“My dear sister, which is your preference?” Eliza asked, clearly amused by the conversation. “The very tepid-in-reputation tea? Or the more passionate and provoking hot chocolate?”
Esmée replied unashamedly, “Chocolate, please.”
Smiling, Miss Dinwiddie raised her own chocolate cup. “I’m especially partial to Shaw’s dark cocoa with orange essence, as is my father.”
“Speaking of your father, our respected governor”—Lady Griffin fingered the opal choker about her neck—“do tell us about the next function he and your mother are rumored to be planning.”
“Indeed, the new ballroom and supper room will host a splendid assembly this January.”
“A holiday ball?” Miss Marriot exclaimed. “Enchanting!”
“Miss Shaw, will you join us, or have you other reasons to stay in York?” Miss Dinwiddie asked.
Another assembly. The frivolous cost of which could feed and clothe the almshouse till next Christmastide. What could Esmée say to this?
Judge not that ye be not judged.
Eliza pouted when Esmée failed to answer. “I shan’t attend, for obvious reasons.”
A tittering of sympathy went round the circle. Esmée sipped from her cup in silence, glad the conversation had gone another, less inflammatory direction. In the foyer she could hear her father and Quinn about to go out. They’d been summoned to the palace. Some sort of meeting that involved maritime matters. They wouldn’t return till after supper, they’d said that morn, which left her and Eliza to their own devices.
“And you, Miss Shaw?” Lady Griffin seemed determined that Esmée answer. “Are you not fond of dancing? I believe I saw you at Lady Lightfoot’s ball. And in the company of Captain Lennox, I daresay.”
The room stilled. The ladies were looking at her over the rims of their cups. Heat climbed from Esmée’s tightly laced stays to her powderless cheekbones. What could she say?
Eliza set her cup down. “My sister and Captain Lennox do not belong in the same sentence. They simply happened to be thrust together at Lady Lightfoot’s table and later when dancing.”
“Quite a shame, as he is so very eligible,” Lady Griffin whispered, brows arched as if privy to inside information. “Though his detractors are many.”
Esmée’s pulse quickened. Feigning disinterest, she took another sip of chocolate. Had she been a fool to send the captain that riding crop? She could not blame Kitty. She’d wanted to do it, had been rather charmed by the suggestion . . . and therein revealed the state of her heart. She was not at all over Henri Lennox. Not one whit. She’d have to be confined to a casket first. How had she convinced herself over the long years that he had no hold on her?
Eliza flashed her dimpled smile and passed the tray of ginger cakes. “Let us talk less of dashing ship captains and more of the coming assembly.”
“Have you heard?” Miss Cartwright brightened. “I was at the mantuamaker’s just yesterday. She told me of a new fashion influenced by the secret language of flowers. By embroidering one’s clothes, one conveys a message.” She looked at one of the paper flowers Esmée had placed on the table. “A carnation means ‘my heart aches for you.’ A rose in bloom signifies love. I say we all embroider our gowns with meaningful flowers for the coming ball.”
“You refer to my very colorful friend, Mary Wortley Montagu,” Lady Griffin told them with a touch of pride. “She started the craze for a floral love language in England and the continent. It is rather amusing to consider which flowers we might choose.”
Eliza was clearly smitten with the idea, her expression rapt. “If I could attend, I would buy up all the scarlet thread and smother my gown in bright red roses, which must symbolize passion.”
“I would pick a white lily, which symbolizes purity.” Miss Dinwiddie reached for another tea cake with a blush. “Father says that at seventeen I’m too young to consider a suitor.”
“Bosh! Never too young—or too old!” Lady Griffin retorted, having outlived three husbands. “Love visits us at any age and often quite unexpectedly.”
“What would you choose, Miss Marriot?” Esmée asked her. Of all the women present, she was the undisputed beauty, second to Eliza, with her flawless skin and flaxen hair, and was reputed to have a great many admirers.
“Purple violet, I believe, though I have no inkling what it signifies.”
“Daydreaming,” Lady Griffin told her. “‘Near them the Vi’let glows with odours blest and blooms in more than Tyrian purple drest.’ Next time we gather I shall read from some of Lady Montagu’s letters. They are quite eloquent.”
“Tyrian purple, indeed.” Eliza poured another round of tea and chocolate. “I spied silk of that very color at the mantuamaker’s the other day. Needs be you ladies begin embroidering straightaway. January is not far off.”
“Shall we meet here, then?” Miss Cartwright suggested. “Company always makes needlework more enjoyable. Unless it would tire you too terribly, that is, Lady Drysdale.”
Esmée returned her attention to her sister, who’d reached down to pet her enormous Angora cat, Dulcet, that had crept into the parlor on furry white feet. Eliza looked tired. Half-moons rimmed her eyes, and she’d stifled more yawns than Esmée could count.
Straightening, Eliza flashed another smile. “I beg you, come. Embroidery is not my strong suit, but company keeps my mind off my coming confinement.”
Did anyone else detect the note of dread in Eliza’s voice?
“I’m nearly done with the babe’s welcome gift,” Esmée said. “I hope you like it.” Declining another cup of tea, she reached for her sewing bag and took out her latest handwork. Tea drinking and talk didn’t satisfy for long. She must be doing something.
Lady Griffin raised an eyebrow. “What have you there?”
Esmée threaded a needle with practiced ease. “Clouts and pilchers for the almshouse infants.”
A quiet nearly as lengthy as that of Captain Lennox’s mention ensued. The ladies looked on as she plied her needle.
“Ah, the almshouse.” Lady Griffin’s tone implied both distaste and indifference. “Overfull of a great many feebleminded as well as fallen women, not to mention beggarly, idle men.”
“You might be surprised if you visited. I welcome you to accompany me.” Careful to hide the ire she felt lest she hurt her cause, Esmée continued, “There are a great many orphaned children. And infirm elderly with no means or family to support them.”
“I’ve heard conditions are dismal.” Miss Cartwright turned troubled eyes on her. “How often are you there, Miss Shaw?”
“Every sennight, usually. More often if there’s cause.” Esmée raised her gaze and smiled at them in invitation. “If you cannot accompany me, I encourage you to give what you are willing—goods, foodstuffs, coin. Anything at all helps.”
“Hearing about orphaned infants makes me melancholy.” Eliza put a hand on her burgeoning middle. “Imagine being brought up homeless and even motherless. And then there are the children indentured almost before they are out of pudding caps and leading strings!”