Chapter 27
Brielle stepped into the lavender suite she’d been given on the chateau’s second floor as footmen brought up her embarrassingly beleaguered baggage.
Her slippers sank into the floral carpet as she took in the rooms—bedchamber, boudoir, garde-robe, and salon—that seemed more indoor garden, fresh bouquets of flowers at every turn.
“Here you shall receive your visitors as French gentlewomen do,” the maid, Cosette, told her, as she put away Brielle’s belongings in an armoire the size of her room at the inn.
With a word that she’d return to help her dress for supper, Cosette disappeared, and Brielle stood in the sumptuous silence in disbelief.
She wondered the comte’s change of mind—and heart.
She’d thought all was lost, their horrendous ocean voyage for naught, but the palatial windows facing the River Loire and gardens told her otherwise.
Purples of every hue adorned the chamber from the silk wallcoverings to the lofty bed with its exquisitely carved floral motif.
The domed canopy—a crown of faux flowers—was suspended from the ceiling rather than supported on posts, its woven tapestried hangings the shade of lilacs.
A high bed required bedsteps and boasted not one mattress but three, filled with feathers, and half a dozen pillows in embroidered slips.
A dressing table, twin to the carved bed, was arrayed with brushes, combs, powders, perfumes, and pomatum, even silk puffs.
A selection of hand fans in decorative cases had the feel of the past. On one end of the dressing table rested the jewelry box she’d brought upriver.
Beside it sat another larger case that took pride of place.
Brielle opened it, astonished to find the velvet-lined space as full as hers was empty.
A pearl necklace, jeweled hairpins, a diamond pendant, even a lavalier made of a gold chain and assorted gems were among them.
A writing desk sat beneath one window furnished with quills, ink, fine paper, and wax.
Had this been her mother’s room?
Was Bleu’s room as palatial?
She’d know at supper, she supposed, for that was when the comte had requested they join him.
For now, exhilarated if exhausted, she lay down atop the bed and slept till Cosette returned to wake her and begin what would become a rather tiring toilette.
For a colonial woman used to donning the simplest garments by herself and either braiding or thrusting a few pins into her hair to keep it subdued beneath a plain linen cap, she marveled.
Finally bathed, powdered, bewigged, and wearing the Lyonnaise silk dress Sylvie had remade for her, she met Bleu at the door of the dining room.
His admiring gaze told her she was not as ill-clad as she feared, his eyes lingering on her coiffure bemusedly, a confection of curls and pale pink powder.
“Cosette’s doing,” she whispered, putting a hand to her wig. The maid had it so tightly pinned her scalp ached. Bleu’s own hair was unpowdered, but his dark blue Nantes suit was exceedingly fine.
“I nearly got lost …” He smiled and offered her his arm as they went in to yet another glittering room. “And for a moment—when you came down the stairs—I doubted it was you.”
“I shan’t be wearing a wig again, no matter French custom.” She looked around uncertainly. “Have you seen—” What should she call him? Not grandfather. Not yet. The comte, she guessed.
“Your grand-père? Non.” Bleu turned back to her, looking as relaxed as he’d been along the Rivanna. “Perhaps it is French custom for the host to arrive last.”
Brielle prepared herself for his return as well as what she guessed would be a bewildering number of French dishes.
Another five minutes passed and the comte entered the room through a side door, far more composed than he’d been when they’d first met.
Bleu bowed and Brielle curtsied as he came forward and kissed her on both cheeks.
“I am glad you have returned, the both of you,” he said when they sat down at one end of a long, candlelit table. “Forgive me for not asking you to be my guests sooner. I was quite undone.”
Brielle understood. She still felt undone.
Undone by the grandeur, his sudden reversal, and even Bleu’s presence as he sat across from her, Grandfather at the head of the table.
She studied him in small snatches, noting all the little things that reminded her of her mother.
His close-set eyes, the slant of his nose, even the timbre of his voice and its inflections.
Small yet commanding, he was gracious. Observant. Astute.
She tamped down a thousand questions as supper was served.
Bleu seemed more amused than bewildered at all the cutlery.
Somehow, they avoided a faux pas and followed Grandfather’s lead on which utensil to use, starting from the outside and moving inward toward the porcelain plate.
