Journey to Love: A Journeys of the Heart Romance Read online

  JOURNEY TO

  LOVE

  A JOURNEYS OF

  THE HEART

  Romance

  Rebecca Ward

  Copyright 1985 by Cynthia Sinclair.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  THE AIR WAS COOL AND SO CRYSTAL-CLEAR THAT it hurt Gabrielle’s lungs to run, and she paused on the crest of Monsieur Chauvin’s hill to catch her breath. Late afternoon sunlight caught blue highlights in her long, thick black hair, glinted over lashes that shaded worried dark eyes. Simon, she thought. Where in God’s name was Simon?

  At the foot of the hill lay the village of Laforet, but she could see no sign of her brother in the streets between the simple stone houses. Nor was he walking over the pine-furred headlands that swept away from the village and out to sea. Hopefully, she looked next toward the woods that bordered Laforet on two sides, but the only sign of life there was a golden eagle that soared high above the pines and white birches, yellowing now with the onset of Acadian autumn.

  The imperious grace of the big bird caught her attention, and as she watched it ride the wind, she was touched with a longing and an old loneliness. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes and thought: Papa, Marnan, you should have lived to see this day.

  “Sacré nom, petite, what are you doing here?” Startled, Gabrielle saw that the women of Laforet had gathered at the foot of the hill and that her neighbor, plump Marthe Richaud, had climbed halfway up the slope toward her. “You should be at home, waiting for us to escort you to church,” Marthe added.

  Gabrielle went to meet her. “I’m sorry. I’ve been terribly worried about Simon. He went out early with Jean, and he’s not back, even though he promised to be here for the ceremony.” She lowered her voice. “Simon and Jean have been talking against the English ever since Fort Beau Séjour fell. You don’t think that they’ve gotten into trouble?”

  “You mean, have they slipped over to the Micmacs and joined the Indians in a raid on the English settlements?” Marthe sniffed. “Don’t worry. Those two are all talk.” She put a motherly arm about Gabrielle and began to lead her down the hillside path toward the waiting women. “Don’t let that brother of yours spoil your betrothal day, Gabrielle. Simon’s nearly sixteen and can take care of himself.”

  An old woman standing at the foot of the hill interrupted. “Gabrielle’s nervous and that’s natural. Every woman is on her betrothal day. It is now forty years since I was engaged to my late husband, and don’t you think I remember how worried I was when I walked to the church? My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break through my ribs.”

  Marthe’s daughter, pretty teenaged Thérèse Richaud, groaned in exasperation. “Tante Nicole, you tell that old story every time somebody gets betrothed.”

  “But why not?” Another woman chuckled. “I remember that I, too, was frightened. At least you needn’t be afraid of Monsieur Chauvin, Gabrielle. He’s been so kind to you.”

  There were nods and murmurs of agreement from the others. Gabrielle knew that many in the village shook their heads over this match, envious that a dowerless young orphan should be chosen to marry one of the richest and most powerful men in Acadia. And not only that, Monsieur Chauvin was the head of the successful Company Chauvin and the owner of the grand house on the hill.

  “He’s always had an eye for you,” old Nicole said, somewhat sourly. “Why else would he have helped your sick mother and your young brother? And the fuss he’s made over you.” In a high voice she mimicked, “Gabrielle must have lessons with her brother. She must learn English as well as French. She must be taught to ride like a fine lady . . .”

  “Well who can blame him?” Marthe interrupted, loyally. “Look, mes amies, at the hair like jet, the black eyes like soft velvet. And that figure—hésalas, the poor man didn’t have a chance!”

  A burst of laughter was cut short as the bells of the village church began to ring. “Come,” Marthe said, importantly threading her arm through Gabrielle’s, “it’s time to go.”

  Gabrielle carefully smoothed the folds of her new dark linen skirt and straightened her embroidered bodice. As she walked with the laughing, chattering women, she told herself that today was her betrothal day and should be one of the happiest days of her life, but all she could feel was worry over Simon. And there was another anxiety that gnawed at her as she came within sight of the church and the waiting men. Was she elegant enough to do credit to Monsieur Chauvin?

