Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  Praise for

  TIDES of HONOUR

  National Bestseller

  “[Graham] has delivered a book that reads like a love letter to a time and place that figures largely in our national identity: Halifax in 1917.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Fans of Gabaldon and other historical fiction/romance writers will lap this up for the classy, fast-moving, easy-to-read, and absorbing book that it is—with some Canadian history to boot.”

  —Winnipeg Free Press

  “Evocative of place and time, a novel blending tragedy and triumph in a poignant and uplifting tale that’s sure to leave its mark upon your heart.”

  —Susanna Kearsley, bestselling author of A Desperate Fortune

  “Audrey is a strong female character, a hallmark of Graham’s books.”

  —The Chronicle Herald

  “Travel back to 1917 and explore a world of suffragettes, Bolsheviks, and the Great War—and the love story that illuminates them all.”

  —Jon Tattrie, author of Black Snow

  “A moving Maritime story of love, loss, and the human spirit.”

  —Lesley Crewe, author of Relative Happiness and Kin

  “A memorable story of love surviving devastation. Set during the dark days of the Halifax Explosion—the largest man-made explosion prior to Hiroshima—a young artist and a wounded soldier are forced to overcome their personal struggles in the face of disaster. Graham examines class struggles and the post-traumatic effect of war with a vivid description of early twentieth century Halifax.”

  —Pamela Callow, international bestselling author of Tattooed

  For Dwayne,

  mon amour pour toujours

  We are upon a great and noble Scheme of sending the neutral French out of this Province, who have always been secret Enemies, and have encouraged our Savages to cut our throats. If we effect their Expulsion, it will be one of the greatest Things that ever the English did in America; for by all accounts, that Part of the Country they possess is as good Land as any in the World: In case, therefore, we could get some good English Farmers in their Room, this Province would abound with all kinds of Provisions.

  —News dispatch from Nova Scotia, printed in the Pennsylvania Gazette, September 4, 1755

  Prologue

  1733

  Grand Pré, l’Acadie

  Me’tekw knew he was dead. The instant his braid was yanked back and a filthy, shaking hand pressed a blade to his brow, he knew this life was over. The fire from a musket had already burned through his thigh, and blood streamed down his chest from a gash on his neck. One eye was swollen shut, and his lips throbbed. He tasted iron on his tongue. He could run no longer, could not slide his broken body out of the soldier’s reach. He was dead.

  There was barely time to make peace, to thank the Creator Kji-Niskam for giving him this life, to ask for greater wisdom for the next. Forcing his eyes open, Me’tekw stared into the calm, safe distance and prayed to Mother Earth, offering what strength he had left.

  The tension on his neck released suddenly, and his cheek slammed onto the ground. His braid landed beside his face, and he noted with surprise that its long black length was still attached to his head. He breathed, inhaling the sun-warmed grass, though it stank of fresh blood. Overhead, the only break in the blue sky was a pair of silent gulls gliding in wide, curious circles.

  He was not dead after all.

  The British soldier who had hesitated lay lifeless nearby. His death cry had been cut short, the gurgle in his slit throat the only sound he’d emitted after hitting the ground. A second redcoat fell near the first, and Me’tekw rolled away in confusion. Sunlight blazed into his eyes when he glanced up, then Charles Belliveau stepped in front of the glare. The Acadian farmer clutched a knife, its bloodied point aimed toward the ground.

  Me’tekw was still staring at Charles when two of his friends arrived and crouched beside him, assessing his wounds. They helped him to his feet, but his leg failed him. He collapsed amid blinding pain that made him long for death—though in truth, it was only a fleeting wish. His life was not his own and never had been. Everything he had and was belonged to the Creator. Evidently, Kji-Niskam had plans for him. If he had not, Me’tekw would be pumping the last of his life onto the ground beside the men Charles had slain.

  He held up a hand, asking his friends to wait, needing to get his heartbeat under control. When he was ready to try again, he nodded, and the two Mi’kmaq slung his arms over their shoulders. They began to drag him away from the fallen soldiers, but he stopped once more and looked back at Charles.

  Me’tekw was ashamed, not simply for his injuries but for his stupidity. He’d wanted nothing more than to go fishing from his favourite rock, but the warm caress of the sun had lulled him to sleep. He’d been an easy target for the enemy soldiers, who saw him as little more than a plaything to terrorize. They’d treated him as such many times before. He should have known better.

  Me’tekw had been born eighteen years earlier without a voice. He had survived by expressing his thoughts and needs through face and hands, and neither his family nor his friends had ever treated him differently from anyone else. Certainly he regretted not being able to vocalize, but he understood: this was a trial given to him by the Creator. At this moment, however, he wished with all his heart he could speak to Charles, to thank the quiet Acadian for saving his life.

  “I have known you many years, my friend,” Charles said in Me’tekw’s tongue. His voice was calm, though it laboured slightly from his exertions. “You have always had a thick head of hair. They were not welcome to it.”

  Me’tekw’s throat tightened. Bracing himself against the pain, he took his arms off his friends’ shoulders. He pressed his palms against his own chest then held them up to Charles, offering all he had.

