“Bleu?” Eulalie called out. “Is that you?”
“At long last,” he replied as their attention shifted to Brielle.
He knew what they were thinking. He always came to the Rivanna settlement alone. Rarely was he seen walking with any woman save his sister or his nieces. In the past he’d always avoided such, even Sylvie’s subtle attempts at matchmaking. He made brief introductions, their curiosity apparent.
“Gabrielle Farrow?” Eulalie asked in Français. “Do you speak French?”
When Brielle hesitated, Bleu said, “She’s unfamiliar with our French patois—our Acadian French.”
Brielle said as if in apology. “I remember some of my mother’s tongue, but English is what I know best.”
“Are you visiting the Rivanna?” Geneviève asked in English, shifting her basket to her other arm. “Or will you stay on?”
Brielle hesitated and looked at Bleu.
“She comes from the Winchester area and has yet to decide,” he said, hoping they wouldn’t delve deeper.
“For now, I want to be of help here in the settlement,” Brielle said quickly. “Learn where I’m most needed.”
“Start in the garden, perhaps,” Eulalie said at once. “Summer’s harvesting and preserving and pickling keep us continually busy and shorthanded. The usual seasonal fevers take a toll. We’ll not stop till winter starts.”
“Since we feed so many year-round, we must put by as much as we can. And now that we have another masculine mouth to feed”—Geneviève smiled at Bleu—“our work is unending.”
“Come,” Eulalie said, linking arms with Brielle. “We’ll show you the gardens. Acres and acres of vegetables, herbs, and flowers.”
Bleu watched them go, needing to return to his own task in the stables but reluctant to part with her. He stood by the river, watching them walk away. And then his whole world righted when Brielle looked back at him over her shoulder and smiled.
That night they sat in Orchard Rest’s dining room, Bleu taking Will’s chair at the head of the table, Sylvie at the other end while Brielle sat with the children, three on one side and four on the other, including Titus. Jolie, only two, sat upon Brielle’s lap, having taken a liking to her that was amusing to all and made her feel all the more welcome.
Dark haired like Sylvie, she was stout, a babybeignet, her eyes the same startling shade of Acadie Bleu as her uncle. In fact, Brielle saw Bleu in all their faces, especially his nephews.
“Papa?” Jolie said, pointing to her father’s chair then looking up at Brielle as if she alone knew the answer.
“Papa will be home soon,” Madeleine told her with the authority of an older sister. “This is yourOncleBleu, remember, though you were just a baby when you first met.”
Dinner was a delicious chickenfricot,followed by berry tart, and washed down with plenty of cider.
“An extra serving for you three,” Sylvie told her guests, eyeing Bleu particularly. “I’m sure you’ve had notartesince coming from Fort Pitt.”
They all lingered at the table, their shared laughter and talk reminding Brielle what being part of a family was like. Here all was safety and security and contentment. When she offered to help with the dishes, Sylvie shook her head in mock surprise.
“No need. That is what daughters are for.” Smiling, she whisked the empty tureen off the table while her older girls did the rest. “Perhaps my brother can show you the walled garden instead.”
Bleu stood and Brielle met his eyes and accepted his silent invitation. Out the back door they went, down steps that led to a gravel path and a small, scrolled iron gate.
She went in ahead of him as he said, “You wouldn’t recognize this piece of ground had you been here when Will bought it at auction.”
The aged brick walls seemed a vial of perfume and contained countless flowers—lavender, phlox, bee balm, wisteria, and clematis to name a few. Bees and butterflies abounded. Overcome by the sight and scent, Brielle came to a halt by a trellised climbing rose and savored the moment.
“All this loveliness reminds me of Philadelphia. Papa used to take us to Bartram’s Garden on the Schuylkill River.” A rush of happy memories came to mind. “AndMamanused to talk of thegardens from her girlhood in France.Château de ChambordandJardin des TuileriesandChenonceau…”
Picking a rose, he offered it to her. “And her father’s house?”
A bit wistful, she took it and breathed in the exquisite scent no perfumer could duplicate. “Château de Villandry.”
For years she’d been unable to think of all she’d lost. But now, removed from the distraction of work and the need to simply survive, her mind seemed open to these hazy, half-forgotten things. At the same time, she wondered Bleu’s thoughts while trying to navigate hers. His own losses were many, yet he never bemoaned them.
“Do you remember much of your past in Acadie?” she asked as they slowly walked the gravel paths. “Rather, do you want to remember?”
