Just Jane (22 page)

Mavillette was an isolated fishing village on the windswept west coast of Nova Scotia. Most of the villagers were descendants of early French settlers, forced to live as discontented subjects of the hated English king who now ruled their province. With this history, they might have looked with instant favor on one condemned by the British for smuggling for the American rebels. But they were clannish people, mistrustful of strangers. They gathered on long benches at rough, hand-hewn tables in La Poissonnière's main room and stared suspiciously at the bedraggled traveler. Once again, Simon Cordwyn was on trial.

If, as he claimed, a British ship had brought him as a prisoner to the port of Halifax, why had he trekked across the frozen peninsula, a journey no sane man would contemplate in winter? Simon replied that Halifax was on Nova Scotia's east coast, facing the Atlantic. He had to get to the west coast, facing the North American mainland. True, the great Bay of Fundy stretched endlessly to an unbroken horizon. But here, he said, he could at least feel that he had taken a first step toward home.

The villagers shook their heads and muttered among themselves. Hearing that Simon had once been a schoolmaster, they became slightly more respectful. Still, what if he were a British spy, sent to sniff out evidence of disloyalty even in this obscure corner of the empire?

Madame Duveau addressed her fellow villagers in a commanding tone. “Listen to me,
mes amis
. None among us can give our children learning. We have always needed
un professeur
. Suddenly one has appeared among us. Do you not recognize a miracle when you see it?”

She turned to Simon. “Monsieur Cordwyn, we will provide you with lodging and a classroom if you will start a school here.
Oui?”

Simon had no interest in a permanent arrangement. But he had endured enough of winter travel in this land of ice and freezing mists. “Thank you kindly, Madame. I am honored to accept your offer. For now, that is.”

“Splendid!” she cried. Ignoring Simon's hastily added
for now
, she began immediate plans for the future.
“Alors
, I will make this room into a classroom during morning hours, and next summer we will build a proper schoolhouse. Good! It's settled.” She ordered a serving girl to bring cider and glasses, and soon, their suspicions put aside, the villagers were drinking a toast to
Monsieur le professeur
.

Simon sat amazed. He had discovered the dominant force in the affairs of this community—the strong mind and sturdy frame of Madame Duveau.

 

Simon was given a room at the inn, and his school was soon off to a shaky start. Books and writing materials were almost nonexistent. But Simon's gentle manner quickly put the children at ease, and his talent for improvising made up for the shortage of supplies. The class grew to fourteen, including Madame Duveau's two grandsons, their eyes bright with excitement over this strange new experience. Parents, observing the awakening of intellectual curiosity in their offspring, nodded in grudging approval and agreed that the coming of
le professeur
had indeed been something of a miracle.

Madame Duveau was pleased. Her idea was working beautifully.

 

The dawning of 1781 brought short, dark days and icy storms that churned the sea into angry froth. With life outdoors at a standstill, La Poissonnière's public room was the center of local social life. On long winter nights, its timbers shook with the sounds of merriment, as villagers gathered almost every evening to drink and tell stories, with French heard more often than English. Simon, who had acquired a passable knowledge of French at Philadelphia College, watched the singing and dancing, participated in amiable conversation, and laughed politely at every joke.

But as popular as he was among these people, they all noticed that he was also a solitary man, given to private brooding. Several villagers spoke to Madame Duveau about it.

“It's only a little sickness for home,” she declared. “Next summer, when we build a fine schoolhouse, he'll think no more about it.”

How could she be so sure of that? they wondered.

“Because I will see to it,” she snapped, dismissing the subject. Madame Duveau was accustomed to having her way.

 

By March, the fishermen were hard at work on their boats anchored in the harbor, for soon they would begin their summerlong sorties on the Bay of Fundy in search of tuna. But winter storms raged on into April. In the late afternoons, protected by woolen coat and fur cap, Simon trudged the hillsides. Madame Duveau often saw him out there, gazing westward across the water.

One raw day she put on her own heavy wraps and went out to join him. “You are unhappy,
mon ami
she said. “Why is that?”

