by Laura Frantz
They’d be fashionably tardy, at best.
2
They rode down the long, puddled avenue of Palace Street, past catalpa trees and townhouses winking with candlelight. Noble’s eyes were drawn to the Palace lanthorn aglow atop the flat, balustrade roof at the end of the grassy avenue. All sorts of conveyances were drawing up before the governor’s residence, though none as fine as the coach he rode beside. Painted a rich cream with scenes of the four seasons on its panels, the vehicle was drawing notice. Noble hadn’t seen its equal anywhere in the colonies.
Whatever his faults, Miles Roth had good taste. Expensive taste. This contraption, with its German steel springs, hardly gave a lurch as it glided north. No matter how disappointed she was at her ill-timed escort, the coach wouldn’t add to Elisabeth Lawson’s dismay. Though the curtains were drawn and he couldn’t hear past the staccato clip of horse hooves, he could well imagine the scene playing out inside. Lady Elisabeth’s maid had been as displeased to see him as her ladyship had been surprised.
Standing in his stirrups, he cast a look back over his shoulder in the direction of the Raleigh Tavern. He’d head there as soon as he could excuse himself. For now, the black edges of the humid night weighted him on every side. He much preferred a new day kindling at the rim of the horizon, suffusing storefronts and gabled roofs and fragrant Williamsburg gardens with soft light. Night reminded him of what he’d lost. Even this night seemed a tad melancholy, pressured and rushed and filled to the brim with unwanted obligations. To push the shadows back he rehearsed what he knew of the young woman in the coach in case he had to converse.
Pretty in a pale sort of way, Elisabeth Lawson had handled the news of her fiancé’s tardiness with grace. Likely she’d had a great deal of practice. Although this was the first time Noble had acted as her escort, the joke round town was that Miles Roth had pressed all sorts of cohorts into similar service, as if by sending other men in his stead, he hoped she’d become smitten with one of them. Well, just this once he’d play the fool and attend the ball at Henry’s request. He couldn’t deny that when spirits flowed freely, tongues were loosed and the Patriots had plenty to gain. But ’twas the last time he’d undertake such hazardous duty.
Since leaving his lodgings at the Raleigh, he’d petitioned Providence all the way that Lady Elisabeth not press about the real reason for Miles Roth’s delay. Noble wouldn’t lie. Delayed seemed the safest term, though easily swayed to his own pleasure was more like it. Dice in hand, Miles seemed to live and breathe the motto gilded over the tavern’s Apollo Room mantel: Hilaritas sapientiae et bonae vitae proles. Jollity, the offspring of wisdom and good living.
He doubted Patrick Henry had trouble muddling Miles’s senses with draughts and spirits. But tonight of all nights his wayward cousin was not only gambling but keeping a willing woman waiting, sure to rile both Governor Dunmore and Lady Elisabeth’s powerful father. Noble felt at sea himself, having shed his mourning garb after long months of shunning society, about to attend a ball that was as appetizing as last week’s she-crab soup. He craved the tranquility of Ty Mawr farther down Quarterpath Road. The abundance of sated laughter and raucous talk emerging from the Governor’s Palace tainted the lovely night. Betimes Williamsburg was a boil that needed lancing.
Elisabeth shifted on the velvet cushion of the coach seat, glad the utter blackness hid her tense features. Yet she knew Isabeau sensed her turmoil, just as plainly as she sensed her maid’s. It seemed to ooze and roil in the close air between them.
“Your pink feathers are ruffled, no?” Isabeau murmured, her rapid French laced with alarm. “Your intended should be ashamed! Tardy for his betrothal ball!”
“’Tis not Miles Roth I’m thinking about,” Elisabeth confessed, “but him.”
“Monsieur Rynallt? Oui, oui, he has finally come out of mourning.”
“’Twould appear so,” Elisabeth replied dryly.
In the coach’s heated confines, Isabeau swished her fan. “A great many belles at the ball will be smiling even if you are not. I simply wish that he did not look so much like a scoundrel.”
“Scoundrel?” Elisabeth peered at her maid through the darkness. “That is not how I would describe him.”
