47

I was long a child, and am so yet in many particulars.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau

A fortnight to themselves at the cottage helped Sylvie and the children settle in. Will left on a survey, so early in the morning Sylvie missed his going. But he’d left a note for her, assuring her of his return and telling her to seek out Nicolas if she had any questions or concerns. He made no mention of Liselotte Kersey. Bonami lay on her porch as if at his master’s command. He wagged his tail as she greeted him in French, touched that Will had left him behind as if to help ensure their safekeeping.

“Mon ami!” The familiar voice halted Sylvie as she gathered firewood stacked at one end of the porch. Eulalie, obviously tired of waiting for Sylvie’s quarantine to end, appeared on the riverbank. Looking a tad exasperated, she took a seat atop a boulder on the horseshoe beach. “Major Blackburn said you were here but that you weren’t to be disturbed. I’m eager to know why you refused to come with us at first but have now appeared.”

“I had a change of heart,” Sylvie said, walking to the end of the porch nearest Eulalie.

“Well, I’m overjoyed you’ve joined us. And what a pretty cottage you have! I wondered who would take up residence here when I cleaned it ahead of your arrival.”

“Remember the quarantine,” Sylvie said, hiding a smile. “We cannot be in the midst of the settlement in case we sicken.”

“A needless precaution. I think there is more to it than that. You are all the nearer Major Blackburn.” Eulalie’s laugh boded well. Not once had Sylvie heard her laugh before now. “I am glad to see you again at last.”

“And you,” Sylvie returned. “How is everyone else?”

“A few have fallen ill of the ague, but most are well. We have an infirmary of sorts here and ample medicine, though no doctor save Monsieur Dubois, who pretends to be one and is quite good at dosing us with tisanes and whatnot.”

“So everyone has settled into their work? I’m trying to do my part sewing garments for the settlement.”

“I expected nothing else. I doubt you are missing those fancy Pandoras at the palace.” Eulalie rolled her eyes in good-humored exasperation. “We are in need of your needle. Farming is hard on garments, and those of us in the kitchen house fare no better.”

“Well, I’ve no complaint about your cooking, and I’m even becoming fond of Indian bread. Tomorrow ends our isolation, and we’ll join you for supper.”

“I look forward to it. I’d best return to the kitchen lest Miss Kersey comes looking for me.” Waving, Eulalie disappeared through the woods. “Till tomorrow, then.”

Late the next afternoon the dinner bell clanged, easily heard at their cottage. Freshening up at the washstand, Sylvie tied on a clean apron and pinned a cap in place before washing the children’s hands and faces. Taking them in hand, she simply followed the scent of baked bread as they walked to the kitchen house farther downriver.

“Sweet potato buns,” Nolan said. “Don’t you eat ’em all, Rietta.”

“Shush!” She held a finger to her lips, expression stormy.

“We’ll use our best manners,” Sylvie told them, almost as shy as Henrietta at joining the others after so much solitude.

Releasing her hand, Henrietta skipped ahead of them. “Where’s Mr. Major?”

“Surveying, remember?” Sylvie looked up the hill to the handsome house, the setting sun burnishing the brick red-gold.

Nolan summed up what Sylvie felt in spades. “He’s been gone too long.”

Sylvie found herself listening for Will’s voice, willing him back among them. Would he often be away like this? Even if they were to marry? Though he’d only teased her about being Sylvie Galant Blackburn, she sensed the serious undercurrent beneath, and it was not one-sided. But he’d not yet kissed her, not yet wiped away the taint of Boudreau’s clumsy kiss.

Leaving the woods, they approached the eastward half of the settlement. Men and women, both Acadians and indentures, gathered about the kitchen house entrance, forming a line of sorts. At the door stood Liselotte Kersey, her fair hair pinned beneath a lace-edge cap, her dress more genteel than their linen and wool garments. Pinned to her waist was a chatelaine, giving her an officious look as if she held every key to the settlement. Strong and unlined, she was in marked contrast to the Acadian women who’d suffered much. Yet she’d lost both her parents and her own home in the recent past, Will had said. There was little time to dwell on it as Sylvie’s fellow Acadians greeted her and made much of the children, who, for all their flushing, seemed to delight in being the center of such warm attention.

“I thought we might not cross paths again,” Sebastien said, his usual solemnity softened by a smile. “But you have escaped both Williamsburg and the smallpox. And quite timely too. We are in need of your sewing, as you can see.” Raising an arm, he revealed a rent in his sleeve. “In exchange I will try to do some service for you.”

How good it was to be among her people again and hear their tongue spoken freely. No hiding or dissembling here like in Williamsburg.

