Their rims clinked, and then they each took a celebratory sip. Next he sampled the meringue, the sugary goodness melting on his tongue.
“With conditions,” he amended, hating the harsh sound of it.
“Conditions?”
“The first is that you’ll not be here alone. A maidservant must accompany you.”
“I know just the one from the almshouse.”
“You’ll be relieved every six weeks by an assistant, giving you leave to return to the mainland for a few days.”
“Fair enough.” Her posture seemed to relax, and she sat back in her chair, wine glass in hand, meringue in her lap.
“You’ll keep a detailed log to be given to me or to colonial authorities upon request.”
She listened, looking thoughtful.
“Your wages will be a hundred fifty pounds a year, payable in silver ingots or pieces of eight. Your preference.”
She merely nodded pleasantly.
“And you’ll prepare yourself for the onslaught of gossip that will ensue once the mainland gets word you’re ensconced as lightkeeper here by the man who was once your would-be husband.”
Her eyes flared, not at the mention of gossip, he guessed, but his calling out their former intimacy.
“Not only that, but a man who is even now awaiting orders of a letter of marque and who will be your nearest neighbor till that happens.”
She took a bite of meringue, which slowed her reply. “Let them say what they will. I care not.”
“Spoken like an admiral’s daughter.” He savored his Madeira and this rare moment. The look on her face bespoke a sudden hesitation. Had he alarmed her with such plain speaking?
“You’re not appointing me to the position because my father is admiral or—” She wavered, groping for the words he already knew hovered on her tongue.
“Because I feel guilt or some sort of indebtedness to you because of our former impasse?” At her pained nod, he removed all doubt. “Nay. Your father as admiral doesn’t hurt your cause, but you are entirely capable of keeping the light, come what may. I have no qualms on that account.”
“Nor do I,” she replied, a new gleam in her eye, lifting her glass in another toast.
CHAPTER
thirty-three
Henri’s firm nay removed any doubt Esmée had about why he was appointing her lightkeeper. Still, her suddenly shifting world made her a little light-headed, which had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with his proximity and her new position.
She, the lady lightkeeper of Indigo Island.
She’d expected some naysaying. An outright refusal. As if to ground herself, she touched the tiny silver lighthouse on her chatelaine beneath the folds of her cloak.
“May I see my future quarters?” she asked when they’d finished their refreshments.
“Of course. Right this way.”
Out they went, her spirit and step more buoyant than when she’d arrived. The path connecting his cottage to the light and her quarters had recently been scattered with shells. Their footsteps crunched as they walked it, a distance mercifully short.
Or brow-raisingly brief.
If the wags got wind of it ... She shuttered the thought and followed him, eyes on his broad back until she laid eyes on her newhome.Home.’Twas not as she imagined it. ’Twas even better. Made of rubblestone and brick, the lighthouse shot into the sky some one hundred sixty feet high, its foundation staked into the ground with iron spikes. But ’twas the cottage that called to her. Quaint. Well-built. Its door and windows seemed almost in miniature, especially when the captain ducked beneath the lintel, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe.
Once they were in the main room—the parlor—her gaze was everywhere at once. The cold hearth that begged for a warm fire vied for her attention, along with the simple furnishings that bespoke exotic ports. All was masculine and spare, something she would enjoy making her own. She’d put curtains at the windows and bring over a few of her treasured belongings to start.