“No?” Isabeau’s voice pitched. She was all but wringing her hands. “He is—how do you say it? A rascal? A rogue? Swarthy as a buccaneer with his dark looks. Some say he has more gypsy blood than Welsh.”
“How is it that you know so much about him?” The question seemed silly. Isabeau knew nearly everyone in and about Williamsburg. Her pride was in taking the pulse of the place.
“There is plenty of tittle-tattle about town.”
“Can you not find something good, then, to say in his behalf?”
“Oui, oui!” Isabeau pursed her lips in thought. “The hospitality of Ty Mawr is well known. No one who comes a-begging is turned away. Not only that, the maids at the Raleigh say Monsieur Rynallt is the very best patron they have, tipping so generously.”
Elisabeth snapped her fan open, stirring the too-warm air. “I’m not interested in his benevolence but his politics.”
“His politics?” Isabeau’s voice fell to a disgruntled whisper. “He is one of the Independence Men, you mean.”
The words Independence Men, oft uttered like an oath by her father, now returned to Elisabeth like a thunderclap, as did something equally ominous that fought its way to the forefront of her memory. “He’s also a dissenter and no longer comes to church.”
“Not your church, no? He is a Pi—Pe—”
“Presbyterian?” She knew as little about that as Isabeau. There was but one church, according to her father. The Church of England. Her fan fluttered harder. “Perhaps I should have refused his offer of escort. But I was caught so unawares.”
“Oh la vache!” Isabeau’s voice climbed. “I have no words! Think on it, mistress. You coming in on the arm of not Monsieur Roth, your intended, but a—a—”
“An independence-loving, church-shunning radical,” Elisabeth said, then amended, “There are plenty of that sort in Williamsburg these days.”
“Your papa—he will be enraged, no?”
“Indeed.” Elisabeth paused, a tiny tendril of amusement taking root. “But I think Mama would be pleased.”
“Oui. But your dear mere is not here.”
Elisabeth took a steadying breath. “I’d plead illness, but this ball has been planned for months. Lady Charlotte is acting in my mother’s stead. Her girls are to be my bridesmaids . . .”
The coach rolled to a gentle stop, and the remaining words went unsaid. The Palace entrance was bustling despite the rain, the humid air thick with aromas from the kitchen. She could hear the sweet trill of violins. An undeniable spark of excitement pulsed on the heavy June air, even if it wasn’t her own. Before her shoe struck the first coach step, Elisabeth determined to play her part to secure her future, regardless of her feelings.
Noble’s prayer for a discreet entrance to the Palace’s festivities was answered. At the precise moment he and Lady Elisabeth stepped into the flower-strewn entry, a woman swooned at the far end of the ballroom, and several liveried footmen rushed to her rescue. Every eye was fixed on the ailing Lady Grey, and Noble simply guided Elisabeth Lawson by the elbow into the midst of the glittering assembly. A first minuet was struck, and they moved onto the polished parquet floor with the other dancers as if they’d been there from the first.
She looked up at him, her intelligent eyes assessing, a relieved pleasure pinking her powdered features as if he was—dare he think it?—some sort of hero. When she looked away from him, his eyes traced the delicate oval of her face, noting every detail. A dimple in her left cheek, visible even without a smile. Darkly arched brows. Aquiline nose. Remarkably blue eyes. Smooth white shoulders sloped down to an elaborately embroidered gown that seemed to catch the light of every candle.
She hardly looked besmirched, yet she was. Not only by her rake of a fiancé but by he himself and his less than
honorable intentions squiring her. Beside her he felt less than gallant, using her ladyship for political purposes, though his cause was noble enough.
Though he hadn’t danced in what seemed a decade, she made the reacquaintance almost effortless. A discarded memory pulled at him and fell into place. Lady Elisabeth was the same woman he’d seen with Lord Dunmore’s daughters in the royal gardens not long ago, trying to master the steps of some complicated country dance. He remembered her laugh, not high and flutelike as he thought it would be, but throaty and rich as a violoncello. The dancing master had not been amused, he remembered, when he and his fellow burgesses had slowed to watch as they left a meeting at the Palace.
