She looked behind her at the open door, giving me an odd smile. “Have you come to help me escape, William?”
“I’d like to show you my library.”
She nodded. “How is your stomach?”
I was confused at first, thinking she thought me ill.
“You saw the captain send me to the floor with a punch?” I felt heat creeping up my face. “I’ve never been a man of violence. The captain is correct—”
She interrupted me, calling the captain an ugly French word.
February 14, 1756
I am teaching Amoret to read English. She mocks the captain, the way he pronounces things. She does his accent very well.
The captain’s men grumble about me disobeying him. One of them warns he will not be punished for my sins. Amoret eyes the boats, but she is closely watched. I am closely watched too.
April 28, 1756
Winship has returned and is in a black mood. His father had gambled away much of the family fortune.
The men are threatening to tell the captain I spent time alone with Amoret, blackmailing me for money. I am low on funds and have written home to my father to see if he’ll send me money. It shames me to ask for it.
May 1, 1756
Finally, the captain has freed Amoret.
She and I spend time together in the library, but are careful. It is dangerous, and I shouldn’t write these words, but I love her. I believe she is fond of me and loves me as well.
I thought of the sensation I’d had in the library of lovers whispering and the scent of longing. I believed she loved him too. I felt her love for him.
Last night, at dinner, the captain couldn’t keep his eyes off her, but rather from fear or desire, I couldn’t tell. I wanted to knock the look off his face.
“The men are afraid of you,” he said to her. “What have you done to them?”
She narrowed her eyes—bold and calculating—and leaned toward him. She knew what would frighten him: “I am a witch of the sea. Stab me and watch the water flow.” He drew back from her, pale. He could not hide the panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by rage that she would speak to him so. He stormed out of the room, and she stared out the window, turning inside of herself.
May 3, 1756
Amoret is with child. The baby will be born in September. She wants to have the child in Acadie. She confides in only me. And perhaps the servant girl too. They are close. The girl seems to worship Amoret, following her around wherever she goes.
“If you left this island,” I asked Amoret carefully, “wouldn’t you rather go to Virginia to find your family?”
“They would never stay away from Acadie. They have gone back, I’m sure of it, to find one another.”
June 15, 1756
Yesterday, as Amoret tended her garden of herbs—tansy, yellow iris, lovage, foxglove, lavender, and thyme—she chatted to me about her two little brothers. She seemed happy as she worked in the soil with her sleeves pushed up.
I knelt down and took her arms. “What is this?” I asked, putting my fingers on the bruises.
She pulled away. “It’s all right, William. Didn’t you see the scratches on his face?”
I came to the page that was torn out of the journal, running my finger down the frayed edges.
July 2, 1756
Amoret is in a quiet, pensive mood. Only to me, she shows that tender side of herself. She cares so deeply for her family.
Yesterday, she brought out a small white pipe and a brass thimble that she keeps hidden in her dress. “Papa’s and Aimée’s,” she explained. “I took them quickly when the soldiers came.” Her eyes were moist. “I wanted to see Papa’s eyes light up when he saw his clay pipe. But I haven’t seen him since they loaded him onto the other ship with my little brothers.” She turned the thimble over in her palm. “And Aimée was too sick.” She looked at me then with beseeching eyes. “Do you think Aimée is better? Do you think they’re treating her kindly where she is?”
“Your mother is with her. They have each other.”
“Maman is with her,” she said, rolling the thimble on her palm.
July 23, 1756
Her condition, I believe, is what has brought on her deep thoughtfulness. She confides in me about her life in Grand-Pré.
“Some of the villagers were frightened of me.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because of my temper,” she said, “but also because of this.” She stopped and pointed—
I was startled. I lowered the journal to my lap and stayed still so the bed wouldn’t squeak. I heard Mary’s and Patricia’s voices out in the hallway. I looked around frantically, trying to find a place to hide. There was a small space on the other side of the fireplace. I stepped lightly across the floor, hoping they were going into Patricia’s room. But they sounded like they weren’t moving from the hallway.
