“’Tis a courtesy we should extend,” Esmée returned, setting a small vase of paper flowers on the table. “’Twill be good for us as well as him.”
“Good?Rather, embarrassing. Mortifying.” Eliza was near tears. “No doubt he will look upon me in revulsion.”
“I am sure he will not. He’s an experienced seaman and chaplain, remember, who is no stranger to suffering, having seen countless ports of call.” Esmée spoke patiently but privately wearied of the ongoing battle with her sister. “You cannot spend the rest of your life shamed by your skin.”
“How easy it is for you to say! The pox and my scars will always be an unwelcome reminder of the winter Quinn was taken from me. Of the beautiful life we lived before tragedy struck.” Eliza raised her hands to her once smooth face. “Would that I could wear a veil from now till the day I die.”
A knock spared them further conversation but led to the excruciating moment Eliza dreaded. Looking near bolting, she tensed as Esmée placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Esmée leaned down and kissed her sister’s ravaged cheek as Lucy let the chaplain in.
To his credit, Nathaniel Autrey made a splendid supper companion, warming their ears with tales of his escapades sailing around the globe. Even Eliza seemed to forget herself for a time as she listened.
“How long will you stay on here?” Eliza asked as Lucy served apple tart for dessert.
“Till you’ve no more need of me,” he said. “The captain’s cottage is quite comfortable till I return to Mount Autrey.”
“At least you are spared the mainland’s plague,” Eliza murmured, eyes downcast.
“I’ve already had the pox.” His answer brought Eliza’s head up. “But my scarring isn’t as visible as it once was. The salt air and sun have been a blessed tonic.”
Apparently forgetting herself, Eliza made a brazen study of his face. Esmée flushed at her sister’s scrutiny. But Nathaniel simply enjoyed his dessert as if unaware of it, his easy manner a godsend.
Eliza’s gaze returned to her. “I suppose Captain Lennox has weathered the pox too.”
Esmée felt a renewed beat of alarm. Had he? Their ten-year separation yawned wide. She remembered no scars on his person. Esmée raised her shoulders, then looked to Nathaniel and saw uncertainty in his eyes.
“We shall pray to that end,” he said quietly.
Excusing herself, Esmée went into her bedchamber, where a just-awakened Ruenna began to coo. Playing the doting aunt, Esmée brought her to the table. Tonight Ruenna was all smiles, looking about with lively blue eyes, rosebud mouth pursed.
“A veritable cherub,” Nathaniel said with a chuckle.
“She is indeed.” Esmée smiled, sitting the baby on her lap. “Soon she shall find her feet and run away from us.”
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
Afortnight 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 ifnot 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.
