9th February 1756. Sea calm. Mild southwest wind. Lamp oil low.
Just that morn, two of Henri’s crew who’d weathered pox in the past had returned with Father to York for supplies. She had enough oil for another sennight, or so she hoped. At least till their reappearance. She chided herself for letting supplies get so low.
Standing by the glass, Esmée looked down on Henri’s cottage, where Eliza had chosen to stay on for an indefinite amount of time. Light rimmed the windows, making Esmée wonder what her sister did in Father’s absence. His steadying presence was missed, especially where her sister was concerned.
Eliza’s choice to stay surprised them all. She did not remain out of love for the island. A rustic outpost, she called it. She simply wanted to avoid the scrutiny of Williamsburg and York and so hidhere, Esmée sensed, her grief over her pockmarked skin seemingly as great as her grief over Quinn. And there seemed no way to assuage it.
Lord, what would You have me do for my sister?
At a loss, she sat down and looked out the glass at a passing sloop. Lately her heart had ceased to catch over every ship, as if her hopes were fraying. Still, she stared at the handsome vessel till its lofty sails were swallowed up by darkness and seemed no more substantial than a moth’s wings.
A half hour more and the tower shone bright as a lantern in the gathering darkness. Once the watery view was lost to her, she checked the lamps again, trimming wicks as needed.
“Miss Shaw.”
The low voice nearly made her drop her candle. She spun, gaze fastening on a shadowed figure at the top of the stairs.
Jago Wherry?
He was heavily bewhiskered, his hat pulled low. His right hand clutched a pistol. A chill passed through her. She had no weapon here in the tower, only a flintlock pistol in the cottage.
“Why have you come?” she asked, her voice sounding stronger and more well-intentioned than she felt.
He took a step toward her, and she took a step back, bumping the desk behind her. “I’ve a need only ye can remedy.”
“Speak plainly, sir.” Her voice seemed to echo. “I must return to my cottage lest others come looking for me.”
For the first time Esmée silently bemoaned Henri’s crew at the island’s opposite end.
“Not till ye hear what I’m after.” Wherry stood betwixt her and the stairs. Caressing the weapon with his thumb, he smiled thinly. “I ken ye have knowledge of prizes secreted here on the island. And ye’ll not be rid of me till ye show me just where.”
How did he know? A sourness closed her throat. And what would he do if she didn’t do as he bid? “Captain Lennox is due any day. If he finds you here wanting to steal from him, I shudder to think what your punishment will be.”
Something inexplicable passed over his tight features. The reek ofrum threaded the cold air. He’d been drinking, not enough to dull his wits or his limbs, but enough to make him dangerously reckless.
“Ye’ll meet me at first light—alone—and take me to where the cache is buried.”
She pondered this and her way out of it. Wherry was a canny man. She doubted he was alone in his nefarious dealings. “You’re making a terrible mistake coming here and asking me such.”
A low laugh. “I’ve half a dozen rogues and cutthroats in a near cove who consider it a handsome plan, not to mention some well-placed gents in Williamsburg. Beware my mates near at hand. When they’re liquored they’re prone to mischief. I’d hate to see them make sport with the other three women who keep ye company. Two babes wouldn’t stand in the way.”
“How dare you—”
“Oh, I dare, make no mistake. Weary o’ the almshouse as I am, ’tis time to move on with coin in my pocket and that o’ my companions.”
Her stomach churned as her mind whirled. How to rid herself of him and his fellows was uppermost, but how to do it with so few of the crew near...
“I was leaving the French camp when I saw the captain leave the almshouse one night under cover o’ darkness. No one said a word, but afterwards we were all the better for it.” He spat a stream of tobacco on the pristine floor. “Everyone knows he’s a prize master. Stands to reason he’d hardly miss what’s cached right here. Word is he’s after the French as we speak, taking more still. Needs be we poor folk have our day.”
Esmée shook her head. “I cannot share what is not mine to give.”
He all but lunged at her, grabbing her arm and pressing the pistol’s cold steel against her temple. “Make no attempt to gain help at the Flask and Sword. We’ve timed our coming with care. Meet me at daybreak on the path that leads to the south beach. Come alone. If ye play me false ye’ll not return to the light.”
“Are ye all right, Miss Shaw?” Alice’s voice penetrated Esmée’s panic as she removed her cape at the door of the cottage.
A baby’s cry spared her an answer. Alice moved toward Ruenna in her cradle near the hearth, giving Esmée a moment to gather her wits.
“All well here?” Esmée asked, crossing to the window to take another look at the light.