A board moaned under my foot. I stopped, watching the door. My heart thumped so hard I put my hand over my chest as if I could soothe it. I listened. They were still talking. I made my way to the hiding place and tucked myself in.
I still had the journal in my hand, but thankfully the bedside dresser was in order. But if they came into the room, they would see me.
I heard Patricia’s door open and the voices faded. I could hear them through the wall. They were in Patricia’s room. As quietly as I could, I made my way to the door, turning the knob. I peered out into the hallway. Patricia’s door was open, but they were inside her room. I slipped out the door and down the stairs. I heard Anna in the kitchen and went into my room and shut the door, collapsing on the bed.
I read again.
She stopped and pointed to her eye. A small portion of her pupil was a different color, a reddish-brown color. I’d noticed it.
“Did you injure it?” I asked.
“Ha! But how did you know? Some think it’s the devil eye!”
“I’ve seen it before. How did you do it?”
“Curiosity. And a stick.” She laughed, putting her hand on her growing stomach protectively.
“But didn’t the villagers see your eyes when you were born?”
She grew secretive and gave a little shrug. “It may also be because I like fire.”
I looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”
“People at Grand-Pré would say, ‘Start a fire and Amoret will come running to stare in the flames.’ I do like the beauty of it. Such color, like the sun setting.”
“Tell me what else you like.”
“Things in nature. The Mi’kmaq believe that everything, including people, animals, trees, and plants, hold the Creator within them,” she said with a smile that was sure and knowing. “They respect the land, as do the Acadians. We are called défricheurs d’eau, those who reclaim land from the sea.” She was thoughtful. “I am like the land of Acadie because I was reclaimed from the sea.”
I love the way her lips move and her hands fly as she talks.
“When we arrived in Minas Basin,” she continued, “the sea covered the great meadow. Our men built dykes and turned the salt marshlands into useable land. Rainwater washed out the salt. We grew corn, peas, wheat, barley, so much the earth gifted to us in gratitude for releasing it from the domain of the sea. We remember what the earth gives. We worked for it, but we remember it, as the Mi’kmaq do.”
A smile lightly touched her lips. “Once my papa reached over and pushed my hand into the wet soil. I shouted at him, for I have a wicked, sharp tongue I can’t control. As I tried to rinse the mud off my fingers, he grasped my wrist. ‘Amoret, we are part of the earth, part of the soil. It owns us, and we own it.’ Then he released me. So, you see, Acadians can never be parted from our land. And that is how I know we will reclaim Acadie.”
Her face lit up with hope. When she was like this, it wasn’t easy for me to remember the fierce slant of her eyes. But then her head would turn slightly, and I would see it again.
September 12, 1756
I delivered a baby girl.
Amoret was in great pain. But thankfully, the baby arrived quickly and is healthy and pink, with a shock of dark hair. The first time I have ever seen joy on Amoret’s face is when I put her daughter in her arms. She gazed at her with such love. She squeezed my hand. “Thank you, William. Thank you.”
“What will you name her?” I asked.
“Aimée,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “Yes, Aimée.” She looked up at me, that love still in her eyes. “If she were a boy, I would have named her William.”
I was deeply moved. “Winship wouldn’t have allowed that.”
“It would have been a secret name.”
Winship is livid the baby’s not a son. “I’ve been tricked,” he mumbled to me. “ ‘Greedily she engorged without restraint, and knew not eating death.’ ”
“What do you mean?” I asked him cautiously.
“I’ve seen how all of you look at her. She’s a witch! I’ve been ensnared, caught. I know how witches weave their spells. I’ve hunted them down. They tricked others, but couldn’t hide from me. But now, I have fallen to temptation. Amoret has the devil in her.”
I am planning our escape. I’ll take Amoret away. I only hope Winship will not I don’t care what he does. We’re leaving.
