27

A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.

Jean de La Fontaine

However daunting the future, Sylvie was not sorry to leave the almshouse behind. Shod in new black woolen shoes, her haversack made heavier by her hidden sabots, she rode away from the York River to a place inland called Williamsburg. Jostled about in a wagon with her were other Acadians assigned service. They were a silent, grim lot as if going to the guillotine, though perhaps the worst was behind them, not ahead of them. The road was rutted, snow spitting in their faces.

At the last, Esmée Shaw had appeared, bringing knitted gloves and scarves. Sylvie noticed she and Captain Lennox seemed to know each other well.

“Williamsburg isn’t far,” Esmée told them, handing out blankets next. “Only a few miles.”

Sylvie tried to keep her mind off the ships still at anchor, the surviving Acadians huddled without heat in the dark, filthy holds. Sorrow pressed hard against her, diminishing what little hope was left in her heart. She, who had never before left the land of her birth, looked out over frozen fields and woods, finding them cheerless and unhospitable in the clutch of winter. Her whole being cried out for the cliffs and pines and seascapes of home, an unforgettable palette of cinnamon and azure and jade in every season. The stark Virginia landscape seemed akin to her soul.

She looked past the thickset wagon master to Captain Lennox atop a bay horse, Lord Drysdale riding beside him on an equally fine mount. These men would introduce them to Williamsburg, and for that she felt a rush of gratitude.

On the town’s outskirts she saw the spire of a church rising like chimney smoke as men and women went about their business despite the weather. Animals were being herded, and shopkeepers set out their wares. Signs hung above countless businesses, one advertising a milliner, a hat painted on the boards. A sparkling, bow-fronted window invited a longer look, filled with gloves and fur muffs she wanted to sink her hands into.

Down a cobbled main street they went. Their driver slowed the pace to deposit them before a tavern with a wide front porch. The captain and Lord Drysdale ushered them inside to a blue-painted foyer then a small private chamber.

Lord Drysdale ordered drinks to warm them, steaming pitchers redolent of ginger and spirits. All drank the flip as a hearth’s fire crackled at their backs. It was then Sylvie remembered the note Esmée had given her before she’d gotten in the wagon, telling her to pocket it for safekeeping should she need it.

Sylvie dug it out now, finding English words scrawled upon it. Lady Drysdale née Eliza Shaw Cheverton of Williamsburg. She repocketed it, looking at Lord Drysdale, who spoke with Sebastien near the door. His wife?

In time several strangers appeared, all men save one woman, a tavern keeper. One by one the Acadians signed contracts for their service. Sylvie’s turn came and she put her name to paper. She turned toward the scarecrowish, black-clad man Lord Drysdale was introducing and to whom she was now employed.

Thomas Hunter, bookbinder and stationer of Williamsburg.

The next morning, Sylvie stood in the shop on Duke of Gloucester Street surrounded by endless shelves of books—more books than she’d ever beheld in her life or imagined could exist in one place. Not only finished books but books in various stages of production. The large, many-windowed shop pulsed with activity and smelled pleasantly of ink and leather, paste and vinegar. The workers hardly gave her a glance, so intent were they on their tasks.

One burly man stood wielding a mallet, smashing papers flat on a stone anvil. Another plied needle and thread in some sort of frame, sewing papers together. Still another stacked finished books in a press. One boy swept the shop floor while another replaced paper in cubbyholes along one wall. Someone barked at a little girl who had ventured from a back room. She wore a shift and tiny stays but not much else. Her feet were bare though a cap covered her curls. Sylvie hadn’t expected to find any enfants in so busy a place. The little girl stared at her wide-eyed for a moment till a woman took her hand and snatched her from sight.

Overwhelmed by the bustle and fuss, Sylvie’s mind stretched to take in the bookbindery as customers came and went, opening and shutting the front door with such force she feared for its hinges. Little wonder she’d been hired as a day laborer. What would be her piece in this complicated puzzle?

Mr. Hunter finally entered, hanging his cane and heavy black cape from a wall peg near the rear door before summoning Sylvie into the adjoining stationer’s shop. A stout, middle-aged woman stood behind the counter, supplying customers with all kinds of stationery supplies.

“You’ll assist Mrs. Webb till I determine how best to use you.” Mr. Hunter stopped at the long counter’s end, shrewdly assessing what was lacking before calling for an apprentice to fetch more Edinburgh inkpots and gilt-edged paper. “Starting out in the stationery shop will give you a solid foundation for the bookbindery.”

Mrs. Webb eyed her, unsmiling, as Sylvie smoothed her apron and looked out the shop’s front window where pale sunlight struck the cobbled street. “Best study the shelves and get your footing,” the woman told her tersely before greeting another customer.

Sylvie did so, taking in inkstands and pounce boxes, vials of ink in varied colors, and reams of paper bearing such names as imperial, elephant, crown, demy, royal, and super royal, to name but a few. Could she commit them to memory? As she tried to familiarize herself with the strange and manifold merchandise, she listened to the English banter sometimes interspersed with Scots.

“Needs be I excuse myself for a moment,” Mrs. Webb told her before disappearing and seeking the necessary behind the shop in one corner of a small, faded garden.

Left to face half a dozen customers alone, Sylvie was gripped by a paralyzing bewilderment when a bewigged gentleman stepped up to the counter. “Three black lead pencils and a merchant’s blank book, please.” When she darted a look at the burgeoning shelves, he pointed a finger to what was needed. “You’re new here, obviously. I’ve not seen you before.”

She climbed a small ladder and fetched what was wanted, wishing Mrs. Webb back. “I’ve no notion what to charge you, sir.”

He chuckled. “I pay in tobacco credit, Miss . . . ?”

“Galant,” she replied, trying to subdue her accent while wondering what tobacco credit might mean.

At last Mrs. Webb returned, and Sylvie watched her record the transaction in a large ledger. The rest of the morning was spent shadowing her and trying not to allow the woman’s sour mood to scare her.

At midday Sylvie was given leave to go into the back room or rear garden and eat. She had nothing nor knew where to get food, so she simply sat and digested the garden’s tidy geometric design, which promised a riot of color in spring but held no lingering vegetables she might scrounge.

Stomach rumbling, she shifted on the hard bench, eyes on the lane behind the shop where the stables stood. Peering at her through the fence along the lane was a creature with a black-striped tail and huge feet, its white coat marbled brown and sable.

In a trice her empty stomach was forgotten. Light-headed, she blinked as her whole being roared no.

Bonami? Could it be?

If so, his owner could not be far behind. Shrinking down on the bench, Sylvie drew her cape hood tighter. As if catching her scent, Bonami whined. Then a distinct whistle stole his attention, sending Sylvie off the bench and back into the shop, as nauseous as she’d been hungry moments before.