“I wonder if he will come. He was always at sea when we were small. I don’t know how Mama managed it. Writing letters perpetually to some port that were rarely answered.”
“Not a port. Ascension Island. I found an entire box of letters sealed with red wax from Father after Mama died, remember. All lovingly perused.”
Sadness shaded Eliza’s finely molded features. “Would that we had Mama instead.”
They turned down a brick walkway that led past a grand magnolia tree to the Cheverton townhouse. A butler in livery opened the door before they’d set foot on the first step, greeting them and then sending to the kitchen for tea at Eliza’s request.
Esmée left her lace purchase and straw hat in the foyer and followed Eliza into a newly refurbished parlor of Egyptian blue overlooking the rear garden. They sat, and a tea table between them was soon laid with the latest creamware tea service.
Eliza was unusually subdued. “Father’s last exploits were the death of Mama.”
Esmée didn’t care to dwell on it. Many years had passed sincethey fled the pirate’s den of Rhode Island, exchanging Block Island for York’s sandy shores. Something nefarious had sent them south, with Father’s northern enemies determined to lay him low. Escaping their net, he’d begun anew in Virginia, a respected admiral turned shipbuilder, merchant, tax assessor, and founding member of Grace Church.
Not the scourge of merchant vessels sailing the trade routes of the Spanish Main.
“Do you ever wonder why Father turned to privateering after so illustrious a naval career?” Eliza whispered.
Tea was brought, delaying Esmée’s answer.
“Hyson or imperial?” her sister asked.
“Hyson with cream, please.” Esmée looked out the window, where the last summer irises bent beneath the rising wind. The tea’s delicate fragrance, usually soothing, failed to relieve. “Father’s very lifeblood is salt water.”
Eliza leaned in conspiratorially. “Speaking of maritime matters, there’s tittle-tattle floating about that a certain sea captain has returned to Virginia.”
Esmée felt a slight tremor as she lifted her cup. “Father said the same.”
“Does that upset you? Your hand is shaking.” Eliza’s concern only elevated Esmée’s unease. “I thought perhaps after so many years, you’d all but yawn at the mention of his name.”
Yawn? Rather, yowl. “Henri Lennox remains a conundrum, then and now.”
“Who is the captain anyway?” Eliza mused. “Respected privateer ... or pirate?”
Esmée lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “’Tis ever been a puzzle separating pirates from privateers. People have a terrible thirst for gossip and believe the worst.”
“I’ll not align with his enemies and call him a pirate but rather a respected privateer and former commissioned officer of the Royal Navy.” Eliza’s hand slipped to her middle as if her maternity stays were laced too tightly. “Tell me again why you two parted. The detailsescape me after so long. All I can remember is the both of you being absolutely besotted.”
Besotted.The word, once sweet, now seemed laughable.
“He chose the sea—his captaincy and ship—over me.” Esmée took a silver spoon and stirred sugar into her cup. “And I could not conscience being left behind on shore.”
“No doubt our family history has some bearing on your very messy parting. With Father away at sea so much, we hardly knew him. Mama was more widow. We seemed rather fatherless except we never lacked a thing. Even now, deeply involved in colonial maritime affairs, he is a riddle, always on the go and remarkably closemouthed.”
Esmée knew firsthand her father’s long silences—rife with unspoken regrets, she’d often thought—and the surprising recent words he did utter.
“You were in love once.”
Even now, a sennight later, the words clung to her like pitch.
Desperate for a distraction, Esmée looked about the lovely parlor still smelling of fresh milk paint. Eliza’s redecorating had no end. “I fear Father is missing Mama more rather than less as time goes by. Lately he seems especially restless. Preoccupied.”
Eliza’s alarmed eyes pinned her over the rim of her Sevres cup. “’Tis almost October, the month Mama passed. Surely that is the reason.”
Was it?
Esmée forced a smile, more undone by Eliza’s rare discomfiture than Father’s moods. “Perhaps the Lightfoot pleasure ball is just the antidote for us all.”
CHAPTER
