Digital ISBNs
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Kindle 9781772998528
WEB 9781772998535
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Copyright 2018 by Diane Parkinson
Canadian Historical Brides Collection
Copyright 2018 BWL Publishing Inc.
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Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
BWL Publishing Inc. dedicates the Canadian Historical Brides collection to the immigrants, male and female, who left their homes and families, crossed oceans and endured unimaginable hardships in order to settle the Canadian wilderness and build new lives in a rough and untamed country.
BWL Publishing acknowledges the Government of Canada and the Canada Book Fund for its financial support in creating the Historical Brides of Canada collection.
I also want to thank the helpful people at the New Brunswick Museum who provided information and rare documents
Jennifer Longon
Gary Hughes
Ruth Cox
The British merchantman dropped anchor in a rattle of clanks and Amelia Latimer rushed to the rail, her breath held. From the ship’s deck, she scrutinized the port of Parr Town in its jagged harbour off the Bay of Fundy. Father should be here to meet her.
A gust of wind swept loamy scents into her nose, masking the briny ocean and the stink of the mildewed cabin she’d lived in all these weeks. She gripped the teak with gloved hands. The voyage was over. Dread tinged with curiosity rippled through her at what awaited her on shore.
Sailors aloft continued to furl the sails. Their chatter echoed over the water.
Amelia’ hair and clothing crackled with salt when she shifted for a better look. The town was a jumble of log buildings in front of steep, reddish-hued cliffs that jutted up along the craggy shore. Most of the one-storied structures appeared slapped together. This colony, once known as Acadia, comprised the western portion of Nova Scotia. It looked so primitive. She bit down on her lip and prayed she hadn’t made a huge mistake.
Waves slapped the ship’s hull, then roiled against the slimy quay as men emerged from warehouses, calling to the people on-board. The ship rocked and creaked like an old carriage. Amelia widened her stance as she’d learned, while the sailors secured the lines.
The captain’s wife, Mrs. Hubble, walked up beside her. “We’ve arrived, my dear. And all in one piece.” The older woman, small and delicate, had served as Amelia’s chaperone on the ship. “I hope you won’t be disappointed by the remoteness of this colony.”
“I’m certain I’ll find plenty to like.” Amanda’s hopes floated around her, fragile as paper. Nerves twitched beneath her surface calm. She stretched up on tiptoe, but didn’t see her father among the increasing people, the numerous soldiers, who gathered on the quay. Their voices rose and fell in various accents. “I don’t mind new experiences.”
An untamed land, where heathen tribes lurked, spread out before them in the tepid August air. Tall pines, among clusters of birch and maple, on the hills beyond, speared their tips into a grey sky. A pity her new domicile would be so far from her home in Plymouth, England—so far from her ailing mother. She fought a shiver.
“The hordes of refugees from the American war seem to have enlarged the town already.” The woman gave her a fleeting smile as if relieved she wouldn’t have to stay. She patted Amelia’s arm. “This colony is still a dangerous wilderness. Your fortitude will be tested, in many ways.”
“Indeed, I’m sure it will.” Amelia tightened the ribbon under her chin to busy her fingers. Compared to the stone firmness of Plymouth, Parr Town was a ramshackle village that looked as if a strong wind might blow it away. Could she make a good life here, with a stranger?
The ship’s gangway was lowered with a thud to the wharf.
She sighed and had to remain steadfast. At four and twenty, she was well down the road to spinsterhood. But her father had the cure for that malady. An officer, a widower with two children, anxious for a wife, housekeeper, and child-minder. Her uncertain destiny.
Amelia turned to her chaperone. She stood a head taller than Mrs. Hubble. Tall and skinny, like a willow switch as her brother had often teased. “I want to thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Hubble. You made the journey so much easier for me.”
“The captain and I quite enjoyed your company.” Mrs. Hubble looked up with a sympathetic expression. “I trust you’ll find your ‘arrangement’ here satisfactory.”
“At least one of mutual respect, I daresay.” Amelia nodded, unable to form any more appropriate words on that subject. What could one say about being—steeped in a dollop of wry and desperate humour—the sacrificial lamb?
Additional people gathered on shore, shouting, crying out, excited about the supplies the ship carried, no doubt. Salt, wine, nails, shovels, and much more.
“We must unload quickly, long before the bay’s unpredictable tide decides to turn,” Mrs. Hubble said. “The water can drop forty feet out in the main bay when it goes out to the Atlantic. And this can be the foggiest of ports, even in summer. You should return below and make ready to disembark.” She pressed Amelia’s shoulder. “Good luck to you in everything, my dear.”
Below decks, the tiny, canvas-draped cabin she re-entered reeked of mould and body odour. The wood-framed room had offered little privacy.
Amelia forced a smile on her maid, Louise. “Let’s make haste and abandon this fetid dungeon.” She’d be glad to see the last of their accommodation and hurried her maid along in packing. “I long for decent food without dead worms in it.”
“What do the place look like? Is Captain Latimer waiting for us, Miss?” The girl folded and stuffed the clothing they’d washed in salt water the previous day into a trunk. Louise was only fifteen, and a little timid, but she was sweet and reliable. She’d been with Amelia for two years. They’d both suffered sea-sickness, and had depended on one another during the eight-week voyage.
