The Sacred Shore (25 page)

He smiled to himself. And at that moment, a call rose from the seaman upon the masthead, “Ho, the wind!”

Chapter 28

The morning mist lifted from Halifax Bay like a shroud removed by unseen hands. The city of Halifax glowed in the dawn light. Birds sang from full-leafed branches, and flowers bloomed in window boxes of newly built dwellings. Nicole could have enjoyed it had she been of another mind. But she could only halfheartedly appreciate that the day was not rainy, the cold was not paralyzing her limbs. In fact, the overhead sun shone down with an intensity that made her wish she could throw back her black bonnet and let in the rays. With summer sun, her dark tresses always lightened to a soft reddish golden color. Secretly Nicole liked the auburn highlights. She thought the lighter, warmer shade lent more flash to the green of her eyes. But perhaps she felt that way because that is what Jean, in some long-ago days that no longer belonged to her, had told her.

She knew she should be thankful that they were at last in Halifax. And she was—of a sort. But Halifax was certainly no Eden. And even though she had stepped ashore, her body insisted on the rhythm of the sea, making her feel light-headed and tipsy even with the solid boards of the town sidewalk beneath her feet.

Nor had the people welcomed them or treated them with anything but muted hostility. Nicole could see it on their faces, hear it in their voices, sense it in the stiffness of their bodies whenever she tried to converse.

That the family knew little English was definitely a burden. Guy spoke a few words that had been learned in business transactions. Nicole knew a few more that could be used in the market. Please. Thank you. A good day to you. Excuse me, please. What is your name? How much the cost? But these few phrases did little to appease the English, who looked at her with suspicion and often dislike. That the area was now reopened to returning Acadians did not matter to the port city's inhabitants. It was clear that they'd had no say in the matter—if they had, the Acadians would be kept in the lands to which they had been dispersed.

Though Nicole would have liked nothing better than to stay in the ramshackle room her uncle Guy had finally found for the family, she had no choice but to journey forth. In her walks about the city to find food, she had seen a sign with an emblem that she understood. The building housed a doctor, and a doctor was what they needed.

They had all been ill. All but Guy. And he was now out tramping the streets looking for any kind of work that he and Pascal might do to earn a wage. They were almost to the end of their limited resources. Emilie was sick in bed with her youngest cuddled up against her. The other child remained ill and was of course too young to be sent out alone to seek medical aid. So the task befell Nicole, who had sufficiently recovered herself to make the short journey.

Though she was still exhausted from the sea journey and illness, the child beside her needed medicine. With the boy in one hand, she clutched in the other the small coins Guy had given her tied in the corner of a clean cloth.

There was fear in her heart—not so much fear for their safety as fear that she might fail. That she, with her faltering English, would not be able to explain their need.

Young Michel whimpered, and Nicole pressed him closer against the skirts of her long summer coat.

“It's not far now,” she tried to console him. “Just around the next corner.”

When she pushed open the door of the small room that served as the doctor's surgery, her first impression was of orderliness and cleanliness that reminded her of her Louisiana home. After their months of crowded quarters and total chaos, she felt restored to see such scrubbed charm.

The child must have felt it, too, for he reached out small hands as though to catch it by the handfuls and draw it to himself.

The room already held quite a few patients. Every chair was taken and their occupants all turned toward her at the sound of the door. As she stood hesitantly, her hand on Michel's shoulder, a middle-aged man nodded in her direction and rose from his seat. Embarrassed yet thankful, Nicole crossed to it, accepting it with a smile and a returned nod. She dared not express her thanks in words, for she knew the moment she opened her mouth to speak, the atmosphere of the room would change. She reached down and drew the fevered child up onto her lap, holding him close for her comfort as much as his.

Someone entered the room from a back door. Nicole's attention was immediately drawn to the young woman. She was petite to the point of seeming to be fragile. But her demeanor was one of calm self-assurance. She lifted dark eyes to a child nearby and smiled as she spoke. Nicole could not understand the words, but she caught the meaning. They were words of comfort. Of compassion.

It was a long, tiring wait. The child grew impatient and restless. Finally, in feverish exhaustion, he fell asleep in her arms. How could one so tiny be so heavy in sleep? One by one the chairs were emptied, only to be occupied by new patients. The young woman, her starched white cap bobbing with her words, called out names and blessed their owners with smiles as she led them through the door at the back of the room. They returned later, some carrying small vials clasped with both hands.

Michel awoke and fussed again. Nicole knew that by now he was hungry as well as sick. There was nothing she could do except to try to soothe him and patiently wait their turn. At last the smile turned their way and the young woman nodded. Nicole placed Michel on his own feet and led him forward.

Nicole was confused and afraid. What should she say? Her limited English seemed so paltry in the face of Michel's great need. Her eyes must have shown her uncertainty, for the smile turned to concern.

Again the woman spoke—and again Nicole was unable to discern the meaning of the words. Her chin lifted slightly and her shoulders straightened. She decided that she must, for the sake of the small child, take matters into her own hands. “Michel,” she said, pointing to the child. “Med-i-cine.”

The young nurse pointed at Nicole. “Your name?”

This Nicole did understand. But how should she answer? Her life had been totally turned upside down because of the attempt to find English medical aid for a French baby. If she gave her French name now, would they be turned away? Would the child who clung to her with a feverish hand be denied the help he needed?

She stammered, “Elspeth. Elspeth Harrow.”

