“Put it behind you, Vivienne.” Armand’s cane slowly tapped the ground as he approached her. “There are some things I cannot fix. But there are some that I can. It has been some time since I sent funds for your keeping. You must have needs. Allow me to supply them.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, collecting herself. More than anything, she wanted to tell him she was fine, that she was already secure. But she was neither, and they both knew it. Even so, she was loath to accept his money.
At the scrape of wood on stone, she angled to see Mr. Delaney filling the doorway to the tavern’s cellar kitchen. Taking his hat in his hands, he stepped closer, then halted in a shaft of sunshine that set his chestnut hair ablaze. Questions lined his brow. After a fleeting glance at Armand, his gaze held Vivienne’s. “May I be of some service to you?”
Tara emerged behind him.
Sluicing the tears from her cheeks, Vivienne took in Tara’s flushed face, her hands rough from working and doing, while her own had gone shamefully soft. An idea bloomed, and Vienne stepped toward her. “Please. I have no letter of introduction, but if I may be so bold, Tara . . . may I be of some service to you? In the kitchen, perhaps?”
A cry broke from Armand. “So you do need resources. I will help you, you needn’t work!”
“I don’t want your money, Armand. What I want is employ.”
The color rose in his cheeks. “As a scullery maid?”
“If that is the work that needs to be done, then yes. I would do it.” She hid her smooth hands in the folds of her skirt. “But I can also bake, if that would serve. Baguettes, croissants, pies, and tarts.” It was time to put to use everything she’d learned helping Paulette in the pension kitchen. “If Monsieur Collet can open an ice cream shop, why should a former lacemaker not bake bread?”
Mr. Delaney’s eyebrows arched for a moment, but an easy smile chased the surprise from his face. “If you can bake half as well as you stitch—” He looked to his sister.
Tara nodded, one fist on her hip. “It so happens that Rachel could use some help with bread. Come tomorrow morning, and we’ll see how you do.”
Agreeing to the trial, Vivienne clasped Tara’s callused hand, hope fluttering through her.
Armand shook his head and muttered, “I don’t understand you at all. You are so unlike your mother.”
Genuine laughter escaped her at the consternation on his face. Gratitude and relief swelling inside her, she swept him a low and elegant curtsy. “Thank you, Armand, for noticing.”
Chapter Ten
The mademoiselle was becoming more interesting to Liam by the moment. Standing a respectful distance away, he waited while she said good-bye to Armand and added instructions for the care of his wound. As soon as the monsieur took his leave, Liam offered her his arm.
“If you’re ready to go home, I’ll take you,” he said in French, thinking to put her more at ease on a day that was already taxing.
“English, please.” The frankness of her gaze was arresting. “Though your French is passable. Have you lived abroad?”
“My parents came from Ireland, but I was born here,” he told her. “My father, a scholar and teacher, spoke as much French as English to me as I grew up, and I continued to learn through my formal education after he died. But no, I’ve not used it in France. America is my only home.”
“And now it is mine,” she replied. “I wish to speak the common language.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “As you wish.”
“Good. And I’ll thank you to correct me when I make mistakes. Yes? It will be a favor to me.” She placed her hand on his arm.
“You want me to tell you when you’re wrong.”
Something glimmered in the eyes that looked up at him. “Only because I so want to get it right.”
“In all my years as a schoolmaster, I can count on one hand the number of students who specifically requested correction.” That she was an émigré, and eager to assimilate, made it all the more surprising. “’Twill be a pleasure to coach you, if you ever give evidence of needing it.” He guided her to the alley and then along the sidewalk in the direction she pointed.
“You’re a schoolmaster!” She looked so pleased, he was sorry to disappoint her.
Liam steered her around a puddle before responding. “I was. Now I’m a farmer. And a mail carrier between my village and Philadelphia, but that’s mostly so I can visit Tara and our cousin Finn, when he happens to be in the city at the same time. You met Finn briefly.” A grin slanting on his face, he held one eye shut as he looked at her, a reminder of the backwoodsman’s most distinguishing characteristic.
