A Heart Adrift, page 27
Ruenna stirred and made a face. Despite feeling overwhelmed, Esmée chuckled then wrinkled her nose as an unmistakable odor overcame the more palatable aroma from the kitchen.
“I see you’re going to cause me a great deal of fuss and bother during your stay,” she said softly, moving toward the bedchamber. “Your grandfather was wise to bring a great many clouts.”
Ruenna opened her eyes at the sound of Esmée’s soft voice. She smiled. Or was it only indigestion? Despite the odor, Esmée’s heart melted.
CHAPTER
fifty-four
29th January 1756. Cold day. Heavy NW gale toward night.
Esmée’s light was snuffed thrice as she took a tin lantern up to the waiting lamps. Back to the cottage she went to kindle it again at the hearth’s fire. Lucy and Alice, babies in arms, looked on, alarm in their eyes. The wind, steadily rising throughout the afternoon, had a particularly sharp, unfriendly feel. It moaned as it whipped round the cottage’s corners and gabled ends, pressing against the windowpanes with such force Esmée feared they might shatter.
“First fog and now this,” Lucy said before Esmée slipped back into the twilight.
Since early morn, passing ships had fired their cannons, and then the island’s fog cannon answered with a sulfurous blast. The noise woke the babies and fretted Alice and Lucy. Even Esmée wanted to cover her ears. But at least she didn’t have to man the cannon. Two of Henri’s ablest crew, kept from sailing by a recurrent malarial fever, took on the chore without complaint.
Now at dusk, another boom sounded as the wind whipped Esmée’s cape and petticoats, snatching off her hood as she made for the tower. With all her might, she slammed the door shut, preserving the lantern’s light. Up the spiraling stairs she climbed, thankful for five-foot-thick stone walls, though she still heard the wind’s wailing.
Was the wind worsening?
She hung the lantern from a hook and paused to look out on the surly Atlantic. A briny mist covered the glass, but it in no way dimmed her view of the blue-gray swells tipped a frothy white. The surf was encroaching where it had never been during her tenure as keeper, splashing over rocks and through sandy openings she’d thought impenetrable, closing in on the very foundation of the lighthouse.
Her stomach quavered as if pitched by the mounting waves. With a move so brisk it rattled her chatelaine, she began to light the lamps, praying they’d stay on, hoping they’d provide some sense of direction and bearing to any needy ship and keep them out of shoal waters. ’Twas her first storm as keeper. Would she weather it?
Where was Henri in this tempest?
She shut her eyes, caught between a prayer and a sigh. Oh, to have him by her side, capable and uncomplaining, not out on a vessel whose masts might be snapped by the wind’s force and founder.
“Captain Lennox is the same in rough weather as if the seas were standing still,” his quartermaster had once said in her hearing. “Dead calm.”
She didn’t doubt it. She wished for a mite of that composure. Her heart seemed to skip beats as she studied the waves, her breathing shallow. A motion below caught her eye, and she spied the two of Henri’s crew who’d been manning the cannon. One made his way to the lighthouse while the other stood on the rocks and faced the surf. His bald head was covered with a brown Monmouth cap, a button on top. His hoary hand clutched it to his head lest the wind snatch it like her cape hood. He faced the sea as if to stand down the storm.
Chary, she returned her attention to the waves. As she hadn’t heard any tread of steps on the stair, she started when Cosmos, one of Henri’s ablest Scotsmen, appeared.
“Pardon, Miss Shaw.” His gruff manner made his apology almost amusing. He came to stand beside her, his expression unreadable. Reaching for the brass spyglass, he grunted his dismay. “A league or so distant is a Guineaman with her foremast cut away. Likely heavy laden with Africans.”
“A slaver, then.” The very word was bitter on her tongue even as compassion rent her heart. Who knew how many men, women, and children were aboard that vessel, taken by force. She’d once seen a child’s shackles lying near the York wharves. Considered the most valuable cargo, children were stashed in a slaver’s smallest spaces.
“The lot o’ them are better off at the bottom o’ the deep than in chains,” he said. “The crew daren’t launch their longboat even to save themselves. That she’s lying bow to sea might keep ’er from breaking up.”
