And dust.
A mouse skittered by his booted feet. He’d need a cat. The tiger-striped feline on board the Relentless would do.
“Fetch Clementine for me the next time you come round, aye?”
“Shall I bring the wee hammock she sleeps in?”
“Aye.”
With a nod, Cyprian continued surveying this treasure chest of stone as Henri passed into the kitchen. His cupboards were bare of all but tinned tea and a few unopened bottles of Madeira, which was mostly for guests, as he drank little but bumboo and brackish water.
What he craved was chocolate.
As Henri poked and prodded his way about the cottage’s four rooms, Cyprian grabbed a rag and wiped a Windsor chair clean in the parlor. The hearth bore a blackened log and soured ashes from Henri’s homecoming five years before. He’d avoided York and done his business in Norfolk then. But this time he’d lay over longer. Attend to his investments and business ventures. At the very least deliver the letters from fellow seamen to kin on shore.
With a low whistle, Cyprian eyed the shelves that framed the fireplace like bookends. “So many books, sir, and I cannot make out a single word.”
“Find someone to school you.”
A ready grin. “Someone in petticoats.”
With a wry smile, Henri sat down on the dusted chair. When he said no more, Cyprian saluted him and sailed out the open door in the direction of the Flask and Sword with urgency in his rolling gait.
In the utter stillness came the familiar lapping of water against the shore and the odd chorus of cicadas in the surrounding trees. The richly appointed room tilted and spun and finally settled. Henri fought to stay awake.
He was too weary to shed his sea-tainted garments. Too weary to quench his thirst. Too weary to even shut the door on the encroaching night. His head tilted forward, his bristled jaw nearly resting on his chest. His clasped hands, never far from the pistol at his middle, relaxed. He drifted . . . dreamed. In time his own snoring jarred him awake.
Or was it something else?
He blinked the sleep from his eyes. Tried to focus on a cobwebbed corner. Someone seemed a part of the velvety shadows now filling every crevice and cubbyhole, a rebuke in her unforgettable forest-green eyes.
Esmée Shaw.
That sent him to his feet. He slammed the door, locked it, and passed into his bedchamber with a prayer on his lips rather than a barely squelched epithet.
Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.
Within the confines of the Williamsburg milliner and mantuamaker, Esmée watched her sister turn slowly about in her new gown. A great quantity of silk and silver thread had been expended, every extravagance granted. Eliza Shaw Cheverton—Lady Drysdale—was everything Esmée was not. The wife of a leading Virginia official. Social. Beautiful. Daring. Queenly in height. And as round as five months of pregnancy could make her.
Eliza pirouetted despite the baby’s bulk. “What say you about the color, Sister?”
Esmée caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “’Tis . . . eye-catching.”
“Blindingly orange, you mean.” Eliza’s blue eyes glittered. “Like a pumpkin.”
“’Tis an appropriate color for autumn. You’ll make a striking entrance.”
“I do believe the length needs altering.” Mouth puckered with pins, Mistress Bell knelt and began fussing with the hem.
Eliza put a hand to her tawny hair, a mass of unpowdered curls. “You should see my towering wig, powdered to perfection and boasting a ship or two.”
Eyes rounding, Esmée tried to envision such an elaborate coiffure. Eliza had a knack for influencing fashion with her shocking style. “You jest.”
“Father will be amused.” Taking out her new lace-tipped fan, Eliza stirred the heated air. “I do hope Lady Lightfoot’s ball is on a cool night. Rainy, even. I can’t imagine dancing in such heat, especially with two to consider.”
“As your elder sister”—Esmée’s gaze traveled to her sister’s expanding middle—“I caution you against dancing at all.” Even as she said it, she knew her hopes defied conventions. Gentry or no, women were rarely slowed by pregnancy, continuing to go and do till they became too uncomfortable. Eliza showed no signs of slowing her pace.
“Nonsense. Tell me again which of Mama’s gowns you’ll be wearing?”
“The saffron silk.”
“Surely you jest.” Eliza’s distaste led to a theatrical shudder.
“The fabric is still lush, though the lace is yellowed with age.”
“Old as it is, I’m surprised it’s not moth-eaten.” Eliza took command as she always did in such matters. “As for the lace, a misfortune easily remedied. I spied an exquisite length of blond Mechlin in the back room.”
“Indeed.” Mistress Bell finished her pinning. “I’ve also an exceptional Brussels lace.”
Lips pursed, Eliza studied Esmée. “I suppose you’ll go wigless and natural again. But ’tis just as well. ’Twould take a whole hogshead of powder to coat that black head of yours.” Her fan fluttered harder. “What about jewels?”
Esmée brought a hand to her bare throat. “Mama’s pearls.”
“Pearls are passé. Father’s emeralds pair well with so yellow a gown.”
The largest emerald was big as a hen’s egg. “Pearls are always my preference,” Esmée said. Elegant. Unassuming. “As for Father’s jewels, you know what will be said . . .”
“Ill-gotten gain,” Eliza whispered dramatically, then gave a wicked laugh. “Let them whisper what they will. Father is beyond reproach—”
Esmée put a finger to her lips as Mistress Bell reentered the room, hands full of blue cards wrapped with lace. For a few minutes, her worries were pushed aside as she perused the offerings, finally deciding on the Mechlin bobbin lace, which Eliza insisted on paying for.
The fitting finished, Eliza hurried her down Nassau Street to their townhouse. If Esmée ever rued anything about her younger sister, it was Eliza’s infernal rush.
“Look at the maples turning the very hue of my ball gown—and yours.” Esmée slowed her pace, brittle leaves rustling underfoot. “Williamsburg is glorious in the fall.”
Eliza turned her face skyward as a maple leaf drifted down. “Glorious indeed, and a wee bit more refined than York. All those jacks and rogues along the waterfront! I do wonder why you dally there when Quinn and I have opened our home to you. You could have a splendid season here . . . go husband hunting.”
“But the chocolate shop—”
“Turn the shopkeeping over to the servants,” Eliza told her. “Promise me you’ll come and stay once the baby arrives, at least briefly.”
“I know precious little about infants, but I’ll be glad to help you if I can. Father may well come too. He’s counting down till his first grandchild.”
“I wonder if he will come. He was always at sea when we were small. I don’t know how Mama managed it. Writing letters perpetually to some port that were rarely answered.”
“Not a port. Ascension Island. I found an entire box of letters sealed with red wax from Father after Mama died, remember. All lovingly perused.”