The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.
William Shakespeare
At week’s end, Sylvie had a visitor. The chocolatier, Esmée Shaw, appeared in the doorway of the sewing room, a basket on her arm. She stepped into the sunlit chamber, giving Sylvie a better look at her than she’d had in York. Dark curls spiraled beneath a jaunty feathered hat, and the green velvet riding habit with its black buttons lent an air of elegance to their humble surroundings.
“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Galant.” Her soft voice had a musicality that beguiled, her eyes smiling. “I’ve been told you’ve set up shop right here and I shan’t have to worry about the children being warm enough this winter.”
Fingers slightly stiff from continuous stitching, Sylvie stood, abandoning her work and gesturing to an empty chair. “Please, sit down.”
Esmée set the basket on the table before removing her riding gloves. “I’ve asked for tea to be brought. No doubt you’d like some refreshment and a respite.”
As another almshouse woman appeared with two creamware cups and a large porcelain pot, Sylvie’s thoughts were full of Madame Auclair and the Pandora and tea at Beauséjour.
“Thank you, Hannah.” Esmée reached into her basket and produced a finely embroidered handkerchief. “I heard you had a cold of late but hope you’re feeling better. Perhaps this will help?”
“You’re never empty-handed nor empty-hearted, Miss Shaw. ‘Thank you’ hardly seems enough.” Hannah curtsied before shutting the door behind her, the gift pressed to her bodice.
Throat tight, Sylvie looked at this vision in green who seemed half angelic. “You’re all but revered here for your many kindnesses.”
“Oh? Any scrap of compassion assumes Goliath-like proportions to those used to hardship and harshness. I simply do what I can, which is not nearly enough.”
“You’ve even begun teaching the Acadian women English,” Sylvie said. “Basic words and phrases to help prepare them for the colonial world.”
“Of which you need nary a lesson.” Esmée smiled as she poured the tea with a steady hand.
“Your mother helped found the almshouse, Mistress Boles said.”
“Years ago, before she passed away.” She reached into the basket again and withdrew two chocolate tarts wrapped in a linen cloth, a supply of sugared almonds, and even a small chocolate brick wrapped in brown paper. “I can go nowhere without sweets, as you can see. My late mother left me Shaw’s Chocolate, not just her almshouse endeavors. Both keep me busy, and my father, a retired admiral, doesn’t object.” Esmée slid the tarts and almonds across the table to Sylvie. “A reward for your labors.”
“Thank you, though I must confess sewing is more pleasure than work. I just never thought to ply my needle outside of Acadie.”
Esmée took in the newly finished garments atop the sewing table with palpable pleasure. “I’ve long prayed for help with the residents here, especially the orphans.” She took a sip of tea, her pleasure shifting to sadness. “Virginia, to its shame, cares little and does less.”
Sylvie listened to the dulcet voice, not embittered but heavy with regret. If Virginia did so little for its own needy citizens, how could the Acadians expect anything, given they were the enemy French?
Esmée’s gaze returned to her. “You’ve been through an unfathomable ordeal. The facts are just coming to light here in the colonies. You Acadians should never have been driven from your homeland.” She poured more tea, the quiet in the room broken by the mewling of a cat outside the window. “Such cruelties will not go unpunished, I assure you. In the meantime, Captain Lennox has enlisted the support of my sister’s husband, Lord Drysdale, a powerful ally in Virginia and elsewhere. Along with prayer, that may prove a potent combination.”
Sylvie sampled the flaky tart without tasting it. She knew nothing of Lord Drysdale, but not even Dieu, she’d decided, could return them to the before nor be of much help in the after.
That night after supper, Sylvie returned to her room to find her haversack gone. She’d left it beneath her corner cot, unsure of where else to secret it. Dropping to her knees, she searched beneath the sagging ropes that supported the straw mattress. A bedbug crawled up her arm and she shook it off, more frantic than repulsed. Why had she not kept her valuables locked up in her sewing room?
She sought out Mr. Boles since she couldn’t find his wife.
“We aren’t constables, Miss Galant. Theft is commonplace among the indigents here. I suspect your belongings are now the property of some vagrant who happened by and has since departed.”
“Can I not search for it?” she pleaded.
“And cause a disturbance? I think not.” The firm shake of his balding head shot down the notion. “I’m sure you had little of value, destitute as you are.”
Eyes smarting, Sylvie wrapped herself in a borrowed shawl and traded the almshouse for the twilight evening. Firelight glowed like fallen stars among the refugee tents, the York River a dark ribbon. A few newly arrived Acadian women stood about with the men, sharing their humble habitations. They had escaped one of the transport ships anchored up the James River, seeking their kin. Sylvie saw no one she knew, though she searched each face as she walked among them, making inquiries about her family and friends as she looked for her missing belongings. With no success, she had started back toward the almshouse when a man stepped out of the shadows.
“I am Sebastien Broussard. You are looking for something, mademoiselle?”
Drawing her shawl tighter against the chill, Sylvie felt helpless as a child as they made introductions. “My haversack has been stolen.”
“What was in it?”
“A gown. Necklaces. Coin.” Her voice nearly failed her. All I have left of home. “Héritages.”
With a nod, he walked past her toward a tent at the end of the encampment. She followed, his purposeful stride reassuring her. Pausing at the opening of the tent, he called, “Adélard?”
A boy stuck his head out, answering in French.
“Bring me the haversack,” Sebastien said.
“Bof!” came the reply as the boy disappeared back inside.
In a trice, Sebastien had both the boy and her haversack in hand. Head hanging, Adélard murmured an apology and confessed to the theft.
“Stealing from your own,” Sebastien said with contempt. “Such is a crime in Acadie as well as Virginia.”
“Please, say no more,” Sylvie said. “’Tis enough that it’s now in my safekeeping.” Clutching it, feeling the familiar weight of the contents, she guessed nothing was missing. “Merci.”
Firelight called out the haggard lines of Sebastien’s handsome face. “You are gracious.”
“I still have my manners if little else.”
His half smile was wry. “A favor for a favor, then.” He reached into his weskit and withdrew a folded Virginia Gazette. “We must keep current with events. Can you read to me the news?”
“Of course,” she said, also curious. She’d not seen a paper since York.
He gestured toward a tent where a lantern hung, a crude bench beneath it. They sat, and he held her haversack while she perused the paper’s ponderously small newsprint warning of an impending war with France. She nearly rolled her eyes. Was it not plain to all they were at war already?
“Here is a speech from Governor Dinwiddie,” she said as the lantern light waned. “‘Our people are much alarmed and in great confusion in having any French among us . . .’”
Stoic, he listened as she read on, but she sensed their shared turmoil. When she’d finished the article, he urged her to continue, but all that remained was a boldface line in the bottom corner.
After a decade’s service to the Crown, Major William Blackburn resigns his commission.
She recoiled as if struck. The Scot? Resigning when a declaration of England’s war with France was expected any day? Where would he go? What would he do? She handed the paper back to Sebastien without reading further.
“Merci, mademoiselle,” he said.
A cold rain began to fall, spattering the newsprint and making the ink run. Tempted to ask again for the paper and have answers, Sylvie raised her shawl above her head instead. “Au revoir,” she called as she walked away, haversack dangling from one shoulder.
If not for the weather, she would have stayed to hear more of Sebastien Broussard’s own story.