Chapter 4
Catherine’s fingers tugged gently at the strings of her bonnet. She wished she could push it back onto her shoulders and let the slight breeze blow through her hair and cool her flushed face. But she feared being seen, even on this remote trail. Some patrolling British soldiers would be scandalized to see a young woman out walking without proper head covering.
Though it was a warm day, that was not the only reason the blood raced through her veins and flushed her cheeks. Tomorrow—tomorrow was her wedding day. It was finally arriving, close enough now for her to feel the long wait at last coming to an end. She really was to become the wife of Lieutenant Andrew Harrow. Her cherished cedar chest, filled with bed linens and kitchen stock, was at the very moment being delivered to their recently acquired quarters. Her personal belongings would accompany her after tomorrow’s ceremony.
Yet more than impatient agitation had driven her from the confines of her father’s house. On a recent market trip with her father she had spotted a secluded meadow, west and south of town and two ridges higher than the village. It had lain well off the trail, hidden almost entirely by the surrounding forest. Through the greenery of branches she had caught glimpses of bright flower patches. Her father had been busy guiding the two-wheeled cart over the rough hillside trail. She had not mentioned her discovery at the time, but had secretly promised herself that soon she would return to explore it on her own.
She had been totally entranced by the secret spot and found herself thinking of it by day and dreaming of it by night. She had not been able to get back to it before now, just a day before her wedding. She hoped there would still be flowers to decorate the chapel, maybe even her veil.
As she climbed, Catherine imagined the changes that took place in the secret meadow with the advancing of each day’s hours. The sun rising over the trees and streaming in at high noon, making the entire sheltered world enriched by a golden glow, then fading to the soft, shadowy blue tints of early evening, and then on to a mysterious wonder-world lit by the mellow moon and flickering stars of night. Catherine caught herself hoping that no one else knew of its existence. It had seemed an almost ideal, ethereal place. She longed to claim it as a place she might escape to, even after she was married. She yearned for a haven, one removed from the rumors and ill-tidings which disturbed her happiness.
Catherine’s step quickened along with her pulse. Would the meadow really be as magical as she had envisioned? Was it still there? Was it owned by another? She hoped with all her heart that it could be claimed as her own.
She hadn’t told her father or even Andrew about her destination. John Price had merely nodded absentminded assent when she had said she was going to gather flowers for her bridal bouquet. She had not divulged that the meadow she sought was a good distance from the little village. She knew he might object to her traveling so far alone. Not that there was any real reason to be concerned. It was rare indeed that the Micmac Indians came so close to the settlement. In her entire lifetime, Indians had not entered the village more than three or four times. Occasionally she saw them fishing the tidal basins, but normally they preferred to hunt and fish farther from the white settlements. Nor had Catherine ever sought association with the French. But neither had she been given any personal reason to fear them. Still, she knew that her father, especially with the renewed war rumors, might hold to an entirely different view.
She couldn’t wait to fill her arms with the brilliant colors of meadow flowers. They would not only grace her wedding bouquet but would lift her heart to beauty, giving her an inner strength that she knew she would need to be the wife—and perhaps one day the mother—that she should be.
Her thoughts naturally turned to Andrew, and her cheeks flushed even more deeply. How she loved and admired him. She longed to be all that he thought her to be. She wanted to be a part of his world. To understand his thoughts. To share his deepest feelings. Much of himself he had shared with her. She loved him all the more for it. But when it came to matters of his calling—his duty as a king’s soldier—he seemed closed off. Apart from her. When she tried to draw him out in conversation, he seemed reluctant to speak. Women were not to concern themselves with military matters, he had kindly told her on one such occasion. But, she had objected, they were not just military matters, they were matters that would affect each and every member of the small settlement, and more importantly, they would greatly affect the life and safety of her future husband. And as his wife she wished to be a part of every facet of his life.
He had squeezed her hand and smiled. “And so you shall be, my dear,” he had insisted. “You shall pack my provision kit and kiss me good-bye and be waiting with a light in the window for my return.” Though she sensed that was all the information about his chosen career he was willing to divulge, she knew that his eyes had warmed with appreciation at her concern. He had seemed to be proud that his wife was genuinely interested in the affairs of state and how it affected her community as well as the man she was to marry.
Catherine supposed she must be satisfied with the areas of his life that he was presently willing to share. Perhaps in time she would win his complete trust, and he would open the details of his life more freely.
She slowed her steps, feeling a sudden hesitancy. At long last her meadow was to be explored. She was about to step into the meadow from the shadows of the protective forest. She took a deep breath. Would it be as she had imagined?
She swept aside low-lying branches of a willow tree and stepped past, her long cotton skirts pulling at the green of the bushes. Yes. The meadow was as beautiful as she had remembered. And no one was about to disturb her solitude.
Surrounded on all sides by towering trees, the glen extended before her like a great outdoor cathedral, canopied by a sweep of glorious sky. Birds flitted across the arch of blue, calling to one another. A large gray squirrel granted Catherine a chirping welcome.
