They chatted a few minutes more till the conversation dwindled and Eliza stifled a yawn.
“I believe a turn on the beach will do me good after so fine a meal. If you ladies will excuse me . . .” Nathaniel gave a slight bow and bid them good night.
Esmée passed Ruenna to Eliza and retreated to the lighthouse. Looking down from her lofty perch, she observed the sea chaplain walking in the delicate twilight before returning to his lodgings, where he took up his usual pipe. He wasn’t Henri, but his presence seemed to bring comfort, a sort of peace to their uncertainty and grief.
For now, ’twas enough.
CHAPTER
sixty-five
A fortnight passed. Esmée studied her calendar as signs of spring grew brighter and daylight stretched, enlivening all the nooks and crannies of the island as it slowly returned to life. Time’s passage was made more memorable as Eliza began walking the beach with Nathaniel, her head covered in her usual veil and bonnet. In fair weather they could be seen deep in conversation as they walked back and forth, retracing their steps on the sand in full view of the cottages and lighthouse.
“What d’ye ken they’re about?” Lucy asked one day, returning from outside with an apron full of eggs.
“Taking the air and grieving,” Alice replied. “The chaplain with one of his ailing sheep.”
From the bedchamber where she sat at her desk, Esmée listened, hope rising. Though she’d tried in vain to help her sister, comfort had finally come from someone else. A rush of thankfulness aided her writing an overdue letter.
Dear Father,
’Tis almost March and we are glad of the coming spring. Eliza shows some signs of improving, reckoning with her loss inwardly if not outwardly, though still making much of her scarring. Thankfully, God has sent us deliverance twice in the form of sea chaplain Autrey. If not for him, I would be writing you an entirely different letter. He will return to Mount Autrey once Henri arrives—any day now—bringing you this letter when he does, as well as more news that I shan’t belabor here. I confess my impatience knows no bounds where Henri is concerned, though I do find tending the light satisfying if lonesome without him by my side.
I trust you are well. I pray for you and the indentures as well as our friends in York, especially the almshouse. Lord willing, this scourge will soon pass.
The next day, Nathaniel went to the island’s opposite end to visit with former crew. Lucy and Alice busied themselves with their handwork in the sunlight beneath the cottage’s eave, leaving Esmée alone with Eliza and the sleeping babies inside.
Eliza sat staring into the fire while Esmée stitched clouts. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation of supper, which promised game pie if the kitchen smells were any indication. The ensuing silence was tedious, and she almost wished the babies would awaken, the only sound the loud ticking of the mantel clock.
Whereas once she and Eliza had shared nearly everything growing up as sisters, Esmée felt a widening chasm between them. Did Eliza envy her future happiness? She daren’t mention Henri and his homecoming. Like salt in a wound it was, adding to her sister’s misery.
Eliza straightened her slumped shoulders, gaze never leaving the fire. “Those for whom God has mercy in store He first brings into a wilderness.”
Esmée’s needle stilled.
“Chaplain Autrey told me such.” Eliza cleared her throat. “I pray my wilderness is not too long nor too grievous. And that I learn my lessons well lest I repeat them.”
Another stitch and Esmée said, “God’s mercy is great and comes to you, perhaps, in an island’s refuge and a chaplain who’s no stranger to the pox.”
The fire snapped, sending a stray spark onto Eliza’s skirt hem. She seemed to give no notice, though it left a small black spot. “Do you recall Mama’s favorite verses?”
“Mama had many beloved verses. Which do you speak of?”
“‘Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.’ That is what comes to me at night when I cannot sleep, though I gave little thought to it before.”
“Heaven itself is speaking to you then.” Esmée rethreaded her needle. “‘Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.’ Notice it has nothing to do with how one looks.”
“True, as does this—‘the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,’ which is precious to God. Not outward adorning of hair and gold and dress.” She sighed. “I am all about adornment.”
“There is nothing wrong with being pretty. Being at your best.” Esmée was moved by the distress in her sister’s voice. “’Tis wrong to make a god of it. To usurp the place of the Almighty Himself with trifling matters.”
“Which I have done. In spades.”
“There are none of us righteous, not one.”
“But there are some, like Quinn, who act righteously. Or attempt to live by what Scripture teaches.” Eliza’s voice shook. “Yet he was taken.”
Quinn had been, in hindsight, having a soul awakening all his own. But before any of them realized what was happening, he was gone. Might his untimely death be of more consequence than his life?
Eliza took a handkerchief from her pocket, her husband’s initials embroidered in blue thread. “Chaplain Autrey says there are those God loves so much He calls them home early.”
Touched, Esmée paused. Had she not clung to one such Scripture in light of Mama’s passing? “‘Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His saints.’”
Eliza firmed her trembling chin. “Then I am glad Quinn was taken and not me. For I am no saint, nor am I at all sure of my standing with the Almighty. Perhaps that is His first severe mercy to me.”
CHAPTER
sixty-six
The next day dawned uncommonly warm. Midmorning, Esmée left the cottage as the sun climbed in what Henri called a lapis lazuli sky. Eliza was walking the beach again, this time alone. Nathaniel sat beneath the eave of the captain’s cottage, reading. Lucy was gathering wood for the cookfire, and Alice was inside the cottage, nursing the babies. ’Twas a fine time to slip away. The shadow she’d felt with Jago Wherry had finally passed.
The cove she sought was not far, sunlight shimmering on sand and sea with such blinding force Esmée narrowed her eyes beneath her straw hat. Henri had taken her here and told her it was the prettiest place on the island. She sat down on a piece of driftwood and removed her shoes and stockings.
Clenching her teeth, she waded into the cold water, foam rushing around her bare ankles. Once she and Eliza had chased the waves as children, running out onto the sand as far as they dared, then returning to shore before the water would break around them. Bunching up her skirts with her hands, she left sandy footprints as she followed the retreating sea, only to outrun it as it turned on a wave and rushed back to shore.
Next time I shall bring Eliza.
How carefree the sun made her. She felt like a girl again, enchanted with the water in all its sparkling liveliness. Again and again she raced the waves as the tide turned, casting off the lethargy of a long winter. Breathless and exhilarated and wet to the knees, she ventured forth again, only to stop completely and inexplicably. Transfixed, she turned toward the pines that clustered at her back.