Henri smiled past his humiliation and turned his back on the comely vision as Esmée fled with far more grace than he was capable of. Reins firmly in hand, he gave up the thought of chasing after her. A far-fetched notion, as she was born to the saddle like any well-bred woman. He’d never catch up with her.
Wherry cleared his throat. “Riding is not so far afield from commanding a ship, aye, sir? Ye must control the direction and speed with great discernment and a minimum of meddling. Ye must let the horse—like the ship—do the work.”
“A worthy comparison.”
“Yer posture is without fault, but yer a bit stiff.” Wherry took a step back. “’Tis all about balance. Ye must learn to think like the creature upon whose back ye sit.”
“A tall order.”
By hour’s end Henri had grown comfortable with this, his third lesson, enough to manage a brisk walk if not a trot. “I believe I can make my way back to Grant’s stables.”
“Without breaking yer blessed neck, I hope.”
“If I do, Trident is yours.”
Wherry gave a wheezing laugh and scratched Trident’s withers. “Ye learn quick, Captain. And a better horse cannot be had. Spritely but not too spirited. Even tempered. Surefooted.”
“And long-suffering with a sea rover like myself.”
“Ye have a way with Trident, calm and assured as ye are. That bodes well for ye both.”
Henri reached into his waistcoat and withdrew coin enough to pay for Wherry’s trouble. “We have a gentleman’s agreement, aye? I’ll not see my hard-earned cash wagered.”
Wherry chuckled. “Come to the races, Captain, and ye might well change yer mind.”
“Once I can ride there without cause for shame, I may take you up on it.”
They parted, Henri taking the same road that had returned Esmée to town. She’d seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if he’d dreamed her standing there. What was she doing miles from York, and alone at that?
Thirsty and winded, Esmée slowed to a trot as she neared York. With the almshouse women fresh in mind, she spent the next hour visiting various shops to purchase what she could. Intent on the apothecary last, she abruptly changed course, avoiding Charlotte Oake as she came out of the bookbindery next door. Remounting Minta, saddlebags bulging, Esmée quickly considered her options and reined left.
Down an alley she went, intent on Matthews Street. At its end, the Harts’ residence beckoned with acres of fragrant flowers and ripening orchards. For many years, the Harts had imported upwards of hundreds of flowering species from a London nursery to adorn their corner of Virginia. ’Twas a beloved spot since the Shaws had only a small kitchen garden and a few straggling roses now that Mama was gone.
Kitty, her dearest friend, was an able businesswoman in her own right. Her antidote to the popular, male-dominated coffeehouses in the colony was to open a female-dominated tea garden. As usual, Kitty was outside, tending to the last of the season’s trumpet flowers and tuberoses.
“Esmée!” Kitty tossed aside a spade, peeled off her soiled gloves, and hurried down a brick walkway to greet her. “Nary a penny is needed!” she joked about the usual entrance fee paid by visitors.
They embraced and passed beneath an arbor’s rose-scented shade. Though it was October, the blooms continued lush. Empty wicker chairs called for an extended visit. In summer, musicians were hired to play as visitors strolled the attractive paths over several acres.
“You’ve been to the almshouse is my guess.” Kitty’s amber eyes sharpened. “But you seem rather . . . bestirred. Might that have something to do with the passing of a magnificent bay horse just moments ago carrying your captain?”
“My captain?” Esmée darted a glance at the road, safely distant. “Most decidedly not.”
“’Twas what I always called him once upon a time,” Kitty said unapologetically as they took their seats.
“We didn’t cross paths, not this time. I simply saw him from afar as I left the almshouse.”
“You’re still recovering from being thrust together at Lady Lightfoot’s ball, I suppose.” Kitty picked a rose from overhead and brought it to her nose. “What a hullaballoo when the captain strode in! All the women regarding him as if he were Poseidon himself. He has as many admirers as naysayers, you know.”
Naysayers was kind. Enemies was more accurate. There was no denying Henri had a colorful past. Impressed as a lad by the British navy—a form of white slavery, he’d once said—he’d since caused an uproar among slave-owning Virginians once he became commander of his own vessel.
“You’re remembering the brig Swallow, as am I,” Esmée said, focusing on a cardinal as it winged by with a swoosh of red.
“Captain Lennox was right to intercept it. To burn it.” Kitty’s voice was low, as they were not alone in the garden. “Would that all of those slavers suffer the same fate.”
Only two days out off the coast of Cabinda in Africa, the Swallow had been intercepted by the Relentless and returned to port. Its cargo of several hundred slaves who were crammed between the hold and deck had been liberated, the ship’s crew left on land as their vessel was torched.
Esmée flinched recalling it. “’Twas the utmost irony the ship was bound for Virginia. Thankfully, none could prove it was the captain, with it happening so far from our shores. And he wisely stayed away.”
An absence of years Esmée knew all too well. For a time the Swallow’s burning had incensed slave owners and ignited a fierce debate on the ills of the trade, but the Middle Passage continued robust. Of all the American colonies, Virginia enslaved the most Africans, and they landed almost daily in dizzying numbers.
“Quakers and free Africans have long been crying out against slavery,” Esmée said. “’Tis rumored a large portion of the captain’s profiteering prizes help fund those who oppose it.”
“And now the renowned Captain Lennox has returned to our shores. Quite courageously too, making so public an appearance at the ball and now about town.”
Esmée bit her lip, pondering it all. “Father led me to believe he’d left York. I assumed he’d set sail again. Glad I am I’ll soon be at Eliza’s in Williamsburg. Perhaps I shall stay longer than planned.”
“On account of the dashing captain?” Kitty laughed. “Though you hope to ignore him, why does it appear you are as enamored with him as at first?”
“Enamored?” Esmée shook her head so vehemently it set her hat’s feathers dancing. “Do you have any inkling how mortifying it is to keep being reminded of a thwarted love affair at every turn?”
“Ah.” Kitty studied her pensively. “What you need is cherry syllabub.”
“Cherry?” Esmée brightened. She was thirsty. “Grog is more like it. ’Tis stronger.”
“Grog? Bah!” Waving a hand, Kitty summoned a servant to bring refreshments. “Foul stuff fit for common sailors.”
“Are you calling Captain Lennox common?”
“Hardly! But what is that to you?” Kitty’s eyes narrowed with mirth. “Yet you seem all too ready to leap to his defense.”