A Distant Shore (4 page)

She heard the creak of the farmhouse door and the familiar squeak of Allan’s boots on the weathered porch floor. After a moment he settled into the rocking chair next to her. “It’s a little brisk out tonight,” he remarked.

Harriet gathered her shawl around her shoulders. “Only a bit,” she agreed. “No need to build up the fire.”

Allan chuckled as he reached for his pipe. “Now how did you know I was going to suggest such a thing?”

Harriet slid him a sideways smile. “We’ve been married nearly twenty years now, Allan MacDougall. If I don’t know what you’re going to say before you say it—”

“I think you know it before I even think it,” Allan joked.

Harriet smiled again, her gaze moving lovingly over him. Although there were new creases at the corners of his eyes, and deeper grooves from his nose to mouth, his hair was still thick and dark, albeit peppered with gray, and his shoulders were wide and strong. He was, and always would be, the only man she’d ever loved.

Twenty years ago Allan had left their native Scotland to make his fortune on Prince Edward Island, along with the rest of his family. His parents, Sandy and Betty, were now dead, as was his brother Archie, drowned when the mail packet from the mainland had sunk. At the time Harriet had believed Allan to be on the packet as well, and for over a year she’d lived in grief, thinking her beloved was dead. Then, in a meeting surely ordained by Providence, Allan had found her in the Red River Valley out west, hiding in an old shack after the massacre at Seven Oaks. She’d gone west as companion to a widow, hoping to find a new life for herself. She’d found Allan instead, who had been working as a fur trader, and he’d brought her back to PEI, where they’d made their lives ever since.

The other MacDougall children had long since left the island; Rupert was in Arkansas and Margaret in Boston. Harriet was glad Allan had stayed. All either of them had ever wanted was a bit of land to make their own, to love and to tend and then to leave for their children.

The door of the farmhouse opened again, and their oldest, Maggie, came out onto the porch. Harriet gazed at her sixteen-year-old daughter with a mixture of fondness and concern. Just as her Uncle Rupert once had, Maggie was becoming restless with island life. Harriet saw it in the way she never seemed to settle at a chore, although she’d always done her work properly before. She heard it in Maggie’s frequent comments about the dullness of living on a farm, when her aunt and uncle commanded the best of Boston society. And while Harriet believed she knew her daughter well enough to know she hadn’t a care for the shallow charms of high society, she feared Maggie longed to see more of the world than she’d ever get the opportunity to.

“The mail came today,” Maggie said, unnecessarily, for Allan himself had travelled down river to Charlottetown to fetch it. There had been letters from both Margaret and Rupert, as well as one from Harriet’s brother Ian, who practiced medicine in Boston. They had read all three letters out at the dinner table, so all the family could be acquainted with everyone’s news. Frowning slightly, Harriet wondered just what Maggie might be getting to now.

“Everyone’s well and healthy, thanks be,” Allan remarked, drawing long on his pipe. “We have much to be grateful for.”

“Indeed so,” Harriet murmured. She waited for Maggie to speak, for she could see her daughter’s reddish brows—her hair the same deep auburn as her own—had drawn together, and her cheeks were flushed with what could only be determination to say her piece.

“Aunt Margaret asked if we might visit one day,” she began, and Harriet gave Allan a quick, searching look. Her husband was frowning, looking remarkably like his daughter, for Harriet knew he didn’t like to travel. The ship journey to Boston was not overly taxing, but it took away from the work on the farm, and the time needed to do it.

“Margaret says the same in every letter. She could always come here,” Allan answered mildly. “She’s been here only the once, I think, since we settled in this country.”

“Why would she come here?” Maggie asked scornfully. “There’s nothing to see!”

“Maggie, hush,” Harriet admonished, but Allan, ever steady, refused to rise to his daughter’s words.

“Sure enough there are some who think this island is one of Canada’s greatest jewels,” he replied, his voice still mild. “I think Margaret would do well to leave the city behind for a bit.”

“Well, I think I should visit her,” Maggie said, and now Harriet heard belligerence. She glanced at Allan who, while still affable, was shaking his head.

“Not this year, I’m afraid, Maggie, lass. It’s planting season and I haven’t made any arrangements. By the time we could get away the weather will have turned and I don’t fancy a winter journey.”

“You don’t have to go,” Maggie said. “Nor you, Mam. I could go. By myself.”

The ensuing silence felt like a thunderclap. Harriet stared at her daughter in dismay. “Maggie, you could not undertake such a journey by yourself!”

“No,” Allan said flatly, his tone clearly stating that this was the end of the discussion.

Maggie pursed her lips, her hands on her hips. “Won’t you even think about it? You went all the way to Red River by yourself, Mam, when you were just a bit older than me. You told me about it yourself. I’ve seen nothing of this world, and I want to before I’m too old!”

“Maggie, you’re only sixteen,” Harriet murmured, and Maggie turned on her with tear-filled eyes.

“Please
. We could find a chaperone for the sea journey. Aunt Margaret will be alone now that Uncle Henry is going to sea, and I could be company for her. I’d stay through the winter and come back to help next spring. There’s not much work to do over the winter, and George and Anna could help. Please.”

