“Sir—” Astonishment washed his weary face. “Gold doubloons and silver dollars? ’Tis a fortune.”
“Aye. All in need of careful consideration and wise handling.”
“May we not ask your name, kind sir?” the matron queried meekly. “Your occupation?”
“Nay.” Not even Wherry knew about tonight. Henri wished he could have simply left the specie at the door. “Treat it as you would any endowment or bequest. But say nothing from whence it came.”
“You have my word, sir,” Boles replied without hesitation.
Their effusive thanks followed him as he went out the door, as glad to get away as he was to lighten Trident’s load. Night riding was new to him—dangerously so. In the dark he couldn’t see hazards in his path, but Trident seemed to have a sixth sense about him, hastening him to Williamsburg in good time beneath a full moon.
Generosity always left him with a warmth deep inside, an inextinguishable light in a world gone awry. What good were the prizes he’d gotten if not shared? Perhaps such would delight Esmée when she learned of it, even if she’d never know its source.
Truly, the smallest good deed was better than the grandest good intention.
The next afternoon found Esmée hurtling toward Mount Autrey with Eliza to pay a call to the aunts of Captain Lennox’s sea chaplain. Though Esmée had never seen the vast estate, she’d heard of it. Her perplexity about their visit was second to her confusion about Nathaniel Autrey’s relation to it. She’d thought him a distant relation. A poor sea chaplain and sailor. Eliza was having none of it.
“Really, Esmée.” Eliza leaned back on the seat with a sigh. “You look as though you were on your way to a wake!”
“I’m simply pondering what all this means.” Esmée smoothed her petticoats, which collided in silky profusion with her sister’s. “So the aging aunts paid a visit to you and inquired about me. I don’t suppose it was about the abundance of chocolate almonds their nephew brought them.”
“Well, they did mention them rather glowingly.”
“I don’t know why such fuss over a man I conducted business with over the counter a time or two, charming though he was.”
“If you would but pull your head out of your receipt books and mind the workings of the outside world . . .” Eliza gave that disarming smile she used when sly. “Your humble chaplain is more a ruse. Rumor has it he might well be the future heir to Mount Autrey and all it entails.”
“So?”
Eliza’s eyes narrowed in irritation. The baby was making her cross, keeping her up nights with indigestion. “So, he has expressed a fondness for you that set these dear ladies all aflutter. And it has nothing to do with Shaw’s chocolate.”
“Promise me this visit will be brief.” But wasn’t the reverend’s message last Sunday at Grace Church about honoring others with the gift of time? Conscience pricked, Esmée quickly amended, “Though elderly ladies who are oft alone deserve more.”
“Indeed.” Eliza looked less ruffled. “Most unwed women would leap at the invitation. This bodes well for you and your future.”
The coach bumped along the rutted road in dire need of the almshouse men’s rocks. Esmée’s stomach felt just as gravelly. This was not how she had envisioned her future playing out. Though it might sound unkind, Nathaniel Autrey was little more to her than one of Captain Lennox’s crew. That alone made him interesting and of merit. She had no matrimonial aspirations whatsoever.
Still, she could not stem her awe at the beauty of Mount Autrey as they turned off Tobacco Road and moved past elaborate iron gates. The mansion sat on a knoll, lending to its arresting appearance. Of Flemish bond brick, it was a feat of architecture from its multiple porticos to its parterre gardens. Yet she couldn’t ignore what kept the Autrey fortune afloat. That alone nullified any romantic prospects.
Eliza’s steady gaze was unnerving. “I know what you’re thinking, Sister. But you must say nothing of the enslaved here. ’Tis a fact of Virginia life and has ever been.”
Even as Eliza spoke, scores of Africans labored in distant fields or scurried to and from the mansion and dependencies. For once the almshouse seemed less wretched. At least the poorest of the poor there were free.
Once the coach deposited them at the entrance amid a storm of dust, Esmée and Eliza climbed wide stone steps and were soon ushered into a wide, deep foyer where a staircase curved upward to three floors. The house was old. Immense. Esmée wasn’t surprised when the butler’s voice echoed. Into the nearest parlor they went, where three elderly women awaited them. All eyes speared Esmée. There was no other word to describe it. Summoning some of Eliza’s charm, she greeted them warmly, again wondering what had led to this unexpected meeting.
“How good of you to visit us,” said the aunt who looked to be the eldest, a snowy-haired matron with a diamond-encrusted chatelaine worn at her waist. It glittered as she moved toward several chairs and gestured for them to sit.
Esmée looked from her to the other two aunts. How on earth was it possible to distinguish them if all were the Mistresses Autrey? There was no doubt, however, as to which aunt held the key to the coveted tea chest. The smallest and plumpest wore spectacles and said nary a word while the other began to talk in low tones to the exotic bird kept in a cage by a draped window.
“Allow me to introduce Charis and Dorothy, my younger sisters.” The eldest aunt gestured to them with a wrinkled, heavily ringed hand. “I am Margaret.”
“Pleased to meet you all,” Esmée said. She was at sea with names. Rarely did they make an impression. Eliza, on the other hand, had an astonishing ability to remember names and titles.
The five of them sat in low armchairs about the inlaid table. Esmée took in the elegant room redolent of beeswax and something she couldn’t name. It smelled ancient . . . unaired. She longed to open a window or two. She craved the salty tang of the sea.
“As soon as I saw you on the drive, I rang for tea,” Margaret told them.
Refreshments came, the equipage flawless, and were served in the biggest silver pot Esmée had ever seen. She placed her serviette in her lap, never more mindful of tea etiquette. These antique women looked as if they’d written the rules. Sugar first. Milk at the last, after the tea was poured. Eliza performed flawlessly, as usual. But not Esmée. A bit flustered, she added milk first.
“To put milk in your tea before sugar is to cross the path of love, perhaps never to marry,” Dorothy said with a slight, reproving smile.
“Such an amusing superstition,” Eliza countered between sips. “And may I say how I admire your spiral molded porcelain? Chelsea, I believe? And with handles, all the rage but still so rare.”
“Chelsea, yes,” Margaret said, holding her cup aloft. “No sense burning one’s hands.”
“I miss sipping from a dish,” Dorothy told them, pouring the steaming tea into her saucer with nary a misplaced drop. “The old ways die hard.”
“Have you a chocolate pot?” Esmée asked them.
Margaret made a face. “We are rather chary of cocoa, given what’s printed about it in Europe—chocolate being one of many disorders that shorten lives.”