Immigrant Brides Collection
Capucine: Home to My Heart © 2006 by Janet Spaeth
The Angel of Nuremberg © 2002 by Irene B. Brand
Freedom’s Cry © 2002 by Pamela Griffin
Blessed Land © 2000 by Nancy J. Farrier
Prairie Schoolmarm © 2005 by JoAnn A. Grote
The Golden Cord © 2002 by Judith McCoy Miller
I Take Thee, a Stranger © 2000 by Kristy Dykes
Promises Kept © 2000 by Sally Laity
The Blessing Basket © 1999 by Judith McCoy Miller
Print ISBN 978-1-62416-243-5
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62416-421-7
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62416-420-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Photo: Ramon Purcell, photos.com
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in Canada.
Table of Contents
Capucine: Home to My Heart
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
The Angel of Nuremberg
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Freedom’ Cry
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Blessed Land
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Prairie Schoolmarm
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
The Golden Cord
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
I Take Thee, A Stranger
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
Promises Kept
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
The Blessing Basket
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About the Authors
CONTENTS
Capucine: Home to My Heart by Janet Spaeth
The Angel of Nuremberg by Irene Brand
Freedom’s Cry by Pamela Griffin
Blessed Land by Nancy J. Farrier
Prairie Schoolmarm by JoAnn A. Grote
The Golden Cord by Judith Miller
I Take Thee, a Stranger by Kristy Dykes
Promises Kept by Sally Laity
The Blessing Basket by Judith Miller
CAPUCINE: HOME TO MY HEART
by Janet Spaeth
Dedication
For my family: You are my treasure and my heart.
“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
MATTHEW 6:21
Prologue
I am afraid, and yet I know I must go forward, not just for my sake but also for Aliette and my mother. I am a child and a woman. I am lost and I am found.
One nun stood behind the others, her tall, thin body swathed in the black habit. Her dark eyes studied the two girls expressionlessly, and instinctively Aliette shrank against Capucine.
“That woman, she scares me,” Aliette whispered into her sister’s side.
Capucine didn’t answer. She shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her apron until her fingers closed protectively around the small rectangle—the leather-bound journal her mother had given her before they’d been separated. She stared at the gaunt nun and then whispered back. “Non,” she said. “She is strong, that one, but she is fair.”
“She has the light of God in her eyes, eh?” Aliette looked up, her guileless blue gaze as innocent as a kitten’s.
“Perhaps.” Capucine’s mouth straightened into a thin line. The light of God? Somewhere her mother cried for her lost children. Was the light of God shining on her? Or had it dimmed?
God seemed to have forgotten the Louet family. When the British had stormed in, they killed her father, took the two girls from their home in Acadia, and dropped them in this convent in New York.
Their mother—what had happened to Mama? Capucine had been literally torn from her mother’s arms, and now she rubbed her wrists as if she could still feel Mama’s fingers in their last futile grasp as they were wrenched apart. “Moi, je prierai pour vous!” she had called to her daughters in Acadian French. I will pray for you.
Capucine blinked back the tears. She would not cry. Tears would get them nowhere.
Once again she touched the beloved diary, as if the soft leather would somehow connect her with Mama. In it, her mother had written in her lovely flowing penmanship:
“Car là où est ton trésor, là aussi sera ton couer.” Matthieu 6:21.
Then, she hadn’t realized how close her treasure was, let alone her heart.
Capucine made a promise. I will find you. And then, as ice began to wrap her heart, she added, I will make sure the British pay for what they have done. I cannot forgive them. I will not forgive them.
“Capucine?” Aliette tugged on her sleeve. “I am scared.”
“I will take care of you,” she answered softly.
The nun’s face softened a bit and she swept toward them, not unlike a large raven, Capucine thought. From her great height, she bent her head slightly. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Soeur Marie-Agathe.” Then she added the words that sounded so wrong: “Hello. My name is Sister Marie-Agathe.”
English, the hated language. There was no music in its words, only spread out vowels and sharp-edged consonants.
Aliette tugged fiercely at Capucine’s sleeve. “She speaks to us!”
>
Capucine lifted her chin proudly and answered her in Acadian French. “My name is Capucine Louet, and I will never forget.”
Chapter 1
Mama said that God does not forget His children, but that His children forget Him. Does He remember me now?
