He did so, noticing all the little things she’d done to make the cottage hers. Over the hearth hung a landscape painting of a garden in bloom, while a smaller painting of her father’s last ship rested on the mantel.
He leaned in to get a closer look. “A remarkable likeness of theIndefatigable.”
“Mama painted it for him shortly before she died. ’Twas the great love of his life after her.”
He added another log to the fire, thinking how cozy the cottage was compared to his own quarters. “Your mother was very gifted. And I’m sure very missed.”
“Always.” She returned to her knitting, her movements smooth and sure. “The oil landscape was in my York bedchamber. I’ve a fondness for gardens. Cook has a kitchen garden at our townhouse, but I’ve always dreamed of flowers. This painting gave me a little of what I lacked.”
“In summer you’ll find rose mallow, goldenrod, and wildflowers on the island.”
“I’ve in mind roses, lavender, and larkspur. Even my favorite, sweet peas—the new variety of painted lady in particular. They symbolize goodbye, adieu, bon voyage.”
“Don’t remind me,” he replied.
She eyed him in surprise, needles stilling.
“I’d rather remain and build you a wall to enclose your garden. Protect it from the wind.”
“I can’t imagine you doing something so small. Not when you’ve seen the gardens of Versailles and the Alhambra.”
“Mayhap it’s because I’ve seen them that my true north is now home.”
“And is Indigo Island your home? Can you be content to live on an island so small?”
“My life has already been enlarged by your coming here, Esmée.”
“You flatter me.” Her needles picked up again, faster than before. “’Tis been but two days.”
“The best days I’ve spent.” Reaching out, he took her nearest hand, the yarn falling to her aproned lap. “I have no desire to sail.”
“But has it not been decided?” She clutched his hand, her eyes sharp with intensity.
“I’ve a letter of marque and reprisal, aye.” He continued to hold her hand and her gaze. “We could sail at any time now. We merely await word from Williamsburg.”
And what a cruise it would be. An all-out battle. The potential loss of his ship, his crew, his life. He couldn’t recount the close calls he’d had previously, both aboard ship and in foreign ports. Then, he hadn’t half reckoned with the danger, but now...
“Imminent, then.” She looked to the fire as it sputtered and hissed. “When once I had you not at all, even a little of you now is heaven-sent. Every second.”
“Now you flatter me.” His smile summoned her own. “But in truth, I feel the same.”
They sat in sweet silence save for her knitting till a clock with a musical chime struck six. She was the first out of her chair, gathering her cloak and gloves. He held the door open, and they went out into moonlight and silence.
What he wanted was to gather her in his arms.
CHAPTER
thirty-nine
Esmée was far more aware of Henri than the task at hand. Up the steep stairs they went, his lantern throwing low light in the tower. The first time she’d climbed she’d been slightly winded, but now she hardly noticed. At the top she watched as he hung the lantern from a hook near the giant compass lamp, which held twenty-four lights.
“I’ve received confirmation our light can be seen by telescope from three leagues away.”
Our light.How sweet the sound. They began to kindle each candle, and the tower was soon ablaze. When Henri was away, she’d have charge of them all. Red leather fire buckets filled with sand and water were at floor level. A tinderbox and brass candlesnuffer lay in a tray near at hand, a second lantern alongside it. Plenty of light to read by if the tower wasn’t so cold. In summer she might bring a book.
Once the candles were illuminated, they stood by the glass facing the Atlantic. This was their ambition realized, a lighthouse for treacherous shoals and shifting sandbars, a warning of the infamous middle ground that marked Chesapeake Bay. No telling how many ships and lives had been lost there, casting crew and cargo into the deep.
And now she had a small part in it all.
