A Season for Miracles

by Jean Little

  We went out into the cold but we were all cozy in our animal costumes. My heart was in my mouth when we got to the church door, but Gerhard was there. We did a quick costume transfer and he became the donkey. I remembered the socks for his hands and feet. The sheep were too surprised to say anything. Then on they went, into the church, baa-ing and hee-hawing, but not loudly, in a kind of holy way. Maybe somebody noticed that the donkey, crawling along on all fours, looked bigger than he had in the practice, but mostly everybody was looking for the sheep or cow that they knew.

  I slipped into the back pew, next to Daft Binnie. He always sits there.

  And then the story went on. Mary and Joseph and the baby. The manger. The shepherds and the wise men. The sheep and cow and donkey. The angel. Ivy-Jesus made some gurgling sounds but she didn’t cry. I never thought before how the first Christmas was like Christmas right now — there was family and travelling and gifts and music and surprises.

  The final carol was “Silent Night.”

  The choir sang the first verse. Then just as they were singing the first “Sleep in heavenly peace,” the donkey stood up and took off his head and joined in the singing.

  Gerhard’s voice rang out over the church. Without giving Mrs. Gilmour, who plays the organ, time to do a twiddly bit before the next verse, Gerhard started to sing in German. “Stille Nacht, Heil’ge Nacht.” Mrs. Gilmour caught up and played very softly with him. The sound was so big and holy that I needed to hold on to something. I grabbed Daft Binnie’s hand. He smiled his daft smile and held my hand back. Everybody stood up and finished the hymn together. I stood up on the pew to try to see Mr. Muller, but all I could glimpse was part of the back of his head and I couldn’t tell if his heart was softened.

  On Boxing Day, when I get to see Elizabeth, I will have to ask her what happened. There wasn’t any time after the service, because everyone was in a hurry to herd all the sheep home to bed. But here is what I know I saw. I saw the Muller family, Gerhard included, piling into their car. And here is what I think I saw, in the darkness, through the snow dancing in the air. I think I saw Mr. Muller put his hand on Gerhard’s shoulder. It might have been good tidings of great joy. It might have been a miracle.

  Exiled from Nova Scotia, torn from family and friends, Angélique and the rest of her family struggle to make a new home for themselves at the House of the Acadians in Baltimore … hoping one day to return to their beloved Grand-Pré.

  The Keepsake Box

  Le 1er décembre 1756

  Maman always says that eavesdroppers never hear anything good. I suppose that is true. For what I overheard last night has left me worried. I truly did not mean to eavesdrop, though. It’s just that we have to sleep close together with more than one family to a room in this House of the Acadians. People sigh and moan, and talk in their sleep. Some of them snore, too. Jehanne certainly does, deny it though she will. What I overheard last night, though, was Papa talking to Maman. At first I tried not to listen, but then I heard him say the word “afraid.” After that, I could not help listening.

  It’s about tools, woodworking tools that Papa needs to make a living here in Baltimore. Papa has always done such fine carpentry. Before me on the table as I write is the keepsake box Papa made for my name day. He joined bits of scrap wood to make the box, then carved little pictures on it. Around the sides are mayflowers, like the ones in the spring woods in Acadia. And in the centre of the lid is a little farmhouse just like ours at Grand-Pré. You can even see a tiny wisp of carved smoke coming out of the chimney.

  But more about the tools. Papa has none, nor any money to buy them. He told Maman he has just lost another good job for lack of them. At some joiners’ shops they let him borrow tools, but at others they just give the work to someone else. The truth is that even with all of us trying to bring in a little money, Papa and Maman are having a hard time making ends meet. They also try to save a little for when we return to Acadia some day. Of course they do not discuss their troubles in front of us. But last night I overheard Papa say he was afraid we would end up in want. Yet he vowed he would starve before he would ask for charity from les Anglais who banished us from our home and shipped us here to Maryland.

  Le 3 décembre 1756

  It is odd how I cannot seem to lose this habit of scribbling. My beautiful diary book is full now, but whenever I come across a scrap of paper, I tuck it away. And when I feel excited or angry or worried, I write myself out. The paper I’m using today is wrapping paper. It is rough and bumpy and my pen scratches and makes blots. It is a nuisance, but much better than nothing.

