36

I have more memories than if I’d lived a thousand years.

Charles Baudelaire

A sennight had passed when Sylvie realized something was afoot that might end her tenure at the bookbindery. Someone had lodged a complaint about her with Mr. Hunter, an apprentice confided. Sylvie wasn’t surprised, certain her being Acadian rather than her work performance was at the heart of it. Mrs. Webb refused to speak to her, and over the next few days Sylvie felt a growing tension in the shop though she kept to her work, sewing more headbands at the stitching frame than ever before. It was then she remembered the advertisement about classes in the art of the French tongue.

Once the workday ended, Sylvie postponed supper with the children and hastened to the Raleigh Tavern, where the notice had originated. A maid ushered her into a back room, where she waited, her prayers interspersed with window gazing as wealthy gentlemen left coaches and saddles to converge in the popular Apollo Room.

At last the tavern’s owner appeared, looking slightly flustered, his spotted spectacles in need of cleaning. “The French tongue, you say? That advertisement has since been filled.” Sylvie schooled her disappointment as he continued, “But I have it on good authority that a French tutor is needed for Governor Dinwiddie’s daughters, if you’ve the courage to apply at the palace.”

Dare she?

Out the door she went, lamenting her plain clothes and scuffed shoes. Then she remembered the Lyonnais silk gown. And Bleu. Sorrow clouded her thinking as she made her way back to the bookbindery to take the children to the tavern.

Upstairs, Eve met her with a frown, her usual reserve missing. “Miss Sylvie, I overheard Mrs. Webb tell Mr. Hunter she would up and quit if you stayed on.”

“But why would he listen to her?” Sylvie’s dread deepened. “He’s the owner, she’s the help.”

“She’s his sister,” Eve returned. “And sour as Caribbean lemons.”

Sylvie sank down on the end of her bed as the children rushed in, clamoring for their supper. How she would miss them and Eve! Henrietta buried her face in Sylvie’s aproned lap, but Sylvie’s thoughts were rushing ahead to what she might do to spare both herself and Mr. Hunter a confrontation.

Quieting the children, she explained this new turn of events and confided to Eve, “I have a gown that might suit the palace.” Though it had traversed leagues in the dank, reeking ship’s hold, rimed with sea salt and wrinkled, it hadn’t lost its luster. “But I’ll need your help pressing it and making it presentable.”

“The silk I cleaned for you a while back?” Eve started for the iron. “I’ll set it to rights while you have your supper. Never you mind Mrs. Webb. This is bound to be more blessing than curse.”

The Governor’s Palace, always grand and forbidding, was never more so than when seeking employment. Sylvie met with Eulalie beforehand, telling her the plan. With a conspiratorial air, Eulalie brought her through a back door into the grand entrance hall that boasted a great many weapons and a black-and-white-tiled floor, including a royal coat of arms. Sylvie wasn’t the only one beseeching the governor’s favor. The forecourt and stone steps overflowed with people awaiting a meeting.

Eulalie whispered in the butler’s ear why Sylvie was there, so her wait was not long. She was soon ushered into a small antechamber, where a clerk entered her name in one of the large leather books the bookbindery sold. Then she waited again, taking in the rich wallpaper and furnishings, especially smitten with the tall, narrow windows sparkling with English crown glass.

“Mademoiselle Galant.” A liveried footman beckoned for Sylvie to follow, and she was led upstairs to what she guessed were the family’s private rooms, her silk skirts whispering on the dark wooden steps. The gown hung a bit loosely now, but Eve had helped her pin it becomingly in place, so she held her head up, feigning confidence. Eve had done a fine job erasing every wrinkle and even found Sylvie a bergère hat so stylish in Virginia, trimmed with a bit of silk ribbon.

Another clerk led her to an upper middle room and introduced her not to the governor but the governor’s wife. Mrs. Dinwiddie was a small, plump woman, heavily powdered and sporting a beauty patch on her right cheekbone. She entered the chamber, her eyes on Sylvie’s garments and not her face. Did she find the silk favorable, or was it too grand for Sylvie’s mission?

“What is your purpose, mademoiselle?” Mrs. Dinwiddie asked her.

“I’ve come seeking an appointment as French tutor to your daughters.”

With a gesture inviting Sylvie to take a striped silk chair, Mrs. Dinwiddie sat across from her, her bejeweled hands folded in her lap. “Your credentials and character references?”

“I am simply French born, newly arrived on your shores, and lately in the employ of the bookbindery.” Sylvie grasped for more to embellish this slim proposition. “I’ve fallen on hard times, and if not for the kind assistance of Lord Drysdale and Captain Lennox—”

“Ah, two such esteemed gentlemen. Say no more, mademoiselle.” Mrs. Dinwiddie switched easily into French, conversing loquaciously with Sylvie for a half hour. “We’ve been in Virginia for four years but find proper education lacking for genteel females. Our former tutor has returned to England, and we’ve been in search of a replacement. I have high hopes for my daughters, you see. But enough about Rebecca and Elizabeth—you must meet them.” With a smile, Mrs. Dinwiddie pulled on a bell cord. Two girls came into the room so quickly Sylvie wondered if they’d been listening at the keyhole.

Before her gaped two mademoiselles, one Sylvie guessed to be Marie-Madeleine’s age. The comparison pinched, but the pivotal moment allowed for no melancholy. Clad in lovely shades of mint and rose, they looked to be miniatures of their mother. Standing, Sylvie gave a small curtsey. Good manners were never amiss, were they?

“These are my lovely daughters who are in need of mastery of the French tongue.” Mrs. Dinwiddie surveyed them fondly as she introduced them to Sylvie. “Girls, meet your newest tutor, Mademoiselle Galant. I forbid you to speak English with her, only French.”

