Morning Mass had begun. On the Altar of Sainte-Benigne, candles that Lydia had dipped flickered. This day was not just any day. It was the day of her birth. Fifteen years ago, she had entered the world. Fifteen. If Fader had had his way, she would have a child by now, maybe another on the way, or she would have lost a child by now, or she would be dead. None of those things had happened. Would she ever want a child of her own?Would she ever risk her life to have one? Would she ever love a man enough to allow him to plant his seed in her? Two years ago the answer had been a resounding no. Today, she felt a longing for her own family. She wanted to lay eyes on bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh. Why? Why this change of heart? What had stirred this peculiar and unwelcome longing?

The words of Father Thomas’ homily were lost on her. Her mind traveled over memories she had, and memories she conjured. She saw her mother’s face and Aunt Rachel’s. They seemed far away this morning and not near. They and Bab had witnessed her birth. She knew Moder well enough to know that she had rejoiced in her arrival, but had she also grieved that she had ushered a female into the world? Every woman wanted to give her man a son, a lineage. Moder had wanted that desperately. If any of her dead babies had been a boy, would her grief have been greater at the loss? Would she have died even sooner? Inside Lydia’s mind and heart the answer echoed, “Aye.”

As for Aunt Rachel, how had she coped with all those years of ushering life into the world, or bringing forth the dead? How many mother’s and babies had she witnessed live or die? What a strong woman she had been. One of the warriors of this life. Lydia had not been given the gift that Aunt Rachel had, but she was determined to be just as faithful to her calling as Aunt Rachel had been.

Of all those present at her birth, only Bab remained. For years, she had been thought her dead but she still lived, while Moder and Aunt Rachel did not. Moder had been gone over a year, had it really been a year? At times it felt more like a decade. As for Aunt Rachel, it had been over a year since she had last seen her living. On that long ago morning, she had no idea, that she was seeing that lovely face for the very last time. Since Lydia had not witnessed the death, nor seen the burial, Aunt Rachel’s absence from earth felt less real.

The words that Father Thomas spoke, broke into Lydia’s thoughts.“iugum enim meum suave est et onus meum leve est.”*She repeated the words herself. Her burden was indeed light, not just the spiritual kind, but the physical kind as well. The better the candle, the better the light. To Lydia, nothing was so satisfying as a well made batch of candles. And nothing was as comforting as sitting in the pool of light cast by a well made candle.She found comfort in the flames that danced at the tip of the altar candles. Once again, Lydia found comfort in the Sainte-Benigne. Father Thomas’ voice soothed the rumpled edges of her spirit.

After every Friday morning Mass she delivered a fresh batch of candles. For a half hour afterwards on Friday, Father Thomas took time to help her with her penance. On bits of parchment he copied scriptures for her to trace on the wax tablet she had made forherself.He helped her with the execution of the letters and repeated over and over the correct pronunciation. Her reading and writing continued to improve as did her understanding.Father Thomas was a gift. If she had not traveled so far, she would have never met him, never continued her education in the way she could now. She was so thankful Father Thomas was not adverse to developing the mind and spirit of a female.

After her lesson, Lydia did not go straight back to the shop. What she was longing for this morning was the crash of waves upon the shore. Would she ever hear that sound again? If not the waves, then she needed the sound of flowing water. She made her way to Le Raines. It’s stream caught the light of the sun and tossed it back to her. For several moments she just listened to the soft song of its flowing waters. In memory she traveled back to the River Test and her tenth birthday. Moder was with her and so was Hannah and Aunt Rachel.She remembered how the willow leaves had created lacy patterns over the water. That long ago day, she had been happy. Moder was not sick with a pregnancy or grieving the loss of a babe. Moder was happy too. Though her laughter was rare, it rang that day.Lydia could hear it still. She closed her eyes and recalled in detail the exact spot they often visited by the River Test. Deeply she breathed in the air. She smelled, water, earth and something else. Could it be? She opened her eyes. There were a few straggly blue bells on the ground. How had bluebells come to be here? They were a gift from God. She dropped to her knees and inhaled their aroma. They smelled of home and happiness.

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She rocked back on her heels and studied the tattered beauties. To her their blossoms had always looked like tiny fairy caps. Bab once told her, the Wee folk wore them when they danced. Bees buzzed among the blossoms still heavy with dew. One bee flitted right passed her. It soared into the clear sky and disappeared into the rising white ball of the sun. The morning light was blinding. She squinted her eyes.

A quack from the Le Raines drew Lydia’s eyes back to the water. A mother duck paddled around with some almost mature ducklings. They looked awkward and unsure to Lydia. This morning she felt awkward and unsure of herself. Each year she entered held new surprises and challenges. What would this year bring her? She hoped for continued employment and independence. But, there would be other things that would come. She braced herself to face them.

A vain drake strutted on the shore. He reminded Lydia of Antone. Were those ducklings the drake’s? Lydia could not help but wonder if Antone, somewhere had a few ducklings of his own. She also wondered if Antone, James and Brother Matthew had made it safely back to Southampton? Where was Antone now? Would she ever see him again? It was strange realization that she had been separated from him as long as she had been in his company. During the day, her work kept her occupied and she did not think of him at all. Some nights, just before sleep over took her, she would see him in the light of camp fire. She would long to hear his voice. A part of her knew time was coloring him in clothes that he did not wear. Who was he enchanting now? She was not vain enough to believe that he had stopped his flirting because of her. He was a creature of impulse and attraction. Who was he fixated on now? In an effort to dislodge his memory, she shook her head.

There was a step behind her and she turned. To her surprise she saw that it was Jon Paul Gerard. Fixed to his belt was an axe, a spike, a small shovel and large knife. Over his shoulder was an empty bag and in his hand was a bucket of dried cow dung. Lydia knew what he was going to do. He was off to smoke out a hive of bees. Someone in the area must need a hive removed. He smiled when he saw her. “Good Morning Mademoiselle. So you too are a creature that seeks solace in the music of water.”

His words were almost poetry and he had estimated her correctly. “Oui, Monsieur.”

He turned his attention to the flowing stream. “There is nothing like light on water, except for maybe bees in flight. Do you agree?”

“Not entirely, there is also the light that dances from the candle wick.”

He gave her a knowing smile. “Indeed, you are correct as usual.”

His assessment of her intelligence pleased her. She said, “It looks like you are off to smoke out some bees.”

“Indeed I am. Madame Pascal hired me. She is not fond of the company of bees in her garden shed.”

Lydia said, “My Aunt Rachel adored bees. She kept the hives that supplied the wax for my fader’s candle shop. Her wax, like your own, was superior.”

He laid his hand over his heart and said, “Ah, you could not have given me a finer compliment.” His face beamed and his eyes sparked delight.

Had she been too generous in her comment? The last thing she wanted to was plant ideas in his head. She started to rise. Her heel caught on her hem. He reached for her hand to steady her. There was something so solid about him. She placed her hand in his. His fingers were muscular. They encompassed her small hand with their strength. The instant she was standing upright, he let go and said, “I must be off. It was as always a pleasure to see you, Mademoiselle Wade.”

“Thank you Monsieur.” She watched him walk away from her. He had an easy stride. Her hand still felt the warmth of his. Unbeknownst to her, a smile of pleasure curled her lips.

*For my yoke is sweet and my burden light Matthew 11:30