Bravely done, she amended, for Mr. de Sabran must surely have felt, as she did, all the watching eyes turned on them—some of them curious, some disapproving, some hostile. But as they took up their positions on the floor, the men in a line on one side and the women on the other, Mr. Fisher made the choice of dance and called it out: “In two groups of four couples, if you please. The à la Mode de France.”
French Peter set his fiddle to his shoulder and she saw him smiling broadly at her as Mr. de Sabran took her left hand in his right one, turning her to face the top of the room, and that smile calmed her nervousness, making her realize she cared not what anyone else thought. They weren’t the first couple, which was a good thing because although the dance had a French name it soon became obvious Mr. de Sabran had never encountered it. When he missed a step the first time, falling back into the wrong place, he was frowning. When he missed a second step, she smiled to show him that it didn’t matter, and he shrugged and smiled back at her, the smile that tilted to one side and carved the handsome lines into his cheeks. And by the time he’d missed the third step, all the other couples and a few within the crowd around them started calling out instructions to assist him, and he took it in good humour, and he laughed.
It was a wondrous thing to hear him laugh. It had a strange effect upon her, and when all the partners had come round to their right places and the music stopped and she was standing facing him, she could not think what she should do next.
Holding out his hand to her again he said, “We take the air, yes?”
“Yes,” she said, because air sounded just the thing she needed.
Outside, the night was soft and fresh. There was a half-moon shining brightly in a field of stars, a glowing ring of light surrounding it, and it had made a trail across the bay that showed in places through the darker screen of trees.
They walked in silence, and she breathed the mingled scents of wildflowers sleeping in the shadows, and the salt air of the sea. He had not let go of her hand. She did not want him to. They did not leave the clearing but at length they reached its edge, where rustling branches stretched above them and the light and noise and music of the barn seemed far away. One heart-shaped leaf fell from a nearby tree and landed on his shoulder and unthinkingly she lifted her free hand to brush it off before it marked the white coat she had worked so hard and long to clean.
She felt him looking down at her, and glancing up self-consciously she started to explain. And lost the words.
And then he bent his head and kissed her.
Everything around her seemed to stop, and still, and cease to matter. She could not have said how long it lasted. Not long, probably. It was a gentle kiss but at the same time fierce and sure and full of all the pent-up feelings she herself had fought these past months, and now she knew he had felt them just as she had, and had fought them, too. It was a great release to give up fighting. Give up everything, and float in the sensation.
But of course it had to end.
He drew his head back slowly, and they stood there a long moment in the shadows, saying nothing. Saying everything.
He seemed to be about to speak when suddenly the spell was broken by the sound of running footsteps.
Sarah, bearing down on them. “Oh, Lydia! Come quick!” Her face was pale with worry. “Joseph’s going to kill him!”
? ? ?
She thought he’d got rid of the gun.
When Mother had first found the pistol in Joseph’s belongings brought down from Oswego, she’d worried. A long gun, for hunting or even protecting the farm, that was one thing, she’d said—but a pistol was made for the purpose of violence.
He’d argued he needed it by him at night to feel safe, and they’d all understood, but at length Mother’s quiet persuasion had settled the matter. Or so they had thought.
Because here he was holding that same pistol levelled on Mr. de Brassart.
His hand was not shaking as it often did when he grew agitated, and Lydia didn’t know if that was good or bad. He didn’t turn his head as she came into the kitchen, but she could tell he was aware.
He said, “Tell them to go.”
He meant Mr. Ramírez and Violet, who stood at the room’s farther end, by the buttery. Mr. Ramírez had Violet behind him, and stood in watchful readiness, as though prepared to intervene yet trying not to make things worse.
Like Mr. de Sabran, who’d wanted to come in the house but had agreed instead to stay outside the kitchen doorway in the shadows at her back. She felt the tension of his silent presence, and could only hope that Joseph didn’t.
Joseph said, “I don’t want them to see.”
Mr. de Brassart looked to Lydia. He seemed to have been trying to come out of his own bedchamber before the pistol had been drawn to stop him where he stood. His face showed fear, and arrogance. “He’s crazy. I did nothing.”
In the hearth a log gave way and splintered, falling with a sudden crash of sparks, and Joseph flinched.
She said, “Mr. Ramírez, will you please take Violet upstairs? Thank you.” Gently, she told Joseph, “Let me have the gun.”
“Where’s Sarah?”
“I don’t know.” Which wasn’t entirely true. She’d sent Sarah for Father. “She’s not here, though. Give me the gun, Joseph.”
Mr. de Brassart said, “Listen to her. You don’t like me? Fine, I am leaving, I told you. See here, all my things. I am ready to leave.”
The pistol didn’t waver.
The French officer repeated, “I did nothing.”
“You were there.”
She’d seen him lose his hold on what was real before—slip backwards into some remembered moment that consumed him in its pain. She knew the danger. “Joseph.”
“He injured his leg at Chouaguen. That’s what he said tonight. You heard.”
“Yes, but I—”
“Chouaguen,” Joseph said, “is what the French call Oswego.” His eyes on de Brassart’s, he said in a low, anguished tone, “You were there.”
She heard voices and movement outside, but they’d be too late. His grip on the pistol was tightening. So without thinking, she moved.
The helplessness of that one moment lived with her long afterwards—her senses flooded painfully at every side, the sudden stench of gunsmoke and the blast of sound, the stinging in her shoulder where it had struck Joseph’s arm away, the panic of not knowing if she’d managed it in time.
She had.
Mr. de Brassart straightened slowly from where he had crouched within the doorway of his chamber. Looked at Joseph, who’d regained his balance after Lydia had lunged and was now standing close beside the hearth. And then looked past them.
Lydia turned, too.
Her father leaned against the open kitchen door, his breathing heavy as though he’d been running. Benjamin stood next to him, with others scattered in the dark behind. She looked for Mr. de Sabran and was concerned she did not see him, until realizing that he’d reacted faster than them all and was now standing close behind her, like a guard.
“It’s all right,” she assured them. “No one’s harmed.”
Mr. de Brassart said, once again, “Crazy.” Then added, to Benjamin, “I tried to tell him, if he kills me, then you can’t sail where you need to, but—”
“Quiet,” said Benjamin.
Lydia felt a new pain in that silence—the small, certain twist of the knife of betrayal. A pain she was learning to recognize, lately. And learning to bear.
But she thought of the people now watching and listening. Thought about Joseph, and what would be best for him. Thought of her family, and its reputation. And clearing her throat, said to Benjamin, “Would you take Mr. de Brassart’s things down to the Bellewether for him, please? I trust you have his papers safe on board already.”
Benjamin said, “Yes.” He tried to meet her eyes, and she allowed him to, but only briefly.
Then she laid her hand on Joseph’s and said, “Let me have this, now.”
This time he handed her the pistol, without protest, and she thanked him for it, stepping to the side as Sarah, pushing forward from the gathered crowd outside the doorway, crossed to stand next to Joseph.
The moment of danger had passed now, and everyone knew it.