“It hardly compares to the evil done the Africans, but aye, a small taste. The experience opened my eyes to those held against their will, their God-given rights violated.”
They walked in silence for several moments, beyond the busy marketplace. Henri breathed deeply of the autumn air. Fall, despite its melancholy bent, had always been his favorite season.
“I’m a poor host bringing up such dark matters.” Quinn quickened his pace, his voice lifting. “Let us dwell on the present instead. You are our honored guest, and I’m certain Cook has prepared something that will tempt your French sensibilities. My wife will entertain us after supper with the harpsichord, and if you choose to stay on, there will even be illuminations on Palace Green after dark.”
They turned up Nassau Street with its deep shade and elegant townhouses, the gardens surrounding them still abloom and untouched by frost. A few welcoming lights shone in windows, lifting Henri’s pensive mood. If he refused the governor’s offer, he could settle down. Have a wife who might even play the harpsichord. Hire a cook to turn out endless tantalizing dishes. Beget children to chase after. Cultivate landlocked friends like Quinn. It sounded . . . idyllic.
Impossible.
They mounted brick steps to a door opened by a stone-faced butler in livery.
“Good evening, sirs.”
The foyer, fragrant with cooking herbs, was dominated by a curving staircase. Hats and coats discarded, they passed into a spacious, blue-paneled parlor. Feminine voices could be heard upstairs, and then came a light tread on the steps. Henri faced the doorway, ready to greet Lady Drysdale, whoever she might be. His acquaintance with Quinn was just a few days old, but they’d found common ground in the governor’s oft heated meetings. Henri was impressed with the younger man’s sound judgment and thorough knowledge of colonial affairs.
“Quinn, is that you?” The lovely voice heralded the appearance of a young woman in rustling crimson silk, her throat wrapped in rubies.
Henri’s mind whirled.
Lady Drysdale née Eliza Shaw?
The wrench in his gut was offset by Eliza’s trilling laugh. “Dear husband, have you played a prank on our unsuspecting captain?”
Though she seemed every bit as taken aback as he was, Eliza recovered well. Henri looked down at the pineapples he held, wishing himself back at the governor’s palace. Had he judged Quinn wrong? Was this some sort of tawdry prank?
But it was Quinn who appeared the most confused. He shot a glance at Henri, then returned to his wife. “I was unaware Captain Lennox was known to you.”
“Well . . .” Eliza flushed the hue of her gown. “Long ago, yes. We retain a great respect for him, of course, though we did not think to cross paths again.”
“We?” her husband prodded.
A sigh. “My sister and myself. And Father, of course.” Eliza swallowed and darted a glance at the foyer. “But mostly Esmée.”
Understanding seemed to dawn on his host’s face. “Blast!” Quinn blanched. “Forgive me, Captain. At least take back your pineapples—”
“A peace offering,” Henri jested, still trying to grasp Eliza’s very advantageous marriage to one of Virginia’s foremost officials.
Thanking him, she came forward and took the fruit from his outstretched hands. “How did you know pineapples are my preference?”
A sudden movement in the foyer caused all eyes to shift to the doorway. Esmée, of course. Admiral Shaw was just behind her, obviously as delighted as his oldest daughter was not.
“Captain Lennox!” he all but thundered in the distressed silence. “What brings you to our door?”
“Lord Drysdale invited me to”—Henri’s gaze hung on Esmée—“to cause a commotion.”
They laughed, all but Esmée, whose tentative half-smile didn’t reach her eyes. She came toward them, as comely as ever in a shimmering blue gown. He preferred it to her yellow ensemble at the ball. Blue was always eye-catching, mayhap because it reminded him of the sea. The silken fabric seemed like water poured over her, so flattering was the fit, every inch of cloth and lace accentuating her buxom figure.
“Best have it out in the open.” Esmée came to stand between her father and Eliza. “Once upon a time Captain Lennox and I had a . . . an understanding.”
“Of the romantic sort,” Eliza finished with a genuine smile. “But ’tis ancient history, and today dawns anew. This evening, rather.”
“Well, I for one don’t believe in coincidences or chance meetings,” Admiral Shaw said, showing no befuddlement. “When I left the governor’s meetings early today, I never expected you’d be our guest. I couldn’t be happier.”
“Please, come into the dining room as supper is at hand.” Eliza gestured toward a candlelit chamber, where a long table already bore steaming dishes. “’Tis much more informal than Lady Lightfoot’s ball.” She gave a charming wink in Henri’s direction. “Though the seating arrangement is exactly the same.”
CHAPTER
sixteen
Esmée sat down, Henri to her left. Across from them was Eliza, while Quinn and Father occupied the ends of the table. For a few seconds, the lovely flowers at table’s center caught her eye and softened her dismay. Gotten from Eliza’s formal garden in back of the townhouse, the last of summer’s roses showed off their cream and scarlet hues, their scent heady.
Also heady was the man beside her. His hair was tousled by the windy walk here, and the faint facial lines, etched by wind and weather, were kinder by candlelight. His tailor, whoever that might be, needed applause. Henri was dressed for town, his dark broadcloth suit as striking as any she’d seen among Virginia gentlemen. She’d always found a well-dressed man appealing right down to his polished, buckled shoes. But more than that, she was impressed with Henri’s graciousness and humor moments earlier as they’d navigated another hazardous meeting.
All too aware of him, she placed her serviette in her lap, taking a bit from this or that dish without thinking. Oh, if she could only say amusing things like Eliza, not sit here tongue-tied and awkward and wishing they didn’t have so bittersweet a history to overcome.
But if they couldn’t be lovers, might they be friends? She daren’t hope for more. Her heart wasn’t ready for more. Nor, she surmised in the stilted silence between them, was his.
“How fortunate we have French cuisine, Captain Lennox.” Eliza’s smile hadn’t dimmed yet. “Our cook has made a delicious beef ragout that I hope you’ll find delectable.”
Henri smiled. “I’m sure I shall.”
“And what is for dessert?” Quinn asked as a footman began to pour the wine.
“Your favorite apple tart, made with those pippins from the orchard,” Eliza told him. “The rest will be pressed for cider.”
“Take care to have some fruit set aside for winter. They oft improve with age. Much like fine wine”—Quinn looked up from sampling his beef ragout—“or romance.”
Esmée stared at him. Was she being too sensitive, or was his comment meant for her and the captain? Quinn was, in his own way, as shrewd and forthright as Eliza. That he had a recent high regard of Henri there could be no doubt. Something was afoot beyond the usual supper invitation, surely. But what?