September 29, 1756
There is something different about Amoret now, quieter, even fiercer. I can’t seem to reach her anymore. She adores her baby, even if it is the captain’s, but it is more than that. She spends less time with me, huddling with her servant girl, who is devoted to Amoret and her daughter.
I tell her to be patient. We will leave on October 14, 1756, when Aimée is one month old. I don’t have any fortune of my own, but I hope to convince Amoret to come to England with me to live and to find her mother and sister and bring them there. I’ll care for her and little Aimée.
The handwriting changed, and the language went from English to French. It looked familiar to me, as if I should be able to read it, but I couldn’t.
I pulled Mamie’s once-white handkerchief out of my suitcase. “Keep it safe,” she told me one Christmas. I’d seen her eyes shift to my mother and knew this was our secret, the only one we’d ever shared.
The lace on the handkerchief had long since ripped and frayed. But the three initials embroidered in its corner were still there: MEL. My grandmother’s name had been Marie Elizabeth Lancaster—at least, after marrying my grandfather, who she’d said was of English descent.
I unfolded the soft cloth, revealing the little clay pipe. I stared at the white pipe in the sea of white of the handkerchief. I was certain I knew whose pipe it was. How did Mamie get it?
THE LIGHTS IN THE KITCHEN WERE ON, BUT IT SEEMED SHADOWY AND gloomy. Mary was at the table with Eli, laughing at something he said. He had an amused look on his face, was pushed back from the table, his arms folded, an empty plate in front of him.
Patricia was smiling beside him. Even Anna was seated at the table, wearing an agreeable expression. Ben had his head down, eating.
I put the journal down in front of Mary.
She picked it up. “Oh,” she said, looking up at me. “How did you get this?”
“How did you get it?”
“Someone left it in my room.”
“Just left it in your room?”
“Yes,” she said. “What were you doing with it? Did you go in my room?”
Thief, Tess whispered, but I didn’t know who she was talking to.
Eli was regarding me. I knew he thought I was in the wrong because I had gone into Mary’s room. But I wasn’t in the wrong if she was the one who had stolen it from me. And I had my own questions for Eli.
Patricia looked from Mary to me and back to Mary as if she was trying to figure it out.
“This is mine,” I said, grabbing it out of her hand, feeling like a child, turning back into a child in our childhood kitchen.
“It’s not yours. It belonged to a doctor who once lived at Sanctuary, so now it belongs to Uncle Frank.” She waved at it. “But have it, if it’s that important to you. Just please don’t go in my room again.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t fool me, Mary.”
“It was me,” Anna said abruptly, folding her arms tightly. “I saw the book when I was cleaning the library. I thought Mary would like to see it.”
I stared at her. “Why would Mary like to see it?”
“Because,” she began, seemingly reluctantly, “Sanctuary is her home now. Maybe she wants to read the books in the library like you do, to find out about her new home.”
I was struck dumb by this speech, while Eli was looking at me with concern in his eyes. Finally, I thought of my retort, only to be stopped by the loud footsteps racing down the stairs and Uncle’s voice bellowing, “Anna! Where are you?!”
Alarmed, Anna pedaled back from her chair to the sink, and Eli stood.
Uncle burst in, pushing past Eli and heading straight to Anna. “What were you doing in my things?” he screamed at her.
Her eyes were large and frightful as she stared at him, frozen, one hand clutching the counter behind her. Her mouth moved, but she said nothing.
“Get away from her, Uncle,” I said, coming toward him.
Eli reached around to grab me, but the slap came hard on Anna’s cheek before we could do anything to stop it. Patricia called out as Anna went down, her head hitting the counter with an awful crack. She crumpled a little, and I lunged for Uncle. He turned toward me, dropping something to the floor as he pushed me back with both hands on my chest. I fell against Eli, who was trying to get to Uncle too. Together, we stayed on our feet.
Anna was now beside the fireplace, holding her head. I saw the blood there, matted in her hair. “Are you all right?” I asked her frantically, my eyes darting toward Uncle to make sure he didn’t approach her.