“I didn’t notice Father, but there are many soldiers on shore. I pray he hasn’t forgotten me.” Amelia spoke glibly, but she hadn’t seen her father in years. What would their reunion be like? And might the lieutenant, her beau, be with him? No, too soon. She scratched at her prickly bodice. “The port isn’t as established as Plymouth.”
She stacked her books in quick movements in another trunk, on top of her clothing. Several herbal accounts were among them. What unique flora would she find here? She planned to cultivate medicinal plants. Would she have to hide her love of reading and other interests from her Intended? Smart women were seldom appreciated. However, if she was fortunate, he might be a man who encouraged learning, and perhaps they’d share lively discussions.
“Did you see any of them savages or Frenchies up top, Miss?” Louise asked, her hazel eyes wide with apprehension as she sat on the trunk lid to push down the contents.
“Not a one. Don’t worry, the military will protect us.” Amelia grinned, perhaps too broadly, at her maid. After all, the girl had been ripped from her family and country, too. “I’ll keep you safe as well. Mayhap I might even learn to fire a flintlock pistol.”
Amelia tamped down her qualms, which mostly concerned this groom her father had picked out for her. She longed to make her own choices, though women were rarely granted that privilege, and strained to suppress her aversion to this untenable position.
Lt. Harris was nearly forty. Was he handsome or ugly? Weathered from a life in the army, or pasty from sitting behind a desk. Would he like her? Would she like him?
She stifled a groan. She really didn’t want to marry an unknown man, but her mother, so ill with consumption, had lamented her plain daughter’s lack of suitors, her poor prospects. Also, her modest dowry deterred many. After much discussion, Mother had convinced her to undertake this long expedition. Amelia cared little for wedded bliss, but at last agreed to the match, just to see her parent’s contented visage.
“I hope my mother continues to drink the Lungwort tea I cultured and prepared for her.” A tea good for chest complaints—though it wouldn’t delay the inevitable. Throat thick, Amelia latched her trunk and was certain she’d never see Mother again, so distant in this outpost. She swiped an errant tear from her eye.
Footsteps pounded overhead, and up the many ladders. The sailors prepared the ship.
“I’m sure she will, Miss.” Louise dragged a trunk toward the canvas opening. Her curly blonde hair sprang out from her white cap. “You is good with your herbals. I know you do fret ‘bout Mrs. Latimer.”
“Very much, yet fretting solves little. We must look ahead, mustn’t we?” Amelia buckled closed a valise. She couldn’t allow her spirits to sag. In truth, she’d sought an adventure, a life away from the routine of England, where young women were ‘expected’ to behave in a stultifying fashion. If only her mother had been well enough to accompany her. Her parents might share a life again.
Shoulders stiffened, she called to two passing sailors to carry their trunks topside. She inhaled a slow breath. Off she went to meet her fate. Head high, she’d show herself as the best of bartered goods.
Out on deck, Amelia, with Louise, descended the gangway. A slap of wind whipped at her skirt as she searched the crowd. Her father, Captain George Latimer, emerged and approached them. He waved, his smile expectant. Her heart lifted to burst as she pushed through people to be swallowed into his embrace. The bergamot smell of his familiar cologne calmed her slightly. The medals on his scarlet tunic with buff lapels, cuffs and collar, scraped against her chest. He wasn’t much taller than she, but he had towering brothers—a trait she’d unfortunately inherited.
No other officer was with him, to her relief.
Louise trailed behind, scanning the port town as if a hatchet-wielding aboriginal might jump out at any moment. Commotion from the many inhabitants and the stevedores preparing to offload the ship jostled around them, along with pungent sweat.
“My dear, my dear. I’m so glad you’ve arrived. But you look a little gaunt. Are you well?” Father held her at arm’s length, glancing over her dull green sack dress. She was hardly the swan he might have wished for.
She almost replied she always looked gaunt. “I’m quite well, Father. It was an arduous voyage.” In the nearly three years of their separation, he appeared thinner, more lines in a ruddy face, though his eyes were still bright blue. His lean, angular visage matched hers. “How are you?”
“Getting on, my dear, getting on, as we all must do. Very busy with all the changes here.” Greying hair peeked out from under Father’s trim white wig, topped by a cocked black uniform hat.
“We’ll have infinite time to visit, and catch up.” Amelia counted on not meeting her betrothed for a few days. She tucked a loose strand of the hair her mother bemoaned as mousy brown behind her ear, her straw hat ruffling in the breeze. She swayed slightly, her legs feeling as if she still manoeuvred the heaving ship. How gratifying to stand on an immobile surface.
Louise attended the trunks that were unloaded, her pixie face half-hidden in her lilac-coloured bonnet.
“Well, I’m happy you’re with me and safe. Let’s get you settled in.” Father directed them toward a cart, where a driver, a young soldier, sat on the front bench. Porters loaded the trunks. “How is your dear mother? She tells me little of herself in her letters.”
Amelia hesitated. She had blamed her father for leaving their mother for so long, but his army service must come first. He’d told his family to stay in Plymouth, the distance here too great. Regret pressed down on her. She doubted the captain would ever see his wife again, either.
