A Heart Adrift, page 29
The lemon cheese tarts were brought alongside Esmée’s tea chest, but would Eliza rouse herself and join them? Ensconced in Henri’s parlor, Esmée promptly forgot the matter at hand. Wherever she looked seemed to whisper her beloved’s name. There over the mantel was one of Henri’s swords with its silken knot, beneath a map of the world. A handsome pipe and silver tobacco box rested on a near table. His upholstered chair, a rich blue brocade with a nautical theme, suited Father well. All carried Henri’s distinctive style, his scent. She couldn’t get enough of it.
In the other room Eliza could be heard readying herself. Without her maidservant it took considerable time. Father had said she had sickened as well and would hopefully recover. Till Eliza’s return, the servants were being cared for by a physic and apothecary.
Esmée looked at the tea service that had been her mother’s, artfully arranged on a silver tray. Lucy had brought it over before returning to their cottage, sending Esmée a sympathetic look. Alice carried Ruenna. Wide awake, she made cooing sounds from her basket and flailed her tiny limbs. Esmée couldn’t resist leaning over and stroking her dimpled cheek, smiling down at her as she wished Eliza would do.
“I fear I have the look of an unmade bed.” Eliza appeared, her unwashed hair in tangles and only half pinned up, sultana wrinkled, eyes red. “And I have no appetite.”
“At least try a lemon cheese tart,” Esmée coaxed. “Lucy made them with you in mind.”
“I prefer a peck of toast.” Eliza’s gaze swept the tea table and landed on Ruenna. “Why is the child here? She should be by Alice’s side.”
Father patted the chair beside him. “We are family, Ruenna included.”
Eliza sat with a frown. “She is so lively it tires me.”
Grasping the handle of the teapot, Esmée bit back a hasty retort and poured her sister the first cup. “My chest of congou is nearly empty. Bohea it shall be for future teas.”
“Such an infernal tax on tea, no wonder ’tis smuggled so,” Father said, sipping from his saucer. “Lucy brews a perfect pot. She seems a hand at many tasks.”
Esmée poured herself a cup. “I couldn’t ask for better company—”
Eliza’s unladylike snort clipped her words. “Really, Sister, to say a mere almshouse maid is good company borders on the ridiculous.”
Father looked at his youngest daughter, his voice even. “Grief does not excuse insolence nor arrogance, Eliza. Not even Quinn would conscience that.”
Her chin trembled. “And would you add to my grief with your untimely rebuke?”
“I am merely trying to return you to the world of the living.” To his credit, he reined Eliza in as forthrightly as an admiral would a truant officer. “As your father, I would not see you inflict more suffering on yourself or others any longer. True, you are bereaved. Others are as well, myself included. True, you are scarred, but many are buried. As your mother oft said, the best of all healers is cheer.”
Chastened, Eliza took a tart. At Ruenna’s sudden cry, she started, a pained expression on her unveiled face.
Setting her cup down, Esmée reached for the baby, who smiled so wide her pink gums appeared. The tension in the room, which had been tempered by Father’s wise words, ratcheted higher.
Ruenna was the image of Quinn. Dear Quinn. If not for him and his unwitting dinner invitation to Henri in the fall, Esmée might not be betrothed. How much she owed her brother-in-law. The latent realization left her wishing she’d thanked him before it was too late.
“She’s a charming child, well content and getting plumper by the day,” Father remarked. “Best enjoy her at every stage, as the first year flies away all too soon. Soon she’ll be toddling about in a pudding cap.”
Eliza jabbed her untouched tart with a finger. “I daren’t think of the future. ’Tis too bleak.”
“Bleak, my dear?”
“What have I?”
“Need I remind you that you are now one of the wealthiest widows in the colonies, not impoverished like so many?”
She brought her fist down on the table, rattling the china. “Would that I had Quinn and be destitute!”
A sullen silence fell. Esmée hardly tasted the delicious tart. Holding Ruenna in one arm, she resumed drinking her tea with her free hand, careful not to spill any.
Eliza continued undaunted. “I cannot imagine dancing or walking about or playing the harpsichord or anything I used to enjoy. Not without Quinn. He was so many things to me. Husband, confidant, advisor, a bulwark in every storm.”
