Chapter 21
Late July brought a lushness to the settlement’s gardens that defied description.
In the orchard, ripe peaches and cherries hung heavy on the trees while apples of all varieties promised a bountiful autumn harvest. Albemarle Pippins and Fameuses were Sylvie’s pride.
Already the settlement was abuzz, anticipating the abundant cider to come.
If the Acadians had a favorite season, it had to be autumn.
Would Bleu still be here then?
Soon after the fête came a wedding. The riverside chapel nearly burst with Acadians as the couple tied the knot, turning Brielle’s thoughts to her own heart.
But Bleu seemed to have taken another step back.
Perhaps it was because he was busy in the fields now, away from the heart of the settlement.
The tobacco harvest had begun, every hand needed.
Even Will had set aside his surveying for the time being.
“Should I be in the fields?” Brielle asked Sylvie, never wanting to shirk work.
“You’re most needed here in the nursery, especially with so many in the fields.
” Sylvie smiled her reassurance as children gathered around them, a flaxen-haired baby in Brielle’s lap, a fat fist in his mouth.
“You’ve also helped fill the hole Henrietta left when she moved with her brother, Nolan, and his Acadian wife last winter. ”
“Your adopted children, the two orphans? Bleu mentioned how much you miss them.”
“They lived on the Rivanna since the settlement’s founding. But then Nolan came of age and apprenticed to an Alexandria silversmith Will knows. They visit when they can—and we go visit them in turn.”
“I’ve heard of Alexandria. I’d like to see another town besides Philadelphia though I have no desire to live in a place teeming with people,” Brielle told her. “The Rivanna River seems idyllic. I don’t want to be anywhere else on earth.”
“I felt the same when I left Williamsburg. I’d been working in a bookbindery before becoming a French tutor and seamstress at the Governor’s Palace. Once I saw Orchard Rest I never wanted to leave it though life here, like everywhere, has its flaws.”
Flaws? So far she’d found none or was her every perception colored by Bleu?
“I remember the stench of Philadelphia and the reek of tar and fish and saltwater.” Brielle wiped the baby’s damp chin with her apron hem. “And all the refuse in narrow alleys and the huge market on High Street. Summers were stifling and winters harsh with the Atlantic winds.”
“Virginia’s heat and insects drive me half mad sometimes and the dreary damp in winter hurts my bones, but spring and fall are an ongoing pleasure and I’d rather raise a family here than anywhere else. Every season has its own particular beauty.”
“I hope to experience them all.”
“Have you ever considered traveling to meet your relatives?”
Brielle looked at her. Had she been talking to Bleu?
“I’ve no funds to do so … and less courage.
My father’s family I know little about other than they once resided in the West Midlands.
My French relations are also strangers.” Truly, to risk an ocean and the unknown, given her kinfolk might reject her outright or think her an imposter, seemed especially rash. “I’m content right here.”
Content paled with what she felt. Despite any uncertainty about the future, she finally had her freedom yet far more. How was it possible to describe her certainty she’d come home? Come home to both a person and a place, even if that person didn’t realize it yet?
Her heart felt so full it might burst. “I want to be of help in any way I can to express my gratitude.”
“I’ll welcome your help once the baby arrives,” Sylvie looked to her own waist, or the lack of one. “And I’m wondering if these aren’t twins as I’m so énorme. After several children, I am somewhat expert, though childbirth is fraught with uncertainty every time.”
“Are there twins in your family?”
“Oui, on my mother’s side.” Her delight darkened. “But our kin were scattered clear to the Caribbean after the expulsion. Many, we believe, have perished.”
“Bleu spoke of your brothers, Pascal and Lucien, and wanting to know what happened to them.” Holding the drowsy infant close, Brielle said, “Your family history is even sadder than my own.”
All the more reason to marry and continue the lineage that had been lost.
The next day, Brielle returned to the cottage after another midday meal at the kitchen house without Bleu.
Wistful, she went to a rear window and studied the shade trees atop the hill that ringed the house where loud hammering drove home her curiosity.
Time seemed chafingly slow in his absence, but she wouldn’t run up the hill and interrupt his work. Simply wanting to see him wouldn’t do.
Instead she opened a cupboard and took out her jewelry box.
Inlaid with mother-of-pearl, its fleur-de-lis motif had beautiful chasing on the sides and a miniature portrait of her mother on the lid.
Maman—Josseline Vérany—had been painted as a young woman prior to her marriage.
She was unmistakably her mother’s daughter though she only shared her father’s green eyes.
Perhaps she would see more of her English ancestry in her children’s faces someday.
She opened the lid to reveal a gold ring, too large for her finger, and a rivière necklace with cross pendant. When her mother had fled France, she’d taken little with her except the box and its contents. And it had taken pride of place in Maman’s bedchamber, saved for Brielle when she came of age.
She’d shown no one these possessions, a bit fearful that she, a tavern maid, might be accused of theft.
Even handling them brought a poignancy she couldn’t put into words.
So, she’d secreted it, storing it away, her one heirloom.
Her mother had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday right before she’d fallen ill.
Her soft words, spoken in the height of fever, seemed embroidered on Brielle’s spirit.
This is your heritage. All I have left to give you.
Once I was of a grand, noble family but I have learned one’s happiness doesn’t depend on one’s fortune.
I have been rich indeed to have loved both your father and you.
I can ask for nothing more in this life if I am to leave and be with my Father in heaven.
Afterwards, Brielle had written them down and placed them inside the box. The scrap of paper was old and worn from repeated perusing, the ink faded. But it still carried the same poignancy and left her eyes smarting.
There had been times in lean years when she was so hungry and worn she could have sold her heirlooms for food and other comforts. But being hungry and having a treasure was worth far more than being full and bereft.