Hold Tight the Thread - Couverture souple

Kirkpatrick, Jane

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 1578565014 ISBN 13 : 9781578565016

Editeur : WaterBrook, 2004

Synopsis

Book by Kirkpatrick Jane

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Chapter One

Bright Shining Light

August 1841, French Prairie, Oregon Country

Marie let loose her daughter’s hand, then stepped behind her, gently guiding her into the darkness. “Maintenant,” she said in French. “We go now.” She placed her hands on the young woman’s cedar-caped shoulders, inhaled the wood scent of her hair. They were nearly the same height, one of the few things they shared in common–that and a worry over whether they’d be enough.

“We don’t have time for this, Mother,” Marguerite protested. But
she allowed Marie to prod her to an area of prairie grass where Marie
motioned her daughter to sit.

“We need to make time for this,” Marie said. “Lie down.” She patted
the grass.

A vast darkness arched over her and her oldest daughter. The women’s
heads touched, as though they were two logs reaching out from a center
post. The air felt moist. The moon would rise late tonight. The dry
grasses tickled her ankles. She should have put on leggings before convincing
her oldest daughter to walk a distance from their log home to
feel the night air breathe in the dark sky. Getting Marguerite to come
with her at all had taken convincing. Dozens of tasks waited finishing
before the big event tomorrow. “There will never be another night like
this one, not ever,” Marie told her daughter. Marie meant to savor it.
She’d begun to cherish these feathers of peaceful moments floating into
her life, even when it took effort. It still took such effort to name the
good in her days. Learning new ways, she found, both stimulated and
strained her. This was a happy occasion. She refused to let worry scar it,
and so she controlled her troublesome thoughts, even now, when they
pushed like a bullish child elbowing his way in uninvited.

“Did you see that?” Marie asked. She pointed. “That light? There’s
a special prize for the one who sees the first star.”

Marguerite shook her head, rubbing Marie’s hair as she did. “Papa
Jean’s spectacles must let you see something I can’t. It’s still just dark sky
to me, Mother. Where did you see it?”

“East,” Marie said. She adjusted the lenses given her as a gift by her
husband just weeks before. “Toward Hood’s Mountain. An arc of light.
There’s another.”

“I don’t see them. Maybe they’re coming to find us with the
lanterns.” Marguerite said. “Maybe they think I’ve changed my mind
and have run away.”

Did her daughter warn her of worries? The man was twenty years
her daughter’s senior. He had sons already. Maybe Marguerite wished
more time before she committed to this man Jean Baptiste Gobin.
Does a mother encourage her daughter to walk through the uncertainty
of marriage, promising her that peace will come, or does she make a
safe place for a daughter to turn around, to reconsider her heart’s
future?

What was right for a mother to do? was always Marie’s question.

Ripe gooseberries scented the August air. An owl hooted in the big
cedar tree in the center of the timbered section that marked the border
of their land. Prairie wolves howled in the distance, a sound distinct
from the larger wolves that roamed in packs. Marie took in a deep
breath. There were more blessings here than dangers; that’s what she
must concentrate on, encourage her daughter to think this too. New
ways took time. Her friend Sarah had told her that long years before,
and Sarah was seldom wrong. Unlike Marie, who was a mother named
by her errors.

She took another deep breath. She would count her blessings like
the beads of her rosary, designed, orderly, and obvious, the way the
priests said God revealed himself in the created world. Hadn’t her husband
of many years become her friend, someone with whom she preferred
to spend her time? That must have been part of a grand design.
Wasn’t this prairie land they’d found to live in ripe with promise, predictable
with seasons of planting and harvest? Hadn’t she found a quiet
way to ease the ache of a lost and troubled son, soothe the disappointment
of rarely seeing distant friends, survive the deaths of a child and
two husbands? The landscape, her newly forming faith, and her family
promised peace. These were the life threads that she wove into a healing
robe of comfort.

