thirty
Good day to you, Widow Radcliffe.” Esmée smiled and helped the bent-backed woman to the chocolate shop door with her purchases, glad for so busy a morning, as it kept her mind off the heart-pounding present. But now, with no more customers at hand, a dreadful lull ensued, though one of the indentures was singing a slightly off-key tune in the kitchen.
Esmée moved to the front window, her vista mostly gray as winter approached. The days were growing shorter, the weather crisp as a Hewes crab apple. Next door, the coffeehouse hummed, patrons enjoying fresh-pressed cider. She could smell its spiced tang through the open Dutch door. Occasionally a gentleman would cross the threshold and buy a sweet to partake of with his beverage or carry home to a wife or sweetheart.
But not Henri Lennox.
She’d not seen him since their week-old encounter in the townhouse foyer when he’d been wearing the handsome coat she’d helped pick out at Carter’s store. Though she looked for him—and his horse—about town or on the road between York and Williamsburg,he stayed hidden. The papers had ceased printing his whereabouts and business, giving rise to her belief he remained on Indigo Island.
Esmée rearranged the display window, moving chocolate pots and porcelain cups nearer the glass. Taking up a cluster of turkey feathers, she dusted, an unnecessary task, as Simon had done it just that morning. What once brought her a sense of satisfaction now turned to ashes no matter what she set her hand to. Blame it on the news heard at Eliza’s soiree. She’d hardly slept since. It wasn’t only Henri’s future she was concerned with but her own. And enacting her plan required all the courage she could muster. It might all come to naught and haunt her the rest of her life, but still she must try.
Crossing the shop to the kitchen door, she bade Molly take her place. “I must go out and shan’t return to the shop today. But Father is near should you need him.”
Molly simply smiled, used to her midday jaunts, and exchanged her soiled apron for a clean one. “I’ll gladly swap, Miss Shaw. I’m weary o’ Josiah’s singing.”
Esmée removed her own apron and reached for her cloak. Hurriedly she passed by the chocolate stones heating at the hearth and was reminded of the cocoa grinder Father spoke of getting from Boston, capable of producing one hundred pounds of chocolate in six hours. No doubt the indentures would prefer that, freeing them from kitchen labor better spent elsewhere.
Down Water Street she went on foot, then took a sharp right up the rutted road that climbed to Main Street and their residence. She stopped at the stable, telling a hand to ready her mare. Minta nickered at her voice, anticipating a ride. It gave Esmée time to go to her bedchamber and change into her riding habit.
And reconsider her foolhardy plan.
She pressed on nonetheless, boots on and plumed hat pinned tightly, glad Mrs. Mabrey hadn’t questioned her and Father was busy at the coffeehouse. He’d put a stop to her rashness at once if he found out. Yet as she turned down the lonely road that led to the almshouse, she felt an odd peace settle over her. From the top of her head to her leather soles, it seemed a cool draft of water passed through her,settling her, encouraging her, leading her. So stark was the absence of her recent turmoil that tears stung her eyes.
Was this what the Lord had for her then? This rash mission she’d undertaken in her own secret thoughts, only to be confirmed by Kitty? How was it possible to feel any peace? Yet peace was what she had. At least for the fleeting moment.
Lord, I am a foolish, lovestruck woman. Please guide me and keep me from harm.
She prodded Minta into a gallop, wanting her mission over with as soon as possible. ’Twas fortuitous Jago Wherry was getting wood in the saw lot away from the almshouse. The few men with him tipped their hats and moved away as she neared. He dropped his armload of wood as if sensing her business was with him as she reined in a few feet away. She rarely spoke with him, not since her mother was alive and they’d visited weekly. Wherry came and went as his fortunes rose and fell at the track and elsewhere.
“Good afternoon to you,” Esmée said, staying atop her horse.
“G’day, Miss Shaw.” He removed his hat, clutching its battered edges in workworn hands. “We don’t oft see you unless you’re pulling a cart full of relief.”
“No need for that of late, thankfully.” Did he know who had given the fortune to the almshouse? She took a breath, a bit winded from her ride. “I’ve come to ask something of you. A private matter.”
He took a step nearer, his features sharpening. “At your service, ma’am.”
“I want you to row me to Indigo Island.” Her gaze held his. “Stone-cold sober.”
A smile curled his thin lips. “But I’ve no boat, Miss Shaw.”
“Well, you’re clever enough to get one. And I’ll reward you handsomely for it.”
He pondered this, amusement and concern playing across his craggy face. “Ye’ve not set foot on the island before?”
“Never. ’Tis time.” Even as she spoke the confident words, she had second thoughts. She felt a bit like Eliza with such scheming.
“Does the captain know of yer coming?”
“I’d rather he not.”
“Um...” He seemed to reconsider.
“For all you know, I might be visiting Mistress Saltonstall,” she said.
“I doubt it, given she’s now on the mainland.” He returned his hat to his head and peered at the glowering sky. “A bit chancy with November well upon us. When are ye thinking of going?”
“The next fair day.”
