The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  “Don’t try to tell me what’s legally binding and what’s not. I studied law, remember. You signed a contract for transfer of ownership of goods—her maid’s indenture and a dowry of several thousand pounds—with the understanding that her father would no longer care for her, and you, the groom, would assume those responsibilities, including the properties to be hers in Virginia Colony and the West Indies.”

  Miles took a step back at the airing of the facts. “I doubt even her father would enforce it given the circumstances—”

  “I would enforce it.”

  Alarm flared in Miles’s eyes, but Noble felt no pleasure in trumping his wayward relative. “You have no feeling for her?”

  “I—nay.” The stain of guilt finally showed on Miles’s features. “She’s a lovely girl, but . . .”

  Though he suspected as much, Noble felt a sweeping relief at the confession. He knew Miles’s tastes ran to tavern wenches. Simply put, the genteel Lady Elisabeth bored him to death.

  Miles focused on his buckled shoes. “The lady in question is a bit tepid for my tastes.”

  “Then the fault is not hers but yours.”

  The condemning words brought an end to the maddening conversation. Without another word, Miles turned to leave. Taking up his hat on a table by the door, he let himself out, leaving Noble to wonder how he’d spare Lady Elisabeth the sting of a broken betrothal if not a broken heart.

  8

  Though she’d been at Ty Mawr but a short time, the place was gaining a foothold in her heart. Elisabeth sat on the riverfront portico with the best view while Mistress Tremayne served, a tea table before them. It seemed all they did at Ty Mawr was eat. Or did Mistress Tremayne find her too thin?

  ’Twas Dimity who usually served at the townhouse. She missed her, missed them all. Betsy. Jade. Paris. Thomasin. Had they fled with her father? Would she ever see them again? Only Isabeau remained. Dear, protective, half-hysterical Isabeau. And Mamie, awaiting Mama in Williamsburg.

  A vase of pure white roses anchored the equally white linen cloth. On a small ironstone platter sat bara brith, the rich fruit loaf.

  “And this?” Elisabeth gestured toward a tiny pot.

  “Welsh salted butter,” the housekeeper replied proudly. “From Ty Mawr’s creamery. It goes splendidly with speckled bread. The bake ovens are always busy here. ’Tis Master Rynallt’s favorite, you see.”

  Elisabeth smiled her pleasure. “Why is it called Ty Mawr?”

  “Why is it?” The housekeeper chuckled. “For a town-bred colonial lass, you have a great many questions. But I’m glad to answer them. Ty Mawr simply means ‘big house’ in Welsh.”

  “Is there a Ty Mawr in Wales?”

  “Indeed. It was there that the Welsh Bible translator was born. Bishop William Morgan, kin to Master Rynallt.”

  “A Welsh Bible? Wonderful history there.” Savoring the speckled bread, Elisabeth detected cinnamon and ginger and a spice she couldn’t name. “So there are two Ty Mawrs.”

  “Master Rynallt’s older brother is heir to yon Ty Mawr, an upland stone farmhouse two centuries old.” Mistress Tremayne looked east as if gazing across the entire Atlantic. “Virginia’s Ty Mawr is not so old nor so honored. Yet ’tis more beautiful.”

  So Noble had a brother. Elisabeth wanted to learn more but took a second piece of speckled bread instead. Mistress Tremayne poured coffee, not tea, and Elisabeth was reminded anew of the conflict. But she was glad for the bracing black brew, having spent a near sleepless night kept up by Isabeau’s snoring.

  A breeze blew up from the river, redolent of the changing tide. Wrinkling her nose, Elisabeth put a hand to her lace pinner.

  Mistress Tremayne put a hand to her own cap. “Glad I am you’re properly pinned. Many a hat has ended up in the James. Though we’ve not had many visitors to warn of late. The master is often away, due as much to his sister’s absence as his politics, I fear.” She looked down at her apron. “I’ll not pretend ’tis been easy here since Miss Enid left us. All the little pleasures of life seem to have gone with her.”

  Enid. Even if the name hadn’t been unusual, Elisabeth knew she’d never forget it. The circumstance that had caused Enid’s death was a mystery. Being a stranger here she felt unqualified to speak of it, either in sympathy or out of curiosity.