“Tell me, Madame. Does winter last forever here?”

She smiled. “No, no, spring does come. And with it will come flowering hills, bright blue skies—” She saw that Simon was not listening. “But,
Monsieur
, what is really troubling you?

He turned to face her. “I met some travelers from Annapolis Royal this afternoon. Some sailors from a British frigate in the harbor there told them General Washington is about to join forces with the French for a major offensive. Meanwhile, Lord Cornwallis flounders in the South, not knowing which way to turn. Things are happening, Madame Duveau. Important things.”

“And you want to return to that place, even though you were banished on peril of your life! Do you not realize what that would mean?”

“It would mean I would have to be much more careful in the future. I'm not a complete fool.”

“Indeed, I hope not. You are fortunate to be well out of it,
mon ami
. Yet you still long for that endless, futile war!”

“On the contrary, Madame. I'd much prefer to live in peace as a schoolmaster. I was drawn into the rebellion against my will. And I'm still not convinced my countrymen can make independence work. But I am one of them, and for better or worse, I must share their fate. Besides . . .”

Madame Duveau waited. “Yes? There is something else?”

He nodded. “A lovely girl, in South Carolina.”

“Mon dieu!”
She was exasperated. “There are lovely girls right here. Choose one, marry her, and be happy! South Carolina—it is at the end of the world! Before you return, your mademoiselle will be wed to another!”

“That may be. But as soon as winter ends—if it ever ends—I must go.”

“And how will you go, may I ask? By land? It is five hundred miles of trackless wilderness to the nearest settlements in the Massachusetts District of Maine. If you don't get lost and starve, you'll be killed by Indians or eaten by wolves. By sea? It's a hundred miles across here, rough and treacherous. I know of only one sailor who has the skill for such a voyage—my son Armand. And he will soon be chasing tuna all summer, too busy even to speak to you.”

“Then what shall I do, Madame? I
must
find a way!”

“Mon ami
, you must find a way to come to your senses! And you will, when you see carpenters building a fine schoolhouse. You speak of fate. Fate brought you here, and here is where you belong. You'll see—it shall be as I say.” Permitting no dispute, she turned abruptly and walked away.

But she could not walk away from what she now knew in her heart. No miracle had occurred in the village that winter, and no schoolhouse would be built that summer. What was the use? It would only stand empty, a melancholy monument to her own failed dream.

 

Spring came at last, the hillsides exploding in riotous color, and fierce storms giving way to bright days. The fishing boats put out to sea. Spring turned to summer, and Simon dismissed his students for a well-earned holiday. Now he began studying every map and chart he could find. He looked everywhere for someone who might know a practical land route to Massachusetts. Finding no one, he prowled the harbor, asking every fisherman who brought in his catch if he had ever sailed all the way across the bay. None had, and Simon was told that the only man who possessed the skills and daring even to think of such a thing was—sure enough—Armand Duveau.

Simon had never succeeded in becoming friends with Armand. Madame Duveau's taciturn son had sent his own boys to Simon's class only at the urging of his wife and the firm insistence of his mother. Armand admitted later that it was a good thing. But toward Simon personally he saw no need for friendliness. And when Simon now asked if Armand might consider taking him across the bay, he got a scowling reply.

“Monsieur, I am a fisherman, not a ferryboat operator. I haven't time for such foolishness!”

Obviously, Madame Duveau was right—no hope there. So Simon was taken by surprise when later that night, Armand knocked at his door.

Ignoring Simon's invitation to come in, Armand spoke curtly. “When can you be ready?”

Simon stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you can be ready at dawn, we'll sail for Falmouth, the nearest town of any size in Maine. I'll have two crewmen, and if we catch a strong wind and good weather, we could make it in a few days. But you'd better be prepared for longer. Well? Can you be ready?”

Simon pondered this surprising development. “You said you had no time for this. What made you change your mind?”

Armand turned sheepish. “It was
Martian
. She said, ‘Armand, once or twice in your life you will be called upon to do something more important than bringing in fish. This is one of those times. Do it.'
Maman
is a forceful woman, Monsieur.”

