“Bonny names, both. Fit for a child with a silver rattle.”
A silver rattle and an entire nursery overflowing with London-imported toys suited for a growing boy. Carved wooden soldiers and horses but no dolls. Balls and peg games but no miniature tea sets.
“I hope to have a babe o’ my own someday.” Lucy grew wistful.“Now that I’m away from the almshouse I might stand a better chance. Is it wrong, d’ye think, to pray for a husband? Does the Almighty care about such?”
“Indeed He does.” Esmée gave a reassuring smile. “Remember Adam and Eve? ’Twas not good for man to be alone, and so God made a helpmeet.”
“Glad I am of it, but I want to see ye wed first. Ye’ve waited so long and now have to wait longer still.” A smile suffused Lucy’s pockmarked features. “I suppose I’ll soon be calling ye Mistress Lennox.”
Yawning, Esmée stoked her bedchamber fire, then drew a chair nearer the heat and light of the hearth. A small leather sea chest, painted blue with flower medallions, was at her feet. She lifted the lid, releasing the scent of ambergris. Had Henri sealed his letters with perfumed sealing wax? The French were noted for such.
Her heart did a little dance as she bent nearer, breathing in the unique scent. Mounds of letters, stark white against the red seals made with Henri’s signet ring, were a testament of his missing her. Each bore her name on the outside, penned in his unmistakable hand. She’d savored a dozen or so, each like the richest dessert.
She reached down and picked up an unopened one. Brought it close and breathed it in before breaking the brittle, fragrant seal.
19th April 1749
Dearest Esmée,
Four years. We have not spoken nor seen each other, yet you still seem nearer to me than the sea I sail upon. For all I know you have chosen another who, I am certain, is not a mariner. No matter our past, I choose to remember the good, for there was much of it in hindsight, if not the misspent words between us at the last...
CHAPTER
fifty-one
Esmée stood before the looking glass of her cottage bedchamber, donning her cape before venturing out. Lucy was busy making bread in the kitchen, the earthy yeast scent promising a fresh loaf for supper.
“Yer going for a walk, mistress?” she called, waving a flour-covered hand.
“The sun calls for it after so much dreary weather. But our rain barrels are full at least,” Esmée replied. “I shan’t be long. I’ve letters to write and embroidery to finish.”
Bidding her goodbye, Esmée stepped from the shuttered cottage into bright noon sunlight. The snow had melted as January progressed, the wind banished with it. She sensed spring. Or was it only her woolgathering about her coming wedding?
With a last look at the lighthouse, she turned her back on it and began a slow walk to the beach. The tide was out, the water so flat it looked like a painted blue floor. She breathed in the salt air, thankful the time they’d been back on the island had seen no tempests nor foundering ships.
Her thoughts skipped forward, drawing her to the boundary stones. They were just as she and Henri had left them. She walkedthe perimeter now, envisioning the parlor and hall, the staircase leading to bedchambers and the upper portico. They’d decided the most basic details. Potomac River sandstone. Gambrel roof. Milk-paint walls. Balustraded verandas like those Henri favored in the Caribbean that tempered summer’s heat.
She took in the view they’d have from the front of the finished house. A lone sloop sailed into her line of sight, relying on the current instead of the wind and heading toward York. She missed town not a whit. Solitude suited her just as society suited Eliza.
She walked back onto the beach, eyes on the sand, the smallest of breezes stirring her petticoats. Father always said the best shelling happened at low tide after a storm. The tide was now turning, the sea coming a little closer. Spying something purple, she bent and shook the sand from a pansy shell, as Mama called them—or mermaid coins, said Father. It was round and white with a petal design on top. Sadly, Eliza had never shared her love of shelling.
Esmée walked in the direction of her cottage, wishing it were warm enough to remove her shoes. For a time she forgot all about winter, lost in the pleasure of the beach. A few shells later, she all but ran back home, as carefree as a child. Into the parlor she went, the warmth of the hearth nearly suffocating after her outing. Three loaves of bread sat on the kitchen table. Had she been away so long?
Lucy’s expectant face greeted her, a dab of flour on her chin. “What have ye there, Miss Shaw?”
“Treasures of the deep.” Esmée held out a conch shell, pink and glossy. “If you place it to your ear you can hear the sea.”
Lucy did so, eyes wide. “I do, aye!”
Esmée held up another shell. “Look at this scallop, orange as a persimmon.”
“The mantel looks magical with so many shells.” Lucy set the conch, the largest of them all, on one end. “Whilst ye were away, two of Captain Lennox’s crew rowed here from the tavern. The peg-legged Tomkins and an African.”
“I’m sorry I missed them,” Esmée replied, removing her cape. “Is all well on the island’s opposite end?”
“Tomkins said his old bones foretell a tempest.”
“A tempest?” Seasoned mariners were often able to predict the weather. Esmée was doubly glad for her beachcombing ahead of rough seas. “Two of the most able-bodied men will be quartering in the captain’s cottage come any storms. Captain’s orders.”
