“Of which you gave the almshouse part,” she said quietly, the pieces falling into place.
His eyes weren’t on her but on their surroundings. Did he think someone might be watching? Listening? “If something should happen—if I don’t return—”
Her fingers touched his lips in warning. “Say nothing of the sort.”
“You’ll have enough for two lifetimes.” With a tug of her hand, he led her back toward their house’s boundary stones and the open, windswept beach.
Upon hearing the Intrepid would sail with the tide, Lucy took the stockings and shirt she’d made for Cyprian and walked to the Flask and Sword to bid him goodbye. Esmée’s father accompanied her, leaving Esmée and Henri alone. Likely this was his intent, as he knew how precious their remaining time together was. Supper awaited on the table in Esmée’s cottage. A loaf of wheaten bread and Gloucester cheese. Potato soup as well as roast chicken and apple tansy.
“Lucy has outdone herself,” Esmée exclaimed in gratitude as she and Henri sat down.
“It has the feel of the Last Supper,” he replied, surveying the bounty. “A veritable farewell feast.”
“I’d rather talk about our nuptials,” she said, putting her serviette in her lap. “Shall we wed without ado upon your return?”
“Without ado, aye.” Henri cut his meat as she sampled her soup. “Something small and private. Or do you wish otherwise?”
“I’m relieved, truly. Eliza’s wedding was nothing short of a carnival.”
Too many guests had crowded into their York parlor, and one man had suffered an apoplectic fit. The cake had collapsed in the heat, and a wharf rat had crossed the carpet, leading to a woman’s fainting. Still, Eliza had shone, undaunted.
Henri winked before taking another bite. “You are as bold as your sister in your own right, rowing here and proclaiming your passion for me.”
Amused, Esmée spooned her soup. “So you saw through my little ruse and appointed me lightkeeper anyway.”
“I know an answered prayer when it comes, however cleverly disguised.”
Their eyes met, the flickering candle between them.
“There’s a saying you may well know,” he said. “‘Let those that would learn to pray go to sea.’”
Her throat tightened. “Perhaps we should pray now that we are not long parted. Or . . .” A new idea bloomed, however impossible. “You could take me with you.”
“You would sail with me?”
“Rather that than be away from you, though I know women aboard are considered ill luck.”
His face took on a studied solemnity. “I’d rather you mind the light. Guide me home. Your father wants you to spend Christmas with him in Williamsburg.”
“Of course.” Eliza wouldn’t travel to York so near her confinement. Esmée and her father must go to her. The twelve days of Christmas leading to Epiphany in January were treasured by them all.
“There’s an assistant keeper—a widower and former mariner from Norfolk—who’ll stay in my cottage and spell you for your time on the mainland. George Haller.”
“I’d rather think about next Christmas.”
“Our first married Christmas, aye.” His expression brightened. “In our new home right here, Lord willing. At least what’s standing by then.”
The tick of the clock chafed, tugging at Esmée’s heart. She tried to grasp the present and savor its sweetness but already felt it slipping away like sand.
The only certainty about life was its uncertainty. Only God stayed steadfast. Only the Almighty could walk her through life’s many changes. And when she felt overwhelmed, like now, she simply had to look back to see how faithful God had been, did she not? The heartaches and closed doors of the past had made the present more beloved.
She set down her fork. “Suddenly on the eve of your departure I want a great many answers.”
“Such as?”
She pondered all she didn’t know about him or had forgotten. “Your favorite color?”
His slow smile gave her butterflies. “The green of your eyes.”
Was he ever at a loss for words? “Favorite place?”
“Other than right here, right now? Corfu off the coast of Greece.”
Father had said the same. She could only imagine the beauty. “Best memory?”
“The spring we first met.”
“Mine too.” She looked to her posy ring, her fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “Best dish?”
“My mother’s cassoulet.”
“Best holiday?”
“Christmastide.”
“Best book?”
“The Bible.” He leaned back in his chair until it groaned. “Your turn, Esmée.”
She smiled, trying not to dwell on the hands of the clock or the candles sinking lower in their holders.
“Best friend?” he asked, taking a drink.
“Kitty Hart. Other than you, that is.”
“Foremost wish?”
“To marry you.” Her voice held a touch of wistfulness. “To live here on the island with our children and savor every sunrise and sunset.”
Their eyes locked.
We’ve not talked about children.
Heat filled her face as a smile came to his. Children. His thoughts ran ahead like hers, she knew it.
“A good half dozen of them is my hope,” he said. “I’ve always wanted a son to call my own. And daughters.”
He took the words right out of her mouth. ’Twas almost too much happiness to hold. Her soul overflowed with it. His gaze intensified. Was she making it harder, their parting? ’Twas not her intent.
His gaze canted toward a window. “’Tis time to mind the light.”
One last time. Together.
CHAPTER
forty-six
The cry of gulls woke her. For a moment Esmée drifted, eyes closed, before a heady reality rushed in. Today was the day of Henri’s departure.
Snowflakes crystallized against the wind-beaten pane in icy elegance. All night the tower had illuminated a white world beyond the cottage, but she felt as unprepared for the cold as the events of the day. The next hour was spent in the usual routines of dressing and breakfasting that were now anything but normal. One look out the window at Henri’s cottage, the chimney furiously puffing smoke, reminded her how cold he’d be aboard ship.
Lucy accompanied her to where the Intrepid lay at anchor. Men crawled over it like ants, readying for departure. Snow festooned the vessel like it was Christmas morn.
She would be strong. Brave. She would not let him see her sorrowful.
Snow turned the Intrepid into a ghost ship. Henri stood by the quarterdeck rail, turned away from Esmée rather than toward her. No need to make their leave-taking more difficult than it already was. There was little time for it anyway, the holystoned decks a frenzy of activity. The crew was busy obeying Henri’s order to put to sea, catting the anchor and securing it to the side of the ship.
Goodbye, ma belle.
The sentiment was cut short by the exhilarating rush he always felt upon facing the open ocean, the wind a roar in his ears, snowflakes stinging his skin. The cold drove all warm thoughts of Esmée away, at least temporarily. The Intrepid bore northeast in a squalling snowstorm, the waves hitting the ship’s black sides and lifting the bowsprit skyward, sending a shudder through the vessel as it rolled then resettled into an even keel. His balance, finely honed over the years, took every pitch, roll, and heave in stride. Even the groans of the woodwork failed to unsettle him.