“Mayhap. For now there’s enough crew remaining behind for a guard as well as an ample supply of powder and munitions. Your safety is essential and as assured as I can make it.”
She squeezed his callused fingers. “If only I could ensure your own success, your well-being. If anything happens to you—”
“Nay, Esmée.” He had hold of her hand more firmly now, and she seemed to lean into his strength. “God alone is our refuge. Our guide.”
CHAPTER
forty-four
Frost hardened the ground during the night, widening winter’s icy grip. By the time Esmée ate her tea and toast, the sun had made a tentative appearance, a boon for the planned frolic at hand. Her heart gave an expectant leap only to fall like a stone at her next thought.
Henri’s sailing was imminent.
Lucy began clearing the table, her usual query less cheery. “Did ye sleep well, mistress?”
Esmée set her cup down and stifled a yawn. “Excitement is a poor bedfellow, I’m afraid.”
“I slept nary a wink myself, so I up and pressed yer gown and brushed yer cape, but unless it rains ye mayn’t have need of it. Yer gown is too fetching to cover up.”
“And your gown, Lucy?” In the rush, Esmée hadn’t considered Lucy’s attire. Did she even have a best dress?
The gentle query still left Lucy shamefaced. “I sold all I had to keep out of the almshouse but still ended up there.”
“Well, we must send theIntrepidoff royally, and I have just the gown for you.” Esmée got up from the table and went to her bedchamber.“With your pale hair and skin, you’ll look especially fetching in rose.”
A trunk had her best gowns folded within. She’d not even thought to air them properly. The desired dress was at the bottom, lustrous and full, a gift from Eliza. Lucy was slender, and it likely needed alteration, something they could manage hurriedly with a few discreet pins. When she brought the garment to the kitchen, Lucy gasped.
“Fit for royalty, Miss Shaw, not for a girl from the almshouse!” Flushing, Lucy looked to her soiled apron. “Reminds me of the tale my mother told when I was small, complete with a fairy godmother, a pumpkin, and a glass slipper.”
“Ah, the French fairy taleCendrillon. In truth, you are the King’s daughter, and ’tis all that matters.” Smiling, Esmée smoothed a bold wrinkle that cried for ironing. “I want it to be yours.”
Tears came to Lucy’s eyes. For a girl so young, she’d endured much and hadn’t yet lost the shadow of the almshouse.
“Best heat the iron to press it,” Esmée encouraged. “I cannot wait to see you in it.”
Lucy set the iron in the hearth near the flame. “Now, Miss Shaw, we must see to yer hair. No powder, to be sure. Spirals and a bit o’ silk ribbon instead.”
“Papillote curls?” They were Eliza’s favorite. “I’ve some tissue paper and a pinching iron.”
Lucy came alive in a way she never did when porridge making and pot scrubbing. “Captain Lennox will call ye his beautiful bride-to-be ...ma belle.”
So, she’d overheard the endearment.
Lord, let me hear it for always.
Henri had prayed for clement weather. Taken a frigid bath in a discreet cove. Donned his best suit of clothes. Forgotten breakfast. The empty jab to his ribs followed by a fierce rumbling reminded him of the celebratory feast to come.
“Have you any qualms, Captain, about your mission?” his newsea chaplain asked him as they stood on the Flask and Sword’s porch moments before the frolic was underway.
“Qualms?” Henri looked to theIntrepid, now at anchor offshore. “At five and twenty I would have been at sixes and sevens. At five and thirty I’m simply wanting it done.”
“Splendid. Life’s tragedy is that we get old too soon and wise too late, as Mr. Franklin said.” Richard adjusted his cocked hat. “As for myself, I am in the prime of senility.”
Henri smiled, appreciating his wit. It boded well for the coming voyage. His crew, old and new, was assembling. The festive air was undeniable. Cyprian had raided the slops chest again from all appearances, earning more than a few back slaps and guffaws. Henri and Richard entered the tavern and stood by the hearth, which glowed red-hot with burls of pine.
His sea chaplain removed his hat. “’Tis your lady, sir.”
The hush that descended was akin to when a ship was sighted, that breathless, defining moment that determined friend or foe, all hands held captive. Henri stood taller, hands fisted behind his back as Esmée crossed the tavern’s threshold with her father. He took her in, from her curled head to her buttery silk dress to her slippered feet. Her hair was woven with ribbon, curls cascading to the shoulders of her gown. A short, fur-lined cape covered her bodice. He spied pearls and shoes with gilt buckles.
