61

When I was at home, I was in a better place.

William Shakespeare

Returning to the Rivanna took time, so much time that Sylvie feared the pink and white blossoms would be lost till next apple season. Silly, she reasoned. What mattered most was being together.

To her surprise, Bleu accompanied her and Will. She’d not had to coerce him. Was he tired of all the patrolling and danger? Of shadowing and being shadowed? Whatever his reasons, she reveled in the company of the two men who mattered most, watching the slow unfolding of their unlikely friendship as they traveled southeast.

When she thought she could go no farther, she detected smoke—just a faint whiff—before she spied the distant orchards, the very place she’d been lured to the month before. Despite that, a deep sense of homecoming suffused her as they passed through the apple trees that scattered pink and white petals in the warm wind as if in welcome. They adorned her hair and tattered garments and carried the scent of spring. Her soul, shuttered for so long, seemed to swing wide and take in the beauty of the place she’d once thought lost to her forever.

Was there anything more beautiful than the Rivanna River in the month of May?

For once the lushness of spring crowded out comparison and longing. She was here. She was home. She never wanted to leave it. Bleu’s admiring gaze was not lost on her, nor was Will’s apparent pleasure—or was it more relief? They walked side by side, the horses trailing, beneath the shady canopy of branches that shook forth more blooms.

“Belle terre,” Bleu murmured. “I suppose I am in enemy territory.”

“Blackburn territory. Neutral ground,” Will replied, reaching up to pick an apple blossom. “Home to you whenever you want it to be.” Turning to Sylvie, he tucked the blossom behind her right ear.

She smiled as she pushed a limp strand of hair into place. “It’s nearly June, but we’ll have our orchard wedding.”

Will nodded and gestured east. “There’s a Baptist preacher in our parish a few miles from here. Just say the word and I’ll send for him.”

“And my ring?”

“On the washstand in our house.”

She smiled and sighed all at once. “These apple blossoms won’t wait much longer, and neither will I.”

Sylvie sewed Bleu’s wedding suit in the orchard. There the light was kind, and her brother sat beneath the spreading branches, not in a chair but on the thick grass. Henrietta had taken a fancy to him and was never far, a bit piqued that he was fashioning a bow and arrows for her brother.

“A war bow!” Nolan exclaimed with pride.

“A hunting bow,” Bleu corrected. He whittled in that patient way that reminded Sylvie of Pascal by hearth light a lifetime ago, shavings at his feet.

“Are the arrows sharp?” Henrietta asked, sidling up to him.

“No, blunt till he knows better than to shoot at you.”

She giggled, and the children returned to their playing while Sylvie stilled her needle and studied Bleu. The lines in his tanned face had eased, and his leanness wasn’t so pronounced after a week of kitchen house fare.

“You could always move into my cottage once I’m on the hill,” she said quietly, gauging his reaction. For now, he slept outside in the orchard when he wasn’t helping in the stables or barns.

A half smile softened his features. “Can you see me in the cottage, ma sœur?”

She returned to her sewing. “Not in the least.”

“Still, you would try to tether me.”

“Try, oui.”

“Some men are made for war, and I am one of them.”

“I don’t believe that. I see how you are with the children. How peaceful you seem here.”

“And who would you marry me to?”

“Louise, perhaps.” She’d seen the second glances of the Acadian women since his arrival, Louise foremost. Had he?

“It’s a rather unpleasant time for settling down. This war seems to have no end. In fact, it seems to have not yet officially begun.”

“Hush about the war. You are all the family I have left. I doubt I’ll see our brothers again. Is it any wonder I try to tame you?” The teasing in her tone belied her heartache. “I sense your restlessness, though I believe your roaming nature can be quieted.”

“I am in British territory. Somewhat amusing, is it not?”

“We are all in enemy territory except for Will and his indentures, though it feels less so here along the Rivanna.” She looked toward the road Will had taken, hoping he’d materialize at any moment. He’d gone to summon the preacher who’d marry them, and she looked east. “At the very least I hope you’ll come back here again and again.”

“I am considering returning to Acadie. To see if I can find our brothers or anyone else we know.”

Stanching her surprise, she finished a sleeve, wondering whether to let Henrietta sew on the death-head buttons once she’d finished the buttonholes. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Since when has danger stopped me?”

“Will you be courting danger and still roaming when you’re Père’s age?”

“Fifty winters? I am but thirty.”

“I can’t help but notice the same rheumatism in your hands.”

He set down his knife and the unfinished bow. “Nothing that a little devil’s claw can’t cure.”

“Forget devil’s claw. I have another, better remedy.” She looked at him, wondering if this was the picture of him she would have in mind when he left. “You should take la voie douce, the gentle path. It leads home.”

“And home is now here, at least for you. Have you decided what to call this place?”

She smiled and lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I am still pondering it.”

Inside her cottage, Sylvie dressed in the Lyonnais silk, wondering if Bleu remembered bringing it to her that December day when she’d stood on the snow-swept bluff above Baie Française. Through the open window, she could hear the coming of wedding guests to the orchard. Voices floated up to her, even laughter, as the sun shone down on a clear Virginia afternoon.

Bonami’s sharp bark pulled her to the window. She spied Eulalie coming down the hill, a freshly picked bouquet from the walled garden in hand, as Henrietta and Nolan played ball in the side yard, dressed in their best. Henrietta resembled a fashion baby, clad in a dress of yellow-striped taffeta with a wide sash at her waist, while Nolan’s suit was slate blue and twin to the groom’s . . . wherever he was.

Was Will ready? As ready as she?

Sylvie took a last glance in the looking glass, hardly recognizing herself. Her gown gave a delicious rustle as she moved toward the door to answer the knock. Opening it, she found Bleu. She touched the fine broadcloth sleeve of his suit, noting the buttons Henrietta had finished so proudly. “You nearly look the groom!”

“I am merely the escort,” he replied with a rare shimmer in his eyes. “Une très belle mariée.”

“If I am a beautiful bride, it is because of your silk and my own happiness.”

They stepped onto the porch, where Eulalie passed her the bouquet. Sylvie brought the blooms to her nose, a few apple blossoms tucked in, and breathed in the delicate scent as Will appeared on the main house’s front porch. Their eyes met, and her heart gave a leap. He stepped off the porch and started down the well-worn path, his gaze never leaving her.

She moved toward him across the grass, her step light, the sun warming her as it fell across the orchard in its westward slant. Behind him, the main house was framed in light, its gilded outline well deserving of the name that had come to her on the way back to the Rivanna. A place of beauty and peace and possibilities. A promise of the future with a whispered reminder of the past.

Orchard Rest.