“Ah.” Again there was the patient nodding, the quiet invitation to continue.
So Charles had told him briefly what lay behind his quest. As he spoke, the reverend’s eyes grew rounder and wider. Finally Charles could not help but declare, “You seem surprised, sir.”
“Indeed, surprised is the correct word. Amazed, in fact.” He tugged upon his beard, then sighed, “My new friend, you must prepare yourself for what I am about to tell you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Since your first visit I have wondered if I should tell you about a previous ‘chance encounter’ that related directly to your brother Andrew. But what you have told me now indicates that it also relates directly to you.” Pastor Collins’ chest swelled with a great breath, then he announced, “She was here.”
“Who?”
“Nicole. She was here.”
The realization of what the pastor was telling him had struck Charles with the force of a lightning bolt. He leaped to his feet, toppling his chair over with a clatter. “You’re not saying that you have seen Nicole—Andrew and Catherine’s daughter—”
“In this very mission,” Samuel Collins affirmed.
“It can’t be!” His mouth worked in time to his panting chest.
“Elspeth was her name originally, yes? Strange that I would recall this after all these years.” Samuel Collins rose to his feet, moved around Charles, lifted the chair, and set it back in place. “Please, sit down.”
But Charles was no longer listening. His thoughts had tumbled forward, confused and mocking, over and over in his mind. His niece. Here. So close. Yet so far. He had been right in the city, holed up in a dismal inn, marking time till the ship was ready by accepting social engagements in which he had no interest whatsoever. “She has left, you say?”
“Just two days ago. She is truly a lovely girl. Andrew and Catherine will be so thankful to have her home again. Imagine. After all these years. A miracle. That’s what it is. A miracle.” He had smiled at the memory. “She stayed with us over a week, she and her uncle’s family. They all arrived on a vessel that had lost its mast in a storm.” Pastor Collins cocked his head to one side. “Why, Charles, you’ve gone pale as a ghost.”
In a voice so hoarse he scarcely recognized it as his own, Charles groaned out, “She said she was French.”
Samuel Collins registered surprise of his own. “You mean to tell me you have met her?”
Charles’s legs finally gave way, and the chair kept him from sprawling on the floor. “That was my vessel. We were all together for three weeks. I never …”
“She did not say who she was?”
“Not a word.” Charles struggled to make sense of it all. “You are certain we are speaking of the same young lady? Tall, willowy yet strong—”
“Hair the color of autumn’s foliage, eyes like a sunlit summer meadow. An independent lass who radiates strength and determination.” The smile flickered upon the pastor’s lips. “I shall miss her. She had a seeker’s heart and a teacher’s mind. Such a combination. She reminds me of her father.”
Charles’s mind reeled from what he had heard. He had missed his niece by a hair. Had unknowingly shared a ship with her for days. What incredible irony. Was God playing tricks on him? Was He mocking the venture that to Charles was so important? Or did He have something far more important ahead than simply allowing Charles to find an heir?
He realized the pastor was watching and waiting. The only response Charles could think of was, “Sir, I am at a loss.”
“Not altogether a bad thing,” Samuel Collins murmured, then spoke as though he were able to read Charles’s thoughts. “Sometimes the greatest challenge to finding the right answer is learning to ask the correct question. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I … I am not … yes, perhaps.”
“Good. So what you might want to ask yourself is, Why would God bring you together and yet keep you apart?” The pastor’s gaze seemed to reach across the distance separating them, illuminating the deepest recesses of Charles’s heart. “Could it be that the Lord has something else in mind for you than your earthly goals? And if so, what do you need to do to discover His purpose?”
Somewhere overhead the chapel bell rang, and the vicar moved forward. “I fear I must go before they come looking for me. A meeting.” He offered Charles his hand. “Know you shall journey onward with my prayers in attendance.”
Charles accepted the hand and the clear smile and the illuminated gaze, yet could not find any words to say in reply.
The vicar had seemed pleased with his reaction. “I wish you well, sir. And success with all your quests.”
As Charles stood upon the rain-washed deck, he envisioned the vessel carrying Elspeth catching the wind and flying away to places he could never find. It did not help to know she was headed for Halifax and her family. What if she became lost upon the way? What if her ship went down with all hands? What if she became ill, or ran afoul of brigands, or … Charles resisted the urge to beat his fists on the rail and roar out his frustration.
All that time, through that awful storm, the journey, the forced docking in Boston, Elspeth had been with him. He could not believe it when the vicar had told him, and could not believe it still. Even if it were true, still it was impossible. What strange fate had placed them so close together and yet held them apart? Why was he, the eighth earl of Sutton, made a mockery before men, before God?
Charles stared sightlessly over the sea. His hat gathered the mist and dripped rain like a triangular funnel. He watched the front peak drip steadily, knowing within his heart that all of his strivings and all of his battles and all his acrid hunger had done nothing, nothing at all, save bring him to the point where he was forced to admit his own helplessness. Trapped within a storm that refused to blow, blinded by mist so thick he could not even see the ship’s other side, much less his destination. Lost from the world and all that had mattered so much, left with no choice but to accept that alone he was nothing and going nowhere at all.
