“Nay,” Esmée replied calmly, countering her sister’s sudden mood. “I think you’re a grieving one.”
Eliza set down her cup with a rattle. “The truth is I absolutely abhor returning to town. Even sitting here having tea and fielding questions, however well placed, is excruciating.”
“Would you rather have remained on the island?”
“I have no choice but to return and try to get on with life as best I can. But I shan’t resume any society, I assure you. Not looking like this.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Thankfully, I am a woman of means and can shut the world out if I want to.”
“I hope you do not, for your daughter’s sake.” Esmée would waste no words on behalf of Ruenna. “Quinn would have wanted you to live life to the fullest. ’Tis one of the reasons he married you. Your zest and—”
“All that has passed, along with my beauty. I am a shell of what I was, and you know it.” She reached into her purse, withdrew a vial of hartshorn, and waved it beneath her veil, lapsing into sullen silence.
Soon Esmée and Henri were in Williamsburg, ensconced in Eliza’s best guest bedchamber, and then Henri was on his way to the governor’s palace. The townhouse had a forlorn feel. Quinn loomed large in memory, as he had in life. Reminders of him were everywhere. Most of the servants had been dismissed. Few remained to keep the elegant house, further adding to the echoing rooms.
True to her word, Eliza withdrew to her second-floor bedchamber. Esmée heard her door shut with vehemence from down the hall. The silence soon gave way to weeping. Should she go and offer comfort?Uncertainty kept her from it. Eliza needed to grieve. Esmée sent another prayer heavenward, and the house quieted again.
Standing by a tall window, Esmée overlooked the townhouse garden with its lovely fountain and sundial and bricked paths. The paling fence kept out deer and other marauding creatures. One busy gardener remained to tend to spring’s showiest flowers. All was as lovely as ever, yet everything had changed.
She sought a window seat and a book. But Eliza was not a reader, and Esmée daren’t go downstairs to Quinn’s study. Instead she began pacing back and forth upon the Turkish carpet, wishing it weren’t a glaring red but a soothing blue. A low fire burned in the grate, but she longed to open a window. A clap of thunder scuttled her plan and sent her back to the hearth and a comfortable chair. Eliza’s Angora cat sauntered in, leaping into Esmée’s lap and purring fitfully.
Esmée missed the cottage’s simplicity. The babies’ noises. The teakettle’s singing. Alice and Lucy’s good-natured chatter. Henri’s abode was richly masculine, and she missed that too. His sea chest rested near the door, and she fixed her eye on it, willing him back, craving the low timbre of his voice and his kiss.
Supper arrived on a tray. The French chef was still in the kitchen, thankfully. Loin of veal, salad, crusty bread, a dish of early strawberries and cream. She had little appetite but partook with a listening ear for Henri’s return. Within minutes she was rewarded as the hall clock below chimed seven and the butler opened the front door.
Up the stairs her bridegroom came, slowly, without the usual spring in his step. She set down her fork and brought the serviette to her lips, ready to greet him when he came through the doorway.
Her smile slipped past her trepidation. “Welcome home, Husband.”
Even if it was not their home. Nor their desire to be here.
A flicker of joy lightened his solemnity. “Home is wherever you are, aye.” He shrugged off his greatcoat and laid it over the back of a chair. He was wearing his wedding suit, the finest clothes he had. As was his custom, he went to the washbasin.
“I’ll have your supper sent up,” she told him, pulling on a bell cord.
With a nod, he took the seat opposite her, but she sensed he was in no more of a mood to eat than she.
When she sat back down, he reached for her hand. “This isn’t the sort of news I wanted to bring you, especially so soon after our wedding.”
Their joyous joining on the beach seemed a lifetime ago. Had it only been two days?
She squeezed his hand. “I’ve sat here and wondered what would take you away from me for hours on end, and at last I shall have it.”
“I met with Governor Dinwiddie first and then his council. It appears certain charges have been brought against me. One of them is spy—”
“Spy?”She spat the hated word out in disbelief.
“For the French. Also, it seems some planters—burgesses—have banded together with the intent of seeking revenge for my liberating theSwallowand its Africans all those years ago. They believe I remain a threat to plantation owners and Virginia’s economy, not to mention other slaveholding colonies, with my crew of black jacks and my stance on slavery. They accuse me of enticing their Africans to run away and fomenting discontent for untold freedoms and that sort of nonsense.”
She sat back, her stomach giving way. “Nonsense is the kindest word for it. ’Tis outrageous—laughable.”
Henri cleared his throat and said evenly, “There are men powerfully placed who have aligned themselves against me.”
“But there must be just as many honorable men for you who would call this matter mutinous and seek to end it.”
“Perhaps.” He released her hand and sat back, expression weary. “For now I am under house arrest here at Lord—LadyDrysdale’s.”
She felt she’d been struck in the face. House arrest? If only Quinn were here. Quinn would set matters aright. Quinn had been one of those men powerfully placed.
What other allies did Henri have?
