“Has Mistress Saltonstall returned yet?” He was looking toward the Flask and Sword, whose twin chimneys could be seen puffing smoke.
“Not yet.”
“Do you mind if your sister stays on with you for a time?”
Esmée hid her dismay. The sinking inside her turned to shame. She’d never been sure of Eliza even at her best, and now . . . “I thought perhaps she might want to return to the townhouse and the comforts of town.”
“Your sister doesn’t know if she’s afoot or on horseback at present. In her grief she’s incapable of any decision making, however small.” His lined face seemed more so since Quinn’s death, his periwig hiding the silver of his hair. “I was thinking your company might do her good. At the very least she needs to be near Ruenna.”
The ache in Esmée’s breast swelled. “But Eliza refuses to have anything to do with her.”
“Give her time. Grief is a hard taskmaster.” He pressed her gloved hand with his own. “Let us speak of more hopeful things. No doubt you are ever on the lookout for your captain. He’s been cruising for some time now.”
Her half-smile ended in a sigh. “Over two months, in fact.”
“Which will soon have an end.” His expression lightened. “I look forward to a wedding immensely.”
“A wartime wedding, I fear.”
“Aye. France is vying for empire not only in America but in Africa, India, and the Caribbean. ’Tis time to see it end. But it shan’t end without another war.”
“Which means Henri will be expected to sail again.”
“Few are better qualified than he.”
She digested this confirmation like a sour apple. Of course Henri would be expected at sea with war declared. As a captain’s wife, she’d best get used to that. His talk of becoming a landsman was hopeful but unrealistic given colonial politics. Although Henri was no puppet, Dinwiddie was as intractable as a Scottish bulldog.
She finally said, “The governor and his family are well?”
“Dinwiddie’s been ill for some time with something other than the pox. And as harried by contentions at the College of William and Mary and amongst the burgesses as by the French and their Indian allies.”
“I feel for him.”
Her father reached a hand into his weskit and consulted his timepiece. “Let us go have tea with Eliza—or attempt to, shall we?”
Tea no longer held the appeal it once did, but Esmée forged ahead. She must help rally her sister, and even their beleaguered father. “Of course. Lucy has made her favorite lemon cheese tarts. Hopefully that will help cheer her. And I’ll open my best tea.”
CHAPTER
fifty-nine
The lemon cheese tarts were brought alongside Esmée’s tea chest, but would Eliza rouse herself and join them? Ensconced in Henri’s parlor, Esmée promptly forgot the matter at hand. Wherever she looked seemed to whisper her beloved’s name. There over the mantel was one of Henri’s swords with its silken knot, beneath a map of the world. A handsome pipe and silver tobacco box rested on a near table. His upholstered chair, a rich blue brocade with a nautical theme, suited Father well. All carried Henri’s distinctive style, his scent. She couldn’t get enough of it.
In the other room Eliza could be heard readying herself. Without her maidservant it took considerable time. Father had said she had sickened as well and would hopefully recover. Till Eliza’s return, the servants were being cared for by a physic and apothecary.
Esmée looked at the tea service that had been her mother’s, artfully arranged on a silver tray. Lucy had brought it over before returning to their cottage, sending Esmée a sympathetic look. Alice carried Ruenna. Wide awake, she made cooing sounds from her basket and flailed her tiny limbs. Esmée couldn’t resist leaning over and stroking her dimpled cheek, smiling down at her as she wished Eliza would do.
“I fear I have the look of an unmade bed.” Eliza appeared, her unwashed hair in tangles and only half pinned up, sultana wrinkled, eyes red. “And I have no appetite.”
“At least try a lemon cheese tart,” Esmée coaxed. “Lucy made them with you in mind.”
“I prefer a peck of toast.” Eliza’s gaze swept the tea table and landed on Ruenna. “Why is the child here? She should be by Alice’s side.”
Father patted the chair beside him. “We are family, Ruenna included.”
Eliza sat with a frown. “She is so lively it tires me.”
Grasping the handle of the teapot, Esmée bit back a hasty retort and poured her sister the first cup. “My chest of congou is nearly empty. Bohea it shall be for future teas.”
“Such an infernal tax on tea, no wonder ’tis smuggled so,” Father said, sipping from his saucer. “Lucy brews a perfect pot. She seems a hand at many tasks.”
Esmée poured herself a cup. “I couldn’t ask for better company—”
Eliza’s unladylike snort clipped her words. “Really, Sister, to say a mere almshouse maid is good company borders on the ridiculous.”
Father looked at his youngest daughter, his voice even. “Grief does not excuse insolence nor arrogance, Eliza. Not even Quinn would conscience that.”
Her chin trembled. “And would you add to my grief with your untimely rebuke?”
“I am merely trying to return you to the world of the living.” To his credit, he reined Eliza in as forthrightly as an admiral would a truant officer. “As your father, I would not see you inflict more suffering on yourself or others any longer. True, you are bereaved. Others are as well, myself included. True, you are scarred, but many are buried. As your mother oft said, the best of all healers is cheer.”
Chastened, Eliza took a tart. At Ruenna’s sudden cry, she started, a pained expression on her unveiled face.
Setting her cup down, Esmée reached for the baby, who smiled so wide her pink gums appeared. The tension in the room, which had been tempered by Father’s wise words, ratcheted higher.
Ruenna was the image of Quinn. Dear Quinn. If not for him and his unwitting dinner invitation to Henri in the fall, Esmée might not be betrothed. How much she owed her brother-in-law. The latent realization left her wishing she’d thanked him before it was too late.
“She’s a charming child, well content and getting plumper by the day,” Father remarked. “Best enjoy her at every stage, as the first year flies away all too soon. Soon she’ll be toddling about in a pudding cap.”
Eliza jabbed her untouched tart with a finger. “I daren’t think of the future. ’Tis too bleak.”
“Bleak, my dear?”
“What have I?”
“Need I remind you that you are now one of the wealthiest widows in the colonies, not impoverished like so many?”
She brought her fist down on the table, rattling the china. “Would that I had Quinn and be destitute!”
A sullen silence fell. Esmée hardly tasted the delicious tart. Holding Ruenna in one arm, she resumed drinking her tea with her free hand, careful not to spill any.
Eliza continued undaunted. “I cannot imagine dancing or walking about or playing the harpsichord or anything I used to enjoy. Not without Quinn. He was so many things to me. Husband, confidant, advisor, a bulwark in every storm.”