But Benjamin, who never shied from confrontation, had sat forward and replied, “I should not reckon it a great estate if it was built upon the backs of others.” His most charming smile had held a sharper edge of steel. “But what do I know? I am but a farmer’s son,” he’d said, “with one foot always in the fields.”
Mr. de Brassart had smiled, too, very slightly, on hearing his words spoken back to him. Settling back in his chair he’d eyed Benjamin as any gamesman might eye a new challenger. “What is your own brother’s business,” he’d asked, “in Jamaica?”
Lydia had answered him, her tone cool as water poured over two dogs who’d been circling to fight. “He’s the factor for our eldest brother’s firm.”
When she’d spoken, Mr. de Sabran’s gaze had lifted with what might have been either interest or watchfulness, fixing on her face before moving on to de Brassart’s as that man’s attention swung back to her.
Mr. de Brassart had said, “You have many brothers, mademoiselle.”
“I have four.”
“Ah. Two here, and one in Jamaica, and the other . . . ?”
“Is a merchant in New York.”
“I see. He gathers merchandise and sends it to Jamaica, yes? And brings back from Jamaica things to sell here in New York? I should image he brings sugar, does he not? And indigo? And are these not produced by slaves? So then he also builds his business on the backs of others.”
His logic had left no room for an argument, but Lydia had been aware of Benjamin beside her drawing breath to argue anyway, and so she had once more diverted him by asking him to pass the plate of vegetables, and used that action to lead into a discussion of which foods Mr. de Brassart had found curious and new when he’d first come across from France, and which had been familiar. Through their talk of corn and cucumbers, she’d seen Mr. de Sabran looking on with an expression that could only be described as disapproving.
And he’d worn that very same expression earlier this morning, when he’d spoken to her shortly and then stood himself to clear away his breakfast dishes.
Lydia, remembering that now, was frowning as she stirred the fire on the hearth. “It’s been four weeks. Let’s hope they won’t be here with us much longer. With so many taken prisoner, the governor must surely be arranging an exchange.”
Violet said, “I don’t know about that. Mr. Fisher was saying last Sunday that one of the officers billeted over at Newtown had been here five years.”
That made Lydia turn in dismay. “Five years?”
“That’s what he said. Since the start of the war.”
“Oh, I pray that won’t happen to us.” She would never be able to have these men here for five years, as a constant reminder of—
“God must be listening.” Violet’s words held a dry humour. Beckoning Lydia back to the window she pointed past Lydia’s father and Mr. de Sabran, at work on the cider press, to the bright flash of a scarlet coat showing against the deep green of the trees, at the height of a soldier approaching on horseback. “Best put more water to boil in that kettle,” she said. “We have company coming.”
Jean-Philippe
De Brassart was an idiot.
If Jean-Philippe had not been well aware of that already, he’d have come to that conclusion from just sitting here the past half hour and watching how the Frenchman interacted with the English captain. Fair enough, the English captain had so far been friendly; but an enemy, no matter how he smiled, was still an enemy.
The captain’s choice to meet them in the room the Wildes called the “parlour,” with its calm blue painted walls and silver sconces and the patient, homely ticking of the wood-cased clock, had plainly been designed to make them feel at ease and comfortable. More likely to converse.
That Jean-Philippe felt neither comfortable nor at his ease was not for want of effort by the captain, who had taken care to sit, not stand above them, and addressed them in near-perfect French with scarcely any accent. He was older than the other two men by perhaps ten years, of middle height and with the kind of build that did not alter much with age but stayed forever lean and upright. His face was lean as well and there was nothing in his features that a man might find remarkable. His whole demeanour, like his voice, was even and straightforward.
Yet Jean-Philippe did not relax his guard.
In such a situation it was best to chart a neutral course and keep his face expressionless and not betray his comrades or their cause—a lesson that de Brassart had not learned, it seemed, in France.
“No, there were only four,” de Brassart said now, listing off which regiments had been at Fort Niagara: “The La Sarre—that is my own, of course—the Bearne, the Royal Roussillon, and the Guyenne.”
The captain, sitting at Monsieur Wilde’s desk, dipped his pen in ink again and made a note of this. He had a tidy, careful hand. A man not unaccustomed to the art of writing. Jean-Philippe could picture him more easily in some dim office than upon a battlefield; although there, too, he would be careful. Someone who obeyed whatever orders he’d been given.
Such a man, when on your own side, was an asset. But he was not on their side.
The captain asked de Brassart, “And the Troupes de la Marine? How many companies were there?”
“That I would not know. You’d have to ask Lieutenant de Sabran.”
The captain turned his head and looked at Jean-Philippe expectantly. Politely.
Jean-Philippe said nothing.
Privately, he felt glad he had chosen Monsieur Wilde’s tall chair to sit in, since the angle of its back and arms allowed him to sit very straight while masking any tension in his body. He held himself as stoically as if he had been on parade, conserving all his energy in silence.
For an instant he saw something in the captain’s eyes that might have been respect.
De Brassart said, “Oh, come now, answer the man’s question. He can hardly be expected to arrange for an exchange of prisoners if he doesn’t know our number.” He looked to the captain with confidence. “There will be an exchange soon, will there not?”
“I believe General Amherst expects there to be one before he breaks camp for the winter.”
As answers went, thought Jean-Philippe, that one took care to promise nothing. Which was fair. Negotiations between General Amherst and the Marquis de Montcalm—their own commander—would be slow. The couriers would have to take their letters across Lake Champlain and up along the forest trails and then by boat again down the St. Lawrence River to Quebec, and then return with the reply. It would take time. Meanwhile, the fighting season would be finished in a month or so, the soldiers on both sides retreating to their winter quarters. If there hadn’t been a prisoner exchange arranged by then, he might be stuck here till the armies reassembled in the spring. And that would be a problem—for himself, and for the Wildes.
This family was already showing the strain of supporting them after no more than a month. If de Brassart and he had to stay through the winter, the Wildes could not manage it.
She could not manage it.
This morning when she’d served his breakfast she had been so tired there had been shadows underneath her eyes and when she’d sat a moment by the hearth those eyes had briefly closed—so briefly that he doubted she had even been aware of it. But he had seen.
And when she’d moved to take his bowl he’d tried to let her know she did not need to waste her energy in serving him, he’d do it by himself.
He’d done it badly. He had seen the crease between her eyebrows, seen her hurt confusion, and the stifled irritation that replaced it. Had he smiled, perhaps, and spoken kinder words, he might have smoothed the moment over; but the truth was, he’d been irritated, too.
They were a burden on this family, and on her. They should not be here.
“So you see,” de Brassart said, “this is why Captain Whitlock—”
“Wheelock.” The captain’s correction was pleasant in tone.
“I beg your pardon. It’s why Captain Wheelock needs this information from us. Being stubborn is a help to no one.”