Capucine’s fingers ached. Aliette’s grip was relentlessly tight, and every time Capucine tried to wiggle her hand free, her sister shook her head in a fury of blond curls.
“Aliette,” she whispered furiously, “if you don’t let go of my fingers, they’ll fall off.”
The young girl giggled nervously. “Why does she want to see us? Have you forgotten morning prayers again?”
“How could I? You’ve been with me every time, and she watches me to make sure I don’t miss a single amen.”
“Did you bow your head?” Aliette persisted. “Put your hands together? You know that—”
“Sssh! Here she comes.”
Sister Marie-Agathe motioned them into a sparsely furnished room and sat in a heavy mahogany chair. She looked at them first, one at a time, quite seriously, but saying nothing. Then she held out her arms. “Come to me, children.”
Hand in hand, the two girls approached the nun. Capucine’s stomach twisted in dread as Sister Marie-Agathe wrapped them in her black-robed embrace. Capucine buried her face in the dark folds and breathed in the smell that she’d come to love, a mixture of lavender and soap. It was distinctly Sister Marie-Agathe’s.
“I have something to tell you,” she said to them, and from the way her voice broke, Capucine knew it was going to be bad news. “My uncle Claude has passed into our heavenly Father’s hands.”
Aliette breathed softly. “God rest him and save him.”
“Bless you, child, for your prayers. Our kind Lord hears them all.” The nun sighed. “My uncle and I were the only members of our family on this side of the ocean. The rest of my family still resides in France. The abbess, with her infinite good heart, has agreed with me that I can best serve by seeing to his estate on their behalf.”
There was more coming. Capucine could sense the nun’s tension.
“I will be leaving the convent to do this.”
“You’ll be back.” Aliette patted the nun’s arm.
Sister Marie-Agathe didn’t answer. Capucine’s heart froze in her chest, and her hands clenched into tight knots. Aliette would not be abandoned again. As the older sister, she’d manage somehow, but Aliette was different. She didn’t have the independent heart that Capucine did. She needed an adult to guide her.
You’re an adult. She heard the words as clearly as if they had been spoken, and she knew their truth. She would do whatever was necessary to make sure that Aliette was cared for.
But how?
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to formulate a prayer. Mon Dieu cher, she began. My dear God—
“Take us,” Aliette begged in her piping voice, and Capucine’s eyes sprang open. God certainly was quick to answer! “Take us with you!”
The nun stroked their heads. “I am going to New Orleans.”
New Orleans! The very name was mystery and intrigue and vivid color. Plus it was French, and in an instant, a longing for her own history washed over Capucine.
“It’s very far away,” the nun continued. She paused for a moment. “And I must speak honestly. There is unrest there. The Spanish—”
“Spanish?” Capucine laughed. “Don’t you mean the French?”
“It is difficult to explain to young ears. You will find French and Spanish and British there, and sometimes they get along, but sometimes…” She shrugged and let the sentence finish itself.
“You must not go, then.” Capucine clutched the nun’s gnarled hands. “If it is not safe for us, then it is not safe for you.
“Oh, it’s safe enough. I would not be in peril.”
“Then take us.” Aliette was more insistent. “You must.”
“Aliette!” Sister Marie-Agathe reproved gently. “Such a way of speaking is impolite.”
Capucine pulled out of the embrace and dropped to her knees, still grasping the nun’s gnarled hands. “Please, please, Sister, take us with you.”
“I can’t—”
“Please,” she implored. “We can help. We will be your servants. We will cook and clean and say our prayers three times a day.”
“Three!” A smile twitched around Sister Marie-Agathe’s lips. “Well, that is an enticement.”
Capucine held her breath as the nun smiled at them both. “Aliette is a blossoming cook, and Capucine, your needle skills are above compare. I suspect that I might find a use for you.”
“So may we go?” Capucine asked.
Sister Marie-Agathe nodded. “Yes. We shall all go to New Orleans, to Claude Boncoeur’s house.”
Aliette stole a look at Capucine. “Boncoeur!” she whispered. “It means good heart. Surely it is a sign from God Himself!”
The nun rose to her feet. “Indeed. Claude Boncoeur was one of God’s finest men, and I am proud to claim him as my uncle. Well,” she finished briskly, “we leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“There’s no sense in waiting, is there?”
