They alighted and were promptly shown to the trustee’s office. Esmée sat down in an unfamiliar Windsor chair, eyes drawn to the new window curtains and other amenities. Henri’s doing? Lucy remained standing by the door.
“What brings you out on such a frigid day, Miss Shaw?” The trustee’s condescending manner toward almshouse residents turned to deference in her presence.
“I’ve come to speak with Alice Reed about a position in Williamsburg with my sister.”
“Ah, Lady Drysdale? A timely arrangement.” He looked to her purse. “’Tis unusual for you to visit empty-handed, Miss Shaw.”
Did he expect a bribe? “Surely your recent windfall from an especially generous patron makes anything I might bring a mere pittance.”
His eyes showed surprise, but he merely cleared his throat and called to an assistant in the corridor. “Summon Alice Reed.”
Alice appeared in minutes, overjoyed to see Lucy. They embraced, and Esmée laid out Eliza’s offer as best she could.
“A wet nurse, Miss Shaw? In Lord and Lady Drysdale’s townhouse?” Wonderment softened her wan face. “How can I say nay?”
“You’ll have bed and board, of course, generous wages, and company. A dozen servants are in Lord and Lady Drysdale’s employ.” Esmée paused. She mustn’t paint too rosy a picture, given Eliza’s moods and whims. “My sister can be temperamental at times, and you’d have the care and feeding of two babies night and day till weaning.”
“I think my Johnny would be pleased with it, till he’s done with his soldiering. And I get to see my dear friend besides.” She looked to Lucy, who wore a wide smile. “Aye, then, and as soon as possible.”
Relieved, Esmée gestured to the door. “’Tis snowing again. Best accompany us right away. Lucy can help collect your belongings and your sweet babe.”
“Oh aye, Miss Grove is minding him till my meeting with ye is o’er.”
“Please give her my regards.” Esmée stood and glanced at the clock. “If we leave soon, we’ll be in time for supper. You can settle in your dormer chamber across from Lucy’s own.”
Lucy was already unpinning the scarlet P on Alice’s sleeve that marked her as a ward of the parish. Esmée felt a qualm for all who remained, but at least they were sheltered and fed, not freezing in some forgotten alley.
In a quarter of an hour they were underway, Lucy and Alice’s excited chatter filling the coach to the brim. Esmée held Alden, now asleep and bundled in a woolen blanket smelling of lanolin. As was her habit upon leaving, Esmée looked back at the almshouse and said a prayer for those who stayed behind.
A lone figure in a worn matchcoat and hat stood by the woodpile, watching them. Jago Wherry. Was he remembering rowing her to the island?
He did not raise a hand in farewell.
CHAPTER
forty-nine
Father’s earnest prayer echoed in the townhouse dining room on Christmas Day. Only the snap and pop of the fire and the press of wind against the windowpanes intruded on the stillness.
“God, which makest us glad with the yearly remembrance of the birth of Thy only Son Jesus Christ, grant that as we joyfully receive Him for our Redeemer, so we may with sure confidence behold Him, when He shall come to be our judge, who liveth and reigneth. Bless this food to our bodies, and be with those who are apart from this table and go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters. Bringeth them unto their desired haven, we pray. Amen.”
Esmée’s family echoed, “Amen.”
Esmée felt a new tenderness toward her father for including the 107th Psalm. She’d read the Scripture over and over again, imprinting the holy words on her mind and heart. Doing so seemed to keep Henri close as she prayed those verses to the Almighty.
“A bountiful feast,” Quinn was saying, presiding over the Christmas goose and roast beef with a look of satisfaction. “I’ve promised the kitchen servants a holiday after Epiphany, as they’ve worked so diligently of late.”
The entire household had gone to bed and then awoken to the traditional “shooting in the Christmas” as boys about town fired their guns in celebration of the holiday. A few random pops could still be heard, reminding Esmée of the time she and Henri had begun to find their way back to each other the night of the illuminations on Palace Green.
“I’m hungry as a horse,” Eliza said as dishes were passed. “This babe must be a boy, as he tumbles like an acrobat and swells my appetite.”
“You’ll be well fortified for our guests later today, then,” Quinn replied, the dark half-moons beneath his eyes telling that he was getting as little sleep as his wife. “Not much company, just a few of our closest friends. I don’t want to overtire you.”
“Esmée is going to play the harpsichord on my behalf.” Eliza seemed more her vibrant self. “I shall do my best lying on the sofa and conversing. But how I wish I were up for a little dancing!”
“Next season you will be.” Father took both beef and goose, heavily layering them with gravy. “Think of what a year will bring. A wedding. A grandchild—perhaps two.” He winked at Esmée. “I want this table bursting with them. Your mother would have been so delighted.”
“Dear Mama. How she loved the Christmas season.” Eliza raised her fork. “I take care to hang mistletoe in the hall for her every season. Did you notice, Father?”
“I did indeed. A thoughtful gesture. Perhaps your mother is even now looking down from heaven.” His eyes misted in a rare display of emotion. “I miss her presence especially during the holidays. As I’m sure Esmée is missing Henri.”
“God bless the Intrepid’s captain and crew,” Quinn said between forkfuls. “How does one spend Christmas aboard ship?”
“With as much respect to the vessel as possible,” Father replied. “An extra ration of rum, perhaps, for midshipmen, and the best Bordeaux claret for the officers.”
Eliza eyed Esmée as she plied her fork with gusto. Was Eliza remembering the Christmases spent without Father?
“You were home for Mama’s last Christmases, thankfully.” Esmée smiled at him, wondering if Henri would miss the sea as Father did. “And you shall be present for those of your grandchildren.”
“A toast to Christmases past and present.” Quinn raised his glass, the crystal winking in the candlelight. “And our child, to be born in the new year.”
They toasted, Eliza resting a hand on her waist and giving a slight wince. Was she still feeling early pangs?
“Tell me again the names you’ve chosen,” Father said as a maid refilled his Madeira.
“In the unfortunate event it’s a she,” Eliza said, “we’ll call her Ruenna after Quinn’s mother, who is regrettably still in England on account of this fracas with the French.”
Quinn nodded. “My parents are extremely pleased. As for a boy, ’twill be Philip after Grandfather Shaw.”
“Not Barnabas?” Esmée teased. “After our very own papa?”
Eliza grimaced. “I care for that forename as little as I do Mama’s.”