Distant Beacon (Song of Acadia Book #4) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Janette Oke

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125 pages

English

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In a Time of Revolution, Even Hearts Can Be OverturnedIn England together at the Harrow estate, Anne and Nicole find themselves facing divergent futures. While Anne comfortably settles into British life, Nicole once again searches the far horizon. Despite the raging War of Independence, she sets sail for the American colonies to manage her uncle's landholdings.The gallant Captain Goodwind captures Nicole's attention, but not yet her heart. In the midst of revolution, her loyalties and faith are tested beyond what she could have ever imagined. Then she comes face to face with a staggering betrayal, and she is forced to choose her ultimate allegiance.

Sujets

Historical romance

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 mars 2002
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781585587209
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0202€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2002 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 2010
Ebook corrections 11.05.2015
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 review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-58558-720-9
Cover illustration and design by Dan Thornberg
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Authors’ Note
About the Authors
Books by the Authors
Back Cover
“These are the times that try men’s souls.”
—Thomas Paine, 1776
Prologue
Anne’s desk, situated by the lead-paned window in her apartment’s front parlor, overlooked the manor house gardens. Normally she liked to sit there only when toddler John was playing on the rug at her feet. Otherwise she preferred to do her letter writing in the library, along with all the paper work related to the villagers. Uncle Charles would join her there, reading the papers sent down from London and playing with John—three generations of family joined by a love so strong Anne often felt overwhelmed by how blessed they truly were.
But this letter was one best written away from any possibility of interruption. Charles liked to read passages to her from the papers, or ask her opinion on various matters about the estate, or point out John’s latest feat—whether rolling a ball under the settee where no one could reach it, or saying a new word, or beaming out of his small round face. Anne could not abide such interferences today. She already had put off this letter far too long.
The day was uncommonly warm for an early English spring. Through her open window Anne could hear several robins, their song brief and hesitant, as though they too could scarcely believe the overly wet season might be drawing to a close. That was how she would start her letter, she decided as she dipped the quill into the inkstand.
How it had rained steadily for seven weeks, halting only when the wind rose and the clouds, gray and burly, scuttled across the heavens. Today was the first sunshine she had seen since late February. Drifting in from the window came the smell of damp earth, the faint promise of new beginnings. Yes, a good place to begin her letter to Nicole.
Once she completed that first paragraph, the words began to flow more smoothly. Anne wrote in a conventional manner, as though they were together in the room, rather than separated by a vast ocean. She remarked on how comfortable she had become with her English surroundings, living in her uncle Charles’s great manor house, working on projects of education, of faith, in the surrounding communities. How unusual it was that she had grown so rooted here, to the point where the only time she noted it was when she wrote to her North American family and reflected on her other home. While she missed them deeply, she found herself to be well satisfied and settled here in Britain.
To see the words satisfied and settled on the paper, she confessed, seemed strange to her. Anne felt almost frightened to see that idea resting there, glistening in the sunlight, drying into permanence. But she was settled. And here was another word she had never expected to use so readily again, she thought as she stared out the window. Hope . Hope for a future. One that might bring new happiness, new contentment, even perhaps new children.
There she stopped, but only for a moment. Not because she was reluctant to continue. The letter had been coming swiftly, easily, yet she needed to pause nonetheless. Anne gazed at the distant hills, beyond the little river that ran through the valley on Charles’s estate. She heard the lowing of cattle released from their winter quarters; the sound caused a shiver to travel through her slight frame. Her first husband, Cyril, seemed very close just then. How he would have loved this place and this work. But he was three years in the grave, lost to the grippe back in Nova Scotia soon after hostilities broke out between Britain and the American colonies. Cyril had been a wonderful doctor and a caring husband, and her soul would never again be fully restored. But wounds heal, even this one. Just as a person learned to get on with life after losing a limb, so she too had learned to adjust, to make do. Which was all she had expected for herself. She had her dear sweet little John, she had her family, she had her work with the village women and children. It was far more than anyone could ask for, certainly more than she deserved, she was sure.
Anne’s pen raced to catch up with her thoughts as she wrote to her sister and best friend. Another joy that had warmed the winter months. Uncle Charles’s health was improving. Ever since he had spoken out publicly in support of the colonials and their battle for independence, Charles had been shunned by society. As a result, they had closed up the London house and spent the entire winter in the country, alone and quiet. Their only visitor had been Cyril’s mother, Judith, a widow of many years. Nothing seemed to help Charles in body, mind, and spirit more than Judith’s visits, not even baby John. It was a wonder, Anne wrote, to see the love between these two people grow.
And now it was time to speak of what Nicole had perhaps already surmised. She took a deep breath, and her pen scratched and dipped and flowed ever more swiftly. Anne too had wonders and miracles to share. The winter just past had seen her grow increasingly close to Thomas, the young lawyer representing Charles’s affairs. They had found a spirit of harmony and purpose; they shared a faith and a vision for lives filled with mission and giving. Three weeks ago, Thomas had asked for her hand in marriage. After prayer and deep soul searching, she had accepted the next day.
And then just two days later, Anne continued to write, Charles had asked Judith to marry him. The four had talked long about plans and decided they would celebrate a joint wedding—a private, simple affair here in the country.
That same week Anne had written Andrew and Catherine, also to Henri and Louise, with this announcement. The difficult letter was this one. The others lay upon her desk, waiting for her to gather up her resolve and write Nicole. All this Anne explained to her sister. She had been so worried about this letter. And not because she would describe their wedding plans. Those details were minor, especially as they all intended a quiet ceremony with no advance notice given to London society.
Anne forced her hand along the page. She confessed how she couldn’t write this news without including her concerns for Nicole.
Anne knew Nicole had never known the feeling of truly belonging—not in Louisiana’s Cajun country, where Henri and Louise had eventually made their home, nor in Nova Scotia with her parents by birth. And particularly not here in England where Charles had brought her with the hope of making Nicole his heir. The time Nicole had spent in England was marked by a multitude of disappointed suitors. She had known only one love, and Cajun Jean Dupree had proved to be little more than a rogue. Nicole had never felt bound to either a place or a purpose. Anne’s own happiness and sense of belonging served only to heighten this lack, and it was this that laced through the words taking shape on the page.
As hard as this is to put on paper , Anne went on, I must write and tell you this because I love you so. Despite the differences in our nature, and despite the distance which separates us, I want you to know that I am always your loving sister—more than if we shared the same parents. And in one sense we do—both sets!
The sun chose that moment to slip around the corner of the house and fall with uncommon brilliance on the page. Anne paused for more ink. She recalled as she had a thousand times before the bittersweet memory of those two young mothers of long ago and the agonizing circumstances that had left them to love and raise the other’s infant as their own.
It will take months for this letter to arrive , she finally continued on the glowing page, and months more for your answer to come back. I will pray in the meantime for God’s continued blessing and guidance in your life and give to you what I have found for myself. Each and every day will I pray for you, dearest sister. I close with this prayer upon my lips and my heart, and send to you my love, Anne .
Chapter 1
Catherine stood by her kitchen window, the place which had become the center of her existence. Never before had she felt closed in by her life, or considered her world too small. But this winter had been the loneliest she had ever known, with her father’s health failing and the storms as bad as any she could remember and Andrew often away. To make matters worse, there had been only one letter from Anne and this one back in November. And none at all from Nicole. Catherine’s isolation grew with each day that she did not hear from her beloved daughters.
She was certain they both had written. S