The Meeting Place

by T. Davis Bunn

  That brought a different smile, one which sparked deep in his dark eyes, the same flashing depths shared by all the gazes about the tables. “Then you and I have far more in common than we might expect. Tell me, Madame Harrow, what is it that has led you to read the holy Word?”

  Catherine wondered if she should mention her father’s legalistic attitude that had kept her from the Book in the past, and all the newness she had found for herself since discovering it as something alive and relevant. But she did not want to show disrespect, and so searched for something she had not expressed before. And she found herself saying, “I want to be a … a handmaiden of the Lord.”

  The vicar possessed striking features, with a great beak of a nose and piercing eyes and the high cheekbones of a hunter, a quester for truth. “Yes?” His query invited more.

  “If I truly am the Lord’s, I will be the wife to Andrew that I should be.” And though she blushed at the heart’s exposure these words revealed, still she pressed on, “And the mother for the children we hope to have.”

  The vicar bowed a second time, lower than the first. “You have honored us with your presence, Madame Catherine. May your worthy example help teach our own young maidens how to value the eternal lessons.”

  But Catherine did not stop there. “I have learned from the Scriptures that there is no way I am able to accomplish this. Not of my own doing. No matter how strongly I desire it. It is only through what our crucified Christ has done that I can be a worthy wife or mother. I must depend on Him—for all of life.”

  The vicar nodded slowly, his eyes growing thoughtful, then turned to Jacques Belleveau and said, “Perhaps it is time we join together in prayer.”

  “Aye, Vicar, your timing is right as always.” The elder’s cheeks were ruddy with delight. “The meal is ready, and so are our appetites.”

  Catherine stood with the others and listened to familiar petitions spoken in an alien tongue. And one not alien. She found herself not only listening to the vicar’s prayer but to her heart as well, marveling at how easily she had spoken and the words she had chosen to say. Not in character for her, even in her mother tongue. Why now, in a language that was not her own? She did not know. All she could say for certain, as she stood with bowed head and heard the prayer, was that here in this foreign village and among a people who were not her own, she had indeed found herself at home.

  Chapter 16

  Catherine raised a slender hand to push back her tangled hair, and peeked through a corner of the bedroom window curtain. It was not yet dawn, yet in spite of great weariness she was unable to sleep. She lay back, not wanting to disturb her husband. If she could not sleep, at least she should try to rest.

  But it was not to be. Her entire body felt agitated and her stomach upset. At length she gave up and raised herself to a sitting position. Silently she pushed her feet into the woolen slippers by the bed and eased herself upward, her eyes still on Andrew. When he did not stir, Catherine breathed a relieved sigh and stole from the room.

  The fire had gone out, but the front room was not chilled. In fact, Catherine felt too warm. As she reached for kindling she fretted that she might be coming down with the influenza.

  She lowered herself to the rocking chair as a wave of nausea passed through her. This was the third day she had felt so sick to her stomach. The feeling had gradually passed as she had moved about her duties, but it had been difficult to prepare Andrew’s breakfasts. Already she dreaded the thought of standing over a hot stove stirring the morning porridge.

  But Andrew would not be up for another hour. She had some time to get herself in hand. Perhaps by the time she needed to begin breakfast she would be feeling better. She reached for her Bible and tried to settle herself into a more comfortable position.

  But she found it difficult to concentrate on the passage. Her nausea came in swells, much like the tides of the Fundy. They swept over her, totally absorbing her entire body, making her fear she might vomit, wishing that she couldvomit. Then at least the awful spasms might recede.

  She laid aside the beloved Book and leaned her head against the back of the rocker. She dared not rock. Even the slight gentle movement seemed to increase her discomfort. She sat perfectly still, almost holding her breath in her desire to keep herself in control.

  “Are you ill?”

  The words from Andrew made her jerk upright. Another wave of nausea passed over her. She fought to regain her composure.

  “I think it’s just a bit of upset stomach,” she managed to answer, trying hard to smile as she spoke.

