Esmée lapsed into stymied silence.
“I do believe he’s even handsomer than I remember. And those eyes of his, serene one minute, then intense as a tropical storm the next—”
“You are no help at all.”
Kitty leaned in with a sympathetic purr. “So, he still holds your heart, at least a bit of it.”
Did he?
Esmée shook her head in denial. When he’d left long ago, she’d vowed to never let another man affect her so, her heart torn asunder at their impasse.
“Which reminds me . . .” Kitty brought her round with whiplash haste. “I read in yesterday’s Virginia Gazette an advertisement that might interest you. ’Twas remarkable in its brevity. Simply, ‘Wanted: Lighthouse keeper, Indigo Island.’”
Esmée listened, ripples of dismay widening inside her. She’d avoided the papers of late, not wanting to read more about the captain than she must. But now . . . “Have you a copy?”
“I shall ask Father what he did with it before you go. ’Tis all the talk about town. That and the captain’s return. Reading it brought back all that you once told me. About your shared plan for the light.”
“Once, yes.” Surprise gave way to an immediate wounding. A second betrayal. Esmée vowed to return home and remove the little silver lighthouse from her chatelaine once and for all. “Long ago we’d planned to marry on the island and keep the light.”
“But it goes back further, does it not? To childhood?”
Dear Kitty. Remembering all the poignant details. “You mean when I was small and Father took me to Massachusetts to see the Boston harbor light. The first of its kind in the colonies. I recall him carrying me up steep steps all the way to the top. Heaven’s view, he said. I’ve never forgotten it.”
Ever since, she’d carried that remarkable moment like an ember inside her, stoking it and breathing life into it as the years went by. Father had helped fan that dream. The Chesapeake with its treacherous capes and shifting sandbars needed a similar light, he’d often said.
With a little nod, Kitty placed the wilting rose on the table. “I heard Boston Light recently burned.”
Esmée nodded, her dream now ashes too. “Father told me. He keeps in contact with the lightkeeper there.”
The syllabub came, a cold, sweet distraction.
“I know the chocolate shop was your mother’s dream, not yours,” Kitty said. “Yet you’ve faithfully maintained it, and ’tis quite successful. Successful enough for you to leave it should you want to and simply keep it as your dowry.”
“I adore chocolate, but ’tis not what sets my soul on fire,” Esmée admitted.
“And the island and lighthouse do?”
How could she answer, having never experienced either? She took another sip, feeling oddly unburdened at their honest talk, knowing Kitty was a safe harbor. “What do you know of the captain’s present whereabouts?”
“I have it on good authority that he’s lodging at the Royal Oake when in town and that the widow Charlotte is rather smitten. You’ve not seen him at the shop?”
“He’s not so much as darkened the door, though something curious happened the morn after the ball. A cookbook I’ve long coveted was found on the shop’s doorstone. The booksellers here and in Williamsburg haven’t been able to import any from London. So I wondered . . .”
“Might Captain Lennox be behind it?” Kitty looked hopeful. Far more hopeful than Esmée felt.
“I don’t know what to think. ’Tis a riddle I’ll likely never solve. Imagine my brazenly asking him if he’d gifted it to me, only to have him say nay.” Esmée chuckled despite herself. “Though I would like to thank whoever it was that was so thoughtful. So generous.”
“Why don’t you give him a secret gift in return?”
“Nonsense.”
“A riding crop, perhaps, now that he’s become a horseman. I spied a handsome silver one with a tortoiseshell handle at Christie’s store just yesterday.”
Dare she?
Kitty pressed forward, clearly smitten with her plan. “Arrange for it to be delivered to the Royal Oake discreetly, as happened at your chocolate shop. Let Charlotte wonder as well. Hoodwink her into believing the captain is taken.”
“How . . . bold.” Esmée warmed to the plan nevertheless. “Amusing, even.”
Kitty laughed, looking like a cat with cream. “’Tis romantic . . . intriguing.”
“I pass by Christie’s on the way home,” Esmée said, still torn. “If the crop is still there, ’twill be his. If not . . .” Might that be her answer? “I’ll let you know what transpires. But not a word to anyone, promise me. Not even your dear father.”
“’Tis our secret. I’ll keep you in my thoughts and prayers.” Kitty’s expression clouded briefly before her smile resurfaced. “You were never quite the same after Captain Lennox went away years ago. I’d be delighted if the former Esmée Shaw came around again.”
CHAPTER
thirteen
Williamsburg in autumn nearly blinded him with color. Accustomed to the muted blues and grays of sea and sky save a brilliant sunset or sunrise aboard ship, Henri rode down Duke of Gloucestershire Street with a raptness that made him half forget his poor horsemanship. Countless oaks and maples rustled like a silk skirt in a brisk wind, sending a torrent of painted leaves swirling down onto dusty cobblestones.
He’d nearly forgotten Publick Times every April and October when the courts were in session, people overflowing every inch of Williamsburg. If he hadn’t been invited to stay at the governor’s palace, he doubted he’d find a room at one of the inns.
To his right was the Raleigh Tavern with its deep porch fronting the street, the din of crockery and men’s voices from the taproom making him almost risk the spectacle of dismounting and tethering Trident to the hitch rail. He swallowed, his throat bone-dry, and gave the Raleigh a last, lingering glance. In one hand he held the reins, in another the mysterious riding crop used to cue his horse at intervals.
Wrapped in brown paper and string, it had been delivered to his lodging house just yesterday ahead of his leaving for Williamsburg. Charlotte Oake had looked more perplexed than pleased as she presented it to him when he entered the foyer.
“For you, Captain,” she’d told him, unsmiling. “A courier from Christie’s store said this was to be given to you posthaste.”
He took the package, wanting to open it privately, but curiosity got the best of him, so he tore open the paper. “No mention of the giver?”
“None.” She gave no sign of leaving till he’d unwrapped it. “Do you have a secret admirer, sir?”
He stared at the crop, a costly piece of work. “One with decidedly good taste, if so.”
Was Esmée trying to pay him back for his gifting her a book? Granted, The Complete Confectioner had long been in his possession. He’d thought, upon his return to Virginia five years before, to ask her forgiveness and give her the gift. But second thoughts had the tome going around the world with him instead, tucked beneath a stack of sailing manuals in a bookcase, a continual if barbed reminder of their broken tie.