31

The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

Psalm 34:18

At last Will returned from King William County. His first successful survey had evolved into a second, the days blurring. A snowstorm had kept him confined to an outlying ordinary with his surveying party when they were done. Chafing at the delay, he finally rode into Williamsburg and nearly went straight to the bookbindery, but surveying was not a tidy trade. His garments were so mud-spattered it looked as if he’d returned to Rangering.

He sought his lodgings at Kersey’s, hoping for a welcoming fire and a sizzling tankard of flip if only to warm him. Liselotte was at the milliner’s, a maidservant said, and her uncle at the college with the law students.

An uninterrupted hour later, Will emerged from the townhouse, all the better for soap and a razor. Despite the heavy weather, Williamsburg brimmed with people going about their business on a Monday afternoon, sound and movement at every turn. The shops were open, and Will had need of items that could be had in town.

As usual, the bookbindery and stationer’s were crowded. He waited his turn, taking stock of everyone who came and went, his heart knocking about his chest in anticipation of seeing Sylvie again. Nay, anticipation was not the right word. Dread, mayhap. She caused such a stew of his feelings he could not possibly sort them out.

“Greetings, Major Blackburn,” Mr. Hunter said, stepping away from tooling a cover to face him. “What brings you out this dreary day? If you’ve come to see how your journals are selling, we’ve sold out.”

The journals were the furthest thing from Will’s mind. “A word with you in private, if I may.”

Raising an eyebrow in question, Hunter ushered him to the back room.

“I’m looking for the Frenchwoman I saw when I was last here.”

“Miss Galant?” Hunter sat on the edge of his disorganized desk. “She arrived over a fortnight ago from the almshouse, accompanied by Lord Drysdale and Captain Lennox. I know little about her except she is willing to work and I’m in dire need of hands. That she sews like an angelic being is no small matter.”

Did she? Somehow Will felt cheated he didn’t know. “But she’s not here today.”

“Nay. She’s fallen ill and is confined to her room. George Pitt—the apothecary-surgeon—has been treating her.”

“What is her malady?”

Hunter looked at him as if weighing his New England Scots bluntness. “The seasoning most newcomers suffer upon arrival here. Fever, chiefly.”

Fever could mean a host of ailments, none of them good. Will hadn’t weathered such maladies, but he was a colonial, after all. He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a small notebook he’d carried while in Acadie. Bereft of a Bible on campaign, he’d written down a few Scriptures he’d committed to memory. Perhaps it would be of use to her too, if she could read English as well as she spoke it.

“Give her this, if you will.” Will tempered his intensity, wanting to keep the door open should he need more information. “With my concerns about her health and my prayers for her recovery.”

“Very well, Major.” Surprise softened Hunter’s severity. “I did not realize you knew her.”

“In another time and place.” With a tug at his cocked hat, Will turned and left the bustling bookbindery, though his concern about Sylvie wouldn’t budge.

A woodsy fragrance woke Sylvie. Part pine, part spice, it threaded the cold chamber and seemed to settle about her still form. Somehow it carried the scent of home, of her cozy closet bed with its deep feather paillasse and hanging curtain, her own beloved nest. Contentment cocooned her till she opened her eyes to the gaping emptiness of the present.

Snow still limned the window, and the hearth’s fire was robust, fingers of light flickering over the worn floorboards. Scraps of recent memory came back to her. She’d fallen ill. A man she guessed was a doctor came and went through the haze of her fever. When he wasn’t there, Eve was. But no longer was she burning hot, nor was her tongue thick or her head heavy. She had not cared much if she lived or died, but here she was, still alive, and even more bony. Her stomach cramped in complaint. How long had she lain abed?

Below, the bookbindery hummed like a hive. She could feel its workaday pulse even from above and heard the continual thud of the shop’s door.

Pushing herself up on one elbow, she took stock of her room. All was just as she remembered it save the bedside table. There rested a little book, no bigger than a pack of playing cards, bound with a leather tie. The doctor’s? She reached for it, finding the scuffed cover worn smooth. Laying it on the bed, she looked up as the door cracked open and Eve appeared, her dark face creased with concern.

“You hungry, Miss Sylvie?”

Abandoning the book, Sylvie sat up. “Oui—yes.”