Memory, too, served her. It brought the conversations she’d had
with her friend Sacagawea to mind whenever she wished. Memory
reminded her of what she had endured in her fifty summers. Even
Kilakotah she called neighbor now, though to touch her fingers to her
friend’s cheeks meant a three-day ride to the horse ranch of Tom McKay.
Still, the two would see each other more now, when they gathered at the
parish church on the Willamette River when the priests traveled south
for Mass. And in between, she had the memories of those who brushed
against her and changed her life forever.

She had troubling memories too, but surely she deserved now a
time to set those aside, cut those ties. Her friend Sacagawea would tell
her to expect kindness in life. This she would do, especially tonight.
After all, she was a mother whose children told her their secrets and
honored her with their questions. What mother didn’t want to be
known for her careful tongue and modest wisdom? Her husband, Jean,
tolerated her many wonderings over varying views of faith of native
people, of Presbyterians, Catholics, and Methodists who populated this
prairie area. Perhaps he understood that her baptism was a beginning of
another questioning journey and not one simply ending with acceptance
as it had been for him.

Marie questioned. It was part of who she was.

Marie blinked again. She’d seen the pinpricks sometimes even in the
daylight, when she stood too quickly or when she first awoke. Their
presence interrupted her sleep, too, and she’d awake with a start, a gasp
that would wake her husband and stir the household trying to sleep in
the upper loft.

Perhaps her eyes were learning new things even while she slept. She
had spectacles to wear during the day, to stop the squinting that had
been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. Yes, that was
probably all it was, her eyes adjusting to the dark and daylight, seeing
clearly with spectacles.

This piercing light tonight was likely just the first sign of the stars
filling the night sky. Nothing to be alarmed about.

“Will this always be my home?” Marguerite asked then. Her voice
had changed to wistfulness.

“You’ll always have a place with us, but you’ll have your own home
after tomorrow.” Her daughter took in a sharp breath, and her breathing
quickened. Marie heard discomfort in the sound. “This is your
choice, oui? ” Marie asked. “To marry this man?”

“I’m glad we moved here with Papa Jean,” Marguerite said.

Hadn’t her daughter heard her? Or did she deliberately avoid?

“You might not have met your JB if we hadn’t.”

“There are more French Canadians here,” Marguerite said.

“More people like your papa.”

“There’s one,” Marguerite said, lifting her hand quickly to point.
Marie felt rather than saw her daughter’s arm reach up. “In the northern
sky.”

“I see it too. Bon. You receive the treasure. You have the first star in
your basket,” Marie told her.

“What’s my prize?”

“It comes to you later.”

“You made that up, Mother. There’s no ‘first prize’ for seeing the first
star of a night sky.”

“You’ll see,” she said and smiled.

Marie had coaxed her daughter away from the cheek bread pans,
those rounded tins that resembled a baby’s bottom when the dough
rose. She drew her from the chatter of Marguerite’s younger brother
and sister so she could rest a bit before taking on the role of a bride. A
peaceful moment was her daughter’s treasure. A new wife had few of
them after the wedding, and Marie wanted her daughter to have the
memory of a special evening before the days filled up with the work of
living.

Marie would have a prize too: a memory of a last quiet time with
her oldest daughter alone, a moment of hanging on to a daughter before
Marguerite became a wife.

Marie thought to offer sage advice, to say something to sustain her
daughter in this time of transformation when a woman became a bride.
Words failed her at times, even French words, her first language. Marie
thought of her mother. What might her own mother have spoken if she
had lived to see Marie’s marriage day when, as a young girl, she had
committed herself to Pierre Dorion? Would she have been proud that
her daughter chose a man affiliated, however briefly, with the Corps of
Discovery? Or might she have stepped in to intervene, suggested that she
was too young to wed?

No way to know. Her mother had died before Marie spoke marriage
vows.

Marie was pleased her daughter had waited until she was twentytwo
to marry. And her youngest girl, Marianne, while fifteen, showed
little interest in boys. A blessing. Marie touched the beads around her
neck, ran her hand over the smooth metal cross that her friend Sarah
had given her. Blessings. Count the blessings.

