Chapter 22
Bleu stood back and surveyed the staircase in the central hall.
Made of oak, it bespoke strength and longevity, able to endure a century or more.
A straight flight, it bore narrow steps that he hoped weren’t too steep.
The fleur-de-lis engraved on the newel post at the stairs’ bottom made him wonder if Brielle would notice.
He’d had it crafted in the settlement’s carpentry with her in mind.
“Last window is finally in!” Will’s satisfied bellow carried from the second floor. “Wise to choose Crown glass instead of cylinder or bullseye. Far less distortion though one might think you were a high and mighty Burgess rather than a truchement.”
“Truchement?” Bleu chuckled as Will descended the steps with his oldest sons. “I haven’t heard that old French Acadian word for some time.”
“I’ve always preferred it to interpreter or guide or runner.”
“And now I am a poorer truchement having purchased the finest English glass to be had.”
Will gestured to the front door newly hung on dovetail hinges. “The early apples—Summer Rambour—are being pressed down by the river. Shall we celebrate and have cider?”
“You’ve earned it.” Bleu drew the front door shut and took another look at the gleaming windows.
Will started down the hill ahead of him, Corbin and Talbot by his side.
Bleu followed, eyes on the barely visible cottage at the foot of the hill.
Was Brielle there? Late afternoons often found her in Orchard Rest’s kitchen or garden, helping Sylvie now that it was near her time.
He saw her seldom since he often ate from a knapsack in the fields or while working on his house.
There was no denying he missed her. Missed her ready smile and bubbling laugh.
The endearing way she’d look at him, a light in her eyes.
He walked through the orchard, some trees so heavily laden their branches nearly touched the ground. As they neared the river a pink-cheeked Madeleine appeared, her expression indecipherable.
“Papa, ’tis time! Eve—the midwife—is with Maman. She needs your prayers but doesn’t want you at the house till all is said and done.”
Will stopped walking, looking at his oldest daughter with concern. “Tell her I’ll pray, aye, and to send for me at any time. We’ll be down by the river at the cider-making.”
Madeleine nodded, darting a shy look at Bleu as if he shouldn’t be privy to such womanly things. Bleu glanced at Will, amazed by his response. If this was Brielle he wouldn’t continue calmly to the river … but it was what it was. And William Blackburn was a seasoned father of six, soon to be seven.
“Shall we place wagers?” Will jested, clamping a firm hand on his sons’ shoulders as they walked on either side of him. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” Talbot returned with a grin.
“Girl,” Corbin said with confidence.
“The last, our Jolie, was born within a few hours,” Will reminded them, “so we might not have long to wait.”
They reached the Rivanna where the tang of crushed apples mingled with the clean scent of river water.
Acadians of all ages gathered round a large oaken press, feeding fruit to the mill.
Endless baskets of picked apples waited, not the rich, spicy cider apples of the later harvest but the sweet, refreshing blend of the first.
Bleu stood by a long trough where apple juice ran in rivulets to an open tub.
Empty barrels stood by to store the finished cider.
It seemed he’d taken a step back to the boy he’d been in Acadie, breathing in the intoxicating perfume of ripe fruit, carrying the burlap bags of apple mash to feed the livestock, his reward a full cup of the golden juice that wasn’t bound for the cellar.
He took a drink from the first press, wanting to share the moment with Brielle but contenting himself with the fact her time was far better spent uphill.
His own prayer for Sylvie was fervent if silent.
Will, too, looked preoccupied, his outward calm for the benefit of his young sons who needn’t worry about their beloved mother, Bleu guessed.
To be a father …
He couldn’t imagine it, hadn’t let himself imagine it before this.
But having met Brielle his thoughts raced ahead to their wedding day.
The birth of their firstborn. More children after that.
Generation upon generation on this very ground.
But before he told her his feelings, he needed to settle another matter first.
What if she was meant for more?
“Bleu.” Sabine’s voice returned him to the present.
He turned and schooled his reaction at the intrusion. His old friend didn’t deserve his disdain simply because she reminded him of a lost world—or that she wasn’t Brielle. He greeted her, well aware everything had been taken from her, too.
