12
The majority of the apple trees that were planted in the days of Commander Razilly are still alive and bear fruit every year. In fact, I drank cider made from them this year.
Simon-Pierre de Bonaventure
Sylvie walked with full milk pails from the barn to the house, careful not to slosh the contents and spill the precious cream. It flavored the tea Bleu had brought her along with the fine sugar from Louisbourg. Père usually traveled there twice a year when the tall-masted ships arrived from France, delivering all manner of imported goods. Smuggling abounded too, but Père chose the high road, not wanting trouble with the authorities.
Bleu promised them the goods they lacked once he went again to Hudson’s Bay. Usually he would have left home after so many weeks, but something kept him tethered here. There was plenty that needed doing on their two hundred hectares, even in winter. Lucien and Pascal were out mending fences and moving cattle with Père. Sometimes Bleu went with them, but lately he kept to home.
When family or friend happened by, Bleu vanished till he had ascertained who it was. His caution made Sylvie wonder. Did he have an English bounty on his head like the French did William Blackburn? How bold he had been to go to Pont-a-Buot! Yet few had ever seen Bleu, so he moved in a sort of anonymity around all but those who knew him best.
Sylvie looked at the mountain of firewood he’d chopped since they’d burned so much at Noël. It was nearing Candlemas, another celebration and another clan gathering. No doubt Bleu had that in mind.
She was nearly to the house when he came and relieved her of her pails. The cellar was icy, nearly cold enough to freeze the milk, but he went below without spilling a drop. She built up the fire, hearing Mère and Marie-Madeleine upstairs. Morning sunlight slanted across the rising dough in the long tray atop the kitchen table. A crock of butter and plum preserves tempted at table’s end.
Bleu reappeared, shutting the cellar door in the kitchen corner with a resounding thud. How she would miss him and the quiet way he relieved her and everyone else of chores, always seeing what needed to be done and then doing it quietly, never expecting thanks. Even now he remembered her cream, bringing her a little jug of it, cold and fresh.
“I thought you would have gone by now,” she told him, putting on a kettle for tea.
“No.” He shrugged off his matchcoat and hung it up before taking his particular cup from a shelf. “The trouble is here.”
His grave tone—and the slow way he said the words—shook her. She paused from hammering at the sugar lump.
Trouble. Would he not tell her? She barely heard the singing kettle. He took a seat by the fire as she poured them tea then sat down beside him and asked, “By trouble, do you mean Dr. Boudreau?”
“He is but part of the problem. It goes further and deeper.”
“You will not tell me.”
“I will not burden you.”
“Perhaps I should help shoulder the burden.” She took a sip, the usual savor of cream and sugar falling flat. “I am no longer a child, though I will always be your younger sister.”
He hesitated, gaze on the hearth’s fire. “Soon Boudreau will appear and ask Père’s approval to court you. That is all you need concern yourself with.”
“He has not yet come. I hope the delay means he’s reconsidering—favoring someone else.” The continual suspense of whether he would appear or not was wearing. “I’m still unsure how I feel about him.”
“All the better if your heart remains neutral.” He took a drink of tea. “In future, talk to him. Learn what is happening with the English at Fort Lawrence.”
“Pretend I am wanting his company?”
“He is pretending to want yours, Sylvie.”
She drew up in surprise, feeling decidedly dim-witted. “Do you mean this is a farce, our courtship?”
“I do not deny he is attracted to you. Only a fool wouldn’t be. But Boudreau is after something more.”
As she opened her mouth to question him further, Marie-Madeleine bounded in, Mère on her heels. Arms full of linens, they restocked the cupboard on the far wall, chattering all the while. Sylvie continued sipping tea, alarm widening inside her, while Bleu looked as serene as Baie Française on a midsummer day.
When Boudreau came—for Bleu had removed all doubt that he would—what would he find her doing? Sylvie didn’t wonder long. A sudden thawing after Candlemas found her outside. Melting snow turned the ground to mush, and she took care that her sabots and woolen stockings would not be soaked after her rounds in the orchard.
