51

The bee that hath honey in her mouth hath a sting in her tail.

John Lyly

Overnight the weather turned humid, swarms of insects clouding the air, seeking bare skin and even the bedding of the Rivanna settlers. When one of the men found and killed a rattlesnake near the necessary, Sylvie patrolled her own cottage and the paths she and the children trod, axe in hand. She even fancied she saw an Indian lurking in the woods, but it turned out to be a lone white hunter following the river’s course.

Will had been away three weeks, and she missed him with a physical ache. Their moonlit tryst on the staircase returned repeatedly in all its sweet clarity. Others missed him too. Lately around the supper table, talk centered on troubles that beset surveyors in the backcountry. Did the entire settlement sense Will’s absence spelled something dire? Snakes could strike and kill in minutes. Roaring rivers, both salt and fresh, sucked a man down like Old Sough’s deadly whirlpool in Acadie. Dysentery and a host of other ailments, not to mention tumbles off horses and tussles with Indians, added to the conjecture.

A great deal had happened along the Rivanna with Will away. Eulalie was better, but an indenture had been injured by a fall from a horse. There were weevils in the wheat and a spell of rain that did more harm than good, even a return of the ague for Sebastien and others, pulling them from fieldwork.

One twilight, Sylvie waited for the settlement to quiet and the children to fall asleep before she went up the hill, looking longingly at the bare porch that begged for benches and company. A rosebush at the rear garden’s entrance had been ravaged by deer, and the wrought-iron gate gave a slight groan as it opened. Within, the walled greenness seemed to expel a cool breath. Dirt paths had been pebbled and more plants coaxed to new life.

Of all the Acadians and indentures along the Rivanna, the gardener seemed the most content. But who could blame him? Being a well-read man, he had a quote each time she saw him, his last easily remembered.

God Almighty first planted a garden. And indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures.

Seeking beauty and stillness, she took a graveled path, the sultry air threaded with the scent of earth and early blooms. She came here often of late. This was the place that bespoke hope and a promise of the future, a living embodiment of how a tangle of weeds and thistles could be tamed and a thing beautified and restored little by little. Much like a life.

The snap of a twig turned her round.

“Sylvie.”

She startled as Will stepped forward, rifle in hand. He leaned the gun against the brick wall by the garden gate, his hat hanging from its upturned barrel. Catching her up in his arms, he lifted her off the ground. “I went to your cottage, but you weren’t there. When—”

She silenced him with a fervent kiss rife with as much relief as passion, her arms tight about him. He smelled of pine and leather and long days in the saddle, but she didn’t care. He ushered in that astonishing sweetness of being, found solely in his presence.

“You missed me.”

“It seemed years, not weeks.”

“A decade, aye.” He gently righted the cap he’d ruffled, twining his fingers in her hair. “At least dusk allows us a private homecoming not to be had by day.”

“You’re well?” She looked at him searchingly. “And all went well?”

“Well enough. The survey is finished, though I lost some valuable papers when a canoe overturned, and one of my Indian guides took a fever. But I’ve news from Williamsburg. Good news.” He kissed her furrowed brow. “But all that concerns me at the moment is you. And the children.”

Good news? All the tension left her. “Nolan has grown an inch since you left. I marked it on the doorframe. And Henrietta is learning to sew on buttons. But enough of us.” She bit her lip. He was likely tired. Famished. “I’ll go to the kitchen house for your supper if you’ll lend me a key.”

“Come into my study and I’ll show you the cupboard where the keys are kept.” He took her hand, giving the garden an appreciative glance. “Then I’ll meet you here for supper after I wash in the river.”

Hastening downhill with the key, Sylvie sought the kitchen house. The settlement was sleepy, a few Acadians smoking and talking in hushed tones beneath the eaves of their lodgings. Before she’d turned the key in the lock, she felt shadowed and was dismayed to see Liselotte emerging from the stillroom opposite, a jar in hand.

“What brings you to the dependencies so late?”

Sylvie faced her before opening the door. “Major Blackburn has returned and is in need of supper.”

“I suppose he gave you the key.” At Sylvie’s nod, Liselotte frowned and followed her inside, shutting the door after them. “He should come to me instead.”

Sylvie took a clean trencher from a shelf and went to the hearth, where Indian bread and a rasher of bacon remained from supper. Enough ragoût covered a bowl’s bottom. Not hot but satisfying.

