The Sacred Shore (2 page)

“I'll have a couple of seamen carry your gear.” The captain offered a stiff bow. “Whatever it was that sent you over, m'lord, I hope you're successful.”

“My thanks.” Charles Harrow returned the captain's formal bow and started down the gangplank, followed by two seamen laden with trunk and bags.

His first step on dry land in two months almost sent him tumbling, for a shepherd led a flock of sheep directly into his path. Only the quick hands of one of the seamen saved him from sprawling in the half-frozen muck. Charles waited as his sea chest was hefted from the mud and fleetingly wished there were some way to transport himself back to London.

But there was no help for it. Fate had dealt him a cruel hand, and he was here. Without power or comforts of wealth and home, and even the familiar faces of his two most trusted servants gone. His only hope was to complete his business and—

“Lord Charles? Are you Lord Charles?”

“I am.”

The mud-spattered young man whipped off his hat and made a parody of a courtly bow. “Winston Groom at your service, m'lord. I bring Governor Lawrence's sincerest respects. He regrets that he could not be here to greet you himself, but urgent business has called him to the hinterland.”

“Of course.” Charles pointed at another flock of bleating animals bearing down on them. “Let's carry on somewhere safer, shall we?”

“Certainly, your lordship. This way.” The man bowed and scraped in the way of someone awed by Charles's station, seeking to lead and follow at the same time. Winston Groom reminded Charles of an oft-beaten dog. “Did your lordship have a pleasant journey?”

“Don't be daft, man. Crossing the North Atlantic at any time could hardly be call for pleasantness. A passage between March and April was nothing short of dreadful.”

“Yes, yes, sir, humble apologies, sir. The
Weymouth
feared you'd been lost with all hands.” The young man was dressed in what most likely passed for high fashion in the colonies. His shirt collar was starched and his winter coat fur trimmed, but his clothes were as mud-spattered as his boots. “Governor Lawrence will be delighted to hear that you survived the journey.”

“Is there a suitable inn in this town? A hostel? A wayfarer's lodging?”

“Indeed, that is where I am taking your lordship.” He led Charles and the two silent seamen up onto the elevated wooden walkway. The seamen's clogs clattered loudly over the rough planking. The remnants of hard winter were everywhere: dirty snow remained piled against north-facing walls; tiny icicles still dripped from the walkway's overhang. The distant hills were more white than brown. Horses drawing wagons and carriages along Halifax's thoroughfares still bore their rough winter's coats. Charles picked his way behind the young man across a busy intersection, dodging supply wagons and a trio of mud-drenched horses and two boys leading half a dozen pigs by rope leads. The pigs were the biggest he had ever seen, rude beasts that fit the town perfectly.

Eventually Winston Groom opened a glass-topped door with a flourish and announced, “Right through here, your lordship.”

The hotel was so new it still smelled of fresh-cut lumber. But the floor was waxed and there were tallow candles in the chandelier and the owner there to bow him over the threshold. Charles took the first easy breath since stepping off the gangplank. Here at least there was a semblance of civilization.

The owner bowed a second time and said, “Welcome, Lord Charles. We have taken the liberty of preparing for you our finest rooms.”

Charles permitted himself to be led up the central staircase, inspected the rooms and announced them adequate. He gave the seamen a silver penny each. When he saw Winston Groom's eyes widen at the amount, Charles had the impression that here was a man who could be bought.

The innkeeper said, “We've got a fresh haunch roasting on the fire, m'lord, and the last of our winter's stock of root vegetables making a fine stew. And bread in the oven.”

His stomach grumbled at the thought of fresh food. “I don't suppose you have any fruit.”

The hotelier was a sharp-faced man more suited to the counting room than the kitchen. His laugh held the easy roughness of the colonies. “Not for another month, your lordship. Not till the first vessel arrives from the southern colonies.”

“Very well, I'll take whatever you recommend.” He turned to the governor's assistant hovering by the bed. “Groom, is it?”

“Yes, m'lord. Winston Groom.” The spindly man was all angles and hollows.

“Perhaps you'll join me for a private word.”

