A Heart Adrift, page 20
“So gallant,” Kitty whispered to Esmée when his back was turned. “For a widow of one and thirty, even I feel a bit smitten.”
Smiling, Esmée linked arms with her. “I shall miss you and your tea garden. But when I come ashore, we shall celebrate.”
“And I shall come to the island in turn, spend the night at your cozy cottage, climb to the top of the light, and take in the princely view.”
They chattered so exuberantly Henri turned around and smiled at them as they neared the water. Father was on hand, coming out of the coffeehouse to bid them farewell. His appearance caught the attention of one too many wags about town. Soon the papers would buzz with the news of Esmée Shaw leaving York.
Lucy arrived, brought from the almshouse by Jago Wherry in a pony cart. Her few belongings were in a small bag, a kitten included. For every new home needed a cat, did it not?
Esmée greeted Lucy, praying the both of them wouldn’t be seasick, as the wind was brisk. Dressed in a plain striped cotton gown with a darker petticoat, a clean apron about her waist, and a bonnet framing her face, Lucy looked expectant and a tad fearful. Scuffed shoes and white-thread stockings were on her small feet. The humiliating mark of the almshouse was missing from her garments. But had she no cloak? Before Esmée could reach for the clasp of her own cape to give her, the captain removed his and draped it about the maid’s shivering shoulders. Esmée smiled her thanks, touched by the small courtesy.
“’Tis colder on the open water than here in the harbor,” he said, returning her gaze as he helped her into the pinnace.
Warmed by his touch, Esmée watched as Lucy smiled up at him, a bit wide-eyed at the gathering crowd. Seated in the vessel, Esmée steeled herself against the late autumn wind, her excitement building with every second.
“How long will it take, Miss Shaw?” Lucy asked beside her, her kitten in her lap.
“With those sails unfurled and the captain at the helm, no time at all.”
Esmée let out a breath as the mooring lines were loosed. Jacks she’d never seen worked around her, the captain standing tall. The boat took to the open water, leaving her a bit winded as they gained speed. Every ripple seemed to roll through her in turn, not sickening but exhilarating. A far different ride than the slow-as-molasses row in the jolly. She looked out on the York River as they sailed into Chesapeake Bay, which winked sapphire blue in the sun. Beyond it lay a mound of land bitten by autumn’s first frosts.
His island and now hers.
CHAPTER
thirty-six
The cottage was better than she’d left it. Pushing open the door, Lucy on her heels, Esmée could hardly contain her delight. A second Windsor chair had been placed near the hearth in the front parlor, the fire crackling merrily in welcome. Striped curtains were at the windows, making the cloth she’d brought unnecessary.
“My sailmakers have had a heyday outfitting your windows and your maid’s bedding,” Henri told her.
“You have a very able crew.” Esmée went to a window, marveling at how well-stitched the curtains were. “Please thank them for me.”
He supervised the men moving their belongings while she and Lucy wended their way through the cottage, exclaiming over this or that. A vase of dried flowers adorned the kitchen table. And not only flowers but a crusty loaf of bread and a small pot of salted butter. Thyme and roast chicken teased their senses, enticing Lucy to lift the lid off a pot in the embers.
“Jacques—the Relentless’s cook—prepared your supper.” Henri stood in the kitchen doorway, answering the question Esmée wanted to ask.
Smiling, she turned toward him. “A warm welcome indeed. Won’t you join us?”
He hesitated, his lips parting as if he was considering, then curving in an apologetic half-smile. “Another eve, mayhap. Tonight I’ll leave you to get your bearings.”
She nodded, pulled in a dozen different directions at once. Lucy was already in her room off the kitchen while the crew brought in the last of Esmée’s trunks and furnishings, inquiring as to where she’d like them. When she looked up again, Henri had disappeared. But how far could he go with his quarters a stone’s throw from her own?
