by Laura Frantz
“Yer hungry for news then. Well, we’ve got plenty o’ that.”
Noble heard the words but almost missed the innkeeper’s cryptic look as he went ahead of him into the taproom.
A few patrons nodded as they smoked clay pipes and read competing copies of the Virginia Gazette and Norfolk Intelligencer or talked in hushed tones at the latticed bar. Moving to his usual corner table, the sturdy surface marred by time and dice boxes, he removed his cocked hat before taking his chair, aware of the serving girls peeking out at him from behind the nearest door.
Before he could acknowledge them, James Southall plunked down two pewter tankards, blocking his view and muttering, “I’ve news, all right, but ’tis not yet made print. Best take a sip or two to brace yerself. Or celebrate.”
Without a blink, Noble clasped the tankard handle and swallowed the chill brew, surprised when Southall slid into the chair opposite and said, “Dunmore’s fled. Last night, in the wee sm’ hours. Took Lady Charlotte and the children, every last servant, and naught but the clothes on their backs.”
Noble schooled his reaction, surprised the plan had come off. He hardly had to feign ignorance as Southall hurried on, spilling the details.
“They’ve gone aboard the man-o’-war, HMS Fowey, on the York River.” Southall paused, sipping his own ale. “And what’s more, Lieutenant Governor Lawson’s gone with them—but not his lovely daughter, sorry to say.”
Mid-swallow, Noble nearly choked. He set his tankard down so forcefully, droplets of ale sloshed onto the scarred tabletop.
“’Tis rumored Lord Stirling’s wife, the countess, is expected in port any day from England. As for the daughter, she’s still at the townhouse, or what’s left of it.”
“What do you mean, what’s left of it?” Noble fastened on the tired eyes of the tavern keeper, alarm scoring his chest. “Was there a mob?”
“Aye, first at the Palace, then the townhouse. A great many windows broken.” He expelled a breath. “Now why d’ye think they have to turn mobbish and disgrace a good cause? I’m ashamed to call them Patriots. Freedom isn’t won by shattering glass and guzzling stolen Rivesaltes and Perpignan. We’ll all pay the price for a few fools, I tell ye.”
Leaning back, Noble let the unwelcome news sift through him. “All of Williamsburg is aware, aye?”
“Aye, word spread like wildfire and all the papers have gone to print. An express has been sent to Mount Vernon and Monticello and other parts. Wash and Jeff are likely on their way. A meeting’s been called for right here as soon as everyone can assemble.”
Noble took in the front door as it opened to admit another Patriot. “What of Miles Roth?”
Southall seemed to have to work to minimize a smirk. “Flying high here at the Raleigh on the eve of all the trouble. So sotted he could barely hold his dice cup. Word is he met with the sheriff, who posted a guard and hired some men to board up the sacked townhouse. Then Roth left town a few hours ago without paying his bill here.”
Ire spiking, Noble took another sip of ale. “He likely fears his Tory leanings will get him tarred and feathered.”
“Aye, so it seems. He’s about as popular as the dandies Dunmore and Lawson. I do feel for Lady Elisabeth left behind. And all on the eve of the Roth-Lawson wedding, no less. A sweeter, spritelier lass you’ll ne’er find.” Southall shook his head. “I’m well aware he’s your kin and all, and I mean no disrespect, but why would a man turn tail and run? They were betrothed, were they not? Why not go ahead and wed and take his bride to Roth Hall? ’Twould be the honorable thing to do, would it not? Tory or no? Why, I ask ye?”
Because Miles Roth hadn’t an honorable bone in his body.
Noble swallowed down the criticism and stood, not bothering to finish his ale. “Tell the kitchen to save a veal chop for me. I’ve some business to attend to and then I’ll be back.”
Elisabeth stood looking at her harp, the only thing in the music room that seemed to have withstood the previous night’s onslaught. Around it lay sheets of music, a broken metronome, and her mother’s harpsichord turned on its side. The once lovely chenille carpet bore tar and feather boot marks. Both windows overlooking the garden were shattered, as was the Parisian mirror above the marble hearth.