Her laugh was light and musical. “Yes, I remember.” A butterfly swooped before them, alighting on the tip of an iron fence before winging away again, a blur of orange and black. “You changed your trade. Surely you don’t find it odd that I’m willing to bake instead of make lace now, do you?”
“Not at all. You’re adapting to a new life. Besides, both occupations are about creating something with your own two hands. Lace is beautiful and no doubt requires more skill.” He glanced at the trimming on her neckline and sleeves, realizing she likely created it herself. “But bread is life, isn’t it? Gives a person the strength to do what must be done. ’Tis a noble thing, that. To create that which sustains.”
The mademoiselle nodded. “And this is why you farm. Is that right? To bring a harvest from the land by your two hands?”
“Two hands, one back, and a whole lot of sweat. But there’s nothing sweeter than living by my own labor. Before I had my own land, as a schoolmaster, I lodged with the families of my students a few months at a time. Always moving around, beholden to strangers for the roof over my head and the food on my board . . . Well, it seemed a poor way for a man to live. I needed to sink my roots deep into a place of my own. Sounds strange to you, maybe, but my land and I take care of each other.” It was a matter of independence and pride.
They paused at a street corner, waiting for a horse and chaise to trundle by. On the other side of the road, a couple of Quakers in black suits and round hats weaved through a group of aristocrats, like crows among peacocks. Next to Liam, a woman exited a perfumery, the pungent waft that followed her cloying in the summer air. The fresh air and peace of home seemed far away.
Mademoiselle Rivard peered at him around the brim of her hat. The ribbon beneath her chin flirted with the breeze. “It sounds like you and your land have a special relationship.”
Her smile drew a laugh to his lips as he ushered her across the street. “That we do. And speaking of relationships, is Armand de Champlain your kin?” Today was not the first time he’d noticed a tension between them. At the Binghams’ house in May, there was a strain he’d not managed to decipher. “You have the same chin.”
“Do we?” Her hand floated up toward her chin but dropped again before she reached it. “We don’t get along very well. In fact, we barely know each other.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he said, “I don’t mean to pry. But you seemed so upset earlier, and you don’t seem the type to cry over spilled blood.” He cringed, aghast at his choice of words, for he could only imagine what she’d seen in Paris. “I meant Armand’s wound, of course. You handled it with calm efficiency. Was it the sans-culottes in the street who distressed you?”
“Of course they distressed me.” Her voice was quiet, but steady.
“They are fools. Parading about for a cause they don’t understand, drunk on violence and heedless of who they harm. You must know I don’t approve of that, for all my love of liberty.” Why Mademoiselle Rivard’s perception of his stand suddenly mattered to him, he could not say. But he could not abide being lumped in with those rogues in her mind.
“I know that.” She shifted her gaze from one lamppost to another as they passed them on the sidewalk, as if they were anchors for her thoughts. From behind, a barking dog shot around her, tearing after a squirrel. “My pension is just there.” She pointed to the ne
xt block. “The Sainte-Marie.”
Liam spotted it. A few more steps brought them to the door of the property she called home. A shrunken thing it was, held up by the two buildings squeezing it from either side. His chest constricted just looking at it. “Are you happy here?” he asked. “It’s not what you were used to in Paris.”
Her lips curved in a winsome grin. “I did not expect to find the equal of the Palais-Royal in so young a town. But I am—what is the word? Adaptable?”
“Yes.” Slipping back into French customs, he took her hand and bowed over it as he bid her adieu. “Tell me,” he said as he released fingers that were porcelain smooth, and as delicate. “Would you—who have lived and worked in the most fashionable district in all of Europe—would you really agree to be a scullery maid?”
She crossed her arms, tucking her hands beneath the lace at her elbows. “If it was the only alternative to accepting funds from Armand, yes. I would do that work and be grateful.”
