Her voice was quiet but aggrieved. “Eliza, please let me in.”
A groggy reply. Had Eliza been imbibing again? Or merely sleeping?
“Please open the door. I’m concerned about you and need to discuss what is happening with Henri.”
Slow footsteps and then the door opened a crack. Eliza stared back at her, eyes swollen and bloodshot, hair in a frayed braid that dangled over one shoulder to her waist. Her sultana was stained. Wine, likely. Esmée spied an uncorked bottle near the bed.
Esmée pushed past her and threw open a window sash. The March wind roared in, stirring the drapes and cleansing the air. “I’ve sent for tea.” She began arranging two chairs near the open window, then lifted the tea table and placed it there.
“My, Sister.” Arms crossed, Eliza regarded her with grim amusement. “You’re a veritable whirlwind when you want to be.”
“Cook has been asking what you are hungry for.”
“A pity, as I have no appetite.”
“Would that you could say that about the wine instead.” Lifting a dark green bottle, Esmée saw that it was French champagne. “Must I run your household for you and lock the wine cellar?”
With a derisive snort, Eliza collapsed into a chair. She toyed with the fringe of her sash, eyes down, as Esmée took a seat opposite her.
“You need to know what is happening all around you,” Esmée began, needing an ally. “Henri has been placed under house arrest at your very residence.” The ugly words even tasted bitter. “He’s at the palace presently, enduring who knows what as we speak.”
Eliza studied her through narrowed, incredulous eyes. “The same captain who only recently chased down an entire French fleet on behalf of Virginia’s colonial government?” The cold irony in her tone fueled Esmée’s ire. “And came away with countless sealed documents and high-placed prisoners of war, not to mention enemy ships?”
“At the moment all seem to have forgotten that. Henri says little to me about the proceedings. But I believe the word spy was mentioned.”
“Spy? What blather!” Eliza sat up straight. “I recall hearing some hullabaloo about his championing of blacks when he returned to Virginia last fall. Several burgesses—most of them planters—were quibbling about his signing on black jacks as crew, thereby fomenting discontent among plantation slaves who wish to gain their freedom by sea.”
“There are many black jacks, free and runaways, from all the colonies, even England.”
“True, but England has no plantations or slave labor like America. And slave owners fear giving Africans any liberties lest it threaten Virginia’s very foundation . . .” Eliza’s voice faded as tea was brought. “Close the door after you, Rose,” she told the servant.
Esmée waited, hands folded in her lap, for her sister to serve. Eliza did so reluctantly. Taking up the silver teapot with an unsteady hand, she sloshed rather than poured tea into Esmée’s cup.
“As we were saying,” Esmée continued, wondering what else Eliza recalled, “matters have obviously come to a boil. But till now I knew nothing of it.”
“Quinn certainly did—” At the mention of his name, Eliza broke off for an emotional moment before continuing. “He made mention to me of it when Henri left on his cruise. He said he was going to put down any trouble regarding it, and so I’ve thought little of it since.”
Esmée stared at the plate of untouched pastries. She knew Henri had enemies, but as he’d been away for years till recently, she’d thought the animosity had died down. “Do you know who is involved? Did Quinn mention them by name?”
Eliza rattled off enough names to chill Esmée’s blood. “The prosperous planters stand to lose the most if slavery is challenged. They have the governor’s ear, of course. Two of the troublemakers are related to him by marriage.” A shrewd glint shone in her eyes. “And I do wonder if a few of them weren’t in cahoots with Jago Wherry. Two of Henri’s opponents are in horrendous debt and could benefit from any and all prizes.”
Stunned, Esmée sipped her tea without tasting it as her mind flooded with what she knew of maritime criminals and vice-admiralty courts. Though Eliza tried a pastry, she soon gave it up and left her tea unfinished, pleading a headache and saying she wanted to sleep.
Unable to stand the confines of the townhouse and wanting to be free of the house’s black trappings that bespoke Quinn’s passing at every turn, Esmée put on her cape and escaped into the windy spring afternoon. Sun broke through amassing clouds with a feeble light, illuminating gardens hemmed in by tidy fences and the few passersby traversing the cobblestone streets. She walked toward the governor’s palace, her eyes roaming the building’s brick face. Somewhere inside was Henri.
Eliza’s confession threatened the small peace Esmée had held on to since they’d arrived in Williamsburg. Henri was careful with what he told her. She sensed his holding back, and it frightened her. She longed to ask him detailed questions but felt it only added to the trial before him. She’d not grill him as officials were doing behind closed doors. Her task was to stand by him. Love him. Pray for him.
Lord, please end this. Let truth prevail.
She bypassed the palace and turned right, continuing on in the windy afternoon. So sunk in her own private thoughts was she that she hardly heard a coach roll to a stop across the lonesome stretch of road.
“Daughter, what on earth are you doing on the outskirts of town?” Her father’s concerned voice returned her to the present. “Join me in the coach. A storm is brewing.”
Indeed, a storm within and without. Esmée looked at the sky, startled she’d walked so far so mindlessly. She’d passed the gaol with its forlorn sounds and smells, the courtyard overfull of the indigent and derelict. The usual pang of sympathy she always felt eluded her completely. She seemed as wooden as a ship’s figurehead.
The postilion opened the door, and she settled opposite her father, escaping a lightning-lit landscape. “Why have you come?”
“I heard news—ill news—that the governor is being pressured by certain officials, mainly planters, who’ve invented charges against the captain. Henri may well be sent to Marshalsea in London for trial at the admiralty court there, thus relieving Virginia of responsibility—”
“Marshalsea?” The word was more epithet. Esmée stared at him, lips parted from the most grievous shock yet. “The place of pirates and rogues?”
“That or Newgate. But I’m hoping it’s hearsay, and I’ve come to find out.”
Her father never minced words, but for once she wished he would. She could only sit, stunned, as the coach picked up its pace and headed toward the heart of Williamsburg. Her heart seemed to keep time with the horse’s hooves, her thoughts somersaulting over themselves in dismal abandon.
“How is your dear sister?” Father asked.
She barely heard his query. Her breath came short, her words scattered. “Eliza . . . she seems to have worsened back at the townhouse. She’s begun to go through Quinn’s belongings, his study and papers. I’ve offered to help, but . . . Eliza refused me outright. We visited his gravesite yesterday. Left flowers.”