  “Ah, my dear child, how pretty you look.”

  Old Father Maboeuf, Monsieur Chauvin beside him, was beaming down at her from the high top step of the church, and curtseying, she glanced shyly at the man who would soon be her betrothed. Today Monsieur Chauvin was dressed in an embroidered suit of imported velvet that fitted his erect, slender figure to perfection. He was smiling and fingering the birthmark on his cheek, as he always did when he was pleased, and her heart lifted. He approved of the way she looked.

  So did the other men of the village. They were all standing near the church steps, and she could see them smiling and nodding to each other as Monsieur Chauvin walked down the church steps toward her. Hoping that perhaps Simon was among the men, she glanced about her. Closest to her stood pudgy Guy Richaud, Marthe’s husband, and beside him . . . Gabrielle’s eyes widened in surprise.

  A tall, well-dressed stranger with the broadest shoulders she had ever seen stood next to Guy. The late afternoon sun gleamed against tawny-gold hair, etched the fine, bold lines of his face and drew attention to thick-lashed eyes, the color of sun-warmed topaz. Eyes, Gabrielle noted, which studied her with a keen interest.

  For a moment, their glances locked, and then white teeth flashed in a smile. He bowed, and his deep voice was richly and warmly resonant. “Mademoiselle,” he said.

  There was a twitter of surprise from the women, and the men around the stranger looked at him in disapproval. Guy Richaud turned to whisper something, no doubt an explanation that here in Laforet it wasn’t customary to address young women without an official introduction. Gabrielle saw awareness come into those tawny eyes and felt an instinctive sympathy. How was a stranger to know the customs of the village?

  Sinking into another deep curtsey, she smiled reassuringly at him. “Monsieur,” she replied and saw his white smile widen.

  Behind her, the buzz of surprise rose again, but now Monsieur Chauvin was taking her arm and leading her up the steps of the church to where the old priest waited.

  “It is a great pleasure to welcome you to this church, Gabrielle,” Father Mabouef said. “I greeted you and your mother on the seashore sixteen years ago when you arrived at Laforet. I baptized Simon four months later and then consoled your mother on the sad occasion of the death of your father, the Chevalier de Montfleuri. With much sadness I gave your dear mother the last rites only last year. Now, how I rejoice to see you betrothed to a good man.”

  Gabrielle tried to keep her mind on what the priest was saying. It wasn’t easy with the man with the golden eyes standing a scant few feet away. With an effort, she k
ept her eyes straight ahead as Chauvin escorted her into the church and then left her at her place on the wooden pew, but as the women filed in behind her and the men followed, she couldn’t help glancing back at the tall stranger. She had only time to note that he walked with the swift, easy gait of a mountain cat, before she realized that he had caught her watching him. Tawny eyes met hers, an interested eyebrow quirked upward. When she turned away, she found that her pulse was jumping erratically.

  Thérèse Richaud nudged her mother. “Who is he, Maman?” she hissed.

  “I’ve heard that someone was visiting Monsieur Chauvin on business. Something about furs, I believe.” Marthe frowned at her daughter. “You stay away from him, Thérèse. Anybody can see that that one has a way with women.”

  A way with women—was that why the stranger disturbed her? On this day of all days, she should not even want to look at any man other than her betrothed. Gabrielle forced her attention back to the church with its candles and incense and the armfuls of wildflowers she and Thérèse had gathered this morning. But before she could compose herself, the door of the church was thrust open and a lanky youth hurried in. Simon had arrived in time for his sister’s betrothal ceremony.

  He looked unhurt and was dressed in his Sunday clothes, and for one moment Gabrielle felt pure relief. This faded when she saw that Simon was scowling, black brows drawn across the bridge of his proud nose. What had he been up to? she wondered, torn between concern and exasperation.

