When men are employed they are best contented.
Benjamin Franklin
By week’s end Sylvie had been introduced to the entirety of the bookbinding trade during long, foot-aching, mind-whirling days. And in that span of time she’d come to realize she had no one but herself to rely on. Her future, unwelcome as it was, was in her hands. She must forge a life in this new, alien place with strangers on every side and unceasing demands to be met, including the care of two petits enfants.
Shoulders squared and focusing on her many tasks, she was able to distance herself from the Scot . . . though she nearly held her breath each time the shop door opened and another customer entered. As this was the only bookbindery and stationer’s in town, where else would he shop?
Mr. Hunter, she learned, was one of the most successful merchants in town. Work never ceased. The paper mill near Williamsburg endlessly supplied them, and the bookbindery sold more daybooks than any other merchandise. Sylvie soon learned the most bound book was the Bible, followed by the Anglican prayer book. Pocket almanacs were wildly popular, especially in the New Year. As if those weren’t enough, each time the Virginia assembly met in Williamsburg, the session laws had to be printed in bulk. Simply put, these Virginians delighted in paper.
Looking taxed if pleased, Mr. Hunter informed them a James River planter’s library needed replacing after being lost at sea, necessitating an extra flurry of work and the signing on of two more indentures.
“And we’ve this just in from London,” an apprentice announced, opening a crate with more than his usual zeal. “The factual, never-before-published Journals of Major William Blackburn.”
Quoi? The bottom dropped out of Sylvie’s stomach. She could only stare at the stack of leather-bound books authored by a name she knew too well.
Mr. Hunter took one, cracking open the flyleaf. “Customers have been clamoring for this ever since we received word of its first printing. And now it’s in its—what?—fourth edition, so London says. We’re lucky to have gotten any at all.”
“I’ll place two in the front window,” the apprentice said, gathering an armful. “But I’m willing to wager they’ll soon be sold.”
“Don’t forget those who’ve reserved their copies and have been waiting,” Hunter said before returning to the press. “I’ve already requested another shipment through my agent.”
Did the Scot write of Acadie in his journals? Sylvie had little time to wonder as a rush of customers drove away any idle thoughts.
Though Mr. Hunter had first placed her in the stationer’s side of the shop, Sylvie was soon back in the bookbindery. Had Mrs. Webb complained? Here she folded sheets of paper into different arrangements with an ivory blade, creasing them into printed sheets. Next she worked at the stitching frame, sewing sheets together to form book pages with sturdy thread and needle, then moved on to trimming and gluing edges before squaring stacks of finished books in the standing press. It was the stitching frame where she felt most at home. A buttonhole stitch was all that was required to affix the leather headbands to the book’s spine.
“A book should no more be seen without headbands in a library than a gentleman should appear without a collar in public,” Hunter half shouted amid the hustle of the shop.
So intent was Sylvie on her sewing that at first she didn’t realize the noise had dimmed and everyone from apprentices to master—and even Mrs. Webb—had encircled her.
“Jolly dogs!” one apprentice exclaimed when she paused to rethread her needle. “You’ve outstitched the rest of us, even those who’ve been here for years.”
Scratching his chin in a bemused sort of way, Mr. Hunter finally said, “Miss Galant will continue at the stitching frame henceforth. The rest of you will be hard-pressed at your own stations to keep up with her.”
Sylvie felt a flare of confidence. Though the wages were small—seventeen shillings and sixpence a week—her board and bed were paid. As she climbed the stairs to her room after supper each night, her fingers pinched from repeated stitching, her back and feet sore from standing, she tried to hold on to hope even as she held tightly to the hands of Henrietta and Nolan.
When she was especially tired, bittersweet memories rushed in like Baie Française’s tide. Now, at week’s end, she pushed the past back as best she could, but she was no aboiteaux. Biting her lip, she added another log to the dwindling fire as Eve came and relieved her of the children’s care. But Henrietta ran back and buried her head in Sylvie’s ink-stained apron, her plump arms wrapped around her knees.
Nolan watched from the doorway, his face shadowed. “Rietta’s lonesome for our mother. Sometimes she cries herself to sleep.”
Weary as she was, Sylvie settled the child on her lap, wishing she had a sweet or a toy to soften their good night. All she could do was sing. “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines! Din, din, don. Din, din, don.”
Her soft song seemed to settle Henrietta, much as it had done Marie-Madeleine years before. As she recalled the sweet memory, Sylvie’s voice cracked then smoothed. Better to remember her sister as she was long ago, full of joie de vivre, than she’d been aboard ship, so broken.
“Come along, child,” Eve said softly when Sylvie’s singing stopped. “Miss Galant needs her rest, same as you.”
The door shut behind them, and Sylvie sat alone by the fire, a curious thudding at her temples. Removing her tight woolen shoes, she thought longingly of her sabots hidden beneath the bed. If she could but bathe before she slipped between those linen sheets . . . Her hair was a mass of dirty, limp strands, and she seemed to have become one with Williamsburg and its stench. Her senses were assaulted wherever she went. Did these English not bathe but simply smother themselves in pomades and perfumes? She would not be like them.
Taking soap and a towel, she left her lodgings, seeking a small, secluded millpond at the edge of town. Never mind that it was nearly winter and heavy frosts had set in. Not even January had stopped Bleu from bathing in Baie Française. With as much stealth as he, she got the deed done, skin and hair scoured, before hastening back to Duke of Gloucester Street.
Once in her nightclothes, a plain linen gown that seemed paper-thin against the encroaching winter, she pushed her narrow bed nearer the hearth. At last she lay down, drawing the woolen blanket up to her chin, hoping the thunder in her head would quiet. But even the bedcovers failed to stop her shivering.
The next morn she awoke to her windowsill lined with snow, snowflakes pressed against the glass pane. It was the Sabbath. Carriages hurried by, their usual noise muted. The Anglican church was not far. She’d wanted to see where these English worshiped, but the pain in her head was still there and the room tilted when she sat up.
If she just could get to the tavern and settle her stomach with tea and toast. Across the hall came the sweetness of children’s voices. Should she take them to breakfast? Slowly she dressed in her clean garments from the almshouse, missing her striped skirts and colorful, beribboned waistcoats of before.
When she knocked on the children’s door, there was no answer. Slowly she made her way downstairs and out the bookbindery’s side entrance. Pressing mittened fingers to her temples, she willed her headache away. Snowflakes struck her heated cheeks, seeming to sizzle rather than melt. Had she a fever? The apothecary was not far, but its shutters were closed.
She took another step, light-headed again, her mouth bone-dry. And then her white world narrowed to a tiny pinprick of light as her knees buckled and she pitched into the frozen street.