Henri answered with his customary grin. “You sound like a bear waking early from winter.”
A woman’s voice called feebly, and the man turned to cry, “It’s Henri Robichaud. I told you someone would come.”
Henri moved past the man into the house. The front room was scarcely warmer than outside. He could see his breath as he piled the few pieces of kindling still in the woodbox in the fireplace and struck a spark on the tinderbox. “How long have you been without heat?”
“It went out sometime yesterday. We didn’t know when we would get more wood. The wife, she tried to do all the work herself and did her back in, just like I said she would. She had to crawl back from the cow shed. And me—” Gerard stopped to cough, a wracking sound that went on and on, bending him over almost double.
“Go back to bed,” Henri ordered. “You’ve got the croup. Anybody in their right mind can see you shouldn’t be up.”
“But the cows—”
“I’ll see to the cows after I get something hot into the both of you. Go back to bed, I say.”
Louise had told him that Gerard had come down with a terrible cough and fever, which had laid him out flat for the first time since he was a boy. All this she had learned from his wife. It was the way of their village, to know the state of all their neighbors and all the clan, as far out as the roads remained passable. But then the wife had not been seen for some days, too long as far as Louise was concerned.
There was little enough in the larder, a strip of side meat and meal and some dry bread. Henri’s face drew down into an unaccustomed frown as he thought of how the two older people must have spent their Christmas. Even over the sound of frying bacon, he could hear the old man coughing from the back room. Henri poured the meal into boiling water, set the bread in the bacon grease to soften, and called, “I’ll have Louise come by this afternoon with some proper food.”
The woman’s voice was almost as feeble as her man’s. “You are a prince among men, Henri Robichaud.”
Henri felt his face flush at the words. He had never managed to accept compliments well and had no idea what to say in response.
Thankfully there came another rapping on the front door. Henri turned to see the vicar, Jean Ricard, enter and say, “I should have known you would make it out here before me.” He called to the back room, “How are you, Gerard?”
“Better, now that I know my cows will be—” He concluded with another furious spate of coughing.
When the noise had died down, his wife told the vicar, “I just said that Henri is a prince among men.”
“A prince,” the vicar agreed, stepping over to the fire and warming his hands. “Indeed.”
With all the attention Henri found the room growing too close for comfort. He handed the skillet to the vicar and said, “You see to their meal, vicar, and I will tend to the cattle.”
The woman’s voice followed him out the door. “A prince among the angels!”
The cattle’s bawling had grown louder since he entered the house. Which was no surprise if they had not been milked since the previous morning. He entered the barn’s sweet warmth and shucked off his coat. Swiftly Henri lost himself in work he knew well—milking the cattle, filling the water trough, mucking out the stalls, spreading out new straw and feed. Normally when his hands were busiest his mind was quietest. That was one of the things he loved about work, how he could spend hours straining his body, then seem to come awake from a long slumber and not recall a single thought that had occupied him all day. It was somehow refreshing, this ability of his to place all cares to one side through labor.
Today, however, he found his mind drifting back to the conversation he’d had with Louise the night before. And from there it went on to what he was doing here. It was not as though he did not have a full day’s work at his own farm. Especially now, when Louise had a list as long as his pitchfork of things she wanted seeing to around their home before the spring thaws. Their home. The words were still new enough to send a little shiver through his muscular frame. Their home.
For as long as he could remember, Henri had filled his free hours— and some hours which were not free at all—helping people around the village. It was only now, as he worked down the long series of stalls with their moaning cattle, that Henri had an idea as to why. As he walked to the last cow but one, he was struck afresh by the thought that somehow his marriage was waking his mind as well as his heart, permitting him the ability to see inside himself. Part of that freedom he had talked about with Louise last night. He was not sure how he felt about this. Not at all.
But the awareness was not to be denied. He leaned his forehead against the cow’s side and squeezed the milk in rattling streams into the pail, and he knew why he was willing to be the friend in need to all the village. It was because they were the only family he knew. The only family, in fact, that he could really remember.
The cattle seen to, he then turned to the other animals. He had fed and watered the horses and was about to see to the chickens when Jean Ricard pushed through the big outer doors. “Do you need a hand?”
“You are just in time, Vicar.” Though Henri had known the man almost all his life, he still felt uncomfortable around the pastor. Jean Ricard seemed to share Louise’s ability to see what was masked by his smile. “I’ve just finished all the work.”
“It is good of you to help out like this.” Vicar Ricard walked over and watched Henri gather up the last of the eggs. “I’m sure you have a hundred things going begging at home.”
“A thousand, Vicar, a thousand.” Henri kept his grin firmly in place. “But who’s going to thank me for doing what I always do around the house?”
“I don’t know what the two of them in there would have done on their own.” Jean Ricard had deep-set eyes and a gaze that seemed able to peer inside Henri’s mind. “Do you know what they are saying about you around the village these days?”
“I’ve got more important things to do with these short winter days than listen to village talk, Vicar.”
“They are saying that maybe Henri Robichaud is preparing to step into the shoes of the clan’s elder.”