  My forefinger is red and swollen, and it itches. I must be getting a chilblain. And no wonder, for the weather is damp cold, and my hands are so often in water. But such is the life of a scullery maid, I suppose.

  Le 5 décembre 1756

  After Sunday mass, I went as usual to help prepare dinner at Master Hardcastle’s. I was in the midst of chopping vegetables when I suddenly realized it is a year to the day since we first set foot in Maryland. It was the smell of turnips that did it. I cannot forget how we ate little else but turnip broth those last terrible days aboard the ship that brought us from Acadia. And the water so unfit to drink. Yet how terrified we were to go ashore, not knowing what we would face. We could only trust le bon Dieu to protect us. And we were right to trust Him. No matter how bad things sometimes seem now, we are far better off than we were on that ship. So I said a little prayer of thanks, even for turnips.

  My chilblain is much better. Maman showed me how to make a paste of honey, egg and flour to dab on my finger.

  Le 7 décembre 1756

  Today on my way from Master Hardcastle’s I met Claude and we walked home together. The matter of the tools has been much on my mind, so I asked him about it. He said it was true that Papa has lost many well-paying jobs because he has not the tools to do fine carpentry. Claude says the work he does in the shipyard is rough and heavy and fine tools do not matter there. But in cabinetry work, the kind our papa loves to do, and which pays better than any other kind, every craftsman needs his own tools.

  Claude told me something else, too, and this has set me thinking. He says Papa has already seen the tools he needs. A master joiner named Abner Flint owns a fine set he cannot even use now. It seems his hands are all twisted with rheumatism, and he must leave the work to his apprentices or to hired craftsmen. Papa did some work for him, and said Master Flint’s tools were the best he had ever seen. Claude says Papa’s face lit up every time he set eyes on them. He asked Master Flint if he could buy them, but the price Master Flint set was too high.

  Papa always thinks of our needs and never asks anything for himself. He has to have those tools. We must find a way!

  Le 9 décembre 1756

  Today I saw that big shaggy dog again — the one that reminds me of Griffon. I see him now and again and give him a pat. I keep a biscuit in my apron pocket, too, just in case. His coat is glossy and he has a fine leather collar, so he has a good home. I pray that Griffon does, too, with Jeremy back in Acadia. But I hope my dear dog has not quite forgotten me.

  Dear Claude brought me a real treasure today. He got a job building a workbench for a bookbinder. He said there were scraps of paper — precious paper! — lying all around. He knows how I love to write, so he asked permission to take some. He came home with a whole sack full. I am rich indeed, for now I can write as much as I wish.

  Le 10 décembre 1756

  This evening I found the house in an uproar. Clouds of steam hung in the air and water droplets wept off the ice-cold panes of the windows. Maman and Madame Melanson, their hair hanging in strings, were stirring and stirring a cauldron of wash on the hearth. I was astonished, for they usually do all the washing they take in during the morning, hang it to dry, and iron in the afternoon. Then I got a look at les Terreurs. They are blue! At least, their hands and faces are.

  It seems they tried to help with the wash this morning. Maman and Madame Melanson were out delivering
laundry, and Jehanne was called to answer the door. The moment her back was turned, the twins got hold of the bottle of laundry bluing. They spilled it on themselves and dumped the rest into the wash. The best linens from some of Baltimore’s finest homes came out bright blue! Everyone was in despair, for we could not possibly pay for the ruined wash if anyone complained. So Maman and Madame Melanson have been washing and re-washing the laundry all day, trying to get the bluing out.

  Le 11 décembre 1756

  Luckily most of the bluing did come out. Today there is only the faintest tinge, and we pray nobody will notice. Les Terreurs are not so lucky. Jehanne and I scrubbed them half raw, but the blue will not come off. I suppose it will wear off in time. I asked Marie-Josèphe whatever possessed them to play with the bluing. She said they wanted to “do the magic” for themselves — they had seen how putting bluing in the wash made the clothes come out sparkling white. Maman has given them a terrific scolding and they have promised never, ever, to touch the wash again. But just in case, the bottle of bluing now sits on the highest shelf.

