Nicole waited with an inner calm she knew was not her own. A great burden had been lifted, and though she did not understand, still she was content to sit and wait. Answers would come.
“Elspeth …” Anne broke down once more, shaking her head and obviously struggling hard for poise. Finally she managed to say, “You are home.”
Yes, it was true. These were the words that matched the feeling that now filled her heart. Was this God’s voice? For the moment it was enough to suppose that she was hearing more than the words—she was hearing also the unspoken. Though she couldn’t understand the strange words of this woman who sat across from her, clutching her hand in her own, she easily identified with the feeling. She was indeed home.
Anne straightened in her chair and released Nicole’s hand. Her own hands brought out a white linen hankie to wipe her eyes and cheeks. To Nicole’s surprise, she reached into her skirt pocket and withdrew a second clean linen and laid it on the table without comment.
The slight shoulders seemed to straighten and the dark eyes held an even warmer glow.
“Forgive me,” Anne began. “In the next few minutes you may conclude that I am meddling. Please … please bear with me. I have reason—” She broke off long enough to draw a deep breath, then continued, “I … I have knowledge that you might find surprising. I … I know your parents.”
Nicole could only stare. Certainly the young woman could not be speaking of Henri and Louise Robichaud—which meant only one thing. She spoke of Andrew and Catherine Harrow. Nicole swallowed. Her tongue refused to form a word.
“I also know your story.”
“You know … ?”
“About your illness as an infant. And … the exchange.” Again Anne had to fight for control.
“But how … ?”
“We—your parents—have been searching for you for years. Have tried every means …” Whatever Anne saw upon Nicole’s face brought her up short. It was a moment before she continued. “None of their letters were ever answered.”
“Are they … are they still living?” asked Nicole in a choked voice. And suddenly she knew that it mattered. That she cared. It was a shocking revelation. One that came from deep within. She could feel the tears forming along with the thought. She reached for the handkerchief.
The young woman managed a trembling smile. “They are alive. Very much so. They will fall on their knees in thanks to God when they learn that you are home.”
“Are they here?”
“No,” she replied with a shake of her head that made her starched covering crackle. “They are at their home, some distance from here.”
Nicole was still attempting to clear the cobwebs of confusion, trying to comprehend. A frown furrowed her smooth brow. Her green eyes darkened with all of the unasked questions. But she was getting close. She could scarcely believe she had met someone who actually knew her parents. Knew their precise location. How had it come about? Did God really work so mysteriously? So quickly?
“But I don’t understand,” she managed. “How do you know all this?”
The young woman lifted her own white hankie to her eyes and took a deep breath. “I am Anne,” she said softly. “I am also Antoinette Robichaud.”
Nicole felt the air leave her lungs. She stared, trying to take it in, to understand what she had just heard. Yes. Yes, she could see it was so. It was Louise’s daughter who sat before her. It was Antoinette whose tears spilled down her cheeks unashamedly. With a sob that caught in her throat, Nicole reached across and Anne took her hands in both of her own. They leaned toward each other, and their tears mingled on the table between them.
Chapter 30
Though she had never done it before, Anne had heard it was possible to make the journey between Halifax and Georgetown in a day and a half. Given strong horses and no awkward carts, such a speedy trip could be made. But she never had the money or the inclination to hasten so, until now. This day, however, the reason shouted from every hillside. It echoed amidst the birdsong and the sunlight. Even the gentle summer wind carried refrains about her haste. She who had been lost was now found. Her sister was coming home.
Cyril rode with the two women on horses loaned by a grateful patient. They were accompanied by one of the owner’s servants, a trail hand used to guarding convoys on rough-hewn frontier paths. The two men gave them space and privacy, but even so Anne found it almost impossible to talk with Nicole. All the things she wanted to say, all the emotions and dreams gathered together and caught in her throat.