Henri froze. “What?”
“Marrying the daughter of Jacques and Marie Belleveau, seeing to the needs of those who cannot cope with winter on their own—they say it could be a strategy of a man with an eye on his father-in-law’s position.”
Henri’s laugh was forced. “That is the most foolish nonsense I have ever heard.”
“Is it?” The dark eyes probed deep. “I know that you are not seeking the title. And it is precisely because you do not want it that you could indeed make a perfect elder.”
Henri worked his mouth, but no sound came. Finally he managed, “Vicar, you don’t … I can’t be the one to make clan decisions. You—I’m … I’m not a thinking man. I do with my hands, not my head.”
“Yes, you are correct.” There was no guile to the quiet man, nor moving away from his intent. “But your wife possesses the finest head in the village.”
“Vicar …”
“You have heard the passage, the two shall become one? There is no reason why you cannot rely on your wife’s wisdom, just as she relies on your strong arms and good heart. Learn to trust your wife, and learn to pray to God with her so that you both are filled with His eternal wisdom.” The vicar waited. Then he turned away, saying, “It is time to prepare yourself for what may be presented to you, Henri. Whether you want it or not.”
Chapter 11
As Catherine picked her way along the muddy lane that May morning, it appeared to her that spring was the most troublesome of seasons, the one hardest to love. She had read the English sonnets to spring, about warm breezes scented by fields strewn with wild flowers in full bloom. Whoever wrote those verses had never seen an Acadian spring, she decided. The wind still held icy teeth, no matter how determinedly the sun shone. Even on cloudless days, such as this morning, everything remained wet with the snow and ice melting from every surf
ace, and the world was filled with the sound of dripping. Stepping beneath a tree was fraught with peril, as the topmost limbs seemed to hold their final snowy burdens for just such an opportunity, flinging them down upon the unwary with dank abandon.
The children seemed to suffer most in spring. Or perhaps it was that Catherine’s first year of marriage had brought a new awareness of children. She noticed that after they had been cooped up for weeks and months on end, they were bursting with energy, hard to hold down. Yet the wind was knife edged, the world still muddy and wet. So many of the village’s small noses seemed to be running, so many eyes rheumy and puffed with fever. It pained her to see them suffer, and a new ability was being borne within her heart to care for those small and fragile angels.
The path was treacherous as she climbed the steep hillside. By the time she arrived at the first stream, her skirt was rimmed with mud. Catherine paused at the final turn before the path moved into the thicker forest to stare out over the village and the bay. She tried to tell herself it was a foolish trek. The snows had scarcely melted, and there would not be the slightest chance of finding either flowers or berries. Even so, when she turned back to start up the final rise to the meadow, she could not help but smile in anticipation.
Louise pushed back her long hair with a hand freed at last from winter mittens. It was so good to be released into fresh air—even if it was still very chilly. Her eyes drifted upward, noting the sun that shone down with muted warmth. It held great promise, but the still-sharp wind blew away any strength to really warm the world beneath. But spring would come. It must win over winter, Louise reminded herself. God had promised that season would follow season.
With that thought firmly in place, Louise quickened her step. It was much too early to be visiting the meadow, but she couldn’t resist. None of the plants had begun to unfurl new leaves—but she had to go. Had to push free of the little house, beloved though it was, and stretch her legs and her cobwebbed mind once again to include more of the world in which she lived.
The long, hard winter had brought reminders of winters past to the older residents of Minas. Elderly ladies had snuggled more closely to the fire, tongues wagging with oft-repeated tales of earlier struggles and what had gotten them through. Louise was not used to being so confined. She chafed as Henri bid her stay by the fire’s warmth lest she take a chill. Even as milder weather finally reached them, Henri worried that she might return home with icy feet and skirts, or suffer one of the village’s many ills.
So when Henri eventually gave in to her entreaties, it was with suppressed jubilation that Louise finally took to the hillside path.
Many times over the long, wintry days she had thought of the young Englishwoman. Had she fared well over the winter months? On a few occasions she had found the young woman’s name creeping into her evening prayers. She flushed and wondered what her parents would think of her praying for the enemy. What would Henri think?
But Louise could not make herself see Catherine as the enemy. Louise saw her as another young woman, much like herself—seeking to make a home, loving her new husband, searching in her own way for a chance to make their world a better place for the children they hoped to one day have. No, she was not an enemy. But did she dare to think of her as a friend? She was, after all, English, and the English and French had been enemies for decades beyond count.
With a determined sigh, Louise pushed the thoughts of enemies and warring aside. She crossed the small creek that now flowed with the renewed vigor of spring melting. It took all her concentration to keep her feet firmly planted on the crossing log as she eased her way across the stream. If she wasn’t careful she would be returning home completely sodden, just as Henri had warned.
Lithely she jumped the last few feet, landing on firm ground, pleased with herself for outwitting the rushing water. Overhead a bird sang. The first birdsong of spring. Louise smiled. Surely their winter ordeal was behind them.
