There are no secrets that time does not reveal.
Jean Racine
The next day, Sylvie stood by the west window that overlooked the courtyard, their well at the center, the barn just beyond. Behind the barn stood the apple orchard and the trail that led to her beloved bluff lookout. As she stared at it with wistful longing, a burst of snowflakes hit the glass, hurled by a windy fist. The pewter sky seemed poised to unleash a fierce winter’s storm. Never had she been so glad. Her soul sang with the possibility.
The house was blessedly quiet. Mère had taken Marie-Madeleine to adorn the church for Noël while Père and her brothers, all but Bleu, were tending the livestock and aboiteaux. For once she was alone, minding the hearth’s fire and supper.
Earlier, Bleu had brought haddock from their weirs and she’d made a fish chowder rich with potatoes and onions and cream. On the trestle table sat three still-warm loaves of wheaten bread from the bake oven and fresh butter churned at dawn.
She heard the ring of Bleu’s axe near the woodshed. A reassuring sound. When he was home she felt safer. He’d killed a gray wolf prowling near their sheep but two days ago. The pelt would be useful, though she was glad she didn’t have to cure it, only endure the smell when Bleu turned tanner.
She lifted the lid on the kettle and stirred the chowder as Bleu’s chopping stopped. Turning toward the window, she fixed her gaze beyond the glass on another figure. The Mi’kmaq who stood talking to her brother was one of Abbé Le Loutre’s men who stayed near Fort Beauséjour and rarely strayed like Bleu.
She cast about for his Mi’kmaq name. Kitani? He was gesturing now, his handsome features animated but alarmingly so. Intensity emanated from him like the sun’s rays. Bleu frowned as he listened. Sylvie had a sudden urge to lighten their mood and take their visitor a mug of spruce beer. Hospitality reigned in their home. Why would a little weather stop her?
Drink in hand, she went outside, her cap nearly taking wing along with her skirts. Seeing her, Kitani stopped his gesturing and his intensity softened to a half smile. Bleu turned toward her, but the storm in his eyes didn’t die.
She handed Kitani the mug, his appreciation evident in his dark eyes. “Wela’like.”
He took a long sip as she replied in Mi’kmaq, what little she knew. He, being fluent in several languages like Bleu, answered her in French. When she smiled and turned away so they could resume their conversation, Bleu stopped her.
“Sœur, wait.”
As the wind blasted them like a blacksmith’s bellows, Sylvie winced, raising her shawl from her shoulders to cover her head. She faced them, noting Bleu’s eyes roamed the clearing as if he expected English soldiers to materialize before their very eyes.
“Come into the house,” she urged, suddenly feeling unsafe. “No one else is here.”
With a nod, Bleu obliged, and soon they were at the kitchen table, partaking of the meal she’d enjoyed preparing. Quiet now, the men seemed lost in thought. Why had Bleu sought to detain her outside? She knew his moods, and this one was black.
Bleu looked at Kitani. “Tomorrow night my sister will be at Pont-a-Buot when the English come to frolic with the French.”
Surprise flared in the Mi’kmaq’s eyes. “How so?”
“Dr. Boudreau has invited her to be his partner.”
Kitani responded in Mi’kmaq, his features stern. Sylvie took a seat by the hearth and waited. Something was afoot, even amiss. Would they not tell her?
As she wondered, Kitani smiled, dispelling the tension. “I have heard you dance as well as you sew. Do the English know you speak their tongue? Dr. Boudreau?”
“I only speak French around them, never Anglais.”
“But you know the English tongue well?”
“Well?” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “My great-grandmother was Scottish and passed her tongue down. I speak it when with Grandmère and Mère but no one else. It is an odd, flat language. I much prefer the musicality of French.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It is good you are so discreet.”
Bleu studied her in his penetrating way. “While at Pont-a-Buot, I advise you to keep your English ears wide open while speaking your flawless French.”
She stared back at him, his intensity unfathomable. “You mean I am to . . . spy?”
“I am merely asking you to listen. A great quantity of rum and other spirits may well loosen tongues and inflame tempers.” Contempt rode Bleu’s dark features. “Be aware of what the English say in your hearing. It might prove useful to us.”
Us. Meaning the Resistance?
Kitani finished his spruce beer and she lifted the pitcher to pour him more, but he declined with a shake of his head. “No one will suspect you, mademoiselle. You seem French through and through.”
“And if things take an ugly turn,” Bleu said, “we will be on hand outside tavern walls to spirit you to safety.”
His calm reassurance did little to settle her. “Why would any ugliness happen?”
Kitani looked toward the window. “It is rare the French and English mingle except to fight.”
She sighed, her dread deepening. “I had hoped this meeting—this fête at so hallowed a time as Noël—was a sign of peace.”
“It seems you have Père’s high hopes.” Bleu let out a breath. “How I hate to disappoint you.”