The Meeting Place (20 page)

“Shah, child, shah, there is no need for shame among friends.” Marie Belleveau showed only kindness. “It is I who must apologize for questions I had no right to ask.”

“No, no … I just, well, I've never seen a family like this.”

“No, and you never will again!” Henri called from the end of the table. “Two families like this, and the earth would sink away in bewilderment and confusion!”

The laugh was welcome and shared by all the table. Catherine finally managed to raise her napkin and wipe at her eyes. Marie's hug became the companionable welcome of an older woman to a younger. And Louise gave her a look filled with such love and friendship it squeezed Catherine's heart anew.

Henri pointed at another table and some unseen person. “This clan is filled with a hundred years' worth of tangles! Take that strange bloke down there, the one who looks like he sprang up from the middle of his own rhubarb patch.”

“Who are you jousting with now, Henri?” a man shouted back.

“Why, he is his own first cousin twice removed, if truth be known. His mother's sister's great-uncle was his father's brother's stepson's great-granddaughter!”

Over the shouts of protest from two tables away, Henri raised his voice to continue, “And that woman there, why, her aunt's second cousin once removed was also her grandmother's niece's wife's own stepbrother by marriage!”

The laugh carried away the last vestige of her sorrow, a gift rewarded by all at their table with comments reaching across to her, apologizing for Henri—he was nothing but trouble from the day he was born—but spoken with the smiles of people who cared for one another and for her as well.

“The vicar! Here comes Jean Ricard!”

Catherine found herself being invited to her feet once again. She turned to greet a tall, slender man. The newcomer wore a long black coat, almost like a robe, which buttoned up the front with what looked like a hundred small cloth buttons. He wore the same round hat as the other men, only his brim was wider. He walked up to her and lifted the hat from his head with one hand while offering her the other. “Jean Ricard, at your service, Madame Harrow,” he said, bowing low.

“It is an honor to meet you, m'sieur,” she said, curtsying deeply.

Henri cried, “There! Did I not say it! Does she not curtsy like a queen?”

A woman's voice called, “No, you have said nothing but nonsense all day, Henri Robichaud.”

Another voice agreed, “Why should this day be different from any other?”

The vicar's smile shared the clan's jovial repartee, but his eyes remained fastened upon Catherine. “Louise tells me you are reading the Bible together.”

“Yes, M'sieur Vicar, but I confess I understand far less than I would like to.”

That brought a different smile, one which sparked deep in his dark eyes, the same flashing depths shared by all the gazes about the tables. “Then you and I have far more in common than we might expect. Tell me, Madame Harrow, what is it that has led you to read the holy Word?”

Catherine wondered if she should mention her father's legalistic attitude that had kept her from the Book in the past, and all the newness she had found for herself since discovering it as something alive and relevant. But she did not want to show disrespect, and so searched for something she had not expressed before. And she found herself saying, “I want to be a … a handmaiden of the Lord.”

The vicar possessed striking features, with a great beak of a nose and piercing eyes and the high cheekbones of a hunter, a quester for truth. “Yes?” His query invited more.

“If I truly am the Lord's, I will be the wife to Andrew that I should be.” And though she blushed at the heart's exposure these words revealed, still she pressed on, “And the mother for the children we hope to have.”

The vicar bowed a second time, lower than the first. “You have honored us with your presence, Madame Catherine. May your worthy example help teach our own young maidens how to value the eternal lessons.”

But Catherine did not stop there. “I have learned from the Scriptures that there is no way I am able to accomplish this. Not of my own doing. No matter how strongly I desire it. It is only through what our crucified Christ has done that I can be a worthy wife or mother. I must depend on Him—for all of life.”

The vicar nodded slowly, his eyes growing thoughtful, then turned to Jacques Belleveau and said, “Perhaps it is time we join together in prayer.”

“Aye, Vicar, your timing is right as always.” The elder's cheeks were ruddy with delight. “The meal is ready, and so are our appetites.”

Catherine stood with the others and listened to familiar petitions spoken in an alien tongue. And one not alien. She found herself not only listening to the vicar's prayer but to her heart as well, marveling at how easily she had spoken and the words she had chosen to say. Not in character for her, even in her mother tongue. Why now, in a language that was not her own? She did not know. All she could say for certain, as she stood with bowed head and heard the prayer, was that here in this foreign village and among a people who were not her own, she had indeed found herself at home.

Chapter 16

Catherine raised a slender hand to push back her tangled hair, and peeked through a corner of the bedroom window curtain. It was not yet dawn, yet in spite of great weariness she was unable to sleep. She lay back, not wanting to disturb her husband. If she could not sleep, at least she should try to rest.

But it was not to be. Her entire body felt agitated and her stomach upset. At length she gave up and raised herself to a sitting position. Silently she pushed her feet into the woolen slippers by the bed and eased herself upward, her eyes still on Andrew. When he did not stir, Catherine breathed a relieved sigh and stole from the room.

The fire had gone out, but the front room was not chilled. In fact, Catherine felt too warm. As she reached for kindling she fretted that she might be coming down with the influenza.

She lowered herself to the rocking chair as a wave of nausea passed through her. This was the third day she had felt so sick to her stomach. The feeling had gradually passed as she had moved about her duties, but it had been difficult to prepare Andrew's breakfasts. Already she dreaded the thought of standing over a hot stove stirring the morning porridge.

