Time ticked on, the sun slanting west. Her patience was soon rewarded as she looked downriver, spying a bateau with Bleu at the bow, speaking with abatelier. Once docked, he jumped onto the landing and the boat resumed its watery journey, leaving them alone.
Gloriously alone.
She turned toward him on her bench seat, the unfeigned joy on his face bringing her to her feet and nearly into his arms. Removing his hat, he took her hand, brushing his lips against the back of her fingers as they stood there by the river in a moment of perfect peace and privacy.
He lapsed into English. “You look… happy.”
“Happy to see you.”
“Non, before that. You were smiling as you sat there.”
Was she? “If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m by the Rivanna instead.”
“You’re still dreaming of Virginia.”
“I think of it often.” Somehow he and Virginia had become fiercely intertwined. “And I’ve finally, after much thought, decided on what to call your house.”
She had his full attention. “A name?”
“Oui… Belle Rive.”
“Beautiful shore?” His obvious pleasure doubled her own.
“Orchard Rest isn’t the only handsome house along the Rivanna.”
“Belle Rive it is, then.” He glanced at a passingtouefull of passengers. “Nadine sent a message yesterday saying she is growing weary of Nantes.”
“So she’ll return to Virginia?”
“In time,” he replied vaguely.
“Grandfather said the grape harvest is nearly at an end.”
“La vendange, oui.” His Acadian patois was becoming more classically French the longer they stayed. “The wine has been barreled and will now age before it’s fit to drink.”
“Do you plan to plant vineyards on those hills of yours back home?”
He chuckled. “Wine will never replace tobacco as king in the colonies. And if I stay here much longer I’m in danger of becoming a sot.”
“Oh? You imbibe far less than the usual Frenchman.” She’d noted his restraint with pride. “Not even champagne compares to Virginia cider.”
“Agreed.” He led her through the gate past the sentry and into the gardens. “Your grandfather has offered Brittany or Normandy cider from the cellars here.”
“Let’s try some, then.”
Their orangerie doors were open, the table they’d last sat at waiting. The château was as finely tuned as a clock. Once seated a footman appeared to bring the requested cider—and a tray of other delicacies too. But Brielle’s mind wasn’t on the food or even the coveted cider.
Just Bleu.
Bleu took a long drink, savoring the richness of France’s best apples, the tang equal to Virginia if not Acadie. “Centuries oldcidre de pomme.”
Brielle studied him as if noticing the slight lament in his tone. “I think you’re missing cidermaking on the Rivanna.”
He nodded. “Acadians have a special tie to their orchards.”
“Sylvie and Will wed in an apple orchard,non?”
“An orchard in full bloom.” Even years later the memory stayed vivid. “Spring… late May.”
