“I’ve received confirmation our light can be seen by telescope from three leagues away.”
Our light. How sweet the sound. They began to kindle each candle, and the tower was soon ablaze. When Henri was away, she’d have charge of them all. Red leather fire buckets filled with sand and water were at floor level. A tinderbox and brass candlesnuffer lay in a tray near at hand, a second lantern alongside it. Plenty of light to read by if the tower wasn’t so cold. In summer she might bring a book.
Once the candles were illuminated, they stood by the glass facing the Atlantic. This was their ambition realized, a lighthouse for treacherous shoals and shifting sandbars, a warning of the infamous middle ground that marked Chesapeake Bay. No telling how many ships and lives had been lost there, casting crew and cargo into the deep.
And now she had a small part in it all.
Down the steps they went. She fully expected him to open the door at the tower’s bottom as he usually did, lantern held high in the other hand. But instead he set the light on the floor, illuminating her yellow quilted petticoat and his dark breeches and boots, casting the rest of them in shadows.
“Esmée.”
Her name, so tenderly spoken, sent a tremor through her, as did his sudden nearness a handbreadth away. She leaned into him, her knees a bit weak, her breath short.
He placed his hand on hers, holding it against his cheek. “I never stopped loving you, Esmée. No matter how far I sailed nor how many years passed, there’s been none but you.”
His words came slow and earnest, further mending the hurt the past had wrought. Her throat tightened, tears close. What could she say to this? She had no words. Only a tempest of fine feeling, joy foremost. Standing on tiptoe, she shut her eyes and pressed her lips to his. Their kiss was known yet different. Richer and sweeter than ever before. His arms went around her immediately, stronger than she remembered yet just as tender.
“Ma belle.” The old endearment hadn’t lost its luster. His lips brushed her cheek and then her hair, his breath a tickle against her ear. “Was it you who gave me the riding crop?”
“I confess.” Another kiss, long and lingering. Breathless, she rested her head against his chest. “And was it you who gave me the confectionary book?”
“Guilty.”
“And ’twas you who blessed the almshouse so abundantly.”
“I knew there was a need.” He stroked her hair. “I knew it was important to you. And so it became important to me.”
She looked up at him again. “Your doing so made it easier for me to come here, not worrying about their lack in another lean winter season.”
“If you are as good a lightkeeper as an almshouse patron, of which I have no doubt, then Virginia is blessed indeed.”
“Alas, you, Captain Lennox, are a terrible distraction.”
His low laugh held a hint of mischief. “Who knew lighthouses were made for liaisons like this, Miss Shaw?”
He kissed her again, stealing her breath once more, his arms about her so warm and enveloping she forgot the cold stone and plummeting temperatures around them.
“I want this night to never end.” His bristled cheek rested against her smooth one. His heartfelt words echoed her own unspoken thoughts. “Marry me, Esmée.”
The words she’d heard years before now seemed doubly knee-bending as she grasped the enormity of the question. “When, Henri?”
“Upon my return. A few months, Lord willing.”
“Then I shall, without question.”
“All that matters to me is you will soon be mine at last. Esmée Shaw Lennox.”
The wonderment of it stilled her tongue. Could it be? She’d come to the island with small hopes of being the lightkeeper or residing on the island at all. And now this . . .
“We’ll redeem those lost years, you and I.” His voice held a promise and the solemnity of a spoken vow. “Our future is finally at hand.”
CHAPTER
forty
Esmée slowly awoke, her new bed not quite familiar with the sun slanting down through an equally unfamiliar window. She’d slept late, Henri having kept the last watch of the light. Tonight she would spell him in turn, but for now she lay beneath the counterpane and closed her eyes again, reliving those minutes in the tower when their shared passion spurred such sudden, unexpected declarations. It seemed naught but a vivid dream.
His lips against hers, trailing the curve of her neck . . . Burying his face in her hair. Marry me, Esmée. They’d stayed in the tower a long time, neither of them wanting to part. And even after that she’d lain awake, the feel and scent of him lingering.
Nay, she’d not dreamed it.
Pushing the covers back, she swung bare feet to the floor. Beneath the closed door came the beckoning scents of coffee and breakfast as Lucy clattered about the kitchen. From the parlor chimed the mantel clock. The fire in her bedchamber hearth gleamed red with a few sooty ashes that needed replenishing. All in good time.
Positioning her stays over her shift, she tied the front laces and dressed in layers as befitted the cold, then donned a woolen petticoat. She unraveled the braid from her hair and began to pin it up, the small mirror over the dresser capturing her joyous expression instead of her usual pensive one.
Lucy’s voice pushed past the door after a timid knock. “Mistress, will ye breakfast soon?”
“Coming,” Esmée replied, pulling a shawl about her shoulders and pinning it in place with a crystal brooch.
The warmth of the kitchen was like an embrace, the hearth’s robust fire making the teakettle sing. At the table were bowls of steaming porridge and a small pot of cream, bread and butter, and peach preserves.
“Good morning, Lucy.” Esmée sat down, glad she’d brought over some of Mama’s beloved porcelain china.
“And a beautiful morn it is.” The maid sat down across from Esmée and poured them tea.
Stifling a yawn, Esmée took in the red-checkered gingham tablecloth spread with care and the shell centerpiece, her stomach rumbling. “I overslept without meaning to.”
“Ye look refreshed. Sweet dreams, mayhap?”
“Aye, very sweet.” She took a breath. “You shall be the first to know . . . Captain Lennox and I are to wed.”
Lucy’s mouth popped open, her eyes round as saucers. “When, mistress?”
“As soon as he returns from his next cruise.”
“Oh, glad news indeed! Shall ye marry here on the island? The beach perhaps, or the deck of his ship?”
Esmée reached for the preserves, delighted by all the possibilities. “I haven’t given it much thought.”
Joy seemed to sit at the table with them, the sunshine a benevolent guest as it streamed across the table, illuminating gilt-edged cups and saucers. Unhindered by clouds, the sky beyond the kitchen window was as blue as the ocean below it.
“And yer gown, Miss Shaw?”
Esmée pondered it. She’d brought mostly serviceable garments, leaving all but two of her most costly gowns behind. “Perhaps the Spitalfields silk with the matching shoes I brought. And pearls.”
“And yer bouquet?” Lucy, obviously schooled to weddings despite her humble station, looked perplexed.