The Birthright (23 page)

“But what about Nicole’s time in the London social scene?”

“Nicole, yes.” In an unconscious motion, Charles lifted one hand and kneaded his chest over the heart. “The constraints of this life have been very difficult for her. Surely you must see this as well as I.”

“She seems determined to make a go of it,” Anne said carefully.

“Yes, indeed so.” The hand kneaded more vigorously now. “Indeed so.”

“But you don’t wish to press her,” Anne continued, watching her uncle.

“It’s her life and her decision. Yes.” He caught sight of the way she observed his hand and so dropped it back to his side. “I doubt very much that she’d object to our early departure from the social engagements here.” He turned to the candle’s soft flickering, though his bleak gaze was directed far from the room’s comfort. Then he said in a voice as glum as his features, “But there’s one thing I must see to before we go.”

Despite the interruption to her sleep, Anne was up and dressed and downstairs with the dawn. Maisy had taken to preparing a fire and setting two places at a little table near the front bow windows before retiring. A damp mist clung to the windowpanes and the morning.

Anne was busy striking a flint when Nicole shuffled downstairs and asked, “How’s John?”

“Snoring like a little piglet,” Anne replied, setting the kettle over the fire and joining Nicole at the table. “He kept Charles up half the night. Not that Charles complained.”

“Uncle loves that little boy,” Nicole agreed as she offered a small clay jar. “Honey?”

“Thank you. I spoke with Charles about what duty means.”

“What did he say?”

Anne related their conversation and then added, “I wish I could say for certain where my own duty lies.”

Nicole gave her an odd look. “Are you certain you’re ready to hear such a thing?”

“What do you mean?”

With a careful, deliberate motion, Nicole set down her breakfast bread and knife. She seemed unsure of what to say, for her eyes moved across the table, finally settling on the two Bibles resting between their plates. “When the Scripture speaks of a servant’s life, we hear of a time of preparation. Moses in the desert, David as a shepherd boy. The list goes on and on.”

Then Anne set aside her own breakfast. “You’re saying I have to endure such a time?”

Nicole hesitated. “I am not the one to speak to this, sister. I don’t know enough to advise anyone.”

“But if not you, then who?” Anne took hold of Nicole’s hand. “Whom do I trust more? Whom do I have who knows me better?” When Nicole remained silent, Anne continued, “If I’ve learned anything since coming to England, it’s how much I love you. We’re sisters through miscast circumstances, and friends for life. For that’s what you’ve given me—the gift of life. The only reason I am here at all is because you took my place upon the harsher road.”

Nicole spoke then, her words coming slowly and directed down to her lap. “For the first time ever, I’ve found myself not just accepting the hardships of my childhood but being grateful for them. Because of those severe times, we have become sisters.”

“And friends,” Anne said, and then she raised a hand to clear her eyes. “
Best
friends.”

Nicole lifted her face, revealing eyes soft and liquid. “I am sorry either of us had to endure such a road. But far better it was me than you.”

Anne said nothing for a long time, just sharing the look and the moment. Finally she urged quietly, “Tell me what you were going to say.”

“Perhaps this has been your time in the desert,” Nicole said. “Your period of waiting. I know it seems silly to speak of all this luxury and wealth in such terms, but I have watched you. I see how little notice you take of our surroundings. And yet it all suits you perfectly. Your delicate nature has thrived here, and you have grown strong again. At the same time, you are enduring the desert within your own heart.”

Anne was pressed back in her seat by the truth in Nicole’s words. “You’re saying I must leave here now?”

“Not at all.” Nicole rose and went to the fire. She lifted the steaming kettle and brought it back to the table. As she filled the teapot, she continued, “The desert is within you. The question is, are you ready to leave
that
behind?”

Anne sat and watched her swirl the steaming water. Then she set the silver filter over the teacup and poured out the fragrant brew. “I think so. Yes, perhaps. Why does that frighten me?”

Nicole poured herself a cup and settled back into her chair. “Because you’re moving into the unknown,” she said.

Anne mulled this over as they ate. After a while, she asked, “What do I do now?”

Nicole winced. “I wish you would not ask me.”

“Who else can advise me? Please, tell me what you think I should do.”

“Perhaps,” Nicole suggested, her tone very soft, “you should think of setting aside your widow’s weave.”

The words pushed Anne to her feet. “I…I must go see to John.”

Nicole’s features were sheathed with regret. “I shouldn’t have spoken. I am so sorry.”

“No, no…I must think…. Please excuse me.”

Anne fled up the stairs and into her room. She leaned against the closed door, gasping with the force of her realization. Nicole was right, of course. It was time. Even so, the sudden insight left her breathless. Anne walked over to the crib and stared down at her sleeping infant. It was at times like this that Cyril seemed the closest, for his face was clearly imprinted on the baby’s. “Forgive me, my love,” she whispered.

The tears came easily, but the sorrow was not like it had been before. This was not the wracking agony of Cyril’s death. She was merely taking a conscious step along a path she’d started down the day they laid her beloved husband to rest. It was time, she knew. There was a future beyond Cyril. She was being called to move on, to see where her new duty lay.

She went to the washbasin and rinsed her face. She then moved to the wardrobe and pushed aside the black dresses, all she’d worn since her arrival.

“Good morning, ma’am.” The nanny’s cheerful face appeared in the doorway. “Is his young lordship still asleep?”

“Hello, Nanny. Yes. He had another hard night.”

“Poor little thing. I shall just collect my knitting and come sit with him, then.”

When the door was closed once more, Anne found it hard to reach out and take hold of the dress at the back of the armoire. She forced herself to gather up the only dress she had brought that was anything but black. It looked strange to her now, something that belonged to another person and a happier time. She recalled the last time she had worn the frock, with Cyril at her side.

