Chapter 19
Within the confines of Will’s study adjoining the dining room, Bleu sat near an open window, his whole being pulled to the porch.
He could hear the soft hum of Sylvie’s and Brielle’s voices and wondered what they talked about.
His brother-in-law lit a pipe and he did the same, the smoky fragrance of Tidewater tobacco suffusing the warm air.
The chamber’s paneled walls were a dusky blue, a painting of Acadie’s Baie Francaise above the fireless hearth’s mantel.
It returned him to the four fireplaces lacking mantels beyond the orchard.
“Now is the time to finish my house,” Bleu said, exhaling a purl of smoke.
Will stared at him. “Why?”
Bleu chuckled. His brother-in-law was forthright, often carrying conversations on a single syllable. “I am no longer the Resistance fighter of Acadie. I am getting restless … to remain in one place.”
Will’s brows rose, his stoicism shifting to surprise. “Sylvie’s prayers are finally being answered in that regard then. You ken how I feel about the matter, to say nothing of the children. Does this have to do with the young woman on the porch?”
Leaning forward, Bleu closed the window in answer.
Will’s amusement was plain. “So, after all these years, with countless settlement women eyeing you and vying for you, you’ve settled on someone else entirely.”
“Do you believe in coincidence?”
“Nay. Divine instances, rather.”
“This is one of them.”
Bleu still pondered the events that led him to the Rose and Crown with a sort of bafflement.
He recounted them now to Will as succinctly as he could.
In all his comings and goings, he had never passed that way though he’d crossed paths with hunters and trappers who often did.
And he’d happened by on the very Sabbath of the Indian raid.
Only Brielle and Titus had stayed standing, another miracle.
“You could have buried the dead, seen the living safely settled, then ridden away,” Will remarked.
“That was my first thought. But in the end, it seemed callous to leave a frightened boy and young woman to fend for themselves.” Brielle’s terrified gaze—her collapse in the dusty road—still wrenched him. “I understand what it’s like to have everything torn away from you at once.”
Will nodded, his gaze traveling to the closed window again. “You’re in love with her.”
Sabine had said the same but with far more heat. Remembering, Bleu wanted to forget their fraught exchange. “Be that as it may, Mademoiselle Farrow is far removed from a Métis like me.”
“How so?”
“She has family in Europe. I keep wondering if she shouldn’t take the next ship to England or France instead of staying here on the Rivanna.”
“That would be for her to decide, right?”
Bleu shifted in his chair, already seeing her there, bedecked in silks and laces, waited on instead of cast in the role of servant, a world away from the humble life she’d known here.
Will’s intent gaze held his for one dissecting moment. “Why not ask her to wed you instead?”
The honest words went to his head like fine brandy. But he wouldn’t allow himself to entertain the thought overlong.
“As I told Sylvie, she feels indebted to me which is not the best foundation for a lifelong commitment. I would have … more.”
“Once I thought your sister wed me out of desperation because she had nowhere else to go. A ploy of the enemy of our souls, mayhap, to plant doubt, suspicion, and destroy any good the Almighty means to give us.”
True. Still … “I would wait awhile. Finish the house. Determine how she feels about being here and moving forward.”
“As for the house, all you lack are Crown glass windows, a finished staircase, mantels and paint. And a decent front porch and some furnishings. As for Miss Farrow, you might consider assigning Noir to guard her from the onslaught of suitors sure to ensue.”
Will’s humor didn’t relieve him.
“She is très beau, oui.” Bleu expelled another pent-up breath. “On the other hand, perhaps other suitors would help her determine who and what she wants in future.”
Yet the very thought set him on edge. He’d rather endure the rigors of returning to Canada than watch any courtship other than their own play out along the Rivanna. The possibility of losing her was excruciating and she wasn’t even his. Was that not love?
And the adoration he’d read in her own eyes …
Was that simply because she saw him as her earthly savior?
Brielle rose early, before the settlement roosters crowed, and left Titus asleep in the cottage.
Stepping off the porch, she walked through the orchard to Bleu’s unfinished house, her hem dew-drenched by the time she reached it.
The view drew her. She wanted to see the sunrise and ponder a life spent beholding those mountains and valleys in future.
Mornings along the Rivanna when all was silent except for birdsong seemed especially hallowed.
She sat on the bottom step of the partial front porch, a warm wind toying with her carefully pinned cap and the edges of her apron.
Bending her head, she breathed a prayer into the stillness, hoping to quell the unrest inside her.
A short prayer, childlike in its simplicity, but encompassing so many of her unspoken womanly yearnings.
Heavenly Father, help me savor the goodness of the present rather than fret about the unknown future. Amen.
She opened her eyes, the sunrise spreading across the horizon like melted butter. Her stomach growled in response. She must be hungry if the sun resembled an egg and she craved toast and tea.
Would Bleu be at breakfast?
The thought nearly sent her down the hill but in truth it was too early to break one’s fast nor had the bell rung summoning the settlement to the kitchen house.
