At the beginning of the fourth song, Anne lifted her head far enough to study the sky above her. Every sail was out, a great billowing mass of canvas that filled the blue left empty by an absence of clouds. The sun rose behind her, burnishing the sails overhead. The timbers creaked, and the deck beneath her feet was never still. A pair of great black-headed seabirds with wingspans broader than her own outstretched arms flew alongside the starboard railing, their heads tilted as though to better hear the hymns.
The younger pastor, the gentleman who had greeted them at quayside, opened the Bible to the book of John and began the day’s reading. Anne listened, marveling that the words were coming to her understanding in their proper order. Her thoughts were clearing, her vision, her awareness.
She inhaled deeply, and it seemed as though it was the first true breath she had taken since their departure. She breathed again and found herself taking stock as one would when arising from a sickbed, making sure that all was finally back in working order. A third breath, and she realized that her sorrow was no longer the dominating force. The absence of her beloved John was still there and would be with her for as long as they were apart. Yet she held it with acceptance, a place that permitted her to look forward as well as behind.
“Thank God.”
For a brief instant she thought it was she herself who spoke the words. For that was exactly how she felt. Then she realized it was her husband who had murmured the thanksgiving. Anne turned to him and found the intelligent eyes inspecting her with love and concern. He whispered, “You have returned.”
Anne reached for his hand. She did not care if it was not proper in this time and place. “I have.”
Chapter 14
“We need to make plum puddin’, Nana.”
“Plum pudding? I thought you were not particularly fond of plum pudding.” Judith previously had assumed that every child loved the treat. But her grandson had proved an exception. He had taken a few bites, then pushed back his bowl. “That’s quite enough,” he had announced in grown-up fashion. “I do not want to thicken my waist.”
Judith had hidden her smile behind a hand, casting a curious gaze toward John’s nurse. Had the child heard her make such a remark? She would caution the woman again to guard her speech in front of the impressionable young master.
John was speaking again, leaning up comfortably—and comfortingly—against her knee. “Mama likes it,” he was saying, returning to the call for plum pudding, though he sounded a bit forlorn. “We should make it today in case she comes.”
Judith felt a mist gather in her eyes. She knew John longed for his mother. In spite of their efforts to keep his days full and interesting, there was no way she and Charles could keep the boy from missing the most important person in his life.
“I’ll speak to Cook,” she said now as her hand gently stroked the brown curls. She simply could not bring herself to say to the child that his mother would not be returning on this day, nor on any day in the near future.
He smiled up at her, seeming content that the matter was settled. Then he darted away to the shelves that held his books and toys, calling over his shoulder as he ran, “Would you read to me, Nana?”
Judith loved to read to him. She wasn’t sure what was the nicest part of it—sharing the mystery and adventure of his childish story or having him tucked up close by her side. So close that she could smell the freshness of his morning bath, feel the warmth of the small body, and sense the complete trust that he placed in her as his grandmother. There was one other part that she kept tucked away in her heart—the bittersweet memory of the boy’s father, her son Cyril, now gone from this earth for most of John’s short life.
There was no need for her to answer his question in words. She moved to make room for him in the chair beside her as he took time to select just the right story.
It was one of her favorite times of the day. Though a bit early—John was an early riser—Judith did not mind slipping from her room to make her way to John’s nursery just as the sun began to lift itself over the lip of the eastern horizon. She and Nurse had worked out the arrangement. Nurse would bathe and dress the boy, then leave for the kitchen. Judith would savor the time with the child, secretly hoping the woman would not be too efficient and bring back their breakfast too quickly.
When they had taken over John’s care when Anne and Thomas had left, Charles had spoken firmly. “We must not spoil the lad. He must not be allowed to run freely and undisciplined through the house. It would be easy to let him set his own boundaries, given his sweetness and my gullibility. But for his sake, we must maintain order and discipline. We do not wish Anne to return to an obstinate son.”
Judith had nodded her agreement. Charles was right, of course—but, oh, it would have been so enjoyable to have the delightful little boy with her every hour of the day.
A routine had been established and Charles strictly adhered to it, though Judith sensed there often were times when he would have liked to break his own rules. But Charles’s approach was the correct one. They could not allow the young master to become chief of the entire household. Judith was allotted the early morning hours and some time again in the late afternoon while Nurse took her tea. Charles assigned himself the late morning. Together the man and boy would walk through the gardens or down to the stream, or they would ride out, John proudly seated in front of Charles on the saddle. Other children in his situation were often given their own pony led by a groom, but Charles held to this intimate time to which he had laid claim. “He will have a lifetime to ride on his own,” he had confided to Judith. “I have only a short time to hold him close and listen to his chatter.”
In the evening, just before Judith and Charles had their dinner together, they would make one last trip to the nursery to tuck John in and share in a prayer time. This was a special time for all of them, though Judith often brushed at tears as she listened to the pleas from childish lips for God to take extra care in looking out for his mama and papa. His second petition was just as earnest. That God would please make Grandpa Andrew all better again so Mama could come home.
