Though time and weather had simply lined him, she was remarkably changed. She’d grown rounder and even more beguiling, as if she’d snuck one too many chocolates in his absence. She was . . . voluptuous. And guarded. No longer the guileless girl he’d left behind.
And now the possessor of a hard-won copy of The Complete Confectioner.
CHAPTER
eleven
Methinks yer more buccaneer than privateer.” Mistress Saltonstall gaped in outright astonishment as Henri shoveled sandy soil back into a deep hole. “Buried treasure, indeed, even if not ill-gotten!”
Dusk was layering Indigo Island in silvery shadows. It was his favorite time of day, be it by land or sea. “Remember this exact location. You’re the only soul who knows besides me.” His wink was likely lost on her in the gloaming. “And if it goes missing, I’ll know who to blame.”
“Hoot! I’m no long-gone fool or babbler. Yer stash is safe with me.” She dug in her pocket, withdrew a silver ingot, and admired it. “Especially since ye see to the needs of so many and don’t hoard yer prizes.”
Tossing the shovel aside, Henri began covering the spot with brush, glad to have it done before dark. She lent a hand, dragging fallen pine branches and grapevines to help finish the task. He’d left caches she didn’t know about in half a dozen places on the island, carefully marked on a map he had stashed beneath a floorboard in his cottage bedchamber.
Winded, she eyed him. “Tell me again how ye came by such a haul.”
Henri straightened to his full height and took the flask she handed him. “A flotilla of Spanish ships wrecked off the coast of Florida in a late summer’s gale. A great many pesos were lost and a great many regained, including the silver.”
She whistled through gapped teeth. “Is it true what yer quartermaster said—that all them jacks drowned?”
“To the last man, God rest them.”
“The Spaniards claiming those alligator-ridden waters are no doubt hotter than Hades over yer haul.”
He swiped at his sweaty brow with his sleeve. “None witnessed our recovery of the cargo.”
For all their blether claiming Florida, the Spanish had done little to settle it other than found St. Augustine and build an impenetrable stone fort. It was made of seashells, his men had scoffed, yet it had withstood twenty-seven days of cannon fire during the last British attack.
He took a drink. “I’m to return to the mainland and have need of riding instruction as there are so few carriages to be had. Any recommendations?”
“So, yer in need of a fine-blooded horse fit for a gentleman captain.” Mistress Saltonstall’s gaze held more mirth than he liked. “None better than Jago Wherry. He can be found at the quarter-mile races of a Saturday outside Williamsburg. Or the almshouse when his pockets are empty.”
“He’s a homeless gambler, then.”
“Aye, but he kens horses, and everybody knows it. Tell him Polly sent ye. We were once acquainted in our youth.” Born and bred in York, she knew any name Henri put to her. “So ye can’t ride, Captain, being boat bound for so long?”
“Riding the waves is the sum of my experience, I’m afraid.”
She chuckled and took back the flask.
“That and the horse latitudes,” he added.
Her mirth vanished. “All those poor creatures thrown overboard in the windless passages. ’Tis a wonder America has any horses at all.”
“Now Virginia abounds with them.” He looked toward the fading sunset beyond York’s distant lights. “And a great many excellent riders.”
“Take care to buy yer mount from the Tayloes, who import the best breeds,” she told him. “Then stable yer steed at Grant’s on Ballard Street.”
“Obliged. What can I bring you when I return from the mainland next?”
“Nary a thing, Captain.” She looked sly again, a light in her pale eyes. “Since the rheumatism plagues me so on the island come foul weather, I may winter in York with my widowed sister. She keeps a snug little house on the outskirts. But ye can keep an eye on the Flask and Sword if ye stay on. And Hermes.”
Henri opened his mouth to protest, but she’d already turned her back with a cackle and was soon well beyond hearing as she hurried to return to the ordinary before dark. He looked after her with welling dread.
Hermes. And a horse.
He didn’t have a good feeling about this.
Esmée might have been royalty for all the attention the milliner-mantuamaker paid her . . . when she had paid her scant attention before.
Eliza must have spent a pretty penny. Madame Suchet was French by birth and styled herself a marchande de modes, her mellifluous accent and shop nothing short of sumptuous. Esmée rarely came here save for a length of lace or a pretty fan.
“Your Chinese silk gown is finished, but your cream brocade lacks lace,” Madame Suchet said. “Lady Drysdale insists on Dutch linen petticoats and shifts, matching slippers for every gown, clocked silk stockings . . .” She paused as if all the details eluded her. “And a cape of purple broadcloth lined with white silk shag.”
Esmée’s senses swam as her gaze roamed the rich interior. Fans, gloves, stays, hats, and furbelows she had no name for adorned every available inch of space. Bedazzling. Overwhelming. Suffocating. She took a deep, discreet breath.
“Nothing but the first fashion here in York, with imported cloth arriving daily.” Madame Suchet’s smile was elusive, the shadows beneath her eyes telling. “I am in a battle royale with the Williamsburg milliner, an Englishwoman. Do you know her?”
Esmée fingered a peacock feather. “Barely.”
“Miss Bell may claim the capital, but I am la dame of the harbor, all these handsome ships at my beck and call.”
“You no doubt created many of the gowns for Lady Lightfoot’s ball,” Esmée said.
“Oui, including Lady Lightfoot’s lavender ensemble.” With a proud smile she draped the aforementioned cape about Esmée’s shoulders. “Winter is coming, and Lady Drysdale wishes you to be warm.”
In truth, Eliza wanted her dressed for Williamsburg society more than the weather, and for a sum that pricked Esmée’s conscience. Was Quinn agreeable to such an expenditure? Did he even know? Granted, the Chevertons rivaled Virginia’s ever-prosperous Byrds, but . . .
“Pish-posh! One would think you were a Philadelphia Quaker with your plain ways,” Eliza had scolded recently. “Or indisposed to milliner-mantuamakers.”
“Touché!” Esmée teased. “In a word, these ladies of trade furnish everything that sets off our beauty, increases our vanity, and renders us ridiculous, as has been said.”
“Sister, you simply must stop perusing the coffeehouse papers!”
Esmée returned to the laborious if lovely present. The cape was removed, and a rustling chintz in various hues was draped over her for a final day gown. A fawning assistant helped with pins and suggestions. Esmée stifled a yawn, wishing for a cup of cocoa, as the forenoon was crisp.
“I shall have everything delivered to your residence the day before you leave for Williamsburg,” Madame Suchet promised.