“What are they saying?” Henrietta asked her as they took a seat at one of the trestle tables.

“Bonjour means ‘hello,’” Sylvie told her. “And what means au revoir?”

“Farewell,” she answered, toying with her spoon.

Sylvie looked about, feeling she should be serving, not sitting, but Eulalie and Antoinette seemed to have all in hand. Wooden platters of meat were passed alongside heaping bowls of cabbage and root vegetables, even applesauce—and endless rounds of Indian and wheaten bread.

Nine women sat at one smaller table while more than thirty men occupied a larger table, benches serving as seats. At Nicolas’s invitation, Nolan joined the men, which made him puff out his chest with a pride no one missed. Laughter and talk ensued, the men’s robust conversation almost drowning out the women’s. They spoke of their work and plans for the morrow, not a dissenting voice among them. Were they always so congenial?

“I’m tempted to ring the bell to quiet them,” Eulalie said with a chuckle. “But they work so hard, let them have their mealtime merriment.”

Liselotte ate with eyes down, saying nothing. Could she speak no French? Over the hubbub, Sylvie introduced herself.

“At last an English voice!” Liselotte looked relieved. “It’s been rather difficult making myself understood, indentures aside. I have only learned merci and s’il vous plaît and so forth. I asked Major Blackburn to teach me more, but understandably, he lacks the time.”

“La langue Français can be rather complicated.”

“Rather is an understatement.” Liselotte made a face. “Major Blackburn speaks it well. And your English is only slightly accented. I’m afraid my accent would be atrocious.”

“I’m not as fluent as I wish to be, though our languages share many common words.”

Liselotte sighed and gave a small shrug. “So, how do you like the farm manager’s cottage?”

“It suits the three of us well,” Sylvie said, helping Henrietta butter her bread. “And you?”

“I occupy what was once the overseer’s cottage at the settlement’s opposite end, near the wheat fields. Being here reminds me of my former home along the Rapidan River. We’ve accomplished a great deal since we first arrived, and Major Blackburn works as hard as the rest of us when he’s not surveying. It won’t be long before the fields are ready for harvest.” She added sugar to her coffee after Antoinette served them from a large, steaming pot. “I saw you in the orchard the other day when I was there with an indenture looking over the bee skeps.”

“I’ve been working there when I’m not sewing.” Sylvie tried not to be discouraged by how large and unkempt the orchard was. “There’s much to do, but the children are a help. Nolan carts pruned branches away in a wheelbarrow—”

“And I pick up old apples for the pigs and horses,” Henrietta said between bites.

Sylvie smiled down at her and said in English and then in French, “We three work well together. Soon we’ll have enough apples for cider and tarts.”

Eulalie nodded. “We’ve a fine stone cellar here with plenty of room for apples.”

“We’ve a spinning house too,” Antoinette said. “And a rather stubborn flock of Hog Island sheep.”

“And a dairy that’s clean and fresh as can be,” another woman joined in. “I mind the cows and their calves and make crocks of butter and cheese.”

“You should see the garden,” Eulalie told Sylvie. “Bigger than ours in Acadie and sewn with the most peculiar vegetables—okra and cowpeas and gourds. We’ve even watermelon, though I don’t know what it is.”

Sylvie sensed Liselotte’s frustration as the conversation continued in French, so she translated what she could. She was happy to return to the quiet of the cottage once the meal ended.

In the days following, it didn’t take Sylvie long to learn the rhythms of the Rivanna and who worked the hardest and the least, who avoided whom, and who was smitten with whom.

All the while she waited for Will. He often appeared unexpectedly, Liselotte said, slipping in and out without fanfare. He would surprise them by turning up at a meal or meeting, only to be gone surveying again. Though he’d wisely placed other men in positions of authority, there was no doubt who was in charge, as Liselotte often reminded them when it came to debated matters and differences of opinion.

In Will’s absence, the big house sat empty. No one appeared on the wide, pillared porch or strolled through the brick-walled pleasure garden in back. Sylvie went uphill with the children, Bonami trailing, to admire the work of the gardener, an indenture who’d once traveled to Holland and France to study their flowers. A Scotsman like Will, Archie Chisholm came from Inverness. A knot garden had begun to take shape beneath his capable hands, a recovered ornamental cherry tree at its heart. Such beauty here. Such peace.

Archie was showing them the roses he’d uncovered beneath a tangle of ivy when the supper bell rang. It sang across the settlement, signaling a close to the workday.

Sylvie and the children returned to the cottage to tidy themselves, then made their way to the kitchen house, the March day so warm they went without their usual wraps. Nolan joined the men while Sylvie sat down between Antoinette and Henrietta, and they bowed their heads to say grace.