By nightfall, they’d settled in and stripped Jacques’s delicious chicken to the bone. Saving half a loaf of the bread for their morning tea, Esmée invited Lucy to sit by the fire in the small parlor. Taking out her sewing, Lucy stitched a handkerchief while Esmée read aloud from Robinson Crusoe, the kitten, Tibby, curled up at their feet.
“By this time it blew a terrible storm; indeed, and now I began to see terror and amazement in the faces of the seamen themselves. The master, though vigilant in the business of preserving the ship, yet as he went in and out of his cabin by me, I could hear him softly to himself say, several times, ‘Lord be merciful to us! We shall all be lost! We shall all be undone!’”
Lucy’s hands stilled, her needle midair. A moody wind began to blow about the cottage, adding to the moment’s intensity. “D’ye think, mistress, that Captain Lennox would be so afraid of a storm?” she asked.
“Afraid of the storm, perhaps, but hopefully confident in the storm’s Maker who can still the waves and even walk on them.”
Lucy’s capped head bobbed in vigor. “When ye asked me if I wanted to come to the island, I was a bit afraid, though it be a good deal better than the almshouse. But what if a rogue wave comes over us and sweeps us out to sea?”
“You must take care not to go out in foul weather. You and Tibby shall stay secure right here by the fire, at least for this winter, while I tend to the light and pray for safety.”
“Yer as brave as the captain, mistress. To think ye must climb all those tower stairs no matter the weather!”
Esmée smiled, setting the book aside. “’Tis for the good of many, all those brave sailors who seek a safe harbor.”
“Including the captain, aye.” Tibby pressed against Lucy’s skirts, and Lucy reached down a hand to stroke its caramel-streaked back. “Ye’ll light his way back when he goes to sea again?”
The bittersweet thought intruded on Esmée’s quiet joy. “I should hope so. And pray for his return.”
“I’d best hie to bed and say my prayers so I can wake early and make our tea and toast.” Yawning, Lucy scooped Tibby up and excused herself. “I shan’t forget Mrs. Mabrey’s peach preserves.”
“A delightful breakfast awaits us.”
At the close of her door, Esmée went to the window. With the tower unlit till tomorrow, the darkness was profound save the square of yellow gleaming from the captain’s own cottage. Though she couldn’t see it, she could hear the surf beating against the beach and the moan of the wind that drove it there. Yet she’d never felt so secure. So . . . serene.
Was God’s leading not the way of peace? She sought the hearth again, already at home in her chair, thankful for all the little things Henri had superintended for her comfort. Or was she making it more significant than it actually was? He would, in truth, have done the same for any keeper, would he not? She settled back in her chair and tried not to think of his leaving. She mustn’t let her present happiness and the blessing God had given her depend on the captain and his future.
CHAPTER
thirty-seven
The following day Henri pulled on his boots, the gray day beyond his cottage like a woolen blanket, in direct contrast to his sunny mood. The island smelled clean, as it always did after a windy lashing—of wet rocks and sodden sand and foamy treasures pushed ashore from the deep.
His first thought on awakening had been Esmée. Mayhap her last thought had been of him. He’d seen her at her parlor window around nine o’clock when he’d returned from his usual rounds before retiring. He nearly couldn’t sleep. Thank heaven she wasn’t on the other end of the island, miles distant. He chuckled. Thank heaven Hermes and crew were.
He stood and exchanged last night’s rain gear for a woolen coat, his red Monmouth cap for a tan cocked hat. Used to being alone on his own stretch of beach, especially in the morning, he left the cottage to a pleasant surprise. Esmée was walking away from him as the tide went out, her purple cape aflutter. Every now and then she bent over to pick something up and examine it. Just like her shelling that day they’d first met.
He headed toward her, coming up from behind slowly so as not to startle her. “Good morning, Miss Shaw.”
“A fine day to you, Captain.”
He wanted to say Esmée, but a new formality had crept in with her position. It weighed on him, but he let it pass. “What have you there?”
She held out something blue and jagged. She’d said on her arrival she was hoping for a pearl.
“Sea glass.” He took the piece and held it up to the light, its green tint visible. “Likely from a bottle of spirits. Pearls suit you better.”
