaking the truth?” he asked.

  “I—I believe so, Grandfather.”

  He laughed even louder. “If that doesn’t beat all. The little one who leaves and is lost to us for nigh on twenty years, who then comes back, meets her uncle, and then goes off again, now returns a titled lady!” He slapped his knee. “I’ve lived to see it all, I have. I can die a happy man.”

  “Don’t say that!” When she realized her daughter had exclaimed the exact same words as well, Catherine covered her mouth. The two of them stared at each other, on the verge of laughter and tears both.

  But before they could give vent to either, the front door slammed open against the side wall. Still in his muddy riding boots, Andrew leaped across the room and gathered up his daughter in a tight embrace. He held her there for a long moment, the only sound in the room that of Father John’s chuckles.

  “Look out there, will you,” the old man said, pointing a shaky finger out the door toward the carriage mired almost to its axles before their cottage. The driver and his helper had pulled the horses over to the nearby stable for currying and a good feed. “Almost like the king himself has come for tea.”

  But Andrew seemed unaware of anything but the fact that he was holding his daughter. “Welcome home, my dear. Welcome home,” he whispered.

  Catherine felt the bands around her chest begin to ease. Leave it to her husband to see beyond the finery and receive this lovely young woman back as their very own.

  Father John smiled up at the pair of them and said, “Careful now, that’s a true viscountess you’re holding. One of them royals, she is.”

  Andrew released her enough to stare into the tearstreaked face with a trembling smile. He brushed burnished locks from her damp cheek. “Oh,” he said, “I’ve always known that. Always.”

  Chapter 4

  Many more surprises followed Nicole’s arrival. On the second day, Father John had felt well enough to take his first walk through the village since the previous summer. He made his way up their lane toward the village square, Nicole to his right, holding his arm and elbow with both hands, and Gordon doing the same on his left. The two young people so towered over the bent old man that they could exchange glances and remarks over his bowed head. Catherine knew this because she watched them through her kitchen window. She saw how the two of them looked at each other, their glances lingering, and she saw the tenderness come to the young man’s stalwart features. Her little window had shown her so much of the world. It now revealed to her two new things. First, that her daughter was deeply in love yet unable to acknowledge it even to herself . And second, that when the young man departed, so too would Nicole.

  The third day’s noon meal was interrupted by a great clattering of horses and men pulling up outside their cottage. A voice Catherine recognized as one of the village boys piped loud and clear, “This here’s the cottage, your lordship, sir! Right through there.”

  “That’s a good lad. Here now, a bright new king’s shilling for your trouble.”

  Gordon was already up and moving for the door. His previous courteous and affable demeanor was gone. In its place was a man who had learned through hardship and trial to bear the mantle of command. He paused only long enough to give his military bow and say to Catherine, “Your pardon, ma’am.” He then flung open the door and cried, “I say there, what’s the meaning of this?”

  “Captain Goodwind?”

  “The same.”

  “I seek the Viscountess Lady Harrow.”

  “To what purpose, my man?”

  “I am purser to his lordship, the governor of Halifax.”

  “Of course, I recognize you now.” Gordon turned back to the little group inside. “Your pardon, Miss Nicole. But I fear this requires your personal attention.”

  Nicole rose. “Excuse me, Mama.”

  “Of course, dear.” Catherine could scarcely say the term of endearment, for before her stood a lady of regal bearing. Clearly Andrew felt the same. He reached for Catherine’s hand as Nicole crossed the fr
ont room.

  “Good day to you, sir,” they heard Nicole say.

  “Your pardon, Viscountess, but his lordship urgently requires the carriage, as his other has been damaged by a mud slide. He asks if you might be making the return journey this day.”

  “That is quite impossible.”

  Sunlight through the open front door made the room’s shadows even deeper. Andrew’s face fell into a deep frown of concern. Catherine knew her own features mirrored his reaction. There was no pleasure to be found even in the news that Nicole was remaining with them at least a while longer. Her imminent departure had been all but announced.

  The governor’s steward said, “Then I must respectfully ask if your ladyship is willing to return by horseback.”

  “Of course.”

  “The governor will be most relieved to hear this, ma’am. He apologizes most profusely, but the carriage is to return with us, and without delay. I’ve brought saddle horses for you and Captain Goodwind. And the packhorse you see here.”

  “That will do us perfectly well, thank you.”

  Catherine found the strength to call over, “Nicole dear.”

  Nicole looked around, instantly transformed to the softer self, the familiar daughter. “Yes, Mama?”

  “Ask the gentleman if he has had lunch.” Nicole seemed momentarily at a loss.

  Andrew spoke up. “We do not stand upon class in this house, my dear. You should ask the gentleman if he would like to come inside.”

  “It’s not that, Papa,” Nicole replied.

  It was Gordon who responded, “I fear there is more than just the one gentleman, sir.”

  Gordon pushed open the door fully. Catherine craned about the table and held her breath at the sight of an entire retinue lined up outside the cottage. A dozen men and more, all bearing the sabers and redcoats of the mighty hussars, were seated upon their elegant steeds.