“What made you seek the sea to begin with?” She was sincerely curious, but the pained look on his face told her she’d misspoken. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Nay, Miss Shaw. ’Tis an honest question that deserves an honest answer.” He stared down into his glass. “My betrothed died on the eve of our wedding. Verity was everything to me. Perhaps too much so. Idolatry, if you will. When she died I took to the sea, thinking to outrun her memory.”
“And did you?”
“Nay. But I found instead the only One worthy of worship. And Verity’s loss, while still painful, assumed its rightful place.”
Esmée stared at him, forgetting herself. Could idols be of flesh and blood like Verity, not just carved stone or wood? She pondered this, unprepared for his next words.
“You undoubtedly know where my future interests lie where you’re concerned, Miss Shaw.”
“My father told me.” Though she was well versed in resisting suitors, she still found it awkward, her palms damp. She gave an apologetic smile. “And being a forthright woman, some say a spinster, I thank you but must say I am not the wife you are desiring.”
“I appreciate your honesty.” Was it her imagination, or did his eyes twinkle? For so plain a rebuff, he weathered it well. “My fondnessfor chocolate may well have blinded me to the Lord’s leading. And your agreement.”
As if they’d orchestrated it, her sister drew near, a belle on each side of her. “Allow me to introduce Miss Carter and Miss Marriot.” Eliza was all smiles, the Drysdale tiara she wore flashing in the candlelight. “They’ve yet to meet the new resident of Mount Autrey.”
Turning her back on them, Eliza gave Esmée a piercing look. Knowing that look, Esmée followed her around the parlor’s perimeter and into an alcove half-hidden by exotic potted plants.
“The governor’s tongue has been loosed by too much punch,” Eliza whispered with vehemence, her back against the wall. “He’s been spilling details about all those closed-door meetings at the palace.”
Esmée sensed it all had to do with Henri. Would Dinwiddie’s revelations endanger his mission? She took another bracing sip of punch.
With a flutter of her fan, Eliza continued. “A declaration of war is imminent, and the battle will soon be fought by sea, not only by land. Stalwart captain that he is, Lennox will carry a letter of marque from the colonial government, acting as an ancillary of the Royal Navy.”
The sweet punch soured on Esmée’s tongue. She wanted to raise a hand to stay the words, understanding why Father had spared her the details. A grim mission indeed. “So Captain Lennox will command a vessel of war.”
Dinwiddie was rabid for war, the newspapers printed, eager to defeat France with whatever manpower was available to him. Hadn’t the irascible Scot ignited the frontier conflict by sending Colonel Washington west to begin with? She looked across the room at the governor speaking with Quinn and fellow burgesses so intently.
“But that is not all of it.” Eliza’s color was high, her voice a bit breathless. “Quinn is behaving quite strangely.”
“What means you?”
Eliza darted a look in his direction. “At the last minute he cut half the guests from the guest list. Something about vain persons and dissemblers and evildoers, all of whom are the foremost critics of Captain Lennox.”
Esmée felt a flicker of triumph. “Oh?”
“Brace yourself further.” Eliza’s fan fluttered harder. “He insists our party conclude before midnight.”
With a look at the mantel clock, Esmée said, “Your parties oft last till dawn. Perhaps he is merely concerned for you and the baby—”
“Ha! He doesn’t want to be late to Sabbath service. We haven’t missed church for weeks now. He listens raptly to every word Reverend Dawson utters. He even wants to discuss his sermons once we are home.”
“Fancy that,” Esmée said dryly.
“Of late he’s become an ardent admirer of Mr. Whitefield, the evangelist, and his writings and stance on slavery. I tell you, I have great cause for alarm.”
“Sister, if you’d told me Quinn is in his cups, had insulted Reverend Dawson, and committed adultery, that would concern me. As it stands, I can only offer you my congratulations.”
With a huff, Eliza moved on, her gown cleverly disguising the baby’s bulk, leaving Esmée alone in the alcove. She finished her punch, and a servant came to replenish it. The hour was early, only nine o’clock. Esmée looked toward the window again as a gust of wind shook the pane.
What was the captain doing on such a night?
Hunkering down by the fire, likely. Once he’d been fond of books. They’d talked of poems and plays and novels. They played cribbage. She made them both flip, which frothed into foamy waves atop blue Meissen mugs. Feet to the hearth in her father’s study, they heard the clock chime midnight many a time, but her parents said nary a word. It had been, in hindsight, the richest, most exhilarating time of her life.
If not his.
CHAPTER
