“I thought not. I know everyone here, and most of their relatives and friends.” She gave a genuine smile. “It is a pastor’s lot to be involved in the lives of all around us. Even the outsiders we come to know at least by sight.”
“Yes, I suppose you must.” Charles sat down in the nearest pew and studied this woman intently. “You are related to the pastor?”
“I am his daughter. My name is Anne.”
His heart leapt with the urge to blurt out his own identity. To ask of his brother’s welfare. But he bit down on the question and fought to keep his voice even. Controlled. “I’m honored to meet you, Anne. Miss Anne.”
She smiled shyly, nodded an acknowledgment, and resumed her sweeping. “And I am glad to find a gentleman who is willing to take time from his day to stop in God’s house. Time with the Lord should not be left only for the Sabbath, do you not agree?”
“Yes,” Charles managed to affirm after a moment of hesitation. “I suppose so.” He draped both hands over the pew in front and leaned forward, watching her as she moved gracefully at her task, his thoughts far from the exchange about church attendance. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. This was no rough-hewn village lass. Anne Harrow was raven-haired, lithe, and slight, somehow holding to a fragility more suited to a formal parlor than a primitive country village church.
Dressed in homespun and a small lace cap, with no jewelry or adornment whatsoever, she was evidently poor. Yet she possessed the calm demeanor and confidence of a true lady. Charles felt his heart race with anticipation. Perhaps fate’s hand was finally turning toward him.
“Excuse my chatter,” she said, starting to move away. “You no doubt wish for solitude.”
“You are not disturbing me at all,” he quickly assured her. An idea took shape in his mind. Perhaps he did not need to go hat in hand to his brother at all. It was possible he could avoid the need to beg him for anything. He could speak his piece here and now to this newly discovered niece and present his brother with an accomplished fact.
Anne walked over to put her broom in the corner. “My sweeping can wait. I should leave and permit you to speak with God in peace.”
“No. Wait. I … I wish to speak with you.”
She showed quiet surprise. “With me?”
“Yes. You see, I … well, I come from England.”
“England.” She clasped delicate hands before her. “Oh, I have always dreamed of seeing England. My father comes from there.”
“I know.” He was making a terrible job of this. Charles tried to swallow down his nervousness. “Would you sit here for a moment? Please. This is important.”
She hesitated, her dark gaze wary now. When she did nod and move forward it was to slide into the pew opposite his own, sitting on the very edge. “What could be so important about a village church that it would interest a gentleman from England?”
“It is not the church. It is you.”
Her eyes widened. “Me?”
Charles nodded. “I have traveled all this way to find you. And I must say, my dear—”
But Anne was already on her feet. “Perhaps you should reserve further speech for my father, sir.”
“No, wait! I beseech you, Anne Harrow, hear me out!”
She halted midway to the door. “How did you know my family name?”
“Because it is my name as well.” Charles rushed on, hurrying now to say what he had planned for months and months. “I am your father’s brother. Charles, the eighth earl of Sutton. Has your father not spoken of me?” When there was no reply, only a shocked look on the girl’s face, he hurried on. “I am wealthy, my dear. I don’t know how else to tell you. Rich beyond your wildest dreams. I am also childless. My second wife died last autumn, leaving me no heir. I have braved the North Atlantic in late winter because I had to find you. I want—”
“No …” Anne’s feet seemed unable to move in time to her body. She stumbled against the last pew, caught herself, stumbled again. “I must …”
“I want to take you away from all this, give you the kingdom! I mean just that!” He started toward her, then stopped midstride, fearful of driving her away before he could say it all. “I will make you a proper lady, introduce you at court, give you everything you have ever dreamed of owning and more. It is all yours, Anne. Titles, land, riches, everything!”
Her hands scrambled over the door, found the latch, and flung it open to flee down the steps. Charles stood with one hand outstretched, listening to her footsteps grow distant down the village lane. In his heart he knew he had bungled everything. Smacking a fist into his hand, he chided himself for his impatience and insensitivity. After coming so far and enduring so much—he had totally mismanaged the encounter. Now he would need to start over and attempt to rectify the damage he had done. He was used to having his own way without question or resistance. But now he had frightened Anne half to death. It would be a long, slow road to trust. He uttered a curse under his breath, then turned to leave through the still-open door.
Chapter 6
It seemed to Henri that all Vermilionville spoke of nothing except the letter. That was hardly a surprise, as it was the first message received from Acadia since their arrival. Some, mostly the young and unmarried, spoke of it with a sense of adventure and yearning. Others, mostly the old and weary, spoke of it with dread. Should they trust it, should they listen, should they respond to its invitation? As Henri walked alongside his horse through the village to his fields, he spotted another boatload of people arriving at the town dock and shouting questions to the first who passed. Where was the letter? It was not enough to hear the news. They wanted to see it for themselves, make sure it was real. The letter awoke passions and memories like an August brush fire, bringing Acadia from the realm of a distant memory to the here and now.
Henri Robichaud, for one, was not sure how he felt about it at all.
“Henri!”
