“I understand. You’ve all been such a mainstay. Captain Lennox will reward you handsomely for it.”
“He’s a generous man, the captain. If ye have need of anything, we’re at your service.”
She thanked him, and he returned to work whistling, further lightening her mood. She hastened back to the cottage, where she shuttered dark thoughts and spent an hour planning her garden and taking stock of the seed packets Kitty had given her, mostly flowers and herbs. ’Twas February and Candlemas, the month that required the attention of a gardener more than any other. What had Mama said? If Candlemas day be fair and bright, winter will have another flight; but if it be dark with clouds and rain, winter is gone and will not come again.
Weather permitting, she’d prepare her ground and sow salad herbs, mainly Silesia and imperial lettuces, by month’s end. But the garden wall needed finishing before she set to work.
A cry arose from the drawer bed. Abandoning her seed, Esmée picked up Ruenna, who quieted at her touch. Recently fed, she couldn’t possibly be hungry again. Finding the room cold, Esmée sought the warmth of the parlor and sat near the hearth, a sliver of trepidation accompanying what had become her usual routine. Gently she pulled back the baby’s swaddling, searching for any worrisome sign.
Relieved, she placed Ruenna against her chest and shoulder, the warm bulk of her honey-sweet. All that Eliza was missing tugged at her. Each day brought telling changes to a child so young. Though the babe had been here but a fortnight, she was plumper and less wrinkled. Even her dark hair was curling at her crown.
Alice came into the parlor cradling Alden, smiling at them. “Ye’ve taken to Miss Ruenna like she’s yer own.”
“You set a worthy example,” Esmée replied as Alice took a seat opposite, turning Alden around on her lap to face the fire. “His father would be proud.”
“Aye, Johnny would be, as the imp looks just like him.” Alice kissed the top of Alden’s russet head. “I thank ye again for helping me pen a letter.”
“Once Father returns we shall post it.” Esmée took Ruenna’s silver rattle from a basket and handed it to Alden. He shook it in his fat fist before bringing it to his mouth, the tiny bells tinkling.
“He’s about to sprout a tooth. I can feel it on his gum.” Alice settled back and looked to the kitchen, her thin frame less bony than before. “Lucy is determined to fatten me. She’s baking ratafia cakes right now.”
“I thought I smelled orange flower water.” Esmée breathed in the delightful aroma coming from the bake oven. “We shall have a pleasant tea party, we three. Celebrate being here safe and sound together.”
Alice nodded, gaze falling to her son. “If not for the island—and you and your father—where would we be? My own babe might have sickened and died. Here, away from the scourge, we’re blessed indeed.”
“D’ye think Alice will be here for a while yet, Miss Shaw?” Lucy called from the kitchen.
“At least till my sister has recovered and the smallpox fades.” Esmée kissed Ruenna’s soft brow. “My father should bring us news soon, I hope.”
Alice looked toward a window. “The weather has settled, God be praised.”
“We’ve much to be thankful for,” Esmée replied. “Ratafia cakes. Healthy babes. Spring planting. The Intrepid’s return.”
“I hope I’m here to see ye and the captain wed.” Alice’s smile broadened. “Lucy is sweet on one of the crew, aye? We might see two weddings come spring . . . and more babes the next.”
Such happy talk pushed back every dark thought, at least for the present.
CHAPTER
fifty-seven
After Candlemas, the weather brightened. Nights were clear and cool, the stars so brilliant Esmée stayed longer in the lighthouse. By day, the sun beckoned her outdoors, though shelling had lost its allure, the memory of the wrecked Guineaman too fresh. But at least no wind frothed the water into a tempest. Some days the sea merely rippled and shone like blue silk.
The garden’s stone fence was finished, so she trod the pine path to her future home, reveling in the enclosure warmed by winter’s sun. Here she turned the sandy soil with spade and hoe, uprooting stubborn weeds in such a way Eliza would deem her a field hand. Her gloves protected her from the worst blisters, and soon she’d made a solid start. No seed planted yet, but still she rejoiced in what was to come as she returned to the cottage for tea.
Washing up, she sat down at the table, only to rise again as a knock sounded and Lucy went to answer. There on the threshold stood Henri’s ancient ship’s carpenter, toting a cradle mounted on rockers. He set it before the parlor fire, and Esmée brought linens, anxious to settle Ruenna in her new bed, as she would soon outgrow the dresser drawer.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Esmée told him, admiring the smooth pine and expertly carved crowns and anchors that embellished it, even the hood meant to keep away drafts. “’Tis a cradle fit for a nobleman’s daughter.”
“Not to mention the admiral’s granddaughter.” Hat in hand, he smiled, his grizzled face shining with pride in a job enjoyed.
“Father will be pleased. I expect him any day now.”
“I’ll start work on the second bed for Master Alden.” He left, several tea cakes in hand.
The women returned to the hearth’s warmth, Esmée enjoying her hyson while rocking the cradle with her foot. Soon Ruenna was fast asleep, snug as she could be within the bed’s high, cushioned sides.
“A wee fairy she is.” Lucy passed a plate of currant cakes before sitting down and pouring herself a cup of tea. “Almost a month old, aye?”
Esmée looked at the calendar pinned to the far wall, its numerals in boldface. “Three weeks as of yesterday.”
Again her thoughts turned to Eliza and Quinn. Nary a word had come from Williamsburg. She’d expected Father before now. As for Henri, he’d been gone two months. Yet any day now she might see those linen sails she missed bearing down on the island. She turned toward the window in anticipation, expectation fragile as a spring flower inside her.
Sails were indeed in her line of sight. Two sails signifying a much smaller vessel than the Intrepid. Esmée set aside her tea, foot ceasing to rock Ruenna.
Father? At last. Did he bring good news?
She was out the door without her cape, so anxious was she to see him, only to turn around and ascertain Ruenna was still asleep and not too near the unattended hearth.
While Lucy and Alice hovered near the open door, Esmée hurried down the path to the pier. Paying scant attention to the deckhands aboard the sloop, she focused on her father. His back to her, he stood by the companionway, where a cloaked figure was emerging. Eliza?
In all black.
Eliza never wore black. She hated black. All the implications came crashing down as Father helped her onto shore. Eliza was in mourning.
Esmée’s stomach flipped. By the time she reached them, another realization nearly had her casting up her accounts and left little time to hide her horror. Eliza had stepped onto the pier and looked straight at her, her face masked by a black veil. Just then the wind caught it and exposed once-smooth skin now horribly pitted, her very eyes inflamed. Some pox victims went blind . . .