A shock rippled through the slim figure.
It is happening
, grieved Nicole.
The doctor will not see me now. An English name does little when spoken by a French tongue
.

Then a further strange thing occurred. The warmth returned to the brown eyes before her. Even so, the delicate face seemed to be fighting for renewed control. She saw the young woman swallow, her head dipped down. “Pardon me,” she said in a choked whisper, and she was gone before Nicole could even respond.

Nicole was about to turn and leave the building when resolve straightened her shoulders once more. With a flash of determination her eyes swept the room of people waiting to be treated. It was not fair. She would not leave. She would stay and demand the medicine that Michel needed.

She marched back toward the seat she had just vacated, the child herded before her by her firm hand on his shoulder. She would not be pushed out into the street without what she had come for. She would not.

Had Doctor Mann not been with a patient, Anne would have burst in and flung herself into his arms. As it was she could only take herself to the small closet that held the medical supplies and bury her face in trembling hands. Sobs shook her small frame. She wasn't sure at the moment why she was crying. But the emotion sweeping through her being, wave after uncontrollable wave, could not be denied.

It couldn't be. Yet who else in the whole wide world would bear the name of Elspeth Harrow? The young woman was telling the truth. She could see it in her eyes. This … this was her sister. Yet not her sister. Someone whose life was strangely intertwined with her own. Someone she did not know, yet shared an intimacy that denied explaining. This was the baby turned woman, the person she should have been.

It was all so confusing, so shattering to mind and soul. Here was the individual who had taken her place. Who had been shaped by the world that should have been hers. A woman whose place
she
had taken, molded in a life and manner that were not really her own, by parents who did not belong to her … and yet did. For the first time in her life, Anne felt cut adrift. Just who was she? Who was the woman who had given
her
own name, the one announced at the baptismal font those many years ago?

Pray
, came a silent voice.
Pray
. Anne leaned her head against the shelf of linens. As she prayed the sobs began to lessen, the shoulders lost their tremble. She blew her nose, her composure gradually returning. She must get back to the waiting room. There were people there who needed her. The sick were waiting. Elspeth Harrow was waiting. …

She wiped her cheeks and eyes. “God help me,” she whispered and braced herself to return to her work. She longed to speak to the young woman—alone. To share with her just who she was, but she knew in her heart that now was not the time for such a disclosure. To attempt such a thing would surely cause a scene.
Like Joseph
, the little voice whispered, and suddenly Anne understood the Genesis story. No wonder Joseph had drawn apart to weep at the sight of his estranged brothers. No wonder.

The young woman with the child was still there when she pushed her way back through the door. Anne breathed a sigh of relief. She crossed to her desk and took her seat, “Elspeth Harrow,” she said calmly but clearly.

With a sigh, Nicole stepped forward. They were to be seen after all.

“We need a little information before the doctor sees you,” a calm voice spoke as the smile was lifted again.

Nicole could only stand and stare. The woman before her was speaking in softly accented French.

Chapter 29

That evening, Anne found it almost impossible not to weep. After a day filled with patients, she still had not been able to tell Cyril about the extraordinary visitor to their office that day. Now they were busy whitewashing the front rooms of what was to become their home. Their
home
.

Earlier that same week Cyril had found the place, walking back from seeing a patient. He had made inquiries and discovered it had been built for a young merchant and his family. The merchant had been sent to the southern colonies, and the house had never been lived in. The merchant company was eager to have someone take it from their books. Three nights earlier, Cyril had walked Anne around the place, concerned that she might not like it with its large empty rooms and the unfinished walls and unvarnished floors. Anne had scarcely been able to believe it might actually be hers, a home of their own, one never lived in, one she could finish just as she herself wished. And yet now, as she and her husband-to-be coated the parlor's walls with limewash and two other women from the church scoured the back rooms, she was forced to wipe away tears just so she could see where she laid her brush.

“You might as well tell me,” Cyril finally said from across the room.

She tried for a brightness she did not feel. “Tell you what?”

He rose from his crouch in the corner and crossed the floor. He gripped her wrist and steered her brush back into the bucket. Anne protested, “But we have so much to do! And our friends—”

“I will tell you a secret, my dear,” he said, gently lifting her and leading her out the front door. “We will be working on this house until our dying day. It is the way of loving a place, always wanting to do more.”

One of the women glanced down the hallway and waved them on with, “You two have worked hard all day—get yourselves a bit of rest,” then returned to her work. They were there both to help make the house into a home and to be Anne's chaperone—not that anyone worried over Dr. Cyril Mann's actions, no, but rather because proper decorum required that the couple not be alone in such circumstances before the wedding. Cyril settled her down on the front stoop, walked back inside, and returned with their lantern. The refined whale oil cast a light more white than yellow, a clear brilliance that made his features glow softly. He eased himself down beside her and said, “Now, my little lady, tell the doctor where it hurts.”

She breathed in the fragrances of summer flowers and fresh-cut lumber and lime. She turned her head to look into the face of her beloved, and she saw the freckled features of a boyish young man whose intelligence and goodness drew her like a light. A man who loved her dearly, who loved his Lord even more, who had asked her to be his wife, a man to fulfill her lifelong dreams. She sat upon the top step, lowered her face into her hands, and wept so hard she could scarcely draw breath.

Dr. Mann might have looked boyish, but he had a doctor's wisdom with people and troubles. Patiently he sat beside her and stroked the space between her shoulder blades. When the worst of her sobs had subsided, he gently asked, “You're not having second thoughts about us, are you?”