“What are you thinking about, Mother?” Marguerite asked. The
girl had a gravelly voice, husky almost, her throat scorched perhaps from
leaning over the cook fires. Marie imagined the tiny wrinkles that
flowed like rivers toward the pools of her daughter’s dark eyes, eyes that
tonight looked tired even before the wedding plans consumed her. As a
child, Marguerite had been known by the French Canadians for her
thick eyebrows lifting in question and by her firm lips reserving expression
for rare occasions. Even with impending joy so close, Marguerite’s
full round face hadn’t eased often into a smile. Marie wished something
different for Marguerite.

“Remembering,” Marie said. “It’s what a mother does on a day
before her daughter weds. A bride-to-be should have stars in her basket,
n’est-ce pas?”

Marguerite said, “To light the darkness she finds there?”

“You worry over darkness?” Marie said.

“Just a rule of thumb,” Marguerite said.

Marie shivered. Such a phrase. Could this JB Gobin be a man who
used the rod against his wife? Had she missed some rumor about him?
Why otherwise had her daughter chosen the term rule of thumb, the
legal size of a rod allowed by a husband to strike his wife?

“Does he hurt you, this Gobin? You do not need to marry him,
then.” Marie sat up. Her daughter was asking for a way out.

“No. No.” Marguerite answered quickly, pulled her mother back. “I
only meant I’m just a little worried, a slender worry, the size of a rod.
About...”

“Do your thoughts go to someone else? to Richard?”

Marguerite laughed. “That Nez Perce boy? No. He was just a
friend.” Her voice sounded light, as though she coaxed a child to eat her
porridge. “No.” Marguerite hesitated now. “I think of Paul,” she said.

Marie felt a chill go through her. “The day before your wedding you
think of your half-brother?” Marie moved her head, felt the hair at the
back of her neck bristle.

“Didn’t he run away on the day Baptiste married Older Sister?”

“He did.”

“It was the first wedding I remember, and it ended in sadness. Papa
never came back. Paul never came back. Even Baptiste left, and before
he returned Older Sister died.”

“Leave those hard thoughts behind now, Marguerite.”

“They never even said good-bye to me. None of them,” Marguerite
said.

“This is what you think of when you prepare to marry?” Marie said.
“Non. This is not good. You were little then. You should think of other
things. You shouldn’t think of a sad time. See, there’s another star. This
will be a full sky night.”

“Don’t you wonder where Paul is?”

Another light, as tiny as a pinprick, flashed before her eyes. Marie
blinked, and the glimmer broke into flickers and disappeared. She felt
no pain, but uneasiness snaked though the tiny hole as though the
opening might rip into something larger that could consume her. When
had they started, these flickering lights, tearing at the fabric of memory
and mind? She lived in safety, surrounded by family and friends. Why
did the uneasiness pierce her now?

Marie held her jaws together, made herself breathe in through her
nose. “I have put my thoughts of Paul in a past place, to make room for
new joys, like my daughter’s wedding.”

Marie could hear voices in the distance. Marianne’s girlish pitches
poked into her husband’s and her son’s low tones. Someone would be
calling them back soon.

“What do you think really happened to Paul? And to Papa?” Marguerite
asked. She sat up now. “They’re linked together for me, their disappearances.”

“They happened years apart,” Marie said. “Our memories tell tall
tales to us sometimes.”

“Not for me. I wonder about the stories I should tell my children
about their grandfather.”

“Papa Jean was more a part of your life. Tell your children of him.”

Moments passed, and Marguerite sat so silent that Marie thought
she might have fallen asleep. Marie imagined her daughter’s long eyelashes
closed against her cheeks; she reached to touch the bone beneath
her daughter’s left eye, a bone left flattened when a horse raised its head
to Marguerite’s and cracked it long years before. Maybe Marguerite worried
about injury or death, this young woman on the eve of new living.
Marie was no femme sensé; she had no explanations. Her baptism weeks
before had answered some questions but added even more.