“She’s not in the best of health, and is very weak, but insists that you not worry.” Mother had pleaded with Amelia not to tell him how sick she was; her facial skin stretched over bones- the blood in the handkerchiefs more frequent. Did her father, so caught up in his career, ever worry about those he’d left in England?
“Ah, that does sound like my stalwart Margaret. I’m sure she’ll recover.” Father flicked her a glance. Was there a hint of guilt in that look? Or did she only wish it to be so? “And William, he thrives, I trust? He doesn’t write as much as I might wish.” He helped her into the cart behind the driver.
“He is quite occupied and enjoying Oxford.” More the camaraderie of his fellows than the studies, she didn’t say. Her heart warmed thinking of her scamp of a brother, four years younger and dear to her, despite his teasing. On the hard bench, she arrayed her small panniers that pushed out her skirt.
People in rough clothing bustled about the town, men with scruffy beards, women in dull scarves. Several inhabitants were dressed finer, but looked out of place—like bone-china among wooden trenchers.
Many Negroes were among the population, their dark faces standing out against the pale.
A burly man rolled a hogshead by them, nearly crushing a child of about twelve, who cried out in anger. Two men argued, hands flailing in the air. A swarthy native strutted by wearing feathers and beads, a powder horn strung over his shoulder.
Amelia studied them all, wondering how she’d fit in here. Louise’s eyes looked about to pop from her head as she hunkered with the luggage in the cart bed.
“The population has increased greatly since last year.” Father sat beside Amelia. “Thousands of British citizens fleeing the American Revolution have poured in. Because of their loyalty to King George, their property was seized by the devil Patriots.” He grunted, as if the humiliation of losing the lucrative American colonies, as stated in his letters, still plagued him.
“At home, we prayed our army and navy would crush the rebellion, but then…” Amelia squeezed his fingers. Their defeat had been a great shock for England.
“These Loyalists have succeeded in forming a government separate from Halifax, the capital further east. They’re building many homes and businesses. Our settlement is growing quickly.” Father raised a hand and instructed the driver to start forward. “But I won’t bore you with the details.”
Wood frames poked up all around them, logs dragged, and hammers pounding. Sawdust floated in the air.
“Oh, Father, you’re aware I’m not an addle-brained female.” Amelia rocked as the cart moved through the people along a pitted road. She already knew much of the background, thanks to Mrs. Hubble and her ship’s captain husband, and what she’d garnered in Plymouth. The refugees wanted to form a British base in Nova Scotia.
“This colony will be a buttress against rebel expansion.” Amelia used the kerchief around her throat to brush sawdust from her face. An iciness slid down her spine that Lt. Harris might be watching her from afar. “I—I heard this section will have a new name. What will it be called?”
“You have been keeping up with reports.” Father sounded surprised. “We await the official word on the name. These newcomers, forced here under duress, insist on taking over this portion of land west of the Isthmus of Chignecto. No one trusts the bureaucrats in Halifax who once appeased the rebels.” He pointed with his finger. “There is where we’re headed.”
Fort Howe stood on an exposed limestone knoll that loomed over the harbour and a river that flowed into the bay. The view of it on the majestic hill took Amelia’s breath away. Would it be a prison or a haven?
“British soldiers built the fort seven years ago, to defend this port from American Privateers coming up to raid the hamlets along the Saint John River,” Father said.
“Are we in danger now even with the war finished?” Amelia glanced about again. She recalled Mrs. Hubble’s words, and decided she might need that pistol.
“Not at the moment, however, this is a frontier full of challenges.” Father’s smile wavered. The cart hit a bump in the road. “The King’s American Dragoons, comprised of Loyalists, were sent here to build roads. You can see more work is needed. Many of the militia have been sent farther north to settle the land around the Pokiok River.”
So many new places to learn about, Amelia mused.
Their cart, pulled by two dun-coloured horses, trundled up a slope past small, plain log houses. A child chased a scruffy dog down the incline, both with mud-encrusted feet. Then the cart began its ascent on a winding road that zigzagged precariously up the knoll and to the fort. Amelia grasped the cart bench, darting a gaze down the sheer cliff.
Louise had her eyes squeezed shut.
Three soldiers followed them on horseback. They glanced at Louise, their whispers suggestive and sly. They’d given Amelia the familiar dismissive air she was used to from men.
She tensed on the bench seat, vexed that women were only worth anything if they were pretty. She must rise above such idiotic prejudices. Soon she would have the protection of a husband. Fingers white on the bench, she wondered why that idea did not comfort her.
* * *
Gilbert Arsenault lowered his small telescope. Atop a cliff above Parr Town, blasts of salty wind off the harbour battered his face and whipped the black mane of his horse. A merchantman had docked below. Great Britain’s manufactured goods would be traded for raw materials and foodstuffs in the colony. To sustain the English invaders with provisions in his land—the land of his ancestors.
He shifted on Vaillant’s saddle. The buckskin stallion snorted and Gilbert patted the beast’s golden neck. He jerked his hat low and stroked his thick beard. A disguise to keep him inconspicuous, skirting the fringe, apart from the British—unless he was conducting his business.