  “Simon,” she called softly.

  But he’d stopped stock still and was staring at the broad-shouldered stranger who sat next to Monsieur Chauvin. Then, making a very rude noise, he stalked away to take another seat at the back of the church.

  Before Simon’s behavior drew comment, Father Maboeuf began the ceremony. It was a simple service. Chauvin and Gabrielle stood in front of the altar while the priest linked their hands and blessed their betrothal. Then, still holding hands, they led the congregation down the aisle and outdoors.

  “Are you tired, Gabrielle?” Chauvin bent to murmur.

  “No, Monsieur.” Try as she would, she couldn’t make herself think of the dignified gentleman beside her as “Louis,” much less call him by his given name. At forty, he was nineteen years older than she was, and there was also something grand and aloof about him that kept her from such familiarity. “I’m not at all tired,” she added.

  He squeezed her hand. “Well, we are now betrothed. Tonight at the feast you must act like the mistress of my house, for soon you will be my wife.” Then, as they descended the church steps, he added, “Wait a moment. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  She turned obediently and found herself looking up into golden eyes. At close quarters the stranger was bigger than she had thought, and his eyes were so clear that she could see herself reflected in them. And though she remembered the whiteness of his smile, she was still unprepared for its effect on her. She realized that she was holding her breath and let it out very slowly as Monsieur Chauvin introduced them.

  “Gabrielle de Montfieuri, my betrothed—Mr. Neill Craddock, a businessman from Boston. Mr. Craddock is a partner in the well-known C. and C. Company and honors me by doing business with my firm.”

  Prom Boston? But Boston was a British colony, and so Neill Craddock must be English. No wonder Simon had acted so rudely. “Monsieur,” she murmured and added in the careful English that Chauvin had insisted she learn, “I am glad to make your acquaintance.”

  “And I am honored to have been invited to your betrothal ceremony.” His answer came in ready French, and he did not shake her hand in the English way but bent over it with all the grace of a French courtier. “I’m grateful that my business with Monsieur Chauvin brought me to Acadia at this time.”

  The touch of his hand on hers was light yet somehow hinted at the man’s strength. She drew a steadying breath and found that it was scented with a blend of leather and faint cologne and the clean, vibrant scent of the man himself. She felt unaccountably unbalanced and she struggled to find her poise again.

  “You deal in furs, Monsieur?” she hazarded.

  Chauvin explained. “Mr. Craddock wishes to buy furs through Company Chauvin.”

  “It’s common knowledge that Company Chauvin deals in the finest furs in Canada,” Neill Craddock added, smoothly, “and Louis Chauvin’s hospitality is also legendary.”

  “It’s time for more of that hospitality, my good sir.” Beaming, Chauvin slipped his arm through Gabrielle’s. “Tonight I am hosting a betrothal feast at my home. The entire village will be there, of course, and you will be my honored guest.”

  “The honor is mine.” Looking about him at the villagers, who were all apparently waiting for Chauvin to lead the way up the hill, Neill considered drily that wealth and power always induced respect. Then, glancing down at the sable-haired woman beside Chauvin, he reflected that respect wasn’t the best thing that wealth got a man.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a hissing noise close by, and turning, Neill saw the youth who’d stared so rudely at him in church. Well, he reminded himself, it was natural for the Acadians to feel some resentment toward the English. Originally of French extraction, these people lived in a portion of Canada that had been ceded to England only a score or so years ago. It was scant wonder their sympathies were with the French during the current war between France and England.

  Not that there was anything warlike about Laforet. Here were forests of pine and birch, broad, peaceful farms that disappeared into the headlands which jutted into the sea. Long-necked herons winged far above the high-peaked, low-sloping stone houses of the village, and the twilight was scented with woodsmoke and pine and fresh-turned earth: good, solid smells that made him think of his own land near Boston. He drew an appreciative whiff but found now that his senses registered something new, new, the delicate fragrance of wild roses and lavender, which came from the slender young woman who walked between him and Louis Chauvin.