  “You’ve likely heard the sad details. Out riding she was when she fell and caught her shoe in the stirrup. Nearly killed her outright, but she lingered for days. Master Rynallt and Doctor Hessel did all they could, but she died of her injuries within a fortnight. Her brother blamed himself, you see. Something about a saddle in need of repair.”

  Did Noble feel he’d caused his sister’s death? “I’m terribly sorry. I have no words.”

  “Forgive me. You’ve come through a storm yourself.” Mistress Tremayne’s eyes were damp. “But you’ll soon be settled at Roth Hall, I suppose. Mister Roth has finally come. He’s in the study with Master Rynallt as we speak.”

  Here? Now? Was Miles the coming company mentioned? The image of him striding away from her in the townhouse garden made her doubly surprised. It had smacked of a finished affair.

  Elisabeth sipped her coffee, focusing on the James while Mistress Tremayne glanced down the long portico as if she’d heard something or someone. Elisabeth followed her gaze and saw Noble approaching. He uttered something in Welsh to his housekeeper, who gave a slight bow of her head and went inside.

  His quiet voice with its deep measured tones was so low it sometimes escaped Elisabeth’s ear. But not this time. Not now. There was a new note within of careful consideration, even uneasiness. She knew he brought ill news before he stepped into her line of sight.

  Pressing her back against the upholstered chair, she clasped her hands in the deep folds of her skirt and kept her eyes on her half-empty cup. He took the chair next to her so that they weren’t facing each other but looking outward at the sloping lawn and river. The gesture was gallant, allowing her a bit of privacy and the dignity she’d lost.

  For long moments Elisabeth waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, she turned her face to him. This close, in stark daylight, she could see a few strands of silver in his charcoal hair. And once again her focus shifted from herself to him. What sorrows beyond Enid had he borne that had aged him so? He could be no more than thirty, surely.

  Even now his eyes reflected a dozen different things as they met hers, resignation foremost. The lengthy silence was excruciating. She was at a loss for words herself, so she dug deep and borrowed someone else’s. “Silence propagates itself, and the longer talk has been suspended, the more difficult it is to find anything to say.”

  At this he grimaced. “Or so opines Mister Samuel Johnson.” He leaned forward. Elbows on the table, he fisted his hands together, eyes on the shimmering river again. “‘When the mind is thinking, it is talking to itself.’ Plato. Fourth century.” He cleared his throat. “Miles Roth was just here.”

  “I know. Mistress Tremayne told me.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “He seems to make a point of not doing so.”

  “Then the fault is his, not yours, as I told him.”

  She looked to her lap. Her heart twisted at the humiliation of it all. “I wasn’t privy to your conversation, but I sense our betrothal is broken.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Though I could, as a lawmaker, try to enforce the contract.”

  “By no means. You cannot dictate honorable conduct.” She forged ahead in a way she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. “Some contracts are made to be broken. Perhaps this is one of them. Providence spares us a great many pains we’d inflict on ourselves otherwise.”

  “You don’t love him.” There was no censure in the words. No rebuke.

  “I’ve never been in love,” she confessed. “The marriage was arranged, start to finish, by my father.”

  “You deserve better.”

  “Do I?” She liked that he said so. She longed for something unarranged. Somethi
ng heartfelt. “I appreciate all you’ve done on my behalf.” She smoothed the lace of her fichu with nervous hands. “But I shan’t impose on your hospitality any longer—”

  “You’re not an imposition.”

  Their eyes met and she saw an unclouded invitation there. Or was it simply concern? ’Twas hard to tell where politeness ended and personal interest began. As she pondered it, her heart did an absurd little dance.

  “Ty Mawr is yours for as long as you like,” he said matter-of-factly. “Till you decide your best course of action.”

  “I—thank you.” What could she say to this? She had nowhere else to go. She turned her eyes to the colorful garden beyond a wide shell path. “Do you really not mind having a Tory beneath your roof?”

  He winked at her. “I don’t know that you’re a true Tory. Your very name is Liberty.”

  “According to my mother, yes.” Her smile turned wistful. “I don’t know who I am, truly. Other than the daughter of Virginia’s last lieutenant governor and the former fiancé of Miles Roth.”

