Charlotte’s features tightened. “How long will you be in Williamsburg, sir?”
He gave her no firm answer, as he hadn’t one. He considered it now as he turned up Palace Green. The governor’s brick residence with its ornamental iron gates at the far end was the undisputed crown jewel of the capital, away from the crowds and confusion of Virginia’s largest town. He sought the palace’s cobbled forecourt, where a groom waited to take his mount to the near stables.
Stiff and slightly saddle sore, Henri climbed stone steps to the palace’s front door, gaze rising to the towering lanthorn impaling the October sky. The door opened, and a butler ushered him into a weapon-lined hall that seemed more military fort than palace.
“The governor is upstairs in the middle room with his officials, sir, but will see you in due time. I’ll show you to your chamber.”
Henri followed the liveried servant down a carpeted hall and up a stair to an enormous bedchamber. Compared to his cramped sea cabin aboard the Relentless, it was sumptuous—fit for a prince—and painted as yellow as a finch’s wing. The bed linens bore a floral pattern all the rage on land these days. He was most drawn to the comfortable chair near a crackling hearth. Though the day wasn’t cold, the room was airy, and night would soon set in with autumn’s chill.
Restless, he crossed the thick carpet to one of two windows and pushed aside the ornate drapes. Palace Green stretched before him, his second-floor vantage point giving him a bird’s-eye view.
His gaze drifted from the mustering militia to a man playing a fiddle to a bevy of laughing, chatting belles strolling in colorful procession past the palace gates. The ribbons on their wide straw hats fluttered behind them, their elegant skirts teased by the wind, all of them paired in twos but for the lone graceful straggler at the back . . .
Esmée?
He took a second look, gaze darting to the front of the column before returning to the rear again. Esmée followed at a distance, obviously content to keep her own pace. She paused to buy paper flowers from a barefoot young girl selling them on a corner.
Crossing his arms, he allowed himself an unhindered look at her. She was talking to the flower peddler, twirling the paper blossoms in one gloved hand. She’d always been kind. No airs about her. Her sister and entourage were now halfway down the other side of Palace Green as if they’d forgotten all about her. As usual, Eliza was leading the charge, undeterred by her pregnancy or anything else, for that matter. He watched them through the trees till they’d turned a distant corner by Bruton Parish Church.
Was Virginia so infernally small?
He was used to an ocean, and town had him tripping over people. Was it not uncanny that he and Esmée kept crossing paths? First the ball, then near the almshouse, and now this. What next? As she likely didn’t associate with Virginia’s officials, he doubted they’d move beyond this chance encounter from afar. No mention had been made of a rout or any other form of entertainment, not at the governor’s palace, anyway. He could rest easy, mayhap. Finish his business with colonial officials and be gone.
He turned away from the window and sought the hearth, sinking down into the velvet-upholstered chair. A tug on the bell cord gained him something to allay his thirst. In minutes, a footman brought a silver tray and poured him a cup of strong, hot tea. Bohea, from the scent of it. A dram of French brandy rested beside it. Here it was a relief to escape the near constant shadow of Charlotte Oake, even if she did serve Shaw’s chocolate.
The book he’d brought—Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ—awaited reading, one quote worth remembering.
Everywhere I have sought peace and not found it, except in a corner with a book.
He stretched out his legs, his boots near the elaborately cast brass andirons, and pondered. Why had the governor called him here? Something to do with the current conflict, no doubt. His gaze traveled to the window again, the sky so blue and the town so peaceful it was hard to believe there was a war nearing official declaration.
Surely Dinwiddie didn’t want to make a soldier of him.
CHAPTER
fourteen
Esmée pressed her paper flowers to her nose in a fit of whimsy. Just ahead were Eliza and her friends, returning to tea at the Cheverton townhouse. They’d had a delightful stroll about town, mindful winter would soon set in with an icy vengeance. The autumn wind was rising, pressing against them as they passed Bruton Parish Church and continued toward Nassau Street. Eliza was laughing, spirits high on so lovely an afternoon.
Esmée warmed to the sound after a fretful two days. Upon her arrival, her sister was complaining of pains and the physic was sent for. With the baby not due till January, any trouble was unwelcome. Still, Eliza had insisted on entertaining friends and walking about and now presiding over tea. She waited on the steps for Esmée to catch up as her guests went over the threshold into the townhouse.
“Sister, how you dally!” Appearing amused and exasperated, Eliza gestured her inside, clearly ready to sit down. “What fuss over paper flowers!”
All six ladies swarmed into the parlor like colorful butterflies, removing hats and gloves before settling around a tea table. Esmée felt like the odd woman out. The present company did not make her feel unwelcome, but neither had they common ground, with their talk of parties and French fashion and the latest gossip to be had.
“What have you in hand there?” Lady Griffin asked her, leaning in and enveloping Esmée in a cloud of toilet water.
“Paper carnations and roses.” Esmée held them out so she could see the painstaking care with which they were crafted.
“Clever.” On Esmée’s other side, Miss Cartwright wrinkled her pale nose. “But I prefer silk flowers from the milliner. Nothing so common as paper.”
“Common? ’Tis artistry to me,” Esmée replied. “Look at the parts of the flower from stamen to petals, all dyed such lovely hues. The child—Lottie is her name—would make a botanist proud. I asked her for a whole nosegay of them to last me through the winter.”
“Well, they shan’t wilt, truly,” Lady Griffin said with a chuckle, eyes on the refreshments being brought into the room. “Though I fancy they won’t retain their color either.”
Across the table, the governor’s eldest daughter, Rebecca Dinwiddie, took out her fan. “The flowers are lovely, though I’d rather talk chocolate, Miss Shaw. Your sister says you may well open a shop right here in Williamsburg.”
Esmée opened her mouth to naysay it once again, then bit her tongue lest it only stir up Eliza’s zeal for the plan. Would her sister never let go of the notion?
Eliza simply smiled, pouring tea into prewarmed cups for those who wanted it, making a great show of it with her Wedgwood tea service. The maid stood by with a porcelain chocolate pot new to Esmée, twisting the molinet between her hands to blend the beverage.
“Enough about chocolate,” Miss Cartwright said, her color high. “You know what’s said.”
“Indeed, I do,” Lady Griffin replied. “The fair sex is to be particularly careful how they meddle with romances, chocolate, novels, and the like.”
“The Virginia Almanac, for one.” Miss Cartwright’s capped head bobbed. “Especially in the spring, as those inflamers are very dangerous.”