The Birthright (15 page)
The other cloud was the great worry over Anne. She remained cloaked in a darkness all her own. The baby John had been a delight to all. The boy’s great-grandfather took on a new life. If allowed, Grandfather Price would spend all day clucking and cooing over the baby. John was a fine, strapping infant, big and lusty and growing fast. He was happy almost all the time, but if he wanted something, then he let all the world know with his howling. There was no concern over understanding John. He was all of a mood, as the saying went. Every fiber of his being was caught up by whatever the moment held. A smiling face above his crib was enough to bring robust kicks with his little arms and legs. He could fasten his hand around a person’s finger and hold on for ages. And his toothless smile was enough to brighten the darkest night and the most sorrowful heart—except for his mother’s.
Anne had become a wraith. She drifted in and out of rooms, barely disrupting the air with her passage. She would set her hand to whatever task was given her, but her mind remained locked in grief. Often in the middle of some activity she was involved in, such as when feeding little John, tears would spill from her eyes. She did not sob aloud, except at night, when her cries for Cyril kept Catherine and Andrew awake for hours. During the day she seemed only half-there, and if left alone, she would just sit and stare into space for hours. Even the baby did not seem to help, for when his coos and cries brought a smile to Anne’s face, this would soon be followed by more silent tears. And Catherine had to order her to stop helping in the kitchen because of the possibility of injuring herself with a knife during one of her absentminded moments.
Twice Catherine had spoken with her daughter about the ongoing malaise. The second time had been three days earlier, and when Anne responded with silence, Catherine’s tone had grown harsh. “For the baby’s sake, if not your own, you have to pull yourself out of this! Yes, it is tragic that you have lost your husband. But look at the baby! You would scoff at a blessed gift like this?”
For once, her daughter had focused on her fully. Her voice sounded soft and dry as the scraping of autumn leaves. “I scoff at nothing.”
“You do! Your every action suggests you don’t care that at least the good Lord saw fit to leave you this small portion of your man!”
Anne’s face turned toward the crib by the fire, lit to ward off the cool breeze coming from the bay. “He’s not a small portion, Momma. I look at him and see Cyril.” Tears began cascading down her cheeks. But she did not seem to notice their presence, and as more tears came, she neither wiped them away nor attempted to clear her eyes. “His smile is Cyril’s. His little hands, the set of his eyes, his feet, his…”
“Anne.” When she remained fixated on the crib, Catherine reached over and shook her arm. “Anne! Look at me!”
Her daughter turned, revealing the ravaged features of a woman who appeared twice her age. The tears continued, and again no notice was given. “I have not lost just a husband. I have had the heart torn from my body. Why am I even alive?”
“How you can say such a thing?” Catherine said, struggling now against her own welling up of tears. “For your baby! For John.”
“Yes? I am a good mother? I shall be a good guardian and teacher? He shall look at me and find someone who can offer him hope and joy?”
“Anne, you must heal. You
must
.”
She turned her face back toward the crib, where a tiny hand was waving along with the cooing sound of contentment. But Anne seemed to see none of this. “I never understood the word
cripple
until now. What it means to lose a limb and know it is lost and gone forever.” The empty look enveloped her features. “How does one fashion a crutch for a crippled heart? How can you mold a limb for a desolate spirit?”
Catherine washed the flour from her hands and then dried them on her apron. Grandfather Price had convinced Anne to take the baby out to the cliffside tree stump with him. Andrew was off seeing to some parishioner’s needs. The house was full of light and the sound of birds singing. Knowing dinner was not for another two hours, Catherine decided she couldn’t put off writing the letter to Nicole any longer. Andrew was taking her into Halifax the next day to do some urgent shopping and collect some things from Anne’s house. They had not been back since the funeral. So there was business to take care of and items to gather and bring home before any soldiers thought of looting their empty dwelling. Hopefully they would locate a ship headed for England to carry the letter to Nicole. Hard as it was to write such tragic news, Nicole had to know.
There were, though, many happy things to report, such as Catherine’s work in the Acadian school. At Andrew’s urging, she had accepted the invitation to teach the younger children. She helped them learn the official language of the province and in so doing put a friendly face to the English. Catherine had found such joy and fulfillment in the work that she could hardly contain herself. Her pupils had become a vital part of her days now. It seemed to Catherine her heart had been longing for a chance to offer other young ones her love. The Acadian village recognized her worth and her gifts and, with no urging from her, had come to call her
Tante
or Auntie. The simple act had enriched her and also helped to ease the burden of Anne’s deep grief that had weighed so heavily on her.
But she wouldn’t begin her letter with the good. No, there was nothing to be gained in putting off the bad. Catherine lit a tallow candle and then carried it over to the small writing desk in the corner. She lifted the lid and pulled out some paper and a quill and inkwell. She did not hesitate, for this was not the time for seeking the exact or proper word. Anyway, there was no such thing with such a letter. She must simply write and tell all.
Charles and Nicole overnighted at the coaching inn and then continued their journey the following morning. Before they reached the outskirts of London, Charles stopped the carriage so Nicole could climb back inside to enter the city in ladylike fashion. Her enthusiasm over having driven the horses the previous afternoon and much of this morning soon evaporated. The outskirts of London were foul, the occupants miserably poor. Few faces turned as the carriage passed, and those who did stared in mute indignation. After a while the squalor gave way to respectable abodes and well-tended lanes, yet the poverty that lay behind them had somehow branded itself into Nicole’s mind and heart.
Charles understood all too well. “I wish there were some way you could have avoided seeing that.”
“Is there nothing that can be done?”
“There is much,” he countered. “A lifetime’s work and more. I am struggling with a number of issues and hope to do more in time. My only regret…well, perhaps it would be best not to discuss such things so early on.”