She reached for an apple yet to be mashed and bit into it, chewing and swallowing before she said, “Cidermaking turns my thoughts to winter and making the most of traveling before the snow sets in.”
He nodded, understanding that, too. Till now, his roaming life had hinged on the seasons. “Are you willing to take my offer of a trustworthy guide?”
“Tell me more about him.”
“John Riel is Métis—country-born with an English father.”
“Les métis anglais.”
“Quiet. Reliable. A master of the woods. Last I heard he’s wanting to return to Canada and Hudson’s Bay for trading but is near Staunton at present.”
“Not far, then.”
“I could send word. Arrange a meeting.”
Her smile held mischief. “Only if you’re sure you don’t want to return, too.”
“I want to return to the Acadie of old which is no more.” He put the matter to rest once and for all. “But I can certainly help you get there if you so choose.”
Standing at the foot of the bed mounded with pillows and fresh linens, Brielle watched as the settlement midwife bathed Sylvie’s face with a sponge. She was alarmingly flushed, her jaw set to keep from crying out as one hour turned into two.
Embarrassment burned through Brielle along with astonishment.
That two people coming together could create a child …
and then this. Dying she knew to be distressing.
She had witnessed her parents succumb, the ordeal a scar on her tender conscience.
Giving birth, this raw, brazen coming into the world, was just as harrowing, too.
She prayed as she tried to assist, ruing the hot August day. Sylvie’s hair hung in damp wisps about her pinked face, her shift clinging to her. Between pangs she smiled and even laughed a time or two but as the pain worsened, anticipation hung thick in the room, joy pushed to a shadowed corner.
Needing to fetch more water, Brielle went downstairs.
The chicken she’d roasted waited on the kitchen’s spit, herbed vegetables in a pot alongside it, loaves of bread on the trestle table beside freshly churned, salted butter.
Later, once the ordeal was done, a famished Sylvie would have a small feast.
Taking hold of a pail, Brielle went out the back door to the well.
Lowering the rope, she tried to draw a deep breath as the hot, windless day pressed her on all sides, a fly bedeviling her.
As she wound the full pail to the top a baby’s cry rent the air, a great, gasping howl that surely signaled health.
Through the second floor’s open windows she heard the midwife’s voice before Sylvie’s—both of them jubilant. Relieved.
Brielle hastened back into the house, toting the pail carefully so not to spill a drop.
At the bedchamber’s entrance she saw Sylvie cradling an infant that had miraculously quieted as if lulled by his mother’s loving voice.
Not twins, after all. But all was well, she sensed, even before the midwife plunged the newborn into a near basin of water only to set the baby howling again.
Exhausted but elated, Sylvie lay back against the bank of pillows. “A robust boy, thank heavens.”
Will and the children soon came uphill to meet the new addition. Amid the fanfare and fuss, Sylvie said to Brielle, “Why don’t you go tell my brother our glad news and have some cider?”
Brielle fairly ran from Orchard Rest to the riverbank. She was thirsty, having forgotten to drink a drop during the delivery. Though all seemed well, a smidgen of concern remained. Would Sylvie recover? She’d looked terribly worn at the last …
A prayer on her lips, she took in the river, the cidermaking finished, a small cask remaining on the bank.
A wagon hauled the rest toward the settlement’s cellars, most of the Acadians with it.
A lone woman—Sabine—tarried, but to her relief, hurried after the cider wagon when she saw Brielle, leaving Bleu alone.
Unaware of her approach, he stood, back to her, looking across the water with its eternal rush. She wondered his private thoughts as the sun began its fiery descent toward the mountains.
“Joyeux tidings,” she said a bit breathlessly as she came to stand beside him. “Your sister is well and you have another nephew.”
He smiled, his teeth a flash of white. “His name?”
She felt a trill of delight delivering the news. “Bleu Blackburn.”
Surprise held them still for a few hallowed moments.
“I’ve never been here at such a time,” he said, eyes glinting.
“I’ve never witnessed such a miracle.”
