49

But times do change and move continually.

Edmund Spenser

Will walked down the hill from the main house, moonlight illuminating his steps. He’d trod this way so often the grassy path was now well trammeled, a telltale sign of his devotion. Sylvie’s cottage glowed golden with candlelight, an unspoken invitation on this rain-streaked night. He stepped onto the porch and saw her through a window, sitting by the children’s beds, their hands folded in prayer. He waited till they’d finished before tapping quietly at the door.

Sylvie answered, stepping onto the porch and into the security of his open arms. “You’re leaving soon?”

“Before first light.” Partings were hard for her, he knew. He sensed they always would be. She’d lost too much. “I go to Williamsburg after the survey. I don’t know when I’ll return.”

He already felt the ache of leaving her, fragile as their circumstances were, circumstances he wouldn’t apprise her of until he’d sorted fact from fiction.

“I’ll miss you every moment.” She squeezed his hands. “And I’ll pray you home.”

The soft, almost reverential way she said “home” filled his mind with a dozen different images. Children gathered around the table and running up and down stairs. Muddy footprints on the porch and handprints on glass windows. Shared whispers and talk and laughter. Things he vaguely remembered and missed most from his fractured childhood.

“I want you to feel this is your home, though it may take time.”

“My spirit is more settled here.” She smiled, further reassuring him, her expression less haunted. “I never felt that in Williamsburg or anywhere else since leaving Acadie.”

“You’ll be more at home once you’re on the hill.” Together they looked to the big house, a stalwart promise of the future in stone and brick, a sole light flickering like a star in an upstairs window. “It won’t be home to me till you are.”

“It needs a woman’s hand.”

“Yours.”

Her gaze turned wistful. “I’ve not set foot in it yet.”

Nay? He felt a fool not realizing it. “Come with me now, then.”

She brightened, eager as a child. “Let me make sure they’re sleeping.”

In moments they were up the hill and on the wide porch with its territorial view, moonlight spilling silver across its smooth planks. Will gave a push to the front door and it opened to the foyer, where a single sconce shone upon a paneled wall and a stair wended upward. Sylvie stepped inside, and even the shadows couldn’t hide her delight. It made him feel a pride he couldn’t really own in a house he hadn’t built, just occupied. He regretted it was so unadorned.

His voice seemed to thunder through the barrenness. “For now it echoes with emptiness. But once you begin making it ours and the children are here, it will come to life.”

She touched the carved pineapple finial atop the newel post in a sort of awe. He followed her as she climbed the stairs, one hand on the oak handrail. She paused at the tall window on the landing to take in the walled garden below, its painstaking restoration kinder by moonlight. The twig trellises and the bell jars used to cover fragile plants seemed to hold an odd enchantment in her appreciative company.

“I’m no longer just in love with you, Will,” came her whisper. “I’m besotted with your house.”

“Then be its mistress, Sylvie.” He stood behind her, breathing in the clean scent of her upswept hair. “Marry me. Be my bride and settle here with me till my life ends, or yours, or the both of ours.” She turned toward him as he continued, “Mayhap we can wed when the apples bloom in the orchard.”

She drew back a bit as if thunderstruck. “How did you know?”

“Know?” He held her face between his hands.

“Since I was small I’ve wanted to wed during apple blossom time. I always thought it would be in Acadie . . .” Her voice faded then strengthened. “But apple blossoms are the same here as there, and I couldn’t have a finer groom anywhere.”

“Is that an aye, then?”

“There could be no other answer.” She touched his cheek. “I am yours completely, heart and soul. I sensed it from the beginning though everything was against us.”

“I feel the same, though it might take time to find a pastor.”

Her face lost its light. “Can you find one willing?”

“I’ll find one, aye. He’ll not be Catholic or Anglican, rather Baptist or Presbyterian. It will be honorable and legal, and you’ll never have to worry about home again.”

“You’re sure, Will . . . about me?”

The soft entreaty rent his heart. “I was sure before I left Acadie, Sylvie, though I didn’t ken the why or the end of it.”

Her arms went round him, holding him as tightly yet as tenderly as he held her. They stood there, wed in spirit already if not by clergy and contract.

