A Heart Adrift, page 14
The night watch was on patrol, halting him as he approached, lanthorn held high.
“I’ve business with the trustee, Mr. Boles,” Henri told him, dismounting.
“Is he expecting ye, sir?”
“Nay, but he’ll be glad of it.”
With a nod, the watchman left him, and Henri opened his saddlebags. Soon he was escorted toward a small building that served as both living quarters and office for the supervisor of the entire almshouse. Wherry had spoken well of Boles but less so of the trustee matron. Henri regretted finding them both in one place, having tea by the fire, clearly taken aback by his sudden appearing—or rather irritated by the intrusion, judging from the matron’s sour expression.
“And you are, sir?” Boles inquired politely, coming forward.
“Simply a benefactor and champion of the poor,” Henri replied, heaving the sacks of specie atop Boles’s desk. They jingled as they settled, rousing the matron, who abandoned her tea and came nearer.
“The bequest comes with conditions.” Henri fixed a stern eye upon them both. “’Tis to be wisely stewarded for the benefit of all those beneath the almshouse roof—every man, woman, and child as well as the French émigrés in your midst. Not ferreted or spent selfishly by those in positions of authority such as yourselves.” Here he held the eye of Mistress Boles. “I have contacts—informants, if you will—who will report to me any suspected double-dealing. Depending on how you conduct yourselves and manage the monies given you, more might be forthcoming in future.”
Clearly skittish, Boles began untying the sacks. The knots finally gave way and he stood slack-jawed. Spanish pistoles and pieces of eight were common enough in the colonies, but rarely in such quantities.
“Sir—” Astonishment washed his weary face. “Gold doubloons and silver dollars? ’Tis a fortune.”
“Aye. All in need of careful consideration and wise handling.”
“May we not ask your name, kind sir?” the matron queried meekly. “Your occupation?”
“Nay.” Not even Wherry knew about tonight. Henri wished he could have simply left the specie at the door. “Treat it as you would any endowment or bequest. But say nothing from whence it came.”
“You have my word, sir,” Boles replied without hesitation.
Their effusive thanks followed him as he went out the door, as glad to get away as he was to lighten Trident’s load. Night riding was new to him—dangerously so. In the dark he couldn’t see hazards in his path, but Trident seemed to have a sixth sense about him, hastening him to Williamsburg in good time beneath a full moon.
Generosity always left him with a warmth deep inside, an inextinguishable light in a world gone awry. What good were the prizes he’d gotten if not shared? Perhaps such would delight Esmée when she learned of it, even if she’d never know its source.
Truly, the smallest good deed was better than the grandest good intention.
The next afternoon found Esmée hurtling toward Mount Autrey with Eliza to pay a call to the aunts of Captain Lennox’s sea chaplain. Though Esmée had never seen the vast estate, she’d heard of it. Her perplexity about their visit was second to her confusion about Nathaniel Autrey’s relation to it. She’d thought him a distant relation. A poor sea chaplain and sailor. Eliza was having none of it.
“Really, Esmée.” Eliza leaned back on the seat with a sigh. “You look as though you were on your way to a wake!”
“I’m simply pondering what all this means.” Esmée smoothed her petticoats, which collided in silky profusion with her sister’s. “So the aging aunts paid a visit to you and inquired about me. I don’t suppose it was about the abundance of chocolate almonds their nephew brought them.”
“Well, they did mention them rather glowingly.”
“I don’t know why such fuss over a man I conducted business with over the counter a time or two, charming though he was.”
“If you would but pull your head out of your receipt books and mind the workings of the outside world . . .” Eliza gave that disarming smile she used when sly. “Your humble chaplain is more a ruse. Rumor has it he might well be the future heir to Mount Autrey and all it entails.”
“So?”
Eliza’s eyes narrowed in irritation. The baby was making her cross, keeping her up nights with indigestion. “So, he has expressed a fondness for you that set these dear ladies all aflutter. And it has nothing to do with Shaw’s chocolate.”