Capucine and Aliette shook their heads. “No, Sister Marie-Agathe,” they chorused.
“Then start to ready yourselves.” She touched their shoulders tenderly. “I am glad you’re going with me, girls. Very glad.”
Chapter 2
New Orleans, 1767
I have determined to live my life as fully as I am able, and to use my talents as I can to bring me forward. Who knows what may happen to me now? But I am ready to meet my future!
The breeze off the bay ruffled the stray curls around Capucine’s face. No matter how hard she tried, her hair simply would not stay bound in a sedate bun. Sister Marie-Agathe had sighed and poked more and more pins in, until even her patience had been tested to its limit, but to no avail.
Her hair had a mind of its own.
Like the head under it.
The wharf teemed with activity, and three languages melded into one that was uniquely New Orleans. Spanish and French and English. After four months here, Capucine was beginning to gather the Spanish words together into something she understood, but her French and English were flawless, thanks to the daily lessons at the convent, and she turned her head slightly as words floated her way.
“…will change the order of things.” The speaker’s English was faintly tinged with a familiar inflection.
She tried to isolate his voice from the other sounds of the wharf. A very interesting conversation might be underway, one that she could find of value.
But the rest of his words were lost as a shout went up. A ship had come in, and from the way it sat low in the water, Capucine knew it was heavily loaded.
What could its cargo be? Perhaps bolts of fine satin and rich velvet from France, or silken embroidery threads from Italy, or perfumed oils from Spain, or tea scented with jasmine from China?
Her imagination soared, although she knew that with the limits of shipping, the contents were probably nothing more exciting than wine and flour.
The ship was quickly docked, and almost immediately the crew leaped onto the wharf. A stout man with an air of authority shouted a few words at the men—words that the wind mercifully carried away, for she suspected they were quite rough—and the men turned back to the ship. Soon bale after bale began to pile up on the wharf.
They could be bolts of fabric.
One of the bales had broken open, and something was poking out of it, something silvery that caught the sun’s gleam. She moved in for a closer look.
Wham!
A white-wrapped packet crashed into her shoulder, throwing her off balance. She was knocked to the wooden planks, and very ungracefully somersaulted backward, landing on the back of her head, with her heels on the top of the packet.
“Mademoiselle?” a solicitous voice inquired.
She opened her eyes cautiously. Stars and light
s spun in front of her, and a pain that alternated dull thuds and sharp pangs began to gain momentum behind her ears. A man’s face, his bright-blue eyes soft with concern, blurred in and out of focus. She was vaguely aware that his light-brown hair was being ruffled by the breeze off the water, and she wanted to smooth it back into place.
For some reason, she felt she had to explain to this incredibly handsome man why she was sprawled in such an unladylike position. “I fell.” The words sounded garbled to her, and she winced as the mere act of talking sparked an entirely new set of fireworks.
Other faces joined his, those of the crew members who had been unloading the ship. One of them asked, “Is she injured, LeBlanc?” With a few words he dismissed them and turned his attention back to her.
“Mademoiselle? Miss? Señorita?”
She tried to laugh at his accent as he tried all three languages, but the sound came out as a dry croak.
“J’ai.” Her voice came out as a dry croak, each word pronounced separately. “Tombé.”
“So I see. You fell.” He spoke in French as he rocked back on his heels and studied her, a tiny frown wrinkling his brow. “Would you like to see a doctor?”
She shook her head and winced. “Ow. No.”
“Would you like me to help you to your feet?”
“That would be nice.”
Soon she was standing, albeit a bit unsteadily.
“Can you walk? Do you want to walk? Would you rather stand here for a moment? Is anything broken?”
His words swam past her scrambled brain like tiny fish. She didn’t attempt an answer.
“Let’s take a few steps and see how we do.”
His words struck her as very funny, but laughing was out of the question. Not when her head felt as big as an apple basket.
With his arm around her waist, they took a few tentative steps. The ground seemed spongy, and Capucine felt buoyant, like a delicately bouncing bubble bobbing along the uneven wharf.
He frowned at her when they stopped. “I don’t like your head.”
This was too much, and despite the throbbing that threatened to explode her skull, she laughed. “Well,” she answered, touching his elegant forehead, “I like yours.”
And with those words, the world went dark.