57

In the deepest night of trouble and sorrow God gives us so much to be thankful for that we need never cease our singing.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Days began to blur, Sylvie’s hopes for rescue plummeting as time ticked on. Was it April? Or was it May? The heat pulsated around them like a living thing, slicking her with sweat and weighting her lungs. When they came to a wide, rushing river she wanted to gulp from it till her belly ached, then jump into its cleansing depths.

Sebastien rode up and down the rocky south bank as if deciding the best fording place. But the river rushed furiously past, a frothy white and ice blue. Indecision crossed his tanned face. Sylvie watched him closely, sensitive to his temper, fearful he might try to cross this impossible water that looked as unsettled and angry as he.

“We’ll camp in that stand of trees and bathe in the river tonight.” Jerking his head toward a huddle of pines, he led the way to their shelter of boughs and bark. At least it provided refuge from the hot sun skimming the treetops in its descent.

She made a makeshift bed away from him, using the blanket he’d given her the day before. In the sack of her belongings she’d found a clean linen dress, even a scrap of soap wrapped in linen. Liselotte’s doing? Somehow she’d overlooked it in the misery of the first days. The sight of it resurrected the ugly memory of Liselotte standing smugly by at the last.

Saying nothing, she took the clean dress and soap in hand, walking away to find a private place to wash the grit of the trail away. She could feel Sebastien’s eyes on her. He seemed to understand she would not run away, for she’d made no secret of how lost she felt, finally convincing him that tying her hands was unnecessary.

Sinking to her knees behind a boulder along the riverbank, she drank from her cupped hands before she stepped into the water. The cold raised goose bumps, but she sat down in the frothing river up to her shoulders and grabbed handfuls of sand to scour herself. Her hair she washed as best she could, though she had no comb.

At last she got out, envisioning the copper hip bath in Will’s fine house. Huddled behind a rock, adrip and towel-less, she dressed in the sole clean garment left to her, wondering how long the dress would last in the wilderness. Her shoes were muddy and a heel was loose, but she was grateful for the Williamsburg cobbler who’d made them sturdy.

When she stepped into the open, she saw Sebastien leaning against a tree, arms crossed. Heat drenched her. How long had he been watching? She walked past him, head down, leaving her ruined garments on the riverbank.

“Très belle,” he called after her.

Pulling her skirts free of a sticker bush, she plunged into the brush, sensing he was on her heels.

Oh, Will, where are you? Won’t you come?

Before she reached the pine shelter, Sebastien caught up with her. His hard hand fisted her petticoat from behind and stopped her. Panicked, she yanked the linen free of his grasp, tearing it in her haste.

“Why do you run away from me, mon bijou?” His endearment hung harshly on the sultry air.

“I am not your jewel, Sebastien.” She faced him, chilled though the day was still hot. “I have pledged myself to another who will surely come after me, who I feel is even now on the trail to find me and bring you to a reckoning.”

“Oh?” The same smugness that had marred Liselotte’s features suffused Sebastien’s. “Not when he reads the note that forbids him to search for you, saying you ran off with me of your own free will.”

She stared at him. “Quoi?”

“Mademoiselle Kersey is very clever. She left a note in your name, making sure we would not be followed.”

Mon Dieu, non. The tendril of hope she’d nursed through days of turmoil snapped. Clever? Nay, unutterably devious. And enough to deter Will’s coming after her and ruin his estimation of her forever. Nausea rolled through her as she realized he had never seen her writing hand and had no way to refute the note’s lies.

“Blackburn belongs with her. You belong with me.” His gaze hardened. “I have been waiting for you to come to your senses about the matter. Why would you align yourself with a man who is not Acadian? Who is, in fact, the very enemy of our people?”

She studied him, searching for a glimmer of reason. Had they not been over this before? Truly, the ague was so virulent it affected the mind, not only the body.

“How could an enemy of our people establish such a settlement? He has even riled many Virginians intent on putting us on another ship to another land to live amongst people who revile us, who feel we are no different from the Indians and French waging war on this very frontier. How can you be blind to that?”

“It is you who are blind, Sylvie.” He came closer, so close she could smell his fetid breath. “I risk much taking you with me, even stealing horses for your comfort.” Taking a strand of her wet hair, he curled it around one filthy finger. “Bleu will reward me for my efforts once the only family member he has left is returned to him.”

She stepped back, pulling free of him. “Bleu will not be so forgiving if you mistreat me or take advantage in any way. If you are intent on Fort Duquesne, I am depending on you to see me safely there.”

He said no more as she sat down on her blanket, preparing for another long night. Weary as she was, she couldn’t close her eyes till Sebastien slept. She did not trust him, nor did she trust these woods teeming with bears and snakes and wildness. She had no way to defend herself save One.

Father God, be my defense.

Snatches of Scripture had been returning to her day and night, oftentimes only a few words but enough to keep her from falling to the ground when she thought she could go no farther. Cicadas droned around her, and she could hear the horses tearing at the brush, famished after so much travel. Sebastien’s horse seemed lamed, but she’d save that worry for another day. As she prayed for Will, wherever he was, to be discerning amid all the lies and confusion, a thought flitted across her consciousness like a dragonfly across a millpond.

What if he didn’t find her?

The next day dawned clear, the cloudless sky mirroring the irascible river. Sebastien left camp briefly to find a fording place, but the look on his face once he returned was ominous.

“This river is deep and the current is swift,” he told her, securing the saddlebags. “The horses may not make it across, but to continue we have no choice but to chance it.”

Sylvie ran a hand down the tangled, burred mane of the creature who’d miraculously not failed her other than stumbling and spilling her to the ground a time or two. Sebastien’s mount was a bit more high-spirited, even unpredictable.

Once they broke camp, they rode along the riverbank into a day already as warm as a bake oven. Squinting, Sylvie once again rued her missing cap and straw hat. Her skin had begun to peel, blistering in places, her scalp sore. But better that than a tomahawk and scalping. Not one Indian had they seen, nor another white man. But in so vast a wilderness it was hardly surprising.

“Ici!” Sebastien’s shout crested above the noise of the brawling river. Without waiting for her to respond, he kneed his horse into the current.

Skittish, his horse balked then moved forward at Sebastien’s insistence. Sylvie’s own mount resisted, but she coaxed her on into the icy tumult even as she fought against her own breathless terror. Water encircled her waist, and she clung to the mare’s neck as the frightened animal strained against the powerful flow, its foamy spray blinding. She could feel the mare’s hard kicking as its hooves left the slick bottom in an attempt to swim.

At once the horror of the hurricane swept over her, the wrenching loss of Mère and Marie-Madeleine thorn sharp and threatening her resolve. All was overwhelming white water and cold and terror, dragging her down and drowning her last hope.

Fixing her eyes on the opposite bank, Sylvie heard a hoarse cry. Her gaze swung to Sebastien as he lost his balance. His frantic voice would forever echo in her ears as he and his panicked horse were swept away.