She looked down, smoothing her linen petticoat and snatching at a stray string. Sylvie had been sewing a pretty gown for her and the delight and secretiveness with which she’d gone about her task delighted Brielle in turn. The promised garment would be finished by thefêtenext Saturday. She’d dress the part, at least, and hope she could manage the dancing.
Just when she thought he might have forgotten to meet her, she looked up to see Bleu coming through the apple trees, so handsome even in simple clothes that she framed the moment in her head and heart. As he walked he rolled down his linen sleeves and buttoned them, a skim of sawdust on his breeches and boots. Coatless and hatless, he hardly seemed the dancing master but something told her he was no novice.
“I am unfit for dancing,MademoiselleFarrow,” he called out. “But I’ve looked forward to this all day.”
“As have I.” Her heart picked up like they’d already begun a jig. “If you dance like you ride,Monsieur Galant, I’ve no cause to complain.”
He stood in front of her and gave a small, gallant bow.
She nodded as a dim, dusty recollection caused her to curtsy. Slowly, he took four steps to the right then faced her before taking four steps to the left and returning to his original position. She did the same, imitating him, taking his outstretched right hand. His callused touch was both rousing and reassuring as she followed his lead, moving in a small circle before switching to their left hands and repeating the steps.
Next they joined hands and circled each other.Allemande, he’d said. Or was itpoussette? They went deeper into the orchard, moving around young apple scions as if they were imaginary couples, twirling in the grass to the tune of the rising wind as twilight hemmed them in.
“Youdodance as well as you ride,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
He came to a stop but he didn’t let go of her hand. He was hardly winded. Oh, how he held her heart still. The summer sun had darkened his skin, making his eyes more fiercely blue, his queued hair a glossy blue-black. He was so handsome it hurt, causing a flare of anguish inside her.
Raising her hand and holding her gaze, he brushed his lips against her sun-browned fingers. “You don’t belong in an orchard but a ballroom.”
“I prefer an orchard.”
“Though you say you’ve forgotten how to dance you have not. It’s in your blood, your lineage.” He let go of her hand. “Une princess du sang.”
She smiled at his teasing. “A princess of the blood I am not.”
“And I am no prince but a dusty, disheveled carpenter, at least today.” He looked toward the river. “What I need is a bath.”
She almost sighed, wishing she could join him for that, too. “I’ll be counting the hours till thefête. Shall I save a dance for you?”
“Oui.” He turned back to her, expression intent. “More than one.”
20
Brielle nearly held her breath when Sylvie led her into an upstairs bedchamber at Orchard Rest to show her the altered gown. Of Lyonnais silk, the pale-yellow fabric with its vivid patterned fruits and flowers shimmered in the afternoon’s fading light where it lay across the bed. Exquisite blonde lace overlay the bodice and sleeve ruffles. The petticoat was also trimmed in lace, the open skirt drawn up by hidden linen tapes. Shoes of a matching color waited on the floor with ribbon closures. Sylvie had even thought of a hand fan, its painted edges lace trimmed.
“Every dress tells a story,” Sylvie told her, examining the hem with a seamstress’s eye. “Long ago, Bleu returned home in a snowstorm with this fabric in his haversack. Though we didn’t know it then, that was to be our last Christmas in Acadie. I carried the finished dress with me when the British expelled us as it was my most treasured possession. But I haven’t worn it since my wedding day. And it’s much too lovely to be shut away.”
Brielle touched a sleeve ruffle. “It’s the loveliest gown I’ve ever seen.”
“I couldn’t find anything finer in Williamsburg on our last trip, so I altered it to fit you.”
Brielle touched the colorful petticoat then tried on the shoes. Oddly they fit. Beside them were clocked silk stockings and a pair of garters. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“I’ve some jewelry to borrow if you like,” Sylvie said, clearly pleased. “Pearls from the Galants of long ago.”
Brielle thought ofMaman’sjewelry box and the keepsakes she’d never worn as her daughter. Perfect for a French ball, perhaps, but not a colonial American dance on a remote river few had heard of. Once again, she wondered why Sylvie treated her more like family, hardly a stranger or even one of the settlement women. Did Bleu have something to do with that?
The next hour was a flurry of bathing and dressing and attempting a coiffure fit for afête, curling tongs and all. The finishing touch was the Galant pearls about her neck. Standing before a looking glass, Brielle felt she was someone else entirely. The gown’s history involving Bleu made it even more meaningful.
Joining hands, Amélie, Jolie, and Madeleine danced around her skirts with childish praise. “Si belle,si élégante!”
Bleu waited downstairs, they told her. Turning away from the looking glass, Brielle left the bedchamber and started her descent in the new shoes, lace fan dangling from a lemon-yellow ribbon encircling her wrist. Sylvie kept the girls upstairs, putting finishing touches on their own party dresses.
Bleu stood at the bottom step. When she paused on the landing his eyes went wide. Was he remembering the snowstorm of long ago? The long journey the exquisite silk had taken, first with him and then his sister? The joy she’d had when he’d given it to her? For once he seemed at a loss for words, but his gaze never wavered as she reached the last step.
“I remember that silk…” he murmured.
“Too lovely to be shut away, Sylvie said.”
