The Birthright (17 page)
Nicole stood and asked, “Might I please come again?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Emily offered her hand. “My dear Nicole, these few minutes have revealed two remarkable features about you. First, despite what you may think, you’re making great strides toward settling in England with dignity. And second, you remain genuinely unconcerned with your own beauty and wealth. You have no idea how rare that is, my dear. I am certain your uncle is most delighted with you.”
“I wish I could be so certain,” Nicole said.
Emily smiled. “You will do him proud. You will accept the duties of your new station and, in time, will find fulfillment. On board ship, you spoke with my husband about your faith in God. I suggest you remember that God does not promise us a path strewn with flowers in their full bloom. He simply says He will be with us always, through everything that life brings.”
“Is my hair all right like this?”
“You look an absolute stunner, if you don’t mind my saying, Miss Nicole.” Maisy took a step back. “Turn around now, dear, and let me see you.” The new gown was striped taffeta silk of emerald green, with a series of silk flowers cascading down the back. “Now, you be sure and gather up that train when you’re sitting, else them flowers will look all mashed flat.”
“Thank you for helping me, Maisy.”
“Oh, it’s a pleasure. I was only half-sorry to hear that the maid had come down with the grippe. I do so love this! It’s like watching a lovely little doll take shape.”
And that’s just how I feel
, Nicole thought as she looked at herself in the full-length mirror.
Like a porcelain doll made up for others to stare at
. “But what about my hair?”
“Don’t you be worrying about that. Them little crowns are all the rage, I hear.”
It was not a crown at all but an arrangement of tall green stalks set in an Oriental design, which shook with the slightest motion.
Nicole stood up straight, gathered up her bustle in her right hand, and practiced her curtsy. The evening’s event at the Portuguese embassy would be the first truly formal outing of her life. Charles had done his best to introduce her gradually to the pomp and ceremony of London society, taking her only to places where friends and allies would shelter her and forgive her mistakes. But tonight was different. The London season was drawing to a close, and the Portuguese ambassador’s party was the last opportunity for a formal appearance. She knew how important this was to her uncle and so wanted to do everything just right.
“Duty,” she whispered to herself and then watched her reflection carefully as she folded downward, extending one white-gloved arm out in a sweeping gesture. She rose back up and asked, “How was that?”
“Graceful as a swan,” Maisy said, her hands clasped over her apron. “My, but you will please his honor.”
“I hope so.” Then she repeated the word to herself.
Duty
. The more she thought of Emily’s advice, the more convinced she was of its wisdom. She had been acting frivolously. There was a need for her to learn the lessons of polite society, of how to fit in and behave properly. Then and only then could she begin to take on responsibility and put her privilege and wealth to use. This was not just to bring her happiness. It was to do the best she could with what she’d been given, to do good and thereby fulfill what she knew was her assigned task.
Duty
.
But as Nicole descended the stairs, she felt more than her corset constricting her. It seemed as though every breath was a struggle against the restraining elements of a world she did not understand.
She couldn’t help but glance at the side table as she entered the front parlor. On a silver platter were piled the day’s deliveries. Another six engraved invitations had arrived that day, along with three cards from those stopping by to pay their formal respects to his lordship and the new heiress.
Nicole repressed a shudder at the thought of more teas and exhibitions and dinners and chatter. “I am ready, Uncle.”
“You look splendid, my dear!” Charles beamed proudly as he surveyed her standing there. “I must say, the dressmaker has outdone herself.”
“Thank you again for the gown.”
“Now, now, there’s no need to thank me.” Charles was a strange one to place such emphasis on her buying new clothes, for he was dressed in the same dark longcoat, breeches, and gold-embroidered waistcoat he always wore for such events. “I only wish I could induce you to spend more at the dressmakers. But never mind that. My dear, I have a surprise for you.”
As soon as his hand reached inside his jacket, Nicole exclaimed, “A letter!”
“It just arrived while you were dressing. I thought it best to wait till you came down.”
Nicole used the silver letter knife to break the seal. She scanned the first few lines, then cried, “It cannot be!”
“What is it?” Charles was instantly at her side. “You’ve gone pale as a ghost. Here, you must sit down.” He guided her onto a nearby settee. “Now tell me what it is!”
“It’s Cyril. He’s…he’s dead. The grippe took him.”
“That’s impossible!” Charles sank down beside her. “Such a strong young man—he couldn’t have succumbed.”
“But he did.” Nicole finished reading the letter. “Anne is devastated.”
“Of course she is, the poor sweet girl. How they loved one another. Such happiness as they shared, those two…” Charles shook his head. “And the baby?”
“He’s fine. Mother Catherine says he’s the light of their days. They named him John, after my grandfather.”
“Catherine’s father, of course. A fine man.”
Then the date of Cyril’s funeral finally registered. “He’s been dead almost three months!” The letter dropped to her lap. Never in all her time here had she felt so far removed from the world she knew or from the family she loved.
Three months
.
Nicole looked up and saw the wary concern on Charles’s face. She was coming to know her uncle and so realized immediately what he was thinking. Charles expected her to say she wanted to return home, which indeed had entered her mind. And he dreaded having to remind Nicole of her promise to give him two years.
“I wish I knew what to do,” she murmured.
Charles drew a deep breath as he massaged his chest, a motion that had become a familiar habit. Then a new light dawned on his features. “Might I suggest you write and invite Anne to come to England?”
“What did you say?”
“Certainly. A change at this point might do her a world of good. Grant her an opportunity to see the tragedy and her future from a different perspective.”
