The Meeting Place (37 page)

“I reined in my horse, planning to turn myself in to the adjutant Whetlock had sent along for that very reason. Then, out of the thicket ahead, there came another officer, one whose name I cannot for the life of me recall. He had just come from rounding up those very same villagers.”

Andrew turned to his father-in-law then, with a gaze whose profound wounding was balanced with a deep and eternal calm. “Why I was granted such a gift of grace while so many others were suffering, I do not know. Yet truly I am certain that grace it was. This conviction Catherine shares with me, and it has helped us mightily to endure these past days, to begin the inner restoration, and prepare for the future ahead.”

Birdsong rose from the tree alongside their lane, the sound answered by callings from the next tree, and they from a tree leading to the Harrow cottage. Like heaven's chimes, they were a soft and comforting end to yet another day. John Price forced his voice to function and asked, “What will you do now?”

“Pray.” Andrew gave a sad smile. “Pray for guidance, pray for Elspeth wherever she is, pray for our own strength. We pray so much these days, there seems scarcely to be room for anything else.” His gaze shifted to the unseen cottage. “Which in truth may not be a bad thing.”

John Price could think of nothing to say.

Andrew's gaze remained directed toward the cottage around the bend as he mused aloud, “I have been thinking of perhaps becoming a pastor. But I need to be certain this idea is shared equally by Catherine. After all, it is through her that I have found a voice with which to speak to my Lord, to hear from Him.”

John Price had to bow his head. The shame was too great.
It was wrong
.

A gentle hand upon his shoulder underscored the words, “Come home with me, Father Price. Catherine will be glad to see you.”

Father
. It was the first time Andrew had addressed him thus. It was enough to scald his eyes. He could only nod and follow along as Andrew hefted the buckets and started down the lane.

Catherine was standing in the doorway, there to greet them. The child who was not hers, yet hers indeed, was in her arms. The smile which should not for a thousand reasons be given to him was there as well. Sad and hollowed by all that had happened, but there just the same. “Hello, Father. Welcome.”

The scalding grew worse, as though there in the quiet greeting was every accusation he felt the world hurling at him. He hung his head once more, unable to look either at them or the baby. “I have come …”

He had to stop and search for the breath and the strength to go on. “I have come to ask your forgiveness.”

He had not even known the purpose of his walk until that moment. But once started, he had to say it all. “What happened was wrong. I am sorry. If I could, I would give my own life to take back the role I played.” He sighed, and all the breath and all the strength blew from his body. He could only murmur to the earth at his feet, “But I cannot. I am sorry.”

“As are we,” Catherine said, but there was no indictment in her voice, no bitterness. Only an endless sea of sorrow. “But it is done. And we must now go on the best we can. With God's help.”

“With God's help,” Andrew agreed. “He has called us to mercy, the living daily act of forgiveness and love. We seek it from Him to give to others.”

“Mercy,” John Price murmured, tasting the unfamiliar word, asking it also for himself.

“Come in, Father.” Catherine turned back inside, stepping aside for him to enter. “It is good to see you.”

Chapter 33

Catherine had feared there would never be another spring—but now it was here. New beginnings were everywhere, in the unfurling of tender green leaves on the tree by her window, the call of the robin to the mate already busy with building her nest, the lowing of the roan milk cow as she licked her wobbly-legged newborn, the gentle rain that pattered softly on the stout roof of the little cottage. Catherine had to admit—spring had returned.

It had not been a long nor difficult winter in terms of weather hardship. But it had been a wearying one for Catherine. She had been confined for most of the months, both by choice and by need. She had not felt at ease in the village. Besides, though Antoinette had improved considerably, she was still fragile and small for her age. Catherine supposed that she would always be delicate, and so she kept her from much contact with others who might share illnesses. But the little one was happy. Happy and seemingly content. She adored Andrew, bouncing upon the hearth rug and calling to him the minute she heard his footsteps on the shale pathway.

