Promises to Keep Read online

  They weren’t satisfied, but unless I spent the rest of my day weeding—which I did not intend to do—those were the only worms I’d be bringing today. The chickens jostled for position, squawking, but I held out empty hands.

  “See? Nothing.”

  A few of the hens followed me back toward the garden, eventually giving up when a bug or bit of grain caught their attention.

  When I was on my own again, I headed toward the tents. A gust of warm, salty wind sent wisps of my dark hair flying, tangling outside my bonnet. I tucked in the ends and waded the familiar path through the tall grass, swinging the basket of beans and peas at my side. The wind brought me a whiff of the fresh loaf of bread I’d packed as well, in case I needed something sweet to facilitate my visit, and the smile I wore out of habit grew wider. After two weeks of merciless rain, this was a day made for happiness. I would not let my concerns dampen my spirits.

  I could have taken the direct route to the church, but today I chose one which wound under apple trees and over knee-high rocks and grass. This path saw less traffic, meaning there was less chance of my running into anyone along the way. I had no need to walk past the cruelly misappropriated church and its meadow of tents, its arrogant wooden fence. Nor did I feel the urge, as I had in times past, to slow my step and gaze up at the familiar stained-glass windows. As beautiful as they were, I could visit them anytime I chose. Today I wished to ease my feelings of frustration by enjoying the glorious day blazing around me.

  A hummingbird darted past, its wings loud as a hive of bees, its ruby throat shining like a jewel in the sun. I paused to watch the tiny green creature hover at a flower, then dart off to the next source of food. Like the bird, I was drawn toward a stand of raspberry bushes, branches bowed under the weight of their fruit, and I decided to add some to my basket.

  As I neared the thicket I noticed a man seated on the grass beneath an apple tree, his red coat neatly folded beside him. I checked but saw no other soldiers, so I began picking berries, taking care not to disturb his peace. Then he leaned back and tilted his face toward the sun, and I almost dropped the fruit in my hand.

  Curiosity has always been my downfall. Despite my stubborn insistence to myself that I had only come to bring food to the soldiers, the truth was I had hoped to catch another glimpse of Corporal MacDonnell. We had begun a conversation of sorts, and I was interested to see how that might continue. Nevertheless, seeing him here sent a flurry of nerves through me, and I doubted my next step. Both Maman and Papa had warned me against speaking with these men, and I did understand their concerns. In the end, however, my curiosity won, as it always did.

  I took a breath then stepped out from behind the bushes. “Good afternoon,” I said in English. I refrained from laughing at his surprise when he leapt to his feet, hat in hand.

  “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Belliveau!” he said. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

  His embarrassment bolstered me. “Why should you apologize? You have done nothing wrong, have you?”

  “Not today,” he admitted. He spoke differently from the other soldiers, with a thick, curling accent that was sometimes difficult to understand. I liked the sound of it.

  “I have intruded on your peace.”

  “I can think of no one else with whom I would rather share it.” He gestured toward the ground where he’d been sitting. “Join me?”

  I was unsure how to react. He was a stranger, yet he behaved as if we had known each other a long time. I dared myself to be as courageous as he.

  “I brought a picnic,” I told him, settling onto the grass.

  He waited until I was comfortable, then sat beside me and leaned toward my basket. The movement startled me, and I drew away, tipping the basket accidentally. He caught the handle and rolled it back toward me.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. “Please help yourself.”

  “Mademoiselle, I am in the army. It is understood that I am hungry.”

  He grinned and plucked a handful of pea pods from the basket, his fingers accidentally brushing against mine as he did so. Heat rushed to my cheeks at the contact, and I hoped he had not noticed. To hide my embarrassment, I bit into a pea pod and tried to chew quietly. He had no such concerns. He dropped three into his mouth and crunched, giving me time to collect my thoughts.

  “Thank you,” he said. “These are delicious.”

  I could not hold his gaze and focused on the basket instead. “It’s been a good year in the fields and gardens. God willing, next year will be as good.”

