Lydia’s pencil stilled. “Yes,” she said, quietly. “Sometimes I do.”
Later that evening, when supper was finished, she took up her mending and curled herself into her mother’s old chair with its leather seat slung in the low X-shaped frame like a welcoming lap. She could almost imagine her mother’s arms holding her, here in this room with the warmth of the fire and the light of the candles, the wind rising hard at the glass of the window.
The men were still sitting around the long table in cross conversations, her brother and Mr. Ramírez discussing the length of the Bellewether’s deck, while her father and Mr. de Brassart debated the merits of some play by Shakespeare, and Mr. de Sabran sat back and observed.
All the voices ran into and over each other and blended like billowy waves folding into the sea, and she struggled to stay on the surface while all of those waves with the troubles they carried went by. “Feel them passing?” her mother asked, rocking her gently.
Except they weren’t passing. They bore her relentlessly down like great weights on her shoulders until she was sinking.
And then in place of her mother’s arms she felt the strong ones of Mr. de Sabran, protecting her as they had done in New York, and it suddenly wasn’t so terrible, drowning. She held him and drifted down into the dark.
Jean-Philippe
They had forgotten her.
He’d had to rise and come into this room before he could believe it. In the faint light of the fading embers of the fire he could make out her sleeping figure in the chair close by the window, where she’d sat when they had finished with their evening meal.
She’d been there when her brother had excused himself and gone up to his room. She’d been there when her father and de Brassart had retreated to the parlour to—according to de Brassart—find some passage in a book. And she’d been there when Ramírez had removed himself as well to talk to Violet in the kitchen.
Jean-Philippe, at supper’s end, had stayed exactly where he was. He’d sat in silence, searching all the corners of his memory for a time when he’d last felt so deep a peace. It was unwise. No good would come of it. A belly full of homely food, a warm fire burning on the hearth, a woman he could share it with—such things were past his reach, just like the swirls of smoke in battle that lured soldiers to pursue them, wasting musketfire on phantoms that weren’t real.
And yet he’d sat and let that feeling settle in his mind, so he could carry it away with him when he had gone. An extra piece of armour.
Until she’d begun to dream, and stir, and since he had not wished for her to wake and find him sitting watching her, he’d risen very quietly and gone to his own chamber. That had been over two hours ago.
He knew the nightly rhythm of the household. Lying in his bed, he’d listened. First Ramírez, bidding Violet a good night, had gone upstairs. De Brassart, not long after, had come in and, having fussed for several minutes in his preparations, finally settled and began to snore. Next Violet, finished with her work, had run with lighter footsteps up the narrow back stairs. For the pattern to play out in perfect order, the next person to ascend should have been Lydia.
Except she hadn’t.
He’d heard Monsieur Wilde’s familiar firm and heavy footsteps climb the stairs, and then the house sank into slumber as though everything was in its place.
And Jean-Philippe had realized they’d forgotten her.
He didn’t know how that was even possible. If she were his, he’d never overlook her; never fail to notice everything she did. If she were his . . .
He killed the thought before it had a chance to fully form. They were divided by a war. Soon he’d be back on its front lines and she would carry on her life here and the world would turn as if they’d never met. That was reality, as was the fact the room was growing cold. This was no place for her to spend the night.
He touched her shoulder. Shook it lightly. Said her name. She did not wake. And then, after considering his options, he reached down and gently lifted her and carried her upstairs.
Had he been able to stop time, he might have stopped it then. The weight of her within his arms, the warmth of her against his chest, the softness of her breath against his shirt—these were sensations that he wanted to remember. He climbed slowly, set his feet with care, and told himself it was because he did not wish to rouse the household, but he knew that was untrue, just as he knew he’d have to rouse at least one person.
Taking her into her room would risk her reputation and his own. He’d have to wake her father.
Monsieur Wilde, to his relief, slept lightly. Jean-Philippe had barely knocked upon his chamber door before it opened. Moonlight slanted through the window just behind and made the older man a silhouette in shadow while illuminating Lydia, and Jean-Philippe searched through the English words he’d learned to find the right ones to explain. “She sleeps,” he said, “downstairs.” And so there could be no misunderstanding, added, “In the chair.”
The pause that followed made him wonder if he’d been mistaken in his phrasing, but at last Monsieur Wilde nodded and stepped out and motioned Jean-Philippe to follow him across the landing to the other bedchamber. The moonlight here, though not as strong, was still enough to show him where to lay her on the bed. But as he lowered her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him more closely. Forced to bend, he did not mind the time it took to set her down and cautiously extract himself from her possessive hold, but when he drew the blankets over her and straightened he was glad he could not see her father’s face, and that they neither of them knew the other’s thoughts.
? ? ?
Next morning after breakfast, Monsieur Wilde addressed him briefly, indicating that de Brassart should translate the words.
“It truly is a most peculiar language,” said de Brassart, as they watched the older man walk off towards the barn. “He talks of being ‘in’ your debt when clearly what he means to say is that he has a debt to you, and even then there is no way to know if he is speaking in the sense of obligation or of money.” He was prying, seeking details.
Jean-Philippe did not enlighten him. He’d understood the sentiment enough, as he had understood Monsieur Wilde’s short nod, one man to another. And if Lydia—who earlier had merely said good morning in her normal way—had not been told about last night’s events, then no one else had any need to know.
De Brassart waited for an explanation. When none came, he shrugged and turned his collar up against the wind that shook a swirling fall of leaves loose from the trees. “What’s that they’re building, there?”
“A hog pen.”
“But they keep no hogs.”
“A neighbour’s bringing two this morning.” It was satisfying knowing that his growing understanding of the language and his daily conversations with Pierre not only made him less dependent on de Brassart, but at times better informed.
“Ah. More payment, is it?”
“Probably.” These past weeks they’d seen evidence of how important Monsieur Wilde’s skills were to this community, as several people brought their payments for the carpentry he’d done for them this year.
De Brassart said, “It’s a provincial way of doing things.”
“It’s practical. He lays a floor for somebody, or puts up shelves, or hangs a door, and in return they bring him winter wheat, or ewes, or hogs. A fair exchange.”
“But if they simply gave him money, he could buy the things he needs.”
“He needs hogs,” said Jean-Philippe, and raised one shoulder in an echo of de Brassart’s shrug. “This way is easier.”