“I’m considering a pastorate. A parish. There are many in need of shepherding in various places in Virginia and elsewhere.”
“Why not preach and minister to the Africans within your sphere at Mount Autrey?”
“And be cast out of Virginia? Labeled a heretic?”
“Pray about it foremost.”
“Aye, pray.” Ned looked at Henri, his bloodshot eyes indicating a sleepless night or two. “I will miss your company and our wooden world.”
Henri took hold of a black glass bottle, removed the seal, and poured them both a drink.
Ned took a bracing sip. “Vinho da roda.”
“Aye. Madeira Terrantez. Aged by our last trip around the world.”
“You brought that pipe of Madeira aboard when we were in the West Indies, if memory serves. Some five hundred bottles. This must be one of them.”
They lapsed into silence, the drone of rain and snap of the fire a drowsy melody. Soon Ned departed in better spirits, leaving Henri alone. But his own thoughts were poor company, his feelings in chaos. Ned had stirred them up like storm petrels, those ominous birds that flew alongside ships, foretelling a gale. Here he sat, attempting to support his longtime sea chaplain, needing to pray for him at so critical a juncture . . .
When what he wanted was to throw him overboard.
He shut his eyes and took a deep, measured breath. God, forgive me.
CHAPTER
twenty-nine
Esmée smoothed the lace sleeve of her gown, a lush rose brocade never before worn. She hovered on the stair landing of the Williamsburg townhouse, trying to warm to the idea of the party below. Voices floated up to her, scraps of spirit-sated conversation and laughter, inviting her to join in when what she craved was a quiet corner. A book. A window seat from which to watch the stormy weather.
’Twas Eliza’s last soiree before her confinement. And what a soiree it was, with an ice sculpture adorning an enormous punch bowl and no end of savory items from the kitchen, even a table reserved for Shaw’s chocolate in all its forms. A liveried servant was at hand to concoct hot cocoa, rich with cream and beaten to a froth and topped with West Indies spices.
Since Eliza had only hinted at the guest list, Esmée tried to prepare herself for elation or deep disappointment. The one voice she hoped to hear was lost to her, either missing or muffled by upwards of two dozen people.
She began her descent, glad the foyer was empty. A fan dangled from her wrist by a golden cord. With so many people in the parlor, she’d certainly need it. As she was missing her chatelaine, it gave her something to do with her hands.
“Esmée, there you are!” Eliza’s voice rang out and turned every eye to her, if only momentarily.
Smiling rather stiffly, Esmée entered the melee, candlelight glittering off a great many gowns and jewels and faces. The governor was there with his wife and daughters. Rebecca Dinwiddie smiled at her, no doubt recalling their rather controversial tea of weeks before. Her own father held court by the marble fireplace, surrounded by old friends. Several officials, burgesses among them, gathered round the punch bowl, their conversation rousing and reminding her of the coffeehouse. No merchants here or any middling folk, just Williamsburg’s leading lights as befitting Lord and Lady Drysdale.
“Miss Shaw, just the lady I was hoping to encounter.”
She turned. Nathaniel Autrey gave a gallant bow to one side of the parlor door, as if awaiting her entrance. She tried not to stare, but she’d not seen him so well dressed nor smelling like a perfumery—eau de cologne? He wore a powderless wig tailed down his back with black silk ribbon. She nearly didn’t recognize him.
Tongue-tied, she inclined her head, wishing for a little music. As there was to be no dancing, she braced herself for a long night of conversation.
“Are your aunts here?” she asked, gaze sweeping the crowded room.
“They rarely venture out in foul weather, given their advanced age.”
“Of course.” Relief flooded her. “You’re brave to come. The wind is wilder by the hour.”
“I can only imagine Indigo Island about now.” Ignorant of her thoughts mired there, he looked briefly toward a window. “Hurricane season is still upon us.” His eyes sought hers long enough to fill her face with fire. “Would you care for punch, Miss Shaw?”
At her smile and nod, he threaded his way through the parlor to the punch bowl being refilled while she seated herself on a vacant chair. Eliza’s laughter rang out, reminding Esmée anew her sister had gotten a double portion of hostessing while she herself had not.
Though Eliza’s entertaining was faultless, Esmée worked to stifle a yawn. It didn’t help she’d visited the Williamsburg bookseller and had a novel waiting upstairs. The bestselling Love in Excess raised her father’s brows and left Eliza laughing, but Esmée was drawn to the daring premise, challenging the custom that forbade women from declaring their romantic thoughts. Since when were men the only arbiters of affection?
Chaplain Autrey returned, two glasses in hand. She took the cold punch with gratitude, as the room was overwarm.
“So have you come to the mainland permanently? Left Indigo Island and the service of Captain Lennox?” she asked.
“I’m now at Mount Autrey, aye, trying to come to terms with my land legs.” He looked down at her, studying her more closely than she wished. Or was she being too sensitive?
“What made you seek the sea to begin with?” She was sincerely curious, but the pained look on his face told her she’d misspoken. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Nay, Miss Shaw. ’Tis an honest question that deserves an honest answer.” He stared down into his glass. “My betrothed died on the eve of our wedding. Verity was everything to me. Perhaps too much so. Idolatry, if you will. When she died I took to the sea, thinking to outrun her memory.”
“And did you?”
“Nay. But I found instead the only One worthy of worship. And Verity’s loss, while still painful, assumed its rightful place.”
Esmée stared at him, forgetting herself. Could idols be of flesh and blood like Verity, not just carved stone or wood? She pondered this, unprepared for his next words.
“You undoubtedly know where my future interests lie where you’re concerned, Miss Shaw.”
“My father told me.” Though she was well versed in resisting suitors, she still found it awkward, her palms damp. She gave an apologetic smile. “And being a forthright woman, some say a spinster, I thank you but must say I am not the wife you are desiring.”
“I appreciate your honesty.” Was it her imagination, or did his eyes twinkle? For so plain a rebuff, he weathered it well. “My fondness for chocolate may well have blinded me to the Lord’s leading. And your agreement.”
As if they’d orchestrated it, her sister drew near, a belle on each side of her. “Allow me to introduce Miss Carter and Miss Marriot.” Eliza was all smiles, the Drysdale tiara she wore flashing in the candlelight. “They’ve yet to meet the new resident of Mount Autrey.”
Turning her back on them, Eliza gave Esmée a piercing look. Knowing that look, Esmée followed her around the parlor’s perimeter and into an alcove half-hidden by exotic potted plants.