Yes, what reason did God have not to mock him?
Charles had been touched by the vicar in a strange and stirring way, but he had not yet sought out the Scripture as he had then promised himself. There was, deep within his being, a hesitancy. A pride that could not allow him to acknowledge the need of a God. But he could not escape the truth he was seeing presented in the lives, in the words, of people he had recently encountered.
He recalled the struggle his brother Andrew had known that day in the pulpit, and the moment of transformation he had beheld. It had emphasized his own empty lack. All of that had been repeated anew within the vicar’s high-ceilinged chambers. If the journey had taught Charles anything, it was how to be honest with himself.
So why? Why was he holding back? What had he to lose, he who was becoming more and more conscious of his own inner emptiness, his powerlessness? What might he gain if he could only let go?
Charles stood at the railing, stared at the enveloping mist, and knew exactly what the answer was. He was still insisting upon doing it on his own, accomplishing his goals by sheer force of will.
He gripped the railing with both hands and lowered his head until the hat’s front corner poured a stream of water upon his wrists. He closed his eyes and struggled through the inner storm of thoughts and emotions to find words, just a few, that might be directed beyond himself. Help me, Lord God. He stopped then, as though drawn up short by a soundless whisper. Then he went on, and this time the words seemed to come easier and more clearly. Help me to know you. Help me to understand who I am and why you should want to draw me near. Help me to know what you want me to do.
He raised his head and opened his eyes. It was not much, as prayers went. But it would have to do. He turned from the railing, feeling only a sense of confusion over why he had refused for so long to do something that had come so easily, at least once he had started.
Chilled and drenched, Charles walked toward the stairway leading
to his quarters. He would need to change before joining the captain for dinner. As he reached the steps, it seemed to him that a faint hand reached under his hat and stroked his cheek. He stopped and turned back. From somewhere in the locked quarters of his mind, there sprang up a vague memory of his mother singing to him a nursery rhyme about the touch of an angel’s wing.
He smiled to himself. And at that moment, a call rose from the seaman upon the masthead, “Ho, the wind!”
Chapter 28
The morning mist lifted from Halifax Bay like a shroud removed by unseen hands. The city of Halifax glowed in the dawn light. Birds sang from full-leafed branches, and flowers bloomed in window boxes of newly built dwellings. Nicole could have enjoyed it had she been of another mind. But she could only halfheartedly appreciate that the day was not rainy, the cold was not paralyzing her limbs. In fact, the overhead sun shone down with an intensity that made her wish she could throw back her black bonnet and let in the rays. With summer sun, her dark tresses always lightened to a soft reddish golden color. Secretly Nicole liked the auburn highlights. She thought the lighter, warmer shade lent more flash to the green of her eyes. But perhaps she felt that way because that is what Jean, in some long-ago days that no longer belonged to her, had told her.
She knew she should be thankful that they were at last in Halifax. And she was—of a sort. But Halifax was certainly no Eden. And even though she had stepped ashore, her body insisted on the rhythm of the sea, making her feel light-headed and tipsy even with the solid boards of the town sidewalk beneath her feet.
Nor had the people welcomed them or treated them with anything but muted hostility. Nicole could see it on their faces, hear it in their voices, sense it in the stiffness of their bodies whenever she tried to converse.
That the family knew little English was definitely a burden. Guy spoke a few words that had been learned in business transactions. Nicole knew a few more that could be used in the market. Please. Thank you. A good day to you. Excuse me, please. What is your name? How much the cost? But these few phrases did little to appease the English, who looked at her with suspicion and often dislike. That the area was now reopened to returning Acadians did not matter to the port city’s inhabitants. It was clear that they’d had no say in the matter—if they had, the Acadians would be kept in the lands to which they had been dispersed.
Though Nicole would have liked nothing better than to stay in the ramshackle room her uncle Guy had finally found for the family, she had no choice but to journey forth. In her walks about the city to find food, she had seen a sign with an emblem that she understood. The building housed a doctor, and a doctor was what they needed.
They had all been ill. All but Guy. And he was now out tramping the streets looking for any kind of work that he and Pascal might do to earn a wage. They were almost to the end of their limited resources. Emilie was sick in bed with her youngest cuddled up against her. The other child remained ill and was of course too young to be sent out alone to seek medical aid. So the task befell Nicole, who had sufficiently recovered herself to make the short journey.
Though she was still exhausted from the sea journey and illness, the child beside her needed medicine. With the boy in one hand, she clutched in the other the small coins Guy had given her tied in the corner of a clean cloth.
There was fear in her heart—not so much fear for their safety as fear that she might fail. That she, with her faltering English, would not be able to explain their need.
Young Michel whimpered, and Nicole pressed him closer against the skirts of her long summer coat.
“It’s not far now,” she tried to console him. “Just around the next corner.”
When she pushed open the door of the small room that served as the doctor’s surgery, her first impression was of orderliness and cleanliness that reminded her of her Louisiana home. After their months of crowded quarters and total chaos, she felt restored to see such scrubbed charm.