Nicole was equally withdrawn, but whether for the same reasons Anne did not know and was afraid to ask. Earlier that day, the only time she had spoken more than a few words, she had asked that they not call her Elspeth. Her name, she had said, was Nicole. Things were confusing enough without being forced to respond to a name she had heard for the first time only a few months earlier.
The young Frenchwoman’s silence contributed to a general lack of conversation among the four travelers. Even that night, when they halted at a popular resting place where a stream formed a freshwater pool, they gathered about a fire and spoke little. They ate with the hunger of a long trail ride, said their prayers, and slid into their bedrolls.
Yet as Anne lay and listened to the fire crackle, she found she could not sleep, not without asking at least one question. She rolled over to find Nicole’s shadowed eyes regarding her. Even so, she had to struggle to force the whisper around all that remained unspoken and crammed about her heart. “May I ask you about Louise and Henri?” she said, and found just speaking those names was difficult around the lump in her throat. “What are they like?”
The only signal from Nicole that she found her own response difficult was in how she rolled away from Anne and stared up at the night sky. The heavens were awash in silver, the moonlit clouds like froth upon a dark sea. In the starlight and the glow from the dimming fire, Nicole’s features looked strong, full of all that remained unspoken.
Finally Nicole said, “Everything good about me, everything worthy, is just a faint shadow of who my parents are.”
There was such quiet comfort in those words they seemed to ease Anne’s way into slumber. Everything else could wait, now that she had received this one assurance. She closed her eyes to the night and the mysteries of life, and was on the verge of sleep when she heard Nicole whisper, “And Catherine and Andrew, how are they?”
“They are among God’s chosen,” Anne replied, so sleepy now she could not even open her eyes. “You will see for yourself tomorrow.”
When Anne awoke just before dawn, she discovered that Nicole’s bedroll was already empty. She scouted the figures stirring on the other side of the broad campsite but did not see Nicole. She rose, pulled on her boots and bonnet, and hurried off.
She found Nicole standing by the side of the trail, separated from the campsite by a gradual curve that took travelers around a steep hillside. Nicole turned at the sound of her approach, then went back to staring over the eastern hills. Anne walked near, and in the soft morning light she saw upon Nicole’s features similar emotions she felt within her own heart. She turned and stared out over the hills, for the moment content with the silence and the gathering light.
The hills held the morning mist, the air was full of flowers and summertime scents. Birds surrounded them with a chorus to the coming sunrise. The light strengthened, the cloudless sky opened to depths of gentle blue. And then the sun appeared.
The sun’s glow rose above a distant hill and rested there, a crown to the day and the world. The mist was transformed to a sea of shimmering gold dotted with islands of bronze and green. Anne stood and watched until the sunlight grew so strong she could stare no longer. Her heart was full, and she turned to Nicole at the same time Nicole also faced her. They shared brief smiles, then Nicole said, “This is a strange place. It seems cold and hard and unfriendly one moment, and so beautiful the next.”
There was much truth in the words. Anne responded with a treasured memory, c
arefully selecting each French phrase. “When I was little, my mother tried to make the time when she and Louise exchanged babies live for me. She told me about the trip to Halifax when I was very sick and they had to get me to a doctor. She said one morning she awoke and was so afraid because she didn’t feel she could find God anywhere. The mist hung heavier that morning than it does now, but that is what made me think of it. Suddenly, she said, the mist cleared, and the sky was blue and she could see for miles and miles, almost as though she could see to the ends of the earth. To the end of time and the end of worry and the end of stress and strain, that is how she used to tell me. As though she could see right to the gates of heaven. And in that moment, even though she was frightened and she missed her baby …” Anne found it necessary to turn away and bite her lip. She did not want to let all the emotions get in the way of this day or this opening up to each other. “Even though she missed her baby terribly, she knew the morning was a gift from God, and she had done the right thing,” she finished.
There was a long moment, then Nicole said softly, “The right thing.”
