She swallowed. Fought to steady her nerves. “I—I am not the woman I was, Henri.” Entreaty framed her words. “I regret a great many things.”
His gaze cut to her again, held her eyes for a beat longer than propriety deemed necessary. The music had stopped, as had the room’s conversation. All eyes were on them, bringing their heartfelt conversation to a sudden, maddening halt. Flushing again, Esmée looked away from him. How much had her family overheard?
From beyond the damask window drapery came a pop and a soaring white light. Through the glass, small rockets left starry streaks against the night sky.
“Glory! The illuminations have begun! We must join the festivities on Palace Green.” Eliza led the way into the foyer, pausing to let Quinn fetch her cape against the chill before they exited out the door the butler had opened, Father after them.
Henri took Esmée’s own cape in hand. “Is this yours?”
Nodding, she turned her back, letting him drape the purple garment over her shoulders before they followed the others outside. Skittery as he made her, she almost stumbled on the steps. His hand shot out to steady her, cupping her elbow in an endearing—and searing—gesture. Her heart, once aflutter, now began to knock about her chest like a fist on a door.
Woe to her if he didn’t feel the same.
Together they walked toward the display, joining countless gaping, guffawing onlookers. The night assumed a kind of magic she’d not felt for so long that it seemed she’d been living in a trance since he left. With him beside her, the heavens glittering above, the mood one of festive jubilation all around, she came awake.
And it shook her to her new calamanco slippers that he might well walk away again.
CHAPTER
seventeen
Esmée was back in the chocolate shop three days hence, her chance encounter with Henri in Williamsburg seeming naught but a woozy dream. Until she saw him go past on his handsome horse, right down teeming Water Street, looking like he was born to the saddle. Was he still having lessons with Jago Wherry?
With no one else in the front of the shop to witness her befuddlement, she rushed to the bow-fronted window to see him tying up his mount at a hitch rail in front of the coffeehouse. Instantly her hands flew to her hair and cap, a bit untidy after a busy morning. Her apron bore a chocolate stain, so she whisked it off, only to look up again as he spoke with a woman in a wide, beribboned hat. Esmée’s heart lurched.
Kitty?
Her friend was her exuberant self, her lithe form clad in lilac silk taffeta, her gloved hands gesticulating as she spoke. And she was . . . gesturing to the chocolate shop. A sudden clatter in the coffeehouse made Esmée jump. Broken cups? One glance at the Dutch door earned her nothing but the sight of a great many men reading papers or conversing amid a great many beverages.
When the shop door pushed open with a jingle of the bell, Esmée made a pretense of arranging chocolate pots and cups before the wide window.
“There you are!” Kitty closed the door, her lady’s maid nowhere in evidence. “Be forewarned. You might well have a visitor.”
“Captain Lennox?”
“The one and only. Apparently he has business in the coffeehouse.” She looked toward the open Dutch door. “One never knows what he might do next. He’s carrying that riding crop you gave him—”
“Shhhh,” Esmée said, gesturing to the counter. “Would you like a sweet? We’ve a new batch of anise-flavored chocolates topped with sugared orange rind.”
“I’d rather talk gentlemen,” Kitty whispered.
“I’d rather not,” Esmée whispered back with another glance at the door.
“There is no one near enough to eavesdrop. Your indentures must all be in the kitchen, and the coffeehouse is full of commotion.” Kitty removed her gloves, still smiling. “Oh, this shop smells divine! No wonder you spend your days making confections.”
Esmée held out a tray filled with hardening sweets, a wisp of orange rind atop each. Pippin knots, millefruit biscuits, preserved cherries, and apricot tartlets were Kitty’s for the taking.
She chose an apricot tartlet, her eyes closing as she sampled a bite. “I’ve come to buy a pound or two of cocoa for drinking. With winter coming on, we must have hot chocolate.”
“I’ve a quantity of especially good Caribbean cocoa.” Esmée moved to a cupboard where the best was stored. “What with the French trouble by land and sea, our supplies are low.”
“Ah, the French. How weary I am of war talk.” Kitty watched as Esmée wrapped the whitish cocoa bricks in paper. “Why not visit us this afternoon? Our winter tearoom awaits, freshly painted and warmed by the Franklin stove Father ordered from Philadelphia.”
“Sounds cozy.” Esmée tied the bundle with string. “But I’m overdue at the almshouse, being away in Williamsburg as I was.”
“Of course. I would offer to go with you, but . . .” Kitty wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know how you abide the wretched conditions. The sadness.”
The sadness. That was the worst of it. Betimes she couldn’t bear it. Yet still she must go. “One young woman is nearing her confinement.” Esmée checked the watch pinned to her chatelaine. A clock wasn’t on the shop wall. Father wanted his customers to forget the time and dwell on confections. “I hope to take her some things that might help with the baby. Clouts and blankets and such.” She’d finally gathered all the needs the almshouse women had confided last visit, and she felt a little like a child at Christmas in her desire to deliver them.
With a sigh, Kitty paid for her purchase. “Imagine a babe being born in that place. A ward of the parish, I suppose.” She took the wrapped chocolate and started for the door. “Do come by when you can. We’ve much to talk about, like your churchgoing the past Sabbath with Captain Lennox. That has set both Williamsburg and York astir!”
Esmée smiled sheepishly. “How on earth did you come to learn of it?”
“I have a dear aunt who attends Bruton Parish, remember.”
“Captain Lennox was Eliza and Quinn’s guest, is all.”
“I do wonder if that’s all there is to the tattle.” Kitty cast a final, probing look her way. The shop door jingled anew as she went out. “Farewell, dear friend!”
By the time Esmée left Shaw’s Chocolate shortly after two o’clock, Captain Lennox’s horse was no longer tethered before the coffeehouse. Something inside her dimmed at the apparent rebuff. Where had he gone?
Her answer came when she rode her mare down the coastal road toward the almshouse.
A figure on horseback in the distance drew nearer in a storm of dust. Jago Wherry? He sat atop Captain Lennox’s handsome bay horse, headed back toward York.
“Good afternoon, Miss Shaw.” He tipped his battered hat, looking pleased with the world.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wherry. A fine mount you have there.”
“Aye, ’tis not mine, Miss Shaw, but Captain Lennox’s. I’m playing the groom and returning Trident to the stable.”
Trident. The weapon of Poseidon, god of the sea. Why was she not surprised? She bit her lip before the next burning query escaped her.