Father nodded gravely. “We will sorely miss him. Have you given any thought to returning to Williamsburg?”
“Nay.” Eliza darted another look at Ruenna. “But this rusticated island is not the place for me either.”
“You are always welcome to reside at our York residence. Your rooms are much as you left them.”
Eliza added more sugar to her cup. “You are generous, Father, but I am foul company at present.”
“You’ll be in mourning, of course, wherever you go.”
“A year at the outset.” She shook her head in distaste. “I suppose this calls for a visit to the mantuamaker and milliner, as I’ll be clad in black bombazine for an eternity. Not to mention we must blacken the townhouse. Coaches and chairs are to be covered in black cloth, and all the servants must wear shoulder knots of black silk ribbon. Even Ruenna shall be in all black.”
At this Esmée nearly protested, but ’twas the custom, after all. Ruenna, thankfully, had not the slightest inkling what she wore. Esmée raised her eyes to Eliza, schooling the shock she always felt at her appearance.
“Being the bluestocking you are, I suppose you shan’t postpone your wedding.” Eliza’s gaze held a challenge. “What say you, Sister?”
As Esmée finished swallowing a bite of tart, Father answered with vehemence, “Most certainly not. She and the captain have waited ten years and shan’t delay a moment longer. I mean no disrespect to Quinn, but age and experience have taught me that some matters are best seized at once despite forms and customs.”
“‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; and this same flower that smiles today tomorrow will be dying.’” Eliza quoted the old poem dry-eyed but with a bitter taint to her tone.
Ruenna gave another cry, and Esmée set down her cup and shifted the babe to her shoulder. “Shush, poppet.”
“Does she need to nurse?” Eliza asked, eyes dark.
“’Tis not her hungry cry. She just had a feeding before Alice brought her over. Here, why don’t you hold her?” Esmée made a motion to pass the baby to her, but Eliza held up her hands in protest.
“She would cry louder at my ravaged face.” Chin trembling again, Eliza looked at her untouched tea. “Besides, you and Alice are the ones she needs. And once Alice weans her, she shall be in a nurse’s care. ’Tis as it should be. Infants tire me so.”
“Sister, please reconsider.” Esmée returned Ruenna to her shoulder. “She needs her mother most of all, not a nurse.”
Father tapped his fingers atop his chair arm, eyes on Eliza. “I must leave tomorrow. You’ll have till then to decide whether you wish to remain here on the island or return to the mainland.”
CHAPTER
sixty
Twas a shimmering twilight when Esmée lit the pan lamps. She took up her quill and wrote in the logbook.
9th February 1756. Sea calm. Mild southwest wind. Lamp oil low.
Just that morn, two of Henri’s crew who’d weathered pox in the past had returned with Father to York for supplies. She had enough oil for another sennight, or so she hoped. At least till their reappearance. She chided herself for letting supplies get so low.
Standing by the glass, Esmée looked down on Henri’s cottage, where Eliza had chosen to stay on for an indefinite amount of time. Light rimmed the windows, making Esmée wonder what her sister did in Father’s absence. His steadying presence was missed, especially where her sister was concerned.
Eliza’s choice to stay surprised them all. She did not remain out of love for the island. A rustic outpost, she called it. She simply wanted to avoid the scrutiny of Williamsburg and York and so hid here, Esmée sensed, her grief over her pockmarked skin seemingly as great as her grief over Quinn. And there seemed no way to assuage it.
Lord, what would You have me do for my sister?
At a loss, she sat down and looked out the glass at a passing sloop. Lately her heart had ceased to catch over every ship, as if her hopes were fraying. Still, she stared at the handsome vessel till its lofty sails were swallowed up by darkness and seemed no more substantial than a moth’s wings.
A half hour more and the tower shone bright as a lantern in the gathering darkness. Once the watery view was lost to her, she checked the lamps again, trimming wicks as needed.
“Miss Shaw.”
The low voice nearly made her drop her candle. She spun, gaze fastening on a shadowed figure at the top of the stairs.
Jago Wherry?