  “You are simply the very lovely Lady Elisabeth Lawson, daughter of the earl and the countess of Stirling, and as such you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  She smiled self-consciously, then got up as gracefully as she could, the wind making a wide bell of her skirts. He stood along with her, his own hair whipped into a black froth, strands pulled free of his queue. It was then she noticed he’d been riding. His clothes were a bit dusty and his boots muddy, as if he’d been laboring alongside his field hands.

  He placed tanned hands on the back of his chair. “If you want to send a letter to your father or bring your mother here once she docks, I can arrange for that.”

  “No need.” She took a step back, nearer the door to the foyer, her voice rising above the strengthening wind. “I must make my own way, you see. I shan’t be a burden. Your benevolence, though much appreciated, must have an end.”

  The little speech burst forth with such uncharacteristic vigor she immediately wished the words back. Surprise shone in his eyes, and she felt a stinging remorse at such plain speaking. Unable to even murmur an apology, she simply turned and fled in a swirl of linen and lace.

  Isabeau was nowhere to be found. Elisabeth entered their attic rooms to find the windows open, light spilling across the polished walnut floor. The clothespress was gaping enough to reveal that the few gowns they’d hurriedly stuffed into a trunk were now carefully sorted and arranged as if they were here for an extended stay. The change bespoke permanence and seemed to underscore Noble Rynallt’s gracious invitation. But it only heightened Elisabeth’s dismay. She didn’t belong here—and they couldn’t remain.

  She sank down on an ottoman, eyes on a little writing desk through the sitting room door. The quill and paper atop it reminded her she needed to send a note to Doctor Hessel, perhaps even Cressida. Cressida wouldn’t believe she was at Ty Mawr.

  As she pondered it, Isabeau finally appeared, a dozen questions in her eyes. “Oh, mistress. I saw you speaking with Monsieur Rynallt. And I was told that Monsieur Roth just rode off.”

  “Yes to both.” The details seemed to stick in Elisabeth’s throat. “Our betrothal is broken. Roth Hall isn’t to be our home after all.”

  The bedchamber door snapped shut as Isabeau came inside, slack jawed. “But, mistress, the wedding—has it not been months in the planning? What—”

  “It seems I’m not the right mistress for Roth Hall.” Elisabeth felt all the remaining emotion drain out of her. Empty as a sieve, she was in no mood to answer questions. “Perhaps Providence has prevented a marital disaster.”

  “Providence, la!” Hands waving about, Isabeau seemed to be grasping for words. “Your opinion of the Almighty, it is high indeed. I’d be shaking my fist instead of thanking Him. What a fine tangle we are in!”

  “Isabeau, have you ever considered going on the stage?”

  The gentle check brought a touch of pink to her maid’s pale face. “Pardon, mistress. But this is all so . . . sudden.”

  Elisabeth put a hand to her aching head. “When I was taking coffee on the portico I saw you speaking with a man in the foyer.”

  “Oui, oui. Monsieur Rynallt’s valet. He was showing me about Ty Mawr. ’Tis very different than town.”

  “And his name?”

  “Monsieur Landeg. Ninian Landeg.”

  “A Welshman, no doubt.”

  Isabeau wore an odd smile. “Welsh, oui, and . . . oh là là.”

  High praise coming from Isabeau. Perhaps the valet could be trusted with a letter. “I shall write Doctor Hessel. He always sees things clearly. He may have word of Mama too.”

  The thought of Hessel brought stark relief. Elisabeth moved to the cloisonné-backed chair, surprised to find not only quill and ink but pounce and wafers atop the desk. A fleur-de-lis seal was in the drawer. All she needed was a messenger. She got down to the business of writing the tersest letter she’d ever penned, biting her lip at the pained plea.

  Dear Doctor,

  I am at a secret location. Have you any word of my father? My utmost concern is for Mother. Have you any news of her?

  Yours affectionately, EL

  Isabeau was at her elbow. “I’ll have it sent to town.”

  “By way of the valet, I presume.”

  “I can think of no faster way to dispatch it. Can you?”

  “Make sure no one tells of our whereabouts.”

  Her father’s words returned to her, full of vehemence and suspicion.

