The mare bore down and expelled the wet colt onto the straw. Pierre pulled the sac off and grinned at Jean. “It’s a boy!” He rubbed the colt’s face and stepped back. “Coal black, just like Tonnerre. A worthy successor to his father.”
The newborn and the mare lay side by side in the straw, breathing heavily. Then the mare pulled herself aright and walked away, tearing the umbilical cord loose. She turned back and nuzzled her newborn.
Jean slapped Pierre on the back. “Oui, he looks good—fine lines.” The thunder rolled in the distance. “And a fitting night for your new Tonnerre to be born.”
“Yes, I think I shall call this one Tonnerre as well. This is the first colt we’ve had that looks just like him. I’ve been waiting on this one for a long time.”
“What would you think if we called him by the English equivalent, just to avoid confusion? Thunder is a strong name in English as well.”
“Good idea. I like that.”
The mare nudged the colt. Spindly legs thrusting in all four directions, the colt attempted to stand and fell against the wooden slats of the stall. Chuckling, Pierre stood back and gave the two animals room.
“God’s creation is amazing. I never grow weary of watching the process.” He leaned over the railing and shouted down the darkened aisle of the barn. “Tonnerre, congratulations! You’re a daddy again.”
The Percheron poked his huge head over the gate of his stall across the way. He blinked and nickered. Pierre turned back to the foaling scene where the colt was attempting to nurse despite his wobbly stance. He patted the colt. “We shall be congratulating another new father before too long, I suppose.”
Jean nodded and grinned. “We are becoming more and more hopeful as the days go by.” He turned and unlatched the gate of the stall. “This baby . . . Adriaen . . . I don’t know what I would do if . . . if I should lose Adriaen and the baby like . . .”
“But she’s feeling well, non?”
“So far.”
The pair started through the gate. The mare munched on fresh hay strewn in her stall as the colt suckled.
Pierre picked up the lantern and took hold of Jean’s arm. “My dear friend, God has been generous and gracious to us in this new country of great plenty. I pray his mercy surround you during this time and that he bring you a healthy baby boy—as healthy as that young colt in there.”
“I should be the more mature one in the faith, but I learn much from you.” Jean handed Pierre his poncho and wide-brimmed hat. “I am glad God brought you to Madeleine and our family.”
“The pleasure has been all mine.” The Boveé smile glistened in the lantern light. “We’d best get back to our wives.” His smile disappeared. “I want to check on Vangie.”
Jean peered out the barn door. “Looks like Adriaen’s back at our place. I can see a light in the window.” The two men hunkered under their rain gear and made a dash for their respective homes—Jean up the hill to his and Adriaen’s new little cottage, and Pierre to the main house that had been added onto several times during the first difficult years of pioneering.
Pierre ascended the steps to the porch, then removed his poncho and hat and shook the rain from them. He creaked open the door, entered quietly, and hung his wet things over the back of a chair to dry.
Madeleine sat in the soft glow of the fading embers of the fire, which she had already banked for the night. A candle flickered on the table beside her, and her head nodded on her chest. Pierre lingered for a moment, simply looking at the wife he so adored. Even in the dim light of the fire he could see a streak of gray beginning to appear in her dark hair above her forehead. It made her even more beautiful to him. The spinning wheel stood nearby, and she held a bundle of yarn on her lap.
He knelt beside her and tried to take the yarn from her hands.
Madeleine startled and woke up to smile at him. She smoothed her hair. “I guess I fell asleep. What did she have? Is all well?”
“She had a black-as-midnight colt that looks just like his father. We’re going to call him Thunder.”
Madeleine chuckled softly. “Oh, Pierre, I’m so delighted. That’s wonderful. A successor for Tonnerre.”
He stood and pulled Madeleine up with him. He took her face in his hands and kissed her lightly on her forehead. “How’s my princess?”
“She’s asleep. She’s going to have quite a bump on her head in the morning.” Madeleine looked up at her husband. “Pierre, our Vangie continues to weaken and decline. I fear—”
“Shhh. Nothing to fear. Our God is not going to leave us now. Vangie survived the ocean voyage and our early years here; surely she will get better now that our lives have gotten somewhat easier.” He pulled Madeleine close.
“You would think so.” Madeleine shook her head and shuddered. “I feared that none of us would survive that first bitter winter, much less Vangie. I was almost glad the boys were in Philadelphia. At least I knew they had shelter and were being fed.”
“But we did survive and so did Vangie.” He looked around. “Anything to eat? I’m starving.”
“I’m sure you are. The stew should still be warm, and there’s cornbread on the table.” Madeleine got a bowl and spoon from the table and ladled leftover stew from the kettle hanging over the embers in the fireplace.
Pierre sat down at the table and broke a piece of cornbread into the bowl. “Jean’s worried about Adriaen.”
“That’s natural. But I think she’s doing well. She’s not cramping like before. She is getting awfully large . . . Pierre? You seem preoccupied.”
