No more seasickness. And a few more blessed days, just the two of them. “What shall we do till then?”
“Visit theJardin des Plantes?” He deposited their purchases on the table in her room. “Promenade along the River Loire or cross to the island ofFeydeauand see the splendors along theRue Kervégan? Anywhere or anything you fancy.”
“You speak as if you’ve been here before.”
His sturdy shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I ask questions of the residents because I’m intent on squiring you about.”
“So I shall be Madame Galant awhile longer.” She couldn’t keep the teasing nor the wistfulness from her tone.
“I think you rather enjoy the role.” His eyes lit in that way they did for no one else.
She had that, at least. His devotion. An undeniably fierce devotion. As for herself, she felt like she was merely playing dress-up when what she most wanted was to be his in more than name.
“Gabrielle Farrow Galant for the time being,oui.” His gaze swiveled to the hallway as footsteps signaled another lodger. “You are meant for more,ma chérie.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” she replied softly before shutting her door.
25
Aweek—une semaine—passed far too quickly and they left Nantes, if only for a few hours. As they boarded a barge on the River Loire, Brielle held tight to her mother’s jewelry box, her damp palms beneath her buttoned taffeta gloves the only indication of her skittishness. She looked to her flesh-and-blood anchor in his finely tailored buff and black garments, his hair carefully coiffed back with black silk ribbon, a new tricorn hat decorated with blue braid pulled low across his brow.
Appearances were everything, or so their attire seemed to say.
Bleu regarded her with concern and undisguised admiration. Elegantly clad from tip to toe in a new Indian chintz frock and matching hat, she felt far removed from the colonial she’d been. When he sat down beneath the fringed canopy beside her their cologne collided in a fragrant rush, his faint masculineEau de la Reine d’Hongrieand her effusive feminineEau de Millefleurs.
“Château de Villandryisn’t far being on the lower Loire.” Bleu spoke quietly, both of them facing forward, the oarsmen expertly steering the long vessel. “I have made discreet inquiries… prepare to beenchanté.”
“’Tisbon, then.”
“Royal. The gardens are renowned.”
“To think my mother fled this.” Already she was awed by the landscape unfolding on both sides of them as the serpentine river swept them forward. Extensive vineyards covered rolling hillsides, the laborers tending them thick as bees.
“October is the harvest,” he told her. “The region’s wine is shipped to the colonies and beyond. Muscadet, especially.”
Quaint villages sprouted like mushrooms, each centered around a tall-spired church while orchards and gardens boasted the last of the season’s blooming. What must they be like in the lushness of spring or midsummer? On top of rises and along the very riverbanks satchâteaux, fairytale castles like those she’d only seen in paintings or read about in books. She was unprepared for all the beauty and grandeur—and her own bittersweet reaction to the sights and smells and sounds of her mother’s former life.
“All this makes me forget what I want to say once I meet thecomte,” she said a bit breathlessly before abandoning English. “Monsieur, je suis l’enfant unique de Josseline Vérany, votre fille. Je suis venu d’Amerique pour vous rencontrer si vous me permettez l’honneur.”
Spoken in her most flawless if haltingfrançais, practiced so many times she could nearly say it in her sleep, and Bleu had not helped her. The words had come from her heart, crafted by her newfound wish to have a family, to know where she came from if only in part.
Overcome, she reached out and took his large hand in hers, a clasp of friendship in that moment. He squeezed her gloved fingers, his profile stoic though she sensed the tumult of his own thoughts and emotions beneath.
Within half an hour they swept round another watery bend to a poplar-lined bank, a warm wind stirring the tall trees and her hat ribbons. The barge slowed, the oarsmen poling toward a stone dock. An ornate iron fence was in back of it, immense ornamental gardens and pebbled walkways visible through its scrolled design.
Bleu handed her onto solid ground and Brielle stood transfixed, her gaze rising to achâteauof white stonework, glittering windows, and a steep slate roof. Ornamental vines softened the stony exterior with turrets she quickly numbered eight. A liveried porter stood by the fence and Bleu approached him, speaking in low tones while she waited.
“Entrez,” the man told them, opening the gate.
Once admitted, she and Bleu began a slow walk along an avenue of manicured lime trees and box hedges, past a splashing fountain, occasionally pausing to admire flowers laid out in geometrical, color-coordinated squares. Hectares and hectares of gardens, each seeming to have a theme, pebbled walkways connecting them.
Bleu plucked a creamy cabbage rose from a flowering bush and presented it to her like a seasoned courtier.
“You are bold,monsieur.” She breathed in the exquisite blossom’s fragrance. “I have a feeling we’re being watched from a hundred windows.”
“By an army of servants,oui.”
“To think my mother once walked these grounds…”