Brielle lost count of the courses that finally ended with an airy meringue atop vanilla custard accompanied by coffee in delicate cups and followed by glasses of Armagnac.
The noisy, happy chatter of Sylvie and her family around Orchard Rest’s table seemed hazy, the distant details nearly forgotten. Were all meals here so silent? Or perhaps the better question—
Was Grandfather accustomed to dining alone? Rather, was he lonely?
“Shall we stroll through the gardens and settle our supper?” he asked with a smile, rising from his chair once they’d finished. “They’re well illuminated for walking.”
They passed outside through French doors and down steps leading to graveled paths.
Lanthorns hung from posts lighting their way.
They walked slowly, listening as he spoke of the chateau’s history and their family.
Generations of names she’d never heard and couldn’t possibly remember passed through her head even as her rich lineage left her somewhat awestruck.
She finally worked up the courage to say, “Tell me about my mother, monsieur.”
“Please call me grand-père,” he chided gently, pausing beside the largest fountain. “You’ve been given her bedchamber, petite-fille.”
“I thought so.”
“Your mother was my life. Your grand-mère’s life.
We had a son and heir born two years after her birth.
We had not thought to have any children after being married many years and so both of them were something of a miracle.
Josseline grew up here on the River Loire and the gardens were her particular delight.
When she left us at the age of twenty we felt it like a death. ”
“And Andre?” Her mother had only spoken of her brother once that Brielle could remember. The son and heir.
“Andre died five years after your mother left France. A riding accident.”
The sorrow in his voice made her want to return to him all the years had taken. But how? Expressing her sympathy seemed a very small condolence no matter how heartfelt.
“Maman spoke of you often at our home in Philadelphia. She missed you and her life here even after she’d made her choice to be with my father.”
“And now they are both gone, along with your beloved grand-mère.” His eyes were damp but he didn’t reach for a handkerchief. “When I saw you, you needn’t have said a word. You are the living image of Josseline, so like the salon’s painting.”
“I would like to show Monsieur Galant,” she said with sudden formality. In this grand house where she was still unsure of herself, she sensed etiquette must be observed. “I am so pleased you find me like her.”
Grandfather nodded at Bleu. “Tell me, monsieur, about yourself. You are from a distant shore, perhaps a French-Canadian, a Métis. Your French dialect is different than ours on this side of the Atlantic.”
“I am, at heart, a coureur des bois, a woods-runner.”
“A remarkably well spoken one.” Grandfather’s surprise was evident. “And literate, it seems.”
“Early on I was schooled by French priests in Acadie. After that, books have been my teachers,” Bleu explained. “An interpreter and liaison must have a mastery of words, at least spoken. Spending time with countless military officers and officials also leaves a mark.”
He told of his background, his years as a Hudson’s Bay Trader and Resistance fighter before the British expulsion and the eight years following when he’d worked with various tribes and the British and French from Canada to colonial America.
Never long-winded, he kept them rapt and added fresh details new to Brielle.
“You have endured much, monsieur. I see your scar. We have heard about the terrible atrocities inflicted by our enemy, England. Many lives lost on all sides.” Grandfather looked as grieved as Brielle felt. “You are as much in need of a respite as Gabrielle, no doubt.”
“I agree,” she said, telling their story and missing Titus afresh as they did so. “Even with all his losses this woods-runner took time to redeem two indentures or we’d still be indebted to an unscrupulous bondsman for years.”
“I owe you as well as Gabrielle.” Grandfather regarded Bleu with respect and gratitude.
“If not for your selfless actions, even meeting my granddaughter would have been an impossibility. I want to recompense you fully.” He looked at Brielle, his face alight with a joy that a reunion brings.
“And now that you are here, shall we have a fête? You have a great many relatives—uncles, aunts, and cousins—who will be wanting to meet you.”
“I’ve always wondered about family here,” she told him. “My first French fête. A sweet prospect, thank you.”
The next afternoon, Bleu rode out with the comte on a stallion that, fine as it was, made him wonder how Windigo was faring.
Vaillant had been sired at the royal stables, Les Haras Royaux.
Brielle was given her own mount—an elegant Andalusian from Spain—but today her time was better spent preparing for the couturières, that army of dressmakers who’d soon descend on the chateau, ready to dizzy Brielle with the newest fabrics and furbelows.