Philippe stuffed the letter from Bridget back in the envelope. He felt miserable that he had acted upon presuppositions and been lured from the girl that he loved by the promise of freedom and a horse. Although a formidable chasm loomed between them caused by their religious differences, he had not even prayed for God to open the doors for them to be together. Bridget had appealed to him through her letter one last time before the tentacles of tradition had wrapped around her, and he hadn’t even bothered to open it. Now she was in danger.
Philippe looked back at Charles, who was still asleep, and stepped quietly through the door from his room to the cabin. “Where are the others?”
Claudine looked up from kneading dough in the bread bowl and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a trace of flour. “Vangie has gone up to Adriaen’s. Madame is in her bedroom.”
“Thank you.” He walked to the open door of his mother’s room and stood quietly for a moment, watching her fold quilts and place them in a trunk at the end of the bed. She was humming a Huguenot hymn.
“Maman.”
She startled, and then smiled. “Oh, I didn’t hear you, mon cheri. Have you already finished with your chores? Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”
“No, all is well. But—”
“But, what? Something is wrong.”
“I need to talk to you. And be at peace. All is fine. There is simply something I wish to discuss.” He motioned to her. “It’s a beautiful morning. Let’s go for a walk.”
The men had told his mother about Charles’ escape from the foundry and his rescue by the Indians, but nothing about Bridget. Philippe needed to tell her.
She looked out of the window at the barren trees spreading their skeletal fingers over the sky on the wintry hillside. “It’s so cold—”
“Yes, but the sun is shining, and there’s no wind. I want to show you something.” He motioned with his hand. “It’s been a long time since we’ve taken a walk together—Versailles, in fact.” He grinned. “Come, get your cloak.”
She walked to him and brushed his hair out of his eyes as she had brushed François’ out of his eyes years ago. She patted his cheek. “So like your father. Very well.” She put the last quilt in the trunk and followed Philippe out of the bedroom. “Claudine, we are going for a walk.”
“A walk, Madame?” She looked up at the couple.
“Yes, my impulsive son wants me to go on a walk with him . . . and has something to show me. I’m most curious.” Madeleine put on her cloak and got her muff out of a chest beside the door. “We shan’t be long.”
Claudine nodded, picked two loaves up with the peel, and shoved them into the oven.
They walked into the radiant morning and crunched down the path to the road. Philippe waved his hand over the landscape. “It’s not the gardens of Versailles, but in its own way, I think, it is even more beautiful. I feel free and alive in this valley.”
“Yes, I agree.” They walked down the road toward the creek. “Where are we going?”
“There’s something I want to show you down here by the water. Do you miss France, Maman? Versailles?”
“Sometimes I miss being a ‘lady.’ I miss dressing up for a ball or a ballet. I miss our estate.” She looked at her son. “It really was a lovely manor, wasn’t it? I remember the gardens in the spring, and Henri grooming our horses. Loyal Henri. He and Therese took good care of us, didn’t they?”
They both fell silent. Their former life seemed but a dream now.
She took his arm. “But I would not go back. Our family is complete, now that you and Charles are home. Jean and Adriaen have their babies. It’s perfect now, isn’t it, Philippe? We’ve had our share of heartaches, but it has been worth everything we’ve sacrificed.”
Philippe didn’t answer. They approached the bend in the road that led down to the creek. “Watch your step here.” Philippe took her elbow and guided her off the road to the bank of the creek where a path had been cleared.
“You’ve already been here.”
“I came down a couple of days ago to check the bridge. That’s when I noticed something.” They stood on the bank, and he pointed toward the water. “Look, it appears to be frozen, but if you observe carefully, you can see the water running underneath it. Later in the winter, of course, it will freeze over solid. And look here.” He turned and led her upstream a bit to a small waterfall. “Look how the ice is trying to cover the rocks, but the water keeps bubbling to the surface. It will eventually freeze over, but in the spring, when it begins to warm up and the conditions are right, it will run again.”
“What are you trying to say?”
He looked down at his feet and scuffed around in the snow with his boot. “Maman, everything is not perfect. I need to tell you something. I . . . I . . . there is a young lady that has . . . that I have . . .” Nervousness crept up the back of his neck. He stammered, and then hesitated and looked at his mother. This is going to be every bit as hard as I thought it was going to be. “This is very difficult, Maman.”
“There is someone you’d like to marry?”
“Yes, there is.”
“I’m delighted. Tell me who it is.”
Philippe took his mother’s hands and looked directly into her startling blue-green eyes. “It is Mistress Barrington.”
Madeleine pulled away from him, but he continued.
“It’s like winter has come to my soul, and is trying to freeze over the bubbling emotions that lie hidden beneath the surface. However, they are still there, and have not died—will not die.”
“You will recover as time passes.”
“Perhaps, but time will not completely ice over my love for her. Just as it would not for you and Pierre.”
