Titus perked up. “What are their names?”
Bleu heaved a rare sigh as if he couldn’t remember then recited with admirable ease, “Amélie, Jolie, Corbin, Madeleine, Talbot, and Morgan Blackburn. There might be another by now. I haven’t seen them for some time.”
“And you’re Uncle Bleu. I had an uncle once but he died in the war with my father,” Titus murmured, returning to his whittling.
Brielle pulled a pan of pepper cake from the bake oven and fetched cider from the cellar before finally sitting down with them. Bleu said grace in French, his head bent and his hands fisted, elbows on the table. The rusty words seemed to unlock another door deep within, his honeyed speech playing in her mind like a melody.
“How many languages do you speak?” she asked, pouring him cider.
“Several Indian tongues though I prefer French and Mi’kmaq.”
“Mi’kmaq?” Titus asked between bites.
“A tribe in Canada. My mother was Mi’kmaq and died when I was very young.”
“Like mine,” Titus murmured, buttering his bread.
Bleu studied the boy, sadness in his eyes. When he reached for the potted pork—thecretons—Brielle held her breath.
Taking up his knife, he spread it on leftover plogues from breakfast and took a bite. She felt she might burst when he swallowed and said, “Cinnamon, cloves, ginger, pepper…la perfection.”
Titus sampled it next, declaring it tasty, indeed, and she smiled her thanks. The scraping of empty plates as dishes emptied brought a sort of fulfillment she’d not felt for… years. Once all the pewter and treenware were cleared away and washed, she took out her knitting while Titus continued his woodwork and Bleu returned with a book from Griffiths’ office library. He disappeared again and hefted twin Windsor chairs. Positioning them by a window, he invited her to sit.
She lowered herself to the forbidden seat, feeling like a queen at court. All the while her head whirled along with her deeply smitten heart.
This cannot last. Take heed lest ye fall. Here is the love that came without warning.
Her knitting needles seemed clumsy in her hands, the yarn uncooperative. She kept her eyes on her lap as he opened his book, wanting to ask what he was reading. Rare it was to find a literate man. She had a sudden, whimsical wish he’d read aloud to her like her father had her mother. The beloved if hazy memory tightened her throat.
The night deepened and she lit candles, not the smelly tallow ones that curled her nose but the forbidden beeswax, their perfume spreading to the kitchen’s corners. Griffiths was not here to stop her. She settled in, imagining them a family. She’d nearly forgotten what that was like. She’d never felt safer or more secure.
She wanted this night to have no end.
8
After a week, a party of men appeared. Bleu met them on the porch as the leader on a big bay horse dismounted. He approached, his gaze swinging wide as he surveyed the tavern like he owned it. Small, slim, and smug, he made up for it in arrogance.
“I’m the new proprietor of theRose and Crownthough I’m tempted to rename it theCrimson Crossroads.”
The men with him laughed but Bleu found no humor in it. Any goodwill he’d come onto the porch with vanished at the man’s next utterance.
“And who are you?” His close-set eyes held disdain. “A hired hand?”
“My name’s Galant.” Bleu’s hand rested on the leather pistol holster at his waist as Brielle and Titus appeared on the porch behind him. “And you are?” he continued, meeting the man’s flighty gaze.
“Wade Griffiths, nephew and heir of the former owner.” He looked at Titus then Brielle. “Are these my indentures? I was told some survived.”
The gaze the man fastened on Brielle made Bleu want to draw his pistol. “These two were bound to your uncle. The rest are buried.”
“A pity. I’ll need more help then.” He stepped onto the porch and ran a gloved hand down the scarred railing. “I suppose you’re a temporary lodger. When will you be on your way?”
“When I’m sure Miss Farrow and the boy are in good hands.”
Griffiths frowned. “I’ll take possession immediately. My baggage wagon will arrive shortly. These heavily armed men you see with me are hired guards.”
Hired ruffians, rather, who’d signed on immediately at the mention of a tippling-house. Bleu was far less inclined to leave now that he’d met them.
“You there—Miss Farrow—show me about the tavern while the boy sees to our horses.” Griffiths pulled off his leather gloves. “But first a drink. We’re all in need of rum or ale. I trust there’s an abundance of both.”
