The Sacred Shore (26 page)

“What?” Anne raised her tear-streaked face.

“I know things have been moving swiftly.” He looked unnaturally somber, the uncertainty biting deep. “We could wait a while longer if you—”

“Oh no, don't say it, don't even think such a thing!” She clasped his hand with both of hers, the tears making her grip wet and loose. “It's not you. It's not, I promise. It has nothing to do with us.”

He took a breath. “Then you must tell me so we can face this together.”

Her chin quivered, but she held on to control. “I fear there is nothing anyone can do.”

“Then tell me so we can weep together.”

“Oh,” Anne leaned her forehead against his shoulder and found there the strength to say, “Elspeth came into the surgery today.”

She felt the shock race through his form. “Elspeth? Andrew and Catherine's child?”

“That lovely auburn-haired Frenchwoman with the consumptive child.”

“Of course. She was indeed lovely. But her child was not consumptive, dear. Merely weakened by a lingering chest ailment.”

“It also was not her child.” Anne wiped her cheek with her hand, then moved to see him better. “Think back. Did she not remind you of Mother?”

He thought a moment. “There was a little resemblance, yes, I can see it now that you mention it.”

“More than a little, Cyril. Much more. She looked like a younger version of Momma.”

“My love,” he cautioned, “surely you can't begin to make such a crucial decision based on a resemblance, no matter how—”

“She told me her name.”

“—strong. …” He drew up short. “I beg your pardon?”

“When I asked her name, she said Elspeth Harrow. She speaks almost no English and yet she gave this name.” The tears returned. “She was bringing the child of her uncle, who was looking for work and whose wife was too weak from the voyage and illness to bring the child herself. They have just arrived from Louisiana. I learned that much. Louisiana was where Papa sent Charles to look for her. And here she is.”

Cyril's mouth worked once, twice, and finally he managed, “Elspeth …”

“She is
here
. She walked in from the street and told me her name. She has no idea who I am. I said nothing. I have been praying for my sister all my life, and she walks in the door.=-=-=- .=-=-=- .=-=-=- .” Anne had to stop and fight for control. Finally she managed enough of a breath to continue, “At first I could say nothing. I had to go in the back room and weep. When I came back out I still could not tell her who I am.”

“She doesn't know—”

“Nothing. Only that the doctor in Halifax has an assistant with very red eyes and very bad French.” She struggled to see him through her tearful gaze. “What about Momma? This will—should I rush to tell her so that she will not be caught by surprise as I was? I couldn't have anticipated how emotional the sudden meeting made me. What will it do to her? Her child. Her lost child. And Papa. Do we just wait for Elspeth to arrive on their doorstep? Oh, Cyril, what do I do? And what about Elspeth? She … she looked … troubled. But brave. How will she respond when she learns who I am? Elspeth is to return with the child, so I will see her again.”

She thought he might tell her how time and patience would heal most wounds, how many worries seemed far worse in the night than they did the next morning. She had heard him use these kinds of words often enough with frightened mothers of sick infants. And yet he said nothing, only rubbed his chin and murmured, “Yes, yes, I do see. … I'm not at all certain I would have known what to say at such a time.”

She turned to him again.

“You have waited all your life for this moment,” he said, his eyes looking into hers. “And you thought it would never come. When it did, without fanfare or preparation, you would not be expected to know immediately what to say, what to do.” He took her hand. “I would say God's hand was laid strong and sure upon this meeting.”

Her chest seemed suddenly released from bands of tension. She found both the tears and the need to weep had vanished. “What should I do, Cyril?”

“If this is God's act, as it surely must be, then God should be the one to lead you forward.” He spoke with the confidence of one who lived in daily contact with his Maker. “When she comes again, I should ask her to pray with you. If she agrees, listen carefully for His voice.”

With the morning came a rain from the sea, cold and far too harsh for August. Nicole sheltered the child as best she could as she hurried across the slick cobblestones. Salt-laden wind blew the scent of sea through the covered walkways and a bitter chill besides. Nicole moved as fast as she could along the crowded streets, struggling against the feeling that her inner storms had followed her ashore, intent upon battering her forever. At least on land she was no longer confined to pacing from rail to rail. At least here she could plan for reaching her goal.

A horse cried in shrill protest against the rain and the mud and its wagon's heavy weight, and the driver cursed at her as she and Michel barely escaped being run down. By the time she arrived at the doctor's abode, her dress was wet and stained with mud almost to her knees.

As Nicole scrambled for the doctor's door handle, to her surprise it was opened from within, and she faced the same bright-eyed young lady she had met the day before.

Nicole stiffened and put her arm protectively around Michel. She knew what was coming, that the townspeople's hostility would cause the doctor to refuse to treat the child again. Nicole set her face against what was to come.

But the woman greeted Nicole with a smile so genuine it seemed like the sun itself on this cold and rainy day. “
Bonjour!
” she said as she drew them inside. “I've warmed a towel for you on the stove. Undo your bonnet and dry your face and hair. Please call me Anne.”

“
Merci
.” Surprise turned Nicole's hands clumsy, and she fumbled with the bow at her chin. “I must look frightful.”

“Not at all. You look like someone who has walked through a summer rain. How is Michel this morning?”

“Better, thank you.”

“Oh, I'm so glad. And the mother?”

“She slept better last night, now that she knows Michel is being taken care of.” The young lady's cheerfulness and evident concern gave Nicole the courage to say honestly, “I was afraid … when you were here at the door, I thought, well …”

“Yes?”

“That you—that the doctor did not wish to treat the French.”

“You thought that?” For some reason, the young lady's chin quivered. “Why, nothing could be further—we treat all people here.”