She smiled at him, her upswept hair pillowing a bit loosely about her face, two long curls over her shoulder. “I’ll keep looking.”
Farther down the beach he heard laughter. Cyprian was on hand, entertaining the maidservant, who had an egg basket on one arm. No doubt he’d visited the hens roosting at the Flask and Sword as a way of introduction. Clever, that.
“Tell me your maidservant’s story,” he said, falling into step beside her.
Esmée kept her eyes on the sand. “Lucy is but eighteen, orphaned after her parents died of fever. She was at the almshouse long enough to take a dislike to it. Being skilled with a needle, she was on her way to being bound out to a mantuamaker. When I gave her the choice to come with me, she readily assented. But I do wonder about keeping her isolated here long.”
“At the moment she seems happy enough.”
Laughter erupted again, Lucy’s mingled with Cyprian’s.
“Is that a monkey I spy on the shoulder of your cabin boy?” Esmée asked. “The renowned Hermes, I take it.”
He chuckled. “You’ve yet to be formally introduced. Cyprian is my steward and has charge of Hermes for the time being.”
“I’ve never seen a better dressed youth.”
“Once he laid eyes on fair Lucy, he must have decided to bedeck himself in the finest garments to be had from the common chest.”
“Ah, the slops chest, Father called it. Plunder.”
“Aye, from seized enemy vessels.”
The lad did look a tad ludicrous, having traded his humble working trousers and shirt of yesterday for ruffles and silk. But Lucy seemed to be enjoying the attention, and Henri would rather they be here than in the alleys and gin shops ashore.
“Tell me his story.” Esmée looked at him, another wisp of hair tumbling down. With a gloved hand she looped it behind her ear, jarring the bonnet that matched her gown.
He was having a devil of a time trying to stay his hand and not right it for her, staunching his urge to throw her hat to the wind, take out all the pins, and tumble her hair further. “Cyprian is Portuguese. I found him begging at the port of Lisbon. He’s served aboard the Relentless for several years and is well into manhood, though he looks younger.”
“They’ve known such hardship already.” Esmée’s expression turned pensive. “Their laughter does me good. Let them have their amusement while they may.”
They walked on in silence for a time, pausing now and again to examine something interesting on the beach. When he gave a little bow and held out another piece of sea glass, she curtsied prettily in return, making them both laugh.
“’Tis the blue of your gown,” he remarked. “The one you wore when we first met.”
She looked at him, near disbelief in her eyes. “I still have it but haven’t worn it since—”
Since you left.
He’d tried to pin that blue down a thousand times in the last decade. Caribbean blue. Delft blue. Egyptian blue. Marine blue, the official color of British naval uniforms. Cobalt blue.
Lapis lazuli. Aye, that was it.
She squinted into the sunlight, and he looked to the sea and then the lighthouse when she said, “So shall we kindle the light tonight, you and I?”
How romantic she made it sound. A joint effort. The first of many, he hoped. “Aye, I want you to shadow me for a sennight or so, till we know the ins and outs of the tower and its workings and you’re comfortable enough to handle it on your own.”
“Will you be here a sennight more?” The shadow he’d found in her face when he’d seen her at Lady Lightfoot’s ball returned, eclipsing her loveliness.
“I know not.” How he wanted to throw any future cruise to the wind and remain right here. Even now he sensed there was more to her arrival than keeping the light. His appointing her as lightkeeper had been far from objective.
Would it all play out like it had years before when they’d first parted?
He sent his concerns heavenward, the sunlit moment weighed down by dark thoughts.
“Then we shall make the most of the time given us.” Her smile was soft, a bit sad. It tore at him in a way little else did.
Gone was the spirited girl who had objected so strenuously to his going to sea. He hardly knew what to do with the composed woman in her place.
She took his extended hand, and he helped her over a rocky outcropping. “Is it true you forbid married men from joining your crew?”
He gave a nod. “Mostly out of respect to you.”