She kept her eyes on her instrument, lovingly counting the strings like a mother counted the fingers and toes of her newborn. All there, as was the graceful neck with its brass action plates, the tuning peg and pedal, every decorative fern and flourish in gold leaf. The instrument remained miraculously intact. As she looked at it in wonder, she pushed past her pain and disappointment to give silent thanks. The harp was still standing for one reason and one reason only. The Lord, or His angels, had kept it from harm, knowing how much it meant to her, knowing how its destruction might well have meant her own.
She longed to sit on her stool and play, touching its familiar keys and pouring out her broken feelings in song. But she couldn’t. Not here amid all the mess. Not yet. Not amid workmen hammering boards over the outside windows, the sound rivaling her thudding pulse.
She barely heard Isabeau behind her, treading over the litter to half shout, “Mistress . . . to see you.”
Elisabeth looked at her in question. “Someone has come, you say? Please send them in.”
Someone sorry for their plight, likely. At last. Perhaps someone with news of her father or the servants. Or Mama.
The doorway darkened. Again she felt sharp surprise. Noble Rynallt’s searching stare seemed to strip away her forced composure to expose every bruised feeling beneath. Or perhaps his shock at finding her in the midst of the ransacked room was as profound as her own.
Heat inched up her neck and left a damp line above her upper lip. Though she wore an embroidered silk dress and pearls, she felt as exposed as if she was in her underpinnings. Her humiliation was complete.
She started to gesture to a chair for him to sit down, then realized it was overturned. He righted it without a word and seated her. Sinking down atop its slashed brocade cushion, she realized how weary she was. Across from her he sat on a stained loveseat, dwarfing it with his long, lean form. The formality between them seemed to melt away. There was a sympathetic light in his face, so unlike Miles’s, that drew her dangerously near the edge of her emotions.
“This isn’t about you, you know,” he said quietly.
Did he mean the mess? The violent clash between Patriots and the Crown? Blinking back tears, she looked at her lap, meting out words like she’d seen her stern father mete out affection. “I know.”
“I’m not the first to come.”
He was inviting her to talk. But doing so required the staunchest effort. “Miles Roth was here, then Cressida Shaw.” She felt oddly embarrassed, knowing his ties to each.
“And?”
He was proceeding carefully. Did he sense she was as fragile as the broken glass all around them?
“I don’t know where Miles is now. Cressida asked if I was all right.”
“No one offered you safe harbor?”
“Nay.” Fresh disbelief skittered through her. “I think they are as stunned as I am. Unsure of what to do.” She swallowed, fixing her eyes on her harp. “Even if they had, I can’t leave here without knowing what’s happened to my father or the servants.”
“If I tell you, will you go with me?”
Her gaze swung back to him. “Go with you? Where?”
“To rejoin your father.”
Did he know the details she didn’t? The realization pierced her numbness and exhaustion and gave rise to new questions. “Tell me, please, what has happened. Why.” Her voice shook. She hated that she sounded pleading, about to break apart.
“Lord Dunmore and his family fled Williamsburg in the night, as did your father. They’re said to be aboard a British warship on the York River. From what I’ve heard, many of their servants went with them. Once word spread, a mob stormed the Palace and then came here.” His gaze lifted to the ceiling, where swords had hacked at the
fine plasterwork. “I could take you to the ship—”
“Nay.” Her voice firmed. “I shan’t leave my mother. She’s due any day.”
“I could make arrangements to send her back to England in your wake.”
To England? Why was he being so obliging when everyone else had turned away?
“Nay.” She stood, angling her face toward the window to hide her agitation. “She’s been unwell and may be unable to make another lengthy voyage.” She turned back to him, uttering yet another uncertainty. “Besides, I’m about to wed.”
“Your betrothal still stands.”
It was a statement, not a question, so why did it jar her so? “Yes, when Miles returns . . .” Her voice died out along with her hopes. She was certain of nothing. Miles’s angry face rose up to taunt her. He’d not said when or if he’d return. She’d just waited, thinking the best of him. But the hours passed, leaving her with more unanswered questions.
Noble rubbed his bewhiskered jaw. “I can’t leave you here. Your safety is in question.”
“I’m safe enough. There are three of us remaining—my maid and my mother’s maid. But we have nowhere to go.”
