Hearing about him and his island life secondhand always chafed, but ’twas better than no news at all. “Mistress Saltonstall is a customer of ours,” she said. “I suppose she’s left the island for the winter.”
“She has. Hermes remains behind.”
Mistress Saltonstall’s marmoset? She’d nearly forgotten Hermes. His antics were said to entertain tavern patrons far and wide. “I hope you’ve not been put in charge of him.”
“Nay. The contrary creature is in the keeping of my steward.”
“Poor thing. Might I send him some chocolate?”
“Oh, aye. Hermes is fond of your chocolate almonds especially.”
“I meant your steward—”
“I ken what you meant, Esmée.” He winked, the light remaining in his eyes. “Is there no laughter left in your soul?”
The gentle question was still more a dousing of cold water, though his return to her first name assuaged her somewhat. Tears hovered that had nothing to do with sweets but with his belonging to the sea. Of their shared lighthouse dream gone awry. She set her jaw lest she dig for a handkerchief.
Once they had laughed. His winking at her was commonplace. Once she’d felt she hadn’t a care in the world with him near. Somehow time had turned her somber. Older, if not wiser. “I am not the woman—the girl—you remember. Ten years has wrought many changes.”
He nodded, never taking his eyes off her. “Changes ... not all of them welcome.”
She looked to her slippers. She had no clue what raced through his thoughts, but half a dozen thorns were uppermost in hers. So many changes. Did he notice what a shell their townhouse had becomewithout her mother and then Eliza? How she’d become unmoored, trying to salve her sorrow in her mother’s endeavors, from chocolate shop to almshouse? How she was half-angry with him for forging ahead with the lighthouse and leaving her behind in his wake?
The study door opened. Esmée gave the captain a last, fleeting look before turning and hurrying upstairs lest Father and the sea chaplain see her.
CHAPTER
twenty-six
Supper that night was a quiet affair. Father seemed preoccupied, at least until dessert was served—his favorite flummery with brandied cherries.
“Cook has outdone herself,” he said as a servant removed his supper plate and served dessert in small crystal dishes.
Fighting a headache, Esmée drank a cup of coffee, adding so much cream and sugar it reminded her of Kitty. Her mind was not on the meal, and it seemed her father knew it, for he regarded her thoughtfully.
“Cat got your tongue, Daughter?”
She moistened her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “We have no cat, Father.”
He chuckled as coffee was poured on his side of the too large table. Mama’s and Eliza’s places remained empty, gaping holes where laughter and talk had once been effortless. Esmée sipped from her cup without savoring the coffee.
“You’re not going to ask me about our gentleman callers?” her father asked.
Surprised, she held her cup aloft and peered at him over the rim. “Since they met with you and not me, do you care to divulge it?”
His smile seemed rueful. “Chaplain Autrey—Ned, I believe the captain calls him—came specifically to ask about you.”
“I’m flattered, but ...” The thought of him romantically was no more palatable than before. “He has since left for Indigo Island, has he not?”
“Aye, but his plan is to quit the captain’s crew and settle at Mount Autrey within a fortnight.”
“With his maiden aunts.”
“Whom you’ve met, thanks to Eliza’s roistering.”
“So far I’ve been catechized by his aunts, not courted by Chaplain Autrey.”
Her father chuckled as he plied his spoon. “The man, however latent, may well be heir to a prosperous plantation in need of a mistress.”
