The cheer that rose was one of unbridled joy, for Marie was a woman known more for her caustic tongue than words of praise. Louise felt her fiancée grasp her hand and draw her around the table to where they were both embraced by Marie Belleveau. Louise was bumped and jostled as people made room for them to sit together at the table. She heard a call for music and another call for a toast, and then listened as the pipes and fiddle and accordion started off on a merry tune.
All the while Louise wondered how it was that her mother had known all along what the day was to hold.
Henri’s strong hand squeezed her own, and she raised her gaze to meet his. His voice low, he asked, “Did I do it well?”
“You did it perfectly,” she said, glad for the music to mask their words. “I am very proud of you.”
“You know I am not one for speaking before others.”
“It makes what you did even nicer.”
He grinned his special smile, the one that filled his eyes with that passion for life and for her that stirred her soul. He started to say something else, but hands reached for Henri’s shoulders, drawing him up and around to accept congratulations.
Louise smiled in response to the well-wishing she scarcely heard. Then her attention was caught by the scene down below their orchard and their celebration. The general’s ship sat in the middle of Cobequid Bay, blocking the waters with quiet menace. Despite the joyful music and her friends gathered here on this brilliant day, Louise felt a shiver run through her frame. It seemed as though the ship was a warning lurking upon the outer edges of her day.
Chapter 3
Tinny strains of music floated through Catherine’s window as she prepared her father’s evening meal. It was one of the many chores that defined her day. Only now the tasks held a special poignancy, because it was only three weeks until she would no longer be the one to add comfort and order to her father’s world.
Though it was the middle of June, the breeze drifting through her window carried a hint of chill. Still she did not close the shutters, preferring instead to tighten the shawl about her shoulders. The air held the fragrant spices of blooming trees and the music of songbirds. The sun descended toward the western hills, turning the Cobequid waters to gold. Catherine could just make out the general’s ship, a somber shadow cut from the waters and the light. Even in the safety of her home, she was conscious of the threat it represented, resting there in the calm waters of her homeland. She shook her head and went to stoke the fire. Her father would soon be home.
The door creaked back on its leather hinges. “Daughter?”
“Good evening, Papa.” Catherine used the towel to wipe the flour from her hands. “How was your day?”
“Passable. Fair and passable.” He stopped in the alcove and used the metal staff to draw off his muddy boots. He watched as she picked up his house slippers from beside the fire and brought them over. “I saw your young man at dockside. He was on his way out to the general’s vessel.”
Catherine’s face flushed at the mention of Andrew, but she kept her poise as she extended her hand to her father. “Here you are.”
As he fitted on the fur-lined slippers, her gaze lifted to glance out the open front door. The ship filled the waters and the evening with a brooding menace. “I won’t be sorry to see the last of that,” she murmured.
“Eh?” John Price straightened and followed her gaze. “Strange for you to say such a thing, daughter. Especially as the general has offered to convey his commendation of your marriage to Andrew’s family in England.”
“I can’t help how I feel.” She sighed as she wiped her clean hands on her apron and walked back to the kitchen. “Did Andrew say how long he would be?”
“The lad will be there as long as the general requires his presence.” John Price limped with a heavy tread across the raw planked flooring. “General Whetlock is under direct orders from Governor Lawrence. That he would send for Andrew at all can only be good for the lad’s career.”
“I wish the general and his ship were gone.” Catherine regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Her father could turn hot and sharp at the drop of what he considered a single improper comment. He was a good father but stern, and his anger was never too far from the surface. It was said about the garrison that John Price excelled at his work precisely because of these qualities. He could make the most recalcitrant drover move lively and could squeeze the truth from a stone.
But today he awkwardly shuffled to the fireplace and stood looking down at the fire. The old war wound had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other, causing him to rock back and forth as he walked. John Price said to the flames, “Your mother did not like the ships either.”
Catherine’s hands stilled over her work. She could not recall the last time he had spoken of her mother.
“She used to call them harbingers of doom,” John Price continued. The hearthstones glowed ruddy and bright, and the light reflected upon her father’s features, turning his features old and sad. “She said that whenever they appeared they trailed the flag of war behind.”
Catherine forced herself to move, to reach for a mug from the wall hook and pour a cup of steaming cider. She walked over and said softly, “Here, Father. You must be parched.”
“Thank you, daughter.” He lifted the pewter mug to his lips without raising his gaze from the fire. When he had sipped the hot brew, he went on, “It will be a lonely house when you have gone.”
She tried for a cheerful tone. “I shall only be just down the lane. You know Andrew has taken hold of the old Elton place.” Her laugh sounded strained to her own ears. “That should keep the parish carpenters busy for years to come.”
“Yes.” He drained the mug and handed it back, his eyes rising to fasten upon her face. “You cannot imagine how much you have come to resemble your mother.”
“I wish I had known her.”
