Their eyes met, the flickering candle between them.
“There’s a saying you may well know,” he said. “‘Let those that would learn to pray go to sea.’”
Her throat tightened. “Perhaps we should pray now that we are not long parted. Or...” A new idea bloomed, however impossible. “You could take me with you.”
“You would sail with me?”
“Rather that than be away from you, though I know women aboard are considered ill luck.”
His face took on a studied solemnity. “I’d rather you mind the light. Guide me home. Your father wants you to spend Christmas with him in Williamsburg.”
“Of course.” Eliza wouldn’t travel to York so near her confinement. Esmée and her father must go to her. The twelve days of Christmas leading to Epiphany in January were treasured by them all.
“There’s an assistant keeper—a widower and former mariner from Norfolk—who’ll stay in my cottage and spell you for your time on the mainland. George Haller.”
“I’d rather think about next Christmas.”
“Our first married Christmas, aye.” His expression brightened. “In our new home right here, Lord willing. At least what’s standing by then.”
The tick of the clock chafed, tugging at Esmée’s heart. She tried to grasp the present and savor its sweetness but already felt it slipping away like sand.
The only certainty about life was its uncertainty. Only God stayed steadfast. Only the Almighty could walk her through life’s many changes. And when she felt overwhelmed, like now, she simply had to look back to see how faithful God had been, did she not? The heartaches and closed doors of the past had made the present more beloved.
She set down her fork. “Suddenly on the eve of your departure I want a great many answers.”
“Such as?”
She pondered all she didn’t know about him or had forgotten. “Your favorite color?”
His slow smile gave her butterflies. “The green of your eyes.”
Was he ever at a loss for words? “Favorite place?”
“Other than right here, right now? Corfu off the coast of Greece.”
Father had said the same. She could only imagine the beauty. “Best memory?”
“The spring we first met.”
“Mine too.” She looked to her posy ring, her fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “Best dish?”
“My mother’s cassoulet.”
“Best holiday?”
“Christmastide.”
“Best book?”
“The Bible.” He leaned back in his chair until it groaned. “Your turn, Esmée.”
She smiled, trying not to dwell on the hands of the clock or the candles sinking lower in their holders.
“Best friend?” he asked, taking a drink.
“Kitty Hart. Other than you, that is.”
“Foremost wish?”