He scanned the construction around the harbour, where hammers and saws banged and ground, the buildings spreading out in the Lower Cove that pointed out into the bay. Last year, the Loyalists from America had created the towns of Parr Town and Carlton, which faced each other across the Saint John River.
“Our country is altering again, and it doesn’t bode well for us, mon ami,” he said to his horse, an animal who usually agreed with him. “So many English swarming up here. Thy are already demanding acreage, advantages.”
He glanced toward the fort, then turned the horse around and galloped into the woods. The resin smell of the pines entered his nose. He smiled, enjoying the scent. A reminder of his youth, playing in the dense woods. Later, he found out from his maman—who warned him the English were devious people—that they were in hiding. He’d been so young he didn’t remember the worst years. Most of the Acadian expulsion began before he was conceived, or still in his mother’s belly. Ships had sailed in and hauled off his people to unknown fates.
The Roman Catholic Acadians believed everything was the mysterious plan of God, and they must accept it. But though he was raised Catholic, that perception gave him trouble, his piety never robust.
His hand tightened on the pommel as Vaillant moved beneath him. Maman’s stories had kept him mesmerized and wary. His caution remained. He didn’t trust the soldiers who spilled like drops of blood over the terrain. In the past, every time he’d spotted a scarlet tunic his gut clenched, remembering the tale of his mother’s mistreatment, her disgrace.
Gilbert slowed his mount. Sadness draped over him for this nation he loved. The colony was always caught in the middle of battles fought elsewhere, a tug-of-war between France and England. In the previous century, the French had set up fishing and fur-trading enterprises, but the stations were never permanent. As a young boy Gilbert had learned well the skills of a trapper, then as a man he became a trader. He scoffed. The English and those new Americans to the south cherished their beaver hats.
He stopped his horse and inspected an empty trap, though he no longer dealt in this part of the fur trade. Bits of grey fur and gore, which resembled squirrel, clung to the ugly contraption’s teeth.
Three Mountain Bluebirds flapped overhead, chasing insects. Gilbert watched their brilliant azure bodies skimming through the air. His mood lifted at the rustic simplicity of nature.
A loud crack of a twig. Gilbert whirled around, his hand on his pistol. A man in a long, red coat scowled at him, musket raised.
The young soldier stood a few yards away, musket lowered now. “What are you doing, mister? I saw you spying on the port.” He walked forward through the grass in his high black boots. Bland features stern, he wore a uniform minus the epaulets of an officer. He looked to be a mere private.
“I was observing the supply ship. I own a trading post.” Gilbert stared at the soldier, masking his disgust. Of course, the man was far too young to have been part of the English who’d ravaged the Acadian settlements thirty years ago. He cursed himself for not noticing the enemy lurking so close.
“You’re French.” The private said it with scorn, fingers tightening on the musket.
“Mais oui.” While Gilbert’s English was perfect, he knew he carried a strong accent, which he never bothered to tame. “I’m Acadien, a descendant of the original French immigrants.” He sat taller in his saddle.
“I wouldn’t boast of your useless heritage.” The soldier snickered. “We destroyed your fleet, took over your forts. You have no business here.”
“And you British had no right to ruin what we created.” Gilbert’s anger heated inside, but he made an effort to curb his temper. “Nor to slay innocent people.”
“The victor always gets the spoils.” The private grinned. “Soon this land will be full of more British settlements, more soldiers. And you’ll be run out again.”
Gilbert hated his fears being revealed. The young man was an ass, an animal useless to argue with, yet Gilbert couldn’t resist a taunt. “Why are you so far from the fort, alone? Derelict in your duty, non?”
The soldier’s face seared red. He raised his musket once more.
“Vous arrêtez.” Gilbert drew out his pistol. He should have resisted. “Young man, I’d advise you to put that down. Do you want to cause more commotion, in the midst of this chaos caused by your scarpering countrymen?” He aimed the gun. “And I seldom miss when I fire.”
The soldier’s mouth quivered. He finally lowered his weapon. “Get out of here, you frog-eater!”
Gilbert flicked a finger on his hat brim, aware the youth, practically a boy, was a coward. Bullies usually were. He kicked Vaillant into a gallop, hooves flinging dirt high in the air. His thigh muscles gripped the horse’s sides.
“Mon Dieu,” Gilbert muttered to himself as he clung to his undulating horse. He wouldn’t risk killing a soldier just for an insult, as satisfying as that might be.
Would the young man feel the same and not shoot him in the back?
Farther along, among a copse of birch trees, he slowed. He comforted himself with the idea that this encroachment of civilization would increase trade, with the additional people to feed and clothe. He vowed to grab whatever opportunities might come his way.
Something scrabbled in the trees. More soldiers? Cougars roamed these forests, limber cats that scaled and crawled along the tree-limbs. A low growl. He scanned the area, even more on alert, but saw nothing.
Gilbert urged Vaillant to a canter. The hard ride had soothed him. He often wondered if he was a man too caught up in yesteryear. His encounter with the private sharpened his acrimony, though Maman always said one must change with the situation—though she too harboured resentments. He still wasn’t certain where his allegiance lay. His fingers twisted at the leather reins. He was sure of one thing. No foreign invaders from the south would destroy his home and livelihood.
