Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  She bowed her head, submitting to this raw confession. She had asked for this story. She would not stop him from telling it just because her throat stretched tight around its pain.

  Samuel clasped his hands, kneading them. “I did pray. I tried to focus on what was good in my life, and that was you and Joel. I made that my rescue from hurting. But joy was never meant for that purpose. If we don’t know sorrow, joy holds no meaning at all. We need to feel our losses so we can deal with them. But like I said, I didn’t know that then, and I pushed for too much from Joel to fill the hollows made by grief.” He squinted at her. “Does this make any sense?”

  She told him it did. “Sorrow and joy are two sides to the same blade.”

  Exhaling, he nodded and stretched one leg out before him, brushing her skirt beneath the table. He pulled back, shifting awkwardly. “One day I asked Joel to go ice fishing with me, just the two of us. He didn’t want to take the weekend away from Lydia, but I applied pressure in all the right spots, and he finally gave in.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “Joel and I used to go ice fishing with our father, and I wanted to have one last time with him before I left. I was already tired of waiting for you, and winter had just begun, stretching unbearably before me. You have no idea how I missed you, Catie. I could scarcely endure it.”

  Warmth kindled in her middle, and she focused on anything but his face and the tenderness in his voice. “So the two of you went,” she prodded.

  “Aye. And only one came home.” Something rippled over his face—regret or guilt. Likely both. “The ice wasn’t strong enough. It was too early in the season. I should have known that, and maybe I did, but I rushed our trip because I was selfish. I wanted time with him so I could hurry back and live my life with you.”

  Catherine’s mouth went dry. She had no words.

  “The ice broke, Joel slipped under, and I could not save him fast enough. I have no idea how long he was under. Minutes? An eternity. Still, he wasn’t gone when I pulled him out, not yet. I prayed that my brother’s life would be spared and his bride would not become a widow. Joel trusted the ice because I told him to, and it broke beneath him. His death was my doing entirely.”

  “Samuel.” Catherine grasped his hand while searching for more of her voice. “I’m so sorry,” she managed at last. How much did the river remind him of his brother’s death? What demons of blame did he confront each day he lived near the water? A thin shaft of understanding pierced her thoughts. Samuel’s love for her had compelled him to take risks that resulted in Joel’s death. Had staying away from her been his penance?

  An ache spread from the center of her chest until it filled every part of her. She wanted to tell him it was an accident, that he could not take on that guilt, but her lips refused to frame the words. She struggled to master herself. Of all the possibilities she had imagined for his absence, this had not been among them.

  Samuel’s smile was faint but full of meaning. “I have accepted it, just as I have accepted my parents’ deaths. Before Joel died, I asked his forgiveness, and he freely gave it.” A lump shifted in his throat, and the years that had divided them collapsed. This was no stranger before her. This was Sam.

  “I wish you had told me,” she whispered. “I wish you’d written.” Her thoughts lunged toward what might have been if she’d but known the truth, and she struggled to bridle them before they galloped away with her. “Why didn’t you?”

  Samuel looked as though he’d been struck. Releasing her hand, he wiped the expression from his face. “Enough storytelling for today. I am sorry, Catie, for any suffering I caused you.”

  She looked at him through a cloud of dust suspended in the air, her fury having ebbed away. In its wake, she felt exposed, confused. “You didn’t have to stay away all this time.”

  The flat line of his lips suggested otherwise. “Let us speak no more of it. None of it can be changed. What we can discuss is what to do next.”

  A protest gathered and died on her tongue. Already he’d circled back to talk of escape and her role in it. How easily, how quickly, he turned from reconciliation. How foolish she’d been to lean toward it.

  She needed fresh air. The wind, the river, sky. She rose, and so did he. “I believe we’re finished here,” she told him, snapping a guard back in place over her heart.

  “We’re not,” he countered. “We need to talk about getting out of here. Did you not hear what I said? The war may hinge on the intelligence I’ve gained, but no good will come of it if I don’t carry it to the right people. I need your help. So sit back down, and let’s formulate a plan.”

