52

At 9 [we] went to another house where the French were convened, had a dance and spent the evening in jollity.

Reverend William Drummond

That evening, Will arranged for a small fête with roast beef, sweetmeats he’d brought from Williamsburg, and plenty of ale from one of the Rivanna warehouses, a favorite beverage of the men. All seemed in high spirits, especially when he put their minds at ease over the matter of their being forced to leave Virginia.

“After this last survey, I went to Williamsburg and met with the governor.” Will’s voice reached far into the bonfire-lit stillness. “He has promised exemption from deportation for all Acadians in the Rivanna settlement. Much of that has to do with the efforts of the late Lord Drysdale and his widow, Lady Drysdale, who has pledged her continuing support to us here. Captain Lennox is at sea, but once he returns he wants to journey here and see our work firsthand.”

As cheers erupted, Sylvie was taken aback at such generosity. Privately, Will had shared with her the details she’d been wondering about. Williamsburg was slowly reopening as smallpox cases dwindled, Dinwiddie and his family had returned, and Will had seen Eve, still in the bookbindery attic.

At the first notes of a fiddle, couples moved onto a grassy place cleared for dancing. Sebastien partnered with Eulalie, raising Sylvie’s hopes. Increasingly moody, Liselotte did not dance but stood with arms crossed on the outside, resembling a powder keg waiting to ignite.

When Will sought Sylvie out for a second branle, he whispered in her ear, “Meet me in the orchard at dusk.”

Despite the rousing music and motion, the minutes ticked by as slowly as an Acadian winter. At last Sylvie noticed Will missing and managed to slip away herself after asking Antoinette to watch the children. She nearly ran through the woods to meet him. The orchard held a hundred shadows, none of which carried any terror because he was there.

Something gold glinted in his palm. He took her left hand and slipped a ring on her narrow finger.

“Oh, Will . . .” She stared down at it in the moonlit dark. A perfect fit, not too loose or too tight. How had he gotten it right?

He kissed her ringed hand. “The engraving says ‘Cert a mon gre.’” Certainly my choice.

Did he truly feel she was more bride than burden? Liselotte seemed to shroud the tender moment, feeding her insecurities.

“Without a doubt.” He held her gaze. “The question is, are you sure of me? Our future together?”

“There’s no man I’d rather spend my life with.” They lapsed into French, which they sometimes did when the conversation took an intimate turn. “If we can find someone willing to wed us . . .”

“There’s an itinerant Baptist pastor in this very parish. All I need to do is find him.”

Could it be that easy? In Acadie there had been a formal marriage contract. Women even kept their maiden or family names. As she pondered it all, her hands slid from his weskit to her sides. “Aside from that, do you truly want me, Will, when I—my people—are considered the enemy and the papers say a declaration of war is at hand? Wouldn’t it be wiser to choose a wife without taint? You could have a lady of good standing from a family of merit to replace the one you lost—”

“I choose you, Sylvie.”

His eyes darkened in question as she hurried on, wanting to silence Liselotte’s barbs and accusations for good. “At this very moment, perhaps, but someday mightn’t you look back and regret it? Even a few years from now, will you wish for something—someone—different?”

Surprise flared in his eyes—and something else. She’d wounded him with her words, but did the truth not hurt? All her shortcomings were ever before her, begging an airing before they took this monumental step.

“I have no one, Will. No family to call my own. No dowry. Since Acadie’s loss I am not even a well woman but a broken one. I don’t know that I’ll ever be whole again. How can I be or give my best to you and our future children?”

He took her in his arms. “Who has been filling your head with such nonsense?”

She wouldn’t say Liselotte—or even Sebastien with his doubts and complaints. She could not blame them entirely. Hadn’t she been bullied by her own fears from the first? Whatever the source, the ongoing emotional storm inside her left her unutterably weary.

“None of us are whole till heaven, Sylvie. Let God begin a healing work here.”

Tears stood in her eyes as the truth of his words encircled her like the ring on her finger, somehow strengthening her and giving her courage.

“If I could give you back Acadie, I would. But I can only offer you a secondhand farm along a distant river that most people have never seen or heard of.”