He was heavily bewhiskered, his hat pulled low. His right hand clutched a pistol. A chill passed through her. She had no weapon here in the tower, only a flintlock pistol in the cottage.
“Why have you come?” she asked, her voice sounding stronger and more well-intentioned than she felt.
He took a step toward her, and she took a step back, bumping the desk behind her. “I’ve a need only ye can remedy.”
“Speak plainly, sir.” Her voice seemed to echo. “I must return to my cottage lest others come looking for me.”
For the first time Esmée silently bemoaned Henri’s crew at the island’s opposite end.
“Not till ye hear what I’m after.” Wherry stood betwixt her and the stairs. Caressing the weapon with his thumb, he smiled thinly. “I ken ye have knowledge of prizes secreted here on the island. And ye’ll not be rid of me till ye show me just where.”
How did he know? A sourness closed her throat. And what would he do if she didn’t do as he bid? “Captain Lennox is due any day. If he finds you here wanting to steal from him, I shudder to think what your punishment will be.”
Something inexplicable passed over his tight features. The reek of rum threaded the cold air. He’d been drinking, not enough to dull his wits or his limbs, but enough to make him dangerously reckless.
“Ye’ll meet me at first light—alone—and take me to where the cache is buried.”
She pondered this and her way out of it. Wherry was a canny man. She doubted he was alone in his nefarious dealings. “You’re making a terrible mistake coming here and asking me such.”
A low laugh. “I’ve half a dozen rogues and cutthroats in a near cove who consider it a handsome plan, not to mention some well-placed gents in Williamsburg. Beware my mates near at hand. When they’re liquored they’re prone to mischief. I’d hate to see them make sport with the other three women who keep ye company. Two babes wouldn’t stand in the way.”
“How dare you—”
“Oh, I dare, make no mistake. Weary o’ the almshouse as I am, ’tis time to move on with coin in my pocket and that o’ my companions.”
Her stomach churned as her mind whirled. How to rid herself of him and his fellows was uppermost, but how to do it with so few of the crew near . . .
“I was leaving the French camp when I saw the captain leave the almshouse one night under cover o’ darkness. No one said a word, but afterwards we were all the better for it.” He spat a stream of tobacco on the pristine floor. “Everyone knows he’s a prize master. Stands to reason he’d hardly miss what’s cached right here. Word is he’s after the French as we speak, taking more still. Needs be we poor folk have our day.”
Esmée shook her head. “I cannot share what is not mine to give.”
He all but lunged at her, grabbing her arm and pressing the pistol’s cold steel against her temple. “Make no attempt to gain help at the Flask and Sword. We’ve timed our coming with care. Meet me at daybreak on the path that leads to the south beach. Come alone. If ye play me false ye’ll not return to the light.”
“Are ye all right, Miss Shaw?” Alice’s voice penetrated Esmée’s panic as she removed her cape at the door of the cottage.
A baby’s cry spared her an answer. Alice moved toward Ruenna in her cradle near the hearth, giving Esmée a moment to gather her wits.
“All well here?” Esmée asked, crossing to the window to take another look at the light.
Jago Wherry had vanished as quickly as he’d come, making her wish their meeting was a bad dream. Her every nerve stretched taut, her stomach roiling. But for the moment Alice was holding Ruenna out to her with a slightly exasperated smile.
“The babe is fat as butter,” she said as Esmée took Ruenna in her arms. “And she’s been fed, so I don’t know why she’s cross.”
Did the baby have a bit of Eliza’s temper? Ruenna’s blue eyes were awash with tears, her tiny fists bunched. She wailed as if she’d been pricked with a pin. Esmée made certain that wasn’t the case, then cradled her closer, wanting to protect her at all costs.
Alice took Alden from his new cradle, his crying giving way to hiccups. “Just when we got the babes quieted for you, up they pop!”
Esmée took a steadying breath. “Have you seen my sister?”
Alice shook her head. “Lucy served her supper in the captain’s cottage a half hour ago.”
Taking a chair, Esmée studied the babe’s delicate but flushed features, wishing Eliza would come in and console her. As it was, she was so distracted she could give little comfort.