Judith’s reverie was interrupted when John scrambled up beside her. She placed one arm about him as she drew him close. “What is this story about, my boy?”
“It’s about a man. He plays a … a thing … see … that makes music.”
“Music? Why yes, he does. The instrument is called a pianoforte.”
“What does it do?” John’s eyes were wide with questions.
“Well … like you said. It makes music.”
“I wish I had a pian-fortay.”
“Well … we do. Down in the front parlor.”
“We do?” The face lifted to hers was full of surprise and delight. “Can I hear it?”
“I … I do not suppose there is anyone here who can play it. I cannot.”
“Can Nurse?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure she cannot.”
“Can Uncle?” John had been schooled to call his mother’s uncle “Uncle Charles,” but when he became excited he sometimes shortened the address.
“I do not believe your uncle Charles has ever played the pianoforte, but I shall ask him.”
“Someone needs to play it,” insisted the child.
Judith smiled. “I will discuss it with your uncle Charles at supper this evening.”
John nodded slowly. Judith could see he longed to have the issue resolved immediately.
“Now we had better read the story before Nurse gets back with your porridge.”
His eyes turned from her face to the pages of the book. One small hand reached out and gently stroked the illustration of the instrument. Judith decided she would speak to Charles immediately. It was unusual for a child to feel so drawn toward something to which he had not yet been exposed. Could it be possible that he had an innate aptitude for music? If so, they needed to discover and nurture this gift.
“Good morning, my dear,” Charles greeted Judith with a smile as she entered t
he library. “Did you sleep well?” He laid aside his London newspaper.
Judith smiled in return and nodded. “I have just come from the nursery,” she began as she moved across the carpet.
“How is our boy?”
“Fine. Doing well, I believe. He had a bit of a surprise for me.” She pressed against the rich mahogany of Charles’s desk as she spoke.
Charles leaned forward, watching her intently.
“He has a new storybook—one of those you ordered up from London. Nurse said that she has already been asked to read it many times. It is the story of the young prodigy Mozart. John is—well, to say the least—quite taken with it. Especially the pianoforte. He said that he would like to have one. When I told him we already do have one in the parlor, he asked to hear it played.”
Judith now had Charles’s full attention. He seemed to understand where this conversation was heading. “He is only a child,” he said.
“So was Mozart when he began to play,” she answered quietly.
He nodded.
He leaned back, the leather chair squeaking under the shifting of weight, and cleared his throat. But he did not speak. His eyes held a faraway gaze, as if he were reaching for some memory that was eluding him. Or else causing pain. “My mother used to play it,” he finally said, his voice a bit husky. “I used to sneak out of bed to hide behind the draperies and listen. Once I fell asleep, and there was no end of commotion in the household until I was discovered.” He chuckled for a moment, then added, “I was sure I would be scolded and sent off to my room, but instead my mother lifted me up to the bench beside her and played one more song before sending me off with my nurse. From then on she invited me to the parlor in the evening and let me listen to her play. I treasured every moment. After she died …” He hesitated, and Judith saw him working to swallow. “No one has played it since,” he finished. She could see the sorrow in his eyes.
Judith waited until she felt Charles was more composed. She eased around the corner of the desk and let her hand fall gently on his shoulder. He reached up and accepted the hand into his, giving it a squeeze.
“Would you mind if someone played it again?”
“No, not at all.” His answer came more quickly than she would have expected. “I think I should quite enjoy it.”
“I think our John would enjoy it also.”
“We’ve one problem,” Charles said, leaning back so he could look up at her. “We have no one who plays—unless you have kept a secret from me, my dear.”
“No secret,” said Judith with a smile quickly followed by a sigh. “I have never had the pleasure of music instruction.”
“I do not suppose Nurse—”
“I have already asked her. She does not appear to have any interest, let alone any knowledge.”
The chair squeaked again as Charles moved forward, his arms outstretched to lean on the desk. “There must be a solution. If the boy wishes music, he should have music.”
Judith smiled. Charles would do whatever needed to be done. “I will see you at breakfast,” she whispered and placed a kiss on his cheek.
Chapter 15
Five days at sea was but a brief passage, a swift run in the eyes of well-salted sailors. Yet when they started their final tack in the Bay of Fundy for their sunset run down Cobequid Bay, Nicole and Gordon and all the men bore the strain of those seemingly endless days.
As the headlands at the Georgetown point rose high and emerald green to her right, Nicole felt a stirring within at the sight of her beloved cliffs. She leaned against the starboard railing as Gordon called in the controlled voice he had used ever since they had passed the British fleet anchored in the Halifax harbor. Sailors rushed about her, climbed the nettings, and unfurled the remaining sails. Nicole kept her gaze fastened upon the point where she and Anne had spent so many wonderful hours.
Three times during the voyage they had heard the pounding thunder of seaborne war. Once it had begun in the evening, and she had hoped the reddish glow on the horizon was somehow a second sunset. Gordon had ordered all lights doused and all sails made taut, and she knew the truth of it.
