“The truth is never so colorful, nay.” He clasped his hands behind his back and struck a non-piratical pose. “You are the daughter of the renowned Admiral Shaw of Rhode Island.”
“Soon to be situated in fair Virginia.”
He regarded her closely. What?
“Father won’t stray far from the sea. He’s purchased a townhouse in the port town of York. We’ll be opening a chocolate shop and coffeehouse on Water Street.”
“Not far from my home off the Virginia capes.”
Her expression was unsurprised. “You own an island, ’tis said.”
“Indigo Island, aye.”
“How did you come by it?”
“As payment of a debt owed me.”
“Do you know its history?”
He smiled, enjoying their banter. “Perhaps the better question is, do you?”
“Father told me a ship heavily laden with indigo from Porto Bello foundered there in a storm a hundred years ago.” Her eyes sparkled. “I should like to see your island.”
Such bold words bordered on coquetry. But her eyes held such guileless interest he was charmed. “Indigo Island’s shells are the finest I’ve seen beyond Hispaniola, the pearl of the Caribbean.”
“You saw me shelling today as you docked.” She extended her fan, its leaves painted with a ship, the edges lace tipped. “A handsome vessel you command, Captain Lennox.”
The rest of their conversation was a pleasurable blur. If not for his unusual foray north, would they have ever met?
Shoving his musings aside and returning to the present, Henri pulled harder at the oars, then beached the jolly on a little-used stretch of white sand north of town. His senior-most crew had come ashore the day before, the rest careening the vessel and biding their time at Mistress Saltonstall’s ordinary. His own day was a blank slate once he’d taken care of the post, the hours to fill as he willed.
By noon he’d walked the length and breadth of town, dined on York River oysters, and purchased supplies for Indigo Island. Word was spreading he’d returned, and by three o’clock, he’d been invited to a function that necessitated a visit to a tailor and some serious second thoughts.
Steeling his resolve, he entered the spacious shop of Brambly and Boone to find half a dozen tailors at a worktable before the large front window. September’s waning light streamed over breeches and coats and waistcoats in various stages of construction. No shoddy cloth here.
“Good afternoon, sir.” A small, bespectacled man emerged from a back room and gave a little bow. “Richard Boone, sir.”
“Henri Lennox.” He removed his hat, aware of his dishabille after a morning’s row and a day about town. “I’ve come for a suit of clothes fit for a pleasure ball.”
Respect smote the man’s close-set eyes. “Ah, Lady Lightfoot’s, no doubt, though there’s a great deal of entertainment to be had in Williamsburg as well.” He went to a glass case and retrieved paper ribbons with which to measure Henri. “Lennox, did you say? Captain Lennox of the Relentless?”
“The same,” Henri replied, aware of every eye at the worktable now upon him.
“Honored, Captain. I promise you a suit of clothes that befits your rank and station. A quality wool broadcloth woven to a rich finish, perhaps. Our seamstress shall sew your shirt.” Boone took a wheezing breath. “Have you any preferences, sir?”
“No pleated ruffles or other frippery,” Henri said as the measuring ribbon stretched from his shoulder to his wrist.
“Mother-of-pearl buttons and a stock of the best linen, adorned at the end with fringe or knots, is my recommendation.” Boone stood back and surveyed him. “Should I summon a wigmaker, sir?”
“No need.” Wigs and powder were as unwelcome as ruffles and lace. The sea had stripped him to the barest essentials, including dress. While many good men on shore suffered want, others smothered themselves in velvet and silver thread. He’d not be among them. “But a shoemaker is in order.”
“Consider it done.” Boone’s scrutiny shifted to Henri’s booted feet. “Silver buckles and black leather seem in order as well.”
“Agreed.”
“We’ll have your garments ready in two days’ time. Will you be lodging at the Swan like so many watermen?”
“Nay. The Royal Oake on Church Street.”
“Of course. A gentleman’s establishment. Would you like your purchases delivered there, sir?”
“Obliged, aye.”
“And will this be on credit, Captain? Or otherwise?”
“Spanish silver dollars.”
“Ah.” The sudden smile on the tailor’s face promised a handsome suit indeed. Coin was always hard to come by in the colonies. “Very well, sir.”
The Royal Oake’s dining room boasted a table for twenty, and a dizzying array of dishes promised no one would emerge hungry. While the other lodgers lingered at table, Henri sought the silence of the parlor, where a case clock’s ticking reminded him that time was all too fleeting. On a side table was a stack of Virginia newspapers from as far back as summer to the present day. He reached for the latest, the ink smudged from repeated perusals. Best familiarize himself with local matters, at least, before braving the ball and being asked his opinion on colonial politics or the ferocious fighting on the frontier.
“A gentleman cannot possibly ponder current events without a pipe.” His hostess, Charlotte Oake, a comely widow who operated the inn with her aging father-in-law, held out not only a handsome filled pipe but a light. The pipe’s clay bowl bore a Scottish unicorn on one side and an English lion on the other.
Pleasure warmed his words. “Your hospitality is unsurpassed.”
“Bull’s-eye tobacco.” She smiled as she lit the pipe, and fragrant smoke purled between them. “Only the best for our guests.”
At the sound of her father-in-law's voice, she moved away with a beguiling swish of her skirts while Henri returned to the most recent Virginia Gazette. International news, most of it disturbing. A plethora of notices for runaway slaves and indentures. And ads—a great many. Yellow candlelight spread across the page, and his gaze landed on the last thing he wanted to see.
Sold here. Shaw’s Superior Chocolate. Water Street, York. Soconusco, Caracas, and Maracaibo cocoa, the purest in the world. Greatly recommended by several eminent physicians for its lightness on the stomach and its great use in all consumptive cases. Two shillings sixpence per pound.
He set his jaw. His sweet tooth roared.
Pulling the pipe from between his teeth, Henri eyed the door through which his hostess had disappeared. Was there any chocolate to be had in the house?
He’d passed by Shaw’s on his afternoon walk through town, the sweet, velvety aroma slowing his pace. He needed a pressed cake or two wrapped in paper and stamped with the Shaw insignia before returning to Indigo Island. ’Twas his one indulgence. Two shillings sixpence per pound exceeded a sailor’s daily wage, if not a captain’s.
On second thought, mayhap he’d avoid Shaw’s altogether and see if there was any chocolate to be had in Williamsburg instead.
CHAPTER
four