Les suêtes had swept in, those strong southeast winds that snapped branches and toppled trees. The air smelled freshly scrubbed though splintered wood littered the ground, and the maiden fruit trees, the smallest in the orchard, had taken a whipping. Sylvie righted and tied and cleaned up what she could, glad for time outdoors, already anticipating the blooms of late spring and then a bountiful fall harvest.
She’d always dreamed of marrying in the orchard, beneath an array of blossoming apple trees, instead of at home or in church. Pale petals would flutter down in the coastal wind, and she’d carry cut apple blossoms for her bouquet. A May wedding—
Hoofbeats ended her musings, replacing them with a hard, cold realization. It was Boudreau, but he had not come just to court her. Self-conscious, she picked a twig from her beribboned skirt, hastily shoving a tendril of hair beneath her plain linen cap.
He dismounted at the end of one mature row. She could see him easily through the leafless trees. His horse was a chestnut roan, of Breton stock, she guessed. He approached slowly, the sun shining behind him so brightly she squinted.
Surprise pinched her at how well dressed he was, as if he wanted to please her—or impress Père? Her parents would not approve of her being alone with the doctor. She rued Marie-Madeleine had just left her side to manage the afternoon milking.
“Welcome, monsieur.” The greeting sounded flat, so Sylvie smiled. She could not call him Bernart. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
He came to stand in front of her and gave a little bow like he’d done at the fête. Few Acadians bothered with such social niceties. He was French through and through. In response she curtsied, and he smiled, reaching for her hand.
“Your father has invited me to supper,” he told her, looking as if he’d just won at bilboquet. “He told me to fetch you from the orchard. Apparently this is your favorite place.”
“One of them.” She wouldn’t tell him about the ridge or the secret trail leading to it. She’d save that for her true beau.
“I heard the Galant orchards are among the finest in Acadie. The orchardists especially.” He eyed her hungrily, and she flushed, feeling as ruddy as the Rambour and Reinette apples that would soon be hanging on the weathered branches.
“I hope Mère has made something you savor. You can count on plenty of cider, at least.”
They walked toward his hobbled horse, which nickered softly. Before she could protest, his firm hands encircled her waist and helped her to the saddle. He took the reins and led her home on foot, making her wonder if he would brave the dark to return to Fort Beauséjour if supper took too long.
Or would Père and Mère offer to let him stay the night?
She looked ahead to their chimneys, the smoke blowing sideways in a puff of wind and wrapping their stone house like a scarf. Lucien and Pascal were in the courtyard near the barn, finishing their chores. Dismounting near the front steps of their house, Sylvie stifled a smile at Marie-Madeleine’s wide-eyed stare through a crack in the door.
Just who was smitten here?
The doctor tethered his horse to the hitch rail out front, and Sylvie called for Lucien to bring salt hay and water. Her gaze veered to the bay. Bleu’s canoe was missing. Did that mean he would not return for supper? Her mind took another sharp turn. Had Boudreau come for Bleu? Was he secretly aligned with the English and set on collecting a bounty for her brother?
To Marie-Madeleine’s apparent delight, Boudreau bowed when she opened the door. Clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggling, she motioned them in and relieved them of their wraps. “Mère says you and Sylvie can be in the parlor till supper is served,” she told them with the aplomb of a born hostess.
Sylvie wanted nothing more than to help with supper and leave her sister to entertain the doctor. Denied that, she went into the parlor, finding it empty. The largest window overlooked the bay, offering an expansive view of the steep rise to the fort beyond it, reminding her the man had come overland for miles to see her.
“Please, sit down,” she urged, sending the still lurking Marie-Madeleine to fetch him a drink.
“Your home is unlike most Acadians’,” he remarked, looking about the simply furnished chamber. “More commodious.”
“Père constructed it long ago. As clan elder, he built it big for our gatherings.” Had they not been over this before? She took a seat opposite him near the hearth, surprised when he got up to add more wood to the dwindling fire. “He had plenty of help from my uncles.”
