Chapter 27 #2
“I am in need of fresh air,” the comte jested atop his own mount. “I have lived too long a widower and have quite forgotten the fuss and expense of the feminine sort.”
They rode along the River Loire’s heights where limestone bluffs offered dramatic views of the valley and beyond it. After so much time aboard ship and walking about the city, Bleu regained a freedom he’d lost.
“You are an expert horsemen, monsieur. Something tells me you could ride to Paris and back without breaking your stride.”
Bleu ran a gloved hand along the stallion’s mane. “My Acadian father—Gabriel Galant—had as many horses as cattle. I’ve spent much of my life astride though I’ve never ridden as fine a mount as Vaillant.”
“Few can manage Vaillant, a testament to your skill.” His knowing smile revealed he was thinking of something else entirely. “You also excel as an escort to my granddaughter though I do sense something more at play.”
“On my part if not hers, Monsieur le Comte.” Bleu slowed his horse to a walk, eyes on a distant church spire amid hectares of vineyards. “I assure you my intentions are undeclared—and honorable.”
“I do not doubt it. But surely there is more …”
For once, Bleu had no words. How could he explain without sounding grandiose his belief that he’d been charged with Brielle’s keeping for a time? That in a small, almost holy way he was entrusted with something infinitely precious that even he did not understand?
“I’ve come to believe our meeting was no accident,” he finally said. “That I am simply a means to an end for her, if only to reunite her with you.”
“You, Galant, have a gallantry and generosity of spirit many lack. A singular purpose.”
“I simply want what is best for her. She is alone in the colonies, without kin. She deserves a better life, a family. A secure future.”
“And you cannot provide her with that?”
Bleu gestured to their surroundings with a gloved hand. “I have little to offer compared to this.”
“Yet you have refused my offer of reimbursement. What can I do for you?”
“My concern is for Brielle, not myself.” His hopes for her made him bold as did his standing—or the lack of it. France’s protocols and proprieties had no hold on him. “Welcome her as your granddaughter. Never let her feel less than the noblewoman she is. Treat her as if nothing has divided you.”
“And where does that leave you?”
“For now I am your grateful guest. I’ll return to America in time.”
The comte studied him gravely. “What or who do you have there?”
“My sister and her family. My fellow Acadians.” Bleu looked west. “And if I ever return to Canada there are my mother’s people, the Mi’kmaq.”
“I do not think my granddaughter will take your leaving lightly.”
“Some goodbyes are necessary, even inevitable, and I have had many.” Bleu’s easy reply belied what he was feeling. Saying adieu to Brielle would be the thorniest of all. “Life is a series of farewells and partings, some harder than others.”
“Spoken like a French philosopher.”
They rode on, the comte pointing out points of interest and telling the Loire’s ancient, battle-scarred history.
Returning to the chateau in the early afternoon, the comte had business to attend to and Bleu found himself in the library, wanting to fill his hours well when Brielle was occupied elsewhere.
He happened upon a copy of Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver’s Travels, two novels he’d enjoyed before but were worth a second reading.
He took a chair by a window, only to come to his feet again when Brielle entered, her face aglow. “There you are. The tailor will be here for you soon.”
“Tailleur?”
“I’m not the only one who needs dressing, remember. Grandfather insists on a new wardrobe for us both at his expense—and no expense is to be spared. Not even our Nantes fashions will do.”
“French fashion is a far cry from colonial America, non?” He set the books aside. “Rather like a crystal chandelier to a candle stub.”
“Quite.” She laughed. “Hours and hours with the couturières has finally made me feel more a peacock than a potato sack.”
“You have never been guilty of the latter,” he said with feeling. In fact, he preferred her in simple linen, not silk, though she wore both well.
She flushed. “But before the tailor, we must have thé.”
“And what is that?” he teased, knowing full well what awaited.
She took his arm as they left the library and descended wide stone steps into the parterre garden with its reflecting pools.
Down an allée stood the orangerie she loved, a glass structure brimming with potted citrus trees and exotic plants.
She pointed out a still-blooming oleander in one corner as a breeze pushed against them with a hint of cooler weather to come.
Autumn had been unseasonably warm, coaxing the gardens into another blooming.
At the heart of the glass structure a small table had been set with sèvres china, a footman standing by.
“Such extravagance.” Bleu sat down in an upholstered chair, the orangeries’ scent like perfume. “Do you mean to civilize me?”
“I hope not.” She smiled back at him. “I prefer you just as you are.”
“All this makes me wonder what my fellow woods-runners would think.”
“You’re not missing your former life, I hope.”
He chuckled. “There is simply no time for that, mon cher.”
A footman served then bowed out when Brielle thanked him. Together they surveyed the pastries and confections crowding the silver tray between them. Her delight made him want to pretend to enjoy it too, but what he craved was a ripe Rivanna orchard apple.
“Shall we say grace?” She reached for his hand across the table. “Or as Sylvie says—grace au bon Dieu.”
He leaned in and took her extended fingers when what he wanted was to take her in his arms. She seemed to be changing moment by moment and bore no resemblance to the young woman he’d met months ago.
In her painted silk, she didn’t resemble a comte’s granddaughter but a princesse.
