Perhaps he needed France as much as she did, if only to clear his head and help him gain a different perspective after nearly a decade of war and upheaval. Once he returned to America, what then? He must decide whether to resume his work for the colonial government or commit to the Rivanna settlement and stay on in his nearly finished house.
But that hinged almost entirely on Brielle and what happened here.
They spent the next morning at the city’s market, strolling among the colorful stalls and carts, Brielle with a basket on one arm like so many Nantesmesdames. Given the fact he hadn’t proposed their staying on in France, their thoughts turned toward Virginia as they selected cheese from Normandy, olives from Provence, and Bordeaux wine as gifts for Sylvie and Will. Dolls and miniature furniture sufficed for the girls and puzzles and the gamejeu de l’oiefor the boys, even an amber teething rattle for theenfant. Anothertrunk was needed to carry Chantilly lace, silk, and woolen camlet and serge, as well as a variety of embroidery threads and ribbons.
“My sister will no doubt welcome us home,” he jested as his wallet emptied.
Brielle looked a bit wistful admiring a shop window. Baubles and trinkets of all kinds winked back at them from one of the foremost Nantes jewelers. Was she thinking of her jewelry box and the necklace and ring she’d not been able to show her grandfather?
Arm in arm, they wound their way back toThe White Cross,their purchases to be delivered on the morrow, yesterday’s disappointment receding. Brielle yawned behind a gloved hand, saying she needed a nap while he wanted nothing more than a quiet corner and a newspaper or broadside with some word about the distant colonies.
Entering the inn’s shadowed interior, they found it oddly empty save a liveried footman near the stairs. Bleu felt a tick of concern. The same footman they’d seen at thechâteauyesterday? With a terse greeting, he presented Brielle with a letter. Thanking him, she broke the seal and read it silently before turning to Bleu in astonishment.
“What are we to do?” she asked.
He took it from her as the footman looked on, awaiting their decision. They’d been invited to thechâteauas guests where thecomtecould get to know his granddaughter better. His personal barge awaited to return them and their belongings upriver.
Bleu folded the letter and handed it back to her. “A very gracious invitation.”
Her perplexity deepened. “Shall we accept?”
We.The word heartened him. But now this extraordinary turn…
He held her gaze and read a hesitant hope there as Virginia receded like the tide. “Bien sûr.”
Of course.
With a deferential nod, the footman followed them upstairs to retrieve their baggage. After an explanation to the innkeeper about their unplanned departure and the goods they’d purchased that would be delivered on the morrow, they left. The journey upriver seemed far swifter than yesterday, thecomte’sbarge more elegantly appointed.
Whatever awaited, Bleu hoped it would keep them together rather than drive them apart.
27
Brielle stepped into the lavender suite she’d been given on thechâteau’ssecond floor as footmen brought up her embarrassingly beleaguered baggage. Her slippers sank into the floral carpet as she took in the rooms—bedchamber,boudoir,garde-robe, and salon—that seemed more indoor garden, fresh bouquets of flowers at every turn.
“Here you shall receive your visitors as French gentlewomen do,” the maid, Cosette, told her, as she put away Brielle’s belongings in an armoire the size of her room at the inn.
With a word that she’d return to help her dress for supper, Cosette disappeared, and Brielle stood in the sumptuous silence in disbelief. She wondered thecomte’schange of mind—and heart. She’d thought all was lost, their horrendous ocean voyage for naught, but the palatial windows facing the River Loire and gardens told her otherwise.
Purples of every hue adorned the chamber from the silk wallcoverings to the lofty bed with its exquisitely carved floral motif. The domed canopy—a crown of faux flowers—was suspended from the ceiling rather than supported on posts, its woven tapestried hangings the shade of lilacs. A high bed required bedsteps and boasted not one mattress but three, filled with feathers, and half a dozen pillows in embroidered slips.
A dressing table, twin to the carved bed, was arrayed with brushes, combs, powders, perfumes, and pomatum, even silk puffs. A selection of hand fans in decorative cases had the feel of the past. On one end of the dressing table rested the jewelry box she’d brought upriver. Beside it sat another larger case that took pride of place. Brielle opened it, astonished to find the velvet-lined space as full as hers was empty. A pearl necklace, jeweled hairpins, a diamond pendant, even alavaliermade of a gold chain and assorted gems were among them.
A writing desk sat beneath one window furnished with quills, ink, fine paper, and wax.
Had this been her mother’s room?
Was Bleu’s room as palatial?
She’d know at supper, she supposed, for that was when thecomtehad requested they join him. For now, exhilarated if exhausted, she lay down atop the bed and slept till Cosette returned to wake her and begin what would become a rather tiring toilette. For a colonial woman used to donning the simplest garments by herself and either braiding or thrusting a few pins into her hair to keep it subdued beneath a plain linen cap, she marveled.
Finally bathed, powdered, bewigged, and wearing the Lyonnaise silk dress Sylvie had remade for her, she met Bleu at the door of the dining room. His admiring gaze told her she was not as ill-clad as she feared, his eyes lingering on her coiffure bemusedly, a confection of curls and pale pink powder.
“Cosette’s doing,” she whispered, putting a hand to her wig. The maid had it so tightly pinned her scalp ached. Bleu’s own hair was unpowdered, but his dark blue Nantes suit was exceedingly fine.
“I nearly got lost…” He smiled and offered her his arm as they went in to yet another glittering room. “And for a moment—when you came down the stairs—I doubted it was you.”
“I shan’t be wearing a wig again, no matter French custom.” She looked around uncertainly. “Have you seen—” What should she call him? Not grandfather. Not yet. Thecomte, she guessed.
