Belle, page 8
“Maybe it hasn’t,” Celeste said. “Maybe this is who we were all along, and we just couldn’t see it before. But there aren’t so many other eyes to look at us now, are there? Only our own.”
“So now the question is,” I said, “do we like what we see, or not?”
“What’s that?” April interrupted, her head cocked as if she was straining to hear some new sound.
That was the moment I realized I’d been hearing it too, without quite registering what it was.
“That’s a horse,” I said. “Someone’s coming.”
There was a moment of electric silence. Then, hands still clasped, my sisters and I dashed around to the front of the house. We were just in time to see a single horse leave the main road and start down the one that led to our front door. Its rider swayed in the saddle, clinging to it with both hands, as if this and sheer willpower were the only things keeping him from falling off the horse and into the mud.
“That’s not Grand-père Alphonse,” Celeste said.
“No,” I answered. “It’s not. I think maybe it’s—”
But by then, April was in motion. Picking up her skirts with both hands, she ran flat out, like a small boy. She reached the horse just as its exhausted rider finally reached our yard. The horse stopped.
“I’m sorry,” I heard the horseman say. “I hate to repeat myself. But I’m afraid I’m going to pass out. Again.”
Then he pitched sideways in the saddle and slid to the ground just as he had once before, many years ago. April sat down in the mud and cradled his head in her lap.
“Go get Papa,” she said. “Go get help.”
And then she began to weep the kind of tears no one minds shedding. Tears of joy.
Dominic Boudreaux was home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“It was the worst possible combination of circumstances,” Dominic told us later that night.
We were sitting in the living room, a cheery fire in the grate. All of us had changed out of our filthy, wet clothes. Though in Dominic’s case, his only option was to borrow some of Papa’s. At my mother’s insistence, Dominic was now seated in her chair, the most comfortable in the room. April sat on a low stool beside him. In her hands, she held a mug of steaming broth, from which she urged him to drink from time to time.
Any doubt as to their feelings for each other had been dispelled by the time Dominic and my father staggered through the front door. April had left Dom only long enough for them both to get out of their wet and muddy garments. After that, she’d refused to leave his side.
“What happened?” she asked now.
“It’s more a matter of what didn’t,” Dominic answered, with a tired smile.
First, the April Dawn had been blown off course. Then, she’d been becalmed. Seemingly endless days had passed without a stir of air. Food and fresh water had begun to run low. The men had started to fear they would never get home.
“If I’d been sailing for any man but you, Monsieur Delaurier,” Dominic said quietly, “been captain of any ship but one of yours, sooner or later I’d have come to a day when I feared for my life. For hungry men become desperate ones in the time it takes to blink, and desperate men commit desperate acts, things they would never consider otherwise.”
He paused. April reached up and pressed the mug into his hands. Dominic took a long, slow sip, as if savoring every drop. Papa was a smaller man than Dominic, but Dominic looked thin and frail in Papa’s borrowed clothes.
“But the men love you, sir,” Dominic went on. “I don’t know how to say it any way but that. They know you’re a man who honors his word, and sooner than dishonor you, I think they’d have starved. Not one word of mutiny did I hear, and, finally, the wind came back and we made sail for home.”
Dominic paused to take another sip of broth, then handed the mug back to April.
“When we finally made port, when we got back and the men learned what you’d done—how you’d sold your own things to care for their families—it was everything I could do to keep them all from coming here with me. There’s not one man who won’t be willing to set sail again, to look for those lost ships, that is— just as soon as we make repairs to the April Dawn.”
“Oh, but surely—,” April began, then stopped. I could almost see her bite down on her tongue.
“Let’s have no more talk of setting sail tonight,” my father said into the quick silence that followed April’s outburst. “There’ll be time enough for that. The men are all well, you say?”
“As well as can be expected, given what they’ve been though,” Dominic replied. “Some will heal faster than others.”
“And I imagine good food will soon set most things to rights,” my father said.
“True enough, sir,” Dominic concurred. “That’s true enough.”
My father seemed to hesitate, almost as if he wanted to postpone the question we all knew must come next.
“And the cargo?” he finally inquired.
“Safe and sound, every last bit of it,” Dominic answered, and I could hear the fierce pride in his voice. “I brought it all home to you, sir. Every last man, every single chest of cargo. It just took a little longer than planned.”
All of a sudden, a smile lit Dominic’s drawn and tired face. “Not too bad for the lad who began life as a thief, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would,” my father replied. He reached out to grip Dom by the arm. “I would indeed say so, and more. You’ve given back more than you ever tried to take.”
“I learned that from you, sir,” said Dominic Boudreaux.
My father gave Dominic’s arm a final squeeze and then released it, making no attempt to hide the tears that filled his eyes.
“Monsieur LeGrand asked me to tell you you should come without delay, sir, if it can be managed,” Dominic went on. “He’d have come himself, but there is much to do.”
“That there is,” my father said with a smile. “But you have done enough for now. Stay here and rest, Dom. I’ll go tomorrow morning. That will put me in the city within two days’ time.”