  “God willing,” he echoed. He motioned toward the basket. “May I have a few more?”

  I spread my skirt on the grass between us and poured some pods on top, wanting to avoid his touching my hand again. We did not speak for a moment, and I scrambled to continue the conversation.

  “The peas are sweet, are they not?”

  “Delicious.”

  We supped in silence on as many of the greens as we could, then I brought out the bread. He used his knife to cut off little sections, doling them out between us.

  “You speak English very well, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  The question—for it seemed a question to me—took me slightly off guard. “Thank you. I learned from the British soldiers. We have not always been at war with the English.” I smiled shyly. “You speak excellent French.”

  “Merci, Mademoiselle Belliveau,” he said, tilting his head in a Gallic bow. “My mother was French, and she’d be pleased to hear you say as much. She believed it important I learn her language as well as my father’s. She was my teacher.”

  “Your mother is French?”

  I was sorry to see his smile fade. “She was. She and my father are no longer with us.” He hesitated. “They were killed, ironically, by the English.”

  “What? But . . .”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it? How I ended up here, I mean.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I am not English,” he said bluntly.

  “You look English enough in your coat.”

  He studied the red wool on the grass beside him. “Aye. I know. I am a soldier in the British army, but I am not English.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My home is Scotland, but Scotland was taken by the English.”

  I began to understand. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” Nevertheless, he shrugged. “War between England and Scotland has been going on a long while. Ten years ago Scotland finally lost, and many of us were either killed or sent here, labelled as criminals.”

  “But I do not understand. You were sent here as a criminal? Ten years ago you would only have been a child.”

  “Aye. I was ten. They’d already killed my parents.” He didn’t bother to disguise the bitterness in his voice. “My crime was that I did not agree with the English.”

  I did not press him further; to do so seemed cruel. Nevertheless, my thoughts dwelt on what he had just said. How terrifying that must have been. In silence we watched a small white butterfly land briefly on a bloom then take to the air again. How fortunate for the little fellow, never to have to contemplate such wickedness.

  “I am so sorry, Corporal MacDonnell. I cannot even imagine what you have lived through. Let us speak of happier things. The day is too beautiful to darken it with sad tales.”

  “I agree. We have had much rain of late, and these precious hours of sun must be allowed to shine without clouds of any kind.”

  “We do get a lot of rain here,” I admitted. “But I do not mind. I enjoy the storms and the wind.”

  “As do I.”

  He slapped at the back of his neck, then showed me a large horsefly, flattened in his palm.

  I dutifully admired his kill. “Lucky for you. Those creatures are mean.”

  “They are indeed.” He flicked the insect into the tall grasses with one finger and peered toward my basket. “Pardon me, mademoiselle, but is the bread gone?”

  “You ate the last piece and all the peas a
s well. Perhaps I will bring more another day.”

  One corner of his mouth curled, and he inclined his head. “I should like that very much. Even if it were raining, you would bring out the sun for me.”

  “You are a romantic, sir,” I replied quickly, biting my lip against a traitorous smile, “but despite today, we are still strangers, and your army is my enemy.”

  “You are right, of course. Would that we were in a different place at a different time. I would welcome the opportunity to show you how romantic I can be.”

  I squirmed inwardly, uncomfortable with what I suspected to be an overly familiar suggestion. I did not know how the British were used to speaking with women, but his gentle teasing seemed inappropriate. At the same time, it had not escaped my notice that he was a very handsome man. The glint in his eyes only made him more so.

  I changed the topic. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “There is only me. I was always envious of large families like yours.”

  “Mine is a blessing, although the house can get crowded at times.”

  “Still, you always have good company. I imagine you are quite protective of each other.”

  “Oh yes. I would do anything to be sure my family is safe and happy.”

  “Of course you would.”

  He sounded so melancholy I rushed to change the direction. “Do you wish you could go back to Scotland? Is it safer there now?”

  A smile flitted across his face. “No. I doubt I will ever return to Scotland. It isn’t the same country it was before. The English have made sure of that.” He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was sombre. “I must be honest, mademoiselle. I do not believe your land will be the same when they are done either.”