Charles watched as the groom's eyes widened. He was obviously flattered at the thought of speaking confidentially with an earl. “You're too kind, sir.”

“Not at all. Not at all.” He extended one arm to direct the young man back down the stairs beside him. “Tell me, Groom. You know your way around the colony. Perhaps you've heard tales of another man bearing my name?”

The step faltered, and the young man grasped the railing. “I'm not … I'm not certain, your lordship.”

He had. Charles was certain of it. “Come, come. A man who holds the governor's confidence must have heard something, surely. Andrew Harrow is his name. Some mention would have been made of this when
Weymouth
reported that I was journeying on their sister ship.”

Winston did not respond as he was led across the foyer to a pair of tall chairs by the fire. Charles observed the young man's furrowed brow, the way he started to speak and then cut himself off, the eyes that refused to move in his direction. It was all the answer Charles required.

“Andrew Harrow,” Charles continued smoothly, his genial tone making it as easy as possible for Groom. “Formerly Captain Harrow, head of the military garrison at Fort Edward. Resigned after the expulsion of the Acadians. Word has it that he was forced out under a cloud.”

“I … I may have heard some mention, m'lord.”

“Of course you have.” Keeping his voice light, his tone airy, as though they were discussing the weather on a kind summer day, Charles turned his own gaze toward the fire, seeking to hide his sudden eagerness. “I understand that my brother went off to the American colonies for a time. He and his wife, apparently. A woman he met and wed there in Fort Edward. Boston, I believe, was their destination.”

But the young man's attention had been snagged early on. “Did you say
brother
, m'lord?”

“Indeed, yes. Andrew Harrow is my only brother.” It cost Charles dearly to hold to his light tone, but he had no choice. No choice but to hide the shame and endure the dreadful voyage and come to a place he had sworn never to visit. All for a brother who had been the greatest threat Charles had ever known, a man he had vowed he would never see again. How wrong he had been. About so many things. But Charles kept his voice easy as he spoke to the fire. “Andrew studied at a seminary in Boston. I have received a letter from the head of the school confirming that, and the fact that Andrew returned here to Nova Scotia. But since then I have lost track of him.”

“Governor Lawrence did mention something about a … a former captain who carries your name,” Winston Groom acknowledged with obvious reluctance.

“I thought perhaps he had. I
hoped
as much.” Casually Charles reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a drawstring pouch of softest leather. He caressed the hide, causing the gold sovereigns within to clink together. “I was wondering if I might ask a favor, young Groom.”

“Anything, m'lord.” The pasty-faced man's eyes fastened on the pouch and its tinkling music. “Anything at all.”

Charles bounced the pouch within his hand so that the weight was evident. “I am here to find my brother Andrew. I need to know where to look.”

“Governor Lawrence said he'd heard nothing of the man since the expulsion, m'lord. That was eighteen years ago.”

“Indeed.” He bounced the pouch a second time. “But a resourceful young man, one with ambition and a desire to better his position, no doubt might have ways and means of finding out more.”

“I … perhaps … yes, m'lord.” Winston Groom licked his lips. “I think I might know where to start.”

“Then might I offer this paltry sum to help further the search.” Charles passed over the pouch and watched in amusement as bony fingers eagerly sought to count the sovereigns through the leather. “I will double that amount if you can determine my brother's where-abouts within the week.”

Chapter 2

“Here. Let me get out here.”

“I can take you closer.”

“No. Please, Jean, stop here before …” Nicole let her voice trail off.

But she knew Jean understood when he finished angrily, “Before the village sees you with me.”

“Not the village.” Nicole kept her tone steady because she did not want another argument. “My parents. And you know if one person sees us together, my parents will know before I reach home.”

As her eyes swept over his face, she knew Jean Dupree was incensed by her request. But he did as he was told. He was as skilled with the flat-bottomed skiff as he was with a gun, a bow, a fishing pike, or a net. Jean Dupree was the only man in all of Vermilionville who could compete with Nicole's father at hunting or fishing. Every festival where there were shooting competitions, one or the other man always won. But this rivalry was not why Nicole hid her frequent rendezvous with Jean Dupree. Not at all.