  “Perhaps you need to take some of the restorative from the cupboard.”

  Something deep within Catherine resisted. Not just that the potion provided to Andrew for his men was bitter in taste, but there was some inner warning that she should be very careful about any self-cures.

  “I’m sure it will pass,” Catherine answered. “As before.”

  “You’ve had this before?” Andrew moved toward her, rubbing his hand through untidy locks. His eyes held concern.

  Catherine stirred restlessly in the chair. She had disclosed too much. But she could not retract the statement. “A bit,” she answered, hoping that Andrew would accept the offhand reply and not question her further.

  “Why haven’t you said something? I had no idea you were ill.”

  “Not ill … really … just …”

  But she was ill. She could not deny it. She felt terrible. “It will pass,” she finally managed.

  But when another wave of nausea passed over her, Catherine knew that this time she would vomit. With one quick movement she leaned over the ash bucket. Andrew’s movement was just as quick. He was there to support her, to hold her head, as the first spasms racked her body.

  “You must get back to bed,” he said when it seemed to be over.

  Catherine shook her head. “I think I’ll be all right now.” She leaned weakly against the high back of the chair, beads of perspiration dampening her brow.

  “But you must rest. And you must have some—”

  “No, Andrew,” Catherine interrupted. “That is much too harsh. I don’t think—”

  “Well, if not the restorative, then at least some tonic. I have worried about you lately. You seem to lack energy. And you’ve lost your color.”

  “I haven’t been resting well, that’s all.”

  “Is something troubling you that you haven’t spoken of?”

  Catherine was quick to shake her head. “Of course not.”

  “Then—”

  Catherine spoke again. “It could be just a bit of upset. I’m sure it’s nothing to concern us.”

  Andrew still looked doubtful. “I think I should ask Mrs. Dwyer to stop by. She knows about herbs and medicines—”

  “Please, Andrew, no.” His words had brought Catherine upright in her chair. She had no desire to be called upon by Matty Dwyer.

  At the look of bewilderment on his face she changed her tack. “At least … not yet. There is no reason to make a fuss about nothing. If it persists, then …”

  Inwardly, Catherine fervently hoped that she might escape a visit from the tongue-wagging, eye-piercing Matty Dwyer. The wife of the village drover was a nag and a scold. Though Matty always seemed available, always seemed to be in the meeting hall whenever Catherine arrived, always was ready to stop by for a visit, Catherine had never felt comfortable around the prying woman.

  Andrew seemed to detect her anxiety. “We’ll give it a couple of days, then. But if it persists we’ll have to do something.”

  Catherine nodded. How she hoped that it would not come to that.

  “Let me help you back to bed.”

  “I’m sure that I can make it on my own. I feel some better already.”

  Catherine cast a glance at the used ash bucket. Andrew said, “Never mind that. I’ll take care of it.”

  The very sight made Catherine’s stomach heave again. She hated leaving the mess to Andrew, but she knew that in her present stat
e she would never be able to clean it up herself. She managed a weak nod and accepted Andrew’s outstretched hand. Perhaps she would feel better if she lay down for a while.

  Louise smiled softly as she ran one finger over the handmade calendar that Henri had posted on the wall. She must be right. The calendar assured her. Yet she had never felt better. More alive and energetic. But it was too early for her to share her secret with her husband. What if she was mistaken? He would be so disappointed. He had spoken of a son more often lately. No, she must wait until she was sure.

  She stepped back and untied the bow of her starched apron. She had some time before beginning the evening meal. She would walk over to visit her mother. A chat over a hot cup of tea would be her excuse, but if the opportunity presented itself, the discussion could lead to some personal questions. Her mother would know.

  With long, easy strides she made her way through the grove that provided a shortcut. It was cooler there and not as dusty as going by the main road.

  Soon she was tapping on the familiar door before admitting herself and calling softly, “Bonjour.”

