Meeting Place (Song of Acadia Book #1)

Janette Oke, Davis Bunn T.

Description

A Chance Encounter Forever Changed Their Lives--and Destinies.Crafted by two masters of inspirational fiction--Janette Oke and T. Davis Bunn--and combining the engaging historical settings, rich characterization, and heartwarming messages quintessential to both authors, The Meeting Place is another timeless story for you to cherish.Set along the rugged coastline of 18th century Canada in what was then called Acadia (now Nova Scotia and New Brunswick), The Meeting Place re-creates a world that was home to native Indians, French settlers, and English garrisons. Such diverse populations did not live in accord, however. Instead, they were isolated within their own groups by a brewing political tension under the difficult English rule. Amid such chaotic times two women, both about to become brides and both trying to live lives of quiet peace, meet in a lush field of wildflowers. Louisa, a Frenchwoman, and Catherine, who is English, continue to meet secretly through the seasons, sharing both friendship and growing faith. The outside world does not mirror their own tranquil happiness, and the dreaded crackdown by the English throne threatens far more than their growing bond. In the face of a heart-wrenching dilemma, Louisa and Catherine strive to maintain their faith and cling to their dreams of family and home.Winner of the Christy Award, presented by the Christian Bookseller Association to honor the best in Christian fiction.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 avril 1999
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781585587254
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

