“’Tis colder on the open water than here in the harbor,” he said, returning her gaze as he helped her into the pinnace.
Warmed by his touch, Esmée watched as Lucy smiled up at him, a bit wide-eyed at the gathering crowd. Seated in the vessel, Esmée steeled herself against the late autumn wind, her excitement building with every second.
“How long will it take, Miss Shaw?” Lucy asked beside her, her kitten in her lap.
“With those sails unfurled and the captain at the helm, no time at all.”
Esmée let out a breath as the mooring lines were loosed. Jacks she’d never seen worked around her, the captain standing tall. The boat took to the open water, leaving her a bit winded as they gained speed. Every ripple seemed to roll through her in turn, not sickening but exhilarating. A far different ride than the slow-as-molasses row in the jolly. She looked out on the York River as they sailed into Chesapeake Bay, which winked sapphire blue in the sun. Beyond it lay a mound of land bitten by autumn’s first frosts.
His island and now hers.
CHAPTER
thirty-six
The cottage was better than she’d left it. Pushing open the door, Lucy on her heels, Esmée could hardly contain her delight. A second Windsor chair had been placed near the hearth in the front parlor, the fire crackling merrily in welcome. Striped curtains were at the windows, making the cloth she’d brought unnecessary.
“My sailmakers have had a heyday outfitting your windows and your maid’s bedding,” Henri told her.
“You have a very able crew.” Esmée went to a window, marveling at how well-stitched the curtains were. “Please thank them for me.”
He supervised the men moving their belongings while she and Lucy wended their way through the cottage, exclaiming over this or that. A vase of dried flowers adorned the kitchen table. And not only flowers but a crusty loaf of bread and a small pot of salted butter. Thyme and roast chicken teased their senses, enticing Lucy to lift the lid off a pot in the embers.
“Jacques—the Relentless’s cook—prepared your supper.” Henri stood in the kitchen doorway, answering the question Esmée wanted to ask.
Smiling, she turned toward him. “A warm welcome indeed. Won’t you join us?”
He hesitated, his lips parting as if he was considering, then curving in an apologetic half-smile. “Another eve, mayhap. Tonight I’ll leave you to get your bearings.”
She nodded, pulled in a dozen different directions at once. Lucy was already in her room off the kitchen while the crew brought in the last of Esmée’s trunks and furnishings, inquiring as to where she’d like them. When she looked up again, Henri had disappeared. But how far could he go with his quarters a stone’s throw from her own?
By nightfall, they’d settled in and stripped Jacques’s delicious chicken to the bone. Saving half a loaf of the bread for their morning tea, Esmée invited Lucy to sit by the fire in the small parlor. Taking out her sewing, Lucy stitched a handkerchief while Esmée read aloud from Robinson Crusoe, the kitten, Tibby, curled up at their feet.
“By this time it blew a terrible storm; indeed, and now I began to see terror and amazement in the faces of the seamen themselves. The master, though vigilant in the business of preserving the ship, yet as he went in and out of his cabin by me, I could hear him softly to himself say, several times, ‘Lord be merciful to us! We shall all be lost! We shall all be undone!’”
Lucy’s hands stilled, her needle midair. A moody wind began to blow about the cottage, adding to the moment’s intensity. “D’ye think, mistress, that Captain Lennox would be so afraid of a storm?” she asked.
“Afraid of the storm, perhaps, but hopefully confident in the storm’s Maker who can still the waves and even walk on them.”
Lucy’s capped head bobbed in vigor. “When ye asked me if I wanted to come to the island, I was a bit afraid, though it be a good deal better than the almshouse. But what if a rogue wave comes over us and sweeps us out to sea?”
“You must take care not to go out in foul weather. You and Tibby shall stay secure right here by the fire, at least for this winter, while I tend to the light and pray for safety.”
“Yer as brave as the captain, mistress. To think ye must climb all those tower stairs no matter the weather!”
Esmée smiled, setting the book aside. “’Tis for the good of many, all those brave sailors who seek a safe harbor.”
“Including the captain, aye.” Tibby pressed against Lucy’s skirts, and Lucy reached down a hand to stroke its caramel-streaked back. “Ye’ll light his way back when he goes to sea again?”
The bittersweet thought intruded on Esmée’s quiet joy. “I should hope so. And pray for his return.”
“I’d best hie to bed and say my prayers so I can wake early and make our tea and toast.” Yawning, Lucy scooped Tibby up and excused herself. “I shan’t forget Mrs. Mabrey’s peach preserves.”
“A delightful breakfast awaits us.”
At the close of her door, Esmée went to the window. With the tower unlit till tomorrow, the darkness was profound save the square of yellow gleaming from the captain’s own cottage. Though she couldn’t see it, she could hear the surf beating against the beach and the moan of the wind that drove it there. Yet she’d never felt so secure. So . . . serene.
Was God’s leading not the way of peace? She sought the hearth again, already at home in her chair, thankful for all the little things Henri had superintended for her comfort. Or was she making it more significant than it actually was? He would, in truth, have done the same for any keeper, would he not? She settled back in her chair and tried not to think of his leaving. She mustn’t let her present happiness and the blessing God had given her depend on the captain and his future.
CHAPTER
thirty-seven
The following day Henri pulled on his boots, the gray day beyond his cottage like a woolen blanket, in direct contrast to his sunny mood. The island smelled clean, as it always did after a windy lashing—of wet rocks and sodden sand and foamy treasures pushed ashore from the deep.
His first thought on awakening had been Esmée. Mayhap her last thought had been of him. He’d seen her at her parlor window around nine o’clock when he’d returned from his usual rounds before retiring. He nearly couldn’t sleep. Thank heaven she wasn’t on the other end of the island, miles distant. He chuckled. Thank heaven Hermes and crew were.
He stood and exchanged last night’s rain gear for a woolen coat, his red Monmouth cap for a tan cocked hat. Used to being alone on his own stretch of beach, especially in the morning, he left the cottage to a pleasant surprise. Esmée was walking away from him as the tide went out, her purple cape aflutter. Every now and then she bent over to pick something up and examine it. Just like her shelling that day they’d first met.
He headed toward her, coming up from behind slowly so as not to startle her. “Good morning, Miss Shaw.”
“A fine day to you, Captain.”
He wanted to say Esmée, but a new formality had crept in with her position. It weighed on him, but he let it pass. “What have you there?”