She couldn’t help but smile as she moved forward, letting the branch swing back into place like a door closing behind her. She was alone among flowers and birdsong and lazy-drifting clouds high overhead. It was exhilarating. Breathtaking. She sank down on her knees and buried her face in the closest bank of blossoms, breathing deeply of their fragrance. Then she lifted her eyes heavenward and spoke from a full heart. “Thank you.”
The words surprised even herself. She was not accustomed to spontaneous, heartfelt prayer. Her prayers had been learned. Structured. Repeated in a formal litany. But her overflowing heart could no more have stifled her gratitude to God than her hands could have kept from reaching out to the nearest flowers. “I will have the most beautiful bouquet a bride ever carried up the aisle,” she whispered to herself. But she did not hurry to collect the dainty blooms. She wanted time. Time to enjoy the luxury of this world set apart. Time to feel the warmth, the strength, the hope that this new place of peace instilled in her heart. This was exactly what she needed to refresh her soul.
Again she spoke quietly. “Mama, if you were here, if you could be with me today, I feel this is exactly the place you would have taken me. This place of serene calm, of beauty. I’m so glad I found it.”
Catherine shifted her position to sit among the meadow grasses, her long skirt tucked up under her legs, her fingers trailing gently through the flower faces on either side, a smile slowly tilting the corners of her mouth. Though the setting was new to her, she felt wonderfully at home.
Empty basket in hand, Louise Belleveau crossed the small footbridge over the river’s narrowest point and made her way up the hillside. The main trail leading along the ridgeline was far too risky these days. British soldiers seemed to be everywhere, their horses stomping and blowing, the saddles creaking and muskets rattling. Though she could not understand the words, their voices always sounded angry and harsh. Louise gave no thought to the Micmac. She had been taught to consider the Indians her friends since childhood. Well, not friends exactly. Allies. The thought of meeting a small hunting party in the woods brou
ght no flicker of fear. The British soldiers, though, were another matter entirely. Her father had often solemnly cautioned her and the rest of the village against unnecessary contact.
Henri’s warning had been far more personal. When she had once spoken of her love of such forest walks, his eyes had darkened and his normally jovial tone had vanished entirely. “Take great care, ma chérie,” he had cautioned. “They are not to be trusted. Even the eye of an uncivilized Brit can see that you are a beautiful woman.”
Louise was secretly pleased that he was so protective. It made her feel much more confident of her safety and of her place in his heart. Even so, she had no intention of forsaking her walks. But she did pay far more attention than ever before. For Henri.
Now she walked quietly through the trees, eyes and ears alert to any movement, any sound about her. Henri had once joked that she moved through the woods like a Micmac. Like a silent shadow, he had said. Louise smiled at the recollection.
In spite of his natural reserve, Henri had said many things to her that sent her heart racing. She could hardly wait for the ceremony of the morrow that would finally bind her to him for a lifetime. It had seemed so long in coming that she had often chafed in impatience. “I will be an old woman before becoming a bride,” she had complained at one point when Henri still seemed to be stalling. But now the actual day was close—tomorrow. Tomorrow when the birds began their morning song, she and Henri would be preparing themselves for the sacred vows. Louise wanted the house and the chapel filled with flowers to add to their celebration of the occasion. She knew exactly the place to find them—the meadow on the hillside overlooking the village.
Since the day she had discovered it, Louise had visited the meadow whenever she could slip away. She had fallen in love with the solitude and the peace it offered. The highland glen was a wonderful place to draw apart. To close her eyes and pretend that all the uncertainty, all the troubles that seemed to wreath the entire village like blue curling smoke, did not exist. In the meadow she could shut it all out. Quiet her thoughts to concentrate only on good things. Her future life with Henri. The children that she hoped to one day have. She wanted the first to be a boy, just like his father. She would be so proud to cradle Henri’s son.
Her cheeks flushed at the thought of being a wife and mother, and she quickened her steps and hurried through the shadows of another grove. In her anticipation, she almost lost her caution, so she checked her steps and looked carefully into the sea of green before advancing farther into the meadow.
Yes, she was alone as usual.
Her mother would scold if she spent too long on her errand. Louise could hear her clicking off the anxious words. Have you no idea how many things remain to be done to be ready for the wedding guests? You think that food prepares itself? Maybe the wild turkeys will climb into the ovens of their own accord. Louise smiled again. It was true. There was much to be done. She had been working hard since before daybreak. Even so, her mother had been working even harder. Louise tried in vain to imagine her mother slipping away for a bit of respite during the day.
With her conscience getting the better of her, Louise began quickly to gather armloads of flowers for her baskets. As much as she longed to linger, to quiet her heart and prepare her mind for what was to come, she must get home to help finish the wedding feast preparations. With the rising of another sun, family and friends would be streaming into the simple but spacious house, spilling out under the trees in the yard, boisterous and merry and ready to celebrate her joy in becoming Madame Henri Robichaud. She must finish her quest and hurry home.
A hint of movement to her left brought Catherine’s head up quickly. Her first thought was that she had unwittingly invaded a bear’s territory. Her pulse raced even faster as she imagined another human stealthily moving near. Actually, she had heard nothing and seen no one. But then she had been wrapped in her dreams, oblivious to the world around her. She slowly rose, her head swiveling around, eyes searching as her feet prepared for flight.
