“Good afternoon to you,” Esmée said, staying atop her horse.
“G’day, Miss Shaw.” He removed his hat, clutching its battered edges in workworn hands. “We don’t oft see you unless you’re pulling a cart full of relief.”
“No need for that of late, thankfully.” Did he know who had given the fortune to the almshouse? She took a breath, a bit winded from her ride. “I’ve come to ask something of you. A private matter.”
He took a step nearer, his features sharpening. “At your service, ma’am.”
“I want you to row me to Indigo Island.” Her gaze held his. “Stone-cold sober.”
A smile curled his thin lips. “But I’ve no boat, Miss Shaw.”
“Well, you’re clever enough to get one. And I’ll reward you handsomely for it.”
He pondered this, amusement and concern playing across his craggy face. “Ye’ve not set foot on the island before?”
“Never. ’Tis time.” Even as she spoke the confident words, she had second thoughts. She felt a bit like Eliza with such scheming.
“Does the captain know of yer coming?”
“I’d rather he not.”
“Um . . .” He seemed to reconsider.
“For all you know, I might be visiting Mistress Saltonstall,” she said.
“I doubt it, given she’s now on the mainland.” He returned his hat to his head and peered at the glowering sky. “A bit chancy with November well upon us. When are ye thinking of going?”
“The next fair day.”
He studied the sky. “Could be tomorrow . . . could be sennight’s end.” A nod. “I’ll be ready.”
“We’ll meet at eight bells in that little cove where you saw the captain off.”
“Yer the admiral’s daughter, for sure.” His chest shook with suppressed laughter. “I must warn ye yer taking a frightful risk. A northeaster could blow in, keeping ye on the island for days and days if ye do get there.”
Esmée nearly sighed aloud. The sweet relief she’d felt—the elusive peace that flew in the face of this mad plan—began to crack beneath his caution.
Lord, help.
CHAPTER
thirty-one
The weather continued to defy Esmée and beg her to reconsider. There was plenty of time for Wherry to change his mind . . . or borrow a boat. Plenty of time for her to revisit her trust in this man, a stranger nearly, with a questionable reputation. But who else would she involve in her plan? Henri had entrusted Wherry to give him riding lessons. Was she wrong to rely on him as well?
Midweek, she stood at her rain-smeared bedchamber window, gazing past York to the Atlantic that beckoned. She fingered her chatelaine, intent on the little lighthouse. If all this went awry, she would hurl the tiny token into the sea. But . . .
Her Bible lay open on the table near her empty teacup. She’d been too preoccupied to partake of much breakfast. Only Kitty knew of her plan. Kitty was praying for her and watching the weather.
Father was absent while she waited, busy with matters in town. He even went to Williamsburg all of a sudden, as secretive as ever as to why, but Esmée was certain it had to do with Henri. Instead of it weakening her purpose, sensing Henri might set sail at any moment only hardened her resolve. She would act with grace and dignity despite her boldness, lest she spend the rest of her life ruing her cowardice and failure to move forward.
Lord, let me not make myself a fool by either rashness or overthinking the matter.
One verse in particular kept her grounded.
For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
Even the timing was the Almighty’s own. And the weather.
At last, sennight’s end found Esmée in the agreed-upon cove. She stood on the sand, clutching her purse of coin, wondering if she’d dreamed the plan up. She was alone on the launching site. No vessel. No Wherry at hand. Had he succumbed to spirits and forgotten their agreement? Suddenly weary, she sat down upon a log and faced the wind.
The water was calm. Dead calm. And it might not be again for some time.
But the wily Cornishman did not disappoint. A sudden shout carried over the water. She turned in its direction. A handsome jolly raised her brows in admiration. Jago Wherry and a lad from the almshouse plied the oars. She wouldn’t ask where Wherry had gotten the vessel. She prayed he’d not stolen it. Such boats usually hung from davits at a ship’s stern when not in use.
He docked and helped her in, and she took a discerning if discreet breath. He didn’t waft of spirits, though she spied a bottle half-hidden in rain gear stashed in the boat’s bottom. With a practiced air he took up the oars again, reminding her of his history. Word was he’d once served under an Admiral of the Fleet in the Royal Navy. Surely she was in good hands.
From her stern seat she was rendered speechless, aware of a great many things at once. The still blue of the water on a nearly windless day, its fathomless depths a mirror of the heavens above. Was this what enticed the captain time and again?
While the men rowed, she took in York in a way denied her before. How small it looked. How insignificant. It faded from her line of sight as if melting like a confection on the horizon, all the ships at anchor like a child’s toys. Down the relative safety of the York River and into the treacherous bay they went, all manner of vessels around them.
Breathless she was. Not from any exertion but from the risk she took. What if the jolly capsized? Whales did much mischief, upending boats without warning. What if—nay, she could not bear it—the island was less than she’d hoped and dreamed? She kept her eye on it beneath the shade of her cloak’s hood as the flutter inside her intensified.
What if the captain was not there? Or—the latent realization turned her leaden—he’d already set sail or hired a lighthouse keeper?
She took in the mound of land resembling a sea turtle’s back. There were more trees than she’d imagined. Wind-stunted pines. An abundance of seagrass. Gulls careening overhead. By the time they neared the island, the wind had strengthened, stirring her cloak and nearly pushing her hood back.
The light could not be seen yet, situated as it was on the backside of the island, facing the Atlantic. The captain’s cottage was not far from it, or so Father once told her. The keeper’s cottage too.
Where would she find Henri? And would Indigo Island become a beloved memory or another sore reminder?
CHAPTER
thirty-two
Twas late November. Painfully aware of the time, Henri stood with arms folded, legs apart, and boots firmly planted on shifting sand as he watched his men coat the bottom of the Relentless with tar, tallow, and sulfur. Its potency carried in the rising wind, but it was a pleasant smell, at least to him, evidence of enormous effort. Behind him were the ship’s guns and top masts that needed to be returned to the careened vessel before severe weather set in. His crew had finished with little time to spare. Even old Jacques’s bones ached, a sworn precursor to a gale.
“Well done!” His voice rang out, meeting with huzzahs from all sides. “An extra half gill of rum at day’s end for every man.”