Chapter 17
Sabine followed Bleu to the stables where he was no more inclined to talk than he’d been at table. But the Broussards had always been notoriously stubborn and Sabine was no exception.
As he reached for a pitchfork and began tossing hay into feeders, she said, “Miss Farrow raises a hundred queries.”
“I know little about her myself,” Bleu admitted, struck by the truth of it.
“Is it true she’s the granddaughter of a comte?”
“So she says. I have no reason to disbelieve her.”
“Did you know that when you rescued her?”
So Sabine knew that little-discussed detail?
“If you mean did that fact play into my decision to help her, non.” He held his temper by a thread. “What do you mean by rescue?”
“The boy—Titus—told someone you settled both their indenture contracts and redeemed them.”
“And if I did?”
“Granted, you’ve always been generous but this seems … peculiar.”
He halted, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Placing happiness in the heart of another is peculiar?”
“It is more than that,” she said heatedly. “Much more.”
He wouldn’t deny it. Nor would he discuss it. He continued pitching hay but she circled and stood in front of him.
“You’re in love with her …” Her features tightened. “I feel it!”
So the truth was laid bare. How many knew besides Sylvie and Sabine?
He held her gaze. “I confess, I am not made of ice.”
Tears glittered in her eyes. “I have waited years for you.”
“There has never been an understanding between us.”
“Non, but I’ve continued to hope you would return my affections ever since you joined forces with my father years ago. I have long dreamed of an alliance between the Broussards and Galants.”
“Once, perhaps, our families were renowned. Respected. As for the other matter, you cannot force affection.” His bluntness seemed harsh but necessary. “What we have is an enduring friendship.”
She batted away a horsefly, all the more exasperated. “I’ll never be satisfied with such.”
He chafed at the obvious. Sabine had ever been persistent, rarely showing restraint. That Broussard trait had helped fuel the Resistance but seemed misplaced here. “Then your mislaid affections will blind you to the one who can give you what I cannot.”
Speechless, she stared at him and then, whirling away, she fled the stables. He stood motionless, breathing in his earthy surroundings amid the profound relief of her leaving.
“Bleu.”
Brielle stood at the stables’ entrance. Had she crossed paths with Sabine as she left? He set aside the pitchfork, glad her expression wasn’t troubled or perplexed but serene.
“I don’t mean to halt your work …” she began.
Her smile seemed a lanthorn, lighting her lovely features. That was certainly how he felt in her presence. Full of light, life. She signaled the future. Sabine reminded him of the past—the darkness—all that had been lost.
“Let’s leave all this earthiness behind.” Touching her arm, he led her into the open, beyond the heavy scents of manure and fodder.
Unfit for a comte’s granddaughter, he thought half in jest.
“Walk to the chapel with me,” she said. “There’s such peace there.”
He felt it, too, though he’d given it little thought before.
Was Sabine watching? She might well follow, impassioned as she was.
Chary, he opened the chapel door and then left it ajar to admit fresh air.
They sat where they had at first, facing the altar.
Peaceful and private, a rarity in a swelling, sweltering settlement.
She looked down at her folded hands. “Miss Broussard said she asked you to return her to Acadie—Nova Scotia.”
Sacré bleu. He nearly uttered the oath aloud. “I told her non.”
Brielle seemed relieved. Was that her concern? That he would leave the Rivanna? For a trice he feared she would confide some concern or tell him she was leaving, instead.
“I’m glad if only for selfish reasons.” All the tension left him as she continued as calmly as Sabine had been riled. “I can’t imagine being here without you. For the first time in a long time the future holds hope.”
Hope. He felt it, too, a flicker rather than a flame but there nonetheless.
She continued, eyes on the altar, her lovely features pensive. “Some in the settlement have asked me my plans, if I’ll stay or move on.”
“You’ve only been here briefly. Perhaps it is too soon to decide.”
She looked back at him, a question in her eyes. “What did you have in mind when you freed us from the tavern?”
“All I knew is that I couldn’t leave you there.” He looked down at the plank floor, feeling he was half drowning in the depth of her gaze. “And now that we’re here I haven’t once thought of leaving.”
“Meaning you never stay long.”
“Not long enough for my sister.” Or Sabine.
“If you left and I couldn’t go with you I couldn’t stay here either.”
He mulled her words, so forthright and riven with feeling. “You have Titus.”
She hesitated. “But Titus isn’t you.”
“What are you saying, ma chère?” His quiet question unnerved even him.
She turned toward him slightly on the pew. “I feel I owe you an enormous debt I can’t possibly repay.”
“I want no repayment, understand. Your happiness is enough.”
“Do you have any coin left after freeing two indentures and buying so fine a horse?”
“Pearl?” He chuckled at the impromptu name. “Money well spent. I have plenty left, oui.”
“Promise me that if you do go you’ll give me plenty of notice.”
“I promise.” Yet the longer he stayed the more enchanté he grew with each passing day.
“I hope that I am of help—of service—here.” She looked to her lap and her worn hands that bespoke a life she wasn’t meant for. “Though I am a good gardener I am a clumsy seamstress when compared to your dear sister.”
“When you doubt yourself remember who you are. A woman of many talents. Related to French royalty. Never forget it. I cannot.” Her obvious puzzlement pushed him to explain.
“When I first met you, even before I knew your background, I sensed something different about you. Something that defied your indenture.”
She looked dismayed. “I am not one to put on airs.”
“Not in the least. I’m speaking of a rare grace and refinement that is simply a part of who and what you are, the very fabric of your being.”
Her half-smile was sad. “Little good it’s done me.”
“Perhaps you don’t belong here. Have you any desire to return to France? To learn if your grandfather still lives?”
She looked to the altar as if it held answers. “Even if I wished to, he might no longer be living. If he is he might not want to see me since my mother broke his heart leaving long ago.”
“But if he does?”
Her silence left him weighing his own motives.
He wanted, with all that was in him, to hear she wanted to be nowhere but beside him.
That France held no allure. That she’d found her home in him.
But could he live with the knowledge that he’d kept her from her true family?
Her beginnings? What if that other, distant life was what she was truly meant for?
He searched for a shred of wistfulness in her voice when she said, “I was born in America, remember. I’ve never set foot in France.”
“But suppose a whole new world awaits you there?”
Their eyes met again, his bearing a challenge, hers clouded with doubt.
“There’s much to consider.” She reached out and squeezed his hand in friendship, but her expression remained clouded. “For now my newfound freedom is enough.”