“Soapstone.” He held it aloft, the bowl glowing. “A gift from a Mohawk ally.”
“’Tis …belle.”
He studied her through the smoke’s haze. “Is it my imagination or is yourfrançaiscoming back to you?”
“Oui.” She smiled and looked to her basket, her lashes like black fringe above the spots of color in her cheeks. “Only it is not quite like your Acadian French.”
“Yours is more Québec French,” he told her, remembering his time there. “Purer. More proper, perhaps.”
She smiled at him and it seemed the sun was rising rather than setting. Beguiled he was, dangerously so. She was so close he wanted to reach out and take her hand and draw her onto the bench beside him. Fireflies drifted about them, tiny suspended lanterns in the twilight. He looked toward the stables. Titus’s small outline appeared at the entrance then vanished as raised voices and laughter erupted from the bar.
Her face darkened. “I wish that you were my bondsman.”
Quoi?He almost choked on his pipe smoke.
He met her eyes and a sort of lightning flashed between them. She was frightened. He could feel it. She dreaded his leaving. He knew that, too. But he was not her bondsman. He’d never own another soul, even an indenture, as long as he lived.
He couldn’t even gather the words to reply nor did she seem to expect any. She simply turned and walked back to the tavern, more shadow than substance, a telling emptiness in her wake.
10
As the tavern filled again, Bleu lined his saddlebags with what was needed for continuing his journey. When Brielle appeared with a small jar ofcretons, he tried to smile. Titus brought him his horse as he’d requested, knowing a farewell was imminent.
“I never asked your horse’s name,” the boy said, running a hand down the stallion’s muzzle.
“Windigo,” Bleu told him, tightening the saddle’s girth. “It meanspowerful monsterin Mi’kmaq.”
“Your people in Canada?”
Bleu nodded. “You have a good memory. Brielle should teach you to read and write.”
“She said the same but there’s little time for learning.”
“Make time for it.” He swung himself up in the saddle, fighting the urge to take them in his arms as he did Sylvie and the children whenever he said farewell.
Brielle stood, hands clasped behind her back, looking wilted as a flower. Even Titus seemed crestfallen, face ruddy as if trying to hold his feelings in check. In the emotion of the moment none of them spoke. There was no word in Mi’kmaq for goodbye. Nor did Brielle sayadieuorau revoir. The latter, in French, meant goodbye forever. He’d had many of those in his tumultuous, roving life. Only this time he couldn’t abide it.
With a word to Windigo, Bleu turned away, prodding his horse forward. It took an iron will to keep from looking back.
Brielle wanted to say farewell and express her thanks, but the words hung in her throat and she felt choked. She simply stood there like a simpleton, buffeted by a wave of emotion strong enough to send her to her knees. All the security and peace she’d felt in Bleu’s presence—to say nothing of her heart—seemed to have been wrapped up and stored in his saddlebags, leaving with him.
He rode away at a canter, his horse a fine mount for so fine a man. She imagined herself riding alongside him on a roan like the one she’d come on to the inn. It had been years since then. Horses were for people of means. Free people.
Waving his small, cocked hat for as long as he could, Titus returned it to his head and slipped his hand into hers. “Think we’ll ever see him again?”
She could only squeeze his fingers in wordless anguish.
Her thoughts were swirling along with her emotions as Bleu Galant disappeared from sight and it seemed she’d only dreamed him up. But the hole he’d left was so blisteringly wide she felt burned. In him she’d glimpsed another sort of life, a blessed existence beyond her reach. He was headed toward that now, leaving her behind.
Letting go of Titus’s hand, she headed back to the tavern as more travelers rode in, leaving their horses to him. She’d spied Griffiths on the porch as Bleu was leaving. He was often there, idle, talking with this one or that, rarely inclined to work, even in his uncle’s office. As she started up the steps, he blocked her way.
His cold question held a sneer. “What is your tie to that man, Galant?”
“I have no tie.” She passed by without looking at him. “None at all.”
Truly, she’d not even felt at liberty to ask Bleu if he’d come round again. The backcountry was vast. This was not his usual route to travel. His destination was far beyond their crossroads, deeper into Virginia.
Heartsick, she returned to the kitchen, weaving through a throng of people in the passageway, mostly men interested in the bar rather than the public room. Faced with the multitude of tasks before her, she resumed breadmaking, the back door open to relieve the day’s heat. The midday meal was almost upon them. Since she would act as cook until another was hired, Titus took her place as server in the public room.