  Le 13 décembre 1756

  Yesterday we could laugh over the bluing, but today our hearts are heavy. Just one year ago our dear Belle died. Can it really be just a year since my sister passed away? The sorrow is so fresh still. Of course we grieve always for our other lost ones, too. We still hope for news of Catherine and Victor someday. But Mémère and Belle we will only meet again in heaven. At least Mémère had a long happy life before she died. But Belle was so young — why did she have to die? I keep the square of blue cloth I cut from the hem of her dress in my keepsake box now. The cloth feels rough when I rub it against my cheek. But it is exactly the same flax-flower blue as her eyes.

  Alors — my tears have made a great blot on the paper.

  Le 14 décembre 1756

  I am determined that Papa shall have the tools he needs. Surely if I speak to Master Flint he will lend them to him. I wonder why Papa and Claude did not think of it — perhaps they were too proud to ask. Well, I am not! The trouble is that I need to visit Master Flint. And how am I to do it? For I am supposed to go straight to my job at Master Hardcastle’s every morning and return home the moment I am finished.

  I must think on this.

  Plus tard

  Now I know what I must do. I have a half day off every week, and tomorrow is the day. I shall tell Maman that the cook chez Hardcastle has asked me to run an errand for her on the way home, so I will be a little late getting home. And I will use the time to go and see Master Flint. There is just one problem with this plan. I will be telling a lie.

  Le 15 décembre 1756

  Well, I did it. And perhaps le bon Dieu would not let my scheme prosper because I am a liar. Well, not quite a liar — it was closer to a fib. When I got to work I asked Cook if she would like me to run an errand on my way home, and she said she would. So what I had told Maman turned out to be only half a lie.

  As soon as dinner was finished chez Hardcastle, I ran to the butcher’s with the meat order as Cook had asked me. Then I walked down toward the harbour. I knew the way to Master Flint’s workshop, for I had asked Claude where it was.

  I found the shop easily, but at first I hung back, for it looks very grand. It has bow windows and the words Abner Flint, Fine Cabinetry in fancy gold letters over the door. But I screwed up my courage, took a deep breath and knocked. After a few moments, Master Flint himself opened the door — it had to be him, because he was so old. He is tall and stooped, with a grey fringe of whiskers around his face. He did not look best pleased to see me. Perhaps he was hoping for an important customer. But when I said I had come to speak to him he asked me to step in.

  The shop smelled sweetly of fresh wood from the curly shavings that lay all around. There were beautiful pieces of finished furniture, too, like the ones I see chez Hardcastle. They were polished so finely I could see my face in them. Master Flint asked me who I was and what I wanted. So I told him that I was Michel Richard’s daughter and that I wanted him to lend my father the tools he needs to do his fine cabinetry work. When I said that, Master Flint’s eyebrows drew together so that his sharp grey eyes almost disappeared. He demanded to know why I thought he should do that.

  I told him that Papa is a fine craftsman, but lacks proper tools. Master Flint snorted and said that many a fool of a jobbing carpenter fancies himself a cabinet-maker. So from under my cloak I pulled out my keepsake box. I said that my papa was no fool and that this was his work. And that he could do even better if he had the right tools. Master Flint turned the box over in his hands, examining every join and carving. I saw that, as Claude had said, his fingers were all knobbly and twisted with rheumatism.

  At last Master Flint shrugged and said the box was well enough, but nothing special!

  My hand trembles as I write, just thinking about what happened next. I snatched my box out of Master Flint’s hands, crying that it was special. And I told him he should be ashamed not to share his tools, when he could no longer use them himself. At that, his face turned red. He called me a saucy wench, and told me to get out.

  I cried all the way home. And now I am very worried. I could tell from Master Flint’s shop what an important man he is. What if he tells other craftsmen not to give work to Papa because I spoke so rashly? Maman has praised me much of late, saying how level-headed I have become. I am so proud of that. But what would she say if she knew what I have just done? I do try to control my tongue, but when I get excited things just pop out!