  “You approve of our village, Monsieur?” she was asking. Her voice had a low, shy sweetness, and remembering how quickly she had championed him back at the church, he hastened to nod.

  “Very lovely,” he said and was surprised to realize that he was not thinking of the village but of her.

  “I hope you’ll enjoy this evening’s fete,” she said. “It is the custom of our country to hold parties whenever possible, and a betrothal is a good excuse.” She glanced at Louis Chauvin and saw that he was nodding approvingly. Well, she told herself, she would have to learn to talk to all kinds of people, among them Englishmen, as Madame Chauvin. And yet this man beside her puzzled her. She had met merchants and traders before, and once she had even met a French lord on his way to the north fur country. Neill Craddock was like no one she had met before.

  They had finished climbing Chauvin Hill now, and the grand house came into view. Like most of the other houses in the village, it was made of stone, but Gabrielle glanced at the Englishman to see if he appreciated how the grounds around the house were decorated with flowers and trees brought at great expense from Europe and even from San Domingo, where Chauvin owned property.

  A well-swept pathway led to the front door, which had been thrown wide to show the polished wooden floors of M. Chauvin’s sitting room—something unheard of in the village, where houses consisted of one large room in which the family ate, slept and entertained—and at one end of this room stood a table loaded with food.

  “Ah, regard, what a feast,” Guy Richaud exclaimed rapturously. “Marthe never makes such wonderful stuff for me at home.”

  Everyone laughed and gazed at the food in delight. There were tureens of chowder, filets of fish, scallops heaped high on elegant china plates, pies made with game and seafood, mountains of crabs and lobsters, mounds of vegetables steamed or cooked in succulent sauces. There was even an entire roast pig, which held an apple in its jaws. Flagons of wine stood next to pewter goblets and plates, and Chauvin’s servants hovered about, ready to as
sist their master’s guests.

  At first the villagers hung back shyly, but at Louis Chauvin’s urging they soon clustered about the table to drink to the couple’s health. Then, as if the wine had liberated them from embarrassment, the party became lively. Children pelted each other with orange peels, wives commented loudly about the excellence of the food, and the men gathered in groups to drink and eat and tell jokes about their own betrothals.

  Standing a little apart, Neill found himself watching Gabrielle move among her fiancé’s guests. Though she laughed and talked like the other women, she carried herself with an unconscious grace that made her stand out from all the others. Her beauty was obvious, and the slender young figure with its high, proud breasts and long legs showed promise, even in her simple dress. Chauvin, he thought, was a lucky dog to have captured this one’s heart.

  Then he was astonished at his own reactions. Gabrielle was a beauty, but there was no percentage in becoming attracted to Chauvin’s woman. The world was full of beauties, and more than a few awaited his return to Boston. Suddenly, he felt anxious to be gone from this backwoods village and was thankful that his business with Chauvin would soon be concluded. He’d already paid the man a handsome sum against shipment of furs, after all . . .

  “Goddamned English—they’re bloodsuckers, every last one of them.” The fierce young voice, cracking with adolescent anger, broke into Neill’s thoughts. “Their government stinks of corruption. They seek to have our support in Acadia, but I for one will never sign an oath of fealty to England. Never!”

  Talk died away at Simon’s outburst, and Gabrielle, who had been accepting congratulations at her fiancé’s side, turned swiftly to see her brother facing the tall Englishman. Simon had apparently drunk too much and was spoiling for a fight.

  “The new British governor Lawrence is worse than all the rest,” Simon was snarling. His voice cracked and broke into a stripling’s quaver as he added, “I spit on England!”

  “I, too, would fight for France any time,” Simon’s best friend, Jean Dumont, now added. “The English are liars. At first, after Utrecht, they promised us that we could be neutrals, and then they forced our fathers to sign a treaty swearing that they would not bear arms against England. Now Governor Lawrence wants us to swear to fight for England. Would a man fight for his tyrant? Never.”