Catherine was very glad the trail had become so familiar. She climbed slowly, pausing often for breath. The autumn sky was heavy with its clouds in a hundred shades of gray. The bay, a sheet of metal, lay breathless beneath, waiting for the winter just beyond the hills.
When the trail turned sharply, in a manner she now knew so well, she entered the sheltering boughs of the highland firs. Their scent was fresh and strong as their arms joined overhead to form a fragrant tunnel. Like a hall leading to their meeting place, she thought as she paused and leaned against the nearest trunk. Like an entrance hall to a highland chapel.
As soon as she saw Louise in the meadow, she could no longer contain the tears that had threatened all day. The two women rushed together, holding each other closely against their growing abdomens. The bit of awkwardness made them giggle through the tears as they backed away and in unconscious imitation traced a free hand over their unborn.
“Look at us,” Louise laughed. “Like a pair of old women.”
“Winter has never looked to be as long as this coming one,” Catherine replied.
“Do you remember last autumn? We came up and discovered we had been married on the same day.”
“It snowed that day,” Catherine recalled. “The first snowfall of the year. I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight.”
“Nor I. But for me the beautiful sight was of your smile.”
“You remember my smile?”
“You smiled like the sun emerging from a winter shadow. You cast a new spring light over my world.” Louise brushed at one tendril of hair. “I will never forget that smile, not as long as I live.”
Arm in arm they walked over to the fallen log which had become their pew, their place of sanctuary, of studying the Scriptures, and talk. The breeze chose that moment to turn and come straight from the north. Slight though it was, the wind now held the whisper of winter. The two women shivered and pulled shawls closer around them.
“Shall we begin our lesson?” Catherine asked as they settled on their log.
“Yes, let’s do that,” Louise agreed. But when her hand dipped into the basket, it was not a Bible she brought out. Instead, she handed over a bundle bound with twine, saying shyly, “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“A gift. For the baby.”
Catherine could not help but thrill at the word. The baby. Said so matter-of-factly, yet so full of promise. Carefully she unbound the twine. “Oh, Louise!”
“Henri made it for you. It is silver fox. He hunted them and cured them and sewed the furs, all himself.”
Catherine stroked the surface. “It’s the softest thing I have ever felt! But the value, I can’t …”
“Please take it, Catherine. It would make him so happy. I only wish he could see your face right now.”
Catherine held up the fur stitched into a careful square, four feet to a side. The stitching was so tight, and the furs matched so well, she could scarcely tell where they were joined. “It’s so beautiful, Louise.”
“We have a tradition of lining the baby’s crib with fur its first winter. We also use it as a blanket on the bench by the fire, for it protects the infant from drafts.”
Catherine raised the fur and stroked it across her cheek. “Tell Henri I will think of you both every time I see it.”
“This will make him very happy.” Louise sobered. “The entire village is speaking of your husband’s visit.”
Catherine let the fur drop to her lap. “I could hardly believe my ears when he told me about it.”
“The vicar called him an honorable man. He said …” Louise stopped and bit her lip. “Jean Ricard said that your coming to this meadow, and our becoming friends, was an act ordained by God.”
Tears rolled down both faces as the two women stared into each other’s eyes.
“I don’t know how I am going to make it through this winter without you,” Catherine whispered.
“Nor I.” Impatiently Louise wiped her face, clearly not wishing to give the season’s last visit over to sadness at the long separation to come. “Have you decided on names yet?”
“We are still talking. And you?”
“If it is a boy, no. I want to name it after Henri’s father, and he after mine. But if it is a girl, we have agreed on Antoinette.”
“That is a lovely name,” Catherine said, reaching into her own basket for a parcel bound in brown paper. “This is for you. Well, for the baby.”
Louise unwrapped the gift, then sat wiping tears as she stared at the gift. “Oh, Catherine,” was all she could say.
“It came from England on the last ship. I wanted one for my own child, and I was fortunate to be able to obtain two.”
The ring was flat and silver and as broad as Louise’s palm. She lifted it by the round ivory handle and heard the musical chime. “Oh, listen! It sings!”
“It’s called a teething ring. It is strong and safe for the baby to bite—see, there are no sharp angles anywhere.”
