CHAPTER
five
After a sennight, Henri began to feel as though he resided in York. His tailoring took longer than expected, requiring him to stay on at the Royal Oake, which left no time to return to Indigo Island before Lady Lightfoot’s ball. He wasn’t overly concerned, as his crew was a well-disciplined lot for the most part. They were deserving of a rest when they weren’t at work on the vessel, anticipating the next as-yet-unknown sailing. He’d crossed paths with his quartermaster and ship’s carpenter in town. A few of his crew were already selling wares at York’s market—Monmouth caps and stockings they knitted. They gave him a hearty greeting, clearly glad to be ashore. Others were taking notice of their return from all quarters.
“Can it be Captain Lennox?” A burly, ham-fisted merchant stopped him midstride, walking stick in hand. “I’d heard you were again in York. Might I have a word with you about a shipping venture I have in mind?”
“Monday, mayhap,” Henri put forth. “Where would you like to meet?”
“At Shaw’s coffeehouse, none other. Say, two o’clock?”
With a nod, Henri continued his walk. Best get used to Shaw’s, the preferred meeting place. Did the admiral hold a grudge over what had happened between him and his daughter?
He lifted his cocked hat to a passing carriage of colorful straw-hatted ladies, their lingering looks reminding him of Esmée again. How odd it felt to be a landsman. Yet the last few sailings had left him feeling that the ship had shrunk or he’d expanded, a grown man regarding everything in miniature.
York seemed more interesting than ever before. His stay had been sweetened with Shaw’s cocoa at breakfast, and he’d not even had to darken the door of their shop. Nor had he seen any sign of Esmée anywhere, though he’d caught sight of her father at a distance, coming out of the customhouse on Main Street.
He’d always been fond of the admiral. Ten years had knocked him down a stone or two, but he still bore the erect carriage of a former commander, making him stand out on a bustling, hazardous street. Mistress Shaw he remembered as a force in her own right. Hospitable. A generous benefactress. A shrewd woman of trade.
He wouldn’t dwell on their two daughters.
Shutting the door of the inn as quietly as he could still resulted in Widow Oake appearing. She sailed into the narrow hall, sleek as a shallop, as he set one foot on the stair to his rooms.
“Captain Lennox . . .” Her silver eyes held an unspoken invitation. “Father wanted me to tell you all is in hand for your transport to the ball tonight. Our coachman will come round at half past six.”
“I’ll be ready.” He took the second step as a case clock thundered four o’clock. Plenty of time to prepare.
“Are you fond of dancing, Captain?”
Fond was generous. “Nay.” He softened his reply with a half-smile. “I’d rather ply shark-infested waters.”
She chuckled at his half jest. “Something tells me your attendance at the ball isn’t due to your skill at allemandes and minuets.”
“If it were, I’d not be invited.”
“Might I wheedle one country dance out of you in our very own parlor at our next entertainment? A reel or jig?”
He gained another step. He’d seen less persistent pirates. “Mayhap.”
Her smile was coy as he departed. Finally upstairs, he paused to admire the elaborate bell system his host had threaded on copper wire from lodgers’ rooms down to the servants’ quarters. A pull on an embroidered silk cord quickly gained him the hot water he needed. A water closet with a little door opening into the hall allowed a servant to attend to any needs without entering guests’ rooms.
Once bathed, shaved, and dressed, he studied himself in the looking glass, something he rarely did aboard ship. All in all, his new suit left him looking like anyone else of genteel status in Virginia.
No doubt at the ball he would see many Virginians he knew and some he didn’t.
And others he didn’t want to.
“Are you skittish, Sister?”
Skittish? In spades.
Esmée locked eyes with Eliza as they finished dressing in their adjoining bedchambers of the York townhouse. Quinn was below with Father, waiting impatiently, probably.
“You seem unnaturally disquieted.” Reaching out, Eliza tugged on a tightly coiled curl till it relaxed and draped over Esmée’s shoulder.
“You know how I feel about these genteel gatherings.” Esmée stared at her sister’s elaborate coiffure, a powdered pouf over a foot high crowned with a ship, which had taken over two hours to achieve and left Eliza’s lady’s maid in tears. Even now the nautical headdress seemed to be listing despite its intricate scaffolding.
Eliza studied her with a canny eye. “So, the pearls win?”
Atop the dressing table an assortment of gems winked up at them in the candlelight, myriad velvet-lined jewelry cases open. Eliza dangled a glittering garnet on a gold chain, then exchanged it for another.
“I rarely wear anything but pearls.” Esmée touched her throat where the necklace rested. “As for you, how about this star ruby Father brought Mama from the city of Karur in India?”
“How do you remember all the details?” Eliza fastened the ruby about her neck. “Your fondness for geography, I suppose. Celestial navigation has always been your strong suit.”
“As society is yours.”
“If you’d been a son, you might well have been a sailor,” Eliza teased. “A jack.”
With a last look at each other and the looking glass, they put on light silk capes a maid brought and went below. In the coach, the seven-mile distance would be easily managed despite the rutted road. Lady Lightfoot lived halfway between York and Williamsburg in a grand brick mansion named Lightfoot Hall, its ballroom a twin to the governor’s palace in the capital, but as she and Dinwiddie were kin, no one made much of the likeness.
Esmée settled back on the upholstered seat, wishing the seven miles were seventy instead. But even that distance would not give her time to compose herself. “Pleasure” balls they were not. Already she was counting the hours till she could peel off her many layers while ruminating about all the things she’d said and done but shouldn’t have. Yet she liked Lady Lightfoot. And she did not wish to offend by declining her gracious invitation. As she was not prone to lying, pleading illness didn’t suit either. Let the ball be a ruse for raising funds for the almshouse.
Beside her, Eliza sat fussing with the pins in her hair. Her sister’s shipwreck of a coiffure only added to Esmée’s angst as she watched it barely clear the coach’s narrow doorway. The men got in after them warily. Father looked resplendent in admiral attire, and no one could fault Quinn for his wardrobe, respected barrister and member of the governor’s council that he was.
“How goes your marine atlas?” Quinn asked Father as he settled beside Eliza.
“A piece of work,” Father replied, clearly pleased by the subject. “Charting the Atlantic coast is a tedious process, but if it improves navigation safety, ’tis well worth it.”
“I heard the admiralty is hurrying you to finish on account of the French threat.”