The child must have felt it, too, for he reached out small hands as though to catch it by the handfuls and draw it to himself.
The room already held quite a few patients. Every chair was taken and their occupants all turned toward her at the sound of the door. As she stood hesitantly, her hand on Michel’s shoulder, a middle-aged man nodded in her direction and rose from his seat. Embarrassed yet thankful, Nicole crossed to it, accepting it with a smile and a returned nod. She dared not express her thanks in words, for she knew the moment she opened her mouth to speak, the atmosphere of the room would change. She reached down and drew the fevered child up onto her lap, holding him close for her comfort as much as his.
Someone entered the room from a back door. Nicole’s attention was immediately drawn to the young woman. She was petite to the point of seeming to be fragile. But her demeanor was one of calm self-assurance. She lifted dark eyes to a child nearby and smiled as she spoke. Nicole could not understand the words, but she caught the meaning. They were words of comfort. Of compassion.
It was a long, tiring wait. The child grew impatient and restless. Finally, in feverish exhaustion, he fell asleep in her arms. How could one so tiny be so heavy in sleep? One by one the chairs were emptied, only to be occupied by new patients. The young woman, her starched white cap bobbing with her words, called out names and blessed their owners with smiles as she led them through the door at the back of the room. They returned later, some carrying small vials clasped with both hands.
Michel awoke and fussed again. Nicole knew that by now he was hungry as well as sick. There was nothing she could do except to try to soothe him and patiently wait their turn. At last the smile turned their way and the young woman nodded. Nicole placed Michel on his own feet and led him forward.
Nicole was confused and afraid. What should she say? Her limited English seemed so paltry in the face of Michel’s great need. Her eyes must have shown her uncertainty, for the smile turned to concern.
Again the woman spoke—and again Nicole was unable to discern the meaning of the words. Her chin lifted slightly and her shoulders straightened. She decided that she must, for the sake of the small child, take matters into her own hands. “Michel,” she said, pointing to the child. “Med-i-cine.”
The young nurse pointed at Nicole. “Your name?”
This Nicole did understand. But how should she answer? Her life had been totally turned upside down because of the attempt to find English medical aid for a French baby. If she gave her French name now, would they be turned away? Would the child who clung to her with a feverish hand be denied the help he needed?
She stammered, “Elspeth. Elspeth Harrow.”
A shock rippled through the slim figure. It is happening, grieved Nicole. The doctor will not see me now. An English name does little when spoken by a French tongue.
Then a further strange thing occurred. The warmth returned to the brown eyes before her. Even so, the delicate face seemed to be fighting for renewed control. She saw the young woman swallow, her head dipped down. “Pardon me,” she said in a choked whisper, and she was gone before Nicole could even respond.
Nicole was about to turn and leave the building when resolve straightened her shoulders once more. With a flash of determination her eyes swept the room of people waiting to be treated. It was not fair. She would not leave. She would stay and demand the medicine that Michel needed.
She marched back toward the seat she had just vacated, the child herded before her by her firm hand on his shoulder. She would not be pushed out into the street without what she had come for. She would not.
Had Doctor Mann not been with a patient, Anne would have burst in and flung herself into his arms. As it was she could only take herself to the small closet that held the medical supplies and bury her face in trembling hands. Sobs shook her small frame. She wasn’t sure at the moment why she was crying. But the emotion sweeping through her being, wave after uncontrollable wave, could not be denied.
It couldn’t be. Yet who else in the whole wide world would b
ear the name of Elspeth Harrow? The young woman was telling the truth. She could see it in her eyes. This … this was her sister. Yet not her sister. Someone whose life was strangely intertwined with her own. Someone she did not know, yet shared an intimacy that denied explaining. This was the baby turned woman, the person she should have been.
It was all so confusing, so shattering to mind and soul. Here was the individual who had taken her place. Who had been shaped by the world that should have been hers. A woman whose place she had taken, molded in a life and manner that were not really her own, by parents who did not belong to her … and yet did. For the first time in her life, Anne felt cut adrift. Just who was she? Who was the woman who had given her own name, the one announced at the baptismal font those many years ago?
Pray, came a silent voice. Pray. Anne leaned her head against the shelf of linens. As she prayed the sobs began to lessen, the shoulders lost their tremble. She blew her nose, her composure gradually returning. She must get back to the waiting room. There were people there who needed her. The sick were waiting. Elspeth Harrow was waiting. …
She wiped her cheeks and eyes. “God help me,” she whispered and braced herself to return to her work. She longed to speak to the young woman—alone. To share with her just who she was, but she knew in her heart that now was not the time for such a disclosure. To attempt such a thing would surely cause a scene. Like Joseph, the little voice whispered, and suddenly Anne understood the Genesis story. No wonder Joseph had drawn apart to weep at the sight of his estranged brothers. No wonder.
The young woman with the child was still there when she pushed her way back through the door. Anne breathed a sigh of relief. She crossed to her desk and took her seat, “Elspeth Harrow,” she said calmly but clearly.
With a sigh, Nicole stepped forward. They were to be seen after all.
The Sacred Shore Page 18
