Chapter 6
How odd it felt to return to her attic room in a tavern emptied of guests but guarded by a few of the militia.
But in truth, Brielle would have felt safe with only Bleu Galant defending them.
His presence and weapons held her in a sort of horrified awe, the colorful beading on his tomahawk suggesting an equally colorful story untold.
He likely slept with all the accoutrements of war on his cot downstairs in the tavern passageway. Such was the way of woodsmen.
It hadn’t taken her long to realize he was as decisive, quick-witted, and observant as he was powerfully made.
He could have reopened the tavern and run it himself had he wanted.
The chilling scar that flanked his left brow to his jawline failed to mar his appeal.
He was by far the most arresting man she’d ever seen—and she’d seen plenty in the city and at the crossroads.
In his presence she felt small. Nothing but a bondservant with little to recommend her. Yet she was full of big questions. Where had he come from? Where was he going? Did he have a home? Suddenly every facet of him intrigued her. He glittered like a rough-cut gem beyond her reach.
Now, hours after meeting him, she lay atop her bed, ears tuned to the slightest threatening sound beyond the open window as he played across her conscience.
Bleu.
It suited him, strong yet comely, much like the French words and phrases threading his speech.
That she hadn’t expected. Hearing her mother’s native tongue again cracked open a bittersweet door to the past she’d tried to keep shut.
It hurt too much to remember. Yet his use of it won her over just the same.
When she awoke the next morning to the rooster crowing, she dressed hurriedly with a strange anticipation despite all the work awaiting her.
She heard Titus on the other side of the wall, in the room he’d shared with his sister.
The soreness she felt over Tamsen now set in as the shock of her death wore off.
To think of all those buried overwhelmed her. Too much for one soul to hold.
She crept downstairs, unsure of what she’d find, smelling coffee and bacon wafting from the kitchen.
Warily, she darted a glance at Griffiths’ ransacked office.
A mail bag lay on the floor, the latest sack sent to the tavern for those in the settlement.
Because she was learned, Griffiths had her handle the post, passing out letters and recording who came to pick them up or sent them, always collecting the required pence.
Of all her tasks, this was her favorite for it allowed her a little dreaming.
The novelty of the mail broke the monotony of her days.
Boston. New York. Savannah. Williamsburg. York Town.
Places she’d only heard of but never been.
Two more years and she could go anywhere she pleased once she’d collected her freedom dues.
Though she might never be a lady of leisure surely there was a chance for rest, kinder work, the ability to enjoy life’s little pleasures aside from the Sabbath.
Yet that was a frightening prospect too.
How did one go anywhere when one had no ties to anyone?
The passageway was empty of its splintered furniture, even the cot Bleu Galant had slept on.
She followed the aroma coming from the kitchen, stopping in the open doorway.
Their guest—if one could call him that—was making breakfast. Turning bacon in a skillet while something equally delicious emanated from the bake oven.
For a moment she stood openmouthed before her gaze swiveled from him to the set table.
Rather than being served, he was serving them?
To her utter astonishment he’d placed flowers from the tavern’s garden in a small pitcher at the table’s center.
Pale pink roses and purple irises and butter-yellow day lilies.
Somehow it seemed he’d picked them for her.
Or was she so starved for attention and affection it made her more fanciful?
Without turning around he said, “Good morning, Mademoiselle Farrow.”
Did he have eyes in the back of his head?
“Good morning, Monsieur Galant.”
“Bleu,” he countered, looking over his shoulder with a half-smile.
Flustered, she sat down at the table, biting her lip lest she offer to help. What could she possibly do given he had all in hand?
“May I call you Brielle?”
His pronunciation was perfect. So very French. If he’d not won her over already the way he said her name would have settled it. “Oui … Bleu.”
He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.
Had he milked the cow, too? She saw no cream yet the cow wasn’t bawling.
At once he brought cream in a small pitcher.
Amused, she wondered. Would he churn the butter or leave that for her to do?
Though he was reassuringly near, she still feared going beyond the back door …
“I took liberties and turned the cow out to pasture and gathered eggs.” He gestured to his weapon leaning against the wall. “Safely.”
She tried to imagine him picking flowers and doing chores encumbered with a gun as he turned back to the hearth and reached for a spatula, flipping … plogues?
Again she felt that bittersweet, disbelieving tug. Plogues had often graced her family’s table—steaming, buttery stacks overflowing with molasses.
“We have no cretons,” he lamented, placing a stack of steaming plogues near her. “But one miracle at a time …”
She smiled. “I imagine you make excellent cretons, too.”
“On occasion.” He looked back at her, eyes alight. “When you live alone for so long, you learn to do all manner of things.”
Surprise pinched her. Had he no wife? No sweetheart? How was that even possible? He was so beau he took her breath away.
Her musings ended when Titus appeared. Despite his reddened eyes—from crying or a sleepless night?—he looked more pleased than surprised. Rarely did they sit down for a breakfast feast together. That was reserved for tavern guests.
“Thank’ee.” Titus surveyed the spread in wonder and took one of the plogues in question.
“I’ve eaten these since I was a boy like you in Acadie,” Bleu told him, setting molasses on the table. “A sort of pancake.”
He looked at Bleu with bleary eyes. “Is it wrong to be hungry when my sister’s just been buried?”
“Non, it simply means you are still alive.”
They bowed their heads and said their own silent grace.
The scent of the flowers, the pop of the hearth, the delicious breakfast she didn’t have to make rendered Brielle speechless.
Such a comfortable, companionable quiet so unlike the stilted, cowering silence when Griffiths was near.
Her relief that he was gone shamed her as much as it assuaged her.
Already the tavern’s tense mood had been broken.
“Since we cannot all safely venture outside at the moment, we can tend to matters inside.” Bleu’s gaze swept the kitchen. “I will straighten your master’s office, to start, if you can find other useful work to do.”
Brielle nodded. “I’ll ready the bedchambers for the next lodgers once I clean the kitchen.”
“I can tidy the bar,” Titus said, already retrieving a broom.
Bleu rose from the table while Brielle began gathering the empty dishes. “I heard the tavern’s owner—Griffiths—has an heir.”
Oh? She knew of no heir. Would he be like Griffiths? Cold, shrewd, avaricious?
She watched Bleu leave the kitchen, wishing he was the rightful owner and there’d be no end to this current arrangement.
Already she felt bereft at the thought of his leaving.
He’d been uncommonly kind to them. He’d stayed on to be their defender, delaying his own travels, when most men would have been on their way, leaving them to the militia in the meantime.
Why had he lingered?