  “Louise.” Marie made her way from an inner room to the kitchen, wiping her face with her apron as she came. “Come in.”

  Louise smiled. “I am in already, Mama.”

  “So I see. So I see and welcome you are, too. But it is a warm day. Too warm for the kitchen. Come. Let’s sit in the shade.”

  “But I came for tea,” teased Louise.

  “Tea? No, it is too hot for tea. I was shelling peas in the coolness of the sitting room. Apple cider, then?”

  Louise could not suppress a soft laugh. “Apple cider, then, Mama. Apple cider and maybe some of your ginger cake.”

  “Ginger cake? But I have made no ginger cake today. Henri stopped by and ate the last of it two days ago.”

  Louise was surprised at her own disappointment. Once the idea of ginger cake had popped to her mind, she discovered that she truly did desire it. When she saw the look on her mother’s face, she hastened to say, “No mind, Mama. We shall have whatever is in your pantry.”

  Her mother’s keen eyes held hers. “But you wished for ginger cake?”

  “I did—but no matter.”

  “We could have ginger tea.”

  Louise brightened. It would not be like having the tangy ginger cake, but it did appeal to her taste of the moment. “Ginger tea. Yes, that is good. Let’s have ginger tea.”

  Her mother’s eyes still seemed to study her. “I will stir up the fire and put on the kettle,” she muttered almost absentmindedly, shaking her head as she moved toward the stove and again mopped her brow.

  “No,” decided Louise. “No. That is foolish. The day is as hot for ginger tea as it is for plain tea. Let’s have the cider.”

  Marie’s hand stopped as it reached for the kettle. “You are having a hard time making up your mind,” she scolded gently.

  “Apple cider,” said Louise firmly. “We will have the cider.”

  Marie stepped to the trapdoor that led to the cellar. “I will bring up some cold.”

  It would not be cold, but it would be much cooler than anything left exposed to the warmth of the summer day. “Here. Let me take the steps,” Louise offered.

  But Marie held out a hand to detain her, her eyes searching her daughter’s face. “I will take the steps,” she said firmly. “You find a seat in the shade.”

  Louise hesitated. Her mother did not usually turn down offers to run errands. “In the shade,” her mother repeated, and Louise obediently turned to go, then swung back.

  “Mama,” she said, voicing the thought that would not go away. “Could you stir just a bit of ginger into the apple cider?”

  Her mother rolled her eyes, then smiled and nodded before she disappeared into the coolness of the cellar.

  Why this sudden desire for a taste of ginger? Louise shrugged her shoulders and lifted the heavy flow of hair from her neck. The day was indeed warm but beautiful. Overhead a bird called from its nest and another answered from a nearby apple tree. Louise smiled, then grew serious. Was she being foolish? Was it too early to be talking to her mother? How would she approach the subject? What were the right words to express her questions? Were her dreams really about to come true? Louise chafed in impatience as she waited for her mother to join her.

  But she did not have to wait long. Marie soon reappeared, bearing a wooden tray shaped by the hands of Henri as a Christmas gift. On the tray were two tall glasses. Louise could smell the ginger. A small plate of biscuits, bountifully spread with apple butter completed the repast. This too was sprinkled with ginger.

  Her mother put down the tray, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and lowered herself to the chair across from her daughter. Again Louise felt the sharp eyes bore into her own. “So,” she said as she lifted her apron to flap at a fly that sought out the biscuits, “you are to tell me what I have dreamed to hear. You are to make me a grandmother.”

  Louise could not hide her surprise. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “I see it. I see it in your eyes. Your face.”

  “But, Mama, I’m not sure, yet. I came to ask you if—”

  “It’s sure,” her mother answered with a nod of her head. “And how have you been?”

  “Fine. Just fine. I do not feel one bit sickish. Just … just happy.”

  “You look happy,” responded Marie with another nod. “That is what gives you away.”

  “But—”

  “And some other things. I have seen it before, you know. Many times.”