“Philippe, she is Catholic.”
“Pierre was too.”
“Has she converted?”
He snapped a twig off a tree and turned it round and round in his hands. “Can we not trust that God has come to Bridget, or will come—just as he came to Pierre?”
Madeleine turned her back on him. Her hood fell around her shoulders, and her dark hair tumbled out from under her white head covering. She rubbed her forehead, then shook her head. “Don’t do this to me, Philippe. I cannot approve such a match.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
She stared at him. “Do you want me to betray everything we have risked our lives for? Everything that we came to this country for? Your father died because of his faith. Can we do no less?”
“We came to this country to escape King Louis and for the privilege of living free. Give me that same freedom—the freedom to choose to marry the woman I love. Our hearts are free here.”
Madeleine stared at her grown son, now a man. “And if I do not give my approval?”
Philippe looked back at the river. “I’m not willing to live the rest of my life with my feelings for Bridget frozen inside of me, ready to bubble to the surface at any time. That would not be fair to any other woman—one that you might choose for me.” He looked back at Madeleine. “Bridget is engaged to be married at Christmas to a man of questionable character—coincidentally, Zwicken’s silent partner at the foundry. She witnessed a murder when she was nine years old, and the murderer was the man to whom she’s now engaged. Maman, this is too complicated to explain now. Mistress Barrington has no idea how dangerous her situation is. I have made up my mind. I’m going after her.”
Madeleine remained silent for a long time. Then she looked at her son. “I am very sorry for Mistress Barrington’s plight. I’m sure she is lovely, and I certainly do not wish her any ill will, but that doesn’t change the fact that we are Huguenot, and she is Catholic.” She looked down at her hands enshrouded by her muff. “You intend to pursue this with or without my approval?”
He nodded slowly. “I greatly desire your approval. If God will be gracious to me and grant me favor, I hope to reach her before she marries this despicable man.” He swallowed. “I am going as soon as I can gather my things.”
Madeleine blinked away the tears that sprang to the surface.
“Don’t cry, Maman.” The young man stared at her tears. “This is something that I must do. I know this is right. Please, can you not trust me?”
“I know this must sound harsh to you, but I will not give my blessing for you to marry a Catholic. That’s final.”
“I am sorry, Maman. I do not wish to cause you pain, but I am going after her. I would like your approval, but I . . . I will not require your permission.”
Madeleine turned her back on him and began to trudge through the snow back to the road. The two returned to the house without speaking. As they reached the small gate in the fence that surrounded the house, Madeleine turned to her son. “Your willfulness in this situation grieves my heart. Go tell Pierre that I need to speak to him, please.”
“Maman, will you at least pray and ask God to show you if you might possibly be wrong?”
She looked up at him with tears shimmering in her eyes. She nodded. “I will. I give you my word that I will.”
Philippe found Jean banging away on the blacksmith anvil near the front of the barn. The muscles rippled beneath his shirt as he lifted the hammer in a clanging rhythm. Philippe nodded and walked on past until he came upon Pierre mucking out stalls in the back.
“Pierre, Maman would like you to go to the house. She needs to speak with you.” He looked directly into Pierre’s dark eyes. “I’m going to Philadelphia to get Bridget.”
Pierre leaned on his shovel. “You told her?”
“Yes.”
“Did she agree?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re not going without me.” Philippe whirled around to see that Charles had joined them. The cloths were off his hands, but he had put on gloves.
“Impossible. If you show your face in Philadelphia, Zwicken will put you back in the foundry.” Philippe reached out. “How are your hands?”
“I won’t lie to you, they are tender, but as long as I keep them protected, I think they will be fine.” Charles grinned. “And as far as Zwicken is concerned, he will have to catch me first.”
Pierre spoke. “Charles, you know that your mother and I have been saving money to buy out your contract. We’ve almost enough now, and we will somehow find the rest. We will eventually pay Zwicken what is due him.”
“But—”
“We will honor the contract. You will be able to walk into Philadelphia with your head held high thereafter, and will not have to avoid Zwicken for the rest of your life.”
Philippe clapped his brother on the shoulder. “We need to get to Whisper Wood before the Barringtons go to Philadelphia. We’ll leave in the morning.”
“This is not going to be easy for your mother, but I will try to reason with her.” Pierre leaned the shovel against the stall and started for the cabin.
PIERRE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF THEIR BEDROOM, removed his gloves, and pushed his hat back from his forehead.
Madeleine did not look at him as he came into the room and sat on the bed.
“Maddy, what are you thinking about?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, but stared into the flames in the fireplace. “I was thinking about our estate in France.” Her eyes were dry, but her voice faltered.
“I wish I could have seen it before the king’s dragoons burned it.”