“A far cry from fort quarters.” He took an iron poker and jabbed at the logs till they settled. “So, I have finally met your sister. But not all your brothers.”
The spark of alarm she’d felt flared. “You know Pascal and Lucien, of course, as they frequently come and go at the fort.”
“Is there not a third?”
She hesitated, knotting her hands in her lap. “That would be Bleu. He is seldom here.” A white lie. She’d last seen him at breakfast. “He is often in the north . . . and has business with Hudson’s Bay Company. He most resembles our father.”
Mon Dieu, help me. Why on earth had she added that? She was an utter failure at subterfuge!
He took the cider from Marie-Madeleine, thanking her, and she smiled then disappeared. Sylvie looked out the window, wondering how long supper would be delayed.
“Your father is a gracious man. I’ve had few dealings with him till now.”
She looked away from the window to her knotted hands. “I’m thankful he’s rarely in need of your services.”
“As am I.” His gaze slid to her beribboned skirts. He reached into his weskit and removed a black silk ribbon. “A gift.”
She took it from his outstretched hand and murmured her thanks. A small gold cross pendant was strung on a dark ribbon and glittered beguilingly in the light from the window.
“Allow me?” he said, taking the gift back and coming to stand behind her.
Everything in her rebelled at this unwanted intimacy, but here he was, carefully tying the ribbon around her neck. As his fingers fell away, she put a hand to the cold pendant resting in the hollow of her throat.
Was this a part of courtship? Even an unwanted one?
Mercifully, Mère’s announcement of supper led them to the kitchen, where Marie-Madeleine gaped at the necklace in question. Sylvie sat down in her usual place, somewhat amused that Boudreau took Bleu’s. They bowed their heads, and Père said the blessing.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ Jesus our Lord.”
They chorused “amen,” and the meal began. Sylvie snuck a look at the doctor as the dishes were passed, and her appetite fled. She said little, adjusting to the feel of her new necklace and the man beside her, dismayed at how at ease the doctor seemed to be in their company. He bantered with her brothers, laughed at Père’s jokes, and even paid Mère a compliment. Was he ingratiating himself to learn more about Bleu?
“Your culinary skills are much appreciated, Madame Galant,” he said at meal’s end. “The garrison cook is in need of a lesson or two.”
Mère smiled while Sylvie abandoned her supper. Thankfully no one said a word about Bleu.
Père invited Boudreau to smoke in the parlor, and the men left the kitchen. Relieved, Sylvie began to wash the dishes, wishing an end to the evening.
Marie-Madeleine dried a plate with a linen cloth and said in a too-loud whisper, “Did Dr. Boudreau give you that pretty frippery?”
Casting a look toward the parlor, Sylvie nodded.
“Well, you don’t look very happy about it!”
“Shush,” Mère whispered back. “You know your sister. She embraces nothing straightaway like you do. She needs time to reflect on it first.”
“Will the doctor stay the night?” Marie-Madeleine asked, moving on to refill the salt cellar.
“I think not,” Sylvie replied tartly. “A gift is one thing. Overnighting is another.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you were taken with him.”
Mère frowned and pressed a finger to her daughter’s lips. “Courting is not something someone young as you should contemplate. Now, return the molasses to the larder.”
Across the hall, the men were having a robust conversation punctuated with laughter that failed to bolster Sylvie’s spirits. Boudreau seemed to have charmed everyone but her.
When Marie-Madeleine’s back was turned, Sylvie mouthed to her mother, “Where is Bleu?”
Mère’s slight shrug ended the matter. Sylvie moved to stand by the window, trying to make out the slightest movement in the twilight.
Father, please bless and protect him. Protect us all.
A quarter of an hour had passed with the women still busy in the kitchen when Dr. Boudreau appeared at the doorway. “I take my leave of you fair ladies with a full stomach and heart.”
Obviously enchanted, Marie-Madeleine curtsied, which only widened the doctor’s smile. Sylvie bade him good night from where she stood. Was he expecting her to see him to his horse? Père spared her that, and the front door shut with a resounding thud at their exit. With any luck, the doctor would make it back to the fort before full dark.