Father and Eliza took Henri’s quarters with its two bedchambers and larger parlor. Eliza made it quite clear Ruenna was to stay behind.
“I cannot have the care of an infant when my heart is broken. Not yet.” She’d faced Esmée, the old fire in her eyes a mere flicker. “Perhaps not ever.”
With that she’d hastened to Henri’s cottage, Father in her wake. Esmée sensed Lucy’s and Alice’s unspoken relief when the decision was made.
In the ensuing days, Eliza was rarely seen, sleeping the hours away, trying to recover her health—or lose herself in slumber. Lucy would deliver their meals only to return posthaste. The easy amiability Esmée had once shared with her and Alice was now fraught with profound sadness. Even the weather grew stormy, washing more bodies from the Guineaman ashore.
Inking a quill, Esmée penned her uppermost hope during one of their lessons. “This too shall pass.”
She wrote it in her light, scrolling hand, Lucy and Alice following with their own quills and paper. Esmée felt a glimmer of hope whenAlice suggested they write down what they were most thankful for, a challenging task amid their sadness. But quickly their gratitude was spelled out.
Birdsong. Cats. The Bible. Hyson tea. Warm bread. Jam. Companionship. Laughter. Firelight and starlight. The coming spring. Heaven.
That night, Esmée lingered in the tower, looking out on the vastness of the water and willing Henri back to her. Ensconced on high, she seemed to rise above the worries of the moment. She pulled another old letter she’d gotten from the sea chest out of her pocket.
7th June 1749
Dear Esmée,
Since we passed the island of Barbados we have had continuous contrary winds. We therefore mostly sailed with set sails and double-reefed topsails.
I have not written in some time. I have realized these letters, which you will likely never read, have instead become necessary to me. Somehow the simple stroke of writing your name brings you nearer despite the miles and circumstances that separate us. Though coastal Virginia fades in memory the longer I’m away, you remain steadfast. I see your eyes in the green of a Montserrat forest, your dark hair reflected in the black-sand beaches, your comely form in the wending hills and valleys of these lush islands. You once said I am all rigging and sails, not a whit romantic. Let this be proof I am not that which you claimed, not soulless but soulful, and still besotted.
She could almost hear him speaking, his penned words reflective of his voice. Longing swam through her in a giddy rush. All the years lost to them still stung like a sea urchin, but she sensed Henri was on his way back to her. Or so she hoped. Eliza had no such silver lining.
Setting aside his letter yellowed with age, she took out a blank sheet of new paper and inked her goose quill.
Dear Henri,
Words cannot express the depth of my missing you. Each day feels a year, each minute hours. Yet I am proud of your service to the colonies and am confident your mission will be a success.
All that has happened since you sailed breaks my heart. I cannot even commit my feelings to paper without spotting the page. Smallpox is making a misery of Virginia once again. Father and I are spared, as we have mild scars to show for it from years past. But dear Eliza has lost Quinn and is even now on the island with me, a scarred widow. Father is with us. I fear he is afraid to leave Eliza as if she might die of grief. I know not what to say nor how to comfort her. She has no interest in her newborn daughter. I pray to help her but cannot see my way clear.
Another heartache is that a ship foundered in a tempest a sennight or so ago...
The candle flickered, a glaze of gold before her tear-filled eyes. Her quill dropped and spattered ink. She laid her head against the table, another prayer rising in her heart.
Lord, help me help Eliza.
On the Sabbath, Esmée walked with her father on the beach. The tide was out, the sun making a blinding blue of the water. Signs of spring were taking hold, not only beach grass but a lone spot of color here and there poking out amid marshland and forest.
“I miss Grace Church,” Esmée confessed, her arm tucked in his. “It seems strange on the Lord’s Day to be absent.”
“Sabbath services are suspended till the pox subsides.” He bent to examine a piece of sea glass. “Henri told me he might build a chapel here, though he would be hard-pressed to find a clergyman to live on the island. ’Twould be an exceedingly small flock.”
Esmée lifted her head to the sea breeze, trying to imagine it. She’d just shown Father the finished garden wall and boundaries of their future home. His approval meant the world to her. He’d also askedto see the graves. She bit her lip when tempted to tell him about the buried treasure.
“Has Mistress Saltonstall returned yet?” He was looking toward the Flask and Sword, whose twin chimneys could be seen puffing smoke.
“Not yet.”
“Do you mind if your sister stays on with you for a time?”
Esmée hid her dismay. The sinking inside her turned to shame. She’d never been sure of Eliza even at her best, and now ... “I thought perhaps she might want to return to the townhouse and the comforts of town.”
“Your sister doesn’t know if she’s afoot or on horseback at present. In her grief she’s incapable of any decision making, however small.” His lined face seemed more so since Quinn’s death, his periwig hiding the silver of his hair. “I was thinking your company might do her good. At the very least she needs to be near Ruenna.”
The ache in Esmée’s breast swelled. “But Eliza refuses to have anything to do with her.”
