CHAPTER
forty-seven
Shortly before Christmas, Esmée left the island in the company of her father and Lucy. They exchanged a cold, choppy journey in the wherry for a somewhat warmer ride in the coach, brass foot warmers filled with hot coals at their feet. For Williamsburg, the holiday season meant greenery adorning mantels and candles on windowsills. The snow that had sent the Intrepid sailing still lay upon the ground, half a foot deep now, freezing all but the holiday merriment.
Esmée hid her shock upon arriving at the townhouse and seeing Eliza again. Clad in a sultana, her hair undressed, feet swollen and face flushed, her sister lay upon a parlor sofa, her Angora cat, Dulcet, in her lap.
Truly, Eliza had lost her joie de vivre.
Taking Quinn aside, Esmée asked, “Have you consulted the physic of late?”
He nodded, then confessed as he readied to leave on business, “Dr. Anson is here nearly every day but says till the birth there’s little to be done. By the ninth month, women tend to be overtaxed in every way.”
In the days following, Eliza fussed continuously over a stray kitten. Cried at underdone mutton. Rearranged the nursery thrice. Sent the servants to market for this or that at every whim. Pelted Esmée with fractious questions. Lambasted Quinn.
“A friend loveth at all times,” Father muttered. “Rather, a husband and sister.”
Then and there Esmée vowed to never try Henri so, not if she could help it.
“Did you read my advertisement in the Gazette?” Eliza asked her when they were alone. At Esmée’s nay, her sister took up a paper. “‘Wet nurse wanted immediately, a young healthful person of good character, with a plentiful show of wholesome milk, if from the country the more desirable. Good wages and advantageous terms.’”
“That would be Alice Reed from the almshouse,” Esmée told her, taking out her embroidery. “She was brought to bed but two months ago with a son. She’s fallen on hard times as her husband is away with Washington’s army. Shall I seek her out on your behalf?”
“Is she gentle, quiet, and well-tempered?”
“She seems so.”
“And her hair? Is it red? Redheads have a milk-curdling effect with their temper, according to Dr. Guillemeau of France.”
Esmée hid her exasperation. “Dr. Guillemeau is dead, and his nonsense with him. Alice’s hair is flaxen, anyway.”
“What of her child-rearing principles? I cannot conscience the use of Godfrey’s Cordial to quiet a baby.”
“Rest your mind. Alice cannot afford such.” Esmée worked a flower with silver thread. “Would you like me to send word to the almshouse and see if she’s agreeable to your plan?”
Eliza affected her most pronounced pout. “I suppose so, though I do wonder what the wags will say when they learn an almshouse castoff is beneath my roof.”
“They shall say ’tis your sister’s doing.”
“I suppose. But what else can I manage? I’ve had no success with a wet nurse as advertised.”
“You’d do well to disregard the wags and dwell on Alice and how you both might benefit the other.”
Eliza began a whipstitch on a handkerchief. “Sister, you seem to have an answer for everything and no trouble expressing it.”
“Have you given serious thought to nursing your own child instead?”
“I have not.” Eliza made a face and rang for tea. “Your bluestocking notions are most unwelcome. I shan’t be tethered to an infant night and day.”
“Then if you’re sure, I’ll seek out Alice on the morrow. She’s friend to my maid, Lucy.”
“Very well, then. I lack the time and temper to take care of it. My confinement is nearly at hand.” She rang for the fire to be tended next, as she was cold, despite the shawl Esmée had settled round her shoulders. “Enough talk about mundane matters. I’d rather hear about Captain Lennox.”
Esmée took her time answering. “Henri has been gone more than a fortnight in what is thought to be a two-month sailing.” She bit back a sigh as she stitched. “Sealed orders.”
“Sealed orders indeed. Quinn is quite tight-lipped about the matter. No doubt your stalwart captain is in pursuit of French ships, fooling them with false colors and all the rest.”
“He’s left me a sea chest of letters.” Esmée felt aflutter even voicing it, the chest’s tiny key on her chatelaine.
“Letters? From the past?”
“He began writing them years ago when we parted. I find it quite romantic. I’ve been saving them to read in his absence.”
“And will you marry immediately upon his return?”
“’Tis the plan. On Indigo Island by his new sea chaplain.”
“Speaking of sea chaplains, Nathaniel Autrey is coming to our holiday party.”
“Oh? Is he well?”
“How blandly you ask about him. You’d rather marry a privateer and reside on an all but deserted island when you could live but a stone’s throw from your sister at Mount Autrey.”
“I would indeed.”
Their conversation paused as a tea tray was brought. Esmée abandoned her embroidery, the room’s drafts calling for a steaming cup. She poured and added sugar and cream to Eliza’s, knowing just how she liked it.
“How goes it on the island?” Eliza took a sip. “You’re the talk of the Tidewater, what with your sudden betrothal and being appointed lightkeeper.”
“I can only imagine the tittle-tattle,” Esmée said. “Keeping the light is all I’d hoped it would be, as is life on the island. Serene and simple and beautiful, even in winter.”
“No sand fleas, at least, since ’tis cold.” Dulcet jumped from Eliza’s lap, jarring her cup. “Father said he can see the light from the townhouse’s rooftop in York.”
“My hope is to help a great many at sea, to shed light—and hope—in a storm or some such calamity. And return Henri to me.”
Lord, let it be.
CHAPTER
forty-eight
Lucy sat across from Esmée in the Cheverton coach, the liveried coachman and postilion as extravagant as the silver foot warmers at their feet.
“D’ye reckon Alice will take the work, Miss Shaw?” Lucy asked as the coach took a sharp corner. “’Twould be far better than the almshouse. Ever since I got shed of it I feel free as a lark.”
“You’re such a help to me, Lucy. I pray Alice can come to Williamsburg. ’Twould be a better arrangement for her and baby Alden, at least till her husband returns.”
“I suppose a soldier in the backcountry is no better than a jack at sea.”
Esmée raised a brow. “By jack, do you mean Cyprian?”
Lucy’s chuckle was followed by a flush, her cheeks red as June’s roses. “’Tis a terrible tussle to not think of him, Miss Shaw.”
“A terribly delightful tussle.” Esmée smiled as the coach lurched to a stop before the almshouse entrance. The buildings seemed less stark covered in snow, but the French encampment was widening, dense smoke hazing the air from countless fires.