“Yourgrand-père?Non.” Bleu turned back to her, looking as relaxed as he’d been along the Rivanna. “Perhaps it is French custom for the host to arrive last.”
Brielle prepared herself for his return as well as what she guessed would be a bewildering number of French dishes. Another five minutes passed and thecomteentered the room through a side door, far more composed than he’d been when they’d first met. Bleu bowed and Brielle curtsied as he came forward and kissed her on both cheeks.
“I am glad you have returned, the both of you,” he said when they sat down at one end of a long, candlelit table. “Forgive me for not asking you to be my guests sooner. I was quite undone.”
Brielle understood. She still felt undone. Undone by the grandeur, his sudden reversal, and even Bleu’s presence as he sat across from her, Grandfather at the head of the table. She studied him in small snatches, noting all the little things that reminded her of her mother. His close-set eyes, the slant of his nose, even the timbre of his voice and its inflections. Small yet commanding, he was gracious. Observant. Astute.
She tamped down a thousand questions as supper was served. Bleu seemed more amused than bewildered at all the cutlery. Somehow, they avoided afaux pasand followed Grandfather’s lead on which utensil to use, starting from the outside and moving inward toward the porcelain plate. Brielle lost count of the courses that finally ended with an airy meringue atop vanilla custard accompanied by coffee in delicate cups and followed by glasses of Armagnac.
The noisy, happy chatter of Sylvie and her family around Orchard Rest’s table seemed hazy, the distant details nearlyforgotten. Were all meals here so silent? Or perhaps the better question—
Was Grandfather accustomed to dining alone? Rather, was he lonely?
“Shall we stroll through the gardens and settle our supper?” he asked with a smile, rising from his chair once they’d finished. “They’re well illuminated for walking.”
They passed outside through French doors and down steps leading to graveled paths. Lanthorns hung from posts lighting their way. They walked slowly, listening as he spoke of thechâteau’shistory and their family. Generations of names she’d never heard and couldn’t possibly remember passed through her head even as her rich lineage left her somewhat awestruck.
She finally worked up the courage to say, “Tell me about my mother,monsieur.”
“Please call megrand-père,” he chided gently, pausing beside the largest fountain. “You’ve been given her bedchamber,petite-fille.”
“I thought so.”
“Your mother was my life. Yourgrand-mère’slife. We had a son and heir born two years after her birth. We had not thought to have any children after being married many years and so both of them were something of a miracle. Josseline grew up here on the River Loire and the gardens were her particular delight. When she left us at the age of twenty we felt it like a death.”
“And Andre?” Her mother had only spoken of her brother once that Brielle could remember. The son and heir.
“Andre died five years after your mother left France. A riding accident.”
The sorrow in his voice made her want to return to him all the years had taken. But how? Expressing her sympathy seemed a very small condolence no matter how heartfelt.
“Mamanspoke of you often at our home in Philadelphia. She missed you and her life here even after she’d made her choice to be with my father.”
“And now they are both gone, along with your belovedgrand-mère.” His eyes were damp but he didn’t reach for a handkerchief. “When I saw you, you needn’t have said a word. You are the living image of Josseline, so like the salon’s painting.”
“I would like to showMonsieurGalant,” she said with sudden formality. In this grand house where she was still unsure of herself, she sensed etiquette must be observed. “I am so pleased you find me like her.”
Grandfather nodded at Bleu. “Tell me,monsieur, about yourself. You are from a distant shore, perhaps a French-Canadian, a Métis. Your French dialect is different than ours on this side of the Atlantic.”
“I am, at heart, acoureur des bois, a woods-runner.”
“A remarkably well spoken one.” Grandfather’s surprise was evident. “And literate, it seems.”
“Early on I was schooled by French priests in Acadie. After that, books have been my teachers,” Bleu explained. “An interpreter and liaison must have a mastery of words, at least spoken. Spending time with countless military officers and officials also leaves a mark.”
He told of his background, his years as a Hudson’s Bay Trader and Resistance fighter before the British expulsion and the eight years following when he’d worked with various tribes and the British and French from Canada to colonial America. Never long-winded, he kept them rapt and added fresh details new to Brielle.
“You have endured much,monsieur. I see your scar. We have heard about the terrible atrocities inflicted by our enemy, England. Many lives lost on all sides.” Grandfather looked as grieved asBrielle felt. “You are as much in need of a respite as Gabrielle, no doubt.”
“I agree,” she said, telling their story and missing Titus afresh as they did so. “Even with all his losses this woods-runner took time to redeem two indentures or we’d still be indebted to an unscrupulous bondsman for years.”
“I owe you as well as Gabrielle.” Grandfather regarded Bleu with respect and gratitude. “If not for your selfless actions, even meeting my granddaughter would have been an impossibility. I want to recompense you fully.” He looked at Brielle, his face alight with a joy that a reunion brings. “And now that you are here, shall we have afête? You have a great many relatives—uncles, aunts, and cousins—who will be wanting to meet you.”
“I’ve always wondered about family here,” she told him. “My first Frenchfête.A sweet prospect, thank you.”
The next afternoon, Bleu rode out with thecomteon a stallion that, fine as it was, made him wonder how Windigo was faring. Vaillant had been sired at the royal stables,Les Haras Royaux.Brielle was given her own mount—an elegant Andalusian from Spain—but today her time was better spent preparing for thecouturières, that army of dressmakers who’d soon descend on thechâteau, ready to dizzy Brielle with the newest fabrics and furbelows.
“I am in need of fresh air,” thecomtejested atop his own mount. “I have lived too long a widower and have quite forgotten the fuss and expense of the feminine sort.”