Liam could tell from the lift of her chin that she meant it. There was a defiance in her eyes he recognized. It was liberty she wanted, from Armand. She was fighting for her own independence with more than a little pride. And that, he understood.
Before the sun awakened the next day, Vivienne arrived at the Four Winds Tavern, ready to prove she could bake well enough to be hired on to the staff. Amber light from the fire and candles cast a glow about the cellar kitchen. The low, timbered ceiling and bricked walls gave the space a close atmosphere, which would no doubt be sweltering later. For now, however, it felt to Vienne like being enfolded in a warm embrace.
“Mercy, if that don’t smell like heaven itself.” Rachel pointed to the bowl Vienne had brought with her. “What is it?”
Breathing in the yeasty aroma, Vivienne set the bowl on the stout worktable and peeled off the cloth covering to reveal a white, bubbly mass. “It’s called a sponge. I made this at my pension yesterday afternoon, because it needs to rest at least twelve hours before it can be used to make dough for the baguettes.” Madame Barouche had been a dear to let her borrow ingredients from the pension pantry.
“Well, anything you need this morning, you go ahead and use it.” Rachel poured a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to Vienne before showing her where the sugar, salt, and flour were. “Just say if you need something you can’t find, all right? I’m working on some berry preserves this morning before the breakfast orders begin, but I can sure enough point you in the right direction with one hand while I stir my pot with the other.” Her laughter matched that of the crackling fire in the hearth.
Thanking her, Vivienne busied herself with her work. Not that it felt like labor. A bit of sugar, a pinch of salt, a few cups of flour, and the sponge transformed into a dough that turned stringy and difficult to turn in the bowl. Perfect. She dusted the table with flour, then turned out the dough on the surface, kneading to the rhythm of Rachel’s humming. The soft dough yielded beneath her hands as she shaped it into a ball and set it back in the bowl. Vienne’s hope rose along with it.
With the better part of an hour to wait, her memory scrolled through recipes she’d learned from Paulette. With Rachel’s blessing, she made a lattice-crust cherry pie. After the last strip of dough was pinched into place, she punched down the baguette dough and let it rise again. At last it was time to roll it out and divide it into three equal rectangles. These she formed into oblong loaves, using the heel of her hand to seal the folded edge along its entire length. Covering these, she set them aside to rest again, which gave her time to put together a blueberry and strawberry tart.
Morning sun crept into the kitchen through the windows near the ceiling, washing the room with a pink blush. A girl arrived to begin boiling eggs and peeling potatoes, with Rachel presiding from her pots of raspberry preserves. Once Vivienne’s creations were in the brick oven, the kitchen was near to bursting with mouthwatering aromas of fresh baguettes and simmering berries. Time seemed to slow until the baking was complete.
As if Tara somehow knew when Vienne’s masterpieces had cooled enough to sample, she descended the stairs with her lanky cousin and blue-eyed brother in tow.
“Saints alive!” She feigned a swoon upon spying the bread and pastries. “I brought Finn and Liam to help taste what you’ve made, but my appetite just grew three times larger. Off with you now, boys, I’ve got this covered.” She flashed a cheeky grin at the men, then ordered them to sit on the stools at the worktable and wait to be served.
Vivienne pressed the back of her hand to her sweat-dampened brow, then offered the first baguette to Tara. “Break it open, but mind the steam.”
The golden crust crunched as Tara tore it, revealing the perfect airy bread inside. Rachel nudged a crock of butter toward them, and Tara passed the baguette around. When it was Vienne’s turn to place a piece in her mouth, the bread melted on her tongue.
“Oh, is that good.” Mr. Delaney closed his eyes while he chewed.
Finn rubbed a hand over his mess of short curls. “Man does not live on bread alone. Don’t hold back now.”
With cautious confidence, Vivienne served slices of the pie and tart before sampling them herself. The tart was perfect, but the cherry pie wasn’t quite as sweet as it might have been. “I can add more sugar to the pie next time.”
