In a quarter of an hour, the exchange was made, the former sea chaplain ensconced by his own fire with a book from the captain’s library: Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World.
“Promise me you won’t invite him to supper.” Eliza was more animated than Esmée had recently seen her. “Though the chaplain was a friend to Quinn, I fear facing him would simply magnify my grief.”
“You grieve more than a husband.” Esmée saw past the ruse to the real heart of the matter. “You grieve your health.” And your beauty.
Tears sprang to Eliza’s eyes. They were alone in the parlor, Lucy and Alice in the kitchen with Alden amid a cacophony of crockery and cooing. Wherever Eliza was, they went elsewhere, not daring to trespass on her quicksilver moods. Ruenna slept in her cradle near the hearth, oblivious to her mother’s angst.
“Tell me, Sister.” Eliza’s voice held a rare fragility. “Why is it the pox left you only lightly scarred but disfigured me completely? I feel naught but an abomination.”
“The pox did not touch your soul,” Esmée returned quietly. “Nor your spirit. Not unless you let it.”
Eliza’s chin firmed. “You evade the question.”
“I was but a child when the pox struck—and lightly at that. I cannot say why it affected you differently as a woman.”
“So you agree I am unsightly and unfit for company.”
“I said nothing of the sort.” Esmée gestured to a chair. Exhausted, she took the one opposite and said as much to herself as to Eliza, “Please sit and becalm yourself.”
Eliza sat, shoulders hunched, her filmy veil hiding her features. “I recall a sermon Reverend Dawson gave before Quinn was taken from me, about prosperous worldlings being an affront to God. Do you think my pride—counting the world my darling—brought me low?”
“I have no cause to throw stones, Sister, not when my own ruinous vanity nearly cost me a future with Henri.” This was said with such conviction Eliza fell silent. Esmée looked at her earnestly. “Please remove your bonnet so I can see your still-lovely face.”
Though she could not see her sister’s withering look, she felt it.
“One miracle at a time,” Eliza retorted. “Is it not enough I am not abed but in a chair?”
“Would you care for tea?”
“Tea? Bah! Brandy is what I need.”
“I have none,” Esmée replied. She would not volunteer Henri’s supply.
“Even arrack punch will do.”
The smell of Madeira hung heavily about Eliza. “How will you explain to Captain Lennox your emptying his cellar?” Esmée asked.
This brought a momentary hush. “Spirits help temper my grief.”
Esmée shook her head. “The Almighty is a far better tonic and leaves you with no headache after or any apologizing to do.”
Eliza pulled off both bonnet and veil, revealing a tumbling mass of curls. “Is that Ruenna fussing?”
Esmée had hardly noticed, given their heated exchange. Stifling the urge to reach for Ruenna, she waited. Ruenna’s cries grew more shrill. Alice appeared from the kitchen, but Esmée stilled her with a slight shake of her head. Casting Esmée a murderous look, Eliza got up and walked stiffly to the cradle.
Esmée held her breath. Lord, be in this moment, please.
“You mean to make a mother of me.” Eliza picked Ruenna up and held her at arm’s length. Alarmingly so.
Esmée had to lace her hands in her lap to keep from taking the babe. “Be at your ease. Ruenna loves to be held, talked to, and sung to.”
Eliza cradled her awkwardly. “I am fresh out of lullabies.”
“Remember the one Mama used to sing? ‘Over the Hills and Far Away’?”
A softening touched Eliza’s ravaged face. Esmée began to hum, focusing her gaze on the lighthouse beyond the window. In seconds Eliza began humming along with her, then gave way to song. Ruenna looked at her mother, quieting at the sound of her singing voice, which had always been lovely.
Spying a single tear coursing down Eliza’s cheek, Esmée, worn to a thread by the morning’s events, was nearly undone. The tear trailed to Eliza’s chin, fell, and spotted the baby’s linen gown.
They moved on to another lullaby, “Cradle Song,” and for a few fleeting moments it seemed their beloved mother drew near.
And then, just as abruptly, Eliza swiped another tear away, the tender moment banished. “Why has Nathaniel Autrey come?”
Esmée took a breath, and the story poured forth.
Eliza, for a few rapt minutes, forgot her own misery. “That odious Wherry? From the almshouse? How fortuitous he was dispatched by the sea chaplain. I shudder to think what Captain Lennox would have done to him.”
“Praise God we are safe.” Esmée moistened dry lips and imagined Henri’s reaction. “Now if the captain would return . . .”
Ruenna squirmed and gave a little cry, shattering Eliza’s composure. She held the baby out to Esmée with a stony expression that signified she was done. Esmée took her niece, wanting nothing more than to retreat to her bedchamber and sleep till the lighthouse needed tending.
“I do wonder how Father is faring.” Esmée placed Ruenna on her shoulder, patting the baby’s back. In such times she missed Father fiercely.
“I suppose he’ll soon return and want to take me back to the mainland. But I have no desire to return to Williamsburg. Not yet.”
“You are always welcome here.” Weary as Eliza made her, she was her beloved sister, after all. “I shouldn’t want you to return to the townhouse till you and Ruenna are ready.”
Eliza toyed with the bonnet in her lap. “Though I once called your island rustic, I rather like the seclusion. At least in my grief. And I must admit you are handling it quite well, despite having a nurse and two babies thrust upon you, not to mention an ill-tempered sister.”
Well seemed an overstatement. Esmée withheld a sigh. It is well with my soul, at least.
A light footfall announced Lucy. “Are ye ready for dinner, milady? Miss Shaw?”
Eliza gave a curt nod, meeting Esmée’s eyes with resignation, not refusal.
“Let’s dine here by the fire, just the two of us.” Esmée smiled at Eliza and then Lucy. “We’ll invite Nathaniel Autrey to join us on the morrow.”
“Very well, Miss Shaw. I’ll take his victuals to him in the captain’s quarters posthaste.”
CHAPTER
sixty-three
Taking comfort from the light shining from Henri’s cottage and the slim silhouette in a front window as Nathaniel smoked a pipe, Esmée returned to her lighthouse duties at twilight, the pistol Wherry had wrested from her in one hand, a lanthorn in the other. Though he was no longer a threat, his dark presence still seemed to linger. At the foot of the tower steps, she bent her head and thanked God again for His protection and blessing.
And Lord, lest I petition Thee to death, please hasten Henri’s safe return and the healing of Eliza’s torn heart.
Slowly she climbed the steps, glad to resume what she found to be a tranquil routine, and lit the lamps. She stayed on for a half hour to make sure they were burning properly, intending to return twice between eight o’clock and sunrise.