Simon had to smile. “So I've noticed. Thank you, Armand! At first light, then—I'll be ready.”

 

It was a cold, gray dawn, as if the world, having tasted summer, had decided to retreat to winter. Armand's sleek, twenty-five-foot sloop was moored at dock's end. Simon and Madame Duveau stood watching as his crewmen heaved the last few sacks of provisions aboard.

“The children will miss you,” she said.

Simon smiled sadly. “They are young. They will forget. I'll remember them long after they've forgotten me.”

Armand came to them. “We are ready,” he said. He listened patiently while his mother lectured him about the weather, the wind, and not staying too long on the opposite shore. Then, with a quick nod to Simon, he scrambled aboard his boat.

Simon searched for appropriate parting words. “Madame Duveau, I . . . I hope you know how grateful I am for your many kindnesses. Indeed, I—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Do not tire me with all that, Monsieur Cordwyn. You need only say good-bye and go.”

He stepped closer, kissed her on each cheek, and said as simply as he could, “Good-bye, then, my dear friend. I shall never forget you, or the good people of Mavillette.”

“Mon ami
, ” she murmured, her hand on his arm, “I am sure your lovely mademoiselle in South Carolina is waiting for you.” Suddenly a warm smile illuminated her fine features. “You'll see. It shall be as I say!” She gave him a quick hug, held him with a fond look, then sent him on his way.

 

The powerful tide carried Armand's boat from shore like a leaf on a rushing stream. Madame Duveau retreated to a grassy hillside to watch the departure. It was the same spot where she had stood with Simon on a raw day weeks before, and had been forced, finally, to admit to herself that she was not, after all, in full charge of everything that happened in the village.

As she watched, the slanting rays of the rising sun found an opening in the clouds, transforming the dull gray bay into a sheet of burnished bronze. Madame Duveau liked what she saw—fine weather for sailing.
So be it
, she thought.
Dreams are born, dreams die
. She watched until the little ship had become a tiny speck on the immense canvas of sea and sky, then turned away.

For Jane, the hardest season of the year had never been winter but the seemingly endless, steamy summers. But this year, she welcomed the return of summer as a soothing relief from anxious thoughts of Simon banished to a frigid northern land called Nova Scotia.

Slipping easily into the routine of life with Hugh and Lydia in Charlestown, she found it hard to believe that she had ever thought of the great manor house at Rosewall as home. She missed everyone there—even Robert, a little. But she truly felt that her present life was much more in harmony with her own modest nature. She had learned enough from Hugh, for example, to become an apprentice in his shop. The turning, shaping, and fitting of woodwork fascinated her. Hugh predicted she would become America's first woman cabinetmaker. She laughed, secretly thinking he might be right. But she made no secret of her gratitude toward the two kind and generous people who had welcomed her into their home with genuine joy. Except for the war—and Simon's absence, of course—life was almost good.

Hugh, Lydia, and Jane often talked of the war, and mainly of Lydia's son, Peter Quincy. He fought with an elite band of rebels led by Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox. From hideouts in the shadowy woods, Marion's men would dart out, inflict severe punishment on surprised Redcoats, then vanish again. Theirs was a harsh, often brutal existence—that much was known. Often, Marion's men went days with nothing to eat except for a few sweet potatoes. Constant worry about Peter's safety hung like an ominous cloud over Hugh's household.

Peter Quincy was only one of the people absent from Jane's life who were always present in her mind. Another was Harriet Ainsley. In August, it would be a year since Arthur's banishment, and Harriet had withdrawn into seclusion at Goose Creek. After coming to live at Hugh's, Jane began to make occasional trips to Goose Creek, both to visit Mrs. Morley and to keep a watchful eye on Harriet. At first, Hugh had insisted these visits were too dangerous, that the countryside was infested with roughnecks convinced that calling themselves Patriots justified any misdeed. A niece of the despised Tory Robert Prentice could hardly expect gentle treatment at their hands.