Few planters but that have fair and large orchards, some whereof have 1,200 trees and upward bearing all sorts of English apples . . . of which they make great store of cider . . . likewise great peach-orchards, which bear such an infinite quantity of peaches.
Thomas Glover
Morning painted the room with soft yellow light. Nolan snored softly while Henrietta mumbled in her sleep. Yawning, Sylvie pushed back the covers, then lay still as Will and the river meeting rushed back. There’d been so many kisses and whispered endearments she’d lost count. She’d wanted to reach up to the heavens and pin the moon in place. Stop time with all its sweet fleetingness.
The Sabbath passed as quietly as Saturday had set the riverbank ablaze. Will’s day was spent with his farm managers and at his desk while Sylvie and the children kept to the cottage. But by Monday’s first light, the settlement came alive again, the ring of an axe underscoring a return to work.
As Sylvie left the cottage with the still-sleepy children, a basket of dirty laundry on her hip, her gaze traveled uphill to the house she’d not yet been inside. Curiosity gnawed at her. She longed to step onto the wide porch and enter through that handsome front door. Since the house’s contents had been auctioned, her homesick heart dressed it in her imagination, adorning every bare place. For one, she’d set chairs and benches on the porch, making it a hospitable house. A welcoming home.
Henrietta noticed her gawking. “Where’s Mr. Major?”
“Perhaps he’s already at the kitchen house,” Sylvie told her. “Look for Bonami and he’ll likely not be far.”
They walked on, and Sylvie weighed the wisdom of doing laundry when the skies shifted fitfully, heavy with gray clouds. But Liselotte had designated Monday after breakfast as washday, and downriver was the designated place, split-rail fences serving as drying racks. Everyone ate hurriedly as if mindful of the weather, Will’s absence giving them no reason to linger.
Liselotte was the first back outside, lending to Sylvie’s admiration. She possessed an ability to do many tasks well, overseeing the dependencies with an uncomplaining, competent if unbending hand.
“Bonjour,” Sylvie greeted her, setting down her basket.
“Good morning to you. Or so I hope.” Liselotte poured hot water into a washtub and cast a glance at the glowering sky. “The weather’s changeable as a maiden’s mood.”
“Is that thunder in the distance?” Sylvie began scrubbing the children’s soiled clothes while they waded in the water.
“Thunder usually means lightning.” Liselotte paused. “Will—Major Blackburn—has ridden out to the west boundary to repair fences. He doesn’t need the aggravation of a spring storm. After that, he’ll be leaving on another survey, which doesn’t bode well with foul weather either.”
Sylvie scrubbed harder, trying to dismiss her sudden hurt at hearing secondhand. Liselotte, she knew, met with Will and the farm managers frequently. Naturally she’d know his comings and goings. But his laundry? Sylvie took a second look at the clean clothing Liselotte was draping over a fence. The shirt she’d made Will was easily identified, but his other garments were unfamiliar. Liselotte handled them with a practiced ease, turning a routine task intimate.
Other women joined them to wash, half a dozen scattered along the riverbank, talking and laughing among themselves as the distant drum of thunder sounded again.
“I’ll not rest till he’s back,” Liselotte murmured as if to herself. “He drives himself so. He needs a helpmate and family to keep him here.” Turning away from the fence, she gave Sylvie a half smile as she continued in low tones. “My hope is to make this my permanent home, not a temporary situation. The major may not realize it yet. Men can be so . . . preoccupied.”
Again Liselotte marked some invisible emotional boundary as if driving home a surveying stake. Sylvie was at a loss for words.
“Of course, we’d have to journey to Middle Parish for that. I do feel sorry for Béatrice and Thibault, wanting to wed but forbidden to do so.”
“Forbidden?”
“No clergyman in Virginia or elsewhere will wed papists like yourself, nor join in holy matrimony a Protestant and Catholic, for that matter.” Liselotte spoke with an authority that Sylvie couldn’t naysay. “Your religion is considered treasonous and is treated as such by Virginia officials.”
Sylvie knew Catholics were loathed, but did that extend to marriage too? Will hadn’t told her. Surely he knew the laws.
“My uncle is a judge, remember.” A touch of pride emphasized Liselotte’s words. “I’m well versed in matters concerning you and your people.”
The Acadians were at the mercy of these Virginians, a law-abiding people who didn’t want them. If not for Will—
“Miss Kersey?”
Another woman approached and asked a question, which Liselotte answered with her usual skill. Finished with washing, Sylvie toted the wet garments and called to the children to return to the cottage as feeble sunlight speared the wooded path.
Did Liselotte fancy Will cared for her too? True, he had a singular way about him, making each of them feel valued. Never dismissive or arrogant, he gave them his undivided attention when the moment called for it. Evidently Liselotte misconstrued that attentiveness for something more.
Pondering it, Sylvie went about her tasks under the still-grumbling sky, sewing and minding the children before collecting the clean garments from the fence.
