Dismay nearly stole all speech. “Girl or boy?”
“A girl.” His eyes glittered. “Your niece, Ruenna Cheverton.”
Taking his arm, Esmée kissed his unshaven cheek as she fought back tears. “What a time you’ve had. Alice looks exhausted too, though I’m glad to see her standing. She survived the pox once upon a time, as her scarring shows.”
“As have you and I, thanks be to God.” His voice was rough with emotion. “You could have picked no better wet nurse, nor could the Almighty have provided one.”
“Another praise, especially now.”
He raised his eyes to the lighthouse. “If ever a structure seemed a beacon, a symbol of hope, ’tis Lennox’s light on this day particularly.”
“Come in by the fire and we’ll get everything settled, the babies included. You must stay the night. Henri’s cottage is readied for any visitors.” Her words came in a rush as one thought tripped over another. “Are you hungry, Father? Lucy can serve tea and bread till supper . . .”
“Less than a sennight old and what a hard start you’ve had.” Esmée leaned over the makeshift cradle, a dresser drawer layered with linens and blankets, and stared into the face of her newborn niece. “You are a beauty like your mama, though I do believe you have your father’s mouth and brow.”
Ruenna, quiet now after a feeding, blinked up at her as Esmée scoured her porcelain skin for any sign of the dread disease. The first flush of fever. An early rash. Father had said the babe was removed immediately from Eliza’s arms at birth and placed in Alice’s, a quick-witted act that might well have saved her.
But what of Eliza?
Taking Ruenna in her arms, Esmée marveled at how light she was, more like a doll. Were all newborns so tiny? Alden seemed like a giant at a few months older. Lord willing, he would be spared any illness, though time would tell. Thankfully, Alice had a healthy supply of milk for them both and seemed glad to be away from the townhouse and its shadows.
Esmée carried her niece into the parlor and sat down by her father near the hearth while Alice and Lucy visited in the kitchen, their low voices threaded with relief and joy at being together again.
Father took a sip of tea, finally settling down after his arrival an hour earlier. “I’d quite forgotten how taxing town is when a plague is set upon it. Since there is no pesthouse in all Virginia, the governor’s council has decreed a fine of two pounds sterling to be paid for those housing any pox.”
“How are your indentures?”
“Keeping to their quarters as best they can. I’ve closed Shaw’s Chocolate and the coffeehouse till this passes by.”
“You’ll be returning to Williamsburg, I take it, till Eliza recovers?”
“As soon as possible. Heaven knows what awaits me when I do. Your sister is that ill.”
She could only imagine the bustling capital now at a standstill. “Have you heard anything of the almshouse?”
“Supposedly the pox started amongst the French refugees, though it might be a malicious rumor.”
Not all the specie in the captain’s bequest could stave off smallpox. She bit her lip to stay a sigh and studied the baby in her arms. Reaching down, she released the chatelaine from her waist with her free hand and dangled the tiny silver lighthouse in the baby’s line of vision. Though she was too young to grasp much of her surroundings, Ruenna’s blue eyes fastened on it fleetingly.
“I know nothing about infants,” Esmée lamented, returning the chatelaine to her waist. “All I can offer are my arms and a lullaby or two.”
“That and feeding are about all a babe warrants aside from sleep.” He leaned nearer, voice softening. “She’s a beauty. Her father is quite smitten with her.”
“Poor Quinn. Glad I am the physic and apothecary are near and his case is slight, if there is such a thing.”
“He may well be on his feet by my return. He’s always been hale and hearty.” Father set his teacup aside. “I daren’t say it, but if the babe sickens . . .”
Lord, nay. With no physic on the island . . .
“Oh, Father. Let’s not think of such. We’ll pray against it.” She brought her niece nearer, marveling at her tiny lashes now closed in sleep, the peach hue of her skin. “She’s safe as she can be right here. Please tell Quinn I shan’t let her out of my sight except when I mind the light.”
“How is the light?”
She smiled, wanting to reassure him. “I’m settling into a routine. At night when I do lie down to sleep, the light is so bright I wake up at once if it goes out, as it once did when the oil grew cold.”
“Have you had to fire the fog cannon?”
“Twice. One of Henri’s crew comes from the island’s opposite end if warranted to perform that duty.”
“Ah, Henri.” He stared into the fire, seemingly far away, that wistful cast to his features telling.
Was he thinking of his own command? The days he spent far from hearth and home? His longing for the sea was palpable.
“If only we had the capability of knowing just where he was and when he’d return,” Father confessed. “’Tis a risky mission. The future of the colonies might well depend on it.”
“Perhaps he’s spared the pox. I cannot recall if he’s already had it.” The possibility he had not sent a new terror through her. But surely all those ports, all those peoples, had made him immune already.
Lord, please, hedge him from harm, and all his crew.
Haunted, she kissed the baby’s velvety brow as her initial shock faded over the unexpected arrival. There was little she could do about Henri. Or Eliza and Quinn. Providence had given Ruenna to her keeping, and she’d do her best to love and protect her in the meantime.
CHAPTER
fifty-three
Father left at dawn. He bid his first grandchild goodbye stoically, if reluctantly, before returning the sloop to York. Esmée wondered if he would ever see Ruenna again. If the babe sickened and died in her care, mightn’t Quinn and Eliza blame her?
At least the wind and weather were favorable this morn, hastening his departure. Esmée stood on the pier and waved, a sinking feeling inside her. If ever she’d missed Father’s strengthening presence, ’twas now.
She returned to a cottage lusty with the cries of both babies. Hurrying inside, she took Alden and amused him with her chatelaine while Alice fed Ruenna. As she listened to Alice recount Eliza’s travail, the room grew still.
“’Twas dreadful, Miss Shaw.” Alice’s face was drawn with worry. “Lady Drysdale had such a time of it, laboring nigh on two days. The physic was called in at the first pains, then the midwife at the last, who said the babe had not yet fallen down . . .”
’Twas all Esmée could do to sit and listen to the details of her sister’s travail. Eliza was not long-suffering in nature, yet she’d endured childbirth only to sicken with smallpox. Now, weakened from the birth as she was, would she even survive?
“Lady Drysdale’s lying-in should have been far easier.” Tears came to Alice’s eyes as she finished feeding Ruenna. “It grieved me to see her babe whisked away into my keeping so soon.”