46

Love was as subtly catch’d as a disease. But being got, it is a treasure sweet, which to defend is harder than to get; and ought not be profaned, on either part, for though ’tis got by chance, ’tis kept by art.

John Donne

Sylvie had not expected so much forest. Dogwood and redbud, oak and hickory and maple, poplar and towering pine. Will named what she didn’t know.

At last, limbs numb from riding so long and faces pinched with cold, they reached the Rivanna. It was a comely river, only a mile wide at the most, so different from the rivers of before.

Père’s weirs, teeming with sturgeon, shad, and salmon, sprang to mind. “What fish are here?” Sylvie asked.

“Shad and rockfish foremost—and herring, which you call gaspereau,” Will told her, holding the reins loosely. “When we tire of hunting, we fish.”

After another hour they came over a slight rise to see the distant settlement she’d tried to envision. Her eyes roamed everywhere at once, finding the land bleak beneath pewter skies. Trying to imagine it dressed in spring, Sylvie searched for any sign of the orchards. “I’m glad I’m in time to see the apples blossom. I’ll help tend the orchards if you like. I can teach the children to tend them too.”

“Children will be good to have here. They bring life and laughter to a world marked with hard work.”

From the bed of the wagon, Henrietta and Nolan clamored to walk, tired of riding.

“Another mile yet,” Will told them.

Down the rise they rolled, the team plodding at a slower pace. Log outbuildings dotted cleared woods, along with small timber-framed houses nearer the river with what looked like a lane between them. Smoke wafted from a dozen chimneys, and Sylvie could see people going to and fro. Some men worked in outlying fields and others on roadbuilding. All bespoke careful planning and long hours. This was now home to Will, matching the picture in his mind he’d carried since childhood. Somehow knowing that imbued the place with poignancy for her too.

“This is your vision, what Virginians call a plantation,” she said, having never seen one. “Hard to believe it was abandoned and auctioned—and now thriving.”

“Mostly because you Acadians don’t shirk work.” They were at the edge of the settlement now, but Will swerved to a road beyond it. “We’re restoring what was left or lost. See the rebuilt mill farther downstream? One day there’ll be a bridge rather than a ferry to reach the north bank.” She followed the swing of his arm as he pointed out various sites. “Two warehouses stand on the south bank, and there’s another half-finished near the mill.”

Her appreciation grew as her gaze moved to a house on the hill, tucked in a stand of trees. A marvel of brick with no less than four chimneys that seemed deserving of town. “Who lives there, set apart from the rest?”

“The fool leader of this endeavor.”

Surprised, she turned back to him, losing the reserve of the last hundred miles. “You’re far from foolish, William Blackburn.”

“Holy Spirit driven, mayhap inspired.” His gaze touched hers before returning to the house. “As opposed to the White Devil of before.”

They came to a stable, where they left the team to an indentured man she’d not met. From there they walked through woods where the river wended like a horseshoe, a sandy beach in one winsome bend. The children ran toward it, leaving mittens and scarves in their wake. Sylvie swallowed down the caution she felt, but they’d been so good on the journey she didn’t want to spoil their high spirits.

In the shadow of the big house, farther down the hill, sat a small cottage with a narrow front porch surrounded by hemlocks that reminded her of home. Hers?

“You’ve not endured a Virginia summer yet,” Will said, stepping onto the porch ahead of her. “You’ll be glad of the shade trees come June.”

“This place is so private. Set apart.”

“Greenmount’s farm manager once lived here, but it’s been empty for years. The women cleaned it ahead of your coming. I had it in mind for you from the first, though I wasn’t sure you’d ever see it.”

Overcome with all she might have missed, she darted a look at him. His pride in the place—and in her being here—was plain even though he wasn’t smiling.

In back of the cottage sprawled a gnarled, forsaken orchard overgrown with blackberry vines and weeds. Did he sense her dismay?

“Give it time,” he told her, apology in his tone. “There’s a great many varieties there—Hewe’s Crab and Taliaferro, the best for cider, and Newtown pippin and Spitzenburg, best saved for dessert. Even Acadian seed that’s already sprouting.”

He opened the door, then stayed on the porch to keep an eye on the children while she stood on the threshold, clasping her hands together in wordless delight. She’d expected earth floors and chinked logs, not plastered walls and pine planks, nor twin hearths with wooden surrounds and deep-seated windows of gleaming glass. In one room, three beds bore linens and coverlets, and in the other were four chairs around an oval table. A washstand graced with a pitcher and basin stood between two windows.

In moments the children rushed in, drawing up short in wondrous bewilderment as she had. Will began kindling a fire in one hearth, sending Nolan back outside for wood, while Henrietta slipped her hand into Sylvie’s as they passed into the other room.