Henrietta and Nolan were the first to see Will coming through the orchard toward their cottage. He scooped Henrietta up, tucked her under one arm, and tickled her while he gave Nolan Braddock’s reins with instructions to lead him to a water trough then take him to the stables.
Setting the laundry basket on the porch, Sylvie hastened to meet Will as he set a giggling Henrietta down. Reading the weariness in his face, Sylvie hurried to bring him water from the well. He drank it down, handed Henrietta the empty cup, and asked her to return it from whence it came. She scampered away, and Sylvie had him to herself, savoring the feel of his hands as they clasped hers and then raised them to kiss the backs of her fingers. Her heart did a little dance even as her stomach felt awash.
“I came in ahead of the rain.” He looked down at her, his eyes holding hers in a way that felt as intimate as a kiss. “Mending fences is much more agreeable when I find you waiting for me.”
She flushed and confessed, “Thoughts of you sweeten the most mundane tasks. In truth, I hardly know what I did.”
His wink made her nearly forget Liselotte’s startling revelation. “And what did you do?”
“Washed clothes. Sewed. Lost my thimble then found it again.” She flinched as a flash of lightning lit the sky in back of him. The rumble that followed nearly drowned out the supper bell, though it set Henrietta’s face alight as she returned.
“Tater wagons rolling, Mama said.”
“Tater wagons, aye. A whole army of them.” Will picked her up again and started through the woods toward the kitchen house. “Can you smell the coming rain?”
“The rain smells like”—Henrietta looked skyward—“a mud pie.”
Will’s chuckle was buried beneath another boom as they sprinted through the woods ahead of the downpour and arrived as the heavens opened. Sylvie looked about for Nolan but faced Liselotte instead. Standing by the door, she glanced at Will in admiration then at Sylvie in unmasked irritation.
“I hope you enjoy the meal. With Antoinette taking the grippe, I lent a hand in the kitchen,” she said to Will, who thanked her before taking a seat.
Sylvie’s hunger vanished as she took a place upon the bench. Rain pelted the roof with such a vengeance she feared leaks. Grace was said, but Sylvie barely heard it over the tumult of rain and wind. Helping Henrietta, she felt all thumbs when she dropped the knife to the floor.
“Really, Miss Galant, you’re as clumsy as the child.” Liselotte’s barbed remark slipped beneath the side conversations all around them. “Have a care.”
Stung, Sylvie picked up the knife but made no comment. A burst of masculine laughter raised her gaze. She warmed to Will’s presence. She wanted to continue hearing that deep, sonorous voice for the rest of her life. Though he preferred to listen, he was a skilled storyteller when he wanted to be, telling of a recent survey that had his party chased by bears and then a cougar.
“I believe they were in league together, determined to drive us out . . .”
Sometimes the men would tell of life in Acadie as if determined to keep the memories alive, while the women listened or talked of more mundane matters. Butter that wouldn’t set. Seed that wouldn’t sprout. The spinning wheel that needed repair. What remedy was best for sour stomachs and blisters.
“I do wish you women wouldn’t patter on so in French.” Liselotte’s face grew colder. She pushed the food about her plate as if she’d lost her appetite.
Sylvie longed to sit down for peaceful meals with Will and the children in the house on the hill. She ate a few bites, finally giving what remained to Henrietta.
Watching, Liselotte frowned. “The child eats like a farmhand.”
“A tribute to your cooking, perhaps, if not your conversation,” Sylvie replied tartly, unable to endure her insolence a second longer.
At this, Liselotte left the table, and Sylvie all but exhaled in relief. She smiled at Henrietta reassuringly, hoping she hadn’t heard her unkindness or, if she had, wouldn’t remember it.
Eulalie watched Liselotte’s abrupt departure with a shrewd eye. “I know enough English to say this is not at all about Henrietta or being clumsy. This is about Major Blackburn.”
“Oui, entirely.” Sylvie looked again at Will, who was listening to Thibault tell of the so-called spirit bears in New Caledonia, the white-coated creatures that reminded her of Bleu. Bleu had nearly revered them and refused to hunt them.
Eulalie continued on in a whisper meant for Sylvie alone. “Miss Kersey is making a fool of herself for a man who doesn’t seem to give her more than a polite glance.”
Sipping her cider, Sylvie wondered where Liselotte had gone. “I’ve wondered why a genteel woman would agree to work alongside outcasts in a settlement.”
“Well, now you have your answer. Major Blackburn is the prize. And in her mind, once she marries him, her labors will cease. She will retire to the big house and from there boss us without mercy.”
Sylvie took a steadying breath, trying to fight any unforgiveness taking root. “I must admit she is skilled at managing a plantation. And she is Anglican, not Catholic, a woman who knows far more than we do about life here. She’s less likely to fall ill, being Virginia born and bred. Even her uncle is well respected and an investor in this settlement—”
“Bon sang! Will you talk yourself out of loving him?”
“No.” Sylvie smiled despite herself. “It is entirely too late for that.”