The thought that Catherine came back to again and again throughout the four long days of travel was God’s hand is on this journey.
The little baby did surprisingly well. There were times when she whimpered and squirmed as the wagon bounced over boulders, or the team of horses slipped and struggled through muddy bogs. Though the baby was so fragile looking, with dark circles under her eyes, Antoinette seemed to be holding up well. Catherine checked often, feeling her forehead for fever, passing a finger lightly over the little head’s soft spot to watch for dehydration, coaxing the child to nurse, if only a few drops of nourishing liquid. Antoinette’s dark eyes seemed to study Catherine carefully, no doubt puzzled about the change of face bending over her.
Hour after hour the wagon jounced and pitched on the rough trail, climbing ever higher through great trees which stood like ghostly sentries above unseen cliffs. Catherine prayed over the little one, watching Antoinette and stroking the fine dark hair, the smooth cheek.
John Price seemed little concerned with the baby’s presence. Having never paid the child much mind, here on the trail he seemed to have even less time for his granddaughter. He remained preoccupied with his papers, which he continually perused. Eventually growing impatient with their slow progress, he barked at the sergeant major, urging them to greater speed.
Throughout the third day of travel, the summer fog did not lift, but rather condensed and settled more firmly. That evening, as Catherine moved away from the fire and began to nurse the baby, she realized just how isolated she had become. God seemed very far away just then. All the growth and strength she had sensed within herself vanished in a cloud of fatigue and confusion.
She longed for her little Elspeth. The pain was so sharp she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. She searched the night but saw only drifting tendrils of silvery mist and trunks huge as temple pillars and shrouded by dark. What am I doing here? How could I have ever thought to leave my baby behind and take to the road with someone else’s child?She heard the sentry’s steady footsteps count a circle around their gathering, listened to the soldiers talking quietly by the fire, and turned her back to them all so they would not hear her weeping.
But the next morning, when she awoke before the others to a world of green and a sky of sweeping blue, she herself felt reborn. They had made camp upon a high knob, surrounded by stony peaks and forest valleys of emerald green. The night’s fears seemed as distant as nightmares from her childhood. She looked down at the pale and silent Antoinette, and felt a sudden welling of love. It was not the same as for her own Elspeth. No, but it felt like God was using this journey to create new space in her heart, a space intended to hold even more love than before, a love for this needy little child.
Henri leaned over the crib and chuckled as the little face immediately blossomed into a delighted laugh. “She is a cheerful one, isn’t she?”
Louise moved over to stand beside her husband. “She is that.”
He glanced at his wife. “This is hard for you, no? Seeing healthy Elspeth here, the one who is not your own.”
“In a way, yes. I miss Antoinette so.” Louise reached out and allowed the tiny waving fist to attach itself to one finger. “Yet I feel as though I am looking after my own sister’s child.”
Even so, as she reached down into the crib and bundled up the infant, Louise felt a hollow ache for the child who belonged there. Please, dear Lord, make my baby well. But all she said was, “Time for the little one’s next feeding.”
Henri reached up, and with a movement of surprising gentleness for all his strength, he brushed a lock from Louise’s face. “You are a good woman. Better than I should ever deserve.”
She made to laugh, though at the moment it would take some effort. “Do you see how she feeds? Never have I seen one as hungry as Elspeth.”
But Henri’s gaze was soft and open and only for his wife. “I do not know why the Lord decided to bring us together,” he murmured. “But I thank Him every day for the gift of you.”
The longing of her heart gradually eased, as though she heard not just the words her husband spoke, but rather another voice speaking along with his. One so filled with love she could not help but accept the gift of peace. She settled the nursing baby more comfortably and asked, “Would you pray with me for our baby?”
Catherine had never known anything like the city of Halifax. Although it was less than five years old, already it was so large it could have swallowed a dozen Edwards and scarcely have noticed. The hills rising along three sides were all ugly and scarred where the forests had been felled for timber. The houses and the fort and the raised plank sidewalks all seemed to have explodedfrom the earth. There was such a frenetic energy it almost frightened her.
And the noise. The air was filled with banging and hammering and shouting. And dust. The streets were packed with regiments of soldiers marching and stamping and snapping their weapons to their shoulders and then pounding them back into the earth at their feet. They and the countless wagons and the horses and the mules all threw up so much dust she carried a handkerchief before her face and covered the baby’s face with gauze as she hurried along the wooden sidewalks.
Neither the noise, nor the dust, nor the strangeness bothered little Antoinette at all. That first day the doctor had given Catherine an elixir that had seemed to ease the infant’s distress almost instantly. Since then the child had spent most of her hours either eating or sleeping. Whenever she awoke, her expression seemed one of surprise at the freedom from pain. Catherine knew the baby could not remember such things, yet she could not help feeling that the child was not disturbed by the outer clamor simply because the greater internal suffering had finally been eased.
But the imprint of her earlier distress was still visible. The baby was far too small for her age. That very morning, the doctor had warned her as gently as he could that the child might not ever fully recover. She had suffered much, and her body might be permanently weakened, he had explained, urging Catherine to take special care and keep her sheltered. Catherine had stammered out her thanks, aching from the thought of having to convey this news to Louise. But at least the baby seemed genuinely to be on the mend, especially after this morning’s second visit, when the doctor had expressed satisfaction with little Antoinette’s immediate progress. It seemed that she had responded to the medicine he had given. It had been very startling to hear this man refer to this baby as her own. But as she had walked the sidewalk back toward their inn, Catherine found herself looking at the baby anew. As though somehow having the doctor call her Elspethhad drawn the two of them closer together. Wrapped another bond around them, tightening the cords which Catherine now believed would hold them together for life, no matter how far apart they might be, no matter how different Antoinette’s future might be from that of her own child.
As she approached the inn’s entrance, Catherine jumped at the sound of cannon booming in the distance. Either from the sound or from her reaction, the baby began to cry. Catherine cast a glance out to where the rock-lined harbor spread in the distance, so crammed with ships it was hard to even count their numbers. Those coming or going could not maneuver under their own sail. Instead, they were towed out by men bending over the oars of smaller gunboats.
Stepping inside, Catherine asked the inn’s day-clerk, “Is it usual to see so many ships at anchor?”
“Oh no, ma’am. Especially not this late, not after the spring convoy arrives.” The young man looked out the front window with a keen yearning to his pinched gaze. “No, there’s something up, you mark my words. I’m thinking of joining the forces, make a name for myself in the fighting. Earn myself some good land, as they say.”
Catherine’s nervous smile of thanks was lost upon the young man, whose gaze remained fastened upon the harbor and the ships. She could not suppress a shiver of fear as she climbed the narrow stairs to her room. This place and its noise and its constant call of battle was certainly not for her. The sooner her father finished with his mysterious business and they could return to Edward, the better.