Nodding and chuckling, Henri waited till Cyprian fed him the last piece of news with a sound belch.
“Beg pardon, sir.” He pushed back his empty bowl with a sated sigh. “Ye’ve taught me better.”
“Belching isn’t mutiny, Cyprian.” With a wink, Henri brought out a small bag of candied lemon peel gotten from York. “Care for a sweet?”
Cyprian grinned back at him. “Have any chocolate, sir?”
Blast. “Nay. I have none.” To his everlasting regret. Hot chocolate sounded good on a chilly eve. “Needs be I send you to the mainland for some before winter sets in.”
“Would ye, sir?” Cyprian chewed on the lemon peel, eyes alive with anticipation. “Shaw’s chocolate, aye?”
“None other.”
“I do wonder, sir, why ye didn’t go there yerself.”
I nearly did. Henri shrugged. “No milk cow on the island, at least since I was here last. No cause for hot chocolate.”
“Needs be we get a cow, then.”
“Consult Mistress Saltonstall. She may have one hiding in the woods,” Henri replied, thinking of the times they’d weathered a crossing with distressed animals for some menagerie in England. He’d put his foot down after transporting a duke’s orangutan and an earl’s zebra. All he wanted was a rat-catching cat aboard ship. Or a dog. A sudden meowing assured him the ship’s cat, Clementine, was about her business.
Spent, Henri sat down in the Windsor chair facing the cold hearth while Cyprian jumped up, still chewing, and began laying a fire. Soon the cavernous, blackened hole glowed as red-gold as a tropical Maldives sunset, a few sparks flying past the andirons into the room.
“If ye don’t mind my asking, sir . . . what’s that curiosity on yer windowsill?”
Henri looked to where he’d left the mystery gift. “A riding crop. Something that requires a horse.”
“Mayhap we need a horse and a cow, then.”
“Nay!” Henri’s vehemence sent his steward back a step. “I’ve no time for farming. Another cruise may be imminent.”
“Well, sir, needs be I get back to the Flask and Sword lest ye say otherwise.”
Henri looked about, noticing the shine of floorboards and essence of beeswax. “I suppose I have you to thank for making this cobwebbed cottage fit for habitation.”
“Aye, Captain. I take my duties seriously whether aboard ship or off it.”
“Good night, then. Sleep well.”
The lad departed with a grin and the empty kettle.
After the hum of York and Williamsburg, the island seemed especially tranquil. Henri added another log to the fire and stepped outside, looking west toward the mainland. Tonight the sunset was quiet, no splash of spectacular color, no jaw-dropping hues. Lights twinkled from York, a beguiling vision in the gathering darkness.
How did Esmée spend her autumn eves?
She liked books . . . or once did. Endless cups of tea with cream and sugar. Talking by the fire in a favorite chair. Trouncing him at table games. That was the Esmée of old. The woman at the ball and in Eliza’s parlor seemed different somehow. Understandably guarded. More than a bit discomfited in his company. Face-to-face with him again, she was even comelier than he remembered, if that was possible.
No doubt she couldn’t say the same about him.
He felt a bit old. Achy. He rubbed his perpetually sunburned neck at the back, where his hair tailed from a black silk ribbon over his collar. His muscles were a bit stiff from riding horseback, something he’d begun to enjoy but might never master. He needed to return to the mainland, if only to ride again.
And give the governor and Virginia’s officials his answer.
The water lapping against the rocks failed to solace him like usual. Night was filling in all the nooks and crannies of the island, whippoorwills calling among the darkening pines. The hearth’s fire crackled at his back through the open door, calling him in from a chill eve that might lead to a black frost. Glad as he was to be back, the island suddenly felt a tad hollow, as did his cottage.
To say nothing of his heart.
CHAPTER
nineteen
The next day, Esmée arrived at the almshouse at a most inopportune time. Father had advised her against going. There’d been a frost, the ground hard as cast iron, and a bitter wind blew her nearly sideways as she traveled the coastal road. When she neared the spot where she’d watched Henri leave in the jolly, she prodded the gentle Minta into a near gallop as if to bypass the hurt of his leaving.
When she arrived, her gaze hung on the far field where Henri had had his riding lesson. Now crude shelters covered the ground, smoke from fires casting a haze about the camp. The French émigrés Father had told her about? Men, women, and children roamed about, heads bent, dejection about them. An occasional burst of mellifluous French wafted toward her.
No sooner had she hobbled Minta outside the women’s quarters than an anguished cry rent the chilly air. Alice?
Last visit she was having ghost pains, the midwife called them. Was her travail now upon her? Within the bricked walls the cries echoed, making Esmée rue she’d not heeded Father.
Summoning help to carry in the items she’d brought for all the women, Esmée pondered leaving. Sheer duty propelled her forward till she stood on the second floor outside the birthing room.
Another cry raised the gooseflesh on her arms. This was what was in store for Eliza. Heaven help us. Eliza was not fond of pain or exerting herself. Or untimely interruptions.
Feeling slightly squeamish herself, Esmée uttered a silent prayer for both her sister and Alice. Next came a fragile but piercing howl, which had Mistress Boles calling for broth and bread and fresh linens.
Esmée began unpacking the needful things for Alice. Clouts. Blankets. Feeding cloths. Even a play-pretty or two as the babe grew.
“Miss Shaw.” Looking relieved, Miss Grove approached with a bundle. “Mind the babe, please, just till Alice is set to rights. He’s a robust little fellow.”
The warm, squirming infant was placed in Esmée’s outstretched arms. Rosebud pink and oddly wrinkled, the tiny boy blinked up at her in wonder. Did all babies have such blue eyes? She bounced him gently when his mouth puckered, determined to keep him quiet for his exhausted mother’s sake. When he threatened to howl again, she caressed his velvety cheek, her voice more a whisper as she sang an old lullaby Mama had sung to Eliza.
“‘Hush! The waves are rolling in, white with foam, white with foam. Father toils amid the din, but baby sleeps at home.’”
The babe’s father was a soldier, she’d been told, gone to join up with Washington’s army in the back country. The young mother hadn’t heard from him since and, with no kin of her own, had sought refuge at the almshouse. Their future seemed bleak. Someone once said every child was a promise that God wanted the world to go on. But what a world it was, full of conflict and strife, regret and heartache.
Esmée overheard Miss Grove’s kindly question. “What will you name the child, Alice?”
“I’ll call him after my father, God rest him. A humble tinsmith but a God-fearing one.” The answer came so quiet Esmée nearly missed it. “Alden Reed.”