He brushed a crumb off his riding coat. “How are you spending your time?”
“Our rather quiet but full schedule is about to change, Grandfather tells me. After thefaire la fêteinvitations will pour in.”
He resisted a groan. “But for now?”
“For now, after breakfast, I dress and go to chapel for morning prayers. Reading and letters take up the forenoon—I’m writing to Sylvie now—and then we meet fordéjeunerat midday, as you know. Afterwards I spend time with Grandfather in his study followed by embroidery or painting or learning the pianoforte. I often walk about the gardens or go to the stables for a ride accompanied by a groom and sometimes Grandfather. Then I dress fordîner…”
“Don’t forget dance lessons.”
“Oh, yes. Sorely needed though I shall never master the minuet.” She looked at him intently. “How are you spending your hours?”
“It is hard work being a gentleman.” He expelled a breath, his tone faintly mocking. “Mornings are for reading the newspapers and drinking strong coffee. Then I visit the stables and ride until the midday meal which threatens to burst my buttons. Afterwards I take a boat upriver to watch the harvest at your grandfather’s vineyards or walk in the woods. I’ve tried archery with some success and now have a fencing master.”
“So I’ve heard. Grandfather is astonished at your skill.”
“Swords and knives are known to me but not French formalities and their codes of honor.”
“Perhaps I shall take up fencing myself as a female, in the style ofJulie d’AubignyorChevalier d’Eon.
He chuckled, nearly spilling his tea. “You could be my sparring partner, then.”
“Fencing aside, even the servants boast of your marksmanship,” she told him. “A footman said you hit a crown piece tossed into the air with the armory’s best pistols.”
“Did I?” He cupped the delicate porcelain with one sinewy hand. “And you are rapidly recovering your French.”
“Grand-pèrerefuses to speak English. He says it taxes his brain.”
“I would agree. French is as natural to him as Mi’kmaq is to me.”
She took another pastry. “I’ve never heard you speak it except for naming Windigo. Perhaps it’s time to teach me a few words and phrases.”
“Where to begin…” Her earnestness made him continue. “Ge’nnu’-glulimeans ‘speak to me’ in Mi’kmaq.” She echoed him and he continued, “E’ewould be your reply.”
She stirred more cream into her cup. “How do you say thank you?”
“Wela’lin.”
“Goodbye?”
“Nmultis.”
She repeated each thoughtfully, sipping tea between questions. “And… I love you?”
He held her gaze, his insides swirling despite his stoicism. “Kesalul.”
“Kesa … lul.”
“Kesalul,” he repeated slowly as the feeling between them pulsed to new heights. If the table wasn’t between them…
“Your first language is like nothing I’ve ever heard,” she said quietly. “Very unique and beautiful.”
He was the first to look away, his tea forgotten. “Once we’ve finished here, why don’t you show me the portrait of your mother.”
“Very well.” She gave him a smile, still looking wistful—and making him wonder what she felt soul deep.
28
They finally stood before the portrait of Josseline Vérany. The salon was hushed, the emotion between them still high. Bleu was no longer studying the magnificent portrait but Brielle. Once again he fisted his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for her.