After breakfast she would spend her hours in the day nursery next to the stillroom, tending to other’s children when what she wanted was a houseful of her own.
As she thought it, a noise in the orchard turned her head.
Several Acadians carrying tools cleared the rows of apple trees and began climbing the hill.
Before she could leap from her perch into the grass and disappear, she spied Bleu coming behind the other men, most of them settlement carpenters, a ladder across one sturdy shoulder. Her desire to disappear fled.
When he saw her, he set his burden down, stopping just shy of the steps. His eyes were smiling. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Farrow.”
When he said it he seemed to speak with the respect granted royalty. It left her flushed and joyous all at once. “I had to come up the hill again to see the sunrise.”
“Perhaps one day we’ll watch it together,” he told her before he hefted the ladder again and resumed walking around the side of the house.
“You’re finishing your work here?” she called after him.
He looked over his shoulder. “Now is the time, oui. I should have finished long ago.”
Elated, she nearly skipped down the hill when the breakfast bell sounded only he caught up with her on the riverside path, the men following, obviously intent on a hearty meal before a day’s work.
“And what did you make of the sunrise?” he asked.
“As splendid as the sunset.”
“Should I build a grander porche with posts so we can better take it in?”
She didn’t miss the we nor would she let herself dwell on its implications—or the lack of them. A slip of the tongue? Or a heartfelt hope?
“What will you name it?” she asked him.
“The house?”
“Sylvie named Orchard Rest. Surely you can think of something.”
His smile held mischief. “Perhaps that task is best left to you.”
Her mind went blank at the delightful prospect.
“There’s to be a fête, did Sylvie tell you?”
“Nay—non.” Her head nearly spun as she swerved between Anglais and Francais. “What sort of fête?”
“Dancing. Feasting. Much music and merriment.”
A qualm beset her that she’d be on the outside again. Not Acadian. Not even a Virginian. “I’ve quite forgotten how to dance though I had a dancing master long ago in Philadelphia.”
He gave her another long look. “Then meet me in the orchard at dusk.”
Their eyes locked, his in warm invitation, hers clouded with uncertainty though a tingling anticipation coursed through her.
Dusk couldn’t come soon enough.
Brielle arrived in the orchard before Bleu.
She could still hear hammering up the hill.
Was he still at work? She’d seen him only briefly at supper when he’d come in late to the kitchen house once she’d finished her meal and rose from the table.
She and Titus took turns eating at Orchard Rest and then with the settlement though Sabine’s presence continued to unsettle her.
But lately the fiery-haired Acadian who spent her days in the stillroom hadn’t sought her out like at first.
She looked down, smoothing her linen petticoat and snatching at a stray string.
Sylvie had been sewing a pretty gown for her and the delight and secretiveness with which she’d gone about her task delighted Brielle in turn.
The promised garment would be finished by the fête next Saturday.
She’d dress the part, at least, and hope she could manage the dancing.
Just when she thought he might have forgotten to meet her, she looked up to see Bleu coming through the apple trees, so handsome even in simple clothes that she framed the moment in her head and heart.
As he walked he rolled down his linen sleeves and buttoned them, a skim of sawdust on his breeches and boots.
Coatless and hatless, he hardly seemed the dancing master but something told her he was no novice.
“I am unfit for dancing, Mademoiselle Farrow,” he called out. “But I’ve looked forward to this all day.”
“As have I.” Her heart picked up like they’d already begun a jig. “If you dance like you ride, Monsieur Galant, I’ve no cause to complain.”
He stood in front of her and gave a small, gallant bow.
She nodded as a dim, dusty recollection caused her to curtsy.
Slowly, he took four steps to the right then faced her before taking four steps to the left and returning to his original position.
She did the same, imitating him, taking his outstretched right hand.
His callused touch was both rousing and reassuring as she followed his lead, moving in a small circle before switching to their left hands and repeating the steps.
Next they joined hands and circled each other. Allemande, he’d said. Or was it poussette? They went deeper into the orchard, moving around young apple scions as if they were imaginary couples, twirling in the grass to the tune of the rising wind as twilight hemmed them in.
“You do dance as well as you ride,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
He came to a stop but he didn’t let go of her hand. He was hardly winded. Oh, how he held her heart still. The summer sun had darkened his skin, making his eyes more fiercely blue, his queued hair a glossy blue-black. He was so handsome it hurt, causing a flare of anguish inside her.
Raising her hand and holding her gaze, he brushed his lips against her sun-browned fingers. “You don’t belong in an orchard but a ballroom.”
“I prefer an orchard.”
“Though you say you’ve forgotten how to dance you have not. It’s in your blood, your lineage.” He let go of her hand. “Une princess du sang.”
She smiled at his teasing. “A princess of the blood I am not.”
“And I am no prince but a dusty, disheveled carpenter, at least today.” He looked toward the river. “What I need is a bath.”
She almost sighed, wishing she could join him for that, too. “I’ll be counting the hours till the fête. Shall I save a dance for you?”
“Oui.” He turned back to her, expression intent. “More than one.”