Oh, how fine it is to know a thing or two.
Molière
The weather stayed clement if clear and cold. At last, both gowns were finished, and the Pandora was safely returned during a final fitting. Madame Auclair expressed great delight over her finished gown, and few alterations were needed. When Sylvie thought it prudent to tell her she would also attend, Madame’s brows raised and her expressive eyes snapped.
“Ah, Dr. Boudreau is full of surprises. It is he who advocated most for this party. And now to think he will be escorting Mademoiselle Galant!”
Once they were home, Pascal brought a report that Pont-a-Buot hummed with activity ahead of the festivities. “Since the fête will last late into the night, I’ve reserved a room for us at the tavern should that be needed. The dancing could well last till dawn,” he said, adding to Sylvie’s jitters. “Several Fort Lawrence officers and their wives have decided to accept the invitation, so it should be very entertaining, to say the least.”
“Perhaps this bodes well for us all,” Père said, ever optimistic about Acadie’s future. “It is time the French and English made peace and accepted our Acadian stance of neutrality. Can we not all live together in harmony?”
“Ask Abbé Le Loutre that. He will tell you no. So will the officers at Beauséjour.” Bleu paused as he mended a shoepack by the fire. “The English want to establish themselves here as they have in the American colonies. The French have but a fragile foothold in comparison, and their territories are already being renamed by the enemy, a portent of what is to come. Two years ago there was no Fort Lawrence, no boundary line at Pont-a-Buot.”
“Still, one can hope for peace.” Père rubbed his brow as if he had a headache. “And pray.”
“There will be no peace until every Acadian signs an unconditional oath of allegiance to the English Crown,” Bleu countered. “Which will then cause the French to be in a fury.”
“Tensions are high,” Mère said, putting a final flourish on Sylvie’s gown. “Suppose a fracas breaks out at the tavern? You know how surly these soldiers become when they’ve drunk too much.”
“Rest assured, I will protect Sister with my life.” Pascal took a seat on the bench, his back to the fire. “And besides, Bleu will be patrolling the area, guarding against anything untoward.”
So Bleu would be on hand? Sylvie felt relief and trepidation in equal measures. The English hated Bleu as much as the French hated Blackburn and his Mohegan and English Rangers. Bleu was known to be one of Acadie’s foremost Resistance fighters along with his Mi’kmaq followers, striking terror in the hearts of both the French and English, especially English settlers who encroached on Acadian lands.
Though her family rarely spoke of Bleu’s activities and long absences, he was always uppermost in their hearts and minds in the ongoing fight for Acadie’s survival. But how confused he oft left Sylvie. She loved her brother, but she was not at all at peace with his methods or his ruthless associates, especially Le Loutre.
Sylvie’s thoughts scattered like autumn leaves. The latest trouble had been last fall when the Resistance raided a new English settlement farther across the bay. The ransacked village was abandoned, the soldiers and settlers fleeing to Halifax.
“All will be well at the fête.” Sylvie forced a levity she was far from feeling, looking to the gown that Mère was gathering up.
“Let us go upstairs for a final fitting,” Mère urged, leaving the men to their talk.
Up the wooden steps they trod, Mère’s arms upraised so as not to drag the dress through any dust or catch it underfoot. Rarely did they come upstairs. This was Père and Mère’s domain. Sylvie and Marie-Madeleine had simple sleeping closets in the family sitting room while Pascal and Lucien shared a room off the kitchen. How fitting, she’d often thought, for her ravenous brothers.
A squeak on the stair made Sylvie turn to see her sister trailing, dolls in arm. “I must see you in your dress before the doctor does.”
Again, that subtle quaver in Sylvie’s stomach flared. She wanted nothing more than to return to the way things had been before Madame required her services and Boudreau asked to be her escort.
“You will be the belle of the fête!” Marie-Madeleine told her. “I wish that I could go with you.”
“Someday, perhaps. For now you must dress your dolls in the caps and fichus I made them from Madame’s scraps of fabric.”
Mère draped the gown over the bed, looking weary but pleased as they busied themselves with all the underpinnings and then the gown itself, which gave a rich, silken rustle. Turning before the looking glass, Sylvie realized her mother had stitched a great many hopes into the making of it.
Marie-Madeleine reached out a hand to touch the lustrous embroidery. “You rival the Pandora!”
Once the gown was pinned and in place, Mère stood back to admire her work, snatching at a stray thread here and there. “Now for your great-grandmother’s pearls.”
Marie-Madeleine was already at the jewelry box on Mère’s dresser. “Tell us again about Morven Ross, Mère.”
“Ah, Clan Ross.” Mère looked less weary at the mention. “Your maternal great-grandmother arrived on Acadian shores when she was but ten years old. Her father was a lord and a gentleman, one of the Covenanters exiled for his faith rather than killed. He arrived in Acadie with little but his family and the jewels. What he didn’t sell he saved to be handed down as heirlooms. Morven was his only daughter.”
“How I wish I had met her,” Marie-Madeleine lamented. “And when she grew up she met our great-grandfather, the handsome Paladin Amirault.”
Clearly enjoying the moment, Mère watched her youngest daughter sort through the case’s treasures. “She had no dowry but was a learned lady who knew how to read and to write, which is how their courtship commenced. She taught him to do both.”
“He paid her in apples from his orchard. And kisses.” Marie-Madeleine held up a string of pearls. “And she wore which of these necklaces on her wedding day?”
“The garnet necklace and earrings,” Mère replied with a smile as if she hadn’t told the tale a hundred times before.
“I prefer the Jaquin pearls over the Persian pearls,” Sylvie said.
Dutifully, Marie-Madeleine brought the Jaquin strand.
Mère shook her head. “Fond as you are of the pearls, I believe something altogether more eye-catching like garnets is called for.”
Back to the jewelry case Marie-Madeleine went to retrieve the garnet necklace. It sparkled like red fire against Sylvie’s pale skin. Though cold about her throat, she had to admit it paired beautifully with the colorful floral embellishments on the gown.
Looking perplexed, Mère said, “How shall we arrange your hair?”
Sylvie studied her reflection. She would not go bewigged and powdered like the officers’ wives. No beauty patches would adorn her, nor a plunging décolletage. Mère had ensured her bodice was modest, sewing in a lovely lace frill. “As simply as possible.”
Her sister’s eyes rounded in dismay. “You cannot wear your usual braid!”
“Of course not,” Mère replied, lips pursed. “Your hair must be pinned up, to better show the girandole earrings.”
Sylvie stayed firm. “Please, no earrings. The necklace is elegance enough.”
Oddly, Mère did not argue. Did she sense Sylvie was one step away from refusing to attend? And yet Pascal had given Boudreau her word. The doctor had even arranged for a sled to be waiting at the dock upon her arrival to transport her to the tavern.
“Turn around one more time,” Marie-Madeleine pleaded, hands clasped together in childish enchantment. “I want to remember this moment forever.”
Sylvie smiled and turned in a slow circle, glad to grant her wish. Oh, for a little of her sister’s joie de vivre, her ongoing ability to embrace the new, never thinking beyond the present moment.
If Marie-Madeleine was sunlight, Sylvie was snowmelt. Slow to thaw and ever cautious, Père said, the future forever in mind. Was it because she had grown up pressed between two warring powers and her sister was too young to understand the continual volatile threat?
The gown was unpinned and removed, then hung in a corner of her parents’ bedchamber. Sylvie was glad she did not have it near in her sleeping closet, a continual reminder of what was to come. She would rather face a mountain of linen to sew into soldiers’ shirts than a roomful of dancing strangers.