“The doctor seems very kind,” Nicole agreed.

“I'm so sorry I gave you a wrong impression.” The young woman's eyes looked troubled. “I know I was abrupt yesterday. I ran into the back and left you standing there at the desk with everyone staring at you. I'm sorry.” Her eyes were overbright now. “Come, the doctor is waiting. And while he sees to the child, I would like to have a private word with you.”

“Yes, all right,” Nicole said doubtfully, wondering if it was appropriate to leave someone else's child alone with a stranger, even if he was a doctor with very kind eyes. But before she could draw up a protest, the young lady led her through the waiting room and straight into the doctor's inner office. When she turned again, Nicole could not help but notice the tear trickling down her cheek. But she smiled at Nicole and said merely, “I'll tell the doctor you're here.”

The doctor's surgery was as plain as the outer chamber, with a long table by the window and several plaques on the whitewashed walls. Before she could do much more than cast a quick glance around, however, the door reopened to admit the doctor. “Good morning, Miss Harrow,” he said in English, and then continued through Anne, “I understand the child is doing better.”

“He seems to be feeling much better. He even ate a bit of porridge this morning. I think …”

Nicole halted because Anne was not translating, and she and the doctor were exchanging a private look.

Baffled by it all, Nicole saw Dr. Mann turn back to her, and his eyes held a gentle intensity that brought to mind the pastor in Boston. But when he spoke it was to Anne, and she did not translate. Instead, she gave Nicole another quivering smile and said, “Perhaps we could have that private word now.”

Nicole's mind swirled with questions as she followed Anne farther down the narrow hall. They entered what were clearly the doctor's private quarters. In a small kitchen, Anne pulled out a chair by the table, indicating that Nicole should sit. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Y-yes, all right, thank you. But what—”

“Dr. Mann and I are to be wed in six weeks' time,” she said, lifting a cast-iron kettle from its place by the fire and pouring water into a pot. She set a wicker tray with two cups and a small pitcher of milk. She carried the tray over and set it on the table, then pulled the napkin off a small plate to reveal fresh-baked pastries. Nicole realized that the tray had been prepared ahead of time. “Will you have one? I made them this morning.”

“Thank you, I …” Nicole's hand was stopped in midair by the sudden thought,
The child
. Something had to be wrong with the little one, something so serious—

“Little Michel will be fine,” Anne said, clearly understanding the shock and fear on Nicole's features. “You mustn't worry. Dr. Mann is the finest doctor I have ever met.” She gave a shy smile. “Well, I have not met that many doctors. But I have heard other doctors speak of his skill, and I know him to have a good heart. Your little cousin is going to be fine.”

Nicole accepted a pastry out of courtesy and nibbled at one edge. When Anne poured her cup and set it in front of her, Nicole placed the biscuit on the saucer and waited with hands grasped tightly in her lap.

Anne settled herself across from Nicole and took a breath that seemed to go on forever. She looked up and gave a very shaky smile. Nicole was unable to stifle a tremor that passed through her body. What on earth was the matter?

Anne said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “I was wondering if you would please pray with me.”

“I … pardon me?”

“Pray. To God, our Father.”

The mild tone held the same power as the pastor in Boston, a strength that needed neither volume nor argument to carry the message straight to Nicole's heart. Was God her Father? She had been praying with Guy and Emilie each morning and night since that day upon the boat. Sometimes she felt herself searching for an answering harmony within her heart; other times she did it because it was quickly becoming habit. But did she believe in God?

Nicole focused upon the young woman's intense gaze, and for some reason she found herself thinking of her own mother. Louise had that same expression sometimes, the furrows across her forehead forming a series of V's that framed the dark eyes and accented the sweep of her brows. Come to think of it, there was much of her mother in this young woman's face—the high cheekbones, the fragility balanced with strength. Maybe it was just her desire to find a little something familiar in this strange and cold land. Perhaps it was the ability of this woman to express such love and deep emotion in her gaze and her voice. But the fact remained, here was a touch of comfort, a hint of home.

Nicole took a breath of her own and confessed, “If truth be known, mademoiselle, I am not sure of this myself. But if I am a believer, then I am a rather uncertain one.”

For some reason, the response brought tears to Anne's eyes and a quaver to her voice as she said, “If I had gone through everything that you have, I wonder if I would be able to hold to faith in God at all.”

Nicole cocked her head at the strange words. “How can you know of my life?”

“All the people here, at least those who are willing to listen beyond their own small needs, have heard tales of the Acadians. And my parents have searched …”

Again she watched the young woman approach the brink of weeping, only to draw back with great effort. “Again I ask, would you pray with me?”

“Yes, if you wish.” It was only after she bowed her head that Nicole realized the young woman had said
Acadian
. She tried to recall if she had actually claimed that for herself the day before. She was fairly certain she had said nothing except her English name. But why … Further questions were cut off by the sound of this unusual young woman beginning to pray.

“Our Father who art in heaven, we give thanks for this day.” She drew a ragged breath. “So long, our Lord. So long. And now, please let us hear your voice. We thank you for your mystery and your majesty, dear God. Please let us hear your voice.”

Nicole was both challenged and comforted by the way this woman spoke—how she gathered herself so comfortably to the invisible that she asked not just for comfort but also to hear the impossible. Nicole realized Anne had stopped speaking, and she found herself wanting to pray. To speak aloud. The impossibility of this act—to sit with an Englishwoman, her enemy of all her life, and pray words that had escaped her for years and years—was so great a mystery she could not help but smile. What did it matter, all the things of this world? If she was speaking with God, if God did indeed exist, what did it matter? So she took a breath and said the words that formed all by themselves.