She who adores not your frowns will only loathe your smiles.
William Blake
On the cottage porch, Sylvie worked on her wedding trousseau, small though it was, sewing a pale blue ribbon as embellishment on a nightgown. What had become of her dower trunk? She couldn’t remember all it held now that time and distance blurred the details. At least the task before her assuaged her somewhat, as did Will’s parting words and embrace at first light.
“I won’t rest till we’re reunited,” he’d told her. “Once we’re wed, I’ll be here more than I’m away. I know my leaving goes hard on you though you never complain.”
“You are a discerning man, Major Blackburn.” She touched his bewhiskered jaw, committing to memory every endearing thing about him before he walked away. “I’ll be quite content here finishing your wedding suit.”
“No worn buckskins or ragged linen, my usual trail attire.”
“No, though you’re the handsomest man I’ve ever beheld no matter what you’re clad in.”
“Will you wear your Lyonnais silk?”
“For you, oui.”
“When do you want to tell the children and the rest of the settlement?”
He was being so patient, letting her lead, making sure this was what she wanted as much as she wanted what was best for him.
“For now, let’s keep it a secret. Ours and the children’s.” She felt a moment’s qualm that Liselotte already knew their plans. “We’ll save this lovely ring for the wedding.”
“Not too much longer now. I have in mind going to the coast afterward. Enjoying our first days together far from here without work and interruptions.” His voice was low and reflective as if he’d given it considerable thought. “We could go to York, mayhap Indigo Island. The captain offered his cottage there before he sailed.”
“Oh? How gracious.” She smiled, trying to envision it. No more separations or stolen moments like this. Just the two of them for a few blissful days alone on the water. “La lune de miel.”
“Our honeymoon, aye,” he echoed. His pleasure faded to concern. “Pray for our safety.” He kissed her hand where the posy ring rested. “No delays or rough weather. A speedy return with a pastor to marry us.”
“A willing pastor, oui.”
“In the meantime, consider what to call this place.” His lips brushed her hair. “This is your home now—our home—and as such it deserves a new name.”
They had both agreed Greenmount belonged to the past, but she’d yet to come up with something new or unique in its place. Rivanna Rise . . . Blackburn Farm . . . Orchard Hill . . . As the possibilities wound through her head, he’d kissed her a final time, long and lingering, and then gone to meet his chain men and markers at a rendezvous place.
Remembering that kiss, she finished with the ribbon embellishment, watching as Henrietta stitched on her sampler.
The girl looked up suddenly, heart-shaped face alight. “When you and Mr. Major marry, can I wear the pretty dress you made me?”
“Bien sûr!” Sylvie leaned over and kissed her cheek. “With apple blossoms in your hair.”
“Nolan says marrying makes you our mama and our papa.”
“We want to be, though we can never replace your own parents, who I’m sure loved you very much and were sad to leave you.”
“I only remember Mama was sick and Papa was always away on a ship.” She stopped her stitching. “I am glad Bonami is well again but sorry Mr. Major had to go.”
And not only Mr. Major. Sebastien, too, had not returned. Sylvie looked toward the fields, more troubled than sad, though she understood his reasons for leaving. But to have taken two valuable horses . . . She couldn’t quite bring herself to think of him as a horse thief. And while Will had been spared confronting him about trespassing, Sebastien’s lack of an adieu was hurtful, especially for Eulalie.
“I expected it,” she’d said resignedly, “though I doubt he’ll be any happier wherever he’s going, even if he survives crossing so treacherous a frontier. One’s contentment has more to do with one’s outlook than one’s circumstance, my mère used to say.”
“We must remember him in our prayers,” Sylvie said, wondering if they’d ever know his fate. “Perhaps he’ll make his way west and find joy somehow, somewhere.”
That afternoon, Sylvie watched Henrietta splash along the river’s edge as the sky rippled with mare’s tails, as Nolan called them. He was out of sight helping in the orchards. Would she and Will be blessed with children in time? They’d been given a felicitous start with these two. Soon all four of them would move up the hill into the house, into the very rooms she’d chosen. Henrietta’s had a charming tiled hearth and windows overlooking the walled garden while Nolan’s overlooked the orchard and had a closet. Will had promised Sylvie a chance to purchase furnishings on their honeymoon. As she held close his reassurance of being home more, her heart sang.
The supper bell rang, so she made her way to the cottage with an armload of linen from the spinning house while Eulalie took Henrietta to the kitchen house. Stepping free of the wooded path near the cottage porch, Sylvie spied Liselotte coming out of the orchard. Rarely was she at this end of the settlement. The unexpected sight was as jarring as it was unwelcome.
“Come quickly!” Alarm scored Liselotte’s pale face. “Nolan’s been stung by a great many bees!”
Dropping her linen onto the edge of the porch, Sylvie hitched up her skirts and ran. The bee skeps were at the very back of the orchard where the apple trees gave way to cherries. She’d cautioned Nolan to stay clear of the bees, but his boyish curiosity often got the best of him. As she all but galloped over the uneven ground, myriad remedies buzzed through her mind.
Crushed mallow or plantain leaves? Whiskey or a clay poultice?
Winded, she reached the heavily leafed cherry trees, Liselotte on her heels.
But where was Nolan?
The skeps looked undisturbed, a haze of bees around them. Confused, Sylvie turned around in question. Someone seized her arms and pinned them behind her with such force she felt a sudden burning. Trying to jerk free, she cried out, but Sebastien bound her mouth with a cloth and silenced her while Liselotte worked feverishly to bind her wrists with hemp rope.
Two horses waited, clearly skittish at the commotion. When Sebastien hefted her into the saddle, Liselotte came forward with a sack and tied it onto the pommel. Bile backed up Sylvie’s throat, worsened by the tight gag, and she started slipping from the saddle. With bound wrists, she struggled to keep her balance.
Sebastien thrust a pistol so near it grazed her temple. “Do not cross me, Sylvie Galant. I don’t want to harm you.”
Something hard and desperate in his tone convinced her the threat was not idle. He was not well. His mind was as unsound as his body. She’d often thought it, but never before with such clarity. Chary, intent on escape, she regarded him with rising terror as he mounted the horse ahead of her, a rope tied between them as he led out. Liselotte stood watching, a look of triumph on her face.
Shocked into numbness, Sylvie glanced back at the settlement, all gathered for supper and utterly unaware of the turn of events in the orchard.