“Are there twins in your family?”
“Oui,on my mother’s side.” Her delight darkened. “But our kin were scattered clear to the Caribbean after the expulsion. Many, we believe, have perished.”
“Bleu spoke of your brothers, Pascal and Lucien, and wanting to know what happened to them.” Holding the drowsy infant close, Brielle said, “Your family history is even sadder than my own.”
All the more reason to marry and continue the lineage that had been lost.
The next day, Brielle returned to the cottage after another midday meal at the kitchen house without Bleu. Wistful, she went to a rear window and studied the shade trees atop the hill that ringed the house where loud hammering drove home her curiosity. Time seemed chafingly slow in his absence, but she wouldn’t run up the hill and interrupt his work. Simply wanting to see him wouldn’tdo.
Instead she opened a cupboard and took out her jewelry box. Inlaid with mother-of-pearl, its fleur-de-lis motif had beautiful chasing on the sides and a miniature portrait of her mother on the lid.Maman—Josseline Vérany—had been painted as a young woman prior to her marriage. She was unmistakably her mother’s daughter though she only shared her father’s green eyes. Perhaps she would see more of her English ancestry in her children’s faces someday.
She opened the lid to reveal a gold ring, too large for her finger, and arivièrenecklace with cross pendant. When her mother had fled France, she’d taken little with her except the box and its contents. And it had taken pride of place inMaman’sbedchamber, saved for Brielle when she came of age.
She’d shown no one these possessions, a bit fearful that she, a tavern maid, might be accused of theft. Even handling them brought a poignancy she couldn’t put into words. So, she’d secreted it, storing it away, her one heirloom. Her mother had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday right before she’d fallen ill. Her soft words, spoken in the height of fever, seemed embroidered on Brielle’s spirit.
This is your heritage. All I have left to give you. Once I was of a grand, noble family but I have learned one’s happiness doesn’t depend on one’s fortune. I have been rich indeed to have loved both your father and you. I can ask for nothing more in this life if I am to leave and be with my Father in heaven.
Afterwards, Brielle had written them down and placed them inside the box. The scrap of paper was old and worn from repeated perusing, the ink faded. But it still carried the same poignancy and left her eyes smarting.
There had been times in lean years when she was so hungry and worn she could have sold her heirlooms for food and other comforts. But being hungry and having a treasure was worth far more than being full and bereft.
22
Bleu stood back and surveyed the staircase in the central hall. Made of oak, it bespoke strength and longevity, able to endure a century or more. A straight flight, it bore narrow steps that he hoped weren’t too steep. The fleur-de-lis engraved on the newel post at the stairs’ bottom made him wonder if Brielle would notice. He’d had it crafted in the settlement’s carpentry with her in mind.
“Last window is finally in!” Will’s satisfied bellow carried from the second floor. “Wise to choose Crown glass instead of cylinder or bullseye. Far less distortion though one might think you were a high and mighty Burgess rather than atruchement.”
“Truchement?” Bleu chuckled as Will descended the steps with his oldest sons. “I haven’t heard that old French Acadian word for some time.”
“I’ve always preferred it to interpreter or guide or runner.”
“And now I am a poorertruchementhaving purchased the finest English glass to be had.”
Will gestured to the front door newly hung on dovetail hinges. “The early apples—Summer Rambour—are being pressed down by the river. Shall we celebrate and have cider?”
“You’ve earned it.” Bleu drew the front door shut and took another look at the gleaming windows.
Will started down the hill ahead of him, Corbin and Talbot by his side. Bleu followed, eyes on the barely visible cottage at the foot of the hill. Was Brielle there? Late afternoons often found her in Orchard Rest’s kitchen or garden, helping Sylvie now that it was near her time. He saw her seldom since he often ate from a knapsack in the fields or while working on his house. There was no denying he missed her. Missed her ready smile and bubbling laugh. The endearing way she’d look at him, a light in her eyes.
He walked through the orchard, some trees so heavily laden their branches nearly touched the ground. As they neared the river a pink-cheeked Madeleine appeared, her expression indecipherable.
“Papa, ’tis time! Eve—the midwife—is withMaman. She needs your prayers but doesn’t want you at the house till all is said and done.”
Will stopped walking, looking at his oldest daughter with concern. “Tell her I’ll pray, aye, and to send for me at any time. We’ll be down by the river at the cider-making.”
Madeleine nodded, darting a shy look at Bleu as if he shouldn’t be privy to such womanly things. Bleu glanced at Will, amazed by his response. If this was Brielle he wouldn’t continue calmly to the river… but it was what it was. And William Blackburnwasa seasoned father of six, soon to be seven.
“Shall we place wagers?” Will jested, clamping a firm hand on his sons’ shoulders as they walked on either side of him. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” Talbot returned with a grin.
“Girl,” Corbin said with confidence.
“The last, our Jolie, was born within a few hours,” Will reminded them, “so we might not have long to wait.”
They reached the Rivanna where the tang of crushed apples mingled with the clean scent of river water. Acadians of all agesgathered round a large oaken press, feeding fruit to the mill. Endless baskets of picked apples waited, not the rich, spicy cider apples of the later harvest but the sweet, refreshing blend of the first.
Bleu stood by a long trough where apple juice ran in rivulets to an open tub. Empty barrels stood by to store the finished cider. It seemed he’d taken a step back to the boy he’d been in Acadie, breathing in the intoxicating perfume of ripe fruit, carrying the burlap bags of apple mash to feed the livestock, his reward a full cup of the golden juice that wasn’t bound for the cellar.