  “You are wrong about that. This is our land, not theirs.”

  “I understand that, but the army does not.”

  “They will see, certainly.”

  He sighed. “Your people need to understand that the English are not to be underestimated. They are determined and ruthless, and they mean to win this war.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I replied.

  “No,” he said. “I can see that. But I am suggesting that perhaps you should be.”

  I stared at him. “I do hope that is not a threat.”

  “Not from me, of course. I am concerned, however, that the Acadians do not know the extent of the threat offered by the British army.”

  “We will be fine. We have been fine for a long time.”

  He shifted slightly on the grass and folded his arms around his knees, taking his time. In that moment, a blackbird dropped onto a branch and snatched up the little white butterfly. Perhaps the creature had never known wickedness, I mused, but in the end it had not escaped it.

  “That does not mean it will always be that way,” he said quietly. “My life was good when I was a child. I had a good home. I ate well, I had friends, I was loved. Then everything changed. I had not expected any of it. And I can tell you, mademoiselle, that since then, nothing has been fine. Nothing.”

  I lowered my chin, and my fingers skimmed the tips of the grass blades. “I am sorry for you.”

  “There is no need for that,” he said. “I am alive, and I am fed.”

  “I should have brought more bread.”

  “What you brought was generous. Thank you.”

  His simple acceptance of an unhappy life saddened me. “What do you miss the most? If you could have one thing—and only one thing—back, what would it be?”

  The suggestion of a smile returned to his lips as he thought that over. I expected, considering that he now lived in the rough confines of a tent, he would mention comfort. A house, a bed, perhaps his family.

  “My friends,” he said finally. “I have little in common with the English in my camp, and I do miss laughter. Conversation. I am enjoying this afternoon a great deal.”

  He did not say it to flatter me. His loneliness was genuine, as was his appreciation for my simple act of sitting there and speaking with him.

  “As am I.”

  I was no longer uncomfortable with his friendly gaze. Speaking with him was both confusing and welcome. I looked forward to the next time.

  “I must be leaving,” I said, rising and brushing grass from my skirt. “My family will be expecting me. I would not want them to worry.”

  He stood as well, then leaned down to retrieve the basket for me. He was taller than I remembered.

  “Thank you for this afternoon,” he said. “For the food and the company.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  I no longer had any offerings for the soldiers by the church, so I started toward home again. After a few steps I stopped and looked back. To my surprise, he was still watching me. I needed to say something.

  “Corporal, I . . . I want to say again that I am sorry that you long for friends. If you and I were not presently on opposite sides of this conflict, I would be quite happy to be your friend.”

  He bowed slightly. “And I would be honoured to call you my friend. Good day, Mademoiselle Belliveau. I wish you a pleasant evening.”

  FIVE

  I roll onto my side, expecting to see the sleeping profile of my little sister. She is not there. I rise to look for Claire, who I expect is already awake and stepping into her skirt. She isn’t there either.

  In the next instant I am in our garden, breathing in morning fog as it seeps between lush rows of lettuce and beets, soaring vines of peas and beans. I pluck a twig of lavender from the small herb garden next to the door. I am asleep, yet I know how the lavender smells, how it will reach like caring fingers into my senses and soothe any worries which might have festered within me.

  I have had this dream before, I think.

  Beyond the budding fields stretch the salt marshes and the long walls of dikes, holding back the sea. Livestock dots the green, scattering in mindless ebbs and flows at the command of a gleeful dog. Over a hundred houses and a hundred barns stand around me, each with an identical garden, each sharing my glorious view. Pale smoke rises in soft white plumes from every stone chimney. I know every brother, sister, mother, and father within those walls. We have worked side by side for generations, cultivating this paradise. Together we have played and cried, laughed and died. We are a family.

  But in this dream I see no one. I stand alone. The voices are silent; the helping hands are nowhere to be seen.

  Perhaps I have not had this dream after all.

