“Coming,” Esmée replied, pulling a shawl about her shoulders and pinning it in place with a crystal brooch.
The warmth of the kitchen was like an embrace, the hearth’s robust fire making the teakettle sing. At the table were bowls of steaming porridge and a small pot of cream, bread and butter, and peach preserves.
“Good morning, Lucy.” Esmée sat down, glad she’d brought over some of Mama’s beloved porcelain china.
“And a beautiful morn it is.” The maid sat down across from Esmée and poured them tea.
Stifling a yawn, Esmée took in the red-checkered gingham tablecloth spread with care and the shell centerpiece, her stomach rumbling. “I overslept without meaning to.”
“Ye look refreshed. Sweet dreams, mayhap?”
“Aye, very sweet.” She took a breath. “You shall be the first to know ... Captain Lennox and I are to wed.”
Lucy’s mouth popped open, her eyes round as saucers. “When, mistress?”
“As soon as he returns from his next cruise.”
“Oh, glad news indeed! Shall ye marry here on the island? The beach perhaps, or the deck of his ship?”
Esmée reached for the preserves, delighted by all the possibilities. “I haven’t given it much thought.”
Joy seemed to sit at the table with them, the sunshine a benevolent guest as it streamed across the table, illuminating gilt-edged cups and saucers. Unhindered by clouds, the sky beyond the kitchen window was as blue as the ocean below it.
“And yer gown, Miss Shaw?”
Esmée pondered it. She’d brought mostly serviceable garments, leaving all but two of her most costly gowns behind. “Perhaps the Spitalfields silk with the matching shoes I brought. And pearls.”
“And yer bouquet?” Lucy, obviously schooled to weddings despite her humble station, looked perplexed.
“Seagrass and shells, perhaps?”
They laughed, trying to take the unexpected in.
“Ye’ll need a bride’s cake and a groom’s cake. I’m guessing that French chef of the captain’s could concoct something special.”
“I should hope.” Esmée sipped her tea, sure it was more likely Cyprian who drew Lucy than cake. “For now we’ll keep the news between us two. Anticipate a special occasion.”
Lucy’s eyes shone with delight in a way they’d never done at the almshouse. “A frolic is most welcome, especially on the heels of a wedding.”
An island wedding as opposed to one at Grace Church or the Shaws’ formal parlor. Eliza might never forgive her, but Father would understand. A memorable wedding it would be with a crew of sailors as guests, perhaps even Hermes.
“We’ve much to look forward to. Glad I am to have such a capable young woman by my side to help me,” Esmée said with gratitude, and Lucy flushed.
Breakfast done, Lucy set off to get milk from the Flask and Sword’s lone cow while Esmée betook herself to the captain’s cottage, comfortably close to her own. The shutters weren’t closed, nor was the door locked.
Was Henri asleep?
She pushed open the cottage door, and there she found her beloved in a chair by the hearth. Even at rest he emanated an immense vitality she found irresistible. His hair was unkempt as if he’d run his hands through it, his still form draped by a woolen blanket.
She shut the door soundlessly and tiptoed to him, her heart on tiptoe as well.
CHAPTER
forty-one
Atrace of perfumed soap brought Henri to his senses. Lavender? Nay, rose.Esmée.Her very essence. His limbs were heavy, his eyes closed. Fragments of their time in the tower washed over him like storm-tossed flotsam.
Was he dreaming again?