Sylvie missed Will sorely and found her gaze traveling up the hill again and again. He’d said little about his work, though she was becoming familiar with the tools of the trade—his chains and markers, the field book often tucked under one arm, and the ever-present compass. Twice his surveying party had come by, made up of woodsmen like himself as well as several Indians, even an African. Their presence created quite a stir about camp, as did their horses, which gravitated toward the river and the greening grass at its edges.

When a light flashed from an upper window after only one week, she gave in to her curiosity. Had he already returned? Anticipation lent wings to her steps, and she fairly flew up the hill after an especially trying day of Henrietta’s crying, a shortage of linen thread, and the lingering burn of Liselotte’s words.

Rain slicked the grass, soaking her shoes and making her shiver. She hugged her shawl closer with one hand while fisting her petticoats in the other to keep her hem dry. Around the back of the house she went, aware she might be spotted if she used the front entrance.

She glanced at the garden gate, wanting to linger and peer over the ironwork. Archie Chisholm had cut back all the remaining overgrowth with a shovel, then carted weeds and thistles and vines to a burn pile behind the bricked enclosure. His cottage was dark, but she spied him inside smoking his pipe.

The rear door of Will’s house was more modest than the front door, with a few stone steps that climbed above the grass and dandelions. She gave a knock, her heart in her chest nearly as loud. She craved Will’s nearness, the security of his arms. The place seemed to hold his scent, his very presence. Had she only imagined that light?

Slowly, she opened the back door beneath the staircase and heard another door closing. An intruder? The thought chilled her and propelled her forward all at once. Will did not lock the house, only his study. If someone wanted to break in, little would stop them, lock or no lock. He had little to hide whether he was home or not.

Wishing for a light, she felt her way through the house. “Will? Are you home?”

She started up the staircase, one hand caressing the handrail’s smooth wood. Daylight was fading fast, denying her the details she loved. Will’s bedchamber door was open, inviting her in. A canopied bed draped with mosquito netting dominated the room. One corner was adorned with a fireplace, its ornate mantel a work of art. His shaving stand stood between two spun-glass windows that overlooked the river and her cottage. For a moment she forgot her skittishness, lost in the pleasure that Will might have stood here watching her.

A sudden footfall spun her around. Sebastien stood in the doorway, a scarecrowish silhouette.

Disappointment gave way to confusion then fear. But Sebastien wouldn’t hurt her, surely, even if he’d come into the house uninvited.

“I saw a light and thought Major Blackburn might be back,” she said.

“I snuffed my lantern when I heard you.” He regarded her in silence for a few tense seconds. “I wonder if you’re not searching for what I’m searching for.”

His cryptic words spiked her fear. Shaken, she put a hand on a bedpost.

“Do you have the keys to his study? The door is locked, and I don’t have the tools to take it off its hinges, let alone unlock it.”

“Why would you?”

“I’ve heard he’s received correspondence about what is to become of us Acadians. I’m searching for evidence of such.”

Sylvie grappled with the implications. “Major Blackburn isn’t one to dissemble or hide the truth. I’m certain he’d tell us any news straightaway.”

“I have begun to wonder. He has the ear of powerful Virginians I mistrust, the governor and his council foremost. I’ve just returned from farther downriver getting supplies. Word is this settlement will soon be disbanded and we’ll be forced onto ships like before and sent to places unknown.”

She stared at him in horror, the thought of being hunted down again too much to bear. She couldn’t take another ship, another separation—

“Our only recourse is to flee.” Sebastien rubbed his bearded jaw. “I’ve heard Fort Duquesne on the three rivers in Ohio territory is a refuge for our people.”

“Fort Duquesne . . . in the middle of the wilderness?”

“There we would be firmly in French territory with fellow Acadians, perhaps even find family and friends. We would not be outcasts like here, dependent on the goodwill and generosity of a few benevolent men, one of whom is dead of the pox.”

Stunned, she sat down on the window seat, wishing Will would walk in and make things right.

With a labored breath, Sebastien turned away and started for the stairs. His tired tread mirrored her sinking spirits. She heard him go out, shutting the door behind him, hopefully heading to his own quarters in the twilight.