  “No,” she said, angered by how suddenly he’d shifted from sharing the sorrow that had parted them to pushing his agenda. “We’re done.”

  She left the post, forcing Samuel to follow her. He simmered beside her as she locked the door, and there she left him, for she could not bear to be near him a moment longer.

  Glancing at the river, she crossed back to the house, Samuel’s story hanging heavy on her. But this was a burden she’d asked for, and she could not shrug it off.

  Thankful emerged from the house and smiled as Catherine neared the door. “A day without harvest.” She put a hand to the small of her back. “What will you do with it?”

  Behind her, she could hear Samuel begin to chop more firewood. She saw his face and form without looking. She didn’t want to. “I won’t stay here.”

  It did not take much persuasion for Thankful to agree to join her, and even Gabriel made no objection. So as Catherine guided Thankful through the muddy streets of Montreal, the noise and press of people shoved Samuel to a corner of her mind where she struggled to keep him confined.

  Though she had come to the island to trade and harvest earlier this week, she’d been miles west of the city. Only now, inside the walls, did she see how choked it was with women, children, and refugees from Quebec. Hunger sharpened their elbows as they jostled against the crowd of their own making.

  And the crowd was entirely human. There were no horses, for they too had been enlisted in military service, and without horses, there were no carriages or wagons. Gone were even the dogs that had pulled small carts for the poorer class. They’d begun disappearing last winter, after all the cows and hogs had already been butchered.

  “All these people!” Thankful murmured, clutching Catherine’s arm for balance. Small valleys in the unpaved road brimmed with rainwater and mud. “How does the city sustain them?”

  The smell of unwashed bodies ripened in the humid air. Catherine held a kerchief to her nose as they turned at the corner. “I don’t know,” she replied. “There’s a labor shortage with the men gone, but surely the women and children who have taken their place cannot fill those positions. I imagine they live largely by charity.” How long that charity would last, she couldn’t guess.

  “Here we are.” Thankful slowed as they came to a shop window. “Shall we?”

  Catherine opened the door, and the bell tinkled overhead as they entered the millinery. Hats and bonnets of every type topped stands lining the paneled walls. Feathers, ribbons, and lace trimmed straw or satin brims. “Madame Trudeau? Yvette?” she called. The jasmine scent pervading the shop proclaimed the owner’s favorite perfume.

  “Coming, coming, ma chère!” Yvette, twenty years Catherine’s senior, bustled into view, pulling a length of ribbon from around her neck and stuffing it into her pocket. “Catherine and Thankful! What a delightful surprise, do come in.” She embraced and bussed both of them, her face wreathed with a smile despite the black mourning gown she wore.

  Catherine pulled a small jar of honey from her apron pocket. “This just came to our post, and I thought you might like to have it.”

  Yvette’s mouth rounded before breaking into another grin. “It’s my one weakness. You’re sure you can spare it?”

  “We have its twin at home,” Thankful assured her, then glanced at the ceiling as footsteps sounded on the second floor. “You have company?”

  T
he hint of a sigh swelled in Yvette’s chest. “We all do, my dear. My ‘guests’ include three women—one a widow like me—and four children ranging from four years of age to eleven. They came earlier this summer when the British laid siege to Quebec.”

  Catherine stifled a gasp. Manners prevented her from asking how Yvette could afford to keep them all, but she knew it must be a strain.

  “That’s very kind of you, madame.” Thankful placed her hand on Yvette’s shoulder.

  “Ah well. We learn to adapt, do we not? Please, if you have time, sit and visit with me for a spell.” Clutching the honey to her bosom, Yvette led the way to a trio of chairs clustered around a thin-legged table that held a mirror. This was where patrons sat to try various styles of hats while sipping tea.

  Yvette’s silk rustled as she placed the jar on the table and eased into a chair. “Would you care for some light refreshment?”

  “No, thank you,” Catherine assured her. Surely Yvette needed every morsel to feed herself and seven houseguests.

