Was solitude as dear to him as it was to her? “Can you retire to your cabin and just be alone?”
“Rarely.” His voice held a hint of pathos. “But mark my word, when I do I’ll be thinking of you.”
CHAPTER
forty-three
Back in the lightkeeper’s cottage, Esmée and Lucy began preparing refreshments. Father and Henri were in the front parlor talking by the hearth. Scraps of conversation drifted to her as she placed cups in saucers and fetched spoons and sugar. Her father preferred gunpowder tea. Henri’s choice was chocolate.
Her father had brought them several high-quality bricks. His silver pocket grater rested on the table, and she used it to shave some of the cocoa into warm milk, added sugar, and whisked it into a froth with a molinillo. Tasting it, she made a face. Had they vanilla? A few steps to the larder made all the difference. Not only vanilla but cinnamon, nutmeg, and star anise too.
Father’s voice held the authority of his admiralty of old. “Here are more details concerning your mission from the governor...”
A rustle of papers. Henri made some remark she couldn’t decipher. She carried in the tray, set it down, and served them. Henri’s appreciation was not lost on her as he set the papers aside and took his cup. Her father poured tea into his saucer as was his custom, while she took a third chair nearest the fire and sipped her own.
Henri winked. “You do realize I’m marrying you for your cocoa making.”
“I did wonder,” she replied with a smile. “Shaw’s Chocolate makes a delicious dowry.”
Her father’s pleasure was palpable. “Now that I’m aware your courtship has commenced, I shall be unstinting with our cocoa. As it stands, I made sure the galley holds a hefty supply since there’ll be no visiting the premier cocoa growers in the Caribbean on this voyage.”
“Nay.” Henri stared into the fire, dark brows knit together like thread stitched too tight. “We’ll bear away to the north, off the Virginia capes.”
The pause that ensued was onerous, and Esmée felt a sudden, swift terror. She looked to a sleet-streaked windowpane that reminded her of their slippery walk to the light but an hour before, wishing someone—something—would intervene and prevent Henri’s going.
Henri’s gaze shifted to Esmée. Firelight played across her serene features, but he detected a shadow beneath. The looming cruise made a dismal backdrop to the evening.
“When shall you put to sea?” she asked, pulling her gaze from the window to meet his.
He gestured to the papers. “’Tis likely in Dinwiddie’s correspondence ... which I am in no hurry to read.”
Her slight smile assured him not a whit. They’d not discussed the future in depth except in the vaguest terms. The sea had driven a wedge between them years before. Would it again?
The admiral finished his tea, and Esmée poured him more, trailing that telltale rose scent that had been his delight and undoing in the night. Though theIntrepidsat at anchor just offshore, its wintry decks fit for skating, this was not the time to broach the onerous task before him. He’d rather talk Christmas and weddings. But for the admiral—
“You do understand, Daughter, the critical nature of your betrothed’s mission.”
Esmée surprised Henri with her swift answer. “Intercept Frenchsupply ships en route to Scotia and their militias fighting on the western frontier.”
Henri nodded, unwillingly drawn into the conversation. “Specifically, intercept and capture the fleet that bears three thousand French regulars en route to North American posts, along with a number of officers.”
The admiral took another sip from his saucer. “Beware the newly launchedRaisonable, a sixty-four-gun ship of the line and the pride of the French navy. Rather, be wary of Admiral Comte du Bois de la Motte and Pierre de Salvert.” He rattled off the French names with admirable flair.
Esmée looked from her father to Henri again, her chin raised in a bid to be resolute. But he knew better. The admiral, however, enjoyed nothing more than discussing ships, strategy, and the coming conflict.
Henri shrugged. “One maneuvers. One encounters. One fires cannon. Then each of the two fleets retires and the ocean is as salt as ever, so the French navy says.”
Though a low rumbling laugh built in the admiral’s chest, Esmée’s eyes glittered. “I shall fetch you more chocolate.”
The sudden clutch in his belly was more ache. Admiral Shaw continued his tea drinking. The mantel clock struck seven, and at last Esmée returned to the parlor, looking more composed than when she’d left and bearing an entire chocolate pot.
To Henri’s surprise—and relief—the admiral set down his empty cup with a yawn. “I shall leave you two lovebirds alone and retire to bed and dream of my seafaring days.”
“Good night, Father.” Esmée kissed him on the cheek. “’Tis a bit slippery tonight. Mind your step.”
He went out, carrying a lantern, while she resumed her place by the fire.
“To our future,” Henri said, lifting his cup and wanting to take the worry from her face. “‘And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”