“I want to tell my children stories of Papa,” Marguerite said, her
fingers clutching her mother’s now. “So they’ll know about a good
father. He was good, n’est-ce pas? He had scars in his fingers. I remember
that. And he sang, didn’t he?”

“Oui. He loved music and he sewed with me. Even with his fingers
that would break open in icy water. Tiny stitches we used.”

“Sometimes I think that Paul...”

“What? What do you think?”

“Nothing,” Marguerite said. She let loose her mother’s hand. “It is a
never-mind thought.”

For Marie, stories of Paul arrived on an arc of pain that hit new
marks each time they were spoken as words. She wanted to forget that
wound, put it away as she’d put other painful times behind her, times
that were better tucked away as forgotten thoughts, not brought into
present memory. “Tell your children of the good your stepfather
brought to your life. Don’t dwell on the death of your father or the
disappearance of Paul or the death of your sister-in-law,” Marie said.
“Baptiste married a woman he loved. Remember that. And he is happy
now. He did come back. Not all who leave stay gone. Papa Jean lived
away for months trapping, but he always returned.”

“Older Sister lost her life...giving birth,” Marguerite said. Her voice
was so low the words sounded like the hum of...

Revue de presse :

Praise for Books 1 and 2 in The Tender Ties Historical Series

“Jane Kirkpatrick writes from a depth and richness of detailed research and from a genuine affection and respect for her characters. She gives us strong, admirable women with sensitive spirits, courage, and the capacity for unconditional love. Hold Tight the Thread is a thoughtful, skillfully prepared feast for those of us always hungry for more quality historical fiction. Like her other novels, this is a story that allows us to experience the struggles and adventures and faith of another time through characters we can learn to know–and love.”
--B.J. Hoff, author of The American Anthem series and An Emerald Ballad

“Hold Tight the Thread is such a satisfying ending to a wonderful trilogy on the life of such a memorable woman, Marie Dorion. I learned so much even as I felt a range of emotions —sad, happy, bittersweet, and triumphant. I love this book!”
--Linda Hall, author of Steal Away and Chat Room

“I highly recommend Every Fixed Star. Jane Kirkpatrick’s storytelling is deft and true; she breathes life into the long-ago Oregon country with warmth, emotion, and a deep understanding of the region’s people and past. With depth, creativity, and inspiration, Every Fixed Star provides a fresh view of this period in the Pacific Northwest’s history, showing the complicated dynamics between settlers, fur traders, missionaries, natives, and visionaries. Jane has vividly captured the history of the fur trade for intelligent women readers.”
–Laurie Winn Carlson, author of Seduced by the West and On Sidesaddles to Heaven: The Women of the Rocky Mountain Mission

“Jane Kirkpatrick has a rare gift, for her novels touch both the emotions and the intellect. She fills her stories with living history, each rich detail carefully researched and woven into a very particular time and place–the Columbia Country of the 1820s. And yet, Every Fixed Star is far from a dry history; rather, it is the moving, heartfelt story of one woman’s journey toward accepting her own failings as a wife and as a mother–a struggle common to every woman in every century. Through Marie’s ‘heart knowing,’ we are forced to examine our own hearts and lives and emerge the better for it. Jane’s novels are more than a ‘good read’; they are a life-altering experience."
–Liz Curtis Higgs, author of Thorn in My Heart

“[An] evocative, imagined retelling of the story of Marie Dorion, the remarkable Iowa Indian woman who crossed the continent with her young sons and her mixed-blood husband in 1811 as part of the first grand expedition after Lewis and Clark... As always, the historically accurate details are woven in with care, and the characters are fully imagined. At the story’ s end, the reader absolutely believes ‘Marie was an Ioway woman of the Gray Snow people; gray like the stuff that strengthened bones.’ A truly fine book.”
–The Denver Post, in praise of A Name of Her Own, Book One of the Tender Ties Historical series

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: WaterBrook
• Date d'édition: 2004
• ISBN 10: 1578565014
• ISBN 13: 9781578565016
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 432