“Promise me this visit will be brief.” But wasn’t the reverend’s message last Sunday at Grace Church about honoring others with the gift of time? Conscience pricked, Esmée quickly amended, “Though elderly ladies who are oft alone deserve more.”
“Indeed.” Eliza looked less ruffled. “Most unwed women would leap at the invitation. This bodes well for you and your future.”
The coach bumped along the rutted road in dire need of the almshouse men’s rocks. Esmée’s stomach felt just as gravelly. This was not how she had envisioned her future playing out. Though it might sound unkind, Nathaniel Autrey was little more to her than one of Captain Lennox’s crew. That alone made him interesting and of merit. She had no matrimonial aspirations whatsoever.
Still, she could not stem her awe at the beauty of Mount Autrey as they turned off Tobacco Road and moved past elaborate iron gates. The mansion sat on a knoll, lending to its arresting appearance. Of Flemish bond brick, it was a feat of architecture from its multiple porticos to its parterre gardens. Yet she couldn’t ignore what kept the Autrey fortune afloat. That alone nullified any romantic prospects.
Eliza’s steady gaze was unnerving. “I know what you’re thinking, Sister. But you must say nothing of the enslaved here. ’Tis a fact of Virginia life and has ever been.”
Even as Eliza spoke, scores of Africans labored in distant fields or scurried to and from the mansion and dependencies. For once the almshouse seemed less wretched. At least the poorest of the poor there were free.
Once the coach deposited them at the entrance amid a storm of dust, Esmée and Eliza climbed wide stone steps and were soon ushered into a wide, deep foyer where a staircase curved upward to three floors. The house was old. Immense. Esmée wasn’t surprised when the butler’s voice echoed. Into the nearest parlor they went, where three elderly women awaited them. All eyes speared Esmée. There was no other word to describe it. Summoning some of Eliza’s charm, she greeted them warmly, again wondering what had led to this unexpected meeting.
“How good of you to visit us,” said the aunt who looked to be the eldest, a snowy-haired matron with a diamond-encrusted chatelaine worn at her waist. It glittered as she moved toward several chairs and gestured for them to sit.
Esmée looked from her to the other two aunts. How on earth was it possible to distinguish them if all were the Mistresses Autrey? There was no doubt, however, as to which aunt held the key to the coveted tea chest. The smallest and plumpest wore spectacles and said nary a word while the other began to talk in low tones to the exotic bird kept in a cage by a draped window.
“Allow me to introduce Charis and Dorothy, my younger sisters.” The eldest aunt gestured to them with a wrinkled, heavily ringed hand. “I am Margaret.”
“Pleased to meet you all,” Esmée said. She was at sea with names. Rarely did they make an impression. Eliza, on the other hand, had an astonishing ability to remember names and titles.
The five of them sat in low armchairs about the inlaid table. Esmée took in the elegant room redolent of beeswax and something she couldn’t name. It smelled ancient . . . unaired. She longed to open a window or two. She craved the salty tang of the sea.
“As soon as I saw you on the drive, I rang for tea,” Margaret told them.
Refreshments came, the equipage flawless, and were served in the biggest silver pot Esmée had ever seen. She placed her serviette in her lap, never more mindful of tea etiquette. These antique women looked as if they’d written the rules. Sugar first. Milk at the last, after the tea was poured. Eliza performed flawlessly, as usual. But not Esmée. A bit flustered, she added milk first.
“To put milk in your tea before sugar is to cross the path of love, perhaps never to marry,” Dorothy said with a slight, reproving smile.
“Such an amusing superstition,” Eliza countered between sips. “And may I say how I admire your spiral molded porcelain? Chelsea, I believe? And with handles, all the rage but still so rare.”
“Chelsea, yes,” Margaret said, holding her cup aloft. “No sense burning one’s hands.”
“I miss sipping from a dish,” Dorothy told them, pouring the steaming tea into her saucer with nary a misplaced drop. “The old ways die hard.”
“Have you a chocolate pot?” Esmée asked them.
Margaret made a face. “We are rather chary of cocoa, given what’s printed about it in Europe—chocolate being one of many disorders that shorten lives.”