“Oh, Uncle, that’s a wonderful idea!” The thought of seeing her sister and friend again filled her with an almost desperate longing. “But do you think she would come?”
“We shall never know unless you write and ask.” He then reached for the bell. When Gaylord appeared, Charles said, “I must prepare a note of regret that I wish for you to take to the Portuguese ambassador. We have just received some tragic news, so shall not be attending this evening’s event.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Gaylord bowed in Nicole’s direction. “I couldn’t help but hear, Miss Nicole. Might I say how very sorry I am to hear of your family’s loss.”
“Thank you, Gaylord.” Nicole was tempted to agree with Charles’s decision and to use the terrible news for postponing her entry into formal society. She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect excuse. But something in her rebelled. She straightened her shoulders and rose to her feet. “That won’t be necessary, Uncle Charles.”
“My dear, I couldn’t possibly ask you—”
“You have said yourself how important this evening is. My eyes are not smudged, are they?”
“They are perfect.” Charles stood alongside her, his face a picture of pride and gratitude. “My dear, I know nothing to say except that you do me proud.”
On the trip back to Georgetown from the new French settlement, Catherine found herself sitting next to an Acadian farmer and marveling at how good life had been to her. At an age when many women began thinking about settling back and taking one’s ease, she was filled with a fresh sense of purpose and joy.
And the season matched her mood—vibrant and humming with the powerful south wind. It was the warmest autumn she could remember, where the sun turned fleeting showers into golden curtains. Rainbows appeared nearly every afternoon, sweeping bands of color that often spanned the entire sky.
They crested the final rise before Georgetown, and then the farmer halted the horses, granting the weary animals a breather. The wagon creaked under the weight of the summer’s final produce and the first jugs of fresh cider. A taciturn man, the farmer had spoken but a few sentences during the whole journey. But Catherine did not mind at all. After two long days of dealing with seventeen children, a little quiet was a welcome change.
The wind was strong enough to buffet their wagon and have her holding tight to her bonnet’s strings. Yet it was such a warm and cloudless afternoon, she could sit and watch the world below in comfort. Between them and the steeple of Andrew’s church, everything seemed to toss and shiver with a hundred shades of fall colors. The wind stripped the trees and sent their leaves swirling in such impatient haste, she could see little else. At the hill’s summit, all around was sunlight and blue sky and whistling wind. Below them rushed an autumn tide of russet and gold.
The farmer clicked to the horses and snapped the reins. Slowly they descended the bumpy road that gradually led them into the maelstrom below. Catherine shielded her eyes against the debris. Once they were within the shelter of the towering trees, she looked up in wonder. Now the sun flickered and danced through the waving branches and flying leaves as if throwing off sparks from a heavenly fire.
As they approached Georgetown, Catherine pulled from her shoulder bag the list she’d been working on and checked it once more. Everything seemed to be in order. She handed it to the farmer and said in French, “You will please buy these things and take them to the new family?”
“It will be as you ask, madame.”
Then she gave him a leather pouch. “This should take care of the cost, but if not, then I will pay you the rest when we meet next week.”
Charles had continued to send them money, and Andrew no longer objected. This was good for many reasons. Andrew’s joints persisted in bothering him, which resulted in his having to quit leatherworking. Also, the parish had been growing quite rapidly along with the demands on Andrew’s time. But the chief reason they were so thankful for the extra money was that it had meant they could assist the newcomers with their making a fresh start.
Colonists loyal to the Crown were pouring into the Canadian provinces at a prodigious rate. Each week boatloads arrived, crammed to the gunnels with more Loyalists fleeing the growing conflict farther south. Some brought wealth or tools of their trade, others little more than tales of fighting and woe. Catherine and Andrew had little time for the tales, for their own allegiances were divided, and the news became increasingly distressing. But these were people in need, and their hearts went out to them. It was important to offer support to families struggling to prepare their homes before the winter set in.
Catherine went on. “I’ve included money to pay those helping to build the Parkers’ cabin.”
The silver coins jingled as the farmer stowed the pouch in his vest pocket. He squinted down the road, then after a while, said, “Does not do any good, you having us stay quiet over where the money comes from. Sooner or later word gets out.”
“Regardless, that’s how we want things to remain.” She and Andrew were in agreement that they wanted to keep their giving as anonymous as possible. It did not stop people from finding out and thanking them, but it did mute a lot of the fuss.
They also used Charles’s money to help make peace among neighbors as they paid French settlers to construct cabins for new English-speaking immigrants. The French were newcomers themselves, in dire need of cash, particularly as market prices climbed continually upward. It meant most newcomers were far too grateful for the aid to complain about their neighbors.
“It will be as you say,” the farmer said. He then pulled the wagon to a stop at the turn near her house and waited for her to step down. Reaching behind the seat, he lifted out an earthenware jug and handed it to her. “Thought you and the reverend might like a taste of the new season.”
“Why, thank you. Andrew does love his cider.”
Without another word, the farmer clicked to his horses, tipped his hat to Catherine, and continued on to market. She turned and walked swiftly up the lane, eager now to be home.
The stay overnight with the Acadians had been hard at first, but it made good sense. The twelve-mile journey was over hills and included a very rough road. Going back and forth each morning and evening had proven to be exhausting, so one of the farmers had converted an old shed into a cabin just for Catherine. Then the local farm community had fitted it with a makeshift floor, a table, some earthenware, and utensils. This was their way of saying thank-you to the Englishwoman who would not accept anything else for her work.