They could not have called her Elspeth. The pain would have been too sharp each time they spoke the name. Yet they could not continue to call her Antoinette—a French name in an English settlement. So they had chosen Anne, Elspeth's middle name. “Perhaps one day she can have her full name back,” said Catherine, in her heart hoping that would mean she would have her Elspeth back as well.

The little girl was not a difficult child to love, and Catherine gave her all the pent-up devotion a mother's love could heap upon a child in the absence of her own dear one. And she prayed—morning and night and oft times in between—that her own precious little one would have Louise's love in full measure as well.

But time moved on. Even Catherine with her grief-stricken heart could not hold it at bay. And now it was spring again. Slowly they had moved past the first birthdays of the child they had lost—the child they had gained.

“The flowers will soon be back in the meadow,” Catherine spoke to Anne one morning as she moved about the cottage setting the yeast to rise. “I have not been there for a very long time. I have missed the place. And Louise.” She blinked back tears. How much dare she tell this child about the mama she had lost? Very little, she concluded, though she yearned to whisper secrets, to give details about the mother she might never have the privilege of knowing. To share with small Anne stories about her own little girl who could have been—would have been—a friend and playmate.

But it was too fraught with danger. Even now. Catherine dared not disclose any facts about the baby's past. There were still rumors of French refugees hidden in the tall timbers, routed out by vigilante patrols, spotted by outlying farmers as they raided root cellars or hen houses in order to fill empty stomachs. There was still a good deal of animosity on the part of some of the settlers. Still talk about what this Frenchman or that Frenchman had said or done or threatened to do. There was also much talk about bringing in new settlers, ones favorable to the throne of England. These newcomers would take over the deserted farms, rebuild the failing dikes, plant the land that might return to forest if not maintained. Catherine could not help but wonder who those new settlers would be. Would they know that the land they farmed had been watered by tears?

But she pushed those thoughts from her now as Anne pulled at her skirts. “Ma-ma-ma,” the child crooned and Catherine reached down to lift her into her arms.

“Well, finally. It is about time you began the Ma-ma-ma.” She placed a kiss on the dark head of curls. “Up to now it's always just been Da-da-da.”

“Da-da,” responded the infant.

“Yes … Da-da-da. It is a long time until he will be coming home.”

Catherine's eyes moved to the clock. It was only ten in the morning. Andrew would not be home for the noon meal.

“You know,” she said, speaking again to the child. “It is a beautiful day. Fresh air would do us both good. I have not left my own yard since I don't know when. Let's take a walk, shall we?”

Once the idea was planted, Catherine could not wait to implement it. She put Anne back on the rug by the rocker and rushed about getting their wraps.

Soon they were on their way up the hillside path. Catherine breathed deeply of the fresh spring air, tilted her head to listen to the song of a house wren, laughingly showed Anne a small frog that hopped its way from their path.

Anne took it all in, small head tipping this way and that, dark eyes darting back and forth as though she wished to miss nothing.

In spite of the child's small frame, Catherine was panting when they reached the last stretch of path leading to the hillside meadow. She lowered Anne to a bed of mossy growth under her favorite stand of pines and pushed back her bonnet.

“My,” she exclaimed. “You are heavier than I had imagined.” It was a good sign. The child was steadily filling out. “Just let Mama catch her breath and we will finish our journey.”

Small Anne reached for a fistful of skirt and cooed up at Catherine.

Catherine could not rest for long. Her desire to be back in the meadow was much too strong to resist. She hoisted the child again and started the last few steps that would take her to the place she had learned to love.

For one bittersweet moment she thought to see Louise resting on their favorite fallen log. The long, flowing dark hair rippled by wind, the bright eyes shining even at a distance, the hand waving a joyous greeting.

