Solitude sometimes is best society.
John Milton
Will left Bonami in Sylvie’s care, the children hovering, while he went down the hill. The Sabbath was blessedly quiet. Too quiet. Again, he expected a bell’s tolling. If Middle Parish wasn’t so far, he’d take Sylvie and the children to worship there. He knew the Acadians missed their priests and chapels, and he felt they should be allowed to practice their religion as they pleased. As it stood, he was unsure how well received a Protestant cleric would be, though a spiritual presence was needed beyond his usual reading from Scripture on the Sabbath.
As he made his way to the kitchen house with the breakfast dishes, he kept an eye out for Sebastien. Several men were fishing downriver while women gathered by the well to talk. A few courting couples walked about in pairs. The sight lifted his spirits. Future weddings—and families—made the settlement seem less temporary and more permanent, but finding someone willing to marry them was as much a hurdle as their being willing to wed without the blessing of a priest.
Antoinette greeted him and took his dishes as he passed out of the kitchen house to a warehouse. There he took stock of supplies before moving on to the fields to survey the work done in his absence. Nicolas, his ablest farm manager, fell into step beside him.
“I’ve been wanting to give you a report on the planting and yields before your next survey.”
“Glad to hear it,” Will replied as they passed a split-rail fence that bordered a field. “I can see the season has been bad for wheat.”
“The weather was too dry at first to bring it up, then too wet so we could not roll it.”
“And the riverside corn?”
“Hardy, like the oats. We’ve since sown clover seed at twelve pounds an acre, finishing thirty acres at four bushels to the acre. I can’t yet decide if sandy river soil is a bane or a blessing.”
“Mayhap both.” Will came to a stop on a small rise that overlooked acres of hard labor, greening plants overtaking brown ground. “Difficult to turn a profit with a dearth of rain.”
Nicolas nodded. “For now, we’re resting the plow horses and making use of the fluke hoes. And petitioning the Lord Himself for a change of weather.”
“Prayer, aye,” Will replied. “We well know who is in charge of the elements, and it’s not us. If the wheat fails, we’ll buy it from neighboring farms.”
After discussing the lambing, Nicolas turned back and Will walked on. His thoughts veered to Sebastien, whom he’d not seen since last night’s merriment. How did one approach a man with suspicions of snake planting? Mayhap he’d better settle the fact of his prior trespassing instead.
Or was the entire matter best left alone?
“Major Blackburn.”
Will turned to find Liselotte behind him. His thoughts again veered to Bonami, who would have alerted him with a little yip as to any who approached. She was dressed in her Sabbath best as if going to church, and he greeted her, his gaze rising to the house on the hill.
She looked around. “Where is your trusty companion?”
“Snakebit and on the porch.”
She looked so alarmed he ruled out her guilt in the matter. “I’m sorry to hear it, though the wolf in him frightens me.”
“He’s supposed to frighten, just do no harm.”
Warily, she stepped away from a thicket. “The climate here is a haven for snakes. I saw one curled up by the milk house door the other day.” She shuddered. “Will the cur live?”
“God only knows,” he said and resumed walking toward the heart of the settlement, so choked with sadness he couldn’t continue. Bonami had been with him a long time, through endless wilderness journeys, and had even preserved his life a time or two.
She kept pace with him. “I’ve come to ask something rather personal.”
“Speak plainly, then.”
“Might I accompany you to Williamsburg on your next trip there?” She smiled up at him, as coquettish as Sylvie had accused her of being. Or was he imagining it? “I’ve a list of things to buy that I can’t entrust to anyone else.”
“The next time I leave the settlement will be to summon a pastor to wed myself and Miss Galant.”
She halted so abruptly it seemed he’d struck her. “Mademoiselle Galant?”
With a nod he walked on, bypassing the smithy and stables.
When she caught up with him, she said in a rush, “Are you certain, Major Blackburn? I suppose I should offer my congratulations, though I only feel condolences are appropriate. I’ve seen her with Sebastien Broussard so frequently that I thought—”
His stern look stemmed the accusation. Then another voice joined in from behind, coming from the infirmary.
“Major Blackburn, sir.” Dubois approached, his interruption timely. “Your Irish indenture—Kilgore—is down with the ague. I checked one of the warehouses for medicines but cannot locate the last supply. Cinchona is best, though valerian powder works well in its stead.”
“It’s in the stillroom, likely,” Will told him. “Miss Kersey can show you where if we have any. How severe is the attack?”
“Fever and chills. A sharp headache. The first bout is often the acutest.”
“See that he’s well watered and kept at rest.” Will rued Kilgore was ill, as he did any in his employ. They’d not had a death yet, though there was an old burial ground west of the orchard. “No need to have him up and in the fields before he’s recovered.”
“Agreed, sir.”
Dubois disappeared with Liselotte into the stillroom, leaving Will to consider what warranted checking next. As he started for another warehouse, an indenture waylaid him.
“Major Blackburn, sir.” Concern wrinkled the older man’s features. “Sebastien Broussard seems to have gone missing. I thought he might be farther downriver fishing as he’s sometimes wont to do on the Sabbath, but all his belongings are gone too.”
“He wasn’t at breakfast?”
“Nay. And two horses are missing from the pasture.”
A costly loss. Will opened the warehouse door with a key. “Horse thieving is a hanging offense. Especially in horse-besotted Virginia.”
“Maybe the horses simply cleared the fence and Broussard will return.” The man heaved a sigh. “But I have a bad feeling about this.”
Will stepped into the warm, humid confines of the smallest warehouse, intent on the task before him, awash with an odd mix of relief and loss at the news. “Should Broussard reappear, I want to know as soon as possible.”