Her green gaze came back to him. Tears stood in her eyes. His own throat closed and threatened to choke him.
At last he said, “I took to heart all you said back then—the toll on your family with your father away, your mother especially.”
She leaned down and picked up a cracked shell. “I wish I’d known. It might have softened my regard of you.”
He took a breath and revealed the rest. “I had a small chest of letters I wrote you but never sent.”
The shell was discarded. “Do you have them still?”
His aye earned such a bittersweet look it sank his stomach to his boots.
“Might you give them to me after all?”
Would he? “The heartsick ponderings of a sailor?” He’d nearly thrown the chest overboard on more than one melancholy occasion. “Mayhap when I sail again.”
“Please.” The entreaty in her voice decided the matter.
“Do you forgive me for leaving?” He looked toward the line of smoke that marked the Flask and Sword’s chimney. “For forsaking what we had?”
A gull swooped in, shattering the air with its cry.
“Only if you’ll forgive me for making it an all-or-nothing arrangement.” The mist in her eyes returned. “That was unconscionable.”
“We were young. Foolish.”
“And now?” Pensiveness limned her words. “We are . . .”
“Older. Wiser.” He said the last word with a shake of his head. “Friends.”
“Friends.” Her echo came soft, a bit disappointed, he thought.
Hope took hold. “Unless you want to be otherwise.”
She halted then and looked up at him, her sandy fingers full of beach treasures. “I scarcely know how to start over, if that’s what you mean.”
His heart began to pound. A deluge of emotion akin to a tropical monsoon swirled inside him. Never did he imagine this turn of events—having her here beside him, removing the distance between them in one stunning move. And now looking as if they might reconcile, fall in love again.
If they’d ever stopped loving each other to begin with.
“I want what you want, Henri.” She began walking again, her full skirts dragging on the wet sand. “Maybe ’tis a bit like dancing,” she said, a beguiling light in her eye. “I shall simply follow your lead.”
He caught up to her, wanting to take her hand again yet wanting to be careful with her. Not wreck the both of them like before. How did one let go of the past and risk love again?
CHAPTER
thirty-eight
The next day Henri sat with his officers at a tavern table, the rest of the crew spread out across the taproom. The Flask and Sword had never looked better, the floors mopped, every stick of furniture shiny as a newly minted shilling. Even Hermes looked content perched on a window ledge, eating pecans and occasionally emitting a shrill screech. Henri smiled his amusement, wishing Mistress Saltonstall back, if only to have another woman on the island. In the meantime, if there was a cruise, half a dozen of his men who were injured and ailing would remain behind, the penalty being caretakers of a cantankerous marmoset.
He finished his ale and set down his tankard, careful to avoid the letter of marque and reprisal lying atop the table. It had been delivered that afternoon by a courier of Virginia’s governor in the name of the king, and Henri had just read it aloud. Their future mission sounded simple but was infinitely complex.
George the Second, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, defender of the faith, &c. To Captain Henri Lennox, commander of eighty men and mounting thirty carriage guns. You may, by force of arms, attack, subdue, and take all ships and other vessels belonging to the inhabitants of France, on the high seas, or between high-water and low-water marks . . .
His crew’s conversation had risen around him like a headwind ever since.
“We’re fully outfitted and ready to sail at a moment’s notice.”
“Lest fortune frown upon us, I shall place a silver coin beneath the main mast when we weigh anchor.”
“Superstitions don’t become you. Coin be hanged. I saw you on your knees petitioning Providence at the last violent squall.”
“A misfortune the French often fly false flags, hoping to avoid capture.”
Hermes screeched at Cyprian’s late entry, then ran to the lad, who hoisted him on his shoulder. Laughter rumbled through the watching men while Henri looked out a near window at the sunset.
“How many other privateers are operating under letters of marque, Captain?” Tarbonde asked from across the table.
Henri came to attention. “New York leads the colonies in sending twenty-six privateers bearing three hundred fifty guns and nearly three thousand men. Virginia is second in force.”