“No more than I do, child. She was the finest woman God ever made. She …” The gaze dropped back, as though memories were too heavy to keep aloft. “When the fever took her the second year after you were born, I thought for certain I would never make it alone. You were so tiny and there was so much I didn’t know.”
“You did a good job, a fine job. The best anyone could have.”
As though John Price had not even heard his daughter’s words, he continued, “Thank God for our neighbors. The village wives took turns with you through that first winter. It seemed that none of them would allow us to be on our own. Then the Widow Simmons offered to help out. You remember her, of course.”
“I think so.” She had memories as fragile as winter sunlight of a woman whose face was seamed and ancient. Yet whose eyes had been bright and clear, and whose hands were always open to receive her.
“Mrs. Simmons lived in the room off the back, where your mother and I …” John Price turned and limped over to his chair. He lowered himself into the seat and stared again at the fireplace flames. “She stayed with us until her chest grew foul. I think that was your fifth year. She went and lived with her son after that, until she departed this life the next midwinter.”
He was talking to the fire and not to her, Catherine realized, allowing the memories to rise and drift with the crackling blaze. “Then the rector’s wife decided to set up our little school. That was a blessing, I don’t mind telling you. You were so excited to be off to school, so eager to go in the mornings I could hardly hold you to tie the sash on your dress.”
Catherine used a swift gesture to clear her eyes. She did not want anything to disturb these recollections. Normally John Price lived as though the past did not exist. Even to her simplest questions as a little girl he had sharply replied that nothing could be gained from dwelling upon what once had been. So she stood, scarcely breathing, quietly wiping her eyes only enough that she could see her father clearly.
“You were handling the broom before your little hands could even reach around the handle. Following the charwoman about the place, cop
ying her motions. Learning to cook from the neighbors. Even the garrison cookhouse woman had told me how you had pestered her with questions until she couldn’t remember whether she was coming or going.”
His ruddy features stretched into a sad smile. “The rector’s wife liked to tell me how you would energetically take on your lessons, until you were sitting with the children twice your age. Smart, you were. Smart and quick and eager to help your old papa with the housework. I was sorry you had to grow up fast, but there was little I could do about it. Your mother was gone, and I watched you try as hard as you could to take her place, even before you knew exactly what it was you were doing.”
He looked at her then, but Catherine was not sure he was seeing much beyond his own memories. “I hope Andrew realizes just how lucky a man he is, taking you to his home.”
Catherine found enough of her voice to reply, “I think he does.”
He returned his gaze to the fire and the past. “It’s a shame your mother will not be there on your wedding day.”
“Thank you, Father.” The words seemed so inadequate, but nothing of their quiet life together had prepared her for this chance to say all she had on her heart and mind. How his gruffly abrupt ways had forced her to work hard, ever hoping for a word of approval. How she had missed the woman she had never known, how her heart had ached for the touch of a mother. How even seeing a villager carrying a child or smiling over a crib had sometimes brought tears to her eyes.
Since the words could not be found, she took refuge in the work that had shaped their life together. She reached into the back of the corner shelf and drew out the last jar of the previous summer’s fruit. She used the knife to break the wax seal and announced, “We’ll have your favorite dessert tonight, Father. Plum pudding.”
The room behind her was silent for a long time, quiet enough for the sounds of merrymaking to drift over from the distant French village. Finally her father murmured, “Your mother would be very proud of you, Catherine. Very proud indeed.”
She didn’t even notice the tear that dripped from her chin into the pudding.
Andrew heard the music rise from the French village as he stood against the ship’s railing. He did not care much for ships and the sea. Far too confining, with four hundred and fifty men crammed into a vessel less than two hundred paces long. With the cannonballs well stacked and the smell of gunpowder everywhere, it was impossible to move far from the stench of war on a ship of the line. The burly, tattooed sailors with their long pigtails might be jolly jack-tars and the backbone of the British Empire, but Andrew was far more comfortable ashore. Ships like this always reminded him of his departure from England and all he had left behind forever.
“Ah, Harrow. Summoned yet again?”
Andrew stifled a groan and turned a blank face toward the approaching officer. Lieutenant Randolf Stevenage had long considered Andrew a rival, and not just over his new wife’s affections. Stevenage’s father, a regimental commandant, had granted his son officer status through the ancient right of ancestral assignment. Stevenage held a resentment bordering on loathing for the more capable younger man whose position had been bestowed on merit.
Andrew calmly replied, “The general sent for me, yes.”
Randolf Stevenage leaned his bulk against the railing. A year of eating at the governor’s table in Halifax had further padded his already substantial form. “Come tomorrow, you’ll be using a mite more respect when you address me. I’ve been promoted to captain.”
Andrew was far from surprised. Stevenage’s ambitions were matched only by those of his new wife, Priscilla. Though Halifax was four days’ hard ride from Fort Edward, and the Stevenages had been wed for less than a year, already the rumors of greed for power were filtering back. “Permit me to offer my congratulations.”
