“Till chance favors our journey farther.”
“A few days more or less can make no difference.”
“Delays are dangerous, and hope deferred maketh the heart sick. The child there has friends who mourn for her, who sicken with doubt and dread.”
“I understand that, yet I would fain detain you till my son returns. He can give you the best information about reaching your home, and will see that you have safe conduct down the river to Albany. The girl has led too rough a life, I fear, but I would like to give Trynje a young companion, yet I wonder would it be safe for her.” She spoke reflectively, as if not addressing any one, but upon Jeanne’s face came a look such as her brother wore upon occasions.
She controlled herself, however, and said, simply, “The girl is a good child, madam. I have guarded her as my own daughter. She is as pure and sweet as yonder maiden could possibly be.”
“But she has spent days in the company of rough men, has heard their ribald jests, their low songs.”
“She has not, for in her presence, boy though they supposed her to be, they dared not say or sing anything she might not hear.”
Madam smiled. “The fact does you credit.” She waved her hand as if to dismiss the subject.
Jeanne bowed. After the storm and stress of the past few weeks it would not be unpleasant to take a little rest. “Meanwhile,” continued Madam, with a bright glance at Alaine, “we will contrive to get word to the girl’s friends. It will be enough that they know she is safe and will return when opportunity allows. Yes, that is how we must manage it, and then you need be in no haste to depart. I will myself send letters to Orange.” She leaned her head on her hand and looked out and beyond the tall figure before her into the light of spring. Jeanne felt herself dismissed, but Madam recalled her. “You will not refuse to join us at meals, M. Crepin? and if I need the girl’s quick fingers with my letters, you will not disallow it?”
“We shall both be grateful, madam.”