Her eyes were no longer on him but swept the room restlessly. She was looking for Miles Roth, obviously, and he felt curiously let down. His cousin deserved a sound thrashing for his wayward ways. If only Miles was made of sterner stuff, immune to Henry’s wiles. Yet Patriots like him and Henry relied on Miles’s weaknesses to strengthen their own cause. Still, Noble’s own part in the scheme sat uneasily.
He was suddenly aware of a great many eyes upon them now, for a great many reasons. Without prior arrangement, without forethought, the two of them were the only wigless, unpowdered people in the room. And her lovely gown with its avalanche of lace was a perfect foil for the dark ribbed silk of his suit. For the moment they seemed to be creating as much a stir as Miles’s absence and Noble’s own unannounced end to mourning.
By the time Miles finally entered, the shimmering ice sculptures had begun swimming in crystal punch bowls in the adjoining supper room, and the spun sugar frosting on the enormous tiered cake had succumbed to a slow melt. One look at him and Noble knew someone had had to pry the dice from Miles’s hand to get him here. In his yellow satin suit, he looked like a giant honeybee, a port stain splotched across his waistcoat, his stock askew. Noble felt a blistering embarrassment for Elisabeth Lawson.
Duty bound, he squired her about the crowded edges of the ballroom to Miles’s side, struck by the horrendously incompatible picture they made. She so pure and genteel, his cousin debauched and half drunk.
It seemed a grim prediction of their future.
Before Elisabeth could recover her manners and thank him, Noble Rynallt had turned his back on them and made his way to the knot of gentlemen near an open window. He slid through the perspiring summer crowd—no easy task, given the crush of three hundred people in attendance. She watched him go with a mixture of relief and regret.
At his exit, her father was soon at her elbow, looking down at her. To the casual observer he seemed unruffled, but she knew better. “I’d thought to see you here long before now.”
The stern words were directed at her, not her intended, as if she was somehow to blame for both Miles’s tardiness and her own.
“My apologies, sir.” Miles reached up a hand to straighten his stock, eyes roving the overwarm room. “I was detained.”
At least Miles had the gumption to speak for her. Whatever his faults, he was one of the few men not cowed by her father. He was, for better or worse, unapologetically . . . Miles.
Elisabeth looked in dismay at the deep purple stain blooming on his chest, the hue of Noble Rynallt’s impeccable attire. Moving in front of Miles, she reached out a gloved hand and drew his suit coat closed with a steel-cut button, hiding the offending mark.
His voice held a trace of tenderness. “Ah, m’lady, always looking out for me.”
She softened at the unexpected words. Aware of her father’s scrutiny, she resisted the urge to tuck in a strand of fair hair falling free of Miles’s wig. Truly, yellow was not a good color on him. He looked washed out, a wastrel. Had he no valet? Once they’d wed she’d help manage his wardrobe with suitable shades.
“I suppose we should dance,” he finally murmured, eyeing the crowd.
Her father looked on as a Scotch reel was struck, as lively as the minuet had been sedate.
Once in Miles’s arms she was overcome by the distillation of sweat, snuff, and spirits. He moved a bit wildly, limbs loosened by too much port.
Through the melee of whirling, swirling dancers, Noble Rynallt’s face stayed steadfast. Now standing near the supper room doors, he resembled one of the paintings on the ornate walls. Guarded, watchful, unsmiling.
Not far from him was Lady Charlotte, her crimson silk a fiery counterpoint to her oldest daughter’s ice-blue taffeta. Any displeasure she felt about the presence of one of the Independence Men was well hidden. Indeed, Lady Charlotte was smiling at Elisabeth benignly, making anything else of little consequence.
And her fiancé? He looked bored. Irritated. At the very ball in his honor.
Oh, Miles, you are enjoying none of this.
All the heart went out of her. Her father’s disapproval, Miles’s sated disinterest, her own inability to partake of any merriment, all worked to snuff any flicker of joy. “Sunny,” folks about Williamsburg sometimes called her, on account of her felicitous disposition.
Tonight she felt sunny no longer.