“Kind of you.” He smirked out over the waters. “Yes, the governor decided his new adjutant required a bit more authority behind his orders.”
“So you’re to remain stationed in Halifax?”
“Indeed. There’s trouble afoot, and the governor wanted the best man possible for the posting.” Randolf Stevenage squinted out to where music rose in the distance. “What is that confounded racket?”
“It sounds like a celebration of some sort. It appears to be coming from the village of Minas.”
“Ah, of course. Those Frenchies will dance at the drop of a hat.” He turned his back to the music and the peaceful scene. “Speaking of celebrations, that’s quite an attractive little lass you’ve found for yourself.”
Andrew could trust himself only with “Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all. Not at all. Astonishing how such a rose could grow from these muddy colonial climes. But there you are. No doubt you will manage to train her in time.” Stevenage stared at Andrew’s face for a moment, and a note of satisfaction crept into his voice. “Of course, these colonials can be such a stubborn lot. But you’ve had years of training menials, haven’t you? No doubt you’re up to the task.”
Andrew was saved from checking a superior officer by the general’s booming voice. “That will do, Stevenage.”
The heavy man forced his girth off the railing. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t hear your approach.”
“No. So I noticed.” The general’s stony gaze did not waver. “For your information, I found Harrow’s fiancée to be a most remarkable young lady. It bodes well for the new acting commandant of Fort Edward to have shown such discrimination in his choice of a mate.”
“Yes … that is—I beg your pardon, did you say—?”
“Yes, I said ‘commandant.’ Ah, the governor neglected to mention that, as you were not party to that discussion, were you? No.” The general swiveled his gaze like a pair of gray gun barrels toward Andrew. “Word of your work as acting commandant found its way back to Halifax. I am happy to report that the governor feels, and I quite agree, that you should be granted a further nine months to test your mettle. Of course you will be granted the rank of captain, subject to your successful completion of these new duties. Of which I have no doubt.”
General Whetlock’s cold gaze returned to Randolf Stevenage. “Naturally, you would like to be the first to congratulate your fellow officer.”
Stevenage forced the word through a constricted throat. “Congratulations.”
Andrew could not fully hide his elation at the news. “Thank you.”
“Now then, Stevenage. Be so good as to allow me to have a private word with Harrow here.” The general grasped Andrew’s arm and led him up to the quarterdeck, the private domain of every ship’s commander. When they stood by the higher railing, the older man said in a conversational tone, “This area strikes me as holding a strong inclination to frigid storms. Even here in June I smell the coming snow, if you catch my meaning. Tell me, young Harrow. What is it like here in the twilight of winter?”
“Cold, sir.” Andrew was truly grateful for the general’s gift of a moment to collect himself. “Uncommon cold.”
“That I can well imagine.” An eye that looked to be experienced at judging men fastened upon him. “And yet you choose not only to serve here but make it your home.”
Andrew looked out over the bay a moment. He held his tongue more comfortably this time. The general knew his family, so there was no need to speak of his older brother, the new earl of Sutton. It had been his beloved father who had seen the coming sibling conflict, and when he had grown ill that final time had ordered his younger son to depart for the colonies. The king’s law was clear on this point. The splitting of noble estates was expressly forbidden. The land, the house, the vast majority of the family’s wealth, all was destined for the elder son’s hands.
And still Andrew’s jealous brother had considered him a threat.
Andrew’s father had done the best he could under the law’s constraints. A commission in the King’s Own Regiment and a stipend established in his name granted Andrew a career. But Andrew had been banished to the colonies—there was no other word for it—and
instructed never to return. Andrew had accepted the edict because it had been his father’s final request. “I hope you understand, Andrew,” he had gasped out on his deathbed, “this is for your protection.”
Andrew turned back to the general and replied simply, “This is indeed my home.”
“Yes, well. On to business.” The general turned and started pacing across the holystoned deck. “As you know, Fort Edward is our only bastion between here and Annapolis Royal, four days’ hard ride to the southwest.”
The general motioned a torch-bearing sailor to enter the quarterdeck and light the two lanterns. Their glow joined with light from the rising moon to dispel the dusk. “The governor has requested I make this journey up Cobequid Bay to ensure the roads stay well patrolled. Those men you brought in, your new troops. What did you make of them?”
“Raw recruits fresh off the boat from home, sir. English farm boys, most of whom have never handled a musket before.”
“Well, you are expected to whip them into shape, and be swift about it.”
Andrew gave a short nod, but he took the opportunity to voice the doubts that had accompanied him all the way back from Annapolis. “England is four thousand leagues distant, sir. Surely the conflict cannot engulf us here.”
“Can and will, Harrow. Can and will.” The general stomped to the portside railing and stood staring out toward the glimmering lights of Minas, warm and inviting. The sound of cheerful music drifted over the water. But the general’s tone remained cold and battle hard. “The trouble may not reach us this year. Perhaps not even next. But it is coming, you mark my words. It is most certainly coming.”
The Meeting Place Page 4