He had set his spoon down after only a few bites and was drumming his fingers on the table. He stood, walked to the window, and closed the shutters. “I saw Lenapes crossing our land today. A multitude of them.”
Madeleine’s eyes turned serious. “Where do you think they are going?”
“They were headed west. The locals say the tribe is not happy with the land acquisitions that Governor Penn has made with the Susquehannocks. They feel pushed off of their land.”
“We can appreciate their feelings, can we not?”
“Of course, especially you. I had no land in France, but if we were to be forced off of our land here . . .” He returned to the table and sat down. “I cannot even imagine the anguish it must cause the families.” He took Madeleine’s hand. “Don’t be concerned about it. The Lenapes have always been peaceable.”
“I know. But I don’t trust them. They are such a strange people . . . and what about those kidnappings and raids from other tribes?”
“We’ve traded successfully with them, and count them as friends. We’ve done nothing to give them reason to hate us.”
“Except take their land.”
He sighed and stretched. Madeleine gathered up the empty bowl and spoon, picked up the lantern, and headed for their bedroom. Pierre stepped out on the porch. All seemed to be quiet. He closed the door and set the latch.
BRIDGET CAME DOWN EARLY FOR BREAKFAST. HER MOTHER was nowhere in sight, and her father sat at the table going through a stack of papers as the head cook prepared the morning meal. Servants scurried about, busy with their daily chores.
The Barringtons always ate breakfast in the more informal keeping room rather than the dining room, which had been an addition onto the original house. Sarah protested from time to time, especially in the early days of building their plantation, Whisper Wood, but Amos’ informal, casual nature finally won over her desire to “put on airs,” as Amos called it.
“We are simply ordinary people who have done well. We will eat breakfast like ordinary people. Besides, I hate having to be so careful not to soil a tablecloth this early in the morning. We shall eat in the keeping room!”
Bridget had heard the speech over and over through the years, though not so much anymore.
“Is Mother not coming down for breakfast?”
“Oh, good morning, my dear. No, your mother is not feeling well this morning. I fear yesterday’s trip wore her out. Seems it takes her longer to recover from our little outings these days.”
Bridget sat at the heavy oak trestle table next to her father. A young domestic set a bowl of steaming cornmeal mush in front of her, along with a cup of cider. She reached for the molasses already on the table, along with the butter. She liked the mush, but what she liked even better was the morning after, when the cooks fried the leftovers into crisp rectangles in the big iron skillets. She would be sure to come down to breakfast tomorrow.
Amos was buried in his paperwork.
“Father, could we chat for a moment, or are you too busy?” She peered over his shoulder. “What are you working on?”
“The boundaries of the land here in Philadelphia. Maryland still insists that Philadelphia belongs to them, but Governor Penn is adamant that it was included in his land grant. It is almost unbelievable this disagreement is still going on.” He looked over his spectacles at his daughter. “But you’re not interested in that, are you?” He shoved his papers aside. “I always have time to chat with you.”
“No. I mean, yes, I am interested, but that’s not what I’d like to talk to you about.” She sat across from him and put her napkin in her lap.
“Yes? What is it?”
“I’d like to discuss this matter of a suitor.”
Amos removed his round spectacles and pushed back in his chair, resting his hands on his large belly. “Go on.”
“Father, there is someone I would like you to approach about courting me.”
“Yes? I am pleased that there is someone who has caught your fancy. Who is it? Someone we know?”
“It’s . . . it is . . . well, you probably are going to be surprised. Shocked, even.”
“Well, if you don’t hurry up and tell me, I won’t only be shocked, I’ll be withering away from old age.”
She giggled. “Oh, Father. No, you won’t. It is someone we know well. Someone nearby.” She looked out the door to the stables.
“Do go on, child.”
“It’s Philippe.”
“Philippe Clavell? Our groomsman? Do you jest?”
“I do not jest at all. You and I know that Philippe is much more than simply a stable hand. We know he comes from an important family in France. He is a fine young man, and my feelings for him have continued to grow through the years he’s been with us.”
Amos rubbed his chin. “You have strong feelings for him?”
“I am desperately in love with him.”
Amos stood. “I see.” He took a piece of kindling from the fire and lit his pipe, then tossed the twig back into the flame. “And does Philippe know how you feel? Have you told him?”
She looked down at her hands in her lap. “No.”
“That is as it should be. There are problems with your choice, my dear. For one thing, we are Catholic, and he is Protestant.”
“That matters not to me.”
“It may not matter to you, but I can assure you it will matter to his family.” He stopped and encouraged his pipe, blowing puffs of smoke into the air. “But the more formidable hurdle will be your mother. She will not agree to this easily, if at all. She entertains high hopes for you—and marrying an indentured Protestant servant is not among them. The young man has no land, no financial means.”
“But will you speak to her about it?”