  Le 18 décembre 1756

  I have felt very gloomy since my visit to Master Flint. And what happened today does not make me any happier. This evening, Zachary was late for souper. He was supposed to have been working as a sweeper boy at the shipyard, but Claude said he had not seen him that afternoon. At last Zachary arrived and went to wash up at the basin. Maman went over with a ewer of hot water for him, and I saw her give a start and turn his face to the light. Then she marched him over to stand in front of Papa. For Zachary’s lip was cut, and one eye was blackened and swollen!

  Papa demanded to know what he had been up to. At first Zachary did not want to say, but at last the story came out. Another boy who works at the shipyard has been teasing him, calling him a “dirty Frenchy” and a coward too afraid to fight. So Zachary met him inside an old warehouse by the docks, and they fought. Maman was horrified, and Papa very grave. But Claude asked how the other boy had fared. Zachary said he was even worse off.

  Papa lectured Zachary, saying violence proves nothing and he must never fight again. But underneath it all I could see that he was proud of Zachary for standing up for himself. I know I am! For, moi, I am fed up with les Anglais.

  Le 20 décembre 1756

  Zachary’s black eye is now as purple as a spoiled plum. I thought his fight with the other boy would make things worse for him. But he says not. It seems the rest of the boys like him the better for it. So fighting is violent and bad. But also sometimes it is good. This is a puzzle.

  And speaking of colour, les Terreurs are only pale blue now.

  It is snowing again, big fluffy flakes. But even that does not cheer me up.

  Le 24 décembre 1756

  This is a month for anniversaries. A year ago today we moved into this house. What a wreck it was when we first saw it, and how hard we worked to fix it up! But it was worth it, for though it is crowded it is a real home now. And for that we all thank le bon Dieu. This year our chapel is consecrated, so Father Wentworth will say mass for us at midnight tonight. Of course we are fasting until then. It was hard today working in the kitchen chez Hardcastle, with so many good things being prepared for tomorrow’s Christmas feast, for les Anglais give presents and celebrate on Christmas Day, not on New Year’s Day as we do. But this year we are preparing a fine réveillon for after midnight mass, much better than what we had last year. I can hardly wait, I am so hungry!

  I can admit here, though, that I am worried about going to mass tonight, for the lie I told hangs heavy on
my conscience. Papa has not said anything about Master Flint being angry, so perhaps Master Flint did not tell Papa what I did. But it was wrong of me to lie, no matter how good my intentions were. And I am concealing the truth about what I did from my family. How can I welcome the Christ Child with all that on my conscience?

  Plus tard

  I could not bear my guilt any longer, so I slipped off to see Father Wentworth. He was very busy, as he has many duties on this holy night. But when I told him I needed to confess something, he listened. When he heard what I had done, he told me I was right to be worried. After all, I had lied to Maman, and acted deceitfully. But he said that God would forgive me if I truly repented. He gave me a penance of prayers to say.

  Then I asked him if I had to tell what I had done. He said he left that to my conscience to decide. Will God forgive me if I do not tell? I have been thinking about it ever since, even when I was dusting and sweeping our chapel, getting ready for mass. The sweet smell of the wax candles made me feel a bit sick and dizzy. Perhaps it is the fasting. I

  Le 25 décembre 1756

  I broke off yesterday evening because the most astonishing thing happened. About eight o’clock there came a knock at the door. When Papa opened it, there stood Master Abner Flint! My heart sank down to my toes, for I thought he had come to complain of me after all. Papa invited him in, and then I saw that behind him was a boy carrying a big box, which he set down on the table.

  Though I slipped behind Maman, Master Flint’s sharp eyes sought me out as he shook the snow off his cloak. And he told Papa and Maman straight out that I was the reason for his visit. In two minutes, he had told them the whole story. Papa’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave me a stern look, especially when Master Flint told him how I had spoken out and criticized him for not sharing the tools he could no longer use. When Papa translated all Master Flint’s words for Maman, the look she gave me made me want to sink right through the floor.