Eli charged toward Uncle, but Ben draped an arm around his chest and pulled him back just as Uncle grabbed a knife off the counter.
For a second, we all froze. Then Uncle stepped back from us and glanced down. I followed his eyes and saw Uncle and my aunt staring at me from the broken frame. Uncle whisked it off the floor.
“I was the one who broke it!” I told him.
“You,” he said, understanding slowly appearing in his eyes. “You broke it.” Then: “You!” he yelled, shaking the frame at me. “You were in my desk?!” His face grew red, and the knife shook in his hand. “You were in my things!” Uncle cried out again.
“Put the knife down,” Eli said evenly, trying to wrestle away from Ben, who held him firm.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do in my house?”
“You’re just a coward,” I said, my breaths coming fast, “beating up people who don’t fight back.”
“You’re just like her,” Uncle snarled.
“And you locked her away, didn’t you!” I screamed at him.
I felt Eli’s arm come around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Patricia trying to tend to Anna, moving her to a chair.
Uncle’s face was contorted, and a deep anger seethed beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have come back here,” he said through clenched teeth, suddenly eerily quiet and fierce. “You shouldn’t have come back. I know how to deal with your kind.”
My heart thumped wildly. “Like you did with my cousin that you threw into the sea? Like you did with my grandmother and my sister?”
The blood left his face then, leaving him ashen. “Your sister and grandmother were witches, trying to attempt some devilry,” he said, waving his arm. “They killed themselves and deserved it too.”
I shook my head back and forth. “No” was all I could say.
His eyes still blazing, he pressed his lips together then, as if he’d said the wrong thing.
I leapt on that weakness, spurred on by the anger I felt over my family’s demise through the actions of this man. “So you believe in witches, do you, Uncle, like Captain Winship? The wrong person is in Slattery Asylum.”
I’d rattled hi
m. For a moment he looked confused. He glanced away, his hand with the knife now on the counter.
Keeping my eyes on him, I asked Patricia, “Is Anna all right?”
I’d been stupid, stupid, not to confess to breaking the frame. I should have known Uncle would blame Anna. When Patricia didn’t answer me, I took my eyes off Uncle. Patricia was studying Anna’s head wound, gently pulling back strands of her hair. “It’s not deep.”
Eli was trying to draw me away from Uncle. Uncle’s eyes swerved to Eli, and he came back to life. “What are you about?”
I felt Eli’s arm tighten around me as he pulled me to the side. He put his other hand out, palm toward Uncle. “It’s all right, Frank. Why don’t you go out and we’ll tend to things in here?”
“Go out?” Uncle snorted. “I pay you. You’re in my employ.”
Confused, I turned to look at Eli. His eyes met mine, and he recovered quickly, but I’d seen the guilt on his face.
“What … does he mean?” I asked Eli, remembering now the fight he’d had with Uncle.
“I want to talk to you, Cecilia,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Come with me.”
“Mr. Bauer is no university professor,” Uncle said with a brittle laugh. “I brought him here.” I felt his laughter in the pit of my stomach, as if it were burrowing itself there.
Eli said my name, but it was as if it were from a distance. My head began to pound, and my vision narrowed. I walked past Eli’s outstretched hand through the door.
“I HAVEN’T SPOKEN TO YOU MUCH, I GUESS,” I WHISPERED. THE CEMETERY was gloomy under an overcast day, so clouded over it felt like we were approaching night. I closed my eyes, listening to the quiet, trying to make the world stop spinning. “I wish you were here, though. I’ve often thought about you and what you thought of all of us. Did you feel alone too?”
“Cecilia.”
With a gasp, for a moment thinking it was my father, I whipped around. “Eli.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned back to my father’s grave, lined up beside Tess and my grandmother. His stone simply read: JAMES CROSS, 1929. I would have had a lovely headstone made for him, one that mentioned he’d been an artist and a father too.
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