“Duty,” she whispered to herself and then watched her reflection carefully as she folded downward, extending one white-gloved arm out in a sweeping gesture. She rose back up and asked, “How was that?”
“Graceful as a swan,” Maisy said, her hands clasped over her apron. “My, but you will please his honor.”
“I hope so.” Then she repeated the word to herself. Duty. The more she thought of Emily’s advice, the more convinced she was of its wisdom. She had been acting frivolously. There was a need for her to learn the lessons of polite society, of how to fit in and behave properly. Then and only then could she begin to take on responsibility and put her privilege and wealth to use. This was not just to bring her happiness. It was to do the best she could with what she’d been given, to do good and thereby fulfill what she knew was her assigned task. Duty.
But as Nicole descended the stairs, she felt more than her corset constricting her. It seemed as though every breath was a struggle against the restraining elements of a world she did not understand.
She couldn’t help but glance at the side table as she entered the front parlor. On a silver platter were piled the day’s deliveries. Another six engraved invitations had arrived that day, along with three cards from those stopping by to pay their formal respects to his lordship and the new heiress.
Nicole repressed a shudder at the thought of more teas and exhibitions and dinners and chatter. “I am ready, Uncle.”
“You look splendid, my dear!” Charles beamed proudly as he surveyed her standing there. “I must say, the dressmaker has outdone herself.”
“Thank you again for the gown.”
“Now, now, there’s no need to thank me.” Charles was a strange one to place such emphasis on her buying new clothes, for he was dressed in the same dark longcoat, breeches, and gold-embroidered waistcoat he always wore for such events. “I only wish I could induce you to spend more at the dressmakers. But never mind that. My dear, I have a surprise for you.”
As soon as his hand reached inside his jacket, Nicole exclaimed, “A letter!”
“It just arrived while you were dressing. I thought it best to wait till you came down.”
Nicole used the silver letter knife to break the seal. She scanned the first few lines, then cried, “It cannot be!”
“What is it?” Charles was instantly at her side. “You’ve gone pale as a ghost. Here, you must sit down.” He guided her onto a nearby settee. “Now tell me what it is!”
“It’s Cyril. He’s…he’s dead. The grippe took him.”
“That’s impossible!” Charles sank down beside her. “Such a strong young man—he couldn’t have succumbed.”
“But he did.” Nicole finished reading the letter. “Anne is devastated.”
“Of course she is, the poor sweet girl. How they loved one another. Such happiness as they shared, those two…” Charles shook his head. “And the baby?”
“He’s fine. Mother Catherine says he’s the light of their days. They named him John, after my grandfather.”
“Catherine’s father, of course. A fine man.”
Then the date of Cyril’s funeral finally registered. “He’s been dead almost three months!” The letter dropped to her lap. Never in all her time here had she felt so far removed from the world she knew or from the family she loved. Three months.
Nicole looked up and saw the wary concern on Charles’s face. She was coming to know her uncle and so realized immediately what he was thinking. Charles expected her to say she wanted to return home, which indeed had entered her mind. And he dreaded having to remind Nicole of her promise to give him two years.
“I wish I knew what to do,” she murmured.
Charles drew a deep breath as he massaged his chest, a motion that had become a familiar habit. Then a new light dawned on his features. “Might I suggest you write and invite Anne to come to England?”
“What did you say?”
“Certainly. A change at this point might do her a world of good. Grant her an opportunity to see the tragedy and her future from a different perspective.”
“Oh, Uncle, that’s a wonderful idea!” The thought of seeing her sister and friend again filled her with an almost desperate longing. “But do you think she would come?”
“We shall never know unless you write and ask.” He then reached for the bell. When Gaylord appeared, Charles said, “I must prepare a note of regret that I wish for you to take to the Portuguese ambassador. We have just received some tragic news, so shall not be attending this evening’s event.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Gaylord bowed in Nicole’s direction. “I couldn’t help but hear, Miss Nicole. Might I say how very sorry I am to hear of your family’s loss.”