When Sylvie looked up, she saw Will come through the open doorway, and her heart’s sudden leap left her breathless. But she wasn’t the only one glad of his return. Across from her Liselotte stared openly at him, leaving no doubt as to her own feelings.

Greeting them all, Will took a seat with the men, his garments gray with dust, his face bearded. Fork suspended, Sylvie drank in the sight of him, wishing he’d look her way.

“So, how is the sewing coming?” Antoinette asked her, returning her to the women’s conversation. “I, for one, will be glad of a new petticoat.”

“I should finish those on the morrow.” Sylvie cut bites of smoked beef for Henrietta and then herself. “Then I’ll move on to the men’s shirts.”

“I’m weary of wearing wool,” Eulalie said. “Linen will be a welcome change.”

Liselotte sent another look to the men’s table then to Sylvie. “Monday is washday. These men muddy clothes so, laboring like they do. There may be mending for you also.”

“I shall be glad of it, then,” Sylvie answered.

The children were yawning, worn out from all their outdoor play. As she slipped out a back door with them to return to the cottage, Will remained behind, talking with the men and Liselotte. How she wanted to stand as prettily by his side, greeting him openly after his lengthy time away, not riddled by shyness, unsure of herself—and him.

To bolster herself, she dwelled on the little routines that formed the fabric of their days. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, a day of rest along the Rivanna. On Saturdays after supper she took the children to the river to bathe. The current was slightly sluggish in the horseshoe bend, the water remarkably clear and waist-deep. The children shivered and shouted at the cold, and Sylvie promised them in summer it would be warmer.

Once they were clean and in their nightclothes, she tucked them into bed after prayers. Sitting beside them like Mère used to do with her, she talked to them softly and sang the old French songs till their even breathing told her they slept.

Quietly she left the cottage and went through the orchard farther away from the settlement. The moon, free of clouds, offered just enough light to guide her. Clad in her shift, she waded into the water with the bar of Marseilles soap the Dinwiddie daughters had given her, a little luxury and a reminder of Bleu, who’d brought fancy soap from French traders. Its pleasant wintergreen scent was a far cry from the soft soap stored in barrels in the settlement’s warehouse.

The river was as sharp and cold as Baie Française, where she’d taken her first swim long ago and pretended to be a mermaid. Ashiver, she pulled herself free of the water, wet hair hanging to her hips. Along the bank a whip-poor-will piped a sweet, repetitive song. She turned in the bird’s direction, rocks pinching her feet, and startled as her gaze fell on a figure in the shadows.

There along the bank sat Will in breeches. Chest bare, his naked feet firm upon the sand and his own wet hair hanging free to his shoulders, he extended his arms to her. The bird continued chanting, but she hardly heard it. Unable to ignore the sudden tumult inside her, she left the water and all but ran toward Will with the abandon she’d been denied in the kitchen house.

Gently, he wrapped her towel around her and took her in his warm, castile-scented embrace. She shivered but not from the cold. Pressed together, as close as two unwed people had a right to be, they still seemed not close enough.

Her words were a bit breathless. “How long have you been here?”

“I’d just gotten out of the river before you got in.”

“I stole your bathing place.”

“You stole my heart, Sylvie Galant, the moment I wiped milk off your shoes.”

That day. Once sore, the memory now shone bright as candle flame. “You came looking for Bleu, but now I wonder if, in some mysterious way, you came for me instead.”

“I don’t doubt it.” His lips brushed her forehead. “You’re the only thing I don’t regret about Acadie.”

“And here we are in the moonlight at long last, having a private moment in a settlement that never lets you alone.”

“I’ve thought of little else since I left.” His hands, warm and firm, spanned her waist. “Betimes you seemed a dream, and I half feared you’d not be here when I got back.”

“I’m no dream, Will, and I’m not leaving, at least not of my own free will.”

She placed her hands against his chest. He felt startlingly new—unsafe and unmapped—yet still like a homecoming. He made her feel . . . lovely. Not wounded or unwanted. Not scarred. His mouth met hers with all the need and sweetness she’d hoped for, removing every trace of Boudreau’s unwanted kiss.

“Nothing seems to matter except that you’re here.” His silver eyes, so dark and full of feeling in the fading light, shone like damp onyx. “That you’re mine.”

“I’m yours completely, Will. You don’t just belong to my past, painful as it is, but my present—and my future.”

“Our future, Sylvie.”

The stars came out, tiny pinpricks around a moon as bright as a Spanish silver dollar. He kissed her again, and the world spun away. It was just the two of them in this breathless moment, a simple man and woman who’d somehow fallen in love despite their foremost reservations and intentions.