Papa left shortly after breakfast the following morning, earlier than he might have when the roads were dry, but the rain continued and, even for a single man on horseback, the going would be muddy and slow. Celeste packed food and water in Papa’s saddlebags.
“I cannot promise,” my father said, as we all stood together in the kitchen, “but if there is money left over after paying off debts, I may be able to bring you something from town. Tell me what you’d like, girls, and I’ll do my best to manage it.”
“I don’t need anything, Papa,” April said at once. “Unless there is something that would help Dominic.”
As she spoke, the color rose in her cheeks, but she kept her eyes steady on my father’s.
“I think food and rest will be enough for him,” Papa answered. He reached out and brushed a thumb over one of April’s blazing cheeks. “And, of course, your company. I’ll expect the two of you to have settled things by the time I return.”
He gave April’s cheek a sudden pinch, then shifted his attention. “What about you, Celeste?”
“Could you bring some lavender plants, Papa?” my oldest sister asked. “Belle says the cuttings from the rose bushes are almost ready to plant. But if we could have lavender as well . . .”
“You’re thinking of your mother,” my father said. For though roses were her favorite flower, lavender had always been the fragrance she loved best.
Celeste nodded. “But what would you like for yourself?” my father asked.
Celeste cast her eyes around the kitchen, as if searching for inspiration. “Well, it would be nice to have one more cast-iron skillet,” she said. “A really big one.”
“A cast-iron skillet,” my father echoed.
“I know it would be heavy,” Celeste said quickly, as if she’d heard some objection in my father’s voice, “but there’s Dominic to feed as well now, for as long as he stays, and a bigger pan would be useful, Papa.”
“You could always bring sugar, if a new pan is too difficult to carry,” I suggested.
Celeste nodded. “Or that, yes. That’s a good thought, Belle.”
My father put his hands on his hips. “Now, let me see if I have this straight,” he said. “My daughters, who not three months past were as fine a collection of fashionable young ladies as anyone could hope to meet, are asking for a pan it takes both arms to lift, and a tonic for a sweetheart? Not one piece of finery among you? Not one ribbon or bow?”
“Well, certainly no buckles,” I said, and earned a laugh from everyone present.
“I have no use for fancy ribbons in the kitchen,” Celeste said simply. “I’d always be worrying about the ends dragging in the batter or, even worse, catching fire as I work at the stove.”
“And they’re no good to me when I’m dusting or scrubbing a floor,” April chimed in.
“I’ll take theirs, Papa,” I offered. “I can use it to mark straight rows in the vegetable garden.”
“Well,” my father said. “Well, then.” He stood facing us as we made a little half circle before him. For the second time in as many days, my father had tears in his eyes.
For my sisters and I were sending a message, and my father had heard it, clear as a bell. We would not ask for what we’d valued in our old lives. It would take more than one shipload of cargo to buy those lives back, and I, for one, was far from certain that I wanted mine.
In my old life, I had become invisible. In my new one I was . . . I wasn’t quite sure what. But I knew this much: I wanted to find out, for I liked who I was in this new life better than who I’d been before.
But most remarkable was the fact that my sisters and I had each spoken spontaneously. We weren’t putting on a brave face we’d discussed ahead of time. We had each spoken truly, from our hearts. We did not want the past. We wanted the future, whatever it might hold.
I don’t think I’d ever loved my sisters more than I did in that moment.
“If you’re sure,” my father said.
“We’re sure, Papa,” I replied. “Though if you chance to come upon the Heartwood Tree and one of the branches just happens to break off and fall on your head . . .”
My father tossed the saddlebags over one shoulder with a laugh. “I think it’s time that I was going. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Don’t let your mother worry.”
“We won’t, Papa,” April promised.
Together, our arms around one another, my sisters and I crowded into the kitchen doorway, watching until the rain hid my father from view.
And then we began to wait once more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We waited four long weeks, until the days slid from April into May. At last, the weather turned fine: Glorious spring days filled our hearts with hope for the future.
And so, at last, my father came home.
He arrived at noon, just as Celeste was preparing to set our midday meal on the table. We’d had a brief and unexpected burst of rain that morning, but it had quickly passed, leaving the day sparkling and warm.
Celeste was just taking a fresh-baked pie from the oven when she heard footsteps at the kitchen door. Her cry brought us hurrying in from all parts of the house. Within moments, Papa was seated at the kitchen table, a mug of the tea he so loved close at hand, while Maman, Dominic, and we girls ranged around him.
“It’s all right, mes enfants,” he kept saying over and over. I’m all right.”
But it was clear that he was not.
The man who had ridden out to the city four weeks ago had been in high spirits. He’d had a glimmer in his eyes. The man sitting now at the kitchen table was bowed down, as if by some hidden weight almost too great to bear. I’d never seen my father look like this, not even in the days before we’d moved to the country, when each morning brought word of some new loss.
My mother sat beside Papa, an arm around his waist as if to shore him up.