“Dr. Pitt says to eat all you can hold.” Eve set the tray down on her lap. A porringer of thick, steaming ragoût was filled to the brim, and a pewter plate bore more sliced bread than she could possibly eat in a sennight. Beside it were small pots of what looked like preserves and butter. Even cheese.

“Won’t you join me?” Sylvie said, moving the tray from her lap to rest atop the coverlet. Eve was even thinner than she. Sylvie held out the spoon, but Eve shook her head in a sort of horror. “I must thank you in some way for helping take care of me.”

Tentative, Eve sat on the end of the bed as Sylvie sampled the fare. Salty and rich, the stew called for another bite, but Sylvie surrendered the spoon and buttered the bread instead.

“You’re a curious sort of white woman,” Eve murmured, taking a tiny bite. “I fear what Mr. Hunter would do if he found me partaking of your supper.”

“Where do you usually take your meals?”

“With the other servants at his house behind Wetherburn’s.”

“How are the children?”

“Right now Rietta’s napping and Nolan’s playing with his toy soldiers.” Eve poured cider from a pitcher, and Sylvie could smell the apple tang as she passed her the cup.

One sip and Sylvie nearly spat it out.

“You look like you swallowed pepper vinegar instead.” Eve took a sip from the pitcher. “It ain’t rancid, just a mite green.”

Sylvie set the cup down with a shudder. Whatever it was, it paled next to the apples pressed from home. Were the Galant orchards still standing? Scuttling the thought, she slathered another piece of wheaten bread with butter and peach preserves to counter the taste. Suddenly ravenous, she ate everything. When nothing but crumbs remained, Eve disappeared with the tray.

Sylvie returned to the little book. Had the doctor left it behind? If so, she had no wish to pry into his business. She shut it gently, but a flower pressed flat fell out, its dried blueness startling against the linen coverlet. A lacy fern followed, its faded green still lovely. She stared at them, breath held and eyes filling. Chicory, with its periwinkle hues and saw-toothed edges, fluttered to the bed next, followed by pale pink wild rose. And then a fragile lady’s slipper. Flowers of Acadie, all.

A rap at the door sent her carefully gathering up the dried flowers and returning them between the pages before setting the book aside and swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her shift.

“’Tis Dr. Pitt, Miss Galant.” He entered in, looking pleased to find her awake. “You’re on the mend, then. Eve said you’ve eaten and are talkative. Good signs for a recovering patient.” He set his satchel on a table. “You didn’t need to be bled, but you do require some strengthening, either Turlington’s Balsam or Freeman’s Cordials. Mr. Hunter is anxious for you to return to the shop, but I urge caution.”

“How long have I been ill?”

“Nearly a sennight, but a mild case, it seems. Many don’t recover but succumb completely. Slight as you are, you seem made of sterner stuff.” He extracted a bottle, eyeing it with spectacles on.

“Is this yours, sir?” Sylvie asked, extending the leather book.

“Nay,” he replied. “Mr. Hunter brought it up to you just yesterday, saying it originated from a man named Blackburn.”

He talked on, turning to medical matters, but she heard nary a word. He left a bottle of Turlington’s Balsam on the table and gave instructions on how to use it, but she was lost in the book, discovering a treasure of more pressed flowers between the pages . . . and then heavy black ink, some of it smeared as if caught in the rain, the words still distinguishable. She read slowly and thoughtfully, marveling at the fine penmanship and her own opposing thoughts.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

Oh, but she did want. The before gnawed at her day and night.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

But the waters had engulfed her, and there were no green pastures here.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Her soul was in tatters, rent like the ship’s sails in the storm. She felt battered still.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

Yet she’d feared blatant evil in red-coated men who’d stolen their land and lives.

For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

She felt akin to a sheep without a shepherd. Where was comfort?

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.

This gave her pause. Enemy English surrounded her. Yet there were also those like Captain Lennox and Esmée Shaw and Lord Drysdale. As for the table, had she not just partaken of abundance on a tray?

Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

She felt no anointing. No overflowing. Only a deep, abysmal emptiness.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Eyes smarting, she dashed her tears away with the back of her hand.

Goodness and mercy belonged to the before, not the after.