But Andrew would not be up for another hour. She had some time to get herself in hand. Perhaps by the time she needed to begin breakfast she would be feeling better. She reached for her Bible and tried to settle herself into a more comfortable position.

But she found it difficult to concentrate on the passage. Her nausea came in swells, much like the tides of the Fundy. They swept over her, totally absorbing her entire body, making her fear she might vomit, wishing that she
could
vomit. Then at least the awful spasms might recede.

She laid aside the beloved Book and leaned her head against the back of the rocker. She dared not rock. Even the slight gentle movement seemed to increase her discomfort. She sat perfectly still, almost holding her breath in her desire to keep herself in control.

“Are you ill?”

The words from Andrew made her jerk upright. Another wave of nausea passed over her. She fought to regain her composure.

“I think it's just a bit of upset stomach,” she managed to answer, trying hard to smile as she spoke.

“Perhaps you need to take some of the restorative from the cupboard.”

Something deep within Catherine resisted. Not just that the potion provided to Andrew for his men was bitter in taste, but there was some inner warning that she should be very careful about any self-cures.

“I'm sure it will pass,” Catherine answered. “As before.”

“You've had this before?” Andrew moved toward her, rubbing his hand through untidy locks. His eyes held concern.

Catherine stirred restlessly in the chair. She had disclosed too much. But she could not retract the statement. “A bit,” she answered, hoping that Andrew would accept the offhand reply and not question her further.

“Why haven't you said something? I had no idea you were ill.”

“Not ill … really … just …”

But she was ill. She could not deny it. She felt terrible. “It will pass,” she finally managed.

But when another wave of nausea passed over her, Catherine knew that this time she would vomit. With one quick movement she leaned over the ash bucket. Andrew's movement was just as quick. He was there to support her, to hold her head, as the first spasms racked her body.

“You must get back to bed,” he said when it seemed to be over.

Catherine shook her head. “I think I'll be all right now.” She leaned weakly against the high back of the chair, beads of perspiration dampening her brow.

“But you must rest. And you must have some—”

“No, Andrew,” Catherine interrupted. “That is much too harsh. I don't think—”

“Well, if not the restorative, then at least some tonic. I have worried about you lately. You seem to lack energy. And you've lost your color.”

“I haven't been resting well, that's all.”

“Is something troubling you that you haven't spoken of?”

Catherine was quick to shake her head. “Of course not.”

“Then—”

Catherine spoke again. “It could be just a bit of upset. I'm sure it's nothing to concern us.”

Andrew still looked doubtful. “I think I should ask Mrs. Dwyer to stop by. She knows about herbs and medicines—”

“Please, Andrew, no.” His words had brought Catherine upright in her chair. She had no desire to be called upon by Matty Dwyer.

At the look of bewilderment on his face she changed her tack. “At least … not yet. There is no reason to make a fuss about nothing. If it persists, then …”

Inwardly, Catherine fervently hoped that she might escape a visit from the tongue-wagging, eye-piercing Matty Dwyer. The wife of the village drover was a nag and a scold. Though Matty always seemed available, always seemed to be in the meeting hall whenever Catherine arrived, always was ready to stop by for a visit, Catherine had never felt comfortable around the prying woman.

Andrew seemed to detect her anxiety. “We'll give it a couple of days, then. But if it persists we'll have to do something.”

Catherine nodded. How she hoped that it would not come to that.

“Let me help you back to bed.”

“I'm sure that I can make it on my own. I feel some better already.”

Catherine cast a glance at the used ash bucket. Andrew said, “Never mind that. I'll take care of it.”

The very sight made Catherine's stomach heave again. She hated leaving the mess to Andrew, but she knew that in her present state she would never be able to clean it up herself. She managed a weak nod and accepted Andrew's outstretched hand. Perhaps she would feel better if she lay down for a while.

Louise smiled softly as she ran one finger over the handmade calendar that Henri had posted on the wall. She must be right. The calendar assured her. Yet she had never felt better. More alive and energetic. But it was too early for her to share her secret with her husband. What if she was mistaken? He would be so disappointed. He had spoken of a son more often lately. No, she must wait until she was sure.

She stepped back and untied the bow of her starched apron. She had some time before beginning the evening meal. She would walk over to visit her mother. A chat over a hot cup of tea would be her excuse, but if the opportunity presented itself, the discussion could lead to some personal questions. Her mother would know.

With long, easy strides she made her way through the grove that provided a shortcut. It was cooler there and not as dusty as going by the main road.

Soon she was tapping on the familiar door before admitting herself and calling softly, “Bonjour.”

“Louise.” Marie made her way from an inner room to the kitchen, wiping her face with her apron as she came. “Come in.”

Louise smiled. “I am in already, Mama.”

“So I see. So I see and welcome you are, too. But it is a warm day. Too warm for the kitchen. Come. Let's sit in the shade.”

“But I came for tea,” teased Louise.

“Tea? No, it is too hot for tea. I was shelling peas in the coolness of the sitting room. Apple cider, then?”

Louise could not suppress a soft laugh. “Apple cider, then, Mama. Apple cider and maybe some of your ginger cake.”

“Ginger cake? But I have made no ginger cake today. Henri stopped by and ate the last of it two days ago.”

Louise was surprised at her own disappointment. Once the idea of ginger cake had popped to her mind, she discovered that she truly did desire it. When she saw the look on her mother's face, she hastened to say, “No mind, Mama. We shall have whatever is in your pantry.”

Her mother's keen eyes held hers. “But you wished for ginger cake?”