  Light fell through the nearby display window, casting shadows of the latest styles on the floor. Movement caught Catherine’s eye. Two russet-feathered chickens bobbed toward her, their claws sinking into the Persian rug with every halting step.

  “Ah!” Yvette flounced up from her seat, cheeks pink. “My other houseguests, Maude and Lucie. Shoo! Shoo!” Swishing her skirts at the hens, she shepherded them out of the room and into the stairwell at the back before closing the door. They clucked in protest from the other side.

  Yvette chuckled. “Do forgive me, mademoiselles, but I’ve lost so many hens from our yard to thieves already, I decided to bring my last pair inside. We need them to keep laying eggs, you see.”

  Catherine smiled at her hostess, hoping to put her at ease again. “Of course. And what do Maude and Lucie think of their fine accommodations?”

  Yvette pursed her lips to one side and clasped her hands. “They do not fancy it, I’m sorry to say. Too many people, not enough sunshine. And I daresay not enough food, or at least not the diet they want. My other guests have them marked for a stew, but I can’t give them up quite yet. But let us speak of other things.” She curved her lips into a smile that seemed slow to come.

  Thankful stepped toward the window, her youth and grace a perfect fit for the display there. “Oh, this is charming!” She picked up a peacock-colored bonnet trimmed in ribbon and feathers, a stark contrast to the ruffled white cap she wore. “Look how you’ve done this trimming! I can barely see the stitches.”

  Lowering her voice so as not to embarrass Thankful, Catherine leaned toward Yvette. “I ought to show you the beadwork she’s done at the post. See her hands? Made for detailed work.”

  Eyes sparkling, Yvette mouthed a silent, “Oui!” To Thankful, she said, “Merci! I confess that one is a particular favorite of mine.” She patted her fading auburn curls.

  Thankful turned the hat in all directions to inspect the workmanship in the sunshine before trying it on and observing the effect in the mirror. “I’m surprised it hasn’t sold yet.”

  “What a kind thing to say, dear. But it’s difficult to sell anything when most days the shop is closed so we can all go and work in the harvest. Not that I mind doing my part, mind you,” Yvette was quick to add. “If we can help feed those soldiers, all the better. Even when I’m open, folks aren’t as interested in new bonnets as they once were. Times are hard.” From upstairs, voices volleyed, growing shrill. Yvette shook her head. “Hunger steals people’s patience. So does worry, and they have plenty of that, for they have no idea whether their houses still stand.”

  Catherine waited for the muffled shouting to subside. “I understand you inherited the management of Monsieur Trudeau’s business, God rest him.”

  Yvette’s smile slipped. She twisted her wedding band, and it spun too easily on her finger. “Oh my. You and your father will have no more competition from the Trudeaus, that’s certain. I have no idea what he did or how to begin making sense of his books. His notations might as well be ancient Greek to me.”

  There was no way Yvette could live on what she was—or rather, wasn’t—earning from her millinery. “If I may be so bold,” Catherine began, “I might be able to offer some guidance.”

  Surprise lifted Yvette’s thin eyebrows toward her hairline. “You would do that for me?”

  Catherine reached over and squeezed her hand. Her skin was papery and dry, and moved too easily over her bones. “I’ve not forgotten how you took me in more than once when I was a child, failing at Madame Bonneville’s School for Young Ladies.”

  Thankful returned the bonnet to its rack and returned to her embroidered seat. “Do tell!”

  Catherine smiled. “You know that I was at a boarding school between the ages of twelve and fourteen. I was a terrible pupil. I didn’t even like hats.”

  “No, you most certainly did not.” Yvette laughed. “But”—she grew serious—“they should never have denied you food for making mistakes.”

  “They did what?” Thankful’s porcelain brow furrowed. Outside on the street, a woman paused at the display window for a moment before moving on.

