CHAPTER
thirteen
Williamsburg in autumn nearly blinded him with color. Accustomed to the muted blues and grays of sea and sky save a brilliant sunset or sunrise aboard ship, Henri rode down Duke of Gloucestershire Street with a raptness that made him half forget his poor horsemanship. Countless oaks and maples rustled like a silk skirt in a brisk wind, sending a torrent of painted leaves swirling down onto dusty cobblestones.
He’d nearly forgotten Publick Times every April and October when the courts were in session, people overflowing every inch of Williamsburg. If he hadn’t been invited to stay at the governor’s palace, he doubted he’d find a room at one of the inns.
To his right was the Raleigh Tavern with its deep porch fronting the street, the din of crockery and men’s voices from the taproom making him almost risk the spectacle of dismounting and tethering Trident to the hitch rail. He swallowed, his throat bone-dry, and gave the Raleigh a last, lingering glance. In one hand he held the reins, in another the mysterious riding crop used to cue his horse at intervals.
Wrapped in brown paper and string, it had been delivered to his lodging house just yesterday ahead of his leaving for Williamsburg.Charlotte Oake had looked more perplexed than pleased as she presented it to him when he entered the foyer.
“For you, Captain,” she’d told him, unsmiling. “A courier from Christie’s store said this was to be given to you posthaste.”
He took the package, wanting to open it privately, but curiosity got the best of him, so he tore open the paper. “No mention of the giver?”
“None.” She gave no sign of leaving till he’d unwrapped it. “Do you have a secret admirer, sir?”
He stared at the crop, a costly piece of work. “One with decidedly good taste, if so.”
Was Esmée trying to pay him back for his gifting her a book? Granted,The Complete Confectionerhad long been in his possession. He’d thought, upon his return to Virginia five years before, to ask her forgiveness and give her the gift. But second thoughts had the tome going around the world with him instead, tucked beneath a stack of sailing manuals in a bookcase, a continual if barbed reminder of their broken tie.
Charlotte’s features tightened. “How long will you be in Williamsburg, sir?”
He gave her no firm answer, as he hadn’t one. He considered it now as he turned up Palace Green. The governor’s brick residence with its ornamental iron gates at the far end was the undisputed crown jewel of the capital, away from the crowds and confusion of Virginia’s largest town. He sought the palace’s cobbled forecourt, where a groom waited to take his mount to the near stables.
Stiff and slightly saddle sore, Henri climbed stone steps to the palace’s front door, gaze rising to the towering lanthorn impaling the October sky. The door opened, and a butler ushered him into a weapon-lined hall that seemed more military fort than palace.
“The governor is upstairs in the middle room with his officials, sir, but will see you in due time. I’ll show you to your chamber.”
Henri followed the liveried servant down a carpeted hall and up a stair to an enormous bedchamber. Compared to his cramped sea cabin aboard theRelentless, it was sumptuous—fit for a prince—and painted as yellow as a finch’s wing. The bed linens bore a floral patternall the rage on land these days. He was most drawn to the comfortable chair near a crackling hearth. Though the day wasn’t cold, the room was airy, and night would soon set in with autumn’s chill.
Restless, he crossed the thick carpet to one of two windows and pushed aside the ornate drapes. Palace Green stretched before him, his second-floor vantage point giving him a bird’s-eye view.
His gaze drifted from the mustering militia to a man playing a fiddle to a bevy of laughing, chatting belles strolling in colorful procession past the palace gates. The ribbons on their wide straw hats fluttered behind them, their elegant skirts teased by the wind, all of them paired in twos but for the lone graceful straggler at the back...
Esmée?
He took a second look, gaze darting to the front of the column before returning to the rear again. Esmée followed at a distance, obviously content to keep her own pace. She paused to buy paper flowers from a barefoot young girl selling them on a corner.
Crossing his arms, he allowed himself an unhindered look at her. She was talking to the flower peddler, twirling the paper blossoms in one gloved hand. She’d always been kind. No airs about her. Her sister and entourage were now halfway down the other side of Palace Green as if they’d forgotten all about her. As usual, Eliza was leading the charge, undeterred by her pregnancy or anything else, for that matter. He watched them through the trees till they’d turned a distant corner by Bruton Parish Church.
Was Virginia so infernally small?
He was used to an ocean, and town had him tripping over people. Was it not uncanny that he and Esmée kept crossing paths? First the ball, then near the almshouse, and now this. What next? As she likely didn’t associate with Virginia’s officials, he doubted they’d move beyond this chance encounter from afar. No mention had been made of a rout or any other form of entertainment, not at the governor’s palace, anyway. He could rest easy, mayhap. Finish his business with colonial officials and be gone.
He turned away from the window and sought the hearth, sinking down into the velvet-upholstered chair. A tug on the bell cord gainedhim something to allay his thirst. In minutes, a footman brought a silver tray and poured him a cup of strong, hot tea. Bohea, from the scent of it. A dram of French brandy rested beside it. Here it was a relief to escape the near constant shadow of Charlotte Oake, even if she did serve Shaw’s chocolate.
The book he’d brought—Thomas à Kempis’sThe Imitation of Christ—awaited reading, one quote worth remembering.
Everywhere I have sought peace and not found it, except in a corner with a book.
He stretched out his legs, his boots near the elaborately cast brass andirons, and pondered. Why had the governor called him here? Something to do with the current conflict, no doubt. His gaze traveled to the window again, the sky so blue and the town so peaceful it was hard to believe there was a war nearing official declaration.
Surely Dinwiddie didn’t want to make a soldier of him.
CHAPTER
fourteen