“I do too, Pierre. It was a lovely country home. Not too pretentious, but elegant and comfortable at the same time. And our stables and horses were the best in the province. Henri did a masterful job with the horses.” A catch in her voice caused her to hesitate. “We were very fortunate.” She still would not look at him.
“Blessed, I’d say.” Pierre knelt in front of her.
She spread her hands and looked at them. “I used to be the most beautiful woman at the ball. I had the most beautiful gowns, and I was the desire of the king—the envy of the other ladies of the court.”
“I know that, my dear. I witnessed it for myself. You were the most striking woman I had ever seen. Every man in court knew when you entered the room.”
“My hands used to be soft and beautiful. Now they are rough, reddened, and dirty—always grime around my nails. Even when I scrub them with a brush, the—grime—won’t—come—off.” She accentuated the last few words by rubbing one hand and then the other. “It just—won’t—come—off.”
Pierre took her hands and kissed them. “Your hands are still lovely, and you would still be the most beautiful woman at the ball . . . if we were to have a ball.” He chuckled. “I haven’t heard of too many balls going on around here, however.” He stood and pulled her into his arms. “But if there were balls, I would reserve every dance with you and dance the night away as if we were still young.” He began to sway to music heard only in his head.
Madeleine followed him as he executed expertly even now the steps to a menuet. He stepped back and kicked the rocking chair, sending it careening into the wall. They laughed and embraced.
Madeleine righted the chair and sat down, breathing hard. “Well, we’re not young anymore, but you are still my favorite partner.”
Pierre leaned against the fireplace and stroked his beard. “You mean I outrank the king?”
“By far.” She went into his arms and smoothed his beard with her fingers. “My hero. Where would our family be if you hadn’t risked your life for ours—more than once?”
“Where would I be if God hadn’t brought you into my life? I would still be searching for him.” He paused. The room grew quiet except for the sizzling of the fire. Pierre kissed his wife. “Maddy, I was Catholic, remember? And you loved me.”
“Yes, but you had come to faith before—”
“—before what? Before we fell in love? Before François died? I hardly knew what happened to me when God came to me in the forest that day. I had to learn what it meant to trust in Jesus by faith. I had to learn to walk in belief. I had to learn the Scriptures and how to rejoice in the Lord. Give the girl a chance. How do we know that she doesn’t already know God?”
“But she was raised Catholic.”
“Let’s find out more about her before we close the door. Let’s trust Philippe’s judgment.”
“He rejected her and came home without her.”
“That’s because he knew how you would react. And . . .”
“. . . and I’ve reacted exactly as he thought I would?”
Pierre cocked his head at her and smiled.
Madeleine turned her back. “You knew about this, didn’t you? I want you to talk him out of it.”
“I didn’t know until yesterday, but I cannot do that.”
She whirled around and stared at her husband. “You what? What do you mean, ‘I cannot do that’? You will not stop my son from making the biggest mistake of his life?”
“Calm down, Maddy. I will not try to stop him, because I happen to agree with him.”
“You . . . you agree with him? I did not think I would have to fight you on this as well. You are the head of this family, but . . .”
He motioned toward their bed, and they sat down.“You are letting your emotions color the situation. This is not a dragoon threatening to imprison, torture, or kill your son—or anyone in your family. This is a young woman, who happens to be Catholic, who is in love with your son. All they want to do is to be together. Perhaps God brought her to our family for a purpose—both in her life and in ours. Perhaps—as it was in my case—perhaps our family has been appointed to encourage her in her spiritual journey. How can you rule that out?” He pleaded with her. “I know you have strong convictions—obstinate, some would say—and I admire you for that. That courage has saved us more than once. But this time . . .”
Tears gathered in her eyes. “This time . . . what?”
“This time I think your convictions are misplaced. I think you need to trust your son’s judgment. He’s a grown man. He has been a good son and does not want to inflict further anguish on you, but he is in anguish. Do not let the pain of your past cause future pain for your son. I fear it will drive a wedge between the two of you.”
“He is a good son, isn’t he? I couldn’t have asked for a better son. François would have been so proud of him.” She dried her tears with her handkerchief.
“I’ve talked to Jean and Charles. I would suggest you talk to the woman yourself. We are all in agreement that you should tell Philippe to go get Mistress Barrington. Please pray about this. If we wait too long, Mister Barrington will have married her off to this man of most questionable character. Maddy, we can trust God in this. I know we can.”
In a sudden rush, tears began to stream down her cheeks. “We’ve come too far to go back. We’ve sacrificed all that we had and are in order to live our faith out in freedom. I cannot have the cloud of Catholicism hover over our household again. I simply cannot give my approval, Pierre. I cannot do it.” She fell into his arms and heaved broken breaths onto his shoulder.
Pierre tilted her chin toward him with his finger. “I think you are making a mistake. Sometimes we can be so wrong in our righteousness. I fear you will live to regret this decision.”