Shaken, Esmée turned away from the struggle. Two of the lights had gone out. She rekindled them, fighting a swelling dismay as the wind lashed the tower with renewed force. It had been constructed with a bit of sway for hurricanes. Would it hold?
In a quarter of an hour the Guineaman was lost from view, the night thick and black as tar. Cosmos was still on watch, spyglass in hand.
Esmée nearly started again when he said, “Best return to the cottage and ready for worse.”
“Worse?”
“The wind’s mounting, the waves with it. There’s nae telling what the storm’s tide will do.” His Scots burr was so thick she stumbled over his words. He raised the spyglass again. “At best, the Guineaman will run aground. At worst, she’ll founder.”
She looked out again as darkness pressed nearer. “God help them, then.”
He looked straight at her. “If the hurricane doesna abate, the surf will be o’er this part of the island, washing into the cottage and even the bottom o’ the lighthouse. Ye’ve got two bairns below, aye? Best bring them to the tower out o’ the worst o’ it.”
She nodded, wasting no time in heading for the stair. But was it wise to bring the babies into the wintry blast? Had she no choice? The fumes from the pan lamps alone were an abomination.
She fought her way to the cottage, pushed and shoved all the way. Once inside, she found Lucy and Alice huddled by the hearth’s fire, the babies swaddled and sleeping between them.
“Ye look tuckered out, Miss Shaw.” Lucy stood as if wanting to help in some way. “I feared the wind would blow ye into the water.”
“It nearly did.” Gathering her wayward hair into a knot, Esmée secured it with the few remaining pins. “I come with hard news. Cosmos believes the water will soon rise and reach the cottage. ’Tis best if we all go to the tower.”
Lucy shuddered. “Up those stairs to sit at the top with the light?”
“I’m afraid so. When the storm tide surges, we don’t want to be here below.”
“But, mistress, I’m nigh terrified o’ heights. And what if the tower should fall into a heap o’ rubble? Would we not be safer right here?”
Esmée’s encouraging smile felt feeble. “Warmer but not safer, sadly.” She began to move what she could atop tables and shelves. “Wrap yourselves in your warmest garments. I’ll take Ruenna and lead you there.”
She leaned over the baby’s drawer bed, hating having to disturb her. Ruenna slept on peacefully, unaware of the danger. As Esmée picked her up, she marveled what a sennight’s change could bring. Ruenna felt heavier, with no sign of the scourge that plagued her parents. Her prayers for both Quinn and Eliza seemed unending, her thankfulness that their daughter was out of harm’s way ongoing, and now this . . .
She held Ruenna close against her bodice, her cape shielding them, head down in the wind and rain. Sand and shells stung her face and neck as she hastened to the lighthouse door, Alice and Lucy following with Alden. Cosmos was still in the light tower while the other crewman stayed on the ground, boarding up the cottage’s windows and hammering with all his might.
Finally in the tower, Esmée tried to reassure Lucy, who stared at Cosmos and the lit pan lamps with trepidation. They’d begun to smoke badly, sending black tendrils into the air around them.
“You’ll need these to cover your nose and mouth,” Esmée told them, taking clean handkerchiefs from her pocket. She was glad for the benches where they could huddle together for warmth. Still holding Ruenna, she looked toward Cosmos, who was standing stalwart at the glass but likely couldn’t see in the pitch blackness beyond.
“The Guineaman’s closer,” he said at a near shout above the wind’s fury.
Ruenna began to stir, and Esmée took a seat, rocking her as best she could. In minutes Alden began to howl, the tense sound reverberating in the closed space and boxing their ears. No matter what Alice did, naught would quiet him. Soon Ruenna joined in, sending Cosmos down the stairs and out into the storm, whether from the noise or another matter Esmée knew not.
In the ghostly, flickering light, Lucy’s face was drawn. Dear, steadfast Lucy who never complained but accepted her lot whatever befell her. Conversation was pointless with the din within and without. Another windy blast had Esmée trimming and relighting wicks, nearly overcome with smoke. Alice was crying quietly and trying to nurse Alden while Lucy soothed Ruenna as best she could.
Hands trembling, Esmée prayed, her words lost to the wind.