  “But it’s so early. I have not even dared to speak of it to Henri.”

  “Speak of it.”

  “But he will be so disappointed if—”

  “Do not worry about the if. Henri must be the first to know.”

  “But you know.”

  “Well … yes. But you did not tell me.”

  Still Louise felt a bit hesitant. “You are sure I won’t be leading Henri to a big disappointment if it is not so?”

  “If you take care of yourself, there will be no such thing. But you must start soon on the tonic I will prepare.”

  Suddenly Louise felt her heart overflow with uncontrolled joy. With one movement she left her seat and gathered her mother close in an embrace. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but they were tears of joy. “I am so happy I want to … to sing and dance,” she exclaimed. It was then that she noticed that her mother, too, was weeping.

  “And I join in your happiness,” the older woman answered as she returned her daughter’s tight hug. “I, too, am happy. But it’s too hot to dance.”

  They both laughed as Louise stepped back and wiped at her tears. It was the first time she had felt the warm bond of womanhood with her own mother. Yet still she felt the tug of being the child—the daughter. It was so good to be able to share this special event with another woman. With the woman whom she called Mama.

  The days did not get easier for Catherine. On rising from her bed, she went through the same miserable routine, feeling ill and weak. Andrew would have carried through with calling in Matty Dwyer, but the woman was down with gout. Silently, Catherine breathed a prayer of thankfulness.

  But Catherine herself was beginning to be concerned. It wasn’t normal, the way she was feeling, and she had no other woman with whom to discuss her strange malady.

  Andrew was right. She waspale. And she had lost weight. She could see it in her face. Could tell it by the waistbands of her skirts. She now had to lap them over and pin them to make them fit. And she was so tired. It was all she could do to make herself face the household chores. And cooking was nearly beyond her. She longed to have someone to talk to. Someone who might know what was going on in her body.

  Her thoughts turned to Louise. It had been weeks since she’d had the strength to climb the hill to the meadow. She was sure Louise was wondering what had happened to her. But she didn’t dare attempt to send a message.

  Yet as the days slipped past
Catherine felt more and more determined to meet with her friend. She had no other woman to whom she could express her feelings—her concerns.

  And then her opportunity came. Andrew was to be gone on a five-day patrol. Though she knew he probably wouldn’t approve of the trek in her weakened condition, Catherine waited for the extreme nausea of early morning to pass, then slipped from the cottage and up the hill toward the hidden meadow. The fall flowers were in full bloom, and in spite of the way she felt, Catherine could not help but feel renewed and invigorated by the outing. She slipped a short note into the secret place where she and Louise had exchanged messages in the past and turned to make her way back down the hill, picking a few meadow flowers as she went.

  “Now if only Louise comes to the meadow and finds my note in time,” Catherine murmured to herself. Her note had asked simply for a meeting. Thursday. She dared not wait beyond Thursday. Andrew was due home on Friday.

  Even as the thought came to her, Catherine felt her cheeks warm. It was not right, what she was doing. She should not be sneaking around behind Andrew’s back. Doing what she knew he would not want her to do. No matter how deep her need for another woman’s understanding and help.

  Catherine turned back and retrieved her bit of paper from its hiding place. She could not do it. Make these secret plans. It was not right. She crumpled the paper in trembling fingers and shoved it into her apron pocket. Tears sprang to her eyes and rolled freely down her cheeks. If only, if only she had someone to talk to!

  “Bonjour,” a voice called merrily, and Catherine whirled about to see Louise hurrying into the clearing. She could not even reply but stood with a fresh burst of tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “I have not seen you in ages,” Louise called as she came toward her, arms outstretched. “I have been worried that you have been ill.”

  She was almost to Catherine when the welcoming smile left her face and she stopped short. “You have been ill. You look all done in.”

  Catherine wiped at the tears and nodded. Then she managed a wobbly smile, though she felt more like weeping. But that would not do. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m so glad to see you, Louise.”