“Like they do at Versailles?” the younger, Elizabeth, asked with a childish lisp. “In the court of Louis the Beloved?”

Sylvie felt a qualm. This mademoiselle knew more than she about French affairs across the water. Smiling past her nervousness, Sylvie reverted to her native tongue. “Comme je suis heureux de vous rencontrer.” How happy I am to meet you was an overstatement, but what else could she say?

Elizabeth smiled while Rebecca looked on with a chilly hauteur. “Where shall Mademoiselle Galant live, Mama?”

“Here in the palace, of course, along with the upper servants.”

“When will lessons begin?” Elizabeth asked so eagerly Sylvie was touched.

Mrs. Dinwiddie looked to Sylvie. “Mademoiselle?”

“As soon as you wish,” Sylvie replied, hardly believing her turn of fortune.

“Day after tomorrow, then. We shall make arrangements.”

The four Acadian men gathered in Kersey’s townhouse looked out of place and uncomfortable. Even though Liselotte Kersey, acting as hostess, tried to put them at ease, they stood stiff as scarecrows in the ornate grandeur of the chamber, which was made only slightly warmer by the robust hearth’s fire.

“At your ease,” Will told them, inviting them to sit.

Sebastien Broussard took an upholstered sofa, the others following suit, but on so cold a day Will was sure they’d rather keep to the hearth. Their curiosity was apparent as steaming drinks were brought in large tankards, redolent with spices and spirits. Had they never had flip? From the looks on their faces, nay.

Nicolas, clearly the spokesman for the group, nodded his appreciation. “We’re here to learn more about the work you offer on the Rivanna River.”

Liselotte stood at a side door as if asking if Will needed anything more. She was attentive of late, more than a little interested in the Rivanna purchase. With a slight shake of his head, he bade her close the door for privacy’s sake.

He thanked the men for coming, letting them enjoy their drinks as he gathered his thoughts. Having returned from a short survey the night before, he’d been surprised when he’d learned several Acadians had been to the townhouse seeking him.

As they emptied their tankards, Will laid out the terms of employment per contract and did not hide the fact that the endeavor would entail strenuous work. But he’d witnessed these Acadians laboring among their aboiteaux, harnessing the strongest tides he’d ever seen—strength that was wasted on blacksmithing and chandlery. These were men of the earth. Farming was what they did best, and he would treat them as he had his Rangers, fairly and generously and with respect. He felt a profound regret that they no longer inhabited their homeland.

It did not hurt that he spoke to them in their native language, even calling them défricheurs d’eau, which spoke to their ingenuity and strength and made them smile.

“Oui, I am a water clearer, soon to be a land clearer,” Nicolas told him. “When do we begin?”

“The first of March, by my reckoning,” Will answered. “I have indentures on the Rivanna working ahead of your arrival, preparing your dwellings as I amass more provisions and tools.”

“Can we begin sooner? We fear that in so English a town, we might well be rounded up and exiled like before, to places unknown,” Jean-Luc said as their expressions hardened.

“That remains a threat, aye.” Will would not mislead them like he had Sylvie. “But as you know, Lord Drysdale and Captain Lennox continue to act on your behalf—and I’m just as committed to giving you another opportunity.”

“Have you need of any women workers?” Thibault asked.

“Are any willing?” Will replied.

“One mademoiselle asked about cooking and gardening,” Sebastien told him.

Not Sylvie, Will guessed, though he wished otherwise. “If she can withstand the remoteness and conditions, she’s welcome to join us.”

They nodded, seemingly undeterred. Their dislike of Williamsburg and close proximity to the English were clear enough.

He himself felt hemmed in like a fox before hounds. With anti-French sentiment at fever pitch, and the ribald public times when the courts convened in the capital approaching, the Rivanna seemed a sort of haven.

“You’ve no doubt heard of the French Huguenots in King William County,” Will told them. “Though they’re Protestant, they began as exiles and refugees, laboring and gradually acquiring land of their own, marrying, and having families. The Rivanna settlement is patterned after them as I’ve studied their successes and failures. It will take time, but all solid endeavors do.”

“You are now a Crown surveyor if not a soldier,” Nicolas said. “How often will you be at the Rivanna settlement?”

“As it stands, I’ll continue my surveying work. But I consider the Rivanna my permanent home and I’ll continue provisioning it as needed, in my absence or otherwise.”

More flip was served as he explained his vision, answering their questions and thereby confirming his plan might well work. Less risky than going into battle, it would still be a battle nonetheless.

He fell quiet, letting them talk. Relaxed by the fire and the mellowing flip, they spoke freely of their time in Williamsburg and their ties to those who had escaped both the ships and the almshouse with the help of Lennox and Drysdale.

“We had a small gathering at Noël,” Etienne said, “at the request of Mademoiselle Galant. Though we are far from feeling celebratory, it was still good to be together.”

Will added another log to the fire. “And how is Mademoiselle?”

“She has exchanged the bookbindery for the Governor’s Palace,” Sebastien told him.

Will turned away from the hearth, his stoicism slipping. “The palace?”

“It seems the governor’s daughters covet French lessons.” Etienne’s half smile was wry. “And at a most opportune time.”

Jean-Luc nodded and swallowed more flip. “There was some upset in the bookbindery that necessitated her leaving, but I’m certain Mr. Hunter was loath to lose her, especially since she helped care for his orphans.”

“So, she’s now living at the palace?”

Lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug, Nicolas regarded him with undisguised amusement. “Something tells me, Major Blackburn, that you will soon find out.”