3
The following day, Elisabeth moved down the shadowed hall and paused at her mother’s bedchamber. The answering silence spoke volumes. She pushed open the door, and fresh sentiment sliced through her. Usually sitting in a wingback chair by an open window, Priscilla Lawson was always busy with handwork or her writing, her slender figure clad in painted silks and satins from France and Britain, all adorned with lace she’d worked. Her French ancestry was apparent in the lacemaking tradition of five generations beginning with her great-grandmother, Gabrielle, and then her grandmother, Isabelle, who’d moved to England and taken her lacemaking there. Elisabeth’s mother had in turn brought her lacemaking to Virginia colony, even founding a small group of local Williamsburg lacemakers, of which she was patron.
Years before, Priscilla Carter had been the belle of Bath. Traces of that loveliness still lingered in her rich auburn hair and diminutive hands and feet. Would she be much changed when she returned from England?
“Don’t you worry none, m’lady.” ’Twas Mamie, her mother’s maid. Despite her bulk, she moved quietly and entered through the dressing room doorway. “She be back soon.”
Taking the handkerchief Mamie offered, Elisabeth dried her eyes, bypassed the vacant chair, and sank down on an embroidered footstool, pondering all she’d hoped to do with her mother in the days leading up to the wedding. “This afternoon is the final fitting for my bridal gown. Margaret Hunter sent round a note saying the wedding fans Mama selected have just come in.”
“Miss Cressida goin’ with you?” Mamie asked from where she now sat spinning on a small wheel in a corner.
Nodding, Elisabeth struck a lighter tone. “When we return from the mantua maker’s, perhaps we shall have tea in the arbor. I’ll stop by the bake shop for those chestnut tarts Mama is so fond of.”
Mamie smiled, her plump body moving in time with the wheel. “Doctor Hessel’s due any minute.”
“Doctor Hessel? Why?”
“Now you know better’n I do ’bout that.” Mamie’s fondness for the young physician overrode the subtle annoyance in her tone. “Your papa called him in to see you one last time before the weddin’. I told the butler to send him on upstairs.”
On the heels of Mamie’s words came a footfall. Resigned, Elisabeth left the bedchamber as quietly as she came, nearly bumping into the doctor in the hall.
“Ah, there you are,” he began, his voice booming in the quiet. His lack of pretense, even a proper greeting, was one of his most endearing traits. He seemed almost a member of the family. In the feeble light of the hall, his eyes sought hers and seemed to assess the situation with a glance as he followed her into the sitting room. “You look unwell.”
“Do I?” Clutching Mamie’s damp handkerchief, she did feel in need of some remedy. “Perhaps being up half the night dancing and feasting has left me lifeless as a rag doll. But I shan’t complain.” Truly, missing her mother was the malady, yet she wouldn’t bem
oan that.
“I’ve brought some medicines should you need them,” he said, opening his medical kit as Mamie hovered.
“Best save them for another of your patients,” Elisabeth told him. “I feel fit as a fiddle.”
“You’re to honeymoon in the West Indies, your father tells me. I thought it wise to prescribe quinine for the trip.”
“Kind of you.”
“Kind? ’Tis what I do.” His wry smile called out one of hers. “You’re fully recovered from the spring fever, Mamie said. I must confess I wouldn’t have prescribed a wedding this soon.”
“Soon? ’Tis been months in the making.” She raised her shoulders in a ladylike shrug. “Papa has his plans.”
“Is your father here?”
“Nay, he’s often away these days, closeted with Lord Dunmore.” Could he sense her relief at that? “Since the gunpowder incident . . .”
“Of course. Say no more.” Sympathy softened his fair features. Even in the shadows, his Dutch descent was apparent—and his youth. Though he was not yet five and thirty, his training in Holland had made him one of the most sought-after doctors in the colonies. “You have your mother’s frail constitution, your father feels, and every precaution is due.”
He was one word away from calling her an invalid. All the times she’d nearly died while in his care rose up, clouding the day. First a virulent fever, then a near fatal chest infection, followed by other, smaller maladies.
She reached out and laid a pale hand on his coat sleeve, gratitude eclipsing her dismay for a few fleeting seconds. “All will be well. Soon I shall wed at Bruton Parish and be happily situated at Roth Hall, close enough to send word should I have need of you.”
“Indeed.” He patted her hand, more her friend than physician. “If only all my patients were half so obliging.”
What had Mama last said to her before she had boarded the Sparling?
“What an ever-changing world is this beyond the shifting shadows of our brick townhouse.”
