Fish was served along with dishes he later couldn’t recall, so intent was he on their forced talk. Esmée pushed her food around her plate while he managed a few forkfuls. Had his presence stolen her appetite? Pale as she was, she resembled the wilting white roses at table’s center. Hardly the enchanting creature he’d stored away in memory’s darkest corner.
The silence chafed. Whose turn was it now? Though he wanted to convince himself he could navigate this encounter with aplomb, that her hold on him was irretrievably broken, he could not.
CHAPTER
seven
They seemed an island unto themselves. Little eddies of lively conversation on all sides of them made their forced, close proximity all the more painful. The silver fork grew heavy in Esmée’s hand. Every bite seemed more difficult to swallow. All at once she felt far from a self-possessed woman of nearly thirty but rather childlike and fragile, throat tight and near tears.
Dear Hermione.
Sorrow made her sag and went unrelieved as supper wore on. Esmée felt blindsided by the news, further thrown off by the captain’s stoicism reporting it, as if family were of no more merit than his crew and deserved little mention.
Once she and Hermione looked forward to being sisters-in-law. Eliza had been especially fond of her, though she’d lost touch with her after her rift with the captain. The Lennoxes had lived in a handsome house facing the waterfront in Norfolk back then. His father had been a respected shipbuilder there.
At least her own sister had been spared. Tonight Eliza was shining, her coiffure miraculously intact. She’d not stopped smiling all evening. Didn’t her cheeks feel the strain? Father seemed to be enjoying himself too. At home, devoid of Mama, their suppers were quiet affairs. Here he seemed to forget himself, mingling with his fellows, making merry, and toasting this or that.
She took another tasteless bite. Captain Lennox was finally conversing with the woman on his left, the heavily rouged and powdered wife of a port official. Stealing another look at him, she fixed upon the scar above his brow, a thin, pale line she didn’t recall. Concern softened her for an unguarded moment. She’d likely never know how it came to be there.
But it was the tattoo inked on his right wrist that most intrigued her. The Jerusalem cross? Five black crosses were etched beneath his silver-buttoned cuff, ever popular with mariners. Some shipboard artist’s doing, no doubt. Was the accompanying Latin phrase, Coram Deo, also there? In the presence of God. Was that how he felt upon the sea in all its magnificence? In the Almighty’s very presence?
Fingering her pearls, Esmée tried to strike up a conversation on her right as dessert was served, to no avail. So far, all her efforts on behalf of the almshouse had come to nil, making the evening a complete loss.
A small crystal dish was set before her—blackberry flummery. What she craved was chocolate. Cocoa bolstered, soothed, and satisfied while the flummery was sticky and cloyingly sweet. She darted a discreet look left. Captain Lennox sat back in his chair like lord and master, making no inroads on his dessert. He seemed sunk in thought, and she’d wager it wasn’t flummery he was pondering.
Supper was nearly at an end, God be thanked. A two-hour ordeal that would require a fortnight’s recovery. She nearly sighed aloud in relief.
As the dancing resumed, Esmée hovered near a partially open window, drawn by a cool breeze. She’d not danced in ages, though she was partial to the English country dances stepped by a number of couples. Once she’d been lauded as graceful, on par with Eliza. A wistful longing tugged at her, dusty memories of their former French dancing master sweet.
Watching couples assemble for a longways dance, she found herself drawn forward at the press of Kitty’s gloved hand. Though she’d steered clear of the captain since supper, she could do so no longer. Someone had coerced him onto the ballroom floor. A young woman in shagreen silk waved her fan at him, looking as cunning as a fox in a henhouse.
Esmée’s middle twisted, souring what little supper she’d partaken of. As lines formed, the captain stood across from her, not the fan-waving coquette. By accident or design? Accident, she would wager. She tried to smile and be at her dancing best lest anyone apprehend her fluttering nerves, a dozen unwelcome memories assailing her.
Once her dancing best had been with him.
Though he’d claimed to favor supporting the wall, he’d managed dancing admirably back then. And now?
As she thought it, more dancers assembled, and the green-gowned woman nudged her aside as if determined to partner with the captain. Esmée yielded as a flash of irritation gave way to a feeling far more startling. Disappointment? But there was no time to dwell on it. The music prompted them forward, and in time he did indeed become her partner. She placed her fingertips lightly in his upraised palm, more a whisper than a touch, her heart in her throat. Up and down the rows they went as one, dancing figures with all the other couples.
Increasingly breathless, she met his eyes again and again as they matched steps. The dance required it. To look away from one’s partner was rude and sure to be noted. Each time their eyes and hands touched she felt a slight shift, an inexplicable thawing. His eyes . . . had they really been so silvery a blue? His face so handsomely weathered?
A tiny flicker of something long dead threatened to rekindle.
The next morning found Esmée at work, Lady Lightfoot’s ball a hazy dream. Tying on an apron and toying with her chatelaine, she stood in the still-dark kitchen, breathing in vanilla and orange essence and cinnamon, letting her spirits settle. Everything still felt a bit off. The help weren’t due for an hour or so, but evidence of the previous day’s labor adorned every available counter and workplace. She’d barely been hungry for her hyson tea and dry toast at breakfast, so now she reached for a shell-shaped sweetmeat, letting its richness melt on her tongue.
But it in no way assuaged the previous night’s encounter.
Sighing, she passed through the door into the shop, where the first ribbons of light streamed through the bow-fronted window. The majestic view of the harbor never failed to swell her heart—all those tall-masted brigs, schooners, and ships of the line commanded by stalwart, unflinching men the likes of Henri Lennox.
The stirring spectacle sent her back into the kitchen again, where she grabbed a broom and began sweeping an already pristine floor. She hummed a hymn. Eyed the clock. Perused account books and receipts. She would not wallow in sore memories or the sorry one they’d made last night. Like as not, the captain was still at Lady Lightfoot’s. She’d seen the way he’d been sequestered by Virginia’s foremost officials at a break in the dancing, then once a cotillion resumed, he had disappeared into an antechamber.
She’d slipped outside into the garden, the moonlit darkness sweetly scented and consoling. Couples strolled about as she hid herself away in a folly at a far corner. Knowing Eliza, Esmée felt her hopes for an early exit fade. Pregnancy had not curbed her sister’s high spirits or her nocturnal habits.
They’d finally returned home at three o’clock in the morning, Eliza still chattering like a magpie, Quinn snoring on the seat beside her, and Father as mute and contemplative as a monk. He’d gone into that antechamber with the captain and gentlemen. She’d witnessed it before fleeing to the garden. And the door had not reopened till long after midnight, at which point the men emerged without a hint of whatever had detained them. Nor had Father said a word since. This morning he’d slept well past his usual rising time of five o’clock. Eliza would be abed till noon, though Quinn usually sought out one of the coffeehouses to visit with his York friends.