“Shah, child, hush now, it’s all right.” Louise rocked the tiny form back and forth, the words a constant litany spoken as much to her own heart as to the baby.
She sat where she could look out the door, waiting for her husband to return from the highland meadow. Henri had offered to make the delivery, though the morning had threatened rain and there was so much for him to do around the farm. Even with enough work to keep a dozen men busy, still he bound up her letter in oilskin and carried it up to leave it where she and Catherine had agreed—tucked beneath the fallen log they had used as a bench.
Oh, for those days to come again! Louise looked down at her child, her own sweet baby. The infant’s tiny face was screwed up in pain, and she gave off a weak mewling sound, half whimper and half cry. “Oh, my sweet one, I would give anything to make you better. I would give you my life itself.”
Almost as though in reply, the little eyes opened, and the crying stopped. One tiny hand unfurled to accept Louise’s finger, and then the eyes closed and the face relaxed into slumber. Two months and two days old now, little Antoinette had not slept a single night through since birth. Whenever the pain eased she slipped instantly into a sleep so deep sometimes Louise could not help but worry if she would ever awaken again.
The baby was not doing well. Louise had tried every herb and medicine the village midwife and her own mother could suggest. Together they had worked through the meager store of local remedies available to them: Calomel was a favorite for infants’ complaints, but it had shown no effect upon Antoinette. Physic nuts brought from some distant isle had been ground and fed to the fussing child along with cassia, but they had come right back up again. James’ powders, the solution to so many problems, had helped not one whit. Asafoetida had been tried, along with minute quantities of belladonna. In desperation she had tried a thimbleful of her mother’s laudanum, which had done nothing but send the baby into a sleep quiet as death and scared them all out of their wits.
The midwife had finally shrugged her confusion at this little baby who ate so little and cried so much, and said simply that she would outgrow it. But Antoinette’s symptoms were not getting better. What was more, she was not growing. Her frame felt feather light, merely skin and bones beneath the blankets. Louise’s heart squeezed tight with the fear of not knowing and of having nowhere else to turn.
The heavens opened, and the rain fell in great silver sheets. As she sat within the protection of her beloved home, Louise felt as though the sky was crying for her, weeping the tears of her frightened heart.
It seemed as though her world was being shaken by invisible hands. For not only her baby was sick, but her father as well. Jacques had never recovered from his winter cough; instead, he had become more quiet and subdued and then had begun to waste away. Over the past two months he had seemed to pass through stages of aging that should have taken years.
What was more, all the rumors drifting in with the early spring traders were bad. There were stories of war in Europe and conflicts closer to hand. The English governor had again issued a demand for all French settlers to sign the declaration of loyalty, this time warning of dire consequences if the French did not agree. Never had the troubles disturbed her as they did now.
Louise looked down at her beloved slumbering child, and wondered whether she would ever regain the recent inner peace she had discovered from her reading of the Book with Catherine, with Henri.
“Louise’s baby is still sick.”
The words seemed to drift through their cottage like unwanted shadows. Andrew looked up from the cradle to where Catherine stood by the kitchen worktable, upon which Louise’s letter was spread. Her face mirrored the feeling of his own heart. “What is the matter?”
“Louise writes that she doesn’t know. Antoinette won’t eat as she should, and she cries all the time.”
Elspeth gurgled, wiggling her entire body as she watched Andrew’s dancing fingers. He turned back to his daughter. “I think she recognizes me,” he noted fondly.
“Of course she does.” Catherine walked over to stand by her husband and said to the baby, “You know your daddy, don’t you? Such a smart baby.”
Elspeth’s little arms and legs jerked up and down, delight on her face as she looked at both of them together. Her little mouth opened wide with squeals of happiness and good health. Normally, watching his baby daughter was enough to wipe away the strain of whatever Andrew’s day had brought. Yet tonight he could not shake off the concern over their friends’ infant. Friends. Strange to feel such a bond, especially when he had never met Louise and had seen Henri only that one time. But he had grown close to them through Catherine’s shared affections. And now as he bent over his happy daughter’s bed, he worried for parents and child both.
“I wish there were something we could do for them,” he murmured quietly.
“Oh, so do I, Andrew.” Catherine bent over the cradle and touched the round little face. Elspeth crooned and waved and wiggled. Andrew leaned to place a kiss on a tiny waving hand, his eyes misting with the emotion that overtook him. Catherine went on. “Louise says the nearest French doctor is in Beausejour Fort. There or Port Royal.”
“They might as well be in Paris, then.” Beausejour and Port Royal were the two remaining French bastions in Acadia, and both required long journeys by ship. “The British navy has been blockading them since last April,” he noted. “There is no way a French family could get passage.”
Andrew felt his wife shiver at the news. “Things are bad, then.”
“Things are terrible,” Andrew replied gravely, knowing there was no point in trying to shield Catherine from the full truth. “And they are growing steadily worse.”
She stood and placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing him up. Andrew did not object. He did not wish to speak of such things while so near to his daughter, as though the love and joy he felt there by her little form did not belong to the world in turmoil beyond their cottage door.
Catherine led him over to the table and stood as he settled into the chair from which he could watch her prepare their meal. She said, “You have received new dispatches?”
“Yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you, what with the note from Louise.”
She sat down beside him. “Tell me.”
“It is not good.”
“I want to know.”
Others in the regiment would have considered him weak to unburden his soul to his wife. But he had known their relationship was strengthened by doing so. Now it seemed as natural as their praying together. Even when the news was bad.
“The dispatches from England all refer to the French as ‘belligerents,’ ” he explained. “This is the word used to describe enemies in battle.”