  “They had many methods for trying to civilize me,” Catherine said. “One day, my class came here for a lesson in the latest styles of wigs and bonnets, and I’m afraid I wasn’t an enthusiastic student. I couldn’t answer questions correctly when it came time for review. Madame Bonneville declared I should have no dinner that evening for my ‘savage’ and ‘rebellious’ ways. But when our lesson was over and we lined up to file back into the street, Yvette slipped two croissants and an apple into my pocket, along with a note that said I should come back and have tea with her any time I could get away. So I did.”

  Tears lined Yvette’s lashes. “You’ll never know how glad I was every time you came.”

  Crossing her ankles, Catherine leaned toward Thankful and said, “Yvette didn’t even mind when I forgot the manners I’d been taught. But being here made me want to remember them. If Madame Trudeau had been my teacher instead of Madame Bonneville, I wouldn’t have run away.”

  “Three times,” Yvette added. “Wasn’t it? How I worried over you. But you’re here now, and you’ve brought Thankful, and you’ve absolutely brought the sunshine with you. I can almost forget there’s a war on when I see you dears.”

  She was lonely. Catherine could hear it in the warble of her voice. In a city and house overflowing with people, the widow still felt alone. And, if Catherine didn’t miss her guess, afraid.

  “Show me Monsieur’s books, Yvette, and I’ll decipher what I can.”

  When Yvette hastened away to retrieve the ledgers, Thankful whispered, “That was your aim for this visit all along, wasn’t it?”

  Catherine nodded. “I can’t abide the thought of her falling into ruin. I’ll advise her the best way I know how and check on her again after the harvest. Discreetly.”

  “Of course.” Thankful’s lips bent in a conspiratorial grin. “Your father doesn’t have to know.”

  “If we can all just weather this war to the end, life will return to normal.” Catherine pressed a hand to her stomacher, trying to assuage the ache behind it. “Food supplies won’t be stretched so thin because the armies will go back to France, and the refugees can go back to their own homes.”

  Thankful dropped her gaze. “That is, if they have homes to go back to.”

  Chapter Eleven

  If she had been asleep already, she wouldn’t have heard the knocking on her chamber door.

  “Catherine.” Samuel spoke so low and soft, she wondered at first if she’d only imagined it. She’d been doing far too much imagining since he’d told her two days ago what had happened with Joel. How would their paths have altered if Samuel had only shared that with her right away? Would she have gone to him in his grief, though the war had already begun, or could she have convinced him to return despite the guilt that filled him? Was Samuel truly disinterested in rebuilding the relationship they’d onc
e shared? Was she? Questions wore a ceaseless circuit in her mind, and she wearied of them. They led nowhere.

  Meanwhile, all he wanted was her help to escape, not that they’d had much chance to revisit that topic. They’d been busy with the harvest, and with all the French soldiers hovering about, it wasn’t safe to talk there. When at home, she closeted herself away, trying to ignore reemerging feelings for Samuel now that she knew it was Joel’s death that had kept him from returning. She was warming to him too easily, too quickly. She didn’t want to, and being near him only made it worse.

  So during her evenings, she worked on decoding Monsieur Trudeau’s books for Yvette. It had proven too much to accomplish during their visit the other day, so Catherine had promised to examine them at home and return the records to her friend along with written observations and advice.

  Samuel knocked again, and she turned on her bed toward the wall, teeth clenched, and focused on the crickets’ song instead. Just because she paid him no mind during the day didn’t mean he could enter her bedchamber after dark, no matter how desperately he wanted to speak with her.

  The squeak of a hinge told her that Thankful had opened her door, for Gabriel was snoring still. “Samuel?”

  “Oh. I didn’t mean to disturb you, Thankful.”

  “Do you need something?” Her voice was muffled, but Catherine could tell she’d stepped into the hall. It was not difficult to picture her in her wrapper, golden hair in a plait at her back.

  Samuel’s sigh was audible. “I do. I need to talk to her, and there is never a free moment during the day, though surely she could carve out some time if she had a mind to.”

  “Well,” Thankful began, hesitating, “it’s quite a shock, having you here. She missed you fiercely. We both did.”