CHAPTER
twenty-eight
Surely babies were made to inspire hope, especially in the dreary days of November. As soon as Esmée sat down by the hearth’s fire in Miss Grove’s cramped almshouse quarters, Alice’s baby boy in her arms, a sweet peace settled over her. Asleep, bundled in one of the blankets she’d made, a wee fist tucked under his dimpled chin, Alden was the picture of contentment.
“Such foul weather of late, though you seem to have brought the sunshine with you today, at least,” Miss Grove told her as she cleared away the tea tray they’d partaken of. “’Tis good to have you back. We seldom have company, especially when the roads turn to mud and ice.”
“I had to see how you all were faring, including this wee cherub.” Esmée smoothed a wisp of the baby’s russet hair showing beneath his bonnet. “And replenish your cocoa stores before winter sets in.”
Miss Grove settled opposite her in the wing chair, a worn affair of scuffed walnut. “Of all the things you bring us, Shaw’s hot chocolate is the unrivaled favorite of all the residents.”
“I confess to an overfondness for it.” Esmée looked out a near window, where the sun had the shine of May, not November. “When the snow flies and York comes to a standstill, there’s little better.”
“We’ve no one to bring us such fancies but you.” Leaning forward, Miss Grove darted a glance at the door before saying conspiratorially, “Though I must tell you in secret, we are of late well supplied. Even with the French refugees on our doorstep.”
“Well supplied? You don’t mean all those bones I begged?”
Miss Grove chuckled, revealing a missing tooth. “Those bones are much appreciated. But nay, I’m referring to another benefactor. A furtive one. Not long ago a gentleman stopped by here under cover of darkness and met with Mr. Boles and his wife.”
“Is this gentleman known to you?”
“Nay, and he insisted on remaining anonymous. The night watch did say he wasn’t a great age but younger. Hatted and somewhat disguised.” Her eyes shone. “He left an enormous sum with the express wish of seeing it well used. He spoke of having contacts who would apprise him of anything misspent.”
Esmée warmed to the mystery. “Meaning the bulk of the money is to go to the poor for their well-being and comfort, not the trustees’ pockets.”
“Precisely. It seems to have struck some fear into the heart of the Boleses and even the lesser staff. Depending on how the behest is managed, more might be forthcoming. Or not.”
Esmée felt stark relief. “’Tis hard to persuade people to be openhanded, yet this man did it unbidden.”
“Perhaps the gentleman is known to you?”
“I know of no such gentleman. But I like that he did his giving in secret, as Scripture praises. No naming the almshouse after him.”
“Indeed.” Miss Grove’s wide smile made her appear less careworn. “‘That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.’”
“Still, I am curious . . . and intrigued.” Esmée looked down at the sleeping baby, her thoughts far afield. “’Tis good only God knows.”
Miss Grove reached up a hand to touch the new mobcap Esmée had brought her. “Mr. Boles has even promised a chapel and a walled garden in spring now that we’re not so dependent on parish levies.”
“A chapel and garden? How delightful! Then I shall be doubly relieved all winter, knowing none here are in need.” Esmée felt one burden lighter. How quickly life could take a turn. Only recently she’d been sitting at her father’s table feeling as spent as the guttering candles, and now this.
Might the captain have done the benevolent deed? Or . . . had the sea chaplain decided to somehow curry her favor by giving to a cause dear to her heart?
“I’ve need of guidance.” Ned paced before the hearth as rain drummed a steady rhythm on the cottage’s shingled roof. Since their return to the island, the weather had been fitful. “You’re the best one suited to offer advice, given you were once fond of the woman I now favor.”
Henri leaned back in his wing chair, feet extended to the roaring fire. He could feel the heat through the worn soles of his boots. “Since I failed in that respect, mayhap you’d best consult Southack or Robbins.”
“Southack, who cavorts with every native woman he sees? Or Robbins, so prudish a first mate he can’t speak of a woman without a feverish blush?”
“What are you in need of knowing?” Henri asked grudgingly.
“How to proceed.” Ned raked a hand through lank hair and came to a sudden stop. Leaning into the mantel, he seemed so perplexed that Henri bit his tongue lest he laugh. “I’ve gained her father’s approval. Now hers is needed. But how do I call upon her? What should I bring?”
“Bring yourself.” Henri moved to add another stick of wood to the fire. “State your intentions and see what she says.”
“But—”
“Take care to not overthink it lest you appear a straw man. Speak from the heart.”
“How easy you make it sound.”
“You’ll know soon enough if she favors you.”
Ned looked to the Bible open on the table as if contemplating his most biblical option. “Perhaps I should ponder the Song of Songs first.”
Henri uttered a warning. “Careful lest it inflame you before your time.”
“What?”
“’Tis a biblical celebration of marriage, not courtship. An unabashedly sensuous book.”
Ned assumed an injured look. “I am a chaplain, remember. I well know what it says, though in all truthfulness, I’ve not visited its passages in some time.”
“Here’s another caution.” Henri cleared his throat, bracing himself against the onrush of carefully stowed memories. “Speak no French.”
“French? Miss Shaw does not care for it?”
“It may remind her of my doing so and slow your pursuit.”
“Touché, Captain.” Understanding lit Ned’s features. Then a shadow darkened his brow. “I confess she bears a striking resemblance to Verity.”
Verity. Ned’s betrothed who’d died of fever. As he’d never met her, Henri was in the dark.
“Same hair and eye color,” Ned murmured mournfully. “Same penchant for confections.”
“If your attraction is based on a dead woman,” Henri told him curtly if kindly, “’tis rocky ground upon which to proceed.”
“Well taken.” Ned began pacing again, no small feat given the close quarters, and looked so troubled Henri sensed something more was on his mind than courtship.
“What weighs on you, Ned? Surely not the lovely Miss Shaw.”
Ned shook his head. “The thought of living with my maiden aunts on a sprawling plantation is . . . daunting.”
“’Tis nothing like the sea.” Henri stared at the dog irons, pondering Ned’s predicament. “Though if you can handle shipboard conditions as well as you did, several women and a great deal of acreage seem less burdensome.”