Louise shook the ring once more. “Oh, Catherine, it sounds like the tiny bells of angels! Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Louise settled the ring back into the paper. “You are more than a friend. You are the sister I never had.”
Catherine tried to keep the tremble from her voice. “I have thought that exact thing. Many, many times.”
Andrew paused at the trail’s fork, dropped the load of game to the snow, and leaned heavily against his musket as he looked up the hill. He had thought long and hard of this next approach and decided the safest way to accomplish it would be upon returning from a hunting expedition. Searching for game was one of the few reasons he could leave the village alone and not raise suspicions.
Though the snows had been even heavier than the year before, this year there had been strong thaws interspersed, so the white ground cover was not so deep. Nor was it so bitterly cold. It was the middle of January, and he had seen signs of everything from fox to bear to deer.
The trail was empty of all save snow and tracks. Tree limbs were bowed under heavy white capes. Andrew found the trail just as Catherine had described. His snowshoes clumped flat and solid upon the upward-wending path. As he entered the final thicket the snow became littered with needles from the surrounding firs, their scent as strong as incense.
He passed through the final veil of trees and moved into the opening, now covered in white. The meadow floated high above the surrounding countryside, and the winter setting made it even more breathtaking. The north face dropped so sharply that only the peaks of tall firs rose above the ledge.
The surrounding trees created three walls from nature’s finest hues, even in winter. The fourth vista was more splendid than any stained- glass window he had ever seen in England. Andrew’s eyes drank in the sight of Cobequid Bay and the slow rise of smoke from many chimneys. From this height, it was easy to blur the boundaries between British and French enclaves. He turned, taking in the forest and snow-capped hills behind. It was as Catherine had described. Her meeting place with the Frenchwoman was indeed inspired, holy ground.
A slight motion from the meadow’s western side spun him about. A man stepped from the trees, his stocky girth made broader by his winter coat. Black hair was almost hidden by the coonskin cap, and the equally dark eyes flashed as he stared at Andrew.
Andrew did not need to even think about his next move. He tossed his gun from him and stood with arms outstretched and empty. The action was rewarded with a broad grin, and Andrew knew instantly it was the man Catherine had described.
“Henri?”
“Oui, c’est moi.” The burly man stepped forward, and offered Andrew his hand. “Et vous êtes Andrew, n’est-ce pas? ”
“Andrew. Yes.” It was the first time he had shaken a Frenchman’s hand in years. Henri’s grip was strong as iron.
Reluctant to release the handshake, the two men studied each other. Finally Henri flashed another great grin and circled his arms in a barrel-shaped girth before his belly. “Louise—elle est trop grande.”
Andrew had to laugh. Henri joined with him, their laughter echoing back and forth about the hills.
Henri reached inside his coat and drew out a leather-bound satchel. He opened it, showed Andrew some pages of writing, and beneath it a tightly bound packet of dried herbs. He made a nest in his arms and symbolized rocking the baby to come. Andrew’s smile and nod reflected the anticipation in his heart. Henri smiled in return and said, “Pour Cat’rine. Après la naissance, pour la santé.”
“You want Catherine to drink this after the baby has come. I understand.” Andrew loosened his belt, reached inside his own coat and extracted a tightly wrapped bundle. He handed over the letter Catherine had been writing almost since the first snow, a diary of her winter. Then he untied layer after layer to reveal Catherine’s little gift and offered it to Henri.
His eyes wide with surprise, Henri accepted the present with both hands. Andrew said, “We know your ships have not arrived this year. Catherine still remembers your wonderful feast and all the flavors. She thought you might be needing pepper and cinnamon and other spices.”
Henri held the tiny packages up close to his nose and drew in one fragrant aroma after another. Andrew had never seen a man take such pleasure from simple seasonings before, but on this strong man it seemed perfectly natural. Reluctantly, Andrew pointed at the setting sun and the trail behind him. “I must be off.”
Henri folded the letter and the gift and stowed them away, then grabbed his hand a second time. Andrew nodded his understanding and thanks, then walked over, picked up his musket, and started for the trees. At the beginning of the trail, he turned back. Henri waved, then made a single fist and pressed it firmly over his heart.
Andrew nodded agreement and turned away. Henri’s final message warmed his way down through the shadows of the descending trail. Friend.