53

It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

William Blake

Before morning, Bonami sickened, the bite wound on his hind leg testament to the copper snake’s venom. Lying on his side and panting on the porch, the creature looked more miserable than Will had ever seen him. He applied whiskey to the wound, so intent on his faithful companion that at first he failed to see Sylvie behind him on the stoop.

“What happened?” she asked softly, holding the breakfast he’d missed.

“Copper snake,” he said tersely, standing up and taking the plate and cup from her. Snagging a strip of bacon, he offered it to Bonami, but the dog wouldn’t eat.

“Snake?” Sylvie looked about in the grass warily before stepping up onto the porch to stand beside him. “Where?”

“In my bedchamber last night.”

Horror leeched the color from her face. “Are you hurt?”

“Nay. Somehow the snake got entangled in the bed linens. It slid to the floor and then Bonami shook it to death.”

She stared at him in disbelief as he sat down, gesturing for her to do the same.

“I wondered where you were at breakfast. I feared you were ill.” She looked to Bonami, her face so full of pathos his own heart twisted. “Snakes don’t oft climb into beds, Will.”

“They do get into houses on occasion but are unusual bedfellows unless you’re sleeping on the ground, aye.”

She stared off into the distance, where the settlement enjoyed a sleepy Sabbath. “I don’t want to cast blame, but I found Sebastien Broussard in your house when you were gone Saturday last. I saw a light and thought you’d come home. He was intent on your locked study. He said he thought you were withholding information about our people and Virginia’s plans for us.”

“I withhold nothing of substance,” he said with a terseness sharpened by a sleepless night.

“I don’t doubt you, Will, but I am becoming fearful of Sebastien.”

He tasted the lukewarm coffee. “Why, exactly?”

“He has the temerity to search your house. He may have returned again with the snake.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s increasingly discontented here and frequently ill but believes all will be well if we reunite with our people at Fort Duquesne. His hope is to return to Acadie in time.” She looked at him entreatingly. “He may have meant you harm with the snake.”

“It’s the time of year when snakes come out of their dens and are more easily trapped. If he meant harm, he succeeded.” He looked toward Bonami again, raking his mind for a remedy. “I’ve sensed Broussard’s restlessness, his doubts about being here. He’s an able laborer, but his attitude suffers. His misery is evident—and understandable.”

“He’s grieving the loss of his betrothed. I’d hoped he and Eulalie . . .”

“Eulalie? Nay. Nor do I believe it’s another woman he’s mourning.” Will took another drink of coffee, the rest of his untouched breakfast near Bonami. “He’s smitten with you, Sylvie.”

She turned to him, clearly astonished, even speechless.

“He watches you and goes out of his way to speak to you. If not for me, he’d have declared himself by now.”

She went scarlet. “Like Liselotte.”

It was his turn to feel heated. “Aye, though I’ve not encouraged her.”

“I’ve not encouraged Sebastien,” she said quickly. “I’ve merely been kind, as one friend to another.”

“I don’t doubt it, but the sooner we marry, the better for all concerned.” Still pondering the snake, Will looked over at Bonami, who had ceased his panting and lay still. Too still? He lay a hand on the dog’s soft undercoat, feeling his uneven breathing.

Sylvie bent her head and closed her eyes. Was she praying for his faithful companion or their matrimonial knot tying?

“Major Blackburn.” The gardener’s thick Scots burr sounded from the side of the house. “A word with ye, if I may, about the pleasure garden—and your missus too.”

Sylvie’s thoughts were on anything but the matter at hand as they stood in the walled garden. Her thoughts tumbled back to the last time she’d talked with Sebastien. Was Will mistaken that his feelings were more than friendship? The unwelcome possibility paled beside the very real danger of his wanting to harm Will.

“Miss Galant, what do you prefer?”

Sylvie’s gaze wandered from the thriving narcissus and tulips at her feet to Archie Chisholm. “Pardon, monsieur . . . you were asking about roses?”

“Roses are always a lady’s preference, even in the wilderness.” He pointed to a number of pots. “These are bulbs—white tuberoses—from Mr. Custis’s garden in Williamsburg. Would you like them at the front of the garden or the back?”

Feeling the mistress of the manor, Sylvie smiled. “Please plant some at the back by the Apothecary rose you uncovered in the southeast corner. But save one or two for the garden’s entrance.”

He gestured to a leggy, vigorous bush that promised an abundance of blooms. “Here, by the Gallica rose? Consider it done.”

“Merci.” Sylvie turned slowly, taking stock of his work from every direction. “You’ve transformed what I never believed would be a garden again in mere months. Perhaps because you find joy in working, even on the Sabbath.”

He chuckled. “It hardly qualifies as work when you’d rather be here than anywhere else. I had ten gardens to tend in Williamsburg but wanted only one like this. There’s no better master than Major Blackburn.”

Sylvie looked to Will as Archie left them, carting a wheelbarrow. For a few moments they were left alone as the sun beat down on their backs and left Sylvie wishing for her straw hat.

She looked toward the settlement with a little sigh. “Do you ever wish it was just the two of us . . . and the children?”

“I won’t lie to you and deny it,” he admitted. “This morning especially.”

“Will you talk to Sebastien?” she asked.

“Aye.” He took her hand and led her back to the front porch where Bonami lay. “But I’ll pray about matters first.”