“Drink your tea, Roger,” she urged in a soft, firm voice. “You got caught in that rain squall this morning, didn’t you? The tea will warm you up.”
My father took a sip, obediently, like a child.
“I’m sorry to be such trouble,” he said.
“Papa,” I said, shocked. “How can you talk so? We love you. How can anything we do for you trouble us?”
The mug of tea slipped from my father’s fingers, then bounced off the tabletop and smashed on the floor. Hot liquid and broken crockery shot every which way. None of us moved or made a sound.
Our attention was riveted on my father’s face, on the tortured expression in his eyes as they stared into mine.
“Belle,” my father said hoarsely, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise at his tone. “Ma petite Belle. I wonder if you will say that when you know what I have done.”
“I stayed in the city too long. It’s as plain as that,” my father said some time later. At Maman’s urging, we had deferred any explanation of Papa’s strange and dire remark until we’d all eaten lunch. If we were about to face some new crisis, she declared, we would need our strength, and no one could be strong on an empty stomach.
Much to my surprise, the food helped—as did the simple act of sitting down and eating together, a family once more. Gradually, the lines in my father’s face seemed to ease a little, and his shoulders straightened, though his eyes were still full of worry when he gazed at me from time to time. At last, the meal over, April brewed a fresh pot of tea while Celeste brought out the pie. Then, once more at Maman’s urging, Papa began to tell his tale.
“Let me share the good news first,” he said, “for there is much that is good to tell. The April Dawn’s safe arrival was just the first, Dominic. By the time I reached the city, two more of our ships had arrived at port. This went a fair way toward settling our remaining debts, enough so that my credit is good in the city again and we can begin repairs. Although,” my father went on with the ghost of a smile, “I have decided that we will no longer bank with Henri de la Montaigne.”
“Good for you, Papa,” Celeste said.
Papa drew a deep breath, then let it out. “I stayed in the city longer than I should have,” he said again. “But there was so much to accomplish, so much I wanted to see and do. I wanted to visit as many of the men as I could. And then there were the ships to inspect, trying to decide what repairs must be made, when the ships could be ready to sail once more.
“Perhaps I have grown too cautious in my old age,” my father went on. “Perhaps I was too anxious to make sure everything would turn out well, that no harm would come to my sailors, or dishonor to us, again.”
“But surely no man can truly do that,” said my mother.
“You’re absolutely right, my dear,” my father replied. “At any rate, I realized I’d been gone for nearly four weeks, and, even worse, I’d sent you no word of what was going on. By that time, even Alphonse was urging me to return. I’d been away from all of you quite long enough, he said, and he could manage what still remained to be done.”
My father paused to take a sip of tea, as if to fortify himself before continuing.
“So first I stayed too long in the city, and then I left later in the day than I should have. I knew it at the time. But, once I had decided to leave, I felt so eager to be home that even another night away from you seemed too much. And the journey itself was so simple and straightforward. All I had to do was keep to the road. I had been through the Wood twice now. I did not think it held any danger for me.
“But I did not count on the storm.”
“What storm, sir?” Dominic asked in the startled silence that followed my father’s words. “With the exception of that bit of rain we had this morning, the weather has been fine here the whole time you’ve been gone.”
“You set my mind at ease,” my father answered, “strange as that may sound. For the storm I encountered on that night was like none I have ever experienced. It was almost as if it had a will, a mind of its own. As if it sought me out.
“I’d not been in the Wood more than half an hour when it struck. After that, I could not keep track of the time.”
“But surely nothing dangerous could happen,” Maman said. “As long as you did what you said and stayed on the road.”
“That’s precisely what I did,” my father replied. “But on that day, in that storm, the road led to a place it had not before. I think, perhaps, that this destination was always there, waiting for the right set of circumstances and the right person to come along.”
Silence filled the kitchen, but in it was the question that resonated in every mind.
“Where did the road take you, Papa?” I finally asked.
“To the heart of the Wood,” my father replied.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I think it was the wind that did it,” my father continued. “The wind made it so hard to see where I was going. For it drove the rain straight into my face, forcing me to bow my head down. And the sound . . .”
He broke off and shook his head, as if to dispel the memory.
“Not filled with rage, as high winds so often are. But if true loneliness ever had a voice, it would cry out with the sound of that wind. Even as it pushed against me, it seemed to pull me forward.
“I have no idea how long I traveled,” my father said. “I rode until I was soaked clear through to the skin, and my horse began to stumble. Finally, I got down and led him, fearful that I’d take a fall and injure myself. But also so that I could feel the road beneath my feet and know that I still traveled on it.”
“But you said you never the left the road,” Celeste countered.
“Nor did I,” replied my father. “Remember how we marveled at how smooth and even the surface of the roadway was? The longer I went on, the more it seemed the road began to change beneath my feet, even as I walked along it. It became rough and uneven as if, instead of being well kept up, it had been abandoned, forgotten. It was all I could do to keep my balance.