Anne turned to stare at her and said just as softly, “It was very difficult, wasn’t it? Everything you and your family—my family—had to endure.”
“So difficult it pains me to stand here and remember,” Nicole murmured.
Anne reached over and took her hand. “I owe you my life.”
Nicole spun toward Anne. “What?”
“The doctor in Halifax those many years ago said I would never fully recover, and he was correct.” Anne held the hand loosely but firmly and met the open gaze with her own. “The only reason I am alive and preparing to wed this wonderful man is because of everything that happened. All that you have suffered was in my stead—I would not have survived it.” She stopped there, not wanting to lessen the moment by saying her thanks with mere words.
Nicole studied her features one by one, silent and pensive. Anne felt the pressure of the day and the coming reunion surge up within her, until the words seemed formed of themselves. “God’s hand is upon this journey,” Anne declared with quiet certainty.
As far as Andrew was concerned, that Saturday was as fine a day as ever had been created.
After lunch he sat on the bench outside the kitchen window. There was work waiting for him. There was always work. But he had already decided he was done with work for that week. Everything could wait until Monday. Or even Tuesday. Andrew leaned his back against the house’s front wall and drank in the afternoon’s sunlight and warmth. Bees drifted lazily in the still air, their wings humming contentedly. Catherine worked at the table on the window’s other side. He could hear her softly singing a hymn, one he decided then and there to include in the Sabbath service.
A neighbor passed by their garden gate, calling afternoon greetings, and chiding him gently for sloth. Andrew chuckled his agreement and stretched out his legs.
He might have drifted off to sleep; he was not sure. The sun seemed to have shifted its place in the sky, and now Catherine was singing a different hymn. He debated about whether he should bother to rise and go inside for a genuine nap. But the sun felt wonderful, and the day was so fine. Yes, so very fine.
In all the days left to him on earth, he would recall it as the moment of gathering—as though all the memories and all the time and all the yesterdays lost and gone forever had returned in a single instant.
He squinted through the bright sunlight beyond the garden gate. No, not one form. Two of them. Standing and looking in to where he sat upon his little bench, his back against the home, surrounded by Catherine’s rosebushes and blooming wisteria and birdsong. Andrew sat up straighter, not certain whether he had become trapped in his own afternoon dream. For it seemed as though Anne had suddenly appeared at their gate, but she was not scheduled to return for another two weeks. And she was standing with another young woman, a bit taller than Anne, who seemed familiar, yet remained a mystery because of the sunlight and his dreamy state.
Andrew squinted against the light and the mystery and felt his heart rate surge. It seemed to him that he was staring back through the years, back to a time of memories and fragrant dreams. On this perfect summer afternoon, he was granted the impossible gift of seeing Catherine as she was on the day of their marriage, her shimmering youth and vibrancy. The vision was so powerful he actually heard the village bells peal in celebration. But no, no, it was not the wedding bells he heard, but the bells of their very own chapel, chiming as they did every Saturday afternoon. And this was not an image of the past. No. It was a real person, one who was standing beside his own beloved Anne.
Andrew struggled to find the strength to stand up. His hands moved across the surface of his bench but could not find purchase to push himself erect. And he saw that familiar but unfamiliar face there beside his Anne’s shed tears. He wanted to say, “Don’t cry, all is well, all is truly well.” But he could not speak. And suddenly he could not see her at all, for his own tears poured out from a heart filled to overflowing. Yet he was not certain of the reason, for his mind seemed unable to form a single coherent thought. He was crying and could not tell why.
Then from the open window behind him came a gasp and a sound like an infant’s first cry. There was the crash of broken glass, and a second cry, this one more piercing than the first and coming from the doorway. Andrew turned, and there upon his wife’s face he found the answer his mind seemed unable to form for itself. He turned back to the figure cloaked in the afternoon light, and though he could not shape the word, could not name the name, he knew. He knew. With the realization he wondered why he had not known it immediately. Catherine had. He could tell that by the wrenching exclamation of joy, the steps that flew down the pathway.