“Oh? Our York physic espouses its health benefits—” Esmée startled as the bird squawked, her cup rattling in her saucer. “Of which there are many.”
“Chocolate is but a lure for any who happen down Water Street,” Dorothy said in whispered tones. “Heavens! A woman such as yourself doesn’t plan to keep tending shop forever, do you? And at so disagreeable a place under the hill as Water Street!”
Did they disapprove of her trade or mainly her location? Though there were many women who kept shop, it was mostly left to the middling sort, of which these women were most decidedly not.
“I’m continuing in my mother’s stead,” Esmée told them quietly. “Proudly so. As for Water Street, little else could be had as far as buildings go when my father bought it. We’re making the waterfront more respectable, I hope.”
Charis held up her empty cup, eyes plaintive.
Dorothy clucked sympathetically. “Sister is in danger of rivaling Dr. Johnson’s tea consumption at five and twenty cups in one sitting.”
Truly, Charis’s cups exceeded them all and she’d yet to speak a word. Was she mute?
A lengthy silence followed, with no explanation given about Charis’s silent state.
“Tea amuses the evening, solaces the midnight, and welcomes the morning, I believe Dr. Johnson said.” Unable to endure the tense silence, Esmée finished her own cup and placed an upturned spoon atop it. Would Eliza take the hint?
Her sister merely smiled serenely and stirred more milk into her cup. No doubt she was missing her pot of cream. Despite their means, these sisters appeared quite frugal.
“I’ve always thought hyson smells of roasted chestnuts,” Dorothy told them.
Margaret focused on her sister. “Oh? I prefer souchong’s delicate, floral flavor.”
“And you, Miss Shaw? Which is your favorite?” Dorothy inquired.
“Gunpowder tea. Such a honeyed taste,” Esmée replied as the mantel clock struck three. “’Tis the freshest on long trade routes, my father said.”
“Ah, your father.” Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “The esteemed admiral from Rhode Island.”
The sisters exchanged a furtive look.
“Which puts me in mind of Captain Lennox, cut of the same cloth,” Charis told them. “Our nephew’s daring sea captain.”
Esmée nearly sighed aloud. Clearly Charis wasn’t mute. And what a topic she’d chosen to expound upon! Would everything always circle back to Henri?
CHAPTER
twenty-three
Henri was on the verge of saying nay to the proposed mission, and he sensed that the governor’s council, a body of astute, shrewd men, knew it. The temperature in the paneled room was cool, but tempers were a-simmer. And it had little to do with the French threat.
“Provisions for several months at sea are needed and as follows . . .”
Henri listened as quartermaster Udo detailed the provisions required for such a mission before the chamber of officials, who sat rapt if stony-faced and silent. That they were listening to an African, an able commander in his own right, was an extraordinary occurrence. That Udo was free was an affront to these slave-owning Virginians. But Henri would not pander to their preference to exclude his black crew. Nor would he set sail without them.
Udo’s smooth, robust voice filled the chamber’s farthest corners. “Thirteen tierces and forty-five barrels salt beef and pork. A cask of oats. Five hundred gallons rum. Three tons beer. Five hundred pounds cheeses and butter. Fruit to stave off scurvy. Vinegar. Four hundred pounds brown sugar . . .”
Minutes before, Henri himself had finished telling the council of the weapons and artillery required to take on any enemy ships encountered, a presentation that smacked of an unwanted war, dug deep into Virginia’s depleted coffers, and raised many a testy question. On either side of him sat Tarbonde and Southack, as well as his first mate and master gunner, all experienced men who knew the sea and its many moods and dangers as well as himself.
His foremost ally among Virginia’s officials was missing. Lord Drysdale—Quinn—had been called away on other business. Henri hoped he’d return by next meeting. Across from Quinn’s empty seat sat Admiral Shaw, ever attentive, occasionally asking a well-placed question and keeping the conversation on course. For all his years—and Henri guessed him to be nearing seventy—his mind was rapier sharp, and he’d not lost his passion for maritime affairs. Which led to a question that had nothing to do with the present company . . .
Was Esmée also in Williamsburg?