Amos puffed on his pipe and returned to his seat at the table. “Let me think about it.”
“Philippe will be leaving our household in just a few weeks.”
“I am well aware of that fact.”
“Don’t delay, Father. If you don’t speak to him, I will.”
Amos put his spectacles back on his nose and stared over the rims at his daughter. “Young lady, are you saying that even if we disapprove and decide against allowing him to court you, that you will pursue it anyway? You would dare to defy us?”
“I don’t know that he would even want to court me. He’s never given me any indication that he is remotely interested. But I am saying that Philippe Clavell is my choice, and I want him to know how I feel before he leaves Whisper Wood.” She looked down and swallowed. Her voice was soft and thick with emotion. “Would you consider speaking to him?”
“Hmm. This is most unorthodox. I need to consult with your mother. You know I like Philippe. He’s an exemplary young man, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Gigi, we cannot always choose our lot in life. This young Frenchman is a Huguenot, devotedly so, and we are Catholic—the very group responsible for the persecution from which he fled in France.”
“But that wasn’t us.”
“No, but emotions run deep where convictions are concerned. And even if he consented, I’m almost certain his family would not. It would be too daunting an issue to conquer, I’m afraid.” Amos reached across the table and took his daughter’s hand. “My sweet Bridget. Your mother and I want the best for you. You don’t realize from whence you have come.”
“Why do you always say that? ‘You don’t realize from whence you have come.’ What does that mean? I’m just a girl who wants to marry the man she loves, not some aristocrat or businessman who might provide wealth and a fine house for me.” She stood and set her napkin on the table. “I have that now, and it’s not enough. If I have to live here as a spinster after you and mother are gone, I will, but I do not wish to marry someone I do not love.” She knelt beside her father and laid her cheek against his hand, spotted with age. “Please, Father. Won’t you at least think about it?”
He sighed and nodded. “I shall.”
Bridget rose and smiled at the man who represented all that was safe and secure and who had always been able to grant her every wish. She had no doubt that he would find a way for her this time as well. “Thank you, Father.” She kissed him on the cheek, turned, and left him staring after her, puffing on his pipe.
AMOS SAT QUIETLY AT THE TABLE, TAPPING HIS PIPE ASHES into a small, shallow bowl.
“What was that all about?” Sarah entered the kitchen. She was dressed but had pulled a quilt around her shoulders like a shawl.
The old gentleman rose and pulled out a chair for his wife. “Sit down, dear. I didn’t expect you down for breakfast this morning. Are you feeling better? Are you chilly?”
“I’m fine, just tired. And I am a bit chilled.” She sat in the chair Bridget had vacated only moments before. “Is our daughter upset about something?”
“You could say that.” He chuckled and patted Sarah’s hand. “One never need guess what our daughter is thinking.” He motioned to the servant. “Bring my good wife a bowl of mush to warm her.”
Sarah shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll just have some cider right now. That sounds good. So, do tell me what has our daughter in such a state.”
“She has someone that she would like . . . Well, there is a young man for whom it seems she has strong feelings. She has asked me to approach him about courting her.”
Sarah’s eyes brightened, and she sat forward in her chair. “Wonderful! Who has caught her fancy?”
Amos shook his head. “Prepare yourself, my dear. You are going to be shocked.”
“Well? Tell me who it is that is going to shock me. Has she acquiesced to accept Edward Moorehead’s offer? Yes, I am shocked. What changed her mind?” Sarah stood, the quilt falling to the floor. “Oh my, we must make arrangements . . .”
“Sit down, my dear. You are jumping to conclusions and flying away with them on a racehorse of imagination. It is not Edward Moorehead.”
“Who then? Our neighbor, young Thomas Bond? But I thought he was betrothed to Alice Adams from Baltimore.”
“If you’ll quit guessing, I will tell you. I simply want you to be prepared.”
Sarah lowered herself into her chair and gathered the quilt into her lap. “Very well. I am prepared.”
“It is Philippe.”
Sarah’s jaw dropped. “Philippe Clavell? Our stable hand? Our indentured servant?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible. We would not, could not ever give our consent for that. He is a servant, and he isn’t Catholic.”
“I know, I know, my dear. I told Bridget that we would never agree to it. And I am certain that his French Huguenot family would vehemently oppose any sort of union between the two.” Amos relit his pipe. “He is a fine young man, however.”
“He is a servant!”
“Not by birth. Purely by circumstance. And he will be a free man in a few weeks.”
“I’ll be glad, then, that he will be gone, and we will have no more talk of a servant courting our Bridget. What can she be thinking?”
Amos peered over his spectacles at his disgruntled wife. “What makes a man, or a woman? Birth or circumstances? It’s time we considered telling our daughter the circumstances surrounding her birth.”
Sarah’s mouth turned down at the corners. She gathered the quilt around her, and for the second time that morning, a Barrington female left Amos tossed about in the wake of her emotions.