“Fair, perhaps. I’ve yet to meet many who are kind. Most seem overfond of the lash.”
Mistress Boles reappeared, ending their honest conversation. She raised dull eyes heavenward. “Surely you’ll be wanting to return to York, Miss Shaw. The clouds bode ill.”
As does your countenance.
Schooling her dismay, Esmée made ready to leave. “Perhaps you and Miss Grove can make a list of all your needs and give it to me next visit. With prayer and industry, we shall remedy what we can.”
A child snuck forward when Mistress Boles turned her back. “Thank’ee, Miss Shaw.” Her freckled face softened in a smile. “Come back soon, if ye please. We’ve so few visitors and need a bit o’ cheer.”
The matron turned round again. Had she heard? “Shoo!” she shouted, then looked at Esmée again. “Jenny will as soon pick your pocket as give you a sly word.”
Esmée knelt down till she was eye level with the scolded girl. “Of course I shall, sweet Jenny. Count on it.”
Turning away, Esmée swiped at her eyes with a gloved hand as the wind tugged at the surrounding trees and sent the leaves adance in colorful disarray, adding a touch of whimsy to the disheartening scene. She’d always sensed God’s Spirit in the wind. Surely He was near now, comforting society’s castoffs, even brushing her damp cheek with an unseen hand.
Wasn’t He?
Esmée climbed into the cart and took up the reins again. She waved goodbye, the pony lighter in step as the cart was now empty, though her heart was still burdened. Perhaps Lady Lightfoot’s ball would be a good place to begin her almshouse entreaties.
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?”
Fondwas 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 wheedleonecountry 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.”