* * *
“Lieutenant Harris looks forward to meeting you,” Father said when their cart entered the fort’s palisade, a wall of wooden stakes made from tree trunks embedded in the ground and sharpened at the top. The guard saluted.
“I look forward to meeting him as well.” A little lie. Amelia wouldn’t mind delaying the introduction until she became accustomed to this new environment. She was curious about him, even with her stomach in knots at the prospect. Could she make this marriage work, cultivate a companion who would cherish her? A wife was expected to keep a happy, calm home for her husband and never criticize. Hands clamped together on her lap, she’d make certain her feelings mattered as well.
The cart was driven through an open expanse where soldiers and others busily went about the fort’s duties. Each officer they passed might be Harris. She kept her eyes forward as much as possible.
She heard the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, and inhaled fragrant bread baking. A barracks and block house sat at the western end, and another blockhouse at the eastern. Her father pointed out that the coastal end of the Appalachian Mountains formed a part of the fortifications. They stopped in front of a simple, two-story wooden dwelling, among other buildings of similar size all shoved together. The soldiers carried the trunks inside. A woman in a white apron and cap met them at the door.
“This is Mrs. Fulton, my housekeeper,” Father said.
Mrs. Fulton’s old, weathered face smiled. She nodded to Amelia. “Very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss.” Her thin form stepped aside for them to enter. The quarters smelled clean, like beeswax.
In a tiny upstairs room, Amelia and Louise arranged the trunks’ contents. Their clothing into the clothes press, personal items in and onto a dresser. Louise would have to sleep on a truckle bed, as the house was too small for her to have her own space.
“Now that we’re here, I’m extra nervous about my betrothal.” Amelia placed a pair of slippers in a drawer of the press. Her heart twinged. “I suppose it didn’t seem so real until now.”
“I do pray this Lieutenant Harris be a good man for you.” Louise dropped their dirty laundry in a pile, then shook out shifts and gowns before folding them again.
“Your desires are the same as mine.” Amelia stared out the window’s wavy pane, which overlooked the fort’s parade ground and wondered how long she’d be in her father’s home. “I think the lieutenant and I should take time to get to know one another before any wedding is planned.”
“Aye, to be sure, Miss.” Louise stopped her folding, her mouth in a frown. “This be a rocky land with strange folk.”
“Rugged people, to be sure. And the town isn’t much, but at least it’s being improved.” Amelia placed handkerchiefs in a dresser drawer. She caught her reflection in the mirror above it. Her thoughts returned to Lt. Harris. Had Father informed him his daughter was no beauty?
Her face was long and narrow, her mouth small and chin rather pointed. One of her brother’s friends had called her a stork. Her skin prickled. Boys could be so cruel. What if she disillusioned the lieutenant, and he turned her away?
She’d stewed much over this alliance after her mother received the letter from Father, suggesting the marriage. This might be her last chance to have a family, Mother had cajoled. Would Amelia be a good, compliant wife, and a loving parent to children who’d already lost their own mother?
Could she be nurturing to this family? She’d learned not to bother with flirting and was known to be outspoken. She had little idea how to please a prospective husband.
A knock at the door. Louise opened it.
“Beg your pardon, Miss Latimer, but Lieutenant Harris is downstairs in the parlour,” Mrs. Fulton said. Her eyes showed a hint of disapproval; whether for Amelia or the lieutenant, she wasn’t certain. Then a flash of pity appeared. “Captain Latimer requests you attend them.”
No time to change her traveling clothes, to clean up? Her face heated. This seemed rude and presumptuous. Already she was being treated as a commodity of little value. Or was Harris only an eager suitor?
“Tell my father I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Teeth clenched, she glanced at Louise. The girl quickly undid Amelia’s bun, brushed her hair, pinned it back up, then brushed the dirt off her clothing. Amelia washed her hands and face in the ewer on the washstand. The cool water refreshed, but her pulse thumped.
Walking slowly down the stairs, she took a deep breath and entered the parlour. Her father stood near a fireplace with another man of medium build, also in uniform, his back to her.
“It’s our tenuous luck that the provincial army settling up the Saint John River aided in inducing Halifax to make this a separate colony,” Father was saying.
“I hope only quality people are settled here, no criminals.” Lt. Harris had a dry voice.
Father turned. “Ah, here is my daughter. John, may I introduce Miss Amelia Latimer.” Father reached out his arm. She felt presented like meat on a platter. “Amelia, this is Lieutenant John Harris.”
Lt. Harris faced her. He nodded. No smile touched his thin-lipped mouth. His grey eyes were chilly in his square face. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Latimer.” His tone sounded flat.
Any warmth was sucked from the room. Her heart sank. Was she to have a husband she had to unfreeze like well water in January?
“I’m pleased as well, sir.” She made a slight curtsey.
Father rubbed his hands together, his smile tight. “I’m delighted to bring you two together for this auspicious meeting. I must attend to a few errands. I’m involved in settling the disbanded officers from the States. They’re promised land but don’t yet have it, a quagmire. I’ll give you time to get acquainted. Mrs. Fulton will serve tea.” He left the room.
Amelia tried not to glare after him. He should have stayed to ease her way.