The second day of their voyage, Gordon had broken out the British flag to fly from his signal halyard. Nicole knew this tactic was known as flying under false colors. She also knew the reason, sailing as they were directly toward the massed power of the British fleet. She had said nothing. But Gordon must have felt her concern and crossed the quarterdeck to stand beside her and explain that he would do everything in his power to return this vessel to its rightful owners. That, in his eyes, it indeed remained a British vessel. Nicole did not voice the fact that a British-owned ship sailed by a captain and crew whose loyalties were with the American Revolutionaries made for a dangerous situation. If they fell into the hands of either side … She did not allow herself to finish the thought.
Perhaps because they sailed so boldly and directly toward the British might, in a British vessel, they were never challenged. Twice sails were spotted just over the horizon, and the passing vessels boomed out cannonades of greeting. Gordon replied in kind, saluting with a smart raising and lowering of their colors. North they continued, sailing as far outside the reach of Halifax as they could manage before turning and running straight up the Bay of Fundy.
“Well do I remember that point.” Gordon’s voice surprised her after his unannounced approach. He came over to stand alongside her. “The day we walked out there together, I had every intention of declaring my affections.”
“I know,” Nicole responded quietly, moving close enough to graze his arm with her shoulder. It was all the familiarity she dared upon the ship. A captain was to be seen in public as a solitary figure, Gordon had once told her. She had never understood just how true these words were before this voyage.
“I knew your heart then. But I could not determine my own heart and so could not permit you to speak.”
“Yes, you knew,” Gordon agreed. “You knew your heart and you knew mine as well. You also saw the absence of faith in my life, my lack of the divine compass.”
She brushed windswept hair from her face and looked up at her betrothed.
“I have never thanked you for your strength of purpose, for your commitment to God. Here in this stolen moment, I wish to speak now what has gone too long unspoken.” Gordon kept his tone quiet and steady. “Your refusal to give in to what we both were feeling is what my overproud heart required. Thank you, my dear, for bringing me to the point where I can speak these words.”
“Gordon …” She fought to maintain control.
They exchanged a lingering glance, nothing more. Yet it was enough to fill her heart with calm. “This is the most at rest I have felt since we set off from Marblehead.”
“There is nothing quite as difficult for peace of mind,” Gordon agreed, “than a threat—known or imagined—just over the horizon.”
“If I had realized, I would not have made the request.”
“Were we doing it only for you, I would have needed to decline. Much as I love you, much as I know your yearning to see your father once more, I could not have agreed.”
He was interrupted from further discussion of their broader mission when Carter called from his place by the wheel, “Ready to come about, Captain.”
“Very well.” Gordon turned around, studied that all was in place, then called, “Hard about.”
“Hard about it is, sir. Look lively there, lads.”
Carter spun the wheel. The ship pointed its nose into the wind, then swung about so the wind blew over its opposite rail. The sails snapped full, the sailors pulled hard on the lines, the ship heeled over sharply. Soon enough the cliff disappeared into the distance.
To the west, the setting sun reflected upon the shimmering waters of Cobequid Bay. To the east, the expanse reached out to approaching night from deep blue to slate gray. As the bay narrowed about the ship, the wind filtered through the surrounding hills in fits and gusts, yet scarcely ruffled the water’s surface.
Nicole remained where she was as the first stars came alight, full of the promise of the homecoming.
Their plan was to berth in secret far enough down the bay to avoid confrontation with any British vessel. Many of the surrounding French villages remained hostile to British soldiers and ships. Since the waters were most decidedly British, it was hoped they could berth, continue up to Georgetown, and return without challenge.
Carter joined Gordon by the starboard railing and watched as they scouted the banks. She knew they would search for likely anchorage and landfall in the last light of day, then would load the travelers into boats and finish their trek under cover of dark. They would ride to Georgetown, to Andrew and Catherine Harrow. Nicole’s parents had helped both French and loyalists from the southern colonies resettle in these former Acadian lands. It was Gordon’s hope that their connections to the Harrows would help to seal the villagers’ loyalty and keep their presence a secret from the British.
Both Gordon and Carter studied the bank through telescopes, conferring quietly back and forth. A nearly full moon emerged over the forested hilltop just as the day’s last light faded. The two men seemed to reach some agreement.
Glimmers from lamps could be seen both to their right and left from villages nearby. But directly ahead of them all was dark and silent. Gordon moved to the wheel and directed the steersman toward land as the men hurried aloft and began gathering in sail. Two sailors stood at either side of the bow and cast leaded lines up ahead, chanting softly the rising depth as they pulled them back up to count the measurements. Gordon soon gave the order to drop anchor and lower the longboat.
Gordon cast a concerned glance her way as Nicole was helped into the bosun’s chair, winched over the side, and lowered to the waiting craft. He soon joined her when the crew who were assigned to go ashore had all boarded.
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