“Oh? Our York physic espouses its health benefits—” Esmée startled as the bird squawked, her cup rattling in her saucer. “Of which there are many.”
“Chocolate is but a lure for any who happen down Water Street,” Dorothy said in whispered tones. “Heavens! A woman such as yourself doesn’t plan to keep tending shop forever, do you? And at so disagreeable a place under the hill as Water Street!”
Did they disapprove of her trade or mainly her location? Though there were many women who kept shop, it was mostly left to the middling sort, of which these women were most decidedly not.
“I’m continuing in my mother’s stead,” Esmée told them quietly. “Proudly so. As for Water Street, little else could be had as far as buildings go when my father bought it. We’re making the waterfront more respectable, I hope.”
Charis held up her empty cup, eyes plaintive.
Dorothy clucked sympathetically. “Sister is in danger of rivaling Dr. Johnson’s tea consumption at five and twenty cups in one sitting.”
Truly, Charis’s cups exceeded them all and she’d yet to speak a word. Was she mute?
A lengthy silence followed, with no explanation given about Charis’s silent state.
“Tea amuses the evening, solaces the midnight, and welcomes the morning, I believe Dr. Johnson said.” Unable to endure the tense silence, Esmée finished her own cup and placed an upturned spoon atop it. Would Eliza take the hint?
Her sister merely smiled serenely and stirred more milk into her cup. No doubt she was missing her pot of cream. Despite their means, these sisters appeared quite frugal.
“I’ve always thought hyson smells of roasted chestnuts,” Dorothy told them.
Margaret focused on her sister. “Oh? I prefer souchong’s delicate, floral flavor.”
“And you, Miss Shaw? Which is your favorite?” Dorothy inquired.
“Gunpowder tea. Such a honeyed taste,” Esmée replied as the mantel clock struck three. “’Tis the freshest on long trade routes, my father said.”
“Ah, your father.” Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “The esteemed admiral from Rhode Island.”
The sisters exchanged a furtive look.
“Which puts me in mind of Captain Lennox, cut of the same cloth,” Charis told them. “Our nephew’s daring sea captain.”
Esmée nearly sighed aloud. Clearly Charis wasn’t mute. And what a topic she’d chosen to expound upon! Would everything always circle back to Henri?
CHAPTER
twenty-three
Henri was on the verge of saying nay to the proposed mission, and he sensed that the governor’s council, a body of astute, shrewd men, knew it. The temperature in the paneled room was cool, but tempers were a-simmer. And it had little to do with the French threat.
“Provisions for several months at sea are needed and as follows . . .”
Henri listened as quartermaster Udo detailed the provisions required for such a mission before the chamber of officials, who sat rapt if stony-faced and silent. That they were listening to an African, an able commander in his own right, was an extraordinary occurrence. That Udo was free was an affront to these slave-owning Virginians. But Henri would not pander to their preference to exclude his black crew. Nor would he set sail without them.
Udo’s smooth, robust voice filled the chamber’s farthest corners. “Thirteen tierces and forty-five barrels salt beef and pork. A cask of oats. Five hundred gallons rum. Three tons beer. Five hundred pounds cheeses and butter. Fruit to stave off scurvy. Vinegar. Four hundred pounds brown sugar . . .”
Minutes before, Henri himself had finished telling the council of the weapons and artillery required to take on any enemy ships encountered, a presentation that smacked of an unwanted war, dug deep into Virginia’s depleted coffers, and raised many a testy question. On either side of him sat Tarbonde and Southack, as well as his first mate and master gunner, all experienced men who knew the sea and its many moods and dangers as well as himself.
His foremost ally among Virginia’s officials was missing. Lord Drysdale—Quinn—had been called away on other business. Henri hoped he’d return by next meeting. Across from Quinn’s empty seat sat Admiral Shaw, ever attentive, occasionally asking a well-placed question and keeping the conversation on course. For all his years—and Henri guessed him to be nearing seventy—his mind was rapier sharp, and he’d not lost his passion for maritime affairs. Which led to a question that had nothing to do with the present company . . .
Was Esmée also in Williamsburg?
He looked toward a window that bespoke an easterly breeze. The airtight chamber left one pining for the outdoors and a walk about town. The Raleigh flashed to mind, Carter’s brick store beside it. He needed a shaving razor. A woolen frock coat against the chill. Some minor items to tide him over while he lodged at the Raleigh and the governor’s business was being done.
“Captain Lennox, we are prepared to reward your crew with payment of three months’ wages in advance of their service, in addition to all of the provisions outlined by your quartermaster.”
Henri returned his attention to the governor as Udo sat down.
Dinwiddie said with some pride, “A new seventy-four-gun man-of-war is at your behest, en route from the Wharton shipyard in Philadelphia to York.”
Henri sensed his crew’s surprise. They were not easily impressed, but this was a major coup for all. Only the newest and most capable ships were thus equipped. Wharton was the premier shipbuilder in all thirteen colonies.
Did they ken their captain wanted nothing to do with it?
All attention was on Henri again. He simply listened as Dinwiddie called for yet another meeting the next morning, at which time they would discuss the French navy and its ships of the line en route to British North America, as well as the latest intelligence coming from the harbor of Brest.
“I regret we must adjourn early today, gentlemen. I’ve death warrants to sign for deserters, a decision to be made on the issuance of paper money, appointments to be confirmed, and visiting Indian dignitaries to entertain.” Dinwiddie put a hand to his high forehead, his normally florid face the hue of his powdered wig. “Till tomorrow, then. Ours is a most pressing matter that begs resolution by sennight’s end.”
Henri stood, his attention on the beleaguered official’s back as he exited the chamber. The responsibilities of office dogged the governor, a true servant of the crown. Fatigue of body and vexation of mind were what plagued him, he’d told Henri earlier. As he was charged with taking back Fort Duquesne from the French on the frontier and trying to raise Virginia’s fighting forces, a war by sea seemed another extraordinary complication.
“Won’t you join us, Captain?” Southack asked him, moving toward the door. “A pint or two at the Raleigh seems in order, for some of us, at least.”
“Later, mayhap,” Henri said, putting on his hat. His black jacks would return to York and their lodgings at the Colored Seamen’s Home on the outskirts. “For now I’ve other business to attend to.”
He left the crowded room, slipping out the front door and the palace’s forecourt onto the street, and noticed the Indian delegation recently come to town. The gathered Cherokee were beaded and befeathered, a tall chief having his portrait painted beneath a brilliant red maple. With Publick Times in October over, the town had a quieter feel, a thoughtful and more peaceful cadence.