  Charles’s expression did not change. “I ask nothing of you.”

  Me’tekw had known him since childhood. This was not the first time the quiet farmer had come to his aid. Once again, Charles had put himself in the way of harm, and today he had saved Me’tekw’s life. Charles Belliveau was a better man than he.

  As Charles walked away, Me’tekw closed his swollen eyelids and made a promise to himself before all the spirit world. Whatever it took, he would watch over this man and his family for the rest of his life.

  PART ONE

  The Expulsion

  Amélie

  ONE

  June 1755

  The hummingbirds would return soon, tiny warriors marking the true beginning of summer in their frantic, efficient manner, and I smiled every time I saw them. For now I had to be satisfied with the robins, poking their little beaks into the dirt, retrieving what goodness they could find.

  How simple for them, I thought, hoisting my second bucket of water. They pulled their food from the earth and drank their fill from the dew, and they had no chores at all. Early summer—nipk to the Mi’kmaq, when Nipniku’s brought the summer moon—meant the morning mud beneath our clogs would be cold, the stinging flies relentless. At the end of the day we would fall back into bed, exhausted and itchy.

  Ah, but the little birds did not have what I had either, I mused. They could not come inside and warm their feathers by a welcoming fire when the rain raged or the wind banged the shutters of our house. They could not keep their tiny feet warm in fine woollen socks or wooden clogs like mine. They could not even enjoy the notion of how fortunate we were to live in this wonderful place with a loving family and so many friends.

  I heard Maman singing, then Giselle joined in with her high, happy voice. My little sister was fourteen, but she often seemed younger than that to me. Setting a bucket on the threshold, I opened the door and walked inside, then poured the water into
the large pot hanging over the stove. No one had been tending the fire, and I glanced at the others, but they seemed not to sense my annoyance. I thought about mentioning their laziness, but their laughter dissuaded me. There was no sense in dampening their good mood. I knelt and coaxed a flame from the pulsing orange logs.

  “Oh! Thank you, Amélie,” Maman said. “I don’t know where my head is this morning.”

  “I do!” Giselle said.

  Maman shook her head, but she was smiling. “You are a little tease.”

  Shame washed through me, and I turned so they wouldn’t see my embarrassment. How could I have forgotten?

  “You were distracted,” I said. “Thinking about Claire and Guillaume.”

  “Aren’t you?” Giselle asked. “The wedding will be wonderful! Then Claire will have her own home and her own children, and I will be an aunt! Oh, if only we didn’t have to wait until September! But I suppose it is all right. After the harvest we can enjoy it even more. What about you, Amélie? You are seventeen already. When will you choose a husband?”

  I abhorred that question, and they loved to ask it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to marry. I simply had not met anyone with whom I could imagine spending the rest of my life. When I thought about the hours in a day, then those in a night, I knew my husband would have to be more than just strong and hard-working. He would have to be someone with whom I could talk about anything, and no one in our village had yet reached my standards.

  “Hush, Giselle. Don’t ask me that.”

  Maman pursed her lips. “You know, Pierre Melanson—”

  “I will not talk about this right now.”

  “But, Amélie!” Giselle wailed. “There must be someone—”

  “Stop! I said I won’t talk about it.” I yanked the door open. “I suppose I’ll get the milk too, since everyone but me seems too busy to do anything today.”

  The sweet, ripe smells of the barn welcomed me inside, and I breathed in deeply, feeling instantly soothed.

  “Good morning, Amélie,” Papa and André said, glancing up from their work.

  The men in my family have never pressured me to find a husband. Marriage was important, I knew, but they seemed to understand that nagging would do no good.

  “Good morning. Maman will have breakfast ready soon.”

  “Merci, mon ange,” Papa said, scraping his rake across the stall floor.

  “He told them they need their canoes back for fishing,” André said.

  I realized I had accidentally interrupted their conversation, and I perked up, listening for clues to the topic. Anything would be more interesting than discussing marriage.

  “And said they are losing cattle and oxen to the predators in the woods.”

  Papa nodded sombrely. “This is true. Now that the Mi’kmaq have moved away and no longer hunt—”

  “They moved away?” I cried. Surely Mali wouldn’t have gone without speaking to me or saying goodbye!

  “Not far, but far enough. Don’t worry. Mali will be fine. Go on,” he said to André. “What else? The petition? What did he hear about that?” He gestured with his chin. “And work while you talk.”

  That reminded me I had a job to do as well. I dragged a stool to the cow and leaned my shoulder against her warm, bristled side, letting her know I was there. My fingers closed around her and tugged in a familiar rhythm.

  At the other end of the barn André began filling the wheelbarrow, clouding the air with dust. “Governor Lawrence would allow no one to read the petition, Papa. Instead he ordered everyone assembled—all one hundred men—to swear an oath of allegiance to the British Crown, promising to take up arms against the King of France.”

  Papa and I both stopped what we were doing, incredulous.

  “Take up arms?” Papa puffed out a breath.

  “But we cannot side with the English in any kind of war,” I reasoned. “They can’t make us do that, can they?”