“Thank you, Gaylord.” Nicole was tempted to agree with Charles’s decision and to use the terrible news for postponing her entry into formal society. She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect excuse. But something in her rebelled. She straightened her shoulders and rose to her feet. “That won’t be necessary, Uncle Charles.”
“My dear, I couldn’t possibly ask you—”
“You have said yourself how important this evening is. My eyes are not smudged, are they?”
“They are perfect.” Charles stood alongside her, his face a picture of pride and gratitude. “My dear, I know nothing to say except that you do me proud.”
Chapter 19
On the trip back to Georgetown from the new French settlement, Catherine found herself sitting next to an Acadian farmer and marveling at how good life had been to her. At an age when many women began thinking about settling back and taking one’s ease, she was filled with a fresh sense of purpose and joy.
And the season matched her mood—vibrant and humming with the powerful south wind. It was the warmest autumn she could remember, where the sun turned fleeting showers into golden curtains. Rainbows appeared nearly every afternoon, sweeping bands of color that often spanned the entire sky.
They crested the final rise before Georgetown, and then the farmer halted the horses, granting the weary animals a breather. The wagon creaked under the weight of the summer’s final produce and the first jugs of fresh cider. A taciturn man, the farmer had spoken but a few sentences during the whole journey. But Catherine did not mind at all. After two long days of dealing with seventeen children, a little quiet was a welcome change.
The wind was strong enough to buffet their wagon and have her holding tight to her bonnet’s strings. Yet it was such a warm and cloudless afternoon, she could sit and watch the world below in comfort. Between them and the steeple of Andrew’s church, everything seemed to toss and shiver with a hundred shades of fall colors. The wind stripped the trees and sent their leaves swirling in such impatient haste, she could see little else. At the hill’s summit, all around was sunlight and blue sky and whistling wind. Below them rushed an autumn tide of russet and gold.
The farmer clicked to the horses and snapped the reins. Slowly they descended the bumpy road that gradually led them into the maelstrom below. Catherine shielded her eyes against the debris. Once they were within the shelter of the towering trees, she looked up in wonder. Now the sun flickered and danced through the waving branches and flying leaves as if throwing off sparks from a heavenly fire.
As they approached Georgetown, Catherine pulled from her shoulder bag the list she’d been working on and checked it once more. Everything seemed to be in order. She handed it to the farmer and said in French, “You will please buy these things and take them to the new family?”
“It will be as you ask, madame.”
Then she gave him a leather pouch. “This should take care of the cost, but if not, then I will pay you the rest when we meet next week.”
Charles had continued to send them money, and Andrew no longer objected. This was good for many reasons. Andrew’s joints persisted in bothering him, which resulted in his having to quit leatherworking. Also, the parish had been growing quite rapidly along with the demands on Andrew’s t
ime. But the chief reason they were so thankful for the extra money was that it had meant they could assist the newcomers with their making a fresh start.
Colonists loyal to the Crown were pouring into the Canadian provinces at a prodigious rate. Each week boatloads arrived, crammed to the gunnels with more Loyalists fleeing the growing conflict farther south. Some brought wealth or tools of their trade, others little more than tales of fighting and woe. Catherine and Andrew had little time for the tales, for their own allegiances were divided, and the news became increasingly distressing. But these were people in need, and their hearts went out to them. It was important to offer support to families struggling to prepare their homes before the winter set in.
Catherine went on. “I’ve included money to pay those helping to build the Parkers’ cabin.”
The silver coins jingled as the farmer stowed the pouch in his vest pocket. He squinted down the road, then after a while, said, “Does not do any good, you having us stay quiet over where the money comes from. Sooner or later word gets out.”
“Regardless, that’s how we want things to remain.” She and Andrew were in agreement that they wanted to keep their giving as anonymous as possible. It did not stop people from finding out and thanking them, but it did mute a lot of the fuss.