CHAPTER
fifty-five
As daybreak crept over the unsettled but vastly improved sea, Esmée felt alone in the tower. Alice and Lucy were half-asleep, huddled with the babies on benches. Cosmos and the other crewman were below. Just where, she didn’t know. She stood at the glass and looked east, hoping for a flicker of sunrise, anything to temper the somber silver of water and sky. But she needed no sunrise to see the wreckage below.
Downed trees. Rocks and sand where there had been none before. The cottages stood stalwart though missing shingles. Her gaze trailed to the storm-scrubbed beach. Pressing her face nearer the glass till it fogged beneath her breath, she spied the two crewmen on the sand, paying attention to what seemed to be the hull of a ship, or what was left of it.
Nearly tiptoeing past the women and sleeping babies, Esmée descended the stairs, an eerie calm greeting her as she opened the door. Lungs and head clearing, she stepped outside. On the beach, shells and sea urchins amassed with tangles of seaweed. The air held a just-washed smell, briny and clean, but at her feet was wreckage. Soon she traversed shattered glass, trying to take in all she saw from the shipwreck.
Broken bottles. An intact green hourglass. A small chest. Rigging and wood. Coins. Even a tortoiseshell comb and buckled shoe. An apothecary’s cup. She moved in the opposite direction of the men, along the south shore of the beach, her senses assaulted by the devastation. At least the wind and waves were spent, no longer a roar but a worn-out sigh.
“Miss Shaw.” Cosmos stood behind her. “I urge ye to go inside. Captain Lennox would say the same.”
She looked at him. He had been up all night like she, his bewhiskered face and bloodshot eyes holding a warning. True, Henri would not want her on the beach. She needed to return to the tower and tell the women to take the babies to the cottage.
“If ye’ve ne’er seen bodies wash ashore, I’d spare ye the horror.”
She flinched. “From the Guineaman, I suppose.”
“Aye. Expect it for days. Best keep to yer hearth’s fire.”
Nodding and heartsick, she turned back toward the cottage and lighthouse.
Though the cottage had been spared the storm tide, waves had licked the doorstep, leaving the wood frame wet. The brine seemed to penetrate the damp, cold interior but was quickly remedied by robust fires in the hearths. Lucy and Alice went about their tasks singing, the babies alert and content despite so long a night. Even Tibby seemed to have weathered the worst of it though was thoroughly soaked.
Changing into fresh garments, including a warm, quilted petticoat, Esmée looked at the bed longingly. For now, all she wanted was breakfast by the fire and a long cuddle with her niece.
Holding Alden on one hip, Alice stood by the kitchen window, shoulders bent, chewing on her lip as was her custom when worried. As Esmée entered, Lucy smiled wanly, taking the steaming teakettle to the table. Toast and quince preserves awaited.
“Come, the both of you, and breakfast with me,” Esmée said.
They sat and Esmée said a prayer, her words laden with thankfulness and relief even as guilt rushed in that she had the luxury of breakfast with the wreck of the Guineaman beyond their door. But she didn’t want to weight anyone else’s spirits, so she struck a brighter tone.
A half-smile softened Alice’s girlish features. “Yer a world apart from Lady Drysdale, Miss Shaw.”
“Supping with the help, you mean?” Esmée looked at Ruenna, who flailed a wee hand, the dimples in her cheeks more apparent. “I daren’t think what my dear sister would do if she found her firstborn in a dresser drawer.”
They laughed, and Lucy said, “Is it true the ship’s carpenter who stayed behind is making Miss Ruenna a proper cradle?”
“He said so, though I’m not sure how long she’ll stay.”
“We’ve a great many questions that beg answers,” Alice said softly. “My mind is on the frontier and how my husband is faring fighting Indians and French.”
Giving a rare sigh, Lucy poured the tea. “My thoughts are far out to sea.”
“As are mine.” Esmée spread her toast with the preserves before biting into the buttery goodness.
“’Tis the not knowing that nettles me. Forever wondering how they’re faring out in the deep. And there’s those in town with the pox besides—yer dear sister and husband. I wonder about the almshouse too.” Lucy looked at Esmée entreatingly as Alice left the room at Alden’s fussing. “I wish I could be more like ye, drawing comfort from Scripture, reading the holy words for myself.”
