The Meeting Place

by T. Davis Bunn

  “And if she does? I must be there.”

  “Yes.” Jacques nodded once.

  Marie broke in. “But what can the Englishwoman do? There is no doctor in Edward!”

  Jacques stared at his wife and asked, “Do you have the heart to tell your daughter not to go?”

  Marie opened her mouth to speak, but her gaze turned back to the sleeping little form in her arms. She looked up at Louise, and the desperation in her daughter’s face reflected in her own. Marie sighed and shook her head.

  It was all the accord Louise needed. “Then I must fly. If the baby wakens before I return … I will hurry.”

  Chapter 22

  Louise raced up the hillside, chased by a whirlwind of doubts and fears. The sky was filled with great sheets of scudding gray clouds shredded by the rising wind. The trees about her waved and called— whether urging her on or warning her back, she did not know. All she could think clearly was, What if Catherine does not come?

  Her mind knew that her mother had spoken the truth. There was no doctor in Edward, not even one in Chelmsford. All the villages of Cobequid Bay, English or French, were limited to the liniments of traveling traders, the herbal lore of generations, and a barber to set the occasional broken bone. But her heart would not listen. Louise could not afford to rely on the facts. Her baby was suffering. In the light of each new dawn, when hope burned strongest and the love welling from her heart made her almost able to will her baby to get better, even then she was coming to see that her beloved Antoinette was losing ground.

  If only there would be something Catherine could do. Some remedy she might recall, passed down in the English village that she had forgotten to mention, something from the dim recesses of the English past that might give her baby strength, and give herself hope.

  The wind in the forest now seemed to echo her own inner litany of woe. What if Catherine does not come?

  But when Louise rushed through the final thicket into the meadow, there was Catherine. Her long brown tresses were tossed about by the wind, and her face held a look as stricken and distressed as Louise’s own heart.

  The dam of Louise’s emotions—all the fears and pains and weariness of too many nights spent walking the front room, cradling her fretting baby—all of it came crashing through in a burst of tears and choking sobs as the two women clung together. Louise’s heart poured out in her words and her tears, only to be tossed and tumbled about by the same winds that tore at their skirts.

  Louise felt the storm was personally attacking her as she returned down the trail. Her skirt snapped about, trapping her legs, hindering her from going where she knew she must. She felt herself to be in a waking nightmare, one in which she struggled to run in a morass intent on sucking her under.

  The grass in the field surrounding the little Minas church was shivering and flattened low. She gripped her bonnet with one hand and as much of her dress as she could hold with the other, pinning her shawl in place by keeping the edges under her arm. Louise felt a rush of relief as the vicar appeared in the doorway. His first words were carried off by the wind. As she drew closer he called, “What in heaven’s name are you doing out in this storm?”

  “I went to see Catherine about the baby,” she gasped out as she rushed through the door and into the alcove’s relative calm. She flung off her bonnet and her shawl, crying, “Oh, Vicar, what am I going to do?”

  “You are going to come up front with me and sit down and warm yourself and drink a cup of good hot cinnamon tea.” He took her arm in a surprisingly strong grip and led her down the central aisle. “Now, sit yourself right there and tell me what is happening,” he said as he stoked up the wood stove that heated the little chapel for Sunday services.

  “Nothing new. Nothing you don’t already know. You have heard it from me and from my mother and probably from every other woman in the village.” She watched as he broke a long cinnamon stick in two, set the halves in a pair of cups, and with a fire-blackened cloth lifted the steaming pot from the top of the stove. She took the cup he offered, then stared blankly down at it.

  “Now then.” The vicar settled his lean form beside her. The steam from his mug rose and drifted in air untouched by the storm beyond the chapel walls. “Tell me what is on your heart.”

  Here and now, within the safety of these secure walls, his comforting presence, she gave voice to the fears which terrified her. “So many babies don’t live beyond the first few months. I have known this all my life. I lost a little sister when I was eight. I haven’t thought of it in years. Henri lost a brother. Here I’ve been married to the man for almost two years and only now do I learn that he once had a sibling.”

  She looked up then and saw in Jean Ricard’s dark gaze the same answer she had tried not to face the night before. “He told me because he wanted to prepare me for what might come. But I couldn’t live if I lose my Antoinette! I would rather die with her!”

  Instead of the rebuke she expected, rather than chiding her for such thoughts, Jean Ricard gave a solemn nod. “You have given your life to your child. How can you possibly go on if the baby is assigned to the grave?”

  The gust of wind shivered the walls about them. Louise felt all the tears remaining in her heart come springing to her eyes. “Yes! How can I live? How is it possible to go on? I can’t! My life would end with hers!”

  “It is not yet time to speak of death.” The sky beyond the chapel’s tiny lead-paned windows had turned dark with twilight. The vicar’s face seemed even more lean and craggy than ever. Only his eyes retained their same gentle light, a glow like the coals in the fire behind him. “You will know if such a time comes, and God will supply you with the answers only then. For now it is your fears speaking, and these too you must turn over to God. Rely on His strength. Not on yours. He will see you through. Remember this when you feel attacked in the night by all that is beyond your control. Rely on God’s strength. It will come one day, one moment, at a time. Just when you need it.”