“No, please tell me, Uncle.”
“It’s only since my return from the colonies that I’ve come to see the abject state of many British subjects. Before, I am ashamed to say, I saw little and cared far less.” His face creased with regret. “All the wasted years, all the meaningless quibbling over status and convention, all this shall I be forced to lay before the throne one day.”
“At least you’re trying now,” she consoled.
“And doing far too little.” He gave her a weak smile. “Perhaps in time you shall manage even more.”
The London residence looked small, but only in comparison to Harrow Hall. The whitewashed townhouse fronted a broad intersection where Charles Street met Princes Gate. And beyond the leafy green of a treelined park rose the peaks and towers of Buckingham. A long line of carriages and open drays clattered past the townhouse’s front garden.
Gaylord and Maisy were there to greet them and escort Nicole into the home. The front hall opened into a high-ceilinged formal parlor. Eight recessed columns guarded either side, ascending to carved rosettes that adorned the domed ceiling. The rosette design was repeated in the floor in marble and mother-of-pearl.
“The house has a strange intensity about it, at least for me,” Charles told her, stepping up alongside. “I was actually born here, not in Sutton. Born here, christened here, and wed here twice. And I hope to be laid to rest in the back garden.”
Nicole was led upstairs to her chambers and left to freshen up after the long journey. Later when she returned downstairs, she found her uncle standing in the front hallway, holding a letter box overflowing with papers and ribboned documents. With him stood an older gentleman, who was busy pointing to the top document and speaking in a low tone.
Charles looked up at her approach and smiled. “Ah, there you are, my dear. May I have the pleasure of presenting Lord Percy Fulton. Percy is the London solicitor who handles most of my affairs. He’s also an elder deacon at Westminster Abbey. I have the honor of naming Percy among my closest friends.”
Percy was a short man built to appear shorter because of his portliness, harboring most of his weight in his bulging middle and in his jowls. Yet his lower half was spindly. To Nicole’s eye, he looked like a pear perched on two matchsticks. He was bald except for two fluffy white bushes sprouting wildly from above each ear, making him the most ludicrously unbecoming man she’d ever met.
Still, Nicole had caught the significance of Charles’s words quite clearly and so gave what she hoped was a suitably deep curtsy. “An honor to meet you, sir.”
“And likewise, my young beauty, and let us pretend to an affection that I do hope will not be long in coming.” He spoke with a voice so low and sonorous, he would have put a bayou bullfrog to shame. Percy kept his eyes fastened way above her head as if aiming his words toward the hall’s distant corner. “Long have I awaited this moment, for your uncle has done little more than speak of you during this past long winter.”
Charles ushered them into the front parlor but did not join them. “If you will forgive me, there are a few pressing matters I must see to.”
“Certainly, my dear boy. Be gone, and allow me to press my case in an atmosphere of suitable intimacy.” Lord Percy lowered his head to search his waistcoat pockets for his snuffbox. The action left his chin disappearing in the folds of his sagging jowls. He took a pinch and applied the snuff to each nostril, then let out an enormous sneeze. “I do beg your pardon. A horrid vice, but my only one, I assure you.”
Nicole found her lips quivering from the sudden impulse to laugh. She couldn’t decide which was sillier, the man’s appearance or his words. “Would you care to sit down?”
“A kindness I might never hope to repay.” He walked over to a pair of high-backed chairs that were set before the large central window. Then he sat down, but his legs proved too short to reach the floor. Only the tips of his buckled shoes grazed the carpet. Percy Fulton must have noticed the way she studied him, because he said, “Alas, there is naught I can do about this earthly vessel. Yet I am not without charms, or means, for that manner. But you strike me as one who pays little attention to the crasser elements of societal courtship.”
Nicole settled slowly into her chair, for it granted her a moment to realize the man was actually paying suit to her. She stared at the strange dwarfish man, with his protruding red waistcoat being held up by his bent legs and his chin lost in the jowls that drooped onto his cravat. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is I who must apologize—for the quality of the man you see before you. But the spirit within this chest of mine is of spun gold, I assure you. Gossamer wings of heaven don’t touch it. No, nor diamonds.”
Nicole hid her smile behind her hand. “Your pardon, sir, but I scarcely know what to think of this.”
“Think of heaven, my young fairy queen. For that is what I propose to offer you. Heaven on Earth.” He punctuated his proposal with another double pinch of snuff and an even greater sneeze than before. “Your pardon, ma’am.”
Nicole did her best to keep her laughter at bay, her voice trembling slightly from the effort. “You are making fun of me, sir.”
“Not at all. Not in the slightest. I am speaking the poetry of lyrical invitation. Make me the happiest man on earth by accepting my humble offer.”
She dropped her hand and gazed openmouthed at him. “You are asking me to marry you?”
“Indeed so. And nothing could make me happier.” Then the gold snuffbox was flipped open yet again, and the powder applied to both nostrils. The sneeze that followed nearly lifted Percy off his seat. “Your pardon.”
Nicole found it impossible to contain herself any longer. She rocked back in her seat, a giggle finally escaping.
“I take it my suit has been rejected?”
She clutched her side with one hand, covered her face with the other, and nodded.
“Alas, alas. Though my heart is torn asunder in my chest, I shall endeavor to survive and continue along this mortal coil.” Another pinch of snuff and a sneeze. Percy whipped an unusually big handkerchief from his rear pocket and wiped his eyes. “Of course, I shall have the distinct pleasure of naming myself as the first suitor to have been refused. There will be a few meager crumbs of comfort in that, I suppose.”
The prospect was enough to stifle her laughter. “You think there shall be many, sir?”