Esmée set down her cup. The Bible lay open on the table, the twenty-third Psalm marked with a length of silk ribbon. Why had she not thought of it sooner? A bit shamefaced, she said, “I could teach you.”
“I’ve tried to content myself with listening to ye read aloud.” Dismay shadowed Lucy’s features. “I’m too daft to learn, my pa always told me.”
“Daft? Nay. If you want to learn, you will. We shall buy a Bible for both of you from the booksellers next time we’re in York.”
Lucy’s shocked expression underscored the rarity of such a luxury.
“In the meantime, you can learn your letters. I’ve no slate, but we have paper. You can practice writing your name too.”
“But what of my chores, Miss Shaw? And now with Alice and both babies . . .” Hope faded to confusion. “Is there time enough?”
“We’ll make time. The three of us can manage better together. Alice can even join us if she’d like.” Esmée looked toward Alice, who sat nursing Alden in the parlor. Her fair head was bent over her babe, eyes closed in weariness. “Though at present perhaps ’tis enough to be a mother.”
“Alice can read but cannot write. She wants to answer her husband’s letters in the worst way, but . . .”
“I can help her till she learns to pen her own letters.” Finishing her tea, Esmée reached for Ruenna. She wore a soft linen gown embellished with ribbon and lace, the sewing exceptionally well-done.
“No sign of the pox, I pray.” Lucy looked as distressed as Esmée had ever seen her. “It strikes fast, it does. Took my brother and mother straightaway.” ’Twas the first time she’d ever spoken of it, tears close.
Esmée reached out and squeezed her hand. “Oh, Lucy. I cannot imagine. I’m more sorry than I can say.”
Lucy blinked, digging in her pocket for a handkerchief. “I pray this wee one will thrive and reunite with her parents soon. ’Tis a grave task ye’ve been given.”
Esmée felt that in spades. She kissed the bottom of Ruenna’s tiny foot as she lay in her lap, then marveled as the baby grabbed hold of the finger where Henri’s posy ring rested. Forgetting herself, Esmée made over her as if she were her own, singing an old French lullaby that was a favorite of her mother’s.
“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines. Ding, ding, dong.”
CHAPTER
fifty-six
The next sennight found Esmée standing by the graves of those who’d washed ashore after the storm. Six men, two women, and one child. Their final resting places were hastily dug, but the memory of the foundering Guineaman lingered long. Who knew what suffering had taken place that fatal night? The cries for mercy or attempts to be saved? Not even the lighthouse had aided them.
She bent and laid the silk flowers she’d made atop the sandy mounds. None other could be had in the barrenness of winter. Suddenly the island—home to her renewed courtship and future dreams—held a forlorn, wretched feel. Gray skies glowered, adding to her melancholy. That and no word of Eliza or anyone else left her at loose ends. Bending her head, she pondered the lost souls at her feet. And Henri, wherever he happened to be.
The graves were near the buried cache Henri had shown her. She looked toward the sheltering pines that marked it just a stone’s throw away. Unseen treasure. But what did it matter if those who meant most were missing? Coin was cold comfort. True, it provided shelter and sustenance, but not family or fulfillment.
She turned away, the pleasant memory of shelling on the beach tattered beside the wreckage washing up. All she wanted at present was the hearth’s fire and Ruenna in her arms. And her questions answered.
How was Eliza? Had Quinn recovered fully? She wondered about Father—how he was faring with Virginia all but shut down? Such outbreaks lasted for months and oft returned with a vengeance.
And Henri. Always Henri. Would this new voyage rekindle his love for the sea? Or was it as he said, that those days would soon be behind him?
She cut into the woods on the path that led to their future home. The ground was still soggy, and occasionally she veered round a fallen tree or branch. Before she reached the boundary stones she heard voices—the sound of labor and shouted directions. Coming into the clearing, she stopped beneath an oak, content to watch the work. One of Henri’s crew waved at her.
She came closer, noting they’d built a partial wall. The kitchen garden enclosure? A little trill of delight lifted her melancholy.