  These are times in which loyalties are continually in question. You do not know whom you can trust.

  9

  The French doors of the White Parlor were open wide to the river. A cool, misting rain was falling, the weather shifting like Noble’s mood. As he’d left the stables after inspecting a horse just arrived from Rhode Island, his delayed company had appeared. The Dinwiddies and Prescotts, longtime friends of the family, mostly Enid’s. His guests were now scattered about the elegant room awaiting supper, obviously aware he’d come out of mourning.

  Before she’d died, his sister had redecorated most of Ty Mawr, and now each female present was exclaiming over every niche and fixture, from the papered walls to the carpets at their feet. Enid would have been pleased with their praise. As the White Parlor was her favorite, he’d let her have her way with it and was glad of the outcome. But tonight the buzz of voices around him was hardly heard. He couldn’t keep his mind off Lady Elisabeth—and the unexpected arrival of Doctor Hessel.

  Ever since the doctor had ridden in, Noble had been aware of a new undercurrent in the house. Though they’d shaken hands cordially enough in the foyer as was their custom, the doctor had seemed a bit distant. At one time he’d been within Ty Mawr’s walls so often he seemed as much a fixture as the immense case clock hugging the foyer wall or the smirr of tobacco permeating the study. And then, after Enid died, his sudden absence was just as jarring. Now when they met, it was by chance on the streets of Williamsburg or at a tavern. Noble wondered if Ty Mawr’s memories were too dark even for the doctor.

  The darkness. The cold baths and bloodletting. The smell of purgatives. Noble had worked hard to eradicate the most wrenching memories, but the shadows were stubborn and deep. The house seemed lonesome and empty and lacking, his sister’s redecorating a continual reminder she was not coming back. Sometimes his soul still seemed lined with lead.

  “I apologize for arriving unannounced,” Hessel had said to him, handing a housemaid his hat and medical bag. “Your guest sent me a note earlier today, and though she didn’t say where she was, I managed to wheedle it out of the delivery boy who told me it came from your valet.”

  “I didn’t know her ladyship had written,” Noble told him.

  Hessel’s deep-set dark eyes darted to the shadows of the foyer and lingered on the stairs. “How is she?”

  “Under the circumstances, well enough.”

  “No signs of melancholy? Hysteria?”

  “Aye,” Nobl
e said. “Her maid.”

  “Isabeau?” Hessel paused as if he’d forgotten. “So there’s one servant, at least, who didn’t jump ship.”

  Noble wondered just how many of the servants had fled. He swallowed down a wave of sentiment thinking of Elisab—Liberty’s—disarming smile. The name had echoed in his thoughts. How was it possible to lose everything familiar and dear in one glass-breaking, soul-shattering night and not have a crack in one’s composure? Though she’d been near tears, not once had she broken down. Yet Hessel was looking at him like he was lying.

  “She’s quite fragile, if you didn’t know. Subject to every fever and malady, it seems. Nearly as much an invalid as her mother.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  A burst of laughter from the parlor drew Hessel’s chagrin. “I’m interrupting, I fear. You have other guests?”

  “Just arrived from Savannah.”

  Hessel cast another curious glance about. “Where is she?”

  Easy, Doctor, Noble wanted to say. He’d never seen Hessel so earnest, so eager. “She’s upstairs in her rooms.”

  Mistress Tremayne had ushered the doctor to a seldom-used sitting room on the second floor well beyond prying eyes and ears. Noble’s staff was closemouthed, most of them, but in these times one could never be sure. And he wouldn’t be able to keep Elisabeth’s presence secret forever.

  He was left to greet his guests and endure a lengthy if congenial supper, during which Hessel remained upstairs. And the reason for it had finally penetrated the logical constructs of Noble’s mind with disturbing clarity.

  Hessel was in love with Elisabeth Lawson.

  Even now, though his guests called him out for conversation, thoughts of the doctor inserted themselves at every possible opportunity.

  “We had hoped, Noble, that your coming out of mourning might mean you had found a mistress of Ty Mawr.” Mistress Dinwiddie voiced the burning issue at last.

  When he said nothing, her husband leapt to his defense. “Surely the end of mourning does not signal the beginning of courtship, my dear. One must proceed cautiously.”