“The governor’s tongue has been loosed by too much punch,” Eliza whispered with vehemence, her back against the wall. “He’s been spilling details about all those closed-door meetings at the palace.”
Esmée sensed it all had to do with Henri. Would Dinwiddie’s revelations endanger his mission? She took another bracing sip of punch.
With a flutter of her fan, Eliza continued. “A declaration of war is imminent, and the battle will soon be fought by sea, not only by land. Stalwart captain that he is, Lennox will carry a letter of marque from the colonial government, acting as an ancillary of the Royal Navy.”
The sweet punch soured on Esmée’s tongue. She wanted to raise a hand to stay the words, understanding why Father had spared her the details. A grim mission indeed. “So Captain Lennox will command a vessel of war.”
Dinwiddie was rabid for war, the newspapers printed, eager to defeat France with whatever manpower was available to him. Hadn’t the irascible Scot ignited the frontier conflict by sending Colonel Washington west to begin with? She looked across the room at the governor speaking with Quinn and fellow burgesses so intently.
“But that is not all of it.” Eliza’s color was high, her voice a bit breathless. “Quinn is behaving quite strangely.”
“What means you?”
Eliza darted a look in his direction. “At the last minute he cut half the guests from the guest list. Something about vain persons and dissemblers and evildoers, all of whom are the foremost critics of Captain Lennox.”
Esmée felt a flicker of triumph. “Oh?”
“Brace yourself further.” Eliza’s fan fluttered harder. “He insists our party conclude before midnight.”
With a look at the mantel clock, Esmée said, “Your parties oft last till dawn. Perhaps he is merely concerned for you and the baby—”
“Ha! He doesn’t want to be late to Sabbath service. We haven’t missed church for weeks now. He listens raptly to every word Reverend Dawson utters. He even wants to discuss his sermons once we are home.”
“Fancy that,” Esmée said dryly.
“Of late he’s become an ardent admirer of Mr. Whitefield, the evangelist, and his writings and stance on slavery. I tell you, I have great cause for alarm.”
“Sister, if you’d told me Quinn is in his cups, had insulted Reverend Dawson, and committed adultery, that would concern me. As it stands, I can only offer you my congratulations.”
With a huff, Eliza moved on, her gown cleverly disguising the baby’s bulk, leaving Esmée alone in the alcove. She finished her punch, and a servant came to replenish it. The hour was early, only nine o’clock. Esmée looked toward the window again as a gust of wind shook the pane.
What was the captain doing on such a night?
Hunkering down by the fire, likely. Once he’d been fond of books. They’d talked of poems and plays and novels. They played cribbage. She made them both flip, which frothed into foamy waves atop blue Meissen mugs. Feet to the hearth in her father’s study, they heard the clock chime midnight many a time, but her parents said nary a word. It had been, in hindsight, the richest, most exhilarating time of her life.
If not his.
CHAPTER
thirty
Good day to you, Widow Radcliffe.” Esmée smiled and helped the bent-backed woman to the chocolate shop door with her purchases, glad for so busy a morning, as it kept her mind off the heart-pounding present. But now, with no more customers at hand, a dreadful lull ensued, though one of the indentures was singing a slightly off-key tune in the kitchen.
Esmée moved to the front window, her vista mostly gray as winter approached. The days were growing shorter, the weather crisp as a Hewes crab apple. Next door, the coffeehouse hummed, patrons enjoying fresh-pressed cider. She could smell its spiced tang through the open Dutch door. Occasionally a gentleman would cross the threshold and buy a sweet to partake of with his beverage or carry home to a wife or sweetheart.
But not Henri Lennox.
She’d not seen him since their week-old encounter in the townhouse foyer when he’d been wearing the handsome coat she’d helped pick out at Carter’s store. Though she looked for him—and his horse—about town or on the road between York and Williamsburg, he stayed hidden. The papers had ceased printing his whereabouts and business, giving rise to her belief he remained on Indigo Island.
Esmée rearranged the display window, moving chocolate pots and porcelain cups nearer the glass. Taking up a cluster of turkey feathers, she dusted, an unnecessary task, as Simon had done it just that morning. What once brought her a sense of satisfaction now turned to ashes no matter what she set her hand to. Blame it on the news heard at Eliza’s soiree. She’d hardly slept since. It wasn’t only Henri’s future she was concerned with but her own. And enacting her plan required all the courage she could muster. It might all come to naught and haunt her the rest of her life, but still she must try.
Crossing the shop to the kitchen door, she bade Molly take her place. “I must go out and shan’t return to the shop today. But Father is near should you need him.”
Molly simply smiled, used to her midday jaunts, and exchanged her soiled apron for a clean one. “I’ll gladly swap, Miss Shaw. I’m weary o’ Josiah’s singing.”
Esmée removed her own apron and reached for her cloak. Hurriedly she passed by the chocolate stones heating at the hearth and was reminded of the cocoa grinder Father spoke of getting from Boston, capable of producing one hundred pounds of chocolate in six hours. No doubt the indentures would prefer that, freeing them from kitchen labor better spent elsewhere.
Down Water Street she went on foot, then took a sharp right up the rutted road that climbed to Main Street and their residence. She stopped at the stable, telling a hand to ready her mare. Minta nickered at her voice, anticipating a ride. It gave Esmée time to go to her bedchamber and change into her riding habit.
And reconsider her foolhardy plan.
She pressed on nonetheless, boots on and plumed hat pinned tightly, glad Mrs. Mabrey hadn’t questioned her and Father was busy at the coffeehouse. He’d put a stop to her rashness at once if he found out. Yet as she turned down the lonely road that led to the almshouse, she felt an odd peace settle over her. From the top of her head to her leather soles, it seemed a cool draft of water passed through her, settling her, encouraging her, leading her. So stark was the absence of her recent turmoil that tears stung her eyes.
Was this what the Lord had for her then? This rash mission she’d undertaken in her own secret thoughts, only to be confirmed by Kitty? How was it possible to feel any peace? Yet peace was what she had. At least for the fleeting moment.
Lord, I am a foolish, lovestruck woman. Please guide me and keep me from harm.
She prodded Minta into a gallop, wanting her mission over with as soon as possible. ’Twas fortuitous Jago Wherry was getting wood in the saw lot away from the almshouse. The few men with him tipped their hats and moved away as she neared. He dropped his armload of wood as if sensing her business was with him as she reined in a few feet away. She rarely spoke with him, not since her mother was alive and they’d visited weekly. Wherry came and went as his fortunes rose and fell at the track and elsewhere.