He slowed and waited for Louise’s brother to hurry over. Henri had always liked Guy. Some men followed because they were too weak to lead. A few, like Guy, did so because of genuine affection and a willingness to trust someone they respected. Henri’s leadership had survived several very hard times because of Guy’s unquestioned loyalty.
Because it was Guy, Henri was able to growl, “Why didn’t you burn that letter before you opened it?”
Guy responded with a sunburnt grin. “I’ve been asking myself the very same thing.”
Henri turned back to the lane and the fields up ahead. He shook the reins to start the horse plodding along once more. “A stick in a beehive wouldn’t cause as much commotion.”
“Emilie and I were up half the night.”
“You and everyone else in this village.” He waved a hand at the empty fields ahead. “Here it is the second week of planting, and not another soul at work.”
The letter had been a copy, one of six, sent to all the corners of the earth. It had been penned by Guy and Louise’s cousin, a young man who had vanished on the night of the expulsion and had not been heard from since. He had kept the message very brief, for he was not much at writing and it all had to be said again and again. He did not know where his family might be, so he was sending copies to the places where he had heard Acadians were gathering. He and his family had been shipped back to France. Life there had been terrible. The big landowners distrusted them, because for generations now the Acadians from the new continent had owned their own land. No serf in France was a landowner. The nobles loathed the prospect of Acadians traveling from place to place, spreading discontent among the villagers. Many Acadians had finally left France for other places—Switzerland, Africa, the Caribbean. His own family had been planning to travel to Louisiana when Governor Lawrence had issued an edict from Halifax, inviting any and all Acadians to return. All they had to do was take the oath of loyalty to the Crown. Guy’s cousin had done so and was now there again with his family.
Life in Acadia was not easy either, he admitted. Much of their original l
and had been resettled by new colonists from Scotland and Wales and the American colonies. But it was possible to return, and several new Acadian settlements had been established, all of them far from Halifax and the meddling English. If they wanted, come. There was land and the prospect of a free life again.
Guy asked what everyone had asked one another the entire night long. “What do you think?”
“The oath of loyalty to the British crown was something I could not sign twenty years ago. And what can they offer that we do not already have here?” Henri did not like being made to give his opinion, not like this. If it had been anyone except Guy, he would not have spoken at all. But Guy was more than a friend, more than family. He was a trusted ally. He deserved an honest reply. “The man spoke of land. Well, I have land already. Forty acres. I have two boats, a house, horses, a market for my crops.”
“You have a home,” Guy agreed quietly, and for some reason the words seemed to make him sad.
“We all do. Not a single family in our village goes to bed hungry. Not in all of South Acadia country, so far as I know.” Henri spoke with quiet pride. What the Spanish offered newcomers was a foothold, nothing more. But through his leadership and example, the village had prospered enough for him to declare, “We have enough to offer every new family a roof and food and tilled land and seed and tools. This is our home now, Guy. We have made it our place in the world.”
“And you have done wonders,” Guy agreed. “No one could have done better.”
But Guy’s tone made Henri tug on the reins once more, slowing his horse to a halt. “What are you not telling me?”
“Henri,” Guy started, then stopped for a deep breath. “Henri, Emilie and I have talked long and hard. We are going to go back.”
The words bit like a knife. “Not you. Not my wife’s brother. Not my own dear friend.”
“We are going,” Guy repeated. “I must. Part of me is still there. I must find it again. Put myself back together.” His message was clear. The decision was made. No amount of argument would change his mind.
Henri stared silently into Guy’s face and saw the resolve in his friend’s eyes. He clamped his mouth against the rising objections, flicked the reins, and walked on alone. He entered the fields, stopped by his plow, and could not help but glance back. Guy was still standing in the middle of the dusty village lane. Henri raised his hand in a mournful wave, then turned to hitch his horse to the plow. His gut churned with concern over how many others would follow Guy and leave Louisiana.
Three nights later, at a gathering attended by all the village and most of the surrounding settlements, animated discussions brought family after family face-to-face with the reality of how good life had treated them here. They felt safe, finally, hidden among the bayou swamps. Yes, the work was hard, the insects ferocious, and the summers were terrible. But for every negative point brought forward, another of the same family had something good to say. Food was plentiful. They were among friends. The Spanish authorities were only too pleased to have them settle and remain. The land was deeded them for all time. They had houses, fields, boats, villages, friends. This was home. Not Acadia. What once had been was no longer. This was home.
Guy’s stubborn silence told the group he was not convinced. Eyes watched him with grudging admiration, others with heads shaking their disapproval.
But the next evening, the elders, including Henri, voiced their formal acquiescence to this: Guy and his family would travel north. They would send back a report. The following spring, any others who wished might follow. Guy and Emilie they knew and trusted. Their word was solid. What news they sent back could be believed. As talk swirled, bemused glances were cast toward Guy. Most of the others were relieved to have a solid reason for not uprooting their families and leaving behind all they had carved from the bayou wilderness, all because of a stranger’s letter that had taken almost a year to find them. No, better to wait and hear the firsthand account from one of their own.