© 1999 by Janette Oke & T. Davis Bunn Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan. www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
Ebook corrections 12.05.2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
ISBN 978-1-5855-8725-4
Cover by Dan Thornberg.
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Authors’ Note
About the Authors
Other Books by Janette Oke
Other Books by T. Davis Bunn
Back Cover
“Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God.” M ATTHEW 5:9
Prologue
Lieutenant Andrew Harrow clicked to his horse and moved down the trail to a break in the trees. In the distance, smoke rose from what he knew was Fort Edward, his destination and his home. His heart beat like a drum calling to quarters. But whether his excitement came from seeing his home again, or dread over the news he carried, Andrew could not tell.
After four long days of marching through primeval forest, the first sight of his home village made the blood thrum through his veins. Yet danger lurked nearby, and the reports he carried were equally ominous. War was brewing in the home countries, and though a broad ocean separated England and France from this peaceful land, he and his countrymen might well be caught up once more in the sport of kings. Such a time was not ideal for making plans to wed. But as the colonials were wont to say, the world kept turning whether they liked it or not. Andrew’s wedding day was soon to come.
His horse tossed its head, as though it too could feel his anticipation. Andrew ran a hand down its withers, patted the sweaty neck, and murmured, “Not long now.”
He turned at the commotion of two dozen soldiers in full kit rounding the bend behind him. “Sergeant Major!” he called.
“Sir!”
“Ten-minute water break. See the men keep their weapons at the ready.”
“Ten minutes it is, sir.” The ramrod-straight man with bristling mustache stomped about and roared, “Water boy!”
The heavily laden wagons clattered into view. Andrew pressed his knees into the horse’s sides and moved away from the soldiers and the clamor. The noise level was a major difference between new arrivals and those who had served longer in the colonies. The seasoned colonials learned from the natives and the forests. They moved with such stealth that a battalion could pass without disturbing the birds.
But these were soldiers fresh off the boats from England, and they masked their nervousness with noise. The forests and the empty reaches had already left their mark. Four days they had traveled since disembarking, and in that time they had not seen a soul. Such emptiness was unheard of back home. Here in the provinces of Acadia, however, only the thin strip of land between the sea and the forests had been cultivated. Farther inland the interior was all mystery and danger. The Micmac Indians who lived there had never been counted. Not even the number of their villages was known.
Andrew now rode a ridgeline of hills steep enough to have been called mountains in his native Somerset. But here they were mere shadows to the spine rising in the heart of this strange land. Stranger still that he, Andrew Harrow, younger son to the seventh earl of Sutton, would have come to call this land home.
Andrew lifted his hat and ran a grime-streaked sleeve over his heated brow, his gaze taking in the full sweep of land exposed to his view. Under the morning sun, the earth descended like giant steps, and each level told a story. Below the forested hillside spread the broad ledge of cultivated land. Scores of farmhouses dotted the meadows. Smoke curled from countless chimneys, and faint cries of animals and children rose upon the gentle June breeze.
A village of stone and wood lay directly beneath him, a village they would do their best to skirt. Andrew’s eyes moved across the lanes and market square, but he saw no signs of danger. No matter how eager he might be for what awaited at the end of his journey, still he studied the terrain like the soldier that he was.
The village of Minas below him was French. Nowadays the French were rumored to be allied with the Micmac Indians, and together they posed a possible threat. Or so his generals claimed. Personally, Andrew was not so sure. Two years he had been stationed in this scarcely tamed land, and neither the French nor the Indians had signaled any threat at all. Not within his territory. Andrew had discovered that as long as he treated both with respect, they responded in kind. But such attitudes were called treasonous by his superiors, and he had learned to keep his opinions to himself.
“Beg your pardon, sir, care for a drink?”
Andrew turned in the saddle. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.” He accepted the heavy metal dipper and drank deeply, then flung the remnants toward the trees and handed back the ladle. “Much obliged.” A foot soldier lifted a dripping bucket to his thirsty horse.
The sergeant major, new to the garrison but a ten-year veteran of the New England colonies, pointed with his blade of a chin. “That a Frenchie village down below, sir?”
“Minas, yes.” Andrew nodded toward the scattering of hamlets surrounding Cobequid Bay. “Almost every second village you see here is French.”
“Seems quiet enough.” The officer sniffed as he stared down the steep slope. “ ’Course, you never can tell with them Frenchies. Sneaky, so I’ve been told. Bad as the Injuns.”
Andrew bit back a sharp retort. It would not do to publicly rebuke the man, not for stating the belief shared by almost every member of the officer corps. “Prepare the men, Sergeant Major.”
“Sir!” The man stomped away, shouting, “All right, you lot, on your feet!”
Andrew pulled on his reins and swiveled in his saddle to check the seven high-wheeled wagons, the only ones capable of managing the muddy trail. The men assembled to either side with another contingent fore and aft, weary and footsore.
Andrew turned back around, raised his hand, and let it fall.
The sergeant major shouted, “Foooorward, ho!”
The wheels creaked; the tin plates rattled upon the cook wagon; the soldiers shuffled and muttered and coughed and marched. Andrew knew them all by now, not just by name but by noise and habits. He liked to bring the new troops in himself. It gave him an opportunity to test their mettle in the field.
When the trail jinked around a steep curve, their destination finally came into view. Once again he felt his heart rate surge. There, off beyond the river and more fields and farmhouses, Fort Edward rose stolid and stern and safe, and beyond it the village of Edward itself. Andrew squinted against the morning glare, trying to make out the stone cottage at the village entrance. The one where the love of his life lived and awaited his return. No, he could not quite make out the individual houses, not yet. But the search alone was enough to bring a smile to his lips. Catherine was there, and she waited for him. He was as sure of that as he was of his own name.
A sudden boom caused his horse to rear, and the mules pulling the wagons started their noisy braying. Andrew quieted his horse as he searched the horizon. He spotted a cloud of smoke rising from the fort’s cannon.
The sergeant major trotted up beside him. “Trouble, sir?”
“Not at all.” Andrew pointed beyond the land’s final shelf, out to where billowing squares of white indicated a ship of the line sailing up Cobequid Bay. He called to the troops behind them, “Easy now, they’re just signaling to an incoming ship!”
As though to confirm Andrew’s words, the ship responded with a booming reply of its own. Andrew spotted the signal flag below the Union Jack. “Press the men hard, Sergeant Major,” he urged. “We need to arrive in time to greet the governor’s representative. General Whetlock himself sails in that vessel.”
Andrew spurred his horse on ahead. He was eager to arrive, to see Catherine again. Almost a month he had been away, a month of disturbing news and unwelcome developments. He could not help but cast another watchful glance at the French village below, as though some enemy lurked there unseen.
North of the New England colonies stood the disputed lands of New France, settled for a century and a half by people who had named the region Acadia, their “beloved home.” The British had come soon after. Building upon the strength of their southern colonies, they battled the French here as they had in Europe for over six hundred years, enemies ever.
Now, in the year 1753, the lines were firmly drawn. A man was either French or English, and though the villages were but a stone’s throw from one another, most inhabitants would go an entire lifetime without speaking to the other side. Certainly there was some contact in the markets, but those who did not travel—and most did not—lived in a state of constant suspicion and fear. They avoided open contact with people who were considered enemies because they were strangers. Villagers whispered rumors and grim warnings behind secured doors. On both sides, ra