Chapter 10
As the tavern filled again, Bleu lined his saddlebags with what was needed for continuing his journey. When Brielle appeared with a small jar of cretons, he tried to smile. Titus brought him his horse as he’d requested, knowing a farewell was imminent.
“I never asked your horse’s name,” the boy said, running a hand down the stallion’s muzzle.
“Windigo,” Bleu told him, tightening the saddle’s girth. “It means powerful monster in Mi’kmaq.”
“Your people in Canada?”
Bleu nodded. “You have a good memory. Brielle should teach you to read and write.”
“She said the same but there’s little time for learning.”
“Make time for it.” He swung himself up in the saddle, fighting the urge to take them in his arms as he did Sylvie and the children whenever he said farewell.
Brielle stood, hands clasped behind her back, looking wilted as a flower.
Even Titus seemed crestfallen, face ruddy as if trying to hold his feelings in check.
In the emotion of the moment none of them spoke.
There was no word in Mi’kmaq for goodbye.
Nor did Brielle say adieu or au revoir. The latter, in French, meant goodbye forever.
He’d had many of those in his tumultuous, roving life. Only this time he couldn’t abide it.
With a word to Windigo, Bleu turned away, prodding his horse forward. It took an iron will to keep from looking back.
Brielle wanted to say farewell and express her thanks, but the words hung in her throat and she felt choked.
She simply stood there like a simpleton, buffeted by a wave of emotion strong enough to send her to her knees.
All the security and peace she’d felt in Bleu’s presence—to say nothing of her heart—seemed to have been wrapped up and stored in his saddlebags, leaving with him.
He rode away at a canter, his horse a fine mount for so fine a man. She imagined herself riding alongside him on a roan like the one she’d come on to the inn. It had been years since then. Horses were for people of means. Free people.
Waving his small, cocked hat for as long as he could, Titus returned it to his head and slipped his hand into hers. “Think we’ll ever see him again?”
She could only squeeze his fingers in wordless anguish.
Her thoughts were swirling along with her emotions as Bleu Galant disappeared from sight and it seemed she’d only dreamed him up.
But the hole he’d left was so blisteringly wide she felt burned.
In him she’d glimpsed another sort of life, a blessed existence beyond her reach.
He was headed toward that now, leaving her behind.
Letting go of Titus’s hand, she headed back to the tavern as more travelers rode in, leaving their horses to him.
She’d spied Griffiths on the porch as Bleu was leaving.
He was often there, idle, talking with this one or that, rarely inclined to work, even in his uncle’s office.
As she started up the steps, he blocked her way.
His cold question held a sneer. “What is your tie to that man, Galant?”
“I have no tie.” She passed by without looking at him. “None at all.”
Truly, she’d not even felt at liberty to ask Bleu if he’d come round again. The backcountry was vast. This was not his usual route to travel. His destination was far beyond their crossroads, deeper into Virginia.
Heartsick, she returned to the kitchen, weaving through a throng of people in the passageway, mostly men interested in the bar rather than the public room.
Faced with the multitude of tasks before her, she resumed breadmaking, the back door open to relieve the day’s heat.
The midday meal was almost upon them. Since she would act as cook until another was hired, Titus took her place as server in the public room.
The exchange wasn’t without mishaps, earning Griffiths’ ire.
Already she’d burned bread and served rancid cider while Titus dropped crockery, including a Delft tobacco jar.
He’d even spilled gravy in a man’s lap. Since Griffiths showed no signs of hiring more help, she prepared for a long, grueling season when the tavern was busiest. But she would keep Titus’s spirits up if she could.
He was the sweetness in her world, her one tender tie.
That night she climbed the stairs to her attic refuge while the bar continued merry below.
Lodgers came up and down the stairs, seeking their rooms or another drink or just the cooler air of the porch.
Pressing a hand to her pinched back, she wished for a bath.
Grease clung to her, her apron and petticoats stained and spotted beyond repair.
At least Bleu hadn’t seen her like this.
She had no one to be presentable for once he’d ridden away, no reason to take pains with her appearance, and no time for it.
She could hear Titus toss fitfully on his bed as hot air pressed down on them beneath the eaves despite their open windows. Tonight the top floor was an oven, and the dog days of July and August had yet to come.
Still, I will be thankful.
She was whole-bodied and well. She loved the child in the next room with all her heart.
They had both escaped death that dreadful Sabbath day.
For now, that was enough. Someday she would be free of this, free of Griffiths’ leering looks, the endless, relentless drudgery of tavern life, the ongoing fear of punishment.
She sat near an open window, hoping for the slightest breeze. Weary as she was, her thoughts still swung to Bleu. Was he safe? How far down the valley was he? Did his heart leap at the thought of seeing his sister and her family again?
Lying down atop the cornhusk mattress, she dozed then jerked awake at a troubling sound.
Had the door rattled or had it been a bad dream?
Sensing a presence on the other side, she sat upright.
The door rattled again. Someone waited, trying to gain entry.
No lodger had ever disturbed her before.
Most didn’t know about the hidden back stair.
But now Wade Griffiths did.
If not for Bleu and the bolt, he could have simply pushed the door open. She started to shake, the night more frightful than it had ever been before. She was nearly as afraid as she’d been in the cornfield that day.
Yet spared by Bleu. And a blessed bolt.