That night, after the elders had departed, Henri sat alone on his veranda, scarcely able to believe this latest difficulty had passed so easily. He listened to the sounds of his family preparing for bed, to the night gathering in close and warm about him, and wondered if he could trust this peace. A shadow coalesced in the darkness, and a familiar voice said, “Am I still welcome in your home?”
“Always,” Henri said, saddened anew by the coming loss. “Though what I will do after you depart, Guy, I do not know.”
“You will do what you have always done,” Guy replied, walking up the stairs and seating himself. “Lead your people, farm your land, provide for your family, dispense wise counsel when it is needed.”
“I can still remember the gathering when they said I was to become the new clan leader,” Henri said, his voice reflective. “Papa Belleveau was still strong and healthy then—and wise. So very wise. He had a bad cough that winter, and it was enough for him to insist that the elders choose a new leader. Not long after, the British expelled us.” Henri studied the darkness and found himself confronted again with his own weaknesses and lack of answers. “He was the kind of man who could see what was not yet formed. He looked around corners, that man.”
“I remember my father very well,” Guy said comfortably. “He was a man like many others. With strong points and weak ones. Plenty of both.”
“I wish I had his wisdom.”
Guy pulled his chair up close enough to settle one hand upon Henri’s shoulder. “The winter before Papa died, he and I were together one night. That was just after Emilie bore us our second, you remember?”
“Like it was yesterday,” Henri replied, missing the old man afresh.
“He said choosing you as clan leader was the best thing he had ever done. No one else could have kept the clan together. No one.” The hand rose and fell one time. “Papa said something else that night. He said that he had often envied your strength of faith. Whenever he thought back to his choice of you as leader, he felt sure that God had spoken directly to his heart.”
Henri sat back in his chair. The air stirred through the cypress, whispering and speaking in the tongue of bayous and still waters. Henri took a deep breath, and another. “I will miss you, old friend.”
“And I you.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Henri stirred and spoke quietly, wanting these words to be heard by no one else. “There is something you can do for us. That spring, after I was chosen to be leader, Papa Belleveau entrusted me with some valuables that he had been collecting and saving from English eyes and ears. I buried the treasure on a hillside over Minas, up where my Louise used to meet with a friend.”
The chair next to him creaked. “Treasure?”
“There were some gold coins, clan heirlooms, a jeweled crucifix. Two heavy sacks. I remember how I sweated carrying it up the hillside.” Henri studied the silhouette of his friend. “I want you to take what you need to get started and bring the rest to us here.”
“But, Henri—”
“This is our home. This is where we are rooted now. I do not think so many others will follow you back to Acadia. The future may prove me wrong, but I don’t think so. The clan’s wealth and heritage should be with us here.”
“Henri …” Guy stopped once more, then proceeded as gently as the night. “I do not know if we shall be returning to the bayou. Emilie and I have talked. If it is as the letter said, we will stay in Acadia.” When Henri did not reply, Guy continued, “If we so choose, to whom should I entrust this treasure for the voyage back?”
The sound of a light footstep behind them made the two men turn as one. A voice cut through the night and Henri’s heart. “To me.”
Chapter 7
After that disastrous encounter in the church, Charles had not pursued Anne. Instead he had taken a room in the village inn. He needed time to think through the approach he should now take, and also to recover from the humiliation. He was not accustomed to being so thoroughly rebuffed.
The n
ext morning was a strange mixture of seasons, the sun already warming and yet the wind biting. Charles followed directions he had received from the innkeeper, offering no explanation to the man’s probing look when he asked after Andrew Harrow.
As the village’s broad lane passed beneath the largest elm he had ever seen, a thought occurred to him. In return for Charles’s help in making peace overtures to the French court, King George III had recently deeded to him a vast estate in the frontiers of the Massachusetts Colony. Of course. He could offer this to his brother in exchange for Anne. It was perfect. The new estate was a quarter the size of Nova Scotia—how could the man reject such a proposition? Even so, Charles had to fight the urge to turn and stomp away. He hated to plead for anything from anyone. The idea of lowering himself to beg from his brother, of all people, was infuriating.
Charles marched up the road, each step only making him angrier. Charles knew exactly how his brother would be—superior and haughty, rubbing Charles’s nose in the fact that he was the one who in the end had come to plead. Charles tasted bitter gall, and knew he would have no choice but to endure. All the battles, the years of secretly hating and fearing his brother, all threatened to boil over.
Footsteps hastened down the lane toward him. Even before the figure could be seen clearly, Charles knew it was Andrew. He stiffened in readiness for conflict.
It had been twenty-two years since their last meeting, when Andrew had stomped out of their ancestral home and left England, vowing never to return. Even so, Charles recognized his brother instantly.
Andrew was lean, hardened by his life. The years in this untamed land were stamped deep on his features. The hair was graying, his clergyman’s clothing simple and frayed. All this Charles saw, but did not see. He stood there with fists clenched, ready for whatever combat would erupt. But his body and mind were frozen by two swift images. They had to be swift because when Andrew caught sight of him, he rushed forward in a flurry of steps. The first image was the cry Andrew gave upon seeing him. The second was captured in the tears and the smile upon Andrew’s seamed features.
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