Changing into fresh garments, including a warm, quilted petticoat, Esmée looked at the bed longingly. For now, all she wanted was breakfast by the fire and a long cuddle with her niece.
Holding Alden on one hip, Alice stood by the kitchen window, shoulders bent, chewing on her lip as was her custom when worried. As Esmée entered, Lucy smiled wanly, taking the steaming teakettle to the table. Toast and quince preserves awaited.
“Come, the both of you, and breakfast with me,” Esmée said.
They sat and Esmée said a prayer, her words laden with thankfulness and relief even as guilt rushed in that she had the luxury of breakfast with the wreck of the Guineaman beyond their door. But she didn’t want to weight anyone else’s spirits, so she struck a brighter tone.
A half-smile softened Alice’s girlish features. “Yer a world apart from Lady Drysdale, Miss Shaw.”
“Supping with the help, you mean?” Esmée looked at Ruenna, who flailed a wee hand, the dimples in her cheeks more apparent. “I daren’t think what my dear sister would do if she found her firstborn in a dresser drawer.”
They laughed, and Lucy said, “Is it true the ship’s carpenter who stayed behind is making Miss Ruenna a proper cradle?”
“He said so, though I’m not sure how long she’ll stay.”
“We’ve a great many questions that beg answers,” Alice said softly. “My mind is on the frontier and how my husband is faring fighting Indians and French.”
Giving a rare sigh, Lucy poured the tea. “My thoughts are far out to sea.”
“As are mine.” Esmée spread her toast with the preserves before biting into the buttery goodness.
“’Tis the not knowing that nettles me. Forever wondering how they’re faring out in the deep. And there’s those in town with the pox besides—yer dear sister and husband. I wonder about the almshouse too.” Lucy looked at Esmée entreatingly as Alice left the room at Alden’s fussing. “I wish I could be more like ye, drawing comfort from Scripture, reading the holy words for myself.”
Esmée set down her cup. The Bible lay open on the table, the twenty-third Psalm marked with a length of silk ribbon. Why had she not thought of it sooner? A bit shamefaced, she said, “I could teach you.”
“I’ve tried to content myself with listening to ye read aloud.” Dismay shadowed Lucy’s features. “I’m too daft to learn, my pa always told me.”
“Daft? Nay. If you want to learn, you will. We shall buy a Bible for both of you from the booksellers next time we’re in York.”
Lucy’s shocked expression underscored the rarity of such a luxury.
“In the meantime, you can learn your letters. I’ve no slate, but we have paper. You can practice writing your name too.”
“But what of my chores, Miss Shaw? And now with Alice and both babies . . .” Hope faded to confusion. “Is there time enough?”
“We’ll make time. The three of us can manage better together. Alice can even join us if she’d like.” Esmée looked toward Alice, who sat nursing Alden in the parlor. Her fair head was bent over her babe, eyes closed in weariness. “Though at present perhaps ’tis enough to be a mother.”
“Alice can read but cannot write. She wants to answer her husband’s letters in the worst way, but . . .”
“I can help her till she learns to pen her own letters.” Finishing her tea, Esmée reached for Ruenna. She wore a soft linen gown embellished with ribbon and lace, the sewing exceptionally well-done.
“No sign of the pox, I pray.” Lucy looked as distressed as Esmée had ever seen her. “It strikes fast, it does. Took my brother and mother straightaway.” ’Twas the first time she’d ever spoken of it, tears close.
Esmée reached out and squeezed her hand. “Oh, Lucy. I cannot imagine. I’m more sorry than I can say.”
Lucy blinked, digging in her pocket for a handkerchief. “I pray this wee one will thrive and reunite with her parents soon. ’Tis a grave task ye’ve been given.”
Esmée felt that in spades. She kissed the bottom of Ruenna’s tiny foot as she lay in her lap, then marveled as the baby grabbed hold of the finger where Henri’s posy ring rested. Forgetting herself, Esmée made over her as if she were her own, singing an old French lullaby that was a favorite of her mother’s.
“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines. Ding, ding, dong.”
CHAPTER
fifty-six
The next sennight found Esmée standing by the graves of those who’d washed ashore after the storm. Six men, two women, and one child. Their final resting places were hastily dug, but the memory of the foundering Guineaman lingered long. Who knew what suffering had taken place that fatal night? The cries for mercy or attempts to be saved? Not even the lighthouse had aided them.
She bent and laid the silk flowers she’d made atop the sandy mounds. None other could be had in the barrenness of winter. Suddenly the island—home to her renewed courtship and future dreams—held a forlorn, wretched feel. Gray skies glowered, adding to her melancholy. That and no word of Eliza or anyone else left her at loose ends. Bending her head, she pondered the lost souls at her feet. And Henri, wherever he happened to be.
The graves were near the buried cache Henri had shown her. She looked toward the sheltering pines that marked it just a stone’s throw away. Unseen treasure. But what did it matter if those who meant most were missing? Coin was cold comfort. True, it provided shelter and sustenance, but not family or fulfillment.
She turned away, the pleasant memory of shelling on the beach tattered beside the wreckage washing up. All she wanted at present was the hearth’s fire and Ruenna in her arms. And her questions answered.
How was Eliza? Had Quinn recovered fully? She wondered about Father—how he was faring with Virginia all but shut down? Such outbreaks lasted for months and oft returned with a vengeance.
And Henri. Always Henri. Would this new voyage rekindle his love for the sea? Or was it as he said, that those days would soon be behind him?
She cut into the woods on the path that led to their future home. The ground was still soggy, and occasionally she veered round a fallen tree or branch. Before she reached the boundary stones she heard voices—the sound of labor and shouted directions. Coming into the clearing, she stopped beneath an oak, content to watch the work. One of Henri’s crew waved at her.
She came closer, noting they’d built a partial wall. The kitchen garden enclosure? A little trill of delight lifted her melancholy.
Cosmos greeted her, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “We’re at work with rock remaining from the lighthouse.”
“’Tis a handsome wall that breaks the sea wind.”
“We mean to finish that and a smokehouse and such before the captain’s return, or toil till we’ve run out of stone.”
“I long for spring and the first supply ship.” She looked to the beach warily. She nearly couldn’t broach the subject. “Have any more . . .”
He gave a yank to his Monmouth cap. “No more to bury, Miss Shaw. But that doesn’t mean we’re done. If another storm blows in . . .”