“He’s becoming a prominent man here in Virginia, not just New England and elsewhere. A surveyor of merit, not only a former commander of a company of Rangers and new plantation owner.” Liselotte set her jar down hard on a table. “You’ll do nothing but sully his reputation.”

Sylvie reached for a fork and a cup, her voice quiet. “Obviously, Will thinks otherwise.”

“Will, is it? He may be infatuated with you now, but in time he’ll come to despise you and all you represent. I suspect he feels sorry for your plight as an Acadian and that has corrupted his reasoning.” Her tone grew more venomous. “Don’t think for a minute that by currying his favor or even taking his name you can change your detested papist French roots. I pray he comes to his senses. The entire settlement depends on it.”

The joyeux homecoming of minutes before sullied. Sylvie left the kitchen house, the plate and cup in her trembling hands. She’d not easily forget such bitter words, nor would she burden Will with them.

The next morning, Sylvie stood and watched from her cottage as the children rushed to greet Will the moment he set foot on his front porch. Before he’d come halfway down the hill, Nolan emitted something resembling a battle cry while Henrietta followed his mad dash up the hill on stout legs. Will caught her up in one arm while wrestling Nolan with the other, never slowing his pace.

“Will you come see the tree fort I made?” Nolan asked him while Henrietta played with a button on his shirt.

“If your button is loose, Mr. Major, I shall sew it on for you,” she told him with a shy smile. “Miss Sylvie taught me how.”

“There’ll be time for forts and buttons after breakfast,” he replied, setting her down as the bell sounded for the meal. “Eat heartily, the both of you. Fresh supplies are due any day.”

Men and women swarmed the tables, ready to break their fast, glad to see Will. He fielded questions about the survey, then asked questions in turn about what had happened in his absence. There was always a comfortable camaraderie among their group when he was present, especially with Liselotte missing. She appeared late, eyes reddened. Couldn’t they just get along and keep the peace? Sylvie wanted no trouble with anyone.

As the men left the kitchen house for the day’s work, Will called a meeting with the farm managers. Sylvie watched him leave with Sebastien and Nicolas, wondering when she’d steal a private moment with him again. Last night he’d been so tired she hadn’t pressed him about the good news he’d mentioned from Williamsburg. She’d simply taken his supper dishes to the kitchen house then returned his key, trying to ignore Liselotte’s scathing words.

Taking Henrietta by the hand, Sylvie emerged into fresh air and sunshine and walked the short distance to their cottage. On the porch they resumed their sewing, a small pile of buttons and scraps of linen in front of the little girl.

As she began cutting wool for petticoats, Sylvie began a lesson. “When you are asked what your linen is made of, answer . . .”

“Hemp or flax,” Henrietta said without a pause.

“Both are plants, whereas woolens are made from . . .”

“Sheep!” She shifted on her stool. “An animal.”

“You’re learning quickly. I’m proud of you and your work. When I was small I learned my lessons and how to sew too.”

Henrietta’s lips pursed in concentration as she tried to thread her needle. “I want to sew as good as you.”

“We shall get you a thimble soon. Would you like that?”

She nodded so vigorously her curls bounced. “My fingers get sore from being poked. Will Mr. Major bring me a thimble from Williamsburg?”

Mr. Major. The name never failed to amuse, yet Sylvie longed for her to call him Papa. “We shall ask him. Or maybe a peddler will pass by, bringing what we need. Remember the last one with his jangling bells and wagon?”

Henrietta laughed. “His dog tickled my face with his tongue but barked at Nolan.”

“I remember,” Sylvie said with a smile.

“I’d like a pup or a kitten to play with.”

“Oh? I had a chaton once that grew into a big chatte.” The memory of their belled barn cat was vivid. “Her name was Papillon, French for ‘butterfly,’ because she used to chase them.”

“I would name mine something pretty too.” Henrietta finished sewing a button and passed it to Sylvie to knot the thread. “What became of your cat?”

“I wish I knew. We had to leave our home and Papillon behind.”

“Like us. We had to leave our dog, Willis, behind too when Mama and Papa died. But then we met you—and Mr. Major.”

Sylvie smiled. “And dear Eve, who took good care of you.”

In hindsight, Sylvie saw kindness and mercy at every turn.