  What would the Mi’kmaq do if the Acadians were forced to side with the British? Would they have to fight against us? It hurt to imagine it.

  “Keep working, Amélie.” Papa nodded toward the cow. “She’ll get impatient.” He turned back to André. “Tell me, what happened when the men heard the order?”

  André could only shrug. “Of course everyone said no. They said such an oath would rob us of our religion and everything else we believe in. So Governor Lawrence arrested them all and sent them to a prison near Halifax!”

  Papa groaned. “This Lawrence. I’ve heard terrible things about him, threatening people with his sword, frightening them for fun. A tyrant! Does your friend know what they plan next?”

  “No. He ran when he thought the soldiers had discovered him there.” He sighed. “There is more to the story, I am afraid.”

  The oldest of my three brothers was an intense man. Even as a child he had been particular and precise in everything he did. His expression was often difficult to interpret, since he deliberately hid his feelings. This morning he was surprisingly easy to read.

  “Governor Lawrence took away the priests,” he said, his voice so choked with fury that I feared he might break down. “He then made the church into his command post—”

  “What?” I blurted.

  “And he himself has moved into the priest’s house. Tents have been picketed all around the area for the soldiers. The English flag now flies over our church, Papa, and they are tossing out sacred items as if they are nothing more than a nuisance.” He flung his shovel aside. “To make matters even worse, more soldiers have come.”

  I couldn’t speak. What did this mean? What could have prompted the British to behave so? The act of seizing our church was an insult to all of us. We were not a warring people; if they declared war on us, what would we do?

  By the time I had been born in 1738, the British and the French had battled over this land many times, but my people had not been part of the fight. We had always called our home l’Acadie, but when the British had finally defeated the French for good, they named it Nova Scotia. It had never mattered to me which country believed they were in charge, because we Acadians lived independently of them all. I was not a Nova Scotian; I was an Acadian. Politics had never touched my life before now.

  I set the full bucket outside the barn, then gazed across the land toward our church. The shapes of men moved among the straight white rows of tents where they slept. Certainly I had seen them before, but they had not seemed so menacing until today.

  TWO

  We were not expecting a knock on the door. Usually approaching voices could be heard before anyone requested entry, but these footfalls had been quiet. The sound startled us, and we stopped what we were doing, glancing up to gauge each others’ reactions.

  Whoever our visitors were, they were fortunate to find us in the house. It was growing late in the afternoon, and Papa, my youngest sibling Mathieu, and I had only just come in from the fields. Papa had wanted a bite to eat and had just lit his pipe, filling the house with its sweet smoke. Mathieu had carried in another bucket of water for the soup, and Maman and I sat by the window, letting the sun spill light onto our mending.

  A knock came again, and Mathieu peeked through the window. “Deux soldats anglais,” he whispered.

  Why would English soldiers come to our house? They never had before. I tried without success to read my parents’ expressions, but it didn’t matter. I knew they were concerned.

  Nevertheless, Papa wore a cordial smile as he lifted the latch and swung open the door. “Good afternoon, messieurs.”

  Two red-coated men stood before him. The first was tall and evidently in charge, for the shorter man stood silently behind. The officer spoke hesitant French, but while he had trouble with our language, he seemed not the least bit confused about his orders. His Majesty, he informed us, had decreed that our people were to hand over our weapons. He said they would be kept safe but that the army needed to hold them, to make sure we Acadians kept our promise and did not take up arms again
st the British.

  “Our weapons?” Papa asked. “I do not understand what you say.”

  I interpreted the foul order, and he blinked with surprise.

  “I do not intend to fight anyone,” he objected, as the officer pushed inside.

  Papa’s two rifles were in plain view, leaning against the wall next to the stove. They were all we had for defending ourselves—besides kitchen knives and fists. Like every other home in Grand Pré, our house was small. We had no place in which to hide our things even if we had considered doing so beforehand. The arrogance I saw in this man’s eyes made me wish we had.

  “Those are for protecting our farms from beasts of the forest.”

  The softness in Papa’s voice was meant to soothe, but the officer appeared not to be listening.

  “It does not matter,” he replied in his broken French. “We take them. Move.”

  After the slightest hesitation, Papa stepped back and gave Maman a subtle nod. Her gaze dropped to the floor and her fingers locked around each other as if to contain her nerves. Beside her, Mathieu took a breath to speak, but Papa’s tight look held him back.

  As the officer stalked toward the stove, the second man entered our house. He already carried Papa’s axe. He must have picked it up outside, by the woodpile.

  “Will we have our axe back on colder nights?” Mathieu demanded, putting words to my concern.

  Both soldiers stopped and everyone stared at my bold thirteen-year-old brother, including me. But how could he have kept his mouth closed? It was the truth. How would we survive without it?

  The officer scowled at Mathieu. “The king will decide.”

  This was an insult of the worst kind. Maman instinctively grabbed for my arm, but I moved out of her reach and toward the second soldier, the one holding Papa’s axe. He had said nothing, suggesting to me he was the easier mark.

  “Surely the gracious king wouldn’t ask us to live a winter without a fire!” I cried in English.