They also used Charles’s money to help make peace among neighbors as they paid French settlers to construct cabins for new English-speaking immigrants. The French were newcomers themselves, in dire need of cash, particularly as market prices climbed continually upward. It meant most newcomers were far too grateful for the aid to complain about their neighbors.
“It will be as you say,” the farmer said. He then pulled the wagon to a stop at the turn near her house and waited for her to step down. Reaching behind the seat, he lifted out an earthenware jug and handed it to her. “Thought you and the reverend might like a taste of the new season.”
“Why, thank you. Andrew does love his cider.”
Without another word, the farmer clicked to his horses, tipped his hat to Catherine, and continued on to market. She turned and walked swiftly up the lane, eager now to be home.
The stay overnight with the Acadians had been hard at first, but it made good sense. The twelve-mile journey was over hills and included a very rough road. Going back and forth each morning and evening had proven to be exhausting, so one of the farmers had converted an old shed into a cabin just for Catherine. Then the local farm community had fitted it with a makeshift floor, a table, some earthenware, and utensils. This was their way of saying thank-you to the Englishwoman who would not accept anything else for her work.
Catherine had found it a trial to be away from her family, yet also felt blessed. It was the first time in her life she’d ever spent a night alone. The sounds seemed stranger, and the silences rang with remarkable power. The nights alone had given her time to reflect. Praying and reading the Scriptures took on new meaning, and it felt to her that God spoke in a different way during these times by herself.
Catherine pushed open the gate and sensed the familiar joy of homecoming as she hurried toward the front door. Grandfather Price must have been busy in the front garden again, for the last of the root vegetables were pulled free. The kitchen windowsill was piled high with carrots and turnips. A large basket of dirty potatoes sat by the front door.
She swung open the door, and before she could speak, Anne came rushing forward to announce, “I am not going and that’s that.”
“Very well, dear. Let me get off my cloak and bonnet.” Catherine took her time with the actions, as she wanted to consider this change in Anne. Her daughter was filled with renewed vitality, pacing the floor, wringing her hands. The difference was shocking. Anne had shown little energy since Cyril’s death. Yet now she walked back and forth like a caged animal, her black skirt rustling angrily about her ankles.
“How is little John?” Catherine asked.
“The baby’s fine.” Anne obviously did not wish to speak about the baby. “A letter has come from England.”
“Oh, I am so glad. How is Nicole?”
“She’s fine. At least, I think…” Anne said with a dismissive shrug. “She does not really say.”
“Why not?”
But Anne remained quiet.
So Catherine walked over and seated herself by the cold fireplace. “Come sit down, my dear.”
“I could not possibly.”
“Sit.” Catherine disliked having to use a hard tone with her adult daughter, but Anne’s moods had been coming with such force that sometimes it was the only way to break through so that Anne heard her at all. “I cannot concentrate on what you have to say with you pacing like that. Please, sit.”
“Oh…” Anne dropped onto the bench opposite her mother. “I cannot understand what came over them, making such a ridiculous suggestion.”
In a flash, Catherine knew what the letter said. Still, she needed to hear it for herself. “Please, tell me what they suggested.”
“Nicole and Charles want me to bring baby John over for a visit. To England. Whyever would I want to go to England?”
Catherine studied her daughter. Anne had always been slight in build, both as a child and now. But since Cyril’s death, Anne had become even more fragile looking. How she managed to feed the child was a wonder to everyone. Sadness clung to her. As a result, her complexion had turned sallow, and her skin stretched over the bones, making her look as fragile as a tiny bird. Her dark eyes were huge in her head, her expression pinched—now devoid of the happiness that had once reigned there.
“Who in their right mind would propose such a thing to me?” Anne continued. “Especially now, at this time in my life.”
