She hadn’t delivered cocoa since last May, as their season for chocolate making was short in the Southern colonies. Fall to spring was when they plied their trade, their sultry summers devoted to other business.
Out here amid the wind and salt tang of the sea, she felt far more at peace than in some fussy ballroom, yet Lady Lightfoot’s assembly loomed, a sennight away. Esmée nearly groaned aloud.
“Not all balls are bad, mind you,” Eliza oft said.
Once, Father had escorted them to the governor’s palace in Williamsburg, past the imposing forecourt and into the immense rear ballroom that bore double doors with steps leading to an elaborate formal garden. There, like something out of a fairy tale, Eliza captured the attention of Quinn, Lord Drysdale. A felicitous match, Father said, when all the stars aligned and turned a simple Eliza Shaw into a titled lady.
Esmée was content to be the older sister and watch the romantic drama unfold. The congenial, handsome Quinn. The ebullient, beautiful Eliza. His prominent kin scandalized that their rising star of a relative might be tainted by the privateering past of his affianced’s admiral father. In the end, rumors were quelled, the wedding commenced, and now Esmée herself was to become an aunt in a few months’ time. What would life hand them next?
The pony cart bumped along, hitting a stone or two and churning up dust. The brown ribbon of road unwound ahead of her, little traveled. Father didn’t like her traveling alone, but the pistol secured beneath the seat hadn’t been used once. Never had she encountered a threat. ’Twas simply a lonesome path to a place most avoided.
Tugging on the reins, she paused on a grassy knoll overlooking tidelands and islands. Indigo Island was the farthest, its rocky shore like a raised shoulder shrugging her away. Somewhere on the island stood the unfinished lighthouse, tall but dark. The plan had been to complete it prior to her and the captain’s nuptials. They’d agreed to dismiss custom and wed on the beach, then honeymoon in his cottage. Sunrises and sunsets were said to be spectacular from that speck of land, the quiet and privacy unsurpassed.
Lately she’d heard no more from Father about Captain Lennox’s return. A pity he was so seldom home, all that beauty unappreciated. For all she knew he’d already set sail again and she could drop her guard like a hot iron, letting go of her dread at encountering him on every corner.
Snapping the reins, she guided the pony onto the road again. She had little need of the dashing, intriguing Henri Lennox in her life. Her days were full, even if her heart was still adrift. She would not allow herself the tiniest spark of intrigue at his rumored appearance. The captain had not found her worthy then, nor would he now. They were both older and wiser, long past any youthful infatuation.
Another half mile and she rolled into the courtyard before the cluster of brick buildings that made up the almshouse. Two women gathering nuts in their aprons beneath a hickory tree looked up as she passed. In a far yard men chopped firewood and broke stones for road building, while unseen women spun cloth and gardened or worked in the kitchen.
To live here was to punish the poor for being poor, Father said. Elderly outcasts, widows, destitute women, disabled men, and orphaned children led a cheerless existence. Upon the arms of their humble garments was a bit of red cloth marked with a P, as they were wards of the parish. This humbling distinction hurt Esmée too. Was it not enough they were here? A hundred untold stories lived in their somber, shrunken faces. Even the children seemed half-alive, deprived of affection and family and life’s basic comforts.
Her heart gave a little leap as half a dozen youngsters broke free of their chores and rushed toward her, as taken by her pony as the cocoa she brought. A sharp rebuke by the female trustee stole their joy. Mistress Boles approached, chronically ill-tempered and grasping, followed by the cheerier and slightly younger Miss Grove.
“I’ve need of helping hands to unload.” Esmée oft wondered if the children ever saw any of what she brought. “I’ve real sweetmeats this time, not dry bricks of cocoa. Come near and I’ll give you each a treat as a reward for your labors.”
Before the matron could protest, Esmée doled out the best of the bounty—raisins and extra chocolate almonds from Lady Lightfoot’s order. Something like daylight spilled into their eager, childish faces, their open hands wrenching Esmée’s heart.
“A waste of confections, I daresay,” Mistress Boles muttered.
Steeling herself against the rising tide of heartache—and the stench of unwashed bodies and mended garments—Esmée watched Mistress Boles chase the children away. She called after them, “I wish I could bring you a hundredfold more.”
“If only every soul in Virginia was as generous as you, we’d be called the poorhouse no longer,” Miss Grove told her as the cart was emptied, the goods carried to the kitchen.
Esmée focused on Miss Grove’s wavy hair, swept back severely beneath her mobcap. Her yellow dress, though faded, brought a burst of color. “What need have you of blankets and linens?”
“There is never enough, I confess. Your gift of stockings and caps last winter helped a great deal.”
“Never enough of those either, once winter sets in. I’ve been knitting steadily all summer, as has my late mother’s sewing society in York.”
“I’m heartened to hear it.” Miss Grove smiled, her complexion’s spiderweb of wrinkles easing. “You’ll be pleased to know the children are being schooled twice a week by an itinerant master . . .”
“Because there aren’t sufficient funds to maintain one permanently,” Esmée finished for her. “Is the schoolmaster fair? Kind?”
“Fair, perhaps. I’ve yet to meet many who are kind. Most seem overfond of the lash.”
Mistress Boles reappeared, ending their honest conversation. She raised dull eyes heavenward. “Surely you’ll be wanting to return to York, Miss Shaw. The clouds bode ill.”
As does your countenance.
Schooling her dismay, Esmée made ready to leave. “Perhaps you and Miss Grove can make a list of all your needs and give it to me next visit. With prayer and industry, we shall remedy what we can.”
A child snuck forward when Mistress Boles turned her back. “Thank’ee, Miss Shaw.” Her freckled face softened in a smile. “Come back soon, if ye please. We’ve so few visitors and need a bit o’ cheer.”
The matron turned round again. Had she heard? “Shoo!” she shouted, then looked at Esmée again. “Jenny will as soon pick your pocket as give you a sly word.”
Esmée knelt down till she was eye level with the scolded girl. “Of course I shall, sweet Jenny. Count on it.”
Turning away, Esmée swiped at her eyes with a gloved hand as the wind tugged at the surrounding trees and sent the leaves adance in colorful disarray, adding a touch of whimsy to the disheartening scene. She’d always sensed God’s Spirit in the wind. Surely He was near now, comforting society’s castoffs, even brushing her damp cheek with an unseen hand.
Wasn’t He?
Esmée climbed into the cart and took up the reins again. She waved goodbye, the pony lighter in step as the cart was now empty, though her heart was still burdened. Perhaps Lady Lightfoot’s ball would be a good place to begin her almshouse entreaties.