Near tears, Sylvie turned away from the window to survey the room a final time. A large Bible rested on Will’s bedside table. He carried a smaller one in his saddlebags. Seeking comfort, she returned to the window seat that framed the last of the sunset and paged through the heavy tome till coming to the Psalms. Her eyes lit on a line that held her heart still.

Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?

Her heavenly Father, the creator and sustainer of the universe, a tear keeper?

Will faced Lady Drysdale in her elegant Williamsburg parlor, steeling himself against the change in her once beautiful face. The pox had ravaged her delicate features, the scars slow to heal, but it seemed not to have daunted her spirit. She was now a grieving widow, but her eyes were clear and she studied him unflinchingly when he said, “I lost a powerful ally in Lord Drysdale.”

“Indeed you did.” She paused as a baby’s cry came from abovestairs, that quieted just as suddenly. “But his purposes didn’t end. It now falls to me to carry on his work and legacy. I am determined, with the Lord’s guidance, to do all that I am able and then some.” She gestured to a sofa facing the fire. “Please, Major Blackburn, join me for refreshments. I believe you enjoyed the flip I served you last time when my husband was here.”

“Aye,” he said and sat down, adjusting to the emptiness without his host’s presence.

“As you know, my husband had the utmost respect for your endeavors with the Acadians, and he was”—she arched her brows—“rabidly interested in your recent publication.”

He reached inside his waistcoat and produced a signed copy. She took it with obvious delight. “The success of the Rivanna settlement is largely dependent on Lord Drysdale and Captain Lennox.” He left off as a maid appeared with steaming ceramic mugs, turning the air redolent with ginger and molasses cream.

“Speaking of that, not long ago I entertained a lovely young Acadian woman in this very parlor.” Lady Drysdale balanced her mug with pale hands and breathed in the steam. “You must tell me how Mademoiselle Galant is faring along the Rivanna.” A smile snuck past Will’s stoicism, and she continued, “Ah . . . I’m guessing she is quite well, which surely has something to do with you.”

“We’re hoping to wed if I can find a willing, unprejudiced clergyman.”

“Felicitous congratulations to you both!” Smiling, she raised her flip in a sort of toast. “I would recommend a Baptist, then. They are among the bravest and boldest dissenters, years ahead of their time. In fact, I know the very one. He happens to be in your parish, an itinerant preacher, if you will.”

“I’ll tell Sylvie and seek him out, then,” he said. “Thank you.”

“But your nuptials aren’t the only thing on your mind, I’m sure.” Her face clouded. “No doubt the Acadian hurricane, as it’s being called by colonials, is worrisome, though I doubt any other ships will arrive in Virginia or any other colonial port this late. A great many Acadians were lost at sea, and it’s thought half perished on those criminally ramshackle transports.”

“I’m most concerned about the fate of the Acadians still held at Hampton Roads and farther up the James.”

She frowned. “Since I returned from Indigo Island, I’ve been keeping a close eye on those developments and am doing all that I can to prevent those shiploads of refugees from being sent out of Virginia Colony. At the very least, I’m using everything within my power to ensure your Rivanna settlement—and every Acadian there—is left alone.”

Will felt some of his burden lift. He’d come here alarmed by reports of an imminent deportation in April. “I’ve seen your petitions and heard that you even addressed the burgesses in their chambers.”

“Yes, and like you, I’ve also personally met with the governor and his council about the matter, given the Acadians are being denied repatriation. It behooves these colonial officials to right a matter gone grievously wrong. If they do not, I shall appeal to Parliament and my allies in England while withdrawing my support of Dinwiddie and his council here.”

“I have a meeting with Dinwiddie this afternoon and pray it’s in the Acadians’ favor.”

“Feel free to tell him you’ve met with me as well. It might reinforce that you aren’t alone in this undertaking.”

Will knew her late husband had wielded considerable influence in the colonies and abroad. Thankfully, Lady Drysdale knew how to use that not only to her advantage but to others’ as well. “You are as strong an ally as your late husband, Lady Drysdale.”

“I mean to be. And when Captain Lennox returns from his cruise, he’ll join us in our commitment to see right prevail. As Scripture says, a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”