Once they had laughed. His winking at her was commonplace. Once she’d felt she hadn’t a care in the world with him near. Somehow time had turned her somber. Older, if not wiser. “I am not the woman—the girl—you remember. Ten years has wrought many changes.”
He nodded, never taking his eyes off her. “Changes . . . not all of them welcome.”
She looked to her slippers. She had no clue what raced through his thoughts, but half a dozen thorns were uppermost in hers. So many changes. Did he notice what a shell their townhouse had become without her mother and then Eliza? How she’d become unmoored, trying to salve her sorrow in her mother’s endeavors, from chocolate shop to almshouse? How she was half-angry with him for forging ahead with the lighthouse and leaving her behind in his wake?
The study door opened. Esmée gave the captain a last, fleeting look before turning and hurrying upstairs lest Father and the sea chaplain see her.
CHAPTER
twenty-six
Supper that night was a quiet affair. Father seemed preoccupied, at least until dessert was served—his favorite flummery with brandied cherries.
“Cook has outdone herself,” he said as a servant removed his supper plate and served dessert in small crystal dishes.
Fighting a headache, Esmée drank a cup of coffee, adding so much cream and sugar it reminded her of Kitty. Her mind was not on the meal, and it seemed her father knew it, for he regarded her thoughtfully.
“Cat got your tongue, Daughter?”
She moistened her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “We have no cat, Father.”
He chuckled as coffee was poured on his side of the too large table. Mama’s and Eliza’s places remained empty, gaping holes where laughter and talk had once been effortless. Esmée sipped from her cup without savoring the coffee.
“You’re not going to ask me about our gentleman callers?” her father asked.
Surprised, she held her cup aloft and peered at him over the rim. “Since they met with you and not me, do you care to divulge it?”
His smile seemed rueful. “Chaplain Autrey—Ned, I believe the captain calls him—came specifically to ask about you.”
“I’m flattered, but . . .” The thought of him romantically was no more palatable than before. “He has since left for Indigo Island, has he not?”
“Aye, but his plan is to quit the captain’s crew and settle at Mount Autrey within a fortnight.”
“With his maiden aunts.”
“Whom you’ve met, thanks to Eliza’s roistering.”
“So far I’ve been catechized by his aunts, not courted by Chaplain Autrey.”
Her father chuckled as he plied his spoon. “The man, however latent, may well be heir to a prosperous plantation in need of a mistress.”
So Father approved, did he? Their terse talk felt more like verbal sparring. She sipped her coffee, waiting for the next volley.
“I was rather taken aback.” He brought a serviette to his lips. “I thought the captain had come not to talk about the island’s light but something else entirely.”
His resumed courtship of her, perhaps?
“I find the light altogether fascinating,” she replied, certain of where he was headed and desperate to turn the tide of conversation. “Such a beacon is overdue.”
“Long overdue. The captain even made mention of it being your idea to begin with.”
Had he? The words rang hollow.
“But I digress.” Her father’s face beneath his unpowdered wig looked grave. “With Chaplain Autrey’s pursuit, you have an opportunity for change.”
Her spoon hovered over her untouched flummery. “You would have me be the mistress of a plantation of over a hundred Africans, in direct opposition to our faith and even the Freedom Society you are a part of?”
“Nay. That is not my decision but yours. Yet it begs considering. As mistress, you might implement change.”
But not the one she wanted. Not the change that would come from loving a man so much she’d face those challenges gladly.
Her headache thundered between her temples. She set down her spoon, half sick.
“I thought perhaps that after visiting the Autrey aunts, you had some regard for him,” her father said.
“’Twas Eliza’s doing. Repaying a social call.”
“Will you receive him, then, once he is settled at Mount Autrey?”
Would she? The prospect was as appealing as yesterday’s porridge. “I shan’t play him false and encourage him. So, nay.”
“Keep an open mind, Daughter.” He motioned for more coffee as a servant reappeared. “When your mother and I were courting, she herself was unsure at first. Her family had higher hopes for her than a mere sailor. But I finally won them—and more importantly, her—over. I practiced patience until she came to know me better. With her by my side, I soon rose in the ranks of the Royal Navy. I’m a better man because of your mother, and there’s not a day goes by that I don’t wish she were still by my side. I simply want to see you settled, a family about you, like your sister.”
Rarely did he speak of the past. Eliza’s fortuitous match had been a joy to him. He was very fond of Quinn and anticipated his first grandchild. Esmée, on the other hand, had been at home with him all her life, nursed Mama till the end, and fully expected to do the same with him when his time came.
A niggling suspicion bloomed. Might he have another reason for seeing her settled? If she wed, would he return to sea as she suspected?
His gaze grew shrewd. “I sense you are still torn over Captain Lennox.”
Could he see straight to her heart? Torn was an understatement. “Captain Lennox and I are now . . . friends.” The word pained her no matter how much she used it. To be just friends made her especially heartsore.
“Friends? Glad I am to hear it.” He nodded as if it confirmed something that had passed between him and the captain about the matter. “There are men made more for their professions than marriage. Captain Lennox is one of them. He is too great an asset to the colonial cause—to England’s cause—to remain ashore at such a critical juncture. The sooner you reconcile yourself to that fact, the better.”
His firm words snuffed the last of her hopes. Why had she let hope take hold? Hope that Henri had had a change of heart. That he’d had enough of the sea. That they’d have a future together after long years apart.
“Sir . . .” The messenger at the door brought her father to his feet. “There’s been a disturbance at the coffeehouse. Thievery, one of your indentures is saying.”
With a last word to Esmée, her father excused himself to return to Water Street and the trouble there.
Esmée watched the candelabra cast shadows on the portraits of prior Shaws hanging upon the paneled walls, the beeswax candles melting lower and lower, her spirits with them. What did the Lord have in store for her? Was it in the form of Nathaniel Autrey and not Henri Lennox? Was she blinded by the one and not able to clearly see the other? She knew little of Nathaniel, but in truth, her would-be suitor was not of the same caliber. He was shorter, slender, and more softly spoken, with eyes so nondescript they almost held no color at all. But for his blaze of hair . . .