He looked toward a window that bespoke an easterly breeze. The airtight chamber left one pining for the outdoors and a walk about town. The Raleigh flashed to mind, Carter’s brick store beside it. He needed a shaving razor. A woolen frock coat against the chill. Some minor items to tide him over while he lodged at the Raleigh and the governor’s business was being done.
“Captain Lennox, we are prepared to reward your crew with payment of three months’ wages in advance of their service, in addition to all of the provisions outlined by your quartermaster.”
Henri returned his attention to the governor as Udo sat down.
Dinwiddie said with some pride, “A new seventy-four-gun man-of-war is at your behest, en route from the Wharton shipyard in Philadelphia to York.”
Henri sensed his crew’s surprise. They were not easily impressed, but this was a major coup for all. Only the newest and most capable ships were thus equipped. Wharton was the premier shipbuilder in all thirteen colonies.
Did they ken their captain wanted nothing to do with it?
All attention was on Henri again. He simply listened as Dinwiddie called for yet another meeting the next morning, at which time they would discuss the French navy and its ships of the line en route to British North America, as well as the latest intelligence coming from the harbor of Brest.
“I regret we must adjourn early today, gentlemen. I’ve death warrants to sign for deserters, a decision to be made on the issuance of paper money, appointments to be confirmed, and visiting Indian dignitaries to entertain.” Dinwiddie put a hand to his high forehead, his normally florid face the hue of his powdered wig. “Till tomorrow, then. Ours is a most pressing matter that begs resolution by sennight’s end.”
Henri stood, his attention on the beleaguered official’s back as he exited the chamber. The responsibilities of office dogged the governor, a true servant of the crown. Fatigue of body and vexation of mind were what plagued him, he’d told Henri earlier. As he was charged with taking back Fort Duquesne from the French on the frontier and trying to raise Virginia’s fighting forces, a war by sea seemed another extraordinary complication.
“Won’t you join us, Captain?” Southack asked him, moving toward the door. “A pint or two at the Raleigh seems in order, for some of us, at least.”
“Later, mayhap,” Henri said, putting on his hat. His black jacks would return to York and their lodgings at the Colored Seamen’s Home on the outskirts. “For now I’ve other business to attend to.”
He left the crowded room, slipping out the front door and the palace’s forecourt onto the street, and noticed the Indian delegation recently come to town. The gathered Cherokee were beaded and befeathered, a tall chief having his portrait painted beneath a brilliant red maple. With Publick Times in October over, the town had a quieter feel, a thoughtful and more peaceful cadence.
He took a backstreet toward the Raleigh, trying to recall what it was he needed from Carter’s store. He tipped his hat to a trio of straw-hatted young ladies who tittered and gawked at him as he passed. Comely as they were, they didn’t hold a candle to Esmée.
Why was his every thought ensnared by her?
He pressed on, his coattails whipped about by the strengthening wind. Nigh on three o’clock. His stomach rumbled, making him consider supper options. After a day crowded with people and war talk, he wanted nothing more than the sanctuary of his lodgings and a fire to ward off the evening’s chill. Quinn had lent him a book from his growing personal library. Fielding’s The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon.
But first, Carter’s store.
How good it felt to be out in the open air. Even without a harbor view, Williamsburg had a charm all its own. Eliza had wanted to send a maid in her stead, but Esmée felt the need to walk about alone while her sister napped. She hastened from Nassau Street toward the town’s wide-set thoroughfare with a decisive step, as if anxious to outpace any memories of yesterday’s tea. Mount Autrey cast quite a shadow in her thoughts. But for the moment she didn’t care to contemplate being courted by the sea chaplain, despite Eliza’s glee as they returned to the townhouse in the coach.
“Just think, Sister, we could be nearer neighbors. Mount Autrey lies just beyond Williamsburg. Not only that, you’d be ensconced at one of the oldest plantations in all Virginia, though the old aunties might take some getting used to.”
“You can put all that out of your head once and for all.” Esmée fingered her chatelaine, lingering on the tiny silver lighthouse. “I’m in no more danger of becoming an Autrey than you are being crowned queen of England.”
