The Meeting Place (14 page)

The children seemed to suffer most in spring. Or perhaps it was that Catherine's first year of marriage had brought a new awareness of children. She noticed that after they had been cooped up for weeks and months on end, they were bursting with energy, hard to hold down. Yet the wind was knife edged, the world still muddy and wet. So many of the village's small noses seemed to be running, so many eyes rheumy and puffed with fever. It pained her to see them suffer, and a new ability was being borne within her heart to care for those small and fragile angels.

The path was treacherous as she climbed the steep hillside. By the time she arrived at the first stream, her skirt was rimmed with mud. Catherine paused at the final turn before the path moved into the thicker forest to stare out over the village and the bay. She tried to tell herself it was a foolish trek. The snows had scarcely melted, and there would not be the slightest chance of finding either flowers or berries. Even so, when she turned back to start up the final rise to the meadow, she could not help but smile in anticipation.

Louise pushed back her long hair with a hand freed at last from winter mittens. It was so good to be released into fresh air—even if it was still very chilly. Her eyes drifted upward, noting the sun that shone down with muted warmth. It held great promise, but the still-sharp wind blew away any strength to really warm the world beneath. But spring would come. It must win over winter, Louise reminded herself. God had promised that season would follow season.

With that thought firmly in place, Louise quickened her step. It was much too early to be visiting the meadow, but she couldn't resist. None of the plants had begun to unfurl new leaves—but she had to go. Had to push free of the little house, beloved though it was, and stretch her legs and her cobwebbed mind once again to include more of the world in which she lived.

The long, hard winter had brought reminders of winters past to the older residents of Minas. Elderly ladies had snuggled more closely to the fire, tongues wagging with oft-repeated tales of earlier struggles and what had gotten them through. Louise was not used to being so confined. She chafed as Henri bid her stay by the fire's warmth lest she take a chill. Even as milder weather finally reached them, Henri worried that she might return home with icy feet and skirts, or suffer one of the village's many ills.

So when Henri eventually gave in to her entreaties, it was with suppressed jubilation that Louise finally took to the hillside path.

Many times over the long, wintry days she had thought of the young Englishwoman. Had she fared well over the winter months? On a few occasions she had found the young woman's name creeping into her evening prayers. She flushed and wondered what her parents would think of her praying for the enemy. What would Henri think?

But Louise could not make herself see Catherine as the enemy. Louise saw her as another young woman, much like herself—seeking to make a home, loving her new husband, searching in her own way for a chance to make their world a better place for the children they hoped to one day have. No, she was not an enemy. But did she dare to think of her as a friend? She was, after all, English, and the English and French had been enemies for decades beyond count.

With a determined sigh, Louise pushed the thoughts of enemies and warring aside. She crossed the small creek that now flowed with the renewed vigor of spring melting. It took all her concentration to keep her feet firmly planted on the crossing log as she eased her way across the stream. If she wasn't careful she would be returning home completely sodden, just as Henri had warned.

Lithely she jumped the last few feet, landing on firm ground, pleased with herself for outwitting the rushing water. Overhead a bird sang. The first birdsong of spring. Louise smiled. Surely their winter ordeal was behind them.

The meadow was just ahead now. Louise's steps quickened. Was it possible that the young Englishwoman would also have felt the need to refresh her spirit at this spot that was special to both of them?

Louise's eyes quickly scanned the leafless meadow bushes. She felt a moment of keen disappointment. Why had she even dared to hope? It was much too early for anyone to stir so far from the home fires simply for an outing. A breath of spring air.

And then Louise's dark eyes caught a slight movement at the meadow's far edge. Something was there. Someone.

Louise watched without stirring, trying to determine just who shared the meadow with her. The figure was bundled warmly in winter wear, sitting sedately, silently, on a fallen log. Was it—? Not a soldier. The figure was too slender, not tall enough to be a man. And then the head lifted, turned toward her, and after a moment's hesitation a mittened hand rose in greeting. “Bonjour” came the lilting cry across the meadow.

They hurried toward each other, eyes alight with the joy of meeting.

There was no hesitation in Louise's embrace, but she could feel Catherine's English reserve at this new experience. But Louise held her in the French fashion, cheek to cheek, and knew when Catherine relaxed.

Louise smiled and moved back a pace. Both were speaking at once. Expressing relief at finding the other, asking about the winter's toll on the other's village, voicing the fact that it was so good to be free at last from winter's clutches.

When they stopped for breath, they smiled at each other, timidly now as mutual realization of their unguarded reactions began to sink in.

“Your French,” Louise enthused, “it has grown with the winter.”

Catherine answered with a soft laugh. “I have been practicing and practicing. I do hope that it has made improvement. My little French grammar is near worn through—yet I do not remember if I pronounce things right.”

“It is much improved. I only wish that I could speak the English tongue with such competence.”

Catherine blushed. “Thank you for such a—a compliment. You must be free to correct me—when I make an error.”

Louise nodded. “If you wish,” she responded.

“Oh—I do. I will never learn otherwise. The grammar books— they do not give full instruction. One must have a real teacher.”

Louise laughed and lifted the hem of her muddy skirt. “Then I will be your tutor. Happily so. But look at me. A muddy tutor I am, to be sure.”

Catherine's laughter echoed Louise's as she looked down at her own hemline. “Well, you have also a muddy pupil, so we are—what do you say?—the same.”

