Treading carefully on snow-slick rocks and steps, they reached the snow-covered cottage. Esmée threw open the door, wanting to shout, “Huzzah!” Cold as it was, it now felt like home, a place of happy memories. Lucy’s cat, Tibby, greeted them with a yowl before curling up contentedly at their feet.
She and Lucy spent the rest of the day by the blazing hearth, drinking tea and planning their next tasks. The relief lightkeeper took leave by the vessel that had delivered them, promising to return again, weather permitting.
Esmée’s work resumed at twilight. Head and heart full of what Henri had taught her, she climbed the steep tower steps alone. The relief keeper had cleaned the top thoroughly, even filled the compass lamps with oil, so she faced out to sea with a view unmarred by the smoke and fumes that quickly besmirched the glass. As far as she could see, silvery water flecked with foam rolled toward her in an incoming tide. She leaned forward, feeling like the figurehead on Henri’s ship, penetrating the gathering shadows.
Oh, Henri, where are you in the deep?
A fragment of a Psalm quickly followed the lonesome question.
He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.
Father had nearly lost his life in storms at sea. Henri had told her to expect shipwreck survivors—even lost souls—to wash up on shore during her tenure as lightkeeper.
Lord, prepare me for hard, heartbreaking things.
Since childhood she’d been haunted by the fate of the Boston lightkeeper. Upon returning to the island after church, he and his family had drowned when their boat capsized. Father had taken her to Boston’s North Burying Ground, where the Worthylakes’ triple headstone stood. Too much, perhaps, for a small girl to take in. She’d never forgotten.
“We’ll build a chapel here,” Henri had told her the day they’d looked at the boundary stones. “No crossing needlessly to Grace Church with all its risks and implications. Mayhap someday we’ll even have an island parson.”
Recalling it now, she began lighting the oil blazes, the fishy smell making her breath shallow. Each light flared, a small beacon of hope. Tallow candles, set on benches nearest the glass, remained unlit, saved for the stormiest weather when added illumination was needed. With the wicks trimmed, the oil would burn twelve hours and last through the night. All glowed gold, the windows agleam. By morn, all would beg for cleaning.
Though the wind that drove the waves beat upon the tower, nary a draft was felt. Below, the British flag was fully unfurled, its colors striking even in the twilight. She moved to a small desk where the logbook lay open, a quill and inkpot near at hand. The assistant keeper’s script was small and tightly worded. She paged back to Henri’s scrolling words, a beat of longing in her breast. He’d recorded the weather and wind direction, ships passing, and oil used.
Taking up the quill, she made her own entry.
8th January 1756. Northeast wind fresh.
She set down her quill and bent her head in prayer before the smoke and fumes hastened her down the steps. Taking a final look around the lit tower, she remembered Lucy had supper waiting.
Esmée smiled in anticipation as she approached the kitchen. “You spoil me.” Bowls of thick barley stew with bread and butter graced the table, even a plate of molasses cookies. “I prefer molasses to the ever-popular jumbles.”
“I’ll make jumbles next, though they’ll lack orange glaze.” Lucy wrinkled her nose as she poured them both cider. “Nary an orange to be had.”
“Perhaps the captain will return with citrus. He’s partial to it.”
Lucy sighed. “D’ye wonder night and day what they’re about?”
“Captain and crew, you mean?” At Lucy’s aye, Esmée nodded. “All the time. I pray continually for their safety and a speedy return to us.”
“How many jacks are left on the island at Mistress Saltonstall’s?”
“Half a dozen.” Esmée buttered her bread. “Three injured and three able-bodied. The latter are to check on us daily, more so in foul weather.”
“’Twill be good to have men about just in case.” Lucy ate a few bites, her mind clearly on other matters. “Ye must think of yer dear sister too, soon to be in childbed.”
“Any day now. Nor can I forget Alice and little Alden.” Was Alice adjusting to town life? Rather, was Eliza patient and kind as her mistress? “Father promised to send word when the baby comes.”
“I do hope ’tis a son.” Lucy drew a spoon through her stew. “Lady Drysdale has her heart set on it.”
Too much so. This was Esmée’s worry. As for herself, she had no preference. She would be an aunt, at last. “Ruenna or Philip it shall be.”
“Bonny names, both. Fit for a child with a silver rattle.”
A silver rattle and an entire nursery overflowing with London-imported toys suited for a growing boy. Carved wooden soldiers and horses but no dolls. Balls and peg games but no miniature tea sets.
“I hope to have a babe o’ my own someday.” Lucy grew wistful. “Now that I’m away from the almshouse I might stand a better chance. Is it wrong, d’ye think, to pray for a husband? Does the Almighty care about such?”
“Indeed He does.” Esmée gave a reassuring smile. “Remember Adam and Eve? ’Twas not good for man to be alone, and so God made a helpmeet.”
“Glad I am of it, but I want to see ye wed first. Ye’ve waited so long and now have to wait longer still.” A smile suffused Lucy’s pockmarked features. “I suppose I’ll soon be calling ye Mistress Lennox.”
Yawning, Esmée stoked her bedchamber fire, then drew a chair nearer the heat and light of the hearth. A small leather sea chest, painted blue with flower medallions, was at her feet. She lifted the lid, releasing the scent of ambergris. Had Henri sealed his letters with perfumed sealing wax? The French were noted for such.
Her heart did a little dance as she bent nearer, breathing in the unique scent. Mounds of letters, stark white against the red seals made with Henri’s signet ring, were a testament of his missing her. Each bore her name on the outside, penned in his unmistakable hand. She’d savored a dozen or so, each like the richest dessert.
She reached down and picked up an unopened one. Brought it close and breathed it in before breaking the brittle, fragrant seal.
19th April 1749
Dearest Esmée,
Four years. We have not spoken nor seen each other, yet you still seem nearer to me than the sea I sail upon. For all I know you have chosen another who, I am certain, is not a mariner. No matter our past, I choose to remember the good, for there was much of it in hindsight, if not the misspent words between us at the last . . .
CHAPTER
fifty-one
Esmée stood before the looking glass of her cottage bedchamber, donning her cape before venturing out. Lucy was busy making bread in the kitchen, the earthy yeast scent promising a fresh loaf for supper.
“Yer going for a walk, mistress?” she called, waving a flour-covered hand.
“The sun calls for it after so much dreary weather. But our rain barrels are full at least,” Esmée replied. “I shan’t be long. I’ve letters to write and embroidery to finish.”