Lt. Harris gestured toward a triple-back sofa. “Please be seated, Miss Latimer.”
She did so, her back straight as a broomstick. She tried a smile on him, with no effect. He averted his gaze for a moment. The knot in her stomach doubled. This was going to be harder than she thought. Was he already disappointed by what he saw?
She fought a twinge of irritation, yet was determined to rise to the challenge. “I hope you and your family are well.”
“We are.” Harris sat in a chair in front of her. His red tunic was similar to her father’s and smelled of pipe smoke. He too wore a small white wig. The face beneath had lines around the eyes, but he wasn’t bad to look upon. “I like to get right to business. I’m certain your father has written to you that I’ve been a widower for the past two years. My mourning period is completed. I have two sons, eleven and fourteen years of age. They need a mother. I need someone to keep my house in an orderly fashion.”
Not exactly what she wished to hear in their initial conversation. “Yes, I do understand, and can’t wait to meet your—”
“I like things in strict, military precision, no frivolous undertakings, the children kept in line, clean and devoted to their studies.” He tapped his fingers like drumbeats on his grey trousers.
Uneasiness washed over Amelia. Her pulse quickened again. Perhaps his first wife had thrown herself out of a window.
“You are a man of discerning taste.” She had to make this work, she’d promised her mother, and travelled so far. Despite that, Amelia’s hands fidgeted in her lap.
“This is strictly a business arrangement for my convenience,” he went on. “With the political changes about to take place, I will be sent on important missions which may last for a week or two.”
No thoughts of her, no compassion or friendliness whatsoever. She strained to keep an open mind. “I’m certain we can find interests in common when we come to know one another better.”
“I’m not good at idle chitchat. A simple yes to the marriage will do.” He nodded again, waiting. “You’re quite undernourished-looking, and I understand your prospects are minimal, so you should be honoured by my offer.”
What a horrid man! Amelia stood, her blood curdling, cheeks hot. He had gone too far with those insults. She had to put him off, to gather her thoughts. “Thank you, sir. I will give you my answer in—three days.”
Now he stood, his brows lowered. “But I’d assumed this was all decided. I have plans to make. I don’t have time for tomfoolery or female giddiness.”
She fisted her hands behind her back. “You will have my answer soon, as I said. I’m rather tired after my lengthy voyage. I give you good day, sir.” Amelia turned to hide her scowl. Her brain a fog of confusion, she stalked out the parlour door, toward the stairs, almost knocking the tea tray from Mrs. Fulton’s hands.
Gilbert’s skirmish with the soldier bunched his muscles like twists in a rope as he galloped his horse over the low, moss and grass-covered hills and plateaus that were common to the colony’s interior—so different from the ragged, stony coastline.
He approached a grist mill and a cluster of small houses that overlooked the Kennebecasis River. The river spilled into Grand Bay twelve miles south, directly to the west of Parr Town. The mill was located a mile north of the village of Quispamsis, which had become swollen with Loyalists the year before. They crept like a fungus up every bay and river, claiming land as their right. Déjà vu!
The private’s words sliced back like sword jabs, “…and you’ll be run out again.”
The splash from the turning mill wheel made a rhythmic sound. The pretty aspect of the area should have cheered him, with hemlock, beech and red oak trees, the sunny goldenrod, and black huckleberry bushes whose sweet berries his mother baked into muffins. Tall stalks of fireweed trimmed the field’s edge with bright pink flowers. A grassy bank sloped to the flowing river.
His resolve intensified to protect it all. Thankful he could read English well, he devoured the journals and newssheets passed around to keep abreast of the changes looming.
He cantered Vaillant up to his mother’s home. Her dwelling was simple, constructed of tree trunks resting on thick mortar. Smoke swirled from the clay chimney, drifting above the roof’s cedar shingles. The British had torched most of the Acadians properties during the expulsion. This place was a replica. He dismounted, knocked then entered. The aroma of cooking chicken wafted over him. His stomach growled.
Marie-Cateline Arsenault, short and slender, bent over two pans in the smoke-stained hearth. She glanced over her shoulder. “So how is it, out in the world, mon fils?”
“What we feared, Maman. The Loyalists are demanding the best land and other privileges. England has even provided them funds and provisions for their forced exodus.” He removed his hat. “Our part of the colony’s break from Halifax is imminent. Different leaders will be in charge, and breathing down our necks.”
She turned to stare at him. A faded scarf covered her shoulders, a white cap sat on her still-dark hair—the deep black he’d inherited. She adjusted the front laces on the black bodice that she wore over a white shirt. Even at forty-six she remained an attractive woman.
“More trouble for us, oui. The Loyalists run from their defeat, hunted like dogs by the Americans. Demoralized by their ousting? They’ll have a taste of how we were treated.”
The Acadians, after refusing to take an oath to Britain, had been murdered, starved, or died from disease when chased from their homes.
“Our family refused to leave, and were fortunate to hide out on Boishébert Island.” She clomped in her wooden clogs, her sabots, to a wide table, picked up a large knife and began chopping onions. A well-stained apron covered her striped skirt. “Soon I was breeding with you.”