“You’ll go with me. To Ty Mawr.”
To the home of her father’s enemy? Could he see the reluctance in her eyes?
“’Tis near Roth Hall, if you’ve forgotten. I’ll hire a coach. Once we’re at Ty Mawr, you can send word to your father that you’re well. I’ll notify Miles and the rector and you can wed there.”
He would do all that? As kin to Miles? Miles must have thought it best to leave town lest the trouble touch him. Or perhaps he was behind her going to Ty Mawr and a hasty ceremony. But if so, why wasn’t he here himself? Exhaustion forced her to take a seat again, her thoughts in a fog.
“I’ll have a coach sent round for you and your maid in half an hour. Collect whatever you wish to bring. I’ve business at the Raleigh till then.” He looked at her a tad longer. “In the meantime, the guard my cousin posted will ensure your safety.”
She started to protest, to offer the use of her new carriage, and then she remembered there were no servants and likely no horses. The light coming through the windows was fading, and she looked longingly at her harp, wanting to take it with her. Suppose another mob returned to destroy what was left standing from before?
With an air of practiced calm, she got to her feet once again and said, “A half hour is fine. We’ll be ready.”
6
Take a look at them fine mounts, Patriots all,” Mamie murmured as their hired coach slowed behind the Raleigh Tavern. Head bound tightly in a bright blue kerchief, she peered through a small window, eyes narrowing. “Misters Henry and Jefferson just rode in. I’ll wager all the Patriot gents are in fine fettle now that Governor Dunmore’s gone.”
Elisabeth felt a beat of sadness override her shock. Would Lady Charlotte return to England now that her husband had been relieved of his duties? Uppermost were their many kindnesses to her. How they had loved their home and garden. How they oft laughed and romped with their children. She recalled their penchant for music and the arts. Their frequent fetes. Once, Lord Dunmore had told his guests she played the harp like an angel.
This was better dwelt on than the emotional earthquake of the last few hours. How could her father have left without a word to her? And the servants, who had been with them since her childhood? How could they have cut ties without so much as a whisper? She rubbed her temples beneath the brim of her second-best hat, which only reminded her that her favorite hat had gone missing—and the letter with it. What if Lady Charlotte had written to warn her? Telling her of their plans to flee Williamsburg?
Whatever had happened, she could not ignore a simmering resentment toward whoever had brought this about. Till now the Patriots had been mere shadows in the perimeter of her life, unable to harm or change the ordered routine of her existence. She knew about them, had heard tell of Patrick Henry’s ferocious temper and Thomas Jefferson’s brilliant eccentricities, had smiled behind her fan at George Rogers Clark’s derring-do, and had even stood awestruck at the immense physical vitality of Colonel Washington.
Like her mother, she knew the ins and outs of colonial politics, had been schooled in them like the art of lacemaking, and could converse sensibly about them with whoever wanted to. She had done so when her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t. Beside her father at every social function, she had accrued far more at two and twenty than most young women ever cared to. But now, in just a few hours, someone had jerked the sumptuous gros point rug out from under her costly calamanco slippers and sent her reeling. And she didn’t know who to blame.
“Here he comes,” Mamie said, reaching for the door handle of the coach. She got out as quickly as her bulk would allow, claiming all Elisabeth’s attention.
At the back of the Raleigh, a tall, tricorned shadow appeared, clothed in shades of black and gray again, as if he’d returned to mourning. Leaving the coach door wide, Mamie bustled up the walk to face Noble Rynallt, her hands moving like punctuation marks to her words.
“You see, sir, I can’t leave my mistress. The countess’ll be back any day now, and the sight of her torn-down house and all her torn-down things will all but finish her. She needs me to be right here, waitin’.”
Noble listened, hat in hand in a touching display of respect to an elderly, displaced servant. His reply was lost to Elisabeth, but it seemed to pacify Mamie. She took a small black pouch from his outstretched hand and waved at Elisabeth before turning back toward the tavern. Elisabeth had no heart to argue. Mamie would indeed help cushion Mama’s shock.
