“Never?” Bleu finished securing the bolt and met her eyes. “At least that you know of?”
She shook her head, combing through the few conversations with the master she’d been privy to or had overheard. “He was a hard man, little given to conversation, even with guests.”
“He never mistreated or abused you?”
Heat prickled her neck and she looked to her scuffed shoes. “He whipped me once when I first came here but after that he left me alone.”
“He overworked you.”
She opened her hands in answer, her palms covered in calluses. Her mother’s hands had been pale and soft. Genteel hands. Her father’s, given his trade, had been rougher than her own. “Griffiths had a hard time keeping help. Even his enslaved and indentured ran away.”
“I’m unfamiliar with contracts such as yours other than that they vary from place to place.” He pocketed the borrowed turn screw. “Do you know your rights?”
“Per my contract, I pledged my obedience and cannot divulge my master’s secrets. Legally, I can be sold or loaned to someone else without my permission. I cannot wed without the master’s consent nor can I spend any money.”
“So, your life is not your own until you gain your freedom.” He went to the window and looked out, and she wondered what he thought of her treasured view. “I’m now a paying guest. I’ll not leave till lodgers fill the rooms again. Then you’ll have a measure of safety if not peace.”
Safety if not peace.
Sometimes he expressed what she thought or felt as if privy to her every turn of mind and emotion, her every mood. Did he sense her high regard of him, too?
Thanking him, she started down the steps, wondering what would happen next. For now, she sought the refuge of the kitchen and the meal she’d prepared with him in mind. Last night shone in her memory like a star, the three of them in this room, the outside world held at bay. Peace had blanketed her for a few hallowed hours. Even the tragedy had been pushed to the furthest reaches of her mind as she knitted and Bleu had read and Titus had finished fashioning the cross to mark Tamsen’s grave.
“Are you hungry?” she asked Titus when he appeared.
He nodded, looking sad. He was not only missing his sister, he was as unsettled as she about their new master. She read his thoughts like Bleu read hers. The only difference was that she’d known Titus for a few years, not a few days.
“Griffiths came in and raided the larder,” he whispered. “Said he prefers to eat in the bar.”
“Oh?” She sat down opposite him. They used to serve the former Griffiths in his office. “Everything’s a bit topsy-turvy now.”
She’d noticed Griffiths seemed to tread lightly with Bleu near, even avoiding them. He’d only barked at her once in private. Bleu seemed more in charge than their new master which left her both amused and muddled.
Titus’s small hand crept across the table to where hers rested, reaching around the slightly wilted flowers in their pitcher. “I’m glad you’re safe.” He squeezed her fingers. “I wouldn’t want to be here with you gone.”
Her throat knotted again as Bleu came in. Without a word, he began to dish up their supper, serving them when she’d meant to serve him. Titus let go of her hand as they bowed their heads and said grace, the words drowned out by loud laughter down the passageway.
Tonight’s meal was anything but peaceful. The sudden arrival of guests took Griffiths away from his card game as they sought lodging. Titus left his unfinished supper to see to their horses while Brielle was summoned to show them their rooms. When they told her they didn’t need a meal, she returned to the kitchen and found Bleu gone, the back door open.
She went outside, breathing deeply of the warm twilight air, and saw him coming from the stables, a pipe in hand. She’d all but forgotten to put the tavern’s used pipes in their iron cradles.She’d need to clean them in the bake oven for their next paying guests.
Would Wade Griffiths upbraid her about that?
Bleu saw Brielle moving about the garden with a basket on one arm, her petticoats swaying in the warm night wind. Her humble linen garments were scrupulously clean tip to toe, from her apron and cap to her stockings, her worn shoes polished. She reminded him of his fastidious sister but the comparison ended there.
Though her dress was faded and mended there was no doubt Gabrielle Farrow wasenchanteresse. He continued to search—and half-wish—for some flaw and found none. If she was thisravissantein plain clothes what would she look like in fancy dress? Her only blemish was her alarming leanness and her callused hands.
He’d seen women who were as hard as they were beautiful. Brielle’s beauty went deeper. Despite her hardships, she maintained a sweetness of spirit, an earnestness that put him at ease, a humility and kindness that drew attention to others and not herself. She had an extraordinary grace that belied her station. It left him flummoxed and fascinated.
He sat on a bench at the back of the garden, unable to look away from her though she wasn’t looking at him. When he left, would the lovely imprint of her be engraved in his head if not his heart?
She soon had a basketful of blooms, again reminding him of Sylvie and the walled garden behind Orchard Rest. Here the carefully tended vegetables and flowers bespoke Brielle’s tending. Someone had taken care to fence it in, safe from deer and rabbits and other ravagers.
Seeing him, she drew near, curiosity in her green gaze. “Your tobacco is fragrant though it isn’t Tidewater nor Orinoco.”
“Tabac.” He expelled a breath. “An Indian variety.”
“Nor is your pipe Virginia clay.”