All she lacked was a tiara or a crown. And he had to grudgingly admit she looked as at home here as he felt at sea.
They bowed their heads, and he uttered a simple French prayer learned long ago from his adopted French-Acadian mother. “Bless us, Heavenly Father, and bless this food, those who prepared it, and provide bread to those who have none. Amen.”
“Amen,” she echoed, placing her serviette in her lap. “We must sit down and catch our breath from time to time and give thanks.”
Her we was worrisome. As if they were more than a lady and her escort. As for catching her breath … “Are you having any qualms?”
“About being here?” She smiled as if to reassure him. “How can one complain about so much bounty and beauty?”
He caught the slight hesitation in her voice. “But …” He held her gaze.
“Sometimes I’m unsettled. A bit overawed.”
“Natural, non?”
“Perhaps. But you don’t appear to feel the same.”
“I am used to being in shifting circumstances, always on the move, never knowing what will happen next. This is simply another one of them. I navigate it and go on.”
“I miss the peace and simplicity of the Rivanna.”
“Perhaps in hindsight it is unreasonably idyllic.” Even as he said it he could think of few flaws. “You weren’t there long enough to discover its faults.”
“Name them.”
“And shatter your illusions?” He chuckled and reached for a confection. “Non.”
She turned her attention to the sweets rather absently. “I miss the chapel and my little cottage … the sound of the settlement bell …. the river’s rush and the view of the mountains from your porch—”
“Careful. You’ll make me homesick.”
“Is the Rivanna home to you, then?” Hope shone in her eyes. “More than Acadie, even?”
He looked at her but had no answer. Acadie’s absence created a longing that defied words and hadn’t abated. He wanted to feel the same way she did about the Rivanna—only without her, if he must return alone. There was no denying its peace and simplicity.
“I hear you’re enjoying riding about the countryside.” Pensive, she stirred cream and sugar into her tea. “My fear is that France will woo you away from me and I’ll rarely see you except for meals.”
“Three times a day is not enough?” he jested. “So you add thé?”
After much pondering, she selected a lemon tart. “I breakfast in my rooms, remember.”
He usually breakfasted with the comte, rather formal affairs with a host of attentive servants doing everything but placing the serviettes in their laps.
But her grandfather was good company, always asking about his exploits and easily entertained with tales of Canada’s white spirit bears and all the ways the Resistance had thwarted the British.
He brushed a crumb off his riding coat. “How are you spending your time?”
“Our rather quiet but full schedule is about to change, Grandfather tells me. After the faire la fête invitations will pour in.”
He resisted a groan. “But for now?”
“For now, after breakfast, I dress and go to chapel for morning prayers. Reading and letters take up the forenoon—I’m writing to Sylvie now—and then we meet for déjeuner at midday, as you know.
Afterwards I spend time with Grandfather in his study followed by embroidery or painting or learning the pianoforte.
I often walk about the gardens or go to the stables for a ride accompanied by a groom and sometimes Grandfather. Then I dress for d?ner …”
“Don’t forget dance lessons.”
“Oh, yes. Sorely needed though I shall never master the minuet.” She looked at him intently. “How are you spending your hours?”
“It is hard work being a gentleman.” He expelled a breath, his tone faintly mocking.
“Mornings are for reading the newspapers and drinking strong coffee. Then I visit the stables and ride until the midday meal which threatens to burst my buttons. Afterwards I take a boat upriver to watch the harvest at your grandfather’s vineyards or walk in the woods.
I’ve tried archery with some success and now have a fencing master. ”
“So I’ve heard. Grandfather is astonished at your skill.”
“Swords and knives are known to me but not French formalities and their codes of honor.”
“Perhaps I shall take up fencing myself as a female, in the style of Julie d’Aubigny or Chevalier d’Eon.
He chuckled, nearly spilling his tea. “You could be my sparring partner, then.”
“Fencing aside, even the servants boast of your marksmanship,” she told him. “A footman said you hit a crown piece tossed into the air with the armory’s best pistols.”
“Did I?” He cupped the delicate porcelain with one sinewy hand. “And you are rapidly recovering your French.”
“Grand-père refuses to speak English. He says it taxes his brain.”
“I would agree. French is as natural to him as Mi’kmaq is to me.”
She took another pastry. “I’ve never heard you speak it except for naming Windigo. Perhaps it’s time to teach me a few words and phrases.”
“Where to begin …” Her earnestness made him continue. “Ge’nnu’-gluli means ‘speak to me’ in Mi’kmaq.” She echoed him and he continued, “E’e would be your reply.”
She stirred more cream into her cup. “How do you say thank you?”
“Wela’lin.”
“Goodbye?”
“Nmultis.”
She repeated each thoughtfully, sipping tea between questions. “And … I love you?”
He held her gaze, his insides swirling despite his stoicism. “Kesalul.”
“Kesa … lul.”
“Kesalul,” he repeated slowly as the feeling between them pulsed to new heights. If the table wasn’t between them …
“Your first language is like nothing I’ve ever heard,” she said quietly. “Very unique and beautiful.”
He was the first to look away, his tea forgotten. “Once we’ve finished here, why don’t you show me the portrait of your mother.”
“Very well.” She gave him a smile, still looking wistful—and making him wonder what she felt soul deep.