of it,” Sarah said, stepping forward as she glared down her aristocratic nose at Flora. “That child stole my favorite shawl, and when I yelled at him, he threw it in the mud and ran away.”
Flora hadn’t witnessed the incident, but she had seen Sarah screeching at Pierre. She’d stopped her supper preparations and run after the little boy.
“Pierre was terrified,” Flora said calmly. “As I’ve told you before, he doesn’t speak English, and therefore couldn’t understand what you were saying. Imagine how you would feel if a stranger yelled at you in another language.”
Pierre came closer to Flora, wrapping his arms around her leg and hiding in her skirts.
“Well I’m not a thief, and I’m quite civilized, so strangers have no reason to yell at me.”
“He’s four years old,” Flora said firmly. “There are many things he hasn’t learned yet.”
She rubbed his back, then pulled him off her skirts so she could kneel in front of him. Very gently, she asked him in French what had happened.
Tears started flowing down his face before the words came out. Finally, Flora understood.
“He didn’t mean any harm.” Flora held Pierre close as she spoke to Sarah. “According to Pierre, you’d tossed aside your shawl and it fell off the bench and into the dirt. Pierre thought he was being helpful and went to pick it up. He said it smelled exactly like his mother before she passed away, and it made him miss her. He misses her dreadfully, and now with his father having disappeared, he was feeling lonely. So he wrapped himself in your shawl and used it to feel close to her. When you saw him and started yelling at him, it scared him. He didn’t mean to drop it in the mud. But he was terrified, and you didn’t even bother to find out what had happened. Pierre meant no harm.”
Despite her explanation, Flora could still see the steam coming out of Sarah’s ears.
“My shawl is ruined.”
“I’ll gladly replace it,” Flora said.
Sarah only glared at her. “It’s irreplaceable. I added the lace myself.” Then she grunted. “Smells like his mother. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. My shawl would never smell like a...peasant.” Spittle flew out of her mouth in a most unladylike manner. Derision curled her lip, and Flora hated that she’d once been a party to such behavior.
“I believe you wear French perfume, do you not? His mother was French. It’s not such a stretch to imagine that you might share the same taste in fragrance.”
Before Sarah could issue another retort—and from the expression on her face, it looked like she was working up a good one—Pastor Lassiter stepped forward.
“Ah, yes. I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation.” He smiled at Flora, then down at little Pierre. “But that does lead me to something I’d like to speak to you all about. Part of why I invited you all to come up with me is that I’ve noticed a great deal of disharmony amongst you young ladies, and my hope is that our time in the camp brings you closer together and gives you a deeper sense of community.”
He turned to look at Sarah and the other women. “While what happened to your shawl was unfortunate, Pierre was trying to help, but got carried away. But as you see, Flora is accepting responsibility for the situation and has offered to make it right.”
Sarah opened her mouth to argue, but the pastor held up his hand. “I won’t tolerate any more squabbles. We need to think more in terms of how we can love and serve one another, instead of being loved and served. Sarah, now that you know Pierre took your shawl because it reminded him of his mother, perhaps you could find another shawl or blanket to offer him? Spray it with some of your perfume so he has that comfort. Imagine what it must feel like to have lost a mother and now have your father missing.”
The words sounded strange to Flora. Usually the lectures were always about how Flora had been wrong and what she needed to do to rectify the situation. Part of her waited for the chastisement to be turned toward her. And yet, it didn’t come. Pastor Lassiter smiled broadly at her.
“I know you are all frustrated and angry because you think it is unfair that Flora gets to sleep in the cabin instead of in a tent. And that I’ve reduced her duties so that she can care for Pierre. Ordinarily, I’d ask for you all to take turns helping with him, but since Flora is the only one who speaks his language, I want him to have consistency of care. Our hope, and our prayer, is that we would find Pierre’s father quickly.”
As Pastor Lassiter explained his plans for finding Pierre’s father, Flora felt George move to stand behind her, close enough that she could feel the comfort of his presence emanating in her direction. He wanted to be a friend to her, to stand beside her. But he seemed to understand that though they shared a bond because of Pierre, he couldn’t get too close. He couldn’t be everything Flora could imagine him being.
She shook her head quickly, trying to banish those images from her head. They came too easily, but it was impossible to think that there would ever be anything more than a casual acquaintance between the two of them. Even if her parents were to accept such a match, as selfish as it sounded, Flora wasn’t willing to trade her life in their well-appointed home for rusticating in a cabin in the middle of some smelly mining camp. Stealing a glance at him, she noticed a smile at the corners of his lips. Would he still smile if he knew what she was thinking? That despite their shared love of a little boy, and their easy way of talking, there was no hope for anything else between them?
Flora sighed. Whatever he thought, it was none of her business. The only thing that mattered right then was helping the little boy clinging to her skirts. And maybe, if the other women could see that she truly was trying to be the woman God created her to be, maybe everything in her life would finally be back to normal. She’d have friends, eligible bachelors would start calling on her again, and then she could get married and start a family of her own. A perfect plan.
Only the weight of George’s gaze on her didn’t make it feel so perfect at all.
A week later, they hadn’t come any closer to finding Pierre’s father, Henri. It was as though the man had never existed. Except there was a little boy missing him who said otherwise. Today, George found himself walking through the mining area itself, hoping that someone would recognize the little boy happily swinging between him and Flora.
The mine was no place for a child, but George had no other ideas. They’d walked Pierre through the camp a number of times, hoping the little boy would recognize someone, or at least some of the scenery. The only thing Pierre seemed interested in was going fishing, but George felt guilty at the thought. How could he replace the little boy’s father in what had clearly been an important bonding time between them?
Flora and Pierre were singing “Frère Jacques,” and George couldn’t help but enjoy Flora’s melodic voice. Though Flora had spoken disdainfully of her feminine accomplishments earlier, George was impressed with how readily she sang with the little boy, a pastime he seemed to enjoy greatly.
Pierre stopped singing and looked up at him expectantly. “Chante!”
“He wants me to sing with you, doesn’t he?” George looked over at Flora, who smiled broadly.
“It would appear so.” She gave the little boy an affectionate look, and once again George was struck by how readily she opened her heart to a child who needed it. It seemed like the other ladies in the camp hadn’t warmed to Flora, and her only friends seemed to be the pastor and Rose. A shame, because from what George could see, Flora had so much to give.
Pierre tugged at his hand. “J’enseigne!”
George looked at Flora for translation.
“He said he will teach you.” Her words came out with a slight giggle, like she found the prospect delightful.
Delightful,