“Would ye like a cup of chocolate, Miss Shaw?” Lucy came from the kitchen, all concern, as Alice excused herself to change Alden. “’Tis so chill in the lighthouse. Your cheeks are red as roses.”
“Please,” Esmée replied absently, though her supper sat uneasily, her head a-hammer. How would she manage the rich drink?
She studied Lucy’s comely form as she went to the kitchen. Wherry had threatened harm to not only her but the women with her. How many of his fellows were with him? Were they even now watching the cottage?
Lucy returned, cocoa in hand. “Has any crew come from the Flask and Sword?”
“I haven’t any idea.” Esmée looked at her, startled. “Why do you ask?”
Lucy darted a look at the kitchen. “I spied a man coming out of the light. He had a familiar look about him.”
An odd relief overrode Esmée’s panic. “I’ll not dissemble.” She lowered her voice as Ruenna squirmed in her arms. “We are in a predicament. Jago Wherry has come seeking prizes.”
“Wherry?” Lucy’s alarmed words raised the gooseflesh on Esmée’s arms. “Surely the old sot’s bluffing?”
They stared at each other. Esmée couldn’t risk their safety and oppose him. But neither could she betray Henri’s trust and forgo the cache, though she was certain he would say it mattered little compared to their lives.
“I suppose Wherry’s brought his cronies?” Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “From the back alleys of York and the track, most likely. ’Tis spirits that embolden them to act so rashly and defy the captain, likely.”
“Please, say nothing to Alice.” Esmée heard her singing to Alden. “Pray for our protection and deliverance.”
“God help us . . .” Lucy’s usual paleness leached whiter. “There’s the babes to think of—and her ladyship, who seems half-barmy, if ye pardon my saying so.”
This was another of Esmée’s fears, that her sister’s disordered mind would refuse to right itself. No doubt the Eliza of old would rise to the challenge of outwitting Wherry if she got wind of his schemes. Or if she knew Henri’s treasure was pinpointed on a map beneath the very floorboards of the cottage she now occupied.
Esmée’s reply died in her throat when Alice reappeared with a smile, obviously none the wiser.
As cups were filled and the fire crackled and Ruenna finally began to settle, Esmée’s mind spun. Might she lead Wherry to a false location and let him dig? Say the treasure had been taken when he turned up emptyhanded? But then what? If he became angry . . . if he knew she’d misled him . . .
Lord, a way of escape, please.
CHAPTER
sixty-one
The cold dawn added to Esmée’s angst. Rain threatened, the sea churlish. Sleepless and sharp-tempered, she walked the path to Wherry’s appointed meeting place with leaden feet. Though she’d considered avoiding him, she sensed he would appear at the cottage and thereby place the other women in more danger. So she slipped out, telling Lucy to lock the door after her and not unlock it till she returned.
Her silent prayers seemed to rise no farther than the clouds hanging above her head. When she spied Wherry waiting among the cover of pines, her chest tightened till she couldn’t breathe. Yet she held to the Scripture that had come to her in the night, just as she clutched the captain’s pistol hidden in her pocket.
The wicked plotteth against the just, and gnasheth upon him with his teeth. The Lord shall laugh at him: for he seeth that his day is coming.
She certainly felt gnashed upon. Then Wherry was at her back with what she assumed was a primed, loaded weapon and a shovel. He spoke little, his bloodshot gaze and shambling gait unnerving her further. When they passed the copse of trees where Henri had carefully stored his cache, she felt a momentary qualm. Should she just give Wherry what he wanted? Nay, came a bone-deep conviction. She led him on down the path as far from the women and infants as possible.
“Hasten your steps, Miss Shaw.” The gravelly voice was thick with drink. “I’ve no time to waste.”
A sharp jab to the small of her back stole the last of her composure. She whirled on him, legs atremble beneath her quilted petticoats. His surprise flared as she thrust her own pistol in his leering face.
“Shall we have it out betwixt us first?” Her voice shook with heat. “I’m done with your threatening and demands.”
“A foolish move.” Their pistols were pointed at each other, only his hand was steadier. “My men are trailing us. If I say the word, ye’ll have more than me to reckon with.”