The humility in his voice touched her. “It’s more than I deserve, Will. You’re more than I deserve. And it’s more than enough.”

Will walked up the hill to the house once he and Sylvie had returned to the fading fête to collect the children for bed. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, and all could rest from their labors. He trod the sagging porch steps, their creak a reminder of another needed repair. Before he opened the front door he took a last look at her cottage, still surprised by her impassioned queries. Had he left any doubt in her mind that she was the bride he wanted, the mistress of this house, and the future mother of his children?

He chafed at having to delay the wedding, but he wanted what she wanted—and when. Their union glowed like a star on a darkened landscape of crop failure, signs of drought, recurring illness, and persistent fears of deportation. He’d breathe easier when Sylvie bore his name, further safeguarding her from anything these war-minded Virginians might devise.

Taking the candle from the foyer’s sconce, he sought his study. An hour passed as he sorted through the collection of papers and correspondence he’d brought from his Williamsburg address, intent on anything resembling word about the Acadians, the Galants particularly. He’d written to a few of his former Rangers encamped near Fort Duquesne as well as elsewhere, seeking information about Sylvie’s family. One contact confirmed that Bleu was serving the French at the Forks of the Ohio as interpreter and guide. Will hadn’t told Sylvie, as he didn’t want to raise her hopes then disappoint her. She’d endured too much.

But if he could reach Bleu and eventually reunite Sylvie with her brother, he’d feel victorious after months of rabbit trails and dead ends. And yet the reunion brought risk. Bleu might object to their marriage. He might even persuade Sylvie to stay with him or return to Acadie or elsewhere. A large remnant of the Acadians were now seeking asylum in French-held Louisiana at the behest of Governor-General Vaudreuil.

He unrolled the map of his latest survey and anchored it at the corners with iron paperweights. Bonami sniffed around the open door, refusing to lay down as he often did. The room was stuffy, so Will got up and opened a rear window, letting in fresh air along with the last of the fiddle music from the fête.

Sitting back down, he poured himself some well water from a pitcher, his eye on the dog who rarely left his side. “I suppose, Sergeant Bonami, that your habitation will be the porch as soon as Mademoiselle Galant becomes Madame Blackburn.”

Bonami cocked his head a bit pensively, seemingly understanding every word, as his master returned to the survey and field notes till the candle guttered. Will finally went upstairs and readied for the night, then snuffed the candle and climbed into the tester bed, which groaned beneath his weight. The linens felt freshly washed and held a trace of lavender. Sylvie’s doing?

He shut his eyes, the weariness of the trail catching up with him even as Sylvie threaded his dreams. Sylvie belonged in this house, the children down the hall, the emptiness filled. He’d thought it when he’d first set eyes on the Rivanna orchard.

Will was barely aware of Bonami’s odd whine at the door. Had he forgotten to let him out . . . or were they still on a scout? For a moment the big, comfortable bed beneath him seemed hard ground till he turned over, feeling the fragrant linen against his skin. Sleep tugged at him . . . and then the press of something dry and cold against his bare leg tugged back.

At a sudden coiling beneath the covers, Will jerked awake. Bonami leapt atop the bed as Will left it, nearly colliding with the corner mantel in his haste. He backed up as Bonami began digging at the bedcovers, and then, in the pitch blackness, something thudded onto the plank floor. Will flew downstairs to his study and worked to ignite his taper from the hearth’s embers, his heart hammering. Once it was lit, he hurried back to his bedchamber and halted in the open doorway.

The candle cast macabre light about the chamber. Bonami had a snake between his wolflike jaws, shaking it so ferociously Will couldn’t watch. He looked to his own bare legs, sure he’d been bitten.

In moments Bonami’s frenzied shaking had torn the snake to pieces in the chamber where Will sensed he’d never rest easy again. Used to serpents of all kinds in the woods, many venomous, he’d never seen one the size of this.

No longer a threat now, the snake needed disposing of. Had Bonami been struck?

With a whine, Bonami dropped what remained of the snake before coming to Will. Overcome by revulsion and relief, Will leaned into the doorframe before going below to await daylight.