“Captain Lennox? Esmée?”
At the sound of the admiral’s voice they drew apart, and inexplicably Henri let go of the line. The colorful kite kept soaring, borne on a west wind over the water, seeming to touch the clouds before vanishing from sight.
CHAPTER
one
YORK, VIRGINIA
SEPTEMBER1755
Chocolate had been Captain Henri Lennox’s one weakness. Was it still?
Pondering it, Esmée wiped cocoa-dusted hands on her apron and stood in the open doorway of the chocolate shop facing York’s sail-studded harbor. The noon sun still held a touch of summer, drenching her in buttery yellow light.
A pint of honey-sweetened milk. Two dried Mexican chilies. One cinnamon stick. A crushed vanilla pod. All whisked into a steamy froth with a wooden molinillo.
That was how the captain preferred his chocolate. Though it had been ten years since she’d last seen him, Henri Lennox’s memory still chafed like a saltwater rash. Would it always?
Overhead the shop’s wooden sign swung noisily on its iron bracket in a contrary coastal wind.Shaw’s Chocolate.Newly painted and adorned with a silver chocolate pot, it beckoned countless cocoa-craving customers.
At six o’clock, Esmée moved to close the door, trading the briny tang of the sea for the warm, rich scent of cocoa instead.
“Daughter, have you finished Lady Lightfoot’s almonds?”
Esmée rounded the worktable as her father emerged from the adjoining coffeehouse that served as his office, his pleasure plain. Upon the long wooden countertop before them was tray after tray of confections. Esmée’s favorites were the chocolate almonds, but she’d made several batches of sugared almonds too.
“Fit for the most fastidious matron in all the Tidewater,” her father announced after close perusal. “And her annual ball.”
Esmée smiled. “I’ve used cochineal and saffron to color them red and yellow—and spinach and berries for green and blue.”
“Vibrant.” He tossed a red confection into his mouth. “Delicious.”
“I’ve more to do tomorrow if the weather continues cool, though I’m running short of orange flower water.”
He crossed to the large bow-fronted window, taking in the moored vessels like the admiral of old. “We’re overdue for a merchant fleet. We’ve too much illicit Dutch tea and silk handkerchiefs of late.”
Was there a beat of regret in his voice? Did he miss his seafaring days? Alarm unfurled like a pirate’s black flag inside her. Barnabas Shaw held himself erect, defying the stoop of age, his silver hair hidden beneath a white periwig, his garments tailored to his distinguished frame. He seemed preoccupied of late. A bit on edge. He claimed it was on account of all the bloodshed, but that seemed naught but a bad dream, the conflict on the distant frontier betwixt faraway England, France, and the Indians.
Or was he pondering her mother? Though Eleanor Shaw had been gone three years, it seemed far longer.
Turning, he faced Esmée. “Where is our summons to the ball? I’ve not had a look at it.”
She unearthed a stack of papers beneath the counter, the gilt-edged invitation at the very bottom.
“Read it to me, if you would, as I’ve misplaced my spectacles.”
She held the card aloft in the fading light. “‘Pleasure Ball. While we live, let us live. Admiral Barnabas Shaw and Miss Esmée Shaw arerequested to attend the ball at Lightfoot Hall on Tuesday, seventh of October current, at seven o’clock p.m.’”
“Your sister is coming from Williamsburg, and we shall go together as a foursome.”
“Eliza never misses a frolic.” Esmée placed the invitation on a shelf. “She and Quinn are a popular pair. They dance divinely.”
“As do you.” At last he moved away from the window. “I shall be your proud escort. No doubt you’ll not lack dance partners, even at eight and twenty. ’Tis not too late, you know...”
Not too late for love, for marriage.
The ongoing lament was now a familiar song. “I’ve no wish to wed and leave you, Father. An occasional frolic is enough for me. Besides, who would manage the shop? Your other business ventures take all your time. You don’t even like chocolate.”