“Is this our house now?”

“Oui, and a fine house it is.”

Henrietta patted the bed’s colorful coverlet. “Très belle.”

Sylvie smiled, delighted by her joy. “Oui, très.”

Will started a second fire in the bedchamber, then took Sylvie outside to show her the well beyond the back door. What looked to be a wild rose wound about its base, a promise of spring. She wondered at its color. All here was stillness and peace, unlike the other end of the settlement that seemed the equivalent of a hive. The memory of the teeming, reeking town was already receding. She took a deep, bracing breath of clean, frosty air.

“You’ll need to be apart from the others for a time—you and the children,” Will said. “Dr. Pitt recommends at least a fortnight.”

“Of course.” She felt a sudden contentment, a newfound freedom despite these light restrictions. “The last thing I want is to carry any sickness.”

“I’ll bring your belongings in and tell the others you’re here.” He reached out, the backs of his fingers grazing her cold cheek. “Expect supper at dusk.”

As promised, Will reappeared, carrying a heavily laden tray. The humble task touched her, and they sat down together for another meal graced with both his presence and a prayer. Joining freshly washed hands, they bowed their heads.

“Father, we give Thee endless thanks for bringing us safely home,” Will said. “Prepare our hearts to serve Thee here and elsewhere all our days. Amen.”

Home. Did he already think of Greenmount that way? How had he come to have an endearing humility when he’d once been so formidable a soldier? Somehow it removed her further from the Ranger she’d known in Acadie. He’d become something more, a new man with only hints of the old one about him.

Could she somehow move beyond her own grievous past and become a new woman in turn?

“Do you live here too, Mr. Major?” Nolan asked, spooning his stew with gusto once they’d set out dishes.

“I’m in the brick house up the hill,” he replied. “You’re welcome to visit.”

“Can I come too?” Henrietta asked with a rare forthrightness.

“Anytime you please, aye.” Will shot a look at Sylvie. “The same goes for you.”

“If you’re not here,” Nolan continued, reaching for more cheese, “I promise to keep her and Sister safe from coons and cougars and the like.”

Will agreed. “You’ll need a slingshot. I’ll see if the carpenters can whittle one for you or teach you how. And a fishing pole.”

“Take care with the river,” Sylvie cautioned. “It’s deep especially in spring, and you might—”

“Drown.” Nolan frowned and nodded. “Pa used to tell me the same.”

“If you respect the river, it’s less of a threat.” Will poured them more cider. “When you’re a little older, we’ll team up and carve a canoe for you.”

“An Indian canoe?”

“Huron, aye.”

Nolan’s eyes rounded.

Henrietta wouldn’t be left out. “Miss Sylvie’s going to teach me to sew,” she said proudly, looking at Sylvie for confirmation.

Will winked. “If you sew as well as you speak French, she’ll be hard-pressed to keep up with you.”

With a giggle, she hid her flushed face in her apron, making them all laugh.

“We’ll be quite busy here making a new home.” Sylvie stroked Henrietta’s hair and looked at Will. “Once you bring me the bolts of cloth you mentioned, I’ll start sewing. I don’t mean to be idle even if we’re isolated.”

When supper was over, as the children played with their toys, she went to her trunk and took out the shirt she’d made Will. She’d not tell him of the tears she’d shed over it, nor how her heart had seemed to shift and soften stitch by stitch and seam by seam, leading to this tender moment.

He took the garment she held out, pleasure flickering across his face in the firelight. “I’ve never owned a finer shirt.”

The compliment left her eyes awash. She’d meant it as a token of her gratitude, but the words wouldn’t come even if the tears did.

“I waited nine months to see you cry, and now you can’t seem to stop.” His words came low, not in censure but in a sort of wonder.

Setting the shirt aside, he reached for her and pulled her onto the bench by the hearth where he sat. She seemed to melt into him as his arms encircled her, so quietly the children didn’t stop their playing. They clung together as if they’d been apart years, not weeks. Each of them was in need of different things, or so she sensed—he her softness and scent, she his strength and purpose. Her head rested on his shoulder, the romance of the firelight lending to their intimacy.

Amused, she whispered, “Père would not approve of me nearly sitting on your lap.”

“He would if he knew my intentions were honorable,” he murmured against her hair.

Her eyes closed as the exhaustion of the day took over. In time the mantel clock she’d noticed earlier struck the hour. How long had they sat there as if they were the only two in the room?

Slowly, Will shifted as if awakening her and stood her on her feet.

Mère seemed near, somewhere in the shadows, her words a soft echo across time and place.

The sweeter the moment, the faster it flees.