Louise gave her the French word for “even,” which Catherine carefully repeated. Then Louise moved toward the fallen log from which Catherine had risen. “Let's sit down,” she prompted. “I do not have much time, and there is so much to say.”

Time. Louise wished with all her heart that the time would not pass so quickly. She had counted the days until this meeting might take place. Now that it had, she was sharply aware of its brevity.

“You say there has been much sickness. In our village, too. It will end now—with the coming of the warm sun again. It always does.”

Catherine nodded. “I hope you are right. It has been a very difficult winter for many in our village.”

“A winter hard for the beasts and the men as well,” Louise agreed. “Our horses are lean and shaggy, their bones showing through.”

“My husband worries nearly as much about his animals as he does about his men,” Catherine agreed. “Andrew says we need the spring grasses for the stock to gain strength again.”

“How is your Andrew?”

Catherine's cheeks flushed as she said, “He's been fine, but very busy. He's not had one bout of ill health all winter. I tell him it is his determination and concern that keeps him healthy. He is always thinking of others. And not enough about himself.” Catherine held up two mittened hands and chuckled softly. “See me. I am still in woolens. Andrew's orders. He wouldn't let me out of the house unless I promised to dress for the dead of winter.”

Louise joined the laughter. “He sounds like my Henri,” she responded. “I have just now—this day—been given permission to leave those scratchy things behind on the shelf.”

“I hope I soon will have such freedom of movement. I am tired of being bundled so I can scarcely breathe.”

“Yet,” spoke Louise, “it is nice to be cared for. It makes one feel— so special.”

“Loved,” responded Catherine as two sets of eyes met and softened in unison.

“Loved,” repeated Louise. “We are very blessed to be loved. And by such wonderful men.”

Catherine nodded. When she spoke, her voice was soft with emotion. “I do not know your Henri,” she said, “but knowing you, I am sure that he is just as you say. Very special. Very wonderful. It is too bad that we meet at such a time—that our husbands will not have a chance to share a friendship simply because …”

“Because our two countries have declared that we should be at war,” finished Louise sadly.

“Yes.”

“It is outrageous,” said Louise, her feelings so powerful that it drove her to her feet. “What have you ever done to me? What have I ever done to you that we should be enemies? And Henri and Andrew? Why should they not be friends? Because some distant rulers somewhere dictate the way it should be, should we listen?”

Catherine's hand came down gently on the other young woman's sleeve. “We cannot help the circumstance of our times. But we can be friends. Perhaps not openly. But we can be friends. We have—” She formed an arc with outstretched hand toward the meadow before them. “We have this,” she said. “It is our meeting place. Our sanctuary. When we come here we come as equals. Women. Wives. Friends. We share the same dreams. The same hopes. We must not let others keep us enemies.”

Louise reached down to take the mittened hand in her own bare one. “You are right,” she said, brushing at tears with her free hand. “Henri says that it will never happen. Things will just go on, with worrisome rumblings from time to time. But nothing else. The British have been threatening for years.” Louise paused, then added, “I don't mean you, of course.”

Catherine's eyes clouded. “Andrew fears that this time might be different.” Her words trailed off, and she bit her lip. “We must not think of it. It has not happened. Perhaps it never will. To dwell on it would be wrong. It makes me feel angry and frustrated inside. We live where we live. We can do nothing about that. So we must accept it.”

“But we do not have to be shaped by it,” Louise quietly agreed.

“We do not have to become like them,” Catherine said. “We do not have to be enemies.”

“Never enemies,” Louise agreed. “Never at war. God would not wish it to be so.”

They fell into silence, each busy with her own thoughts.

At last Catherine spoke. “What do you know of God?” she asked softly.

Louise moved to sit down beside her once again. “I know He is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The way. The truth. The life.”

“He is all that to you?”

“No, perhaps not if I answer truthfully from my heart. I know that Scripture declares Him to be so, but I confess I do not fully understand it. But with the rumors of war”—Louise placed a hand over her heart—“I have … stirrings. I feel I want to know more about Him.”

“I feel that way, too.”

“You do?”

Catherine nodded. “I never really cared that much before. I never wanted to seek God. My father had the Bible in his hand each time I looked his direction. In the evenings by the fire while I stitched. In the mornings before he went about his daily duties. At the noon meal he read a portion. He insisted that I read the Scriptures, too. Memorize verses. I saw it as duty. But since Andrew—”

“Marriage has made a big difference,” Louise offered solemnly.

“Oh yes. Andrew and I have been reading the Scriptures together. I have found a whole new purpose. A whole new attitude. We've been searching for truth. And when Andrew is away, I read almost from morning to night on some dreary days. I can't wait to discover something more. To have it to talk about with Andrew when he comes home. It's been exciting.”

“And you understand?”

“No, not everything. But some things gradually are becoming more clear. It's like … like mining for gold. You find one nugget, then another and another.”

“Do you suppose,” Louise said, the yearning in her heart making her voice unsteady, “that when you find a … a nugget, you could tell me and I can take it home to Henri?”

“You mean …”

“Yes. There is so much that I do not understand. I ask Henri, but it puzzles him also. Henri is not so taken with reading and study. Or with such questions as this. ‘Live a good life,' he says. ‘That is what counts.' And he lives a good life. He is a good man. Always devoted to duty. To others.” Louise's features turned wistful. “But if I myself were able to understand. To be able to show him such gems.”

Catherine's face reflected her uncertainty. “But there is so much I still don't know and can't understand.”