Thanking her, Esmée lingered by a display of ribbon near the door.
“You are admiring the silk taffety ribbon, no? How about a yard or two of this Parisian blue or pear green? Scarlet is also gaining ground, though sable is the preferred color.” Madame Suchet took up the black and strung it round her own throat. “A ribbon choker necklace is all the rage.”
Esmée took out her embroidered pocketbook. She’d not add to Eliza’s account. “I’ll take three yards of each, including the rose and purple.”
Smiling, Madame Suchet bid her adieu and let the shopgirl handle the matter.
At last, purse lighter, Esmée walked uphill toward home. Once there she donned a riding habit, hiding the ribbons in a saddlebag when the groom brought her saddled horse round. Atop Minta and shivering beneath the muted midday sun, she moved past wagons and carts and hawkers going about their noisy business in town.
In minutes she’d gained the coastal road, cantering along its rutted path, pausing once to let her mare water at a creek and sample a patch of seagrass. She savored the seascape, a palette of blues and grays as the sun broke free of scattered clouds.
She’d timed her almshouse visit carefully, hoping the trustees would be elsewhere. Once she arrived, she had her wish. Mistress Boles was absent and Miss Grove was busy with the children. Glad for the lack of supervision, Esmée sat down at a long trestle table in the dining hall with sixteen almshouse women, including the new arrivals Father had mentioned. Quickly she learned their names. Lucy, Hannah, Jane, Arminda. They regarded her with wide-eyed surprise. Gentlewomen didn’t oft dine with the destitute. Or were they staring at her riding habit? Eliza called it shabby, outmoded, but even if the green velvet was worn and the feathers limp with age, it was an extravagance they’d rarely beheld.
“Ye picked a good day to sup with us, Miss Shaw,” one woman told her. “’Tis meat Monday.”
Meat? Esmée glanced at her own plate. Could this paltry bit of bone and gristle be called that? Smiling nevertheless, she wondered how she’d eat a bite. Almshouse men were served before the women, while the children partook in their schoolroom.
“Will ye say grace, Miss Shaw?” came another timid query.
Joining hands, they bowed their heads. Esmée paused, sensing all the unspoken, unmet needs at hand. “Dear Lord, let it be our earnest prayer to serve Thee better day by day as we grow in grace and trust Thee for our wants in soul and body. For these and all Thy blessings, God’s holy name be praised for Christ’s sake. Amen.”
The shallow bowl of soup ladled out next bore a tiny potato and a sliver of parsnip. Esmée took up her spoon without complaint, aware of half a dozen eyes on her as if awaiting a wince of distaste.
Stale bread reminding her of ship’s biscuits—with no butter—rounded out the meagre meal. She thought of the citrus delivered to their very door two days past from a ship newly returned from the Caribbean. These women were alarmingly thin, even the pregnant Alice. Such humble fare was barely enough to keep a bird alive.
“Thank ye for the chocolate ye brought last time,” another woman murmured.
A few capped heads bobbed. The most talkative sat across from her. “We’ve had a bit in hot milk and it’s divine. But seems like the trustees take the lion’s share. Guess it’s their due for puttin’ up with the lot o’ us.”
Esmée managed another disagreeable spoonful. “Is Mistress Boles away often?”
“Her mother’s ailin’, so she hies to Tobacco Road now and again to tend to her.”
They ate in companionable silence, a comment made now and then. Esmée soldiered on, trying to determine what was most needed near at hand. The mother-to-be required far more than the ribbon she’d brought. She’d seen better dressed indentures and slaves. The eldest among them bore sores on her wrinkled cheeks. What bathing facilities did these residents have? Nary a bath in a twelvemonth, it seemed for some. Surely there was no excuse for uncleanliness with the York River at hand.
“Before you return to work,” Esmée said, “I beg you, tell me your most pressing want. Shoes? A comb? Pockets? A pinch of tea or a remedy from the York apothecary? A petticoat? Today I’ve only brought a bit of comely ribbon.”
They rushed her at the mention, and when Esmée passed around the taffety ribbons, the women laughed and compared colors, proving poverty and age failed to dent an appreciation for pretty things.
Each woman then confided her most pressing need. Miss Grove returned to help, jotting down each whispered request with stylus and paper. The women left merrier than when she’d arrived, clutching their bit of finery as they returned to their assigned chores, be it garden or washhouse or kitchen.
Miss Grove handed the lengthy list over. “How can you possibly provide all these items, Miss Shaw?”
“I shan’t provide them,” Esmée said with a confident smile, pocketing the paper. “The Almighty shall.”
Miss Grove gave a sigh. “My faith is small, I’m afraid. I’ve seen a great many broken promises and hearts here.”
Esmée squeezed her hand before turning away. “I can assure you every need on the list shall be met, though it may take time.”
She left the main building, the wind rising and threatening to unseat her hat. Minta was hobbled beneath a widespread oak wearing a leafy coat as colorful as the biblical Joseph’s. Esmée started toward her, the sun in her eyes, before coming to a sudden stop. There, across a wide stretch of meadow, were two men and a handsome bay horse. A nicer mount she’d never seen save from the stables of the Tayloes or Lees.
Yet it wasn’t the horse but the rider she lingered upon. Could it be? Only an uncanny resemblance, surely. Wasn’t the captain back on his island? If so, his twin swung himself up in the saddle.
And promptly fell off the other side.
Oh, Henri.
Nay. Captain Lennox. She wouldn’t allow herself the more intimate Henri.
Or would she?
If ever she’d wished him a humiliating moment, such played out before her very eyes. To see him so undone when he was usually all mastery and finesse was a shocking sight.
He stood, failed to dust himself off, and tried again. He succeeded on a second try, though he swayed a bit. She held her breath as the portly man on the ground gave some instruction. Jago Wherry? Reins in hand, the captain prodded the bay forward and began a slow, uncertain walk . . . in her direction.
The wind gusted and a shower of crisp leaves ended her gawking, adorning her beaver hat. Brushing them aside, she mounted her mare with great speed and a new appreciation for the riding lessons of her youth. Prodding Minta into motion, she rode toward York’s smoke and spires far faster than she’d left them.
CHAPTER
twelve
Henri’s tumble from the saddle was far less jarring than the realization he had an audience. If it had been anyone other than Esmée, he wouldn’t have minded. There she stood in a fetching tailored jacket and skirt of the palest green. A jaunty hat with several white feathers crowned her head. He regarded her just long enough for Jago Wherry to take note.
The canny Cornishman gave a chuckle. “’Twas Miss Shaw who caused ye to take a tumble, no doubt.”