Taking up a quill, she wrote in the logbook.
10th February 1756. Cloudy, wind moderate, seas calm. Lamp oil abundant.
Would Henri return and find her on watch? Darkness was falling on the water, the inky night meeting the inky deep. How she missed the sunrises and sunsets on clear days. Not the bitterness of January and February. March held a whisper of warmth that heralded kinder weather.
A white sail caught her eye if not her heart. ’Twas a merchant vessel, gliding through the water like a swan, headed toward York or Norfolk or some other Virginia port. Something akin to a physical ache rent her heart. She’d gone through Henri’s trunkful of letters twice, setting aside the most romantic. The scent of the French wax was fading. Other than his penned words, what did she have? Memories. Closing her eyes, she recalled a beloved one of years before from another lofty vantage point.
Henri had come to their townhouse to see her father, who wasn’t yet home. With her mother and Mrs. Mabrey busy elsewhere, Esmée had shown him to her father’s study, offering him refreshments and exchanging light banter, much to the amusement of the giggling housemaids behind the nearest door.
So heady was his company she felt flirtatious. Somewhat bold. Rather than leave him alone to wait for her father, she gestured to the ship’s ladder at the middle of the west wall. “Would you enjoy a nighttime view of the harbor?”
His attention swiveled from her to the hatch in the ceiling. “Going up-scuttle?”
“’Tis the best observation point in all York,” she replied as his eyes met hers again. “I much prefer it to dousing chimney fires.”
Smiling, he looked to her petticoats, raising a silent question.
“Never mind my skirts. As Father says, labor like a captain, play like a pirate.” At his chuckle she took a step toward the ladder. “You lead and I’ll follow.”
He did not hesitate. He climbed up the ladder, then pushed open the hatch as if he’d crafted it before reaching out a hand for her. She gathered up her petticoats in one fist while his firm hand pulled her upward.
Into the warm, velvety night they went, trading the study’s leathery, smoky scent for the gambrel roof. In winter, the view was clouded by chimney smoke, but in summer, little marred the breathtaking seascape, countless stars bespangling the sky above and ship’s lanthorns lighting the water below, softening countless hulls and spars.
Henri stood beside her, not letting go of her hand. Her heart beat like a drum at the pressure of his callused fingers. Moonlight silvered the rooftop, and the narrow walk between chimneys was enclosed with an ornate iron balustrade.
He pointed across the York River toward Gloucester Point. “Over there lies the Relentless.”
She’d heard he was friends with Captain Perrin, who owned a plantation at the point, his private waterfront far less crowded than York’s. “Are you a guest at Little England then?”
“Tonight, aye.” He turned toward her with a slight smile, the night wind ruffling his dark hair and the tails of his frock coat. “The hospitality of the Perrins is only exceeded by that of the Shaws.”
“High praise, given my father isn’t at home.” Her flirtatious banter seemed more invitation. Was he as delighted as she was that the admiral was away?
He reached for her other hand. Together they stood facing each other, fingers entwined. The still, starlit moment begged for intimacy. Her racing pulse was no match for the butterflies swarming her middle. Even in the dark she sensed his intent. She went willingly into his embrace as she would never have done by day in full view of all York.
The touch of his lips was surprisingly soft, given the strength of his arms. They enfolded her, drawing her against his chest. His mouth grazed her cheek . . . her hair . . . her lips. Then and there she lost her heart to him and felt a little thrill that no man had kissed her or held her till this. The moment had held a sweet purity she’d never forgotten.
She blinked and opened her eyes, the present darkness rushing in, the glass turning slightly smoky. But in her heart she was still up-scuttle with her handsome captain, the taste of his kisses all the sweeter in hindsight.
CHAPTER
sixty-four
You cannot possibly expect me to sit at table with Nathaniel Autrey and dine.” Eliza’s folded arms underscored her resistance. “Not even if he acts as our valiant protector for the time being.”
“’Tis a courtesy we should extend,” Esmée returned, setting a small vase of paper flowers on the table. “’Twill be good for us as well as him.”
“Good? Rather, embarrassing. Mortifying.” Eliza was near tears. “No doubt he will look upon me in revulsion.”
“I am sure he will not. He’s an experienced seaman and chaplain, remember, who is no stranger to suffering, having seen countless ports of call.” Esmée spoke patiently but privately wearied of the ongoing battle with her sister. “You cannot spend the rest of your life shamed by your skin.”
“How easy it is for you to say! The pox and my scars will always be an unwelcome reminder of the winter Quinn was taken from me. Of the beautiful life we lived before tragedy struck.” Eliza raised her hands to her once smooth face. “Would that I could wear a veil from now till the day I die.”
A knock spared them further conversation but led to the excruciating moment Eliza dreaded. Looking near bolting, she tensed as Esmée placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Esmée leaned down and kissed her sister’s ravaged cheek as Lucy let the chaplain in.
To his credit, Nathaniel Autrey made a splendid supper companion, warming their ears with tales of his escapades sailing around the globe. Even Eliza seemed to forget herself for a time as she listened.
“How long will you stay on here?” Eliza asked as Lucy served apple tart for dessert.
“Till you’ve no more need of me,” he said. “The captain’s cottage is quite comfortable till I return to Mount Autrey.”
“At least you are spared the mainland’s plague,” Eliza murmured, eyes downcast.
“I’ve already had the pox.” His answer brought Eliza’s head up. “But my scarring isn’t as visible as it once was. The salt air and sun have been a blessed tonic.”
Apparently forgetting herself, Eliza made a brazen study of his face. Esmée flushed at her sister’s scrutiny. But Nathaniel simply enjoyed his dessert as if unaware of it, his easy manner a godsend.
Eliza’s gaze returned to her. “I suppose Captain Lennox has weathered the pox too.”
Esmée felt a renewed beat of alarm. Had he? Their ten-year separation yawned wide. She remembered no scars on his person. Esmée raised her shoulders, then looked to Nathaniel and saw uncertainty in his eyes.
“We shall pray to that end,” he said quietly.
Excusing herself, Esmée went into her bedchamber, where a just-awakened Ruenna began to coo. Playing the doting aunt, Esmée brought her to the table. Tonight Ruenna was all smiles, looking about with lively blue eyes, rosebud mouth pursed.
“A veritable cherub,” Nathaniel said with a chuckle.
“She is indeed.” Esmée smiled, sitting the baby on her lap. “Soon she shall find her feet and run away from us.”