The meadow was just ahead now. Louise’s steps quickened. Was it possible that the young Englishwoman would also have felt the need to refresh her spirit at this spot that was special to both of them?
Louise’s eyes quickly scanned the leafless meadow bushes. She felt a moment of keen disappointment. Why had she even dared to hope? It was much too early for anyone to stir so far from the home fires simply for an outing. A breath of spring air.
And then Louise’s dark eyes caught a slight movement at the meadow’s far edge. Something was there. Someone.
Louise watched without stirring, trying to determine just who shared the meadow with her. The figure was bundled warmly in winter wear, sitting sedately, silently, on a fallen log. Was it—? Not a soldier. The figure was too slender, not tall enough to be a man. And then the head lifted, turned toward her, and after a moment’s hesitation a mittened hand rose in greeting. “Bonjour” came the lilting cry across the meadow.
They hurried toward each other, eyes alight with the joy of meeting.
There was no hesitation in Louise’s embrace, but she could feel Catherine’s English reserve at this new experience. But Louise held her in the French fashion, cheek to cheek, and knew when Catherine relaxed.
Louise smiled and moved back a pace. Both were speaking at once. Expressing relief at finding the other, asking about the winter’s toll on the other’s village, voicing the fact that it was so good to be free at last from winter’s clutches.
When they stopped for breath, they smiled at each other, timidly now as mutual realization of their unguarded reactions began to sink in.
“Your French,” Louise enthused, “it has grown with the winter.”
Catherine answered with a soft laugh. “I have been practicing and practicing. I do hope that it has made improvement. My little French grammar is near worn through—yet I do not remember if I pronounce things right.”
“It is much improved. I only wish that I could speak the English tongue with such competence.”
Catherine blushed. “Thank you for such a—a compliment. You must be free to correct me—when I make an error.”
Louise nodded. “If you wish,” she responded.
“Oh—I do. I will never learn otherwise. The grammar books— they do not give full instruction. One must have a real teacher.”
Louise laughed and lifted the hem of her muddy skirt. “Then I will be your tutor. Happily so. But look at me. A muddy tutor I am, to be sure.”
Catherine’s laughter echoed Louise’s as she looked down at her own hemline. “Well, you have also a muddy pupil, so we are—what do you say?—the same.”
Louise gave her the French word for “even,” which Catherine carefully repeated. Then Louise moved toward the fallen log from which Catherine had risen. “Let’s sit down,” she prompted. “I do not have much time, and there is so much to say.”
Time. Louise wished with all her heart that the time would not pass so quickly. She had counted the days until this meeting might take place. Now that it had, she was sharply aware of its brevity.
“You say there has been much sickness. In our village, too. It will end now—with the coming of the warm sun again. It always does.”
Catherine nodded. “I hope you are right. It has been a very difficult winter for many in our village.”
“A winter hard for the beasts and the men as well,” Louise agreed. “Our horses are lean and shaggy, their bones showing through.”
“My husband worries nearly as much about his animals as he does about his men,” Catherine agreed. “Andrew says we need the spring grasses for the stock to gain strength again.”
“How is your Andrew?”
Catherine’s cheeks flushed as she said, “He’s been fine, but very busy. He’s not had one bout of ill health all winter. I tell him it is his determination and concern that keeps him healthy. He is always thinking of others. And not enough about himself.” Catherine held up two mittened hands and chuckled softly. “See me. I am still in woolens. Andrew’s orders. He wouldn’t let me out o
f the house unless I promised to dress for the dead of winter.”
Louise joined the laughter. “He sounds like my Henri,” she responded. “I have just now—this day—been given permission to leave those scratchy things behind on the shelf.”
“I hope I soon will have such freedom of movement. I am tired of being bundled so I can scarcely breathe.”
“Yet,” spoke Louise, “it is nice to be cared for. It makes one feel— so special.”
“Loved,” responded Catherine as two sets of eyes met and softened in unison.
“Loved,” repeated Louise. “We are very blessed to be loved. And by such wonderful men.”
Catherine nodded. When she spoke, her voice was soft with emotion. “I do not know your Henri,” she said, “but knowing you, I am sure that he is just as you say. Very special. Very wonderful. It is too bad that we meet at such a time—that our husbands will not have a chance to share a friendship simply because …”
“Because our two countries have declared that we should be at war,” finished Louise sadly.
“Yes.”
“It is outrageous,” said Louise, her feelings so powerful that it drove her to her feet. “What have you ever done to me? What have I ever done to you that we should be enemies? And Henri and Andrew? Why should they not be friends? Because some distant rulers somewhere dictate the way it should be, should we listen?”
Catherine’s hand came down gently on the other young woman’s sleeve. “We cannot help the circumstance of our times. But we can be friends. Perhaps not openly. But we can be friends. We have—” She formed an arc with outstretched hand toward the meadow before them. “We have this,” she said. “It is our meeting place. Our sanctuary. When we come here we come as equals. Women. Wives. Friends. We share the same dreams. The same hopes. We must not let others keep us enemies.”
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