But Louise was not there. There was no movement in the meadow except for the flights of birds, dipping from one small bush to another, singing out their springtime song. Or the flash of a bushy red tail as a squirrel scolded that he had been interrupted in some business of importance. A soft breeze nodded the heads of the earliest flowers, seeming to bid Catherine welcome, back to where she rightfully belonged.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I have missed this. More than I even realized.”

She put small Anne on the ground beside her, steadying her on unsure feet. Her eyes traveled to the spot where messages had often been left in days past. It seemed such a long, long time ago. Almost in another lifetime. So much had changed. So much.

But there would be no message there for her now. Louise was gone. In spite of the French vicar's plea that Andrew be the conduit, there had been no word from any of the Acadians who had been expelled. Where were they? Were they safe? Was her precious little Elspeth safe? If only …

But
if onlys
were futile. Andrew had told her that so many times over the months, and Catherine had finally learned to keep her thoughts in check. Almost.

But today, here in the meadow, those thoughts were brought sharply into focus once again.

She lowered herself to the familiar log and lifted the child to her lap.

“This is where your—where my best friend and I used to meet,” she began. “We both loved it. The flowers. The birds. And the berries. You've not tasted berries—but you will love them. They are sweet and juicy. You must be careful how you eat them or they will drip down your chin.”

Long-ago memories of a Louise with stained lips came back to make her chuckle through her tears. “We will come here again. Often, now that it is warmer. If there is any place where she would return, I'm sure this is it. Who knows—perhaps one day we will find a message here.”

The very thought stirred Catherine. She could not resist setting Anne down and reaching under to the place where notes were hidden. But in spite of thrusting her hand into the fallen trunk as far as she could and wiggling her fingers this way and that to feel each inch of the hidden alcove, her hand came away empty.

“Not today,” she said, a catch in her voice. She went back over to where the baby sat and played with a pinecone. “See this flower, Anne—
fleur
. And that flash of blue overhead—a bird—
oiseau
. Can you say that?
Oiseau
. And over there—do you see the bunny almost hidden in the grasses?
Lapin
. You must learn the words. I will not be the best teacher, but I will teach you as much as I know. It will be our secret. If your—if my friend comes back someday, she will wish to talk with you. And to do that you must know her tongue.”

In the meadow, the canopy of sky so high overhead that the soft, scudding clouds appeared to belong more to heaven than to earth, the birds flitting and darting and whispering their spring love songs, the timid flowers bowing humble heads to the passing wind, Catherine felt closer to Louise than she had for many months.

Closer to God.

“Lord,” she began without really thinking about saying a prayer, “wherever Louise may be, take care of her. Oh, God, be with my growing little girl. And even though she cannot—dare not—be told about me, may she feel a mother's love somewhere deep in her heart. Please, God. Take care of my baby girl.

“And take care of the one who is mothering her. Keep Louise healthy, strong, trusting in you. Don't let her grow bitter. Keep her sweet and gentle and growing.

“May she teach Elspeth of you, Lord. So that she will learn to trust. To have a faith that will keep those little feet steady. Keep her strong in her convictions.”

Her eyes dropped back to the child, who studiously examined the pinecone held in tiny fingers. “And help me, Lord. You know I have learned to love little Anne. So much. May Louise know that. Feel that. May she be assured that her child is cherished and cared for.”

Catherine stopped and tried to swallow away the lump in her throat. At length she was able to go on.

“And, Father, if it pleases you, may the day come when … when two brokenhearted mothers are reunited with their baby girls. Please, God. Let it be so.”

Anne reached out to be lifted, and Catherine stopped her prayer to bend down and pick the child up in protective arms. The baby still held the pinecone, but when she looked into the face of the one who held her so closely, she cast it aside to reach up and touch the tear on her mother's cheek.

Authors' Note

In researching the material for this story, we have learned a new sympathy for those French Acadians whose only offense seemed to be their land of birth—and the fact that they wished to remain neutral in a conflict involving the homeland. And we also came to appreciate the predicament of those Britishers who found their role distasteful and morally difficult to enforce.