“Meaning he would have stopped by had he any feelings for me.”
“Perhaps he’s lost his fondness for cocoa,” Kitty said gently, adding more sugar to her tea. “Or he’s still somewhat burnt from your prior association and doesn’t know how to proceed.”
Esmée swallowed a bite, the dismay welling inside her rendering the refreshments tasteless. “Then what would you suggest? Your plan of . . . attack?”
Kitty laughed again. “How like your father you sound! Plan of attack, indeed.” Her eyes glittered. Kitty liked nothing better than a little intrigue. “Well, I do have one daring idea . . .”
CHAPTER
twenty-five
Esmée clutched her cape tighter about her as she left the tearoom and walked home, noticing York’s streets emptying fast in the face of a rising wind. Ships in the harbor pulled restively at their anchors, and Water Street seemed oddly quiet, as it always did in the face of great gusts. Such brought to mind the autumn squall of 1749, when a great many dismasted ships left their moorings and tobacco houses were overturned, all followed by a violent snowstorm. Kitty’s prediction of an early winter might not be far off.
She began to hurry, head down, as great drops of rain spattered her cape, turning it from purple to black. Passing through the iron gate of their residence on fleet feet, she thought again of Kitty’s bold proposition. Daring idea did not do it justice.
Up the steps she went. Their housekeeper, always having a sixth sense about such things, was at the door to greet her. “Come in, dear, and let me take your cape to dry by the fire. I can ready hot tea if you’d like.”
“No need, thank you, as I’ve just been to the tearoom.” Esmée removed her cape and smoothed her hair, looking toward Father’s study at the end of the hall, where the door was shut. Father often had visitors.
“The admiral has asked not to be disturbed.” Mrs. Mabrey whisked the cape away to the front parlor, where a fire roared in the grate. “Supper may be late. Cook has prepared your favorite, chicken fricassee.”
“Ah, I must thank her. And I’ll wait to eat with Father.”
“Very well.” She left for the kitchen belowstairs while Esmée started up the steps to the second floor.
At the sound of masculine laughter, she stopped. Company never much concerned her. Any number of merchants and townspeople came and went from Father’s study on any given day. The fragrance of tobacco smoke, pungent and heady, snuck beneath the door. Many women abhorred it, but Esmée found it indescribably masculine and far better than snuff. The captain once smoked a handsome pipe with premium Tidewater tobacco. Did he still?
Her father’s voice crested as if he were enjoying himself immensely. More laughter rumbled, followed by a voice she knew all too well, deep and heart-tuggingly distinct. Henri, without a doubt. A third man was present, his voice begging recognition, that failed to take root.
She hastened her steps. But before she was halfway up, the study door opened and a blue-coated figure stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. Though she tried to tiptoe and avoid every creak in the stair, the whisper of her petticoats gave a warning.
The captain looked up and slowed his step. Was he on his way out? He stopped at the banister, resting one hand on the elaborately carved newel post at the stair’s bottom. Their eyes locked. A moment of indecision racked her. Should she simply acknowledge him and continue her climb? Or return downstairs for conversation? Her feet, having a mind of their own, began their descent.
“Miss Shaw.”
“Captain Lennox.” She looked to the closed study door in question.
“I was on my way to my lodgings. Chaplain Autrey has asked to speak with your father alone.”
Her stomach turned to jelly. She nodded, trying not to frown, remembering too late how disheveled she looked. Some of her upswept hair had escaped its pins and dangled about her shoulder. And Henri . . . he looked for all the world like he wanted to right it. She hovered on the bottom step, eye level with him now. Above his creamy neckcloth a faint line of color began to show.
“I don’t mean to prevent you going upstairs,” he told her.
“You didn’t.” She mulled her next words as the hall turned deathly quiet. “Another chance encounter, ’twould seem.”
“We have a knack for those.” He glanced toward the closed study door. “I came by to speak with the admiral about the light on Indigo Island.”
“Of course,” she replied, fingering her chatelaine. “How did that go?”
“He’s in full agreement a keeper be found as soon as possible. Virginia’s coastline, including the Chesapeake, has never been so vulnerable, despite guard ships.”
Even now the names of foundering ships played in her head like a song. La Galga. Invincible. Severn. Royal Fortune. Rebecca. Pembroke. Blackwall. So many lives lost, not to mention treasure, including the herd of Spanish mustangs that swam to safety on one barrier island and were there still.
“So ’tis finished?” she asked quietly, almost sadly, as if she were outside the glass looking in.
“Finally, aye.”
“Will you be its keeper?”
His face clouded, adding years. Was that a drift of silver through his dark hair or only a trick of the light? “’Twas the original plan . . . our plan, remember? But it seems I’m most needed at sea.”
Nay, you are not.
His words weighted her, underscoring the chasm betwixt them. Separate paths. Separate ambitions. Separate lives.
“I’m considering several men who’ve applied for the position.” With that he seemed to nail shut the coffin on their once shared dream.
Despite it, she gave way to a wistful longing. “I’ve always wanted to set foot on Indigo Island.”
His eyes flashed surprise. “I nearly forgot you’ve not been there.”
“’Tis beautiful, I hear. Serene. Is it true your cottage was built from Montserrat stone?” The question bordered on the intimate, but she forged ahead, uncaring. “And the lightkeeper’s cottage is the same?”
“The both of them. Hurricane proof if not earthquake proof.”
Hearing about him and his island life secondhand always chafed, but ’twas better than no news at all. “Mistress Saltonstall is a customer of ours,” she said. “I suppose she’s left the island for the winter.”
“She has. Hermes remains behind.”
Mistress Saltonstall’s marmoset? She’d nearly forgotten Hermes. His antics were said to entertain tavern patrons far and wide. “I hope you’ve not been put in charge of him.”
“Nay. The contrary creature is in the keeping of my steward.”
“Poor thing. Might I send him some chocolate?”
“Oh, aye. Hermes is fond of your chocolate almonds especially.”
“I meant your steward—”
“I ken what you meant, Esmée.” He winked, the light remaining in his eyes. “Is there no laughter left in your soul?”
The gentle question was still more a dousing of cold water, though his return to her first name assuaged her somewhat. Tears hovered that had nothing to do with sweets but with his belonging to the sea. Of their shared lighthouse dream gone awry. She set her jaw lest she dig for a handkerchief.