She paled but bit her lip and said nothing. Andrew continued. “All winter long there have been raids upon our western forts and outlying settlements. Some say it is by Indians, others by Indians and French together. There have been losses, but it is hard to gather how many. The numbers seem to increase with every telling.” He took a breath and said what was most difficult of all. “There has been another defeat. Just last month it happened. The French of Quebec turned back an expeditionary force brought up from the colony of New York. Casualties were high.”
Catherine swallowed. “But all this is so far away.” Her words sounded forced out through a throat constricted with fear.
“Not anymore. I’m afraid the blockades of Beausejour and Port Royal are merely a foretaste of things to come.”
The baby’s happy gurgles seemed out of place now, a contrast to the heavy silence which gripped her parents. Finally Catherine said, “Then it is war?”
Andrew nodded slowly. “Soon, I fear.” He turned in his chair and looked out at the gathering night. “I find this uncommon strange.”
Catherine reached over for his hand. “What is that, dear?”
“At a time filled with such portents of dismal news,” Andrew said to the darkness beyond his window, “I find myself most concerned about a family I don’t even know, and a child only a few days different in age than our own.”
Henri shook the rain from his oilskin and draped it over the Belleveaux’s front porch railing. Before he could knock upon the door, however, it was opened. “Louise, I thought you were at home!”
“Well, I am here,” she said with a smile that warmed his heart. Those smiles were scarce these days when her mother-heart yearned over their suffering child. “Hello, my love,” she said, putting her arms around him.
He accepted her kiss and embrace, there upon the porch where the night sheltered them from eyes within and without. “What is this, now?”
“Only that I love you very much, Henri dearest.” Her dark eyes shone as she looked up at him. “And that I am proud of you. So very proud.”
Though her eyes were rimmed with sleeplessness and worry, though their life seemed shaken by so many forces at once, still she could look at him with a love that melted his heart. “I do not deserve you,” he whispered into her hair. “Nor this welcome.”
“Oh, but you do.” She grasped his hand and pulled him inside. “Here he is,” she announced to the room.
Henri’s entrance was halted a second time by the sight of the crowd in Jacques and Marie’s front room. Almost every one of the clan’s graybeards was present, they and many wives as well. For some reason his heart began to hammer in his chest. “A good evening to you all,” he finally managed.
“Come sit with us, Henri.” Jacques Belleveau’s voice was as strong and firm as Henri had heard in months. “Will you take a hot cider?”
“I have never refused Mama Marie’s good drink, and shall not now.” When his smile was not reflected in the faces of those present, he slipped into the chair and wished himself a smaller figure. What on earth had he done to have caused all the clan leaders to gather? And looking so somber.
When Jacques spoke, it was with a cadence as solemn as the gathering. “Henri Robichaud, it has been with great honor that we have welcomed you into our family.”
Henri accepted the pewter mug from Marie but found himself unable to drink. He sat grasping the mug, trying to formulate a response, possibly an apology, for whatever was to come.
As though she understood what her husband was thinking, Louise reached over and laid her hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and was rewarded with a comforting smile and a look of shining pride. He turned back to his father-in-law, more confused than ever.
“This old body of mine has chosen a bad time to fail me,” Jacques went on. “Now, when so much needs attention, I find it will not serve me as it should.”
“I told you not to talk like that,” his wife said crossly.
“It is something that needs saying and is nothing less than the truth,” Jacques replied in his grave manner. “For five months now I have been feeling the winds of a different winter blow through my soul. With God’s help I will renew my strength yet again. But I have rested here on my bed, and I have seen the approach of what must someday come to all.”
Henri felt the hand that was holding his shoulder tremble, and the same chill coursed through his own body. He said, “May you know many more years of strength and good cheer, Papa Jacques.”
A murmur of agreement ran about the room. When all were silent again, Jacques continued. “So do I hope as well. But I have lain here and felt all my world shaken. And I have come to realize that my strength is not up to the task ahead.”
Henri’s eyes opened wide with panic at what he sensed was coming. “Papa Jacques, please—”
“Let me have my say, Henri. I and the men gathered here have spoken long, and we are in agreement. It is unanimous. The clan needs a younger man at its head. One with the strength to meet whatever comes.”
Henri sat in a silence so great the fire’s crackling sounded like musket shots in the room. He looked at his wife. How could he accept, when there was so much weakness in him? When thinking came so hard, when finding answers to life’s questions seemed so elusive?
His gaze was drawn to where the vicar sat, there against the far corner, almost lost in shadows. The man’s strong gaze held him fast, and Henri found himself recalling an earlier discussion. One where the vicar had told him to find strength and wisdom from Louise and from God. At the time, the words had seemed meaningless. Now it was as though the vicar had been preparing him for this moment all along.
Henri turned back to meet his father-in-law’s gaze. As he did, a second thought struck him hard. Perhaps it was more true to say that Anotherhad been preparing him.
“It is our clan’s way to pass the position of elder to one man,” Jacques Belleveau intoned, the words clearly spoken from rote. “For there are times when decisions must be made swiftly, and a gathering cannot be called. The elder is asked to seek the wisdom of all, but ultimately the decision is his and his alone.”
Henri’s heart was thudding so hard he was surprised no one else in the room seemed to notice.
Jacques went on. “Henri Robichaud, will you accept the clan’s leadership?”
Henri felt his wife squeezing his shoulder tightly, communicating silently her belief in him. He took a breath, one that held time for him to feel his life shift to a new axis. Truly, it was Someone unseen who had been busy preparing him.
“I will,” he replied. “With God’s help, I will.”