Jean paddled the skiff over to a spot where the riverbank was clear of undergrowth. Nicole stepped lightly from the skiff's bow onto dry land. She turned and gave him her warmest smile. “I had a wonderful time with you today.”

Thankfully, the smile worked its magic, and Jean's anger faded as quickly as a summer squall. “Tell me.”

“Oh, Jean.”

His brow furrowed, but this time in play. “Tell me, Nicole.”

“I love you with all my heart,” she said, the French words rolling lyrically off her tongue. For a moment she believed them.

“And now tell me you will be my wife.”

The words were there, ready to be spoken, finally out and said and the step taken—after putting him off for almost six months and enduring countless arguments because of this. But as she opened her mouth to speak, a veil of warning seemed to drape itself across her heart. Soft as the Spanish moss that hung overhead, quiet as the call of doves on the bayou. But it was enough to still her speech before she had begun. She closed her mouth, and her face must have betrayed her anguish.

Jean was a man of great passion and strong moods. His anger could flash like summer lightning, his eyes cloud like dark thunder. But now he did not look angry. Only weary. And this was the worst of all. “You must decide, Nicole.”

“Soon. I promise.” Yet this time it was not enough. The words had been said so often they held no strength for either of them. “Jean, I am afraid of your friends,” she finally forced out through lips stiff with her inner turmoil.

She had said this before as well. But not often. For to challenge his friends was to challenge Jean Dupree himself. Yet again there was no anger. “I am what I am, Nicole.”

“Yes, and it is Jean Dupree I love. Dearly.” She reached for a low-hanging branch so she could ease closer to the bank. “My Jean has a soft side and a large heart. He laughs and he sings and he loves me.”

“My friends sing.”

“Yes, but all their songs are of blood and battle. They sing of vengeance.”

“You hate the English as much as I do. As much as any of us.”

She wondered why she was even trying to explain. Nicole knew he was not going to change, that he would not give up his friends, even for her. A blade of sunlight pierced the tangle of branches overhead, falling green and golden upon the Vermilion River's slow-moving surface. Nicole had the sudden impression that she was not saying all this again to change Jean at all. Instead, she was saying it to explain why they must part.

The sudden pain was so strong that it was a physical wrench in her heart. She leaned over farther still to plead, “Jean, your friends are dangerous. They rob the newcomers, French and Spanish and English alike. No, don't argue, for once, please, I beg you. Listen to what I am saying.”

And for once he did. As though he too sensed a shift in the sultry late-April wind and knew that change was soon in coming. He laid the paddle across his knees and remained silent. Still. Watchful.

“You are two-natured. My mother has said it countless times. I argued with her because I always thought she meant you were weak. But that's not it; I see it now for myself. You are truly as she says, Jean. You have a very good side. You have a great heart and a smile to match. You are strong and good and would make a fine husband.”

He watched her with the stillness of a hunter. His entire being seemed focused upon her as she stood on the bank. “But?”

“Yes. But there is your other nature as well.” She took a breath. “I say this because I love you, Jean. You have a dark side.”

This time he did not shout and leave, nor did he deny what before he had refused even to hear. “No one who has lived through what I have could survive without a dark side.”

“My father has.” She said this simply, not in condemnation but in the sadness of acceptance. Nicole was forcing herself to see all the reasons why her parents had refused to consider a courtship of their daughter by the dashing Jean Dupree. “My father and my mother both. They trekked for eight years before finally coming here. You know the story as well as I do. We were some of the first Acadian settlers to arrive in Louisiana. When we came, there was nothing. Less even than when you arrived. No, please, Jean, don't argue. Not this time. I beg you.”

Her heartfelt entreaty must have broken through to him because he said, “Say your piece.”

The air seemed stifling, as though she were locked in August heat and not an April afternoon. Nicole struggled to find the breath to continue. “If you stay with your friends, they will change you. When you are with them, your dark side comes out. And I do not love you then, Jean. I fear you. You seem to drink in their evil and anger and love of danger. When I see you with them, I think you are able to do anything.”