“A miracle, oui. Do you want enfants of your own?”
“Ask me another day,” she half jested.
He darted an amused glance at her. “Not for the faint of heart, ma chère?”
She warmed to the endearment. “Today reminded me that even beautiful things can be hard.”
“Much of life is like that.” He went to the cask to refill his pewter cup and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” Parched, she drank it quickly. “Refreshing. Sweet yet a bit tart.”
He took the cup back and set it on the bank as the settlement’s bell sounded. “Should we tarry here or have supper?”
“Do you want to see your sister?”
“I’ll see her—and my namesake—in time.”
Time. She’d seen Bleu so little of late. What would a few more minutes matter? Turning away discreetly, she bent to remove her shoes and stockings.
The river rippled a deep blue-grey. She waded up to her ankles, her petticoats held aloft. He started upriver, barefoot, then turned back and held out his hand to her, an invitation in his eyes.
“Follow me?” he asked.
“Anywhere,” she answered with a half-smile, clasping his callused hand.
He led her to a cove where willow trees clustered, their long graceful branches trailing in the shallows. A dove cooed, a bittersweet sound she’d always loved. When she looked uphill from here she had a clear view of his house.
“Anywhere?” He faced her, their fingers still entwined. “Even to France?”
His gaze was intent, not teasing, and she felt a little start. He was speaking of faraway France when what she wanted was for him to kiss her. He was so near her bare feet fit between his. If he would only take her in his arms …
“Alors dis moi,” she finally said. So, tell me.
He reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “To the Loire Valley and Charles Vérany, comte de Sancerre.”
“My grandfather?” Her words held fear and fascination. “Why?”
“Why not?” he replied gently.
She was the first to look away lest he read the answer in her eyes.
I have no desire to go to France when I simply want to stay right here with you.
“I’ve considered it for some time.” He spoke slowly as if he was not wanting to overwhelm her.
“We could sail from York Town. The passage takes four to eight weeks depending on conditions. We would stay as little or as long as you like. Long enough to meet your grandfather and see where your mother came from. The Loire Valley is said to be very beautiful. Very different from here.”
She looked back at him. “You’ve given this much thought.”
“Nothing is as important as family. It took me losing mine, save Sylvie, to realize that fact.”
“But what if the comte de Sancerre doesn’t want to be met?”
“A risk we have to take.” He smiled, turning her heart over again. “But who could refuse you?”
Philadelphia’s shimmering harbor returned in a frightening rush, ships’ masts dense as a forest. “I’ve never been on board a ship, never crossed anything but a river. Hardly an ocean.”
“Nor have I.”
“You weren’t one of the Acadians expelled by boat.”
“I eluded the English by going further inland with the Mi’qmak instead. Then, when I realized the British had come to stay and fighting further was useless, I traveled south on foot and horseback to the colonies.”
“I’m not sure I can weather an ocean voyage.” She swallowed, terrified at the thought. “Ships sink—there are storms—seasickness. Drownings. Pirates and enemy warships.”
“We’ll weather it together.”
“But I have not said oui.”
Again, that amused glint in his eyes. “You have not said non either.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “If it helps, there’s a young woman from the settlement—Nadine Durand—who has wanted to see family in France for some time.”
“She would be my traveling companion, you mean. When I can’t be with you.”
“It benefits you both. I am simply your escort.”
Simply. There was nothing simple about this. She felt dizzy even considering such an impromptu plan. “But I have no funds.”
“I have enough for us all, even Mademoiselle Durand, though Will has arranged to pay her way there and back, if she chooses.”
Such benevolence continued to be a marvel to her after all the grasping, greedy men at the Rose and Crown. “And once again, if we do go, I am indebted to you.”
“Non, Brielle. I owe you.”
Without further explanation, he began leading her back down the riverbank to where their discarded shoes and stockings waited, his firm hand holding hers once again as the shallow water frothed around their bare legs.
“Time to meet my namesake,” he said, looking toward Orchard Rest.
“And have supper,” she reminded him though she doubted she’d eat a bite after what he’d just told her.