Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter. Cathy’s First Letter.

28 December 1023, L’Isle du Grand-Blaireau

Amelia,

I wish joyeux noël to you and Maximilian, and I am glad that you are not present to hear me butcher the Provençese language. I have been making a study of it, truly I have, with the help of the Henricots, Corinne, and Lucie—and also that of Amelie and Elise. They tell me that I begin to make some progress, though I will tell you that it is slow and painful and tres amusant (if so I may judge from Corinne’s titters).

This past Sunday was Christmas, of course, and so we did little business during the previous days. The business folk of Mont Havre were all snug at home in the city with their families, and the Christmas traditions of the folk of Bois-de-Bas do not include visiting inns. “And why should they?” as His Napes said to me.

But that is not to say that we were not busy, for Christmas Eve we hosted a feast for your cousin and his family and friends. That is to say, the festivities were held at the Two Sloops, but really it was your cousin’s party. We had Armand and Amelie of course, and their children, Anne-Marie, Maggie, and little Jackie. His Napes spent a good deal of the evening with his namesake bouncing on his knee.

We were joined by a couple I had met only in passing, Jean Baptiste and his wife Brigitte, who work with Amelie in her store, and also by Madame Truc and Jacques-la-Souris, a most colorful pair of elders. I do not know how they came to reside with Amelie and Armand, but they seem to be honorary grandparents to their children. I had the pleasure of sitting with Jacques-la-Souris during dinner, and found him to be a font of stories about the early days of the colony, told with great gusto as the little girls hopped in and out of his lap. He also told me a few stories about your cousin’s early days here in Armorica, at least until Madame Truc gave him a sharp look from across the table.

“Ah! You see how she oppresses me?” he said, shaking his head. “It was ever thus. To learn la discrétion at my age, c’est tres difficile, but c’est la vie.”

“And if you should learn la discrétion, mon coeur,” she said, “c’est merveilleux. I have ceased to hope.”

And of course we had Marc and Elise Frontenac and their children, and your cousin’s apprentices. Masters Luc and Bastien and the others did not join us, as they were spending the evening with their own extended families, nor did Corinne and Lucie, but the Henricot’s grown children sat down to dinner with us.

Oh, it was a merry gathering!

One by one the children dropped off to sleep and were put to bed in one or another of our guest rooms, leaving the adults to their merriment. And then, as the fire grew low in the dining room, they were awakened again, and dressed in their best clothes, and we all trooped out to the caravan and made the still, silent voyage through the clear night to the church for the midnight service.

I have not joined your Old Religion, Amelia, but I nevertheless have been attending services here in Bois-de-Bas nearly since I arrived. I am grateful for my new start, and for the Good Lord’s pardon, and so it seems only right to acknowledge that. And more, the services here are so different to the ones I grew up with in Nexinghamshire, and far more beautiful: the candles, the clouds of incense, the chanting. Even His Napes, who rarely attends, seemed deeply moved.

We returned to the Island to sleep, His Napes, the Henricots, and I, and on Christmas morning His Napes and I returned to town to spend the day with your cousin and his family.

Shortly after we arrived I drew your cousin aside. “Mr. Tuppenny,” I began, and he stopped me.

“Call me Armand,” he said, handing me a hot drink.

“Thank you,” I said, for my hands were chilled and the mug was warm. “I have been wanting to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“When I first arrived in Bois-de-Bas, you helped me for Amelia’s sake; but your manner was cold, and I knew that you did not trust me.” Armand made as if to speak, but I carried on. “With good reason, if I may say so. But now your manner is so much warmer—indeed, I declare that you are treating me like family.”

He smiled broadly. “It is as I told you when your brother came to us: I know what it is to leave home and make a new start. My spies”—and here he indicated Amelie and His Napes—”have been reporting to me right along, and so I know that you have made your new start in earnest and with great diligence. You are Amelie’s friend, and Jack’s; and Jack’s good sense is not to be despised, hard won though it was.”

Here he cocked his head. “And also, I am now acquainted with your brother John. He is brilliant, but I can well imagine he was difficult to live with.”

“Thank you—Armand,” I said. “And where is John? For I noted his absence both last night and today.”

“Busy, evidently,” he said. “He was invited, of course, but as you say, he is not here.”

I nodded. “I can well imagine that he is. And is he working out for you?”

“There are one or two things he’s working on that we might be able to make use of.”

“I am so glad to hear it. Perhaps if he brings a project to completion he won’t be so driven.”

Your cousin laughed. “Unlikely, I think. But we shall see.”

I joined the company, and in the course of that happy day I found little Jackie asleep in my arms, and sat with him for some time, stricken.

What have I given up, Amelia? And is it too late?

Cathy

Next letter

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Photo by Mariana B. on Unsplash