Catherine’s frantic gaze fell upon the form of a young woman moving across the meadow, filling her arms with flowers. Even at this distance Catherine knew by her dress that she was Acadian. A Frenchwoman was sharing her meadow. Catherine felt a keen flash of disappointment, then resentment. What right did a French villager have to be here? This was a British meadow.
Catherine momentarily let her gaze move down the hillside, sweeping the plain, the coastline below. To her surprise, she discovered that both villages nestled below. The British settlement of Edward with its outlying fort on the one side and the French village of Minas on the other.
Catherine turned back to the approaching French girl. Indeed, she was probably her own age, barely eighteen, quite pretty in a pixyish sort of way, with dark hair flowing about her face. The flashing dark eyes never left the flowers growing among the meadow grasses as she reached for one after the other. She wore a long-sleeved dress of simple homespun, with an embroidered apron, and a starched white bonnet hanging down her back. Such clothes would have identified an English lady as coming from peasant stock. Yet on her the garb seemed appealing and unaffected. She was close enough now that Catherine could hear her singing softly to herself as she walked, probably some little French ballad.
Catherine had once spoken and read French so well her teacher had stopped instructing and merely urged her to continue with her reading and writing. Yet the books had been packed away for years, and now she could only catch a word here and there of the French girl’s merry song. Something about a French maiden, loved by a daring cavalier.
The girl was approaching the center of the oval-shaped meadow. Catherine realized that it was only a matter of minutes until she would be discovered. Should she move forward, greet her? She did not wish to startle the girl as she herself had been. But certainly she should make her presence known.
Slowly and deliberately she took a step forward, her eyes never leaving the oncoming singer. Just as she thought, the simple movement brought the dark head up. The song stilled on the lips, the eyes threw an anxious look her way. The woman stopped in midstride. The two stood several feet apart, flowers on their arms, a startled, questioning expression on each face. Still and staring at each other.
The French girl was the first to move and break the silence. With a slight nod of her dark head, she spoke one word. “Bonjour.” Her voice was soft. Musical. Catherine found herself hoping she would say more. When she didn’t, Catherine murmured, “Good morning.” She offered a tentative smile of her own and followed up with a nervous, accented “Bonjour,” and a dip of her head.
Then each girl moved off in opposite directions, totally absorbed in completing the gathering of bouquets. As Catherine left her side of the meadow she glanced back over her shoulder. She saw only a brief glimpse of dark hair and the flash of skirt as the other young woman disappeared into the greenery of the forest.
Chapter 5
The first day of July dawned with a sky etched by just a few clouds, enough to lend depth to endless shades of blue. The fields, growing tall and fragrant, lay below forested green mountains standing like protective sentinels beneath the sun’s glow. The distant waters of Cobequid Bay sparkled like a mirror. By midday the entire village of Minas had turned out for the wedding of Louise Belleveau to Henri Robichaud. It was a tale made for generations of winter fires, a story to warm the hearts of young girls as they dreamed of their own days to come in the sun of romance and love. How a girl lovely enough to capture the heart of any French nobleman had instead given her heart to one of their own.
When his peers were still delighting in childhood games, Henri Robichaud had been forced to mature beyond his years. His father had gone first, dead of a fever that one summer had swept away almost a third of the village. His mother had followed only two days later, so soon that their burials had taken place the same afternoon. Poor Henri, only twelve years old, faced further trauma on top of tragedy as his family’s crops threatened to rot in the fields.
Louise drew her thoughts back to the present with a little shake of her head and allowed her mother to straighten her dress and retie the wedding bonnet with its long satin bow—the only satin to be found in the entire village. Her embroidered dress was cut in time-honored style, falling loose and long so she had to grasp it in one hand as she carefully stepped down the stairs. The stairs to her home, the only home she had known. Louise felt a gentle constricting of her heart as she moved down one step, then the next, knowing that she was walking into her future. One which beckoned to the longing in her heart, yet included many unknowns.
As she pushed through the front door of the Belleveau cottage, she saw villagers she had known all her life smiling and murmuring a welcome. Beyond this crowd was yet another throng, one larger still and made up of neighbors from surrounding villages and hamlets. A mist veiled her eyes, making their faces indistinct. Her vision was dimmed by all the bittersweet emotions swirling through her heart and mind.
Louise had known since her eleventh year that she was going to marry Henri Robichaud. And there he was now—she could just make him out as the crowd parted before him, making a path up to where he stood in his new dark coat and white shirt. She felt more than saw his beloved smile, the one which had never diminished, never faded, even during those first years of struggling mostly on his own.
As Louise continued walking toward the familiar form, she thought she saw villagers point at Henri and murmur traces of the famous story. How Henri Robichaud had slaved through that first summer alone. Almost every family in Minas had lost someone to the fever. Louise could still remember the sadness in her own home over the tiny basket by the fire, the one which had remained as forlorn and empty as her parents’ gaze. And because the sadness was so total, and most were hard pressed to manage their own harvests, few had the strength or the time to offer more than a word of sympathy about young Henri Robichaud’s plight.
The Meeting Place Page 5