“Seagrass and shells, perhaps?”
They laughed, trying to take the unexpected in.
“Ye’ll need a bride’s cake and a groom’s cake. I’m guessing that French chef of the captain’s could concoct something special.”
“I should hope.” Esmée sipped her tea, sure it was more likely Cyprian who drew Lucy than cake. “For now we’ll keep the news between us two. Anticipate a special occasion.”
Lucy’s eyes shone with delight in a way they’d never done at the almshouse. “A frolic is most welcome, especially on the heels of a wedding.”
An island wedding as opposed to one at Grace Church or the Shaws’ formal parlor. Eliza might never forgive her, but Father would understand. A memorable wedding it would be with a crew of sailors as guests, perhaps even Hermes.
“We’ve much to look forward to. Glad I am to have such a capable young woman by my side to help me,” Esmée said with gratitude, and Lucy flushed.
Breakfast done, Lucy set off to get milk from the Flask and Sword’s lone cow while Esmée betook herself to the captain’s cottage, comfortably close to her own. The shutters weren’t closed, nor was the door locked.
Was Henri asleep?
She pushed open the cottage door, and there she found her beloved in a chair by the hearth. Even at rest he emanated an immense vitality she found irresistible. His hair was unkempt as if he’d run his hands through it, his still form draped by a woolen blanket.
She shut the door soundlessly and tiptoed to him, her heart on tiptoe as well.
CHAPTER
forty-one
A trace of perfumed soap brought Henri to his senses. Lavender? Nay, rose. Esmée. Her very essence. His limbs were heavy, his eyes closed. Fragments of their time in the tower washed over him like storm-tossed flotsam.
Was he dreaming again?
When warm lips met his own, he came fully awake. His bride-to-be knelt in front of him, blue skirts swirling around her in a frothy mass not unlike a wave.
Her voice held a teasing lilt he’d not heard in . . . years. “I wanted to ask if you’d repented of your bold question last night in the tower.”
He chuckled. This was the Esmée of old shining through, the one he’d missed so desperately. “I have not nor will I ever, especially with a greeting such as that.”
He leaned forward, holding her face between his hands. She looked as lovely as he was disheveled. But her gaze told him she liked his roguish, rumpled appearance. Drawing back, he reached into his pocket. Taking her left hand in his, he slowly slipped the jewelry on her finger. “I meant to give you this last night. But now seems a better time.”
His mind flashed to Williamsburg as she said, “Did you see me gazing at posy rings on the street that day we met in Carter’s store?”
“Nay.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.
Noticeably moved, she removed the ring, peering at the inscription within. “‘In Christ and thee my comfort be.’” She stared down at it, a glitter of gold flowers and vines encircling her finger once she put it on again. “I’ve never seen one so beautiful, the words so fitting.”
“Not too small nor too large?”
“’Tis perfect.”
“Even after ten years,” he murmured, relieved.
Her lashes lifted, her gaze beseeching. “You’ve had it all this time?”
He nodded. “It seems Providence was intent on being my comfort before I could have you as my bride.”
“Oh, Henri . . .” Emotion made her voice tremble. “Had you brought it with you that terrible day? When we quarreled in the townhouse parlor and then parted?”
The memory had finally lost its barb if not its regret. “I returned to the ship and put it away in the trunk that would hold the letters I wrote you.”
A single tear wet her cheek. She dashed it away with the back of her hand before he could reach for a handkerchief. “Which you’ll give me on your leaving.”
“If you still want them.”
“Want them?” She took his hands in hers and squeezed. “They’ll be my stay till you return. That and this.” She looked to the ring again, more touched than he’d anticipated.
Despite her brave words, he saw sadness in her eyes—the dread of their future parting. He took her in his arms where she knelt, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. “If God has brought us this far, we’ve no fear of the future, Esmée.”
They grew quiet, the companionable silence dear if emotionally laden. How would their lives have been different had they wed long ago?
“I cannot wait.” She pulled away from him and stood, smoothing her skirts and the comely apron that cinched her waist. “For now I’ll practice being your wife.”
He looked on, amused, as she added wood to the fire and stoked it into a snapping, popping crimson. Next she took the blanket that he’d set aside, folding it neatly before going into the kitchen. He heard—rather guessed at—her movements as the crane creaked and water splashed in a teakettle.
So this was what wedded life would be like. Not going it alone. Not being surrounded by unending sea and crew. Not hearing the cottage echo. Her presence already infused it with her rose scent and warmth and liveliness. She was nearly his. Forever.
Yawning, he pushed up from his chair and sought his bedchamber, on the opposite end of the cottage where Esmée commandeered the kitchen. There he peered into the looking glass of his washstand, his bristled jaw begging a razor. He’d bathe and change clothes once she left. But for now he’d just ready for breakfast.
She began humming a low tune, and it buoyed him as he made his way back to the kitchen. She looked at home there, her expression serene, the table set for him. Despite his not having told her where anything was in the larder, she’d set bacon to frying and eggs awaited their turn. Toast too. But for now, tea.
“Mightn’t you like coffee better?” She looked at him as he sat down and fisted his hands atop the table. “I see you have no chocolate.”
“I’ll like whatever it is you serve me.”
She smiled, a pink tint to her cheeks. His own were ruddy from more than the razor. Despite their longstanding tie, there were a great many things to be discovered between them, both mundane and otherwise. As she poured his tea, Henri bowed his head in a silent prayer, thankful for far more than breakfast.
He’d barely finished setting down his fork when a voice boomed.
“Captain Lennox, sir!”
The bellow came from beyond the cottage but brought him to his feet. Esmée looked at him, then passed to the nearest window. Together they looked out on not just the rise and fall of low waves hurrying to shore but a ship’s bow cutting through the water like scissors through blue silk, its masts as tall as the oaks felled to make them, heavy guns on two decks. The Intrepid’s topsides were painted black, the figurehead of a woman striking.
Their intimacy of the hour before abruptly ended. A full crew of men scurried over the deck in all directions as the ship rounded the island and prepared to drop anchor. The hour had come.
CHAPTER
forty-two