CHAPTER
thirty-eight
The next day Henri sat with his officers at a tavern table, the rest of the crew spread out across the taproom. The Flask and Sword had never looked better, the floors mopped, every stick of furniture shiny as a newly minted shilling. Even Hermes looked content perched on a window ledge, eating pecans and occasionally emitting a shrill screech. Henri smiled his amusement, wishing Mistress Saltonstall back, if only to have another woman on the island. In the meantime, if there was a cruise, half a dozen of his men who were injured and ailing would remain behind, the penalty being caretakers of a cantankerous marmoset.
He finished his ale and set down his tankard, careful to avoid the letter of marque and reprisal lying atop the table. It had been delivered that afternoon by a courier of Virginia’s governor in the name of the king, and Henri had just read it aloud. Their future mission sounded simple but was infinitely complex.
George the Second, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, defender of the faith, &c. To Captain Henri Lennox, commander of eighty men and mounting thirty carriage guns. You may, by force of arms, attack, subdue, and take all ships and other vessels belonging to the inhabitants of France, on the high seas, or between high-water and low-water marks . . .
His crew’s conversation had risen around him like a headwind ever since.
“We’re fully outfitted and ready to sail at a moment’s notice.”
“Lest fortune frown upon us, I shall place a silver coin beneath the main mast when we weigh anchor.”
“Superstitions don’t become you. Coin be hanged. I saw you on your knees petitioning Providence at the last violent squall.”
“A misfortune the French often fly false flags, hoping to avoid capture.”
Hermes screeched at Cyprian’s late entry, then ran to the lad, who hoisted him on his shoulder. Laughter rumbled through the watching men while Henri looked out a near window at the sunset.
“How many other privateers are operating under letters of marque, Captain?” Tarbonde asked from across the table.
Henri came to attention. “New York leads the colonies in sending twenty-six privateers bearing three hundred fifty guns and nearly three thousand men. Virginia is second in force.”
A pronounced hush ensued as the gravity of their mission took hold.
Henri stood, bringing the din across the room to a slow halt. “I need to tend the light.”
Chuckling and elbowing greeted his announcement. “Don’t you have a lady lightkeeper for that, Captain?” Southack dared to ask.
With a wink, Henri settled his cocked hat on his head. “A lady lightkeeper in training.”
“No matter who tends it, ’tis most welcome,” Cyprian said as Hermes scrambled to his opposite shoulder. “Far better than the hilltop fires of old.”
Henri went out, glad for fresh air and quiet. His walk was an enviable one, energizing him after the tobacco smoke and chatter of the tavern. The beach lay in winsome white curves all the way to his end of the island, easily navigated by moonlight. He was beginning to look forward to the hour when darkness descended. Once a trial to him, lonesome and full of memories, it now marked the time he could see Esmée.
By now she’d have finished her supper and was likely seated by the fire with Lucy. Esmée had mentioned knitting him stockings, even a hat and gloves—simple, practical things that a man had need of. He considered getting sheep so she’d have a supply of wool at hand, but that was in the distant future.
He rapped at the door, and it opened. Lucy gave him an unnecessary curtsy and excused herself, retreating to the kitchen. Esmée’s eyes shone with quiet delight, another step away from the guarded woman she’d become.
“Good evening.” He removed his hat as she rose from her seat.
“A good evening indeed.” She gestured to the chair Lucy had vacated. “Won’t you sit for a moment and warm up? ’Tis not quite dusk.”
He did so, noticing all the little things she’d done to make the cottage hers. Over the hearth hung a landscape painting of a garden in bloom, while a smaller painting of her father’s last ship rested on the mantel.
He leaned in to get a closer look. “A remarkable likeness of the Indefatigable.”
“Mama painted it for him shortly before she died. ’Twas the great love of his life after her.”
He added another log to the fire, thinking how cozy the cottage was compared to his own quarters. “Your mother was very gifted. And I’m sure very missed.”
“Always.” She returned to her knitting, her movements smooth and sure. “The oil landscape was in my York bedchamber. I’ve a fondness for gardens. Cook has a kitchen garden at our townhouse, but I’ve always dreamed of flowers. This painting gave me a little of what I lacked.”
“In summer you’ll find rose mallow, goldenrod, and wildflowers on the island.”
“I’ve in mind roses, lavender, and larkspur. Even my favorite, sweet peas—the new variety of painted lady in particular. They symbolize goodbye, adieu, bon voyage.”
“Don’t remind me,” he replied.
She eyed him in surprise, needles stilling.
“I’d rather remain and build you a wall to enclose your garden. Protect it from the wind.”
“I can’t imagine you doing something so small. Not when you’ve seen the gardens of Versailles and the Alhambra.”
“Mayhap it’s because I’ve seen them that my true north is now home.”
“And is Indigo Island your home? Can you be content to live on an island so small?”
“My life has already been enlarged by your coming here, Esmée.”
“You flatter me.” Her needles picked up again, faster than before. “’Tis been but two days.”
“The best days I’ve spent.” Reaching out, he took her nearest hand, the yarn falling to her aproned lap. “I have no desire to sail.”
“But has it not been decided?” She clutched his hand, her eyes sharp with intensity.
“I’ve a letter of marque and reprisal, aye.” He continued to hold her hand and her gaze. “We could sail at any time now. We merely await word from Williamsburg.”
And what a cruise it would be. An all-out battle. The potential loss of his ship, his crew, his life. He couldn’t recount the close calls he’d had previously, both aboard ship and in foreign ports. Then, he hadn’t half reckoned with the danger, but now . . .
“Imminent, then.” She looked to the fire as it sputtered and hissed. “When once I had you not at all, even a little of you now is heaven-sent. Every second.”
“Now you flatter me.” His smile summoned her own. “But in truth, I feel the same.”
They sat in sweet silence save for her knitting till a clock with a musical chime struck six. She was the first out of her chair, gathering her cloak and gloves. He held the door open, and they went out into moonlight and silence.
What he wanted was to gather her in his arms.
CHAPTER
thirty-nine
Esmée was far more aware of Henri than the task at hand. Up the steep stairs they went, his lantern throwing low light in the tower. The first time she’d climbed she’d been slightly winded, but now she hardly noticed. At the top she watched as he hung the lantern from a hook near the giant compass lamp, which held twenty-four lights.