Harriet sat speechless, amazed at the urgency and desperation with which her daughter pleaded. She’d known Maggie was restless, but this...?

“No,” Allan said again, flatly, “and that’s final.” He rose from his chair and walked inside, slamming the door, uncharacteristically, behind him.

“Mam...” Maggie began, and Harriet shook her head.

“Maggie, if your father says no, then there is little I can do,” she told her daughter severely, although not without some sympathy. “He is head of this household—”

“You could talk to him.” Maggie sat down in the chair her father had vacated, her fingers pleating her apron, her expression still pleading. “I know you and Da are happy here, but does that mean I must be? So many in our family sought their own fortunes—Da did himself! Why can’t I?”

Harriet stared helplessly at her daughter, knowing it was a reasonable-enough request. Allan had struggled against his father’s ruling over his own life in much the same way as Maggie was now, all those years ago. Although she doubted he could see it, Allan now possessed a daughter who had a mind of her own, just as he’d had. He’d protested against the way Sandy MacDougall had sought to arrange his son’s life with Allan having no say in the matter, and yet now Allan seemed poised to be just as unyielding with Maggie as his father had been with him.

After a moment she reached over and patted her daughter’s hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said quietly. “Although I warn you, it may well come to nothing.”

Maggie’s face shone as she enveloped Harriet in a quick, tight hug. “Thank you, Mam!”

“It may come to nothing,” Harriet repeated, uselessly, for Maggie was already skipping indoors.

Boston, 1838

The church hall was buzzing with conversation as Isobel took her program and followed Margaret to the front row.

“I’ve heard he speaks very quietly,” Margaret explained as she settled herself in a chair, arranging her wide skirts on either side of her. “The poor man’s voice has given out. I can only imagine what he has endured.”

Isobel sat besides Margaret and glanced at the program:
Come and be Entertained, Inspired and Educated by the Saint of Burma, A Noble and Pious Man of God, Adoniram Judson. Hear of His Travails and Triumphs in the Dark Jungles of Burma
. She felt a little thrill of excitement. Dark jungles! It all sounded very exciting, far more exciting than anything she’d ever experienced.

“What a courageous man he must be,” Margaret said. “His wife died on the voyage back to America, you know. Terribly sad.” Her eyes clouded as she gave a little shake of her head.

Isobel’s excitement flagged as she considered the sufferings of America’s first foreign missionary. What might seem enthralling from the first row of a church hall could in fact be dangerous or even deadly, she realized with a pang of conscience. Although, she acknowledged, she still wanted to hear Mr. Judson speak, and learn of his travails—and triumphs—in the dark jungles. She turned to Margaret.

“And where is my brother this evening? As a sea captain, I thought he might be interested in Mr. Judson’s travels.”

“Undoubtedly,” Margaret replied. “I’m quite sure he would like nothing more, especially in light of his own forthcoming travels.”

Isobel’s eyes widened, for she had not heard that her brother intended to travel. Looking more closely at Margaret, she wondered if her sister-in-law’s smile seemed a bit fixed. “His travels?” she repeated. “But where is he going?”

“China,” Margaret replied. Isobel thought her voice sounded over-bright. “For trade. There is much to be had there, or so he tells me.” She fanned herself with her program. “These church halls do get overheated, don’t they?”

“China,” Isobel repeated blankly. She had no impression or image of China to draw on; it was utterly foreign to her. Distant, and perhaps dangerous too. Henry couldn’t possibly be thinking of going to such a place. It was one thing to think of faraway adventures in a church hall, but for her own brother to be chasing after such things… “But he has not said,” she protested. “And why should he travel so far?”

“He was going to tell you all at dinner on Sunday,” Margaret explained with an apologetic shrug. Her mouth twisted, and Isobel knew her sister-in-law was not saying all that she felt—or feared. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything, but really, it is exceedingly difficult to keep such news to oneself.” She looked away, blinking rapidly, and Isobel laid a hand on Margaret’s arm.

“I can only imagine,” Isobel murmured. “Will it—will it be very dangerous?”

Margaret shrugged again. A shadow flashed in her eyes and she pressed her lips together. “I can hardly say. One hears things, of course. The voyage is long, and the Chinese are angry about the dreadful opium that is being smuggled in—”

Isobel drew back, shocked although in truth she had only a hazy idea of what opium was. “But Henry surely won’t be trading in that?”

“No, of course not, Isobel!” Margaret’s face darkened. “His competitor, Russell and Company, may not mind dealing in the odious stuff, but Henry has higher principles than turning a quick profit.” Her mouth tightened; everyone knew, even if it was not spoken of in polite circles, that Warren Delano had built the fortune of the Boston-based trading company on the smuggling of opium from India into China. “Opium aside,” Margaret continued in a low voice, “China is not a safe place to be. The Manchu emperor does not like foreigners.”

Isobel felt a flutter of fear for her brother, as well as a shaft of sympathy for her sister-in-law. She squeezed Margaret’s hand. “I shall pray for him, then,” she said, not knowing what else she could say—or do—and Margaret flashed her a grateful smile.