Tears are the silent language of grief.
Voltaire
A lengthy stretch of sun brought the orchards into bloom earlier than ever before, the swelling buds bursting into blossom against bright blue skies. L’Epice and Fameuse were Sylvie’s favorites, thriving in the clean salt air. In the middle of the orchard stood the Ancient, planted by her great-grandfather Galant, its trunk as thick as four men. Boudreau had commented on it during his visit the month before, but she’d not seen him since.
Bleu had again disappeared, carving a hole in her heart. His increasingly long absences left her pondering why. Did he mean to protect them from his whereabouts and activities so if English authorities pressed them for information, they could gain nothing? She sensed he was fully engaged with the Resistance in a fight for not only his life but theirs.
“Ma chère sœur.”
At the beloved voice, Sylvie whirled around, light-headed with relief. Bleu stood at the end of a row of yearling trees, barely visible through their leafing branches. She moved toward him, wanting to shout the news of his homecoming, but he put a finger to his lips like Mère did with Marie-Madeleine, who was busy sowing seed with her in the herb garden near the stillroom.
Quietly, Sylvie and Bleu embraced. When she stepped back, she saw an angry crimson line from his left brow to his jawline.
He did not miss her wince. “It will soon be a scar, Sylvie.”
“Oh, Bleu. I have prayed for you night and day, but it has still not kept you safe.”
“Your prayers likely kept me from further harm.”
She stepped closer and examined the wound, which looked as if it might fester. “Mère has salve in the stillroom. Come, let me tend to you.”
“I cannot stay long.” He looked around, his heightened wariness chilling. “I only bring news.”
They moved toward the house as chickens strutted about the cobbled courtyard and a rooster crowed. Mère and Marie-Madeleine had just gone inside, so Sylvie and Bleu passed into the stillroom and shut the door. Potent with dried herbs, the shadowed room bore numerous shelves. Sylvie searched for what she needed even as she steeled herself for whatever Bleu might tell her. After taking a small crock, she began blending essentials.
He took a stool, watching both her and the door. “First, tell me what has become of you and Boudreau.”
“He has not been here for a month or more. Pascal brought word he is busy tending to the hamlets outside Beauséjour.” She added crushed rosemary to the salve and mixed it with a wooden spoon. “There has been much sickness there lately.”
“You are no fonder of him than at first?”
She began applying the salve as gently as she could. “How can I be fond of a man who may be a traitor?”
“I doubt you would care for him if he was the archangel Gabriel. He is not the man for you.”
She smiled fleetingly, imagining Boudreau winged. “Have you brought any good news?”
“No.” He stayed stoic as she finished with the salve. “Soon the English will renew their attempts to force Acadians to swear allegiance to their king. When that fails, they will begin to disarm them from Port Royal to Ile Saint-Jean and Ile Royale.”
“But we need our guns to hunt—to keep our livestock safe.” Her mind spun with all the implications. “To defend ourselves against enemies who would do us harm.”
“It is but another strike in a long volley of them.” His tone was grim and exacting. “I am here to tell Père to hide his weapons. Secret them where the enemy cannot find them.”
She wiped her hands on her apron. “What comes next?”
“Our spies report the enemy has ordered New England troops to sail north in transport ships. Ranger companies like William Blackburn’s will soon arrive. Together they will attempt to take Beauséjour once their numbers are such that we can form no resistance.”
“Beauséjour is undermanned. Boudreau has said so.”
“It will be the first to fall if they succeed. The English want to make an example of Chignecto especially. It’s of strategic importance as it removes the obstacle preventing them from advancing west.” He crossed his arms. “‘Those of the Chignecto district who have been most rebellious shall be removed the greatest distance,’ so an intercepted missive says.”
Sylvie stared at him in horror. “There is no rebellion among our people here or anywhere. Only among the Resistance.”
“They pass lies like beaver pelts to justify their evil ends.”
She sank down on the stool opposite him. “What do they mean by ‘the greatest distance’?”
“I know not . . . yet.”
“Perhaps they mean to push us west toward Québec City or Montréal. Will you warn Père about all this?”
“As clan elder, he must know and then alert all the others.”
She nodded, breathing in the solacing herbs that for once failed to soothe. Tears blurred her vision, and she tried to blink them back. “He is in the dike lands with Lucien and Pascal repairing the aboiteaux, but he should return by supper.”
“I am sorry to grieve you so.” Bleu looked toward the window, his profile stark, his features tense. “How I wish to make you smile with some trinket or more silk. But now is not the time for merriment.”