“Nay, I drank my weight in it this morn. A bit of brandy will do.” He uncapped the decanter on his desk and poured the amber liquid into a waiting glass. “Though what I crave is your mother’s milk punch.”
She studied him sympathetically as he drank deeply. “Perhaps we shall make some at Christmastide.”
“I saw you standing at the Dutch door earlier, gazing into the coffeehouse.” Rebuke was in his tone. The previous eve’s late hour had turned him not only tired but testy.
“You know I like to peruse newspapers left by your customers. Since Eliza has invited me to the capital for an extended stay, I must keep current lest I be branded a bumpkin.”
“I’ll be happy to tell you any pressing news.” He leaned back in his chair, gaze drawn to the windows at the screech of gulls. “For instance, Captain Lennox has returned to Indigo—”
“Father! I need no telling.” Her rare outburst rattled the teacup in her hand, sloshing liquid onto her skirt.
He stared at her, fanning the flame in her face. “Pretend all you like. I’m not your doting father for naught. You’ve been completely addled since you first heard of his return. I only thought to take the worry from your countenance with news he’s left the mainland.”
She dabbed at the damp on her skirt with a handkerchief, her headache thundering again. “If my countenance is clouded, ’tis because I’m missing Mama, like you. And truth be told, I’m dreading Williamsburg society, where I am referred to as Lady Drysdale’s spinster sister or Captain Lennox’s jilted sweetheart.”
“Not the respected businesswoman of York and patron of the parish almshouse.”
“The former is far more savory.” She gave a brittle smile. “Perhaps I shall try my hand at raising support among Eliza’s genteel friends. That was my intent at the ball before I was . . . um . . .”
“Unmoored by Captain Lennox’s arrival.”
Rather, shipwrecked. “What other news should I be aware of?”
“I’m loath to heap more unwelcome reports on you, but there’s said to be a large influx of French expelled from Acadia who’ll soon be at Virginia’s door. Not only that, there’s been a dozen more arrivals at the almshouse, yet scarcely room to house them.”
Her heart squeezed. “Who is among their number?”
“A drunkard. Two lewd women.” Father was nothing if not forthright. “Four abandoned children. A lunatic. One destitute expectant mother. An invalid with no memory. I forget the rest.”
“’Tis exactly what troubles me. Out of sight at the almshouse, they are all easily forgotten.”
“You’ve had some success at providing care for the elderly in private homes here in York.”
“Only four, sadly. Private benefactors are few.”
“Then seek support from the wealthy in Williamsburg with my blessing.”
“I’d rather spend time at the almshouse.”
He poured a second brandy. “How like your mother you are. ’Twas all her visits to the poor that influenced you, accompanying her as you did. And in the end ’twas the death of her.”
His mournful tone hurt her, but he spoke truth. Mama had contracted an illness at the almshouse that had indeed been her demise. As for Father, he was ever generous to the poor, but lodge or visit them he would not do. Yet pounds and pence only went so far. These unfortunates—shunned outcasts—needed to be seen, spoken to, touched.
He returned to the window and took up the spyglass she’d set down. At once she was cast back to the quarterdeck, windward side, where he’d stood as commander of his beloved man-of-war. Even at almost seventy he looked stalwart. Commanding.
“I nearly forgot.” The spyglass came down. “Your sister told me to relay you’re to see the milliner-mantuamaker ahead of our going to Williamsburg. Something about stripping you of your old gowns and infernal chatelaine and outfitting you in something splendid.”
Esmée made a face. “Betimes I feel like the younger sister, not the elder.”
He smiled indulgently, the deep, sun-weathered creases in his face softening. “Eliza will have her way.”
Esmée smoothed a worn fold of her skirt, its once vibrant pattern faded. While she appreciated her sister’s generosity—extravagance—it seemed at odds with her almshouse sympathies. She would not look like royalty and go there. Or anywhere.
“You might better benefit your cause if you didn’t appear as if you were one step away from the almshouse yourself, my dear.”
“I’m hopelessly disinterested in dress, Father.” Her sister’s ongoing fascination with fashion skimmed past her like a butterfly across a millpond. She felt a mere moth. “I’m guessing Eliza is planning an entire wardrobe for me.”
“Your sister is generous to a fault.” Her father’s levity vanished. “Quinn humors her so, importing all manner of this or that and giving in to her every whim. I fear my grandchild shall be spoilt.”
Esmée feared it too. Finishing her tea, she pushed up from the chair and excused herself. “Till supper, Father. I believe I’ll go rest in my room.”
CHAPTER
ten
Having had his fill of the mainland, Henri rowed back to the island, standing in the jolly and facing forward, a habit of old watermen who claimed it was less taxing and more navigable. Squinting in the sun’s glare, he set his sights on the Flask and Sword, its beleaguered façade begging paint and repairs. A small sloop and dory were docked, both unknown to him. The ordinary never lacked for customers, whatever the season.
Some of his crew sat upon the beach. Others hung in hammocks stretched between wind-whipped trees. Still others toiled on the Relentless now beached on the island’s bay side. A few waved a hand as Henri drew nearer.
Home.
Only Indigo Island didn’t seem much like home, he’d been gone so long. Now it felt unfamiliar. Foreign. Like any seldom seen port or landing place.
He beached the jolly and made for the ordinary, boots sinking into white sand. His men knew his swift stride too well to slow him, other than a hand flung to a forehead as he passed. Into the ordinary he went, seeking his preferred corner by a wide window open to the salt air.
Without asking, Mistress Saltonstall fetched him a dram and set it down with a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Welcome, Captain Lennox, on this bonny October day.”
“Obliged.” Henri leaned back in his Windsor chair, his tattooed hand encircling the pewter cup. “How is Hermes?”
She seemed pleased he’d remembered the varmint’s name. The monkey—a small marmoset from Peru—perched on her shoulder. Baring its teeth, Hermes gave a cackle before traveling to her other shoulder.
She winked. “Ornery as ever and a constant reminder of ye.”
He’d gifted her Hermes after sailing to South America five years before. Eccentric as she was, she’d taken to the creature immediately, even teaching it tricks, to the amusement of the watermen who frequented her establishment.
“How goes it at York?” she asked, petting Hermes’s long tail. “Norfolk, rather.”
“Busy. Crowded.” He took a drink. “Full of itself.”