It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
As May’s apple blossoms scattered to the winds, Sylvie sought her path to the overlook above Baie Française. Had it only been December when Bleu found her here in a swirl of snow? Today she stayed back from the steep bluff, not wanting to look at the feuding forts on the opposite ridge. An ancient, moss-covered rock backed by pines proved a fine seat and left her feeling, for just a moment, elevated above her troubles.
Bending her head, she tried to gather her tangled feelings into a prayerful plea. Did Dieu side with the English or the French? Would He allow her people to be bullied by both nations when they had tried to remain neutral and live honorably? Her heart was overfull, words eluding her. Love your enemies, Mère said, and pray for them. But that seemed too simplistic for a time of war, a possible battle over the very ground she sat upon.
And what abundant ground it was. Soon bayberries would overflow with fruit and spice the air as golden heather adorned the beaches. Wild roses were already showing in pink bunches, and there were wildflowers at her feet. She reached for some bluets and daisies and began weaving a crown. Marie-Madeleine delighted in wildflower crowns. She had been understandably moody of late, her joie de vivre traded for a toothache.
Perhaps Sylvie herself would wear a wildflower crown on her wedding day as well as carry apple blossoms for her bridal bouquet. Such turned her thoughts to Boudreau, absent for weeks. If his false pursuit of her had done anything, it had made her consider a marriage contract and the kind of groom she wanted. And he was opposite the doctor in nearly every way.
He must be a man of integrity. Of faith. Kind yet strong, self-assured and self-controlled. If she had her druthers, he would not be petit but tall. Not russet like Boudreau but dark like Père and Bleu. Capable of removing the taint of the doctor’s unwanted kiss.
Her shudder gave way to a sigh as the wind freshened, toying with her linen cap and the fichu about her shoulders. She raised her gaze from the almost finished flower crown, eyes on the great blue bay she knew by heart in any season. In autumn and winter it was gunmetal gray, in spring and summer robin’s-egg blue—
She shot to her feet, the flowers falling to the grass. There marring the water sailed not one or two vessels but an entire English fleet. It was as Bleu had warned in the stillroom. The New England troops had come, including William Blackburn’s dreaded Rangers. Stretched taut in the wind, Union Jack flags marked more than thirty transports, including sloops and schooners and frigates. Their names eluded her at such a distance, though their portent did not.
Weak-kneed and trying not to weep, she took the trail that led her home, forgetting Marie-Madeleine’s flower crown. These ships—more ships than she had ever seen at one time—signaled something imminent. They were too close to French territory, too near Fort Beauséjour, which was lauded the strongest of all the French garrisons. How many soldiers could be aboard so many ships? Far more than Beauséjour could boast. Even Abbé Le Loutre’s combined militia and Mi’kmaq were said to number only a few thousand souls.
By the time she reached home, her breath was ragged, and she realized she was not the only one who’d seen the fleet. Mère watched from the window, her face disfigured with alarm, while Père and Pascal and Lucien stood silently on shore. Though the ships were still quite a distance away, the names of some were now visible.
Mermaid. Siren. Success.
Her stomach cramped. The trouble was indeed here.