“No need.” Mr. Delaney swallowed another forkful. “This is just the way I like it. Sweet enough, but with a little kick to it.” He finished the rest of his piece and glanced at his sister. “Like Tara here.”
Tara elbowed him in the ribs, holding her hand over her mouth as she laughed. With one large-knuckled hand, Finn banged the table in agreement, rattling the dishes on the board. The kitchen was barely large enough to hold their merriment.
“Mmm-mm!” Rachel licked her lips. “Well, are you going to let the lady do this again and pay her for it? I sure would count it a blessing to have the help around here.”
Vivienne held her breath and looked at Tara, who told her the terms of pay.
“What do you say? Will you join us, Mademoiselle Rivard?”
“Please, you must call me Vivienne, or Vienne.” She drew in a breath. Released it. “And yes. I agree.”
Tara beamed as she pumped Vienne’s hand. “Then welcome to the Four Winds family. ’Twas Providence that brought you to our door yesterday, though it was Liam who pulled you through it.”
More laughter, and this time Vienne joined in. “Indeed.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, thank God and Mr. Delaney for that.”
“It’s Liam.” His broad hand enveloped hers as he shook it. “And you’re very welcome.” The warmth in his voice hinted that he knew how much all this meant to her.
Finn announced that he needed to journey west straightaway, and he snatched up the second baguette. “For the road?” he asked Tara, who nodded.
Liam lifted the third long loaf and raised it toward Vienne in a kind of toast. “To your noble work and your new life in America. May you and the Four Winds take good care of each other.”
His smile filled Vienne with hope.
The days and weeks that followed fell into a pleasing rhythm for Vivienne. Rising before dawn became routine, and she looked forward to the quiet walks over dew-studded bricks while the lamplighter snuffed out his wicks. Rachel, always first in the kitchen, greeted her with a pot of coffee, and their morning together began.
Fire popping in the hearth, bowls scraping across the table, a knife thumping on a board. This was the music that heralded the dawn. Vienne added more specialties to the Four Winds menu: scones, cobblers, trifles. But her favorite remained the daily baguettes, a bittersweet tribute to France. Outside the tavern, tricolor cockades were still seen on Philadelphia’s streets, and revolutionary news from across the ocean grew ever bloodier. But it was easier here, while she focused on work, to forget that. Energy thrummed through her as she baked, while Rachel cooked and others peeled or scrubbed, and Tara blew in and out like a strong gust of wind.
Despite the swirlin
g activity, Vienne’s spirit calmed as her hands worked the dough. The way it became firm and elastic with pounding, and the way it rested and doubled in size afterward, became to her a kind of truth. A picture of resilience she hoped to mirror. Martine remained limp and deflated by her trials, but Tara, who Vienne learned had lost both parents and a husband, had risen above, with an even larger capacity for joy and compassion.
When Vienne punched through the air pockets in a lump of dough, she prayed, Fill my empty places with Your love and faithfulness. As she rolled and sealed her baguettes: Make smooth my rough edges, Lord. And so with flour dusting her hair and sweat beading her face and neck, Vienne shaped her bread, and believed that God was shaping her, too.
Chapter Eleven
Parasol in hand and a willow basket swinging from her elbow, Vivienne waded through humidity that dampened her white muslin gown to her skin. The texture of the August air was nothing to the heat of the tavern kitchen, but the incessant whine of mosquitoes did grow tiresome.
Beside her, Martine panted for breath beneath her own fringed parasol. Henri’s flushed face glowed with perspiration, and his golden hair curled at his neck.
“Perhaps this isn’t good for him.” Martine stepped over an apple core crawling with ants. Light danced over her tangerine silk gown, radiant as the sun, while her skin and hair remained pale as the moon. Though Vienne had been too busy at the tavern to notice, Paulette reported that the former lady-in-waiting had grown even more reclusive since the sans-culottes had jumped into the Fourth of July parade last month. Jacobins were now printing essays in the newspapers and growing more boisterous in the streets.
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