With a violent shake of her head, Anne pushed the thoughts away. Hurriedly she dressed herself. When she had finished, she bent over the crib, kissed her child, and murmured not so much to the sleeping face but more to the presence that reflected back at her from his tiny features, “Farewell, my love. You’re always with me.”

She hastened from the room, as she did not want to face Nanny’s inquiring glance. Not yet. She made her way down the stairs only to find Nicole still seated where Anne had left her. Nicole’s pinched expression turned to surprise when she saw Anne standing in the doorway.

Anne took a hard breath and said, “Shall we be off?”

Chapter 25

Every time the Wednesday supply cart rattled into Georgetown, Catherine rushed toward it in hopes that there would be some communication from her two daughters. Usually she returned home heavyhearted. Still no word had come.

And so Wednesdays always seemed longer and gloomier, leaving her wishing the carts did not come to the village at all. They were a painful reminder of the broken link between her and the ones she loved across the ocean.

It was midweek once again, and the long-awaited supply wagon still had not arrived. The late-afternoon sun had broken through the thin layer of clouds that hung close to the treetops. Birds flitted from limb to limb, playing in the feeble sun. Her father, who rarely strayed far from the fire on such a day, stretched now and rubbed at his troubling knee. He tipped his head to one side in an attitude of listening. “I believe I hear the dogs barking.”

She put aside her needlework and moved to the window. Again she marveled that her father’s hearing had not diminished over the years. Indeed it did seem that something was astir. Catherine looked out to see the supply cart rumbling through the trail’s thick dust, wending its way between the sturdy buildings. “The dray wagon has arrived!”

Catherine swung around and grabbed her shawl. Already the air held an evening’s chill.
You’re being foolish
, she scolded herself as she scurried to their front gate.
Just setting yourself up for another disappointment
.

The minister’s wife had become a familiar sight to the driver, as she was always pressing through the throng of people gathered around his cart. The stocky man, with his pipe dangling between clenched teeth, removed his cloth cap and ran spread fingers through his unruly hair. The pipe bounced when he said, “I have a packet for you, missus.”

It did not take him long to dig out the little bundle. Catherine gasped her words of thanks, clutched the packet to her chest, and hurried back home.

The packet contained letters from each of her daughters and a shorter one from Charles. Catherine laid aside the letter from her brother-in-law for Andrew to open when he returned and then broke the seals on the ones from her girls. She did not know which letter to read first, so she closed her eyes and picked one from her lap where she’d let them fall. It was Nicole’s that she found in her hand.
Dear Father and Mother,
it began.
Greetings from England where summer now rests gently on the land.
Catherine smiled. Nicole’s English had continued to improve.

The letter went on to tell of the daily happenings of their busy social life. Catherine wondered at the frantic pace of activity that, to her mind, seemed to accomplish nothing. Nicole did not speak of daily chores. What would it be like to live in a world filled with delights rather than duties? Catherine could not fathom such a thing. What satisfaction did her daughter have after laying her head on the pillow at night? No, the life of the wealthy was definitely not for her.

But as Catherine read on, the letter turned to other things. Nicole was busy learning, becoming more deeply involved with Charles and his service amongst the villages. This brought a smile to Catherine’s face. Here was a worthy response to Catherine’s silent query. Her daughter was discovering ways to help others.
Andrew will be so pleased
, mused Catherine.

The letter also told of Nicole’s feelings regarding Anne’s arrival:
I had not known just how lonely I was until I beheld Anne and her baby John at our doorstep. I have never been so glad to see anyone in my whole life. And yet I do grieve with her. She has lost so much. But Anne remains brave and does not mope about nor carry her grief as an adornment. Still, I see the pain in her eyes and it hurts me so.

In spite of her sorrow, it has been such a joy to have them here. Johnny, I call him Johnny in spite of Anne’s objection, is such a dear, sweet child. He entertains us all. Every day he seems to learn something new. He knows pat-a-cake and peek-a-boo and the gestures to “London Bridge.” He knows a number of words now and tries many sounds we have yet to understand. He can become quite annoyed when we fail to grasp his meaning. We have to watch him carefully at all times. Uncle Charles is the one most likely to indulge him. He absolutely adores the child. The staff say that Johnny has brightened the entire house.

Catherine felt her chest tighten. She was missing so much. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and traced a moist trail down her cheek.

We think of you always and speak of you often,
Nicole’s letter concluded.
It would be so wonderful were you here with us. I am sure the warm, fresh countryside would do wonders for Father’s health. We trust you are both keeping well. We pray for you daily and send our love and fondest regards. Your daughter, Nicole.

Thoughtfully, Catherine folded the letter. She knew it would warm Andrew’s heart just as it had her own. He would be home soon. She smiled as she thought of the wonderful surprise that awaited him.

Catherine picked up the second letter from the folds of her apron.
To my dearest parents,
Anne’s letter began.
I cannot tell you how much we miss you. Every day John and I talk together about you. I tell him stories from over the years as I tuck him into bed each night. I am sure he understands because of the way his eyes light up. I don’t want him to forget you, so I am doing everything in my power to speak memories into his little mind.

He is such a dear little fellow. I know Cyril would take great delight in him. I see more of his father in him every day and I continually thank God for that gift. As you told me, Mother, John’s presence is like having a bit of Cyril still with me.

Anne then wrote of how the English countryside intrigued her, as did the social climate. It was so different than what she’d known.
I am gradually becoming more involved in public life. Nicole shares with me all her adventures into society. I cannot help but lament some of the things I see and hear. There is such a vast distance between the titled and the common. A man does not seem to be of worth because of who he is or what he does, but rather by the name he bears. It seems so unjust. There is such foolishness, such pomp and arrogance as you would not believe.