He finally found the strength to stand, then watched as Anne stepped back. She had been welcomed home by open arms many times, but this was not her moment. This moment belonged to her mother and Elspeth.
Andrew struggled to keep his balance. The whole experience had sent his head to spinning. This day that in his mind he had been sure would never come, but in his heart had yearned for, had arrived. Unexpected. Shockingly. He had dreamed about a day like this, some waking and some sleeping. But always there were first hints, leads, follow-ups, and finally distant contact. Never, never this sudden appearance of their firstborn at the gate. He staggered down the path after his wife.
As Catherine reached the gate, the young woman seemed to hold back, uncertain, hesitant, but at the last possible moment she moved forward, her own arms lifting to welcome the embrace.
By the time Andrew reached them they were locked in each other’s arms, swaying gently back and forth. He could hear Catherine’s broken sobs. “My daughter. My little baby.” All the sorrow and loss and pain of the many years seemed to be captured in those few words.
Andrew could only wait his turn. Anne moved toward him and he took her in his arms. He noticed through his own tears that she, too, was weeping. “It’s a miracle. A miracle,” he whispered in his daughter’s ear, and she nodded her assent. He had no idea how long it would be until Catherine relinquished their daughter so that he might welcome her also. But he would wait. He’d gladly wait.
Chapter 31
After the embrace, the tears, the laughter, and the tears again, the mother and daughter realized the bittersweet reality; they had found each other, but they were total strangers. Their worlds, their lives, their speech and dress and manners and customs—everything about the two was a contrast. Nicole found it confusing and difficult. Despite Catherine’s brave and quiet smile, Nicole believed this mother of hers was finding it difficult as well.
“We cannot expect the years to vanish like smoke. Your life has been much different than ours,” Catherine commented one evening. Her years of teaching French to Anne were standing her in good stead, she had explained to Nicole. As they sat by the fire, each with needlework occupying her hands, Catherine continued, “Though we too have faced lean years, we have not faced your sort of
trials. I thank God that Henri and Louise have kept the faith and raised you to know that God is the one to whom we turn in time of need. I have prayed for you—every day of your life.”
Though the words disturbed her, Nicole loved the sound of the voice. There was a comfort in sitting with Catherine in this small cottage while wind rushed about the sturdy outer walls. Anne had left the very next day, drawn back to her work and her Cyril. Evenings such as these, Andrew and John Price had taken to visiting parishioners, granting mother and daughter an opportunity to be alone together.
Nicole felt herself studying Catherine as from a great distance, connected and yet utterly apart. Struggling to sort through the tumult in her mind and heart.
“Would you try to paint for me a picture of your village in Louisiana?” Catherine asked. “I’d love to try to walk with you through one of your days. To follow you about and sense and feel and see your world. I have missed that, the knowing.”
Nicole tried to do just that, but she knew her words were inadequate. Never would Catherine understand the feel of village dust upon sun-browned feet as she raced toward a father coming home from his fishing. Never could she know the musty smell of the bayou or see the murky pools that lay dark and dank beneath the overhang of Spanish moss. Never would she understand the depths of what it meant to struggle for years to arrive at a place they could claim as their own—today and tomorrow and every day that followed.
Though Catherine’s interest did not wane, Nicole soon realized that the telling was causing more homesickness than she could bear. Her voice trailed off, then fell silent. Catherine did not press her further.
And there was so much of Catherine’s world that Nicole would never know or understand. Why was it necessary to put the lace cloth, just so, on the tea tray? Why must one always put the kettle on to boil at precisely ten to four? Why did one add starch to a kitchen apron? Not stitch a bright border to the hem of a skirt? Put both butter and jam on a piece of bread? As day followed day, Nicole knew that she and Catherine both had become more and more conscious of the differences of their two worlds.
The Sacred Shore Page 20