“And we survived by fishing.” Gilbert had heard her harrowing story many times over the years. The anguish evident in her voice when he was a child, before she’d risen above what had happened with a stoic hardness. Nine years after their exile—when he was nine himself—in 1764, small groups of Acadians were allowed to return to their demolished villages. Others settled in the often-flooded marshlands near Chignecto.
He walked over and leaned on the other side of the table, the pungent onions making him blink. “It’s ironic that the English who stormed in and slaughtered our kin now worry about the Loyalist incursion. As you say, ‘a taste’. Governor Parr has his hands full, but not for long. Though he protests the division of his colony.” Parr, a huge blob of a man over in Halifax, was disliked by many, and deemed too incompetent to handle the long, spread-out colony.
“These bouffon newcomers want their own kingdom.” She sounded partially amused as she swept the chopped onions to one side with the knife, then sliced the potatoes in smooth, even strokes. “Several are building grand manors along this coast instead of finding a way to support themselves.”
Gilbert frowned. “Already these men have set up a trading post at St. Andrews on Passamaquoddy Bay, dealing illegally with the rebels they fled from.” He shook his head. Near the colony of Maine, their country’s western boundary, the Loyalists were ‘trading the lines.’ “They ignore the Navigation Acts that forbid the United States from trading with British ships en-route to the islands.”
Nova Scotia was no longer America’s halfway point. Only English vessels were permitted to deliver to the British West Indies. Trouble was brewing, which might disrupt his trade.
Maman waved the knife in the air. “St. Andrews is many leagues away. We must focus right here. Not one of these intruders better set foot on my land. I won’t cower this time. I’m older and tougher.” She resumed chopping, her words pragmatic. “We’re supposed to believe it’s God’s will, but my blunderbuss will be oiled, loaded and ready.”
“I’d never allow you to be evicted or harmed again.” Gilbert gazed around the simple one-room house, always clean even with a hard-packed dirt floor. A cross hung on the wall over her bed. He’d acquired this acreage for her through his trading expertise. But land was being stolen or swapped back and forth with little care since last year.
He watched his mother once more. “We will have to be careful when the new governor arrives, to see what ‘privileges’ we’ll be allowed to keep. You must behave like a good Christian woman, and not shoot any soldiers.” He cocked his head, his smile an attempt at teasing.
She narrowed her eyes. “I used to fear you would be the one to fire on the army.”
He smirked to hide his true feelings. Gut tight, he might reconsider that action after today, though she’d always warned him against thoughts of revenge to defend her long-lost honour. Defence, survival, now those were altogether different reasons.
“These English forget that we built the dykes to tame the high tides that irrigate the hayfields. We improved this colony. The past is past, but this time I will fight to keep the present.” She removed the browned pieces of chicken from the pots, tossed in the onion chunks and sautéed them. She added flour and stirred. Then transferring the chicken and onion to a larger pot with the potatoes, water and carrots, she sprinkled in salt, pepper and fresh summer savoury. “Will you join in and feast on my Chicken Fricot?”
The delicious smells enticed him, even through the morass of his worries. Despite his willpower, everything could be snatched away. He gripped the rough-hewn table he’d built for her.
“As much as I would like to, I can’t stay. I know you need to feed the mill workers.” He straightened, keeping his expression calm to placate. His mother made her living providing food for the workers. She also created and mended clothing, and grew vegetables and hay to sell. He filled with tenderness. “I only came to check on you. I must go down to the post.”
“If you were married, you’d have a wife waiting for you with a hot meal, non?” Lowering the huge iron pot on a hook nearer the flames, she gave him another quick glance over her shoulder. “You are almost thirty. Time to start a family. I want grandchildren.”
Gilbert was surprised by the pinch in his chest. He thought he’d come to terms with his loss. Now her face swam before him. Monique, pretty as a porcelain doll. The girl he almost married three years ago. The remembered pain had kept him from courting anyone else, or it was a good excuse to remain focused on his business.
With a deep breath, he replaced his hat and bowed to his mother. “When I find someone to care about, I might do that. Bonjour, dearest Maman.” He kissed her cheek, walked to the door and opened it.
Outside, the warm air washed away the tantalizing scents of his mother’s kitchen. The hayfield rippled in the breeze thirty feet away. He heard a heavy rustling in that grass, about to flower, soon to be harvested with the hamlet scything the crop. Gilbert walked closer. A man was bent over, creeping through the field, obviously trying to remain concealed.
“Arrêt! Who goes there?” Gilbert demanded.
The swish of footsteps hurried away. Gilbert plunged into the sweet smell of grass that brushed below his chest. Two sets of footfalls sounded as he pursued the other person, pushing stalks out of his way. He drew near and saw a native in an elk-skin tunic belted around his waist.
The Mi’kmaq stopped and faced him, his dark face in a grimace under the blackest of thick hair. “Why do you chase me?” He spoke in French, a bow and arrow gripped in his hands.
“Why are you sneaking about in my mother’s crop?” Gilbert halted, the trampled grasses flattened under his feet. He slowed his breathing.
“I am getanatl—stalking prey. This grass is a good cover.” The younger man lowered his bow with its moose antler nock. “I asked your mother not to mow it, but soon she insists she will.” The brave raised his chin, his eyes piercing.
