Dearest Esmée,
A silhouettist came to town recently and amused us. He captured my profile perfectly, so I am giving it to you lest you forget your younger sister while stranded on that desolate island of yours.
Your loving Eliza
Delighted, Esmée held the paper up to the light, astonished a simple paper silhouette could capture so much of her comely sister.
“Shadow portraits.” Henri smiled. “Or à la Pompadour, as the French call them.”
How like Eliza to send something unusual. Esmée returned the gift to its velvet-lined box, wishing she missed Eliza—and the mainland—more than she did.
Henri came to stand behind her at the windows, enclosing her in his arms. “When I sail, I want to remember this.” He rested his cheek against her upswept hair. “Your being here with me in this place, if only for a brief time.”
Already she felt the emptiness of his going. The slight creaking of the ship and cradle-like motion of its gentle rocking gave her only an inkling of what shipboard life was like.
“How is it on the open sea?” Though Father had told her, she wanted to hear it from Henri himself.
“Noisy. Crowded. A great many sights and smells and sounds on board.”
Was solitude as dear to him as it was to her? “Can you retire to your cabin and just be alone?”
“Rarely.” His voice held a hint of pathos. “But mark my word, when I do I’ll be thinking of you.”
CHAPTER
forty-three
Back in the lightkeeper’s cottage, Esmée and Lucy began preparing refreshments. Father and Henri were in the front parlor talking by the hearth. Scraps of conversation drifted to her as she placed cups in saucers and fetched spoons and sugar. Her father preferred gunpowder tea. Henri’s choice was chocolate.
Her father had brought them several high-quality bricks. His silver pocket grater rested on the table, and she used it to shave some of the cocoa into warm milk, added sugar, and whisked it into a froth with a molinillo. Tasting it, she made a face. Had they vanilla? A few steps to the larder made all the difference. Not only vanilla but cinnamon, nutmeg, and star anise too.
Father’s voice held the authority of his admiralty of old. “Here are more details concerning your mission from the governor . . .”
A rustle of papers. Henri made some remark she couldn’t decipher. She carried in the tray, set it down, and served them. Henri’s appreciation was not lost on her as he set the papers aside and took his cup. Her father poured tea into his saucer as was his custom, while she took a third chair nearest the fire and sipped her own.
Henri winked. “You do realize I’m marrying you for your cocoa making.”
“I did wonder,” she replied with a smile. “Shaw’s Chocolate makes a delicious dowry.”
Her father’s pleasure was palpable. “Now that I’m aware your courtship has commenced, I shall be unstinting with our cocoa. As it stands, I made sure the galley holds a hefty supply since there’ll be no visiting the premier cocoa growers in the Caribbean on this voyage.”
“Nay.” Henri stared into the fire, dark brows knit together like thread stitched too tight. “We’ll bear away to the north, off the Virginia capes.”
The pause that ensued was onerous, and Esmée felt a sudden, swift terror. She looked to a sleet-streaked windowpane that reminded her of their slippery walk to the light but an hour before, wishing someone—something—would intervene and prevent Henri’s going.
Henri’s gaze shifted to Esmée. Firelight played across her serene features, but he detected a shadow beneath. The looming cruise made a dismal backdrop to the evening.
“When shall you put to sea?” she asked, pulling her gaze from the window to meet his.
He gestured to the papers. “’Tis likely in Dinwiddie’s correspondence . . . which I am in no hurry to read.”
Her slight smile assured him not a whit. They’d not discussed the future in depth except in the vaguest terms. The sea had driven a wedge between them years before. Would it again?
The admiral finished his tea, and Esmée poured him more, trailing that telltale rose scent that had been his delight and undoing in the night. Though the Intrepid sat at anchor just offshore, its wintry decks fit for skating, this was not the time to broach the onerous task before him. He’d rather talk Christmas and weddings. But for the admiral—
“You do understand, Daughter, the critical nature of your betrothed’s mission.”
Esmée surprised Henri with her swift answer. “Intercept French supply ships en route to Scotia and their militias fighting on the western frontier.”
Henri nodded, unwillingly drawn into the conversation. “Specifically, intercept and capture the fleet that bears three thousand French regulars en route to North American posts, along with a number of officers.”
The admiral took another sip from his saucer. “Beware the newly launched Raisonable, a sixty-four-gun ship of the line and the pride of the French navy. Rather, be wary of Admiral Comte du Bois de la Motte and Pierre de Salvert.” He rattled off the French names with admirable flair.
Esmée looked from her father to Henri again, her chin raised in a bid to be resolute. But he knew better. The admiral, however, enjoyed nothing more than discussing ships, strategy, and the coming conflict.
Henri shrugged. “One maneuvers. One encounters. One fires cannon. Then each of the two fleets retires and the ocean is as salt as ever, so the French navy says.”
Though a low rumbling laugh built in the admiral’s chest, Esmée’s eyes glittered. “I shall fetch you more chocolate.”
The sudden clutch in his belly was more ache. Admiral Shaw continued his tea drinking. The mantel clock struck seven, and at last Esmée returned to the parlor, looking more composed than when she’d left and bearing an entire chocolate pot.
To Henri’s surprise—and relief—the admiral set down his empty cup with a yawn. “I shall leave you two lovebirds alone and retire to bed and dream of my seafaring days.”
“Good night, Father.” Esmée kissed him on the cheek. “’Tis a bit slippery tonight. Mind your step.”
He went out, carrying a lantern, while she resumed her place by the fire.
“To our future,” Henri said, lifting his cup and wanting to take the worry from her face. “‘And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”
“A beloved Scripture.” She raised her cup to his. “Still, I would be aware of the realities of this cruise and pray accordingly.”
“I’d rather tell you about the Patagonia coast, where countless butterflies swarm the decks and rigging.” He took a long, sweet drink. “Or the colorful coral beds off of the Turks and Caicos Islands.”
“Nay, Henri.”
“All right. The realities . . .” He lingered on the pale oval of her face and her remarkable eyes, arguably her best feature. “We could founder in heavy weather.”
“You haven’t yet.”
“French buccaneers could trouble us. Or the Spanish.”
“Not to mention their navies.”