Read Online The Sacred Shore by T. Davis Bunn - Free Book Online

so thoroughly rebuffed.
    The next morning was a strange mixture of seasons, the sun already warming and yet the wind biting. Charles followed directions he had received from the innkeeper, offering no explanation to the man’s probing look when he asked after Andrew Harrow.
    As the village’s broad lane passed beneath the largest elm he had ever seen, a thought occurred to him. In return for Charles’s help in making peace overtures to the French court, King George III had recently deeded to him a vast estate in the frontiers of the Massachusetts Colony. Of course. He could offer this to his brother in exchange for Anne. It was perfect. The new estate was a quarter the size of Nova Scotia—how could the man reject such a proposition? Even so, Charles had to fight the urge to turn and stomp away. He hated to plead for anything from anyone. The idea of lowering himself to beg from his brother, of all people, was infuriating.
    Charles marched up the road, each step only making him angrier. Charles knew exactly how his brother would be—superior and haughty, rubbing Charles’s nose in the fact that he was the one who in the end had come to plead. Charles tasted bitter gall, and knew he would have no choice but to endure. All the battles, the years of secretly hating and fearing his brother, all threatened to boil over.
    Footsteps hastened down the lane toward him. Even before the figure could be seen clearly, Charles knew it was Andrew. He stiffened in readiness for conflict.
    It had been twenty-two years since their last meeting, when Andrew had stomped out of their ancestral home and left England, vowing never to return. Even so, Charles recognized his brother instantly.
    Andrew was lean, hardened by his life. The years in this untamed land were stamped deep on his features. The hair was graying, his clergyman’s clothing simple and frayed. All this Charles saw, but did not see. He stood there with fists clenched, ready for whatever combat would erupt. But his body and mind were frozen by two swift images. They had to be swift because when Andrew caught sight of him, he rushed forward in a flurry of steps. The first image was the cry Andrew gave upon seeing him. The second was captured in the tears and the smile upon Andrew’s seamed features.
    Charles’s confused mind was certain he had made a mistake; he could not have heard what he thought Andrew had cried. But the words were repeated in a voice that sounded almost strangled. “Charles, oh, thank God, thank God.”
    Then his brother embraced him with arms hard as iron, and said once more the words that left Charles utterly paralyzed. “Thank God!”

    Andrew led his brother back up the lane, warmly welcoming him and saying how sorry he was over not being there for his arrival in Georgetown. Andrew explained that he had been away visiting an outlying hamlet and only returned to the news this very hour. He had rushed out to find him the moment he heard.
    When they approached the manse, the door opened and Andrew warmly introduced his wife, Catherine. She bade Charles welcome. But her expression was cautious, her voice so subdued it scarcely could compete with the morning wind. As Andrew seated his brother by the fire, Charles noted that the daughter was nowhere to be seen.
    â€œAre you comfortable, brother?” In his excitement, Andrew’s words tumbled over each other. “Will you take something to drink?”
    â€œBrandy, if you have any. If not, ale.”
    â€œI’m sorry, brother. We do not have either. Will you settle for cider?”
    â€œYes. All right. Cider, then.”
    Andrew waited as Catherine poured the cupful from their kitchen jug, then gave it to Charles. “I cannot tell you what a joy it is to have you appear, brother. A miracle. Truly.”
    Charles accepted the mug, running a finger over its rough surface. “I confess this is not exactly what I expected to hear,” he finally