  They were words she had heard a hundred times before. A thousand. And they answered none of the questions which filled her mind with a storm’s chaos. Yet here and now they granted her the stillness of genuine peace, enough so that her tears ceased and her voice quieted. “But what am I to do about my baby?”

  The same calm, gentle peace she felt growing within her soul was there in the pastor’s voice. “Whatever God shows you to do.”

  The storm continued long past dark, its force so great Andrew watched the fire flicker and dance from winds blown down the chimney. He lay in bed without moving, afraid he would disturb Catherine. She had looked rather worn lately. Though caring for him and the child was enough to exhaust anyone, still she insisted upon hearing the growing tide of dire news. And she remained desperately worried over Louise’s little Antoinette.

  His eyes moved to where their own baby’s cradle glowed ruddy and warm in the firelight. He longed to rise and walk over and stare down at his beloved child. Each time he held his daughter it was the first time all over again.

  A soft voice said from beside him, “Do you wish to tell me what bothers you so?”

  He rolled over in bed. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “As you should be.” Catherine turned toward him. “Do you have to go out on patrol again tomorrow?”

  “At dawn.” Though their region of Cobequid Bay remained as calm and peaceful as ever, the troop had been on constant alert since the taking of Fort Beausejour.

  “Then you should be asleep. You are not resting enough.”

  “I was just thinking the same about you.” He stared into Catherine’s brown eyes, her gaze softened by love and the fire’s glow.

  She stroked his face, her hand as soft and warm as her voice. “What is troubling you so?”

  “It is so strange,” he said, clasping her hand and drawing it into the space between them. “With all there is to occupy my mind, I cannot stop thinking about little Antoinette.”

  Catherine was silent a long mom
ent, then said, “It is a problem of a size and form that we can work with.”

  Andrew drew back a fraction. “I don’t understand.”

  “We are surrounded by forces beyond our control. There is nothing we can do about war in England.”

  “We cannot change the way the authorities feel about the French,” Andrew agreed. “We cannot erase centuries of conflict and suspicion.”

  “But this baby, this tiny helpless child …” Catherine stopped and swallowed hard. “This one life has form and meaning.”

  “It is more than that,” he discovered, his wife’s words a mirror to what before had remained beyond reach within himself. “This one family’s distress gives a very real face to what all the French must be feeling. I ache for them, for their uncertainty and despair.”

  “As do I,” Catherine whispered. “I think of God’s teachings, all that we have studied and learned, and I yearn to help, but I feel so helpless to do anything.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I think of Louise and that little baby all the time.”

  “I too wish there was something we could do to help them,” he quietly agreed.

  “I know you do.” She freed her hand and returned it to his face. “And it is one of the many things I love about you. But now, my beloved husband, you must sleep.”

  “Let us pray for the child first,” Andrew replied.

  Catherine’s gaze flickered over to the quiet form in the cradle. She murmured, “And her mother.”

  “And father.” Andrew lowered his head, and as he did so, he felt a growing sense of warmth and power within their little haven against the storm. There was Someone else who also cared.

  Chapter 23

  Andrew knocked on the door to John Price’s office. A muffled voice called from within, and he pushed it open and entered. “Afternoon, sir. You wished to see me?”

  “Ah, Andrew, good of you to stop by. Will you take a coffee with me?”

  “Thank you, but if you will excuse me, I must soon be on my way.” Andrew hesitated to cross the floor with his boots, muddied almost to the hilt from the trail. “I have spent all day on patrol.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” John Price must have noticed Andrew’s hesitation. “Come, come, man, sit yourself down. I am no stranger to the trail myself.”

  “Aye, sir, thank you.” It was only when he settled into the chair that he realized how tired he was. His bones still seemed to vibrate from the horse’s motion.

  But Price appeared too caught up in his own thoughts to notice. “Sure you won’t join me? The drover just arrived back from Annapolis Royal this morning, brought two sacks of fresh beans. Might be the last we see for quite a time.”

  “It does smell good, I must admit.” Andrew watched him pour the tin mug full. “Much obliged, sir.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  Andrew took a first sip, felt the bitter warmth down to his center. “Any word from headquarters?”

  “As a matter of fact, there were a few things.” Price’s features were even more ruddy than customary. Against the white of his sweeping sideburns, his complexion held to an alarming shade. “Nothing of great importance to you, of course. But I have been called to Halifax.”

  Despite his bone-weariness, a faint chime seemed to sound within Andrew’s mind. “Indeed, sir?”

  “Yes. It seems that the governor himself wishes to discuss the findings of my recent survey.”

  Andrew gazed about the cramped office. The wall opposite the door was made up of floor-to-ceiling cubbyholes, almost every one of which was stuffed with papers and invoices and forms. A massive black safe, squat and formidable, sat behind his father-in-law’s desk. The two windows were flanked by shelves crammed with more papers and survey scrolls. The air smelled of dust and drying ink. Andrew wondered what it was that he was not seeing, something that seemed just beyond his grasp.

  “As you know, I have been busy assessing the surrounding country.”