  I gaze past our world toward the sea, shading my eyes against the brilliant blue. As a child I waded in the warm waters and reeds of the Gaspereau, squeezing delicious red mud through my toes, sinking with pleasure as the ripples touched my arms, then my waist. Sometimes I dropped my head beneath the surface, losing myself in the push and pull of the currents. It was bliss. It was escape. It was lovely.

  But the dream shows me a different sea, one in which I no longer see freedom. It rolls in a frothing black anger, its fury far more powerful than our dikes. I watch helplessly as the water crashes over the fields and climbs higher, flooding the gardens, claiming our homes.

  When all else is gone, the sea comes for me. I cannot outrun it, but I cannot stop running. It seems right that Corporal MacDonnell stands just ahead, a vivid image in red, calling to me. He holds out his hand, but I cannot reach it. The water licks at me, drags at my skirt, sucks me into a whirling, crushing eddy. I flail and scream, though there is no sound but the water. I cannot fight, I cannot breathe—

  I awakened with a gasp, though it was a moment before I realized where I was. Part of me still felt as if I were anchored beneath the sea. To my relief, Giselle lay beside me as she should, her soft pink lips open slightly in sleep. Claire had already tied on her apron, pulled her long blond hair into a tail, and was tucking it under her cap.

  “Come on, lazybones,” she scolded. “We have a full day ahead of us.”

  My heartbeat slowed as I adjusted to being awake, and I reminded myself it had only been a bad dream.
I was not alone after all; this day of hard work would be shared by everyone. We would plant, we would fish, we would mend the dikes, and we would do it all together. We would be tired, but we would be happy.

  I nudged Giselle awake. “Come on, lazybones,” I echoed Claire.

  She groaned but dressed quickly beside me, and soon she had settled into her usual incessant chatter. When our bed was made, we followed Claire down the narrow stairway and into the main part of the house where the pine walls shone golden, lit by the sun streaming through the window. Maman stood at the end of the room by the clay bread oven Papa had built for her a year before, setting the morning’s loaves within. As she always did, Claire went to the closet and fetched the broom. Two empty buckets waited for me by the door, so I swung them down. From the noise outside the door, I knew I would find Papa there.

  He didn’t hear me; both his concentration and strength were focused on his work. It was still early, but already he sweated through his shirt, and his hair was slick against his brow. I never tired of admiring his skill at crafting masts for ships. Whistling to himself, he leaned against the long, tapered trunk of the white pine he and the other men had laid out beside our barn, and the muscles of his arms flexed within his rolled-up sleeves.

  Over the past few days he’d completed the most difficult parts using his hammer and froe to slice off the bark and shape the length of the pine into four sides, hacking away the general roughness with the pendulous swing of his adze. He’d cut the four into eight and eventually into sixteen, whittling away until he got to the hard, straight core of the tree. Now he was planing the edges into curves, which meant the mast neared completion. When it was at last sanded to a smooth finish and the men came to carry it away, I would picture it adorned with sails, the proud bow of its ship cutting through Atlantic swells. In my mind, my father’s masts always guided travelers safely home.

  I did not wish to interrupt Papa’s work, so I set off for the well instead. Along the way, I glanced up the hill toward where the Mi’kmaq village had been. Subtle as the change of seasons, they had vanished into the forest to avoid the soldiers, whose commandeered section of l’Acadie increasingly buzzed with activity. We had not seen the Mi’kmaq in months. I longed to be with them, and more than anything I wanted to be with Mali. While I loved Claire and Giselle, Mali was my true sister. Since we were toddlers taking our first steps together, we had understood each other without words—though we never had a shortage of those. Nor did we lack laughter. Of the two of us, Mali was the wiser, and she became more so the older we got. When the day’s work was done, we often used to lie side by side on the cool grass, staring at nothing. I would tell her about the dreams I had, the ones in which I travelled beyond our land. Mali always listened with a smile, then helped me understand that what I truly needed was to discover the world within me, that it was more important than what was beyond. She was right, of course, but her words didn’t stop me from dreaming.