A stable boy led out a sleek chestnut thoroughbred with a speckled rump and one white hind foot. Elisabeth tried not to stare as their soon-to-be-host swung himself into the saddle with the grace of a man born riding. Without further ado, Noble Rynallt followed their hired coach out of Williamsburg as it left a trail of dun-colored dust in their wake. They soon took the Quarterpath Road that led from Williamsburg to Burwell’s Landing on the James River.
“’Tis so hot,” Isabeau murmured, raising a window shade. “This hired coach is so very black, no? I fear it is Monsieur Rynallt’s favorite color.”
Elisabeth took in a slant of sunbeam as it spilled across the shabby interior reeking of tobacco and . . . worse. A far cry from the fairy-tale one Miles had sent her. Had the mob damaged her wedding coach as well? She had not checked the coach house. But did material things matter when they themselves had not been manhandled?
As they bounced atop the sagging seat, Elisabeth withdrew one of the wedding fans Mama had chosen, reminded of that last day they’d spent together before her mother sailed. The very feel of it seemed to weight her hand.
Tucking the fan away, she focused on the scene unfolding beyond their window. “Do you smell the honeysuckle, Isabeau?” Her eye was drawn to fields overflowing with wheat and tobacco, others left fallow, an occasional cottage tucked in.
“A long time it has been since we rode out like this.” Isabeau dabbed at her damp brow with a handkerchief. “I remember how well your mother liked a Sabbath jaunt.”
“Ah yes.” Elisabeth felt a bittersweet stirring. “Soon we’ll see the James.” Before the words had left her lips the coach crested a small hill and the wide river lay before them, vaster than she remembered, a number of boats on its shimmering surface. Somewhere along its banks sat Ty Mawr, halfway betwixt Williamsburg and the road to Norfolk. The Rynallt estate was beyond Roth Hall. She remembered its eye-catching wrought-iron gates.
“What will it be like, do you think?” Isabeau said with more dread than enthusiasm.
“Who’s to say? I’ve never been there.” But if it was anything like its master, it would be refined. Enduring. Memorable. She unearthed what little she knew. “’Tis situated on Mulberry Island.”
“And sports a racetrack, said to be the finest in Virginia.” Isabeau’s pensive expression was almost comical. “And the horses! So many of them! ’Tis rumored he
has as many horses as servants, all Welsh.”
“Welsh horses?” Elisabeth tried to elicit a smile, wondering if her maid’s musings were fact or fiction.
Isabeau fell into a sour silence. Then, as if the coach windows had slammed shut, the day turned a mourning gray. Overhead, thunder growled like an unruly mastiff, and lightning slashed the sky. Used to Virginia’s fickle moods, Elisabeth searched the horizon and could feel the horse’s confident stride turn skittish. In minutes the sky let loose. She could smell the dust dampened down as the world got a good washing. The lumbering coach slowed and then rolled to a bumpy stop altogether.
Voices. A horse’s shrill whinny. The sudden gaping of the coach door. Isabeau sprung from her seat as if ejected, joining Elisabeth on her side as their host entered in. The door shut with a thud and their ride resumed without a word, each of them pretending to ignore the other.
But there was, Elisabeth decided, no ignoring the master of Ty Mawr.
Rain dripped from Noble’s cocked hat as he removed it and set it atop the seat, surprised when Elisabeth leaned forward and offered him a handkerchief. The fine linen was soft in his callused hand, and when he brought it to his face to wipe the rain away he was stung with a scent he knew all too well.
Rose-carnation cologne. Yardley of London.
’Twas as if she’d handed him a penknife instead. Enid’s favorite scent. The remembrance cut at him unmercifully, but he stayed stoic. Though his sister’s door had been shut since the day she died, the hall beyond still hinted of the fragrance.
His eyes traced the delicate rose embroidery and the initials EAL. The strangeness of Lady Elisabeth’s predicament settled over him. He was still questioning the wisdom of his involvement. If he’d taken Lady Charlotte’s letter away from Henry and returned it to Elisabeth in time, she’d not need rescuing. But here she sat across from him, her world on end. Yet not a hair was out of place, nor did a single line of worry mar her flushed features. He’d seen more emotion from marble statues in Rome. Still, he sensed her inner turmoil, given away by the taut line of her jaw.