  “Indeed,” Andrew murmured again. “We have all noticed you riding out more than usual.”

  “Yes, the orders I had were to survey everything from here to the far boundaries of the Minas River.”

  Minas. Andrew sat upright at the word, as though it prodded him to identify what he was not seeing clearly. “You have been to the French village?”

  “Of course not, man, don’t be daft. What on earth would I have to do with the Frenchies? No, I surveyed them from a distance. Saw all I needed to.”

  Andrew stared at the dark steaming liquid within his cup. No, it was not Minas. Something else, something …

  The realization struck him with such force that he jerked to his feet. The coffee splashed over his hand as he reached forward and swiftly set it down on the side of the desk.

  “Anything wrong, Harrow?”

  “No, not at all, sir. I just recalled …” Andrew knew his hasty departure would cause comment, but he could not tarry. Something this important could not wait another instant. “You must please excuse me.”

  But the closer he drew to his home, the slower his steps. The idea which had half formed in his mind there in John Price’s office now seemed outlandish as he turned down the lane to his house. How could he suggest such a thing to Catherine? And yet, there was such a sense of rightness, no matter how illogical it might seem. Even now, as he sought reasons not to speak of it, he found himself filled with the sensation that the idea had not come from himself at all.

  “Andrew! I wasn’t expecting you for hours.”

  “Hello, my dear.” He accepted her welcoming hug, then used the iron boot-horn imbedded in the stone by his front door to pry off his muddy boots. Now that he was there and facing his wife’s shining eyes, he felt almost reticent. “What have you been doing today?”

  “Oh, I’ve been busy as always. Dinner is far from ready. Will you have a cup of tea?”

  “No, I took coffee with your father.” He entered the front room, slipped on the soft old shoes she kept for him by the fire, and bent over to croon at the baby. The sight of the happy young face brought a new light to his eyes. A smile to the drawn lips. But his eyes quickly darkened, and the smile left his mouth to be replaced with a look of deep sadness. He said with resigned firmness, “Your father has been called to Halifax.”

  Catherine was caught halfway back to the kitchen. “Halifax?”

  “Yes. Something to do with survey work he was assigned.” And there he stopped. He simply did not know how to continue.

  It was then Catherine said, “Andrew, there is a doctor in Halifax.”

  Still he could not lift his eyes from the crib. “I know.”

  But when she did not say anything more, her silence forced him to turn and face her. The instant he looked into her eyes, he knew that she was thinking the same thing as he. “It could be dangerous, Catherine.”

  “Not,” she said slowly, “if I take Antoinette as my own daughter.”

  Andrew exhaled and released the tension he had been holding ever since the possibility had struck him there in his father-in-law’s office. Catherine’s quiet yet assured words could not have been a clearer indication to him that the idea had come from beyond his own mind. “Yes,” he quietly agreed. “That way, we should all be safe.”

  Henri carried a shovel and the pair of burlap sacks up the winding trail, feeling as though they were the heaviest burdens of his entire life.

  The bundles clanked together as he climbed. It was not the weight of the load which tired him, but all the premonitions which he carried along as well. All the responsibilities. All the questions without answers.

  That morning Jacques had insisted that Henri, the head of the clan, take control of the clan’s secret wealth. Each family contributed a small share of the farm’s income in every good year, and there had been many good years since the last time of hard need. Many years indeed. The resulting accumulation of coins was what he carried, an amount that had shocked him when Jacques had tallied it all up that morning. Enough to buy the entire village
’s land and have some left over.

  Jacques had explained how he never spoke of the amounts. Only to take it in and save it, and have the others trust him and his good name. He and one other elder kept the books, honest and accounted for to the last farthing, nothing ever spent on themselves. All for the clan, just in case. Jacques had refused to accept Henri’s protest that his health would improve. He had simply repeated those three dread words: Just in case.

  Henri arrived at the last thicket before the meadow and dropped his burden to the ground. The afternoon was hot, feeling warmer still in contrast to how cold and wet the previous days had been. But even without much of a summer, just an occasional warm day, the crops were doing well. As though they had decided to ignore the weather and help prepare for uncertain times ahead.

  The boughs of the surrounding firs leaned in close about him, sheltering him and his secret. Henri cleared the ground of its blanket of needles, the perfect disguise for his diggings. He looked carefully around to give anchoring points for the location, then his shovel bit deep into the soft earth. Soon he was standing inside the sodden hole in order to make it deeper still. His breath came in steady grunts of effort, for the soil was heavy with the dampness.

  When the hole was waist deep, he stepped free and dropped the bags inside, one on top of the other. He covered in the hole, tramped down the earth, then scattered the pine needles back into place. He walked carefully around the spot, until he was certain that not even he could tell exactly where the hole had been dug without his sight markers.

  Now he stepped into the meadow itself and took a deep breath of the sweet-scented air. The rain-drenched firs and the bright new wild flowers filled the meadow with honeyed perfume. Wiping his brow, Henri seated himself on the log Louise had described as their bench. His heart ached anew for her anguish and for their little girl. He would do anything, give all he had, to see Antoinette be well and strong. Anything at all. Yes, even his beloved land.