“She must mow. She sells the hay to earn money.” Gilbert spread his legs apart, arms crossed. “You should understand that. Your tribe has usually worked alongside we Acadians.”
“We all must survive.” He sliced one arm in an arc through the air. “Once this land belonged to everyone, to share among the ‘People’ until the French then English came and divided it up the way they wished.”
“The French have always been your allies. We’ve worked closely with your tribe in fishing and farming.” Gilbert brushed loose chaff from his clothes. “I agree, the British foreigners have damaged our way of life.”
“Not so foreign for you.” The native scrutinized him. “You claim to be Acadian, but some say you aren’t pure. You are a half-breed. Half English.”
Gilbert clenched his jaw, though he’d heard this insult throughout his life. The severe jolt it once caused had faded to a strong nudge over the years. He pressed his knuckles into the sides of his leather breeches and kept his words neutral. “I ask you to leave my mother’s crops alone.”
“You better be careful. A fine-clothed British man has asked about who owns your trading post, about the land it sits on. That’s a warning for you.” The young brave swished his way through the grass and headed into the forest.
“Merde.” Gilbert swiped the grass aside and strode for his horse, his mind churning.
* * *
Amelia resisted slamming the bedroom door after her hustle up the stairs. Closing it, she leaned against the hard surface and moaned. She massaged a muscle on the side of her neck, the pain acute.
“Oh, my, what’s amiss?” Louise left the clothes press and approached, her gaze full of concern.
“I…I cannot marry that man.” Amelia’s words came out raspy, stunned. Her entire purpose for being in the colony had crumbled to dust. “He’s despicable.”
Louise took her arm and led her to a chair. “Come and sit, Miss. You look about to faint.”
Amelia dropped into the upholstered chair and wheezed in her breath. A headache started. “What will I tell Father? How could he have chosen such a man for me?”
“What did the lieutenant do?” Louise knelt before her, stroking Amelia’s hand. The girl smelled like the lavender sachets, provided by Mrs. Fulton, she’d been putting among Amelia’s clothing. “Shall I fetch a feather to burn, Miss?”
Amelia rubbed her temples. “No, I promise not to faint—I never faint. There’s a possibility I might scream, though.” Her eyes grew moist. “Lieutenant Harris is a cold, calculating martinet. I tried my best, but he has no kindness in him. I am nothing more than a ‘business’ arrangement, undeserving of even a shred of compassion. He could have at least pretended to be civil to me.”
“La, Miss. How terrible. You deserve better, ’tis true.” Louise stared up like a puppy, her large hazel eyes full of emotion, pale blonde hair curling out from her mobcap.
“We’ll have to return to England. There’s nothing for us here.” The thought of another sea crossing made Amelia’s throat constrict, yet she wouldn’t mind re-joining her mother. Nevertheless, humiliation coiled through her. She’d failed to obtain a husband. Mother would be so disappointed.
“England? Oh, fie. That wretched voyage, the nausea…” Louise blanched, looking seasick already.
A quick rap rattled the door. Louise hopped up and opened it. Father stood there, his face flushed, eyes stern. He gestured for the maid to leave the room, then shut the door.
Amelia stood, squaring her shoulders for the onslaught.
“What happened, Amelia? John told me you would not give him an answer. That he must wait three days? He is not pleased.” Father’s words were curt, anger simmering beneath them. “What is this nonsense?”
“The lieutenant won’t have to wait three days,” Amelia trembled with her own anger, “I refuse to marry him. He is a cruel man without a trace of human feeling.”
“What? Have you lost your wits, my girl? He would give you a decent life, provide you with support.” Father held out his hands, palms up, his mouth agape. “You’d have your own household to manage.”
“And I’d be miserable under his tyranny. I cannot exist like that. I’m sorry, Father.” She bowed her head for a second, more to avoid seeing her father’s irate expression than from being ashamed. “I will return to England on the next available ship. Mother needs me.”
Father’s glare smouldering, he turned toward the window, fists on his hips. “You were always a wilful girl, allowed to run amok in my absences, but to travel all this way then reject a suitable proposal. I cannot fathom your actions.”
“Do you care nothing for my happiness?” She struggled to keep her voice even. Her entire future was unravelling. The plans she thought she had, fashioning a nice home, raising the two Harris boys, and babies of her own, were trampled in the mud. “Don’t you see what type of person he is? Why has he never been promoted beyond lieutenant at his age? I might as well marry a fence post shot through with spikes.”
Father’s shoulders slumped, his back still to her. He faced her once more. “Harris is a man of strict temperament, I admit. He might not be the perfect one for you, but I see few opportunities. Everyone has flaws. Will you give it more thought, in these ‘three days’?” He put his hands on her upper arms, his eyes beseeching. “You need the security of a husband, my dear.”
Amelia took a slow breath, chin raised. “Very well. Let me…ponder this situation.” She wouldn’t change her mind. Harris’ personality, or lack thereof, was obvious. His flaws were as deep as the ocean, as cutting as a shark. She’d rather die a spinster.
“That’s my sensible daughter. I’m certain you’ll come to the correct decision. Don’t fail me.” Father stroked her cheek, then left her room.
She collapsed back