Catherine’s attention turned inward. This was another manifestation of her time spent alone, the newfound ability to withdraw from outside tumult. It was a godsend, this disconnected space, because it meant being spared from the worst of Anne’s suffering. Otherwise it might have been too easy to drown in her daughter’s grief.
“I have a baby to raise. I have a husband to mourn. I have…I have things to do here. To think I would simply pick up and travel thousands of miles across the sea…. Why, it’s all madness!”
Catherine turned and looked out the open window. The windswept clouds of dust and leaves flew past their little cottage, portents of the many changes striking the world beyond their village. She wondered at how she could feel so calm. Perhaps she was just numb to it all, but she did not think so.
“I cannot imagine what came over them, to even suggest such a thing!”
Catherine looked at her daughter and asked, “Where’s Grandfather?”
“I don’t…” Anne seemed to run headlong into Catherine’s simple question. “He took the baby on a walk. Is that all you have to say?”
“I think I had better start dinner.” She rose from her seat and moved toward the kitchen. Suddenly she felt very tired, and the simple motions of a lifetime became a burden.
Anne stepped over next to her mother, staring at her in disbelief. “But don’t you have anything to say about the letter…about their request?”
“I haven’t yet heard everything they said.” She started scrubbing the carrots and cutting them into thin slices. A stew would be nice. Andrew likes a piping hot stew. “And it seems you have enough words for the both of us.”
“I have…?” Anne steadied herself by placing a hand on the counter. In a calm voice, she asked, “Do you want me to go?”
“Want? No. Of course not.” Catherine resumed paring the vegetables with a slow, deliberate motion. “I want you to stay here with us always. I want to watch little John grow up and become a man. I want…I want many things.”
“Good,” Anne said, only slightly less confused. “Because I am not going, you know. I am not going anywhere.”
Catherine had to set down the knife. Her vision had suddenly blurred, and she was afraid she might cut herself. She turned toward the window and watched the wind whip the trees opposite t
heir little house. With a mother’s wisdom, she knew. Yes, there was no question. She knew.
Chapter 20
Another letter came, this one from Nicole. Anne had been laboring over how to word her answer, but thus far had only succeeded in supplying sheets of writing paper to the fire. Now as she broke the seal on the new envelope, her fingers trembled. She hoped Nicole had changed her mind about the outlandish proposal. Anne had planned to respond firmly, which should settle the issue once and for all. Go to sea with a young child? Quite out of the question.
But Nicole’s second letter was not a bold petition at all. On the contrary, and it shocked her with its strangeness. The letter spoke of longing and loneliness. Nicole said she wished she were home to help console her sister in her time of sorrow, adding that she’d board a ship and return home right away were it not for her promise to their uncle.
As Anne read on, she kept waiting for the expected request to be reiterated. Instead, Nicole told of the busy social season she had been thrust into. Yes, thrust. For although Nicole’s time was taken up with lavish parties and dinners, she seemed to take no pleasure in them. This brought a frown to Anne’s forehead. Was Nicole really as lonely, as empty, as her letter sounded? I miss you all so, the letter concluded. I would give anything to see you again. Even for a day. An hour.
How many times over the past months had Anne’s heart expressed a similar cry? Oh, if only she could see him again, hold him for a single moment. Anne suddenly felt a new understanding for Nicole in her loneliness.
Another guilt niggled at the back of Anne’s mind. Twice Cyril’s mother had written from Wales, expressing her sorrow and deep desire to hold her grandson in her arms. With the background that Anne herself had suffered, she understood all too well the importance of family. Her dear husband’s mother deserved to meet Cyril’s son. And baby John deserved to have more than just knowledge of his kin. He needed relationships. Especially since there was little chance he’d ever meet his grandparents on his mother’s side. The arduous trip from Louisiana to Nova Scotia would likely never be repeated. It would soon be impossible for Uncle Charles to hire a ship, and Anne had no intention of traveling alone to Louisiana—especially now with war about to break out.
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