The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  “Best keep to the house, m’lady.” Mistress Tremayne seemed to tread lightly, softening the caution as best she could. “The master feels it behooves us all to keep your whereabouts secret for now. He said to tell you he’ll meet with you later today and apologizes for the delay.”

  She sensed much had happened when he’d gone to Williamsburg. By now he surely had news of what might transpire with her home and Isabeau’s indenture. She waited for him like she waited for Doctor Hessel to bring word about Mama. Only Hessel didn’t set her insides aswirl.

  She paced the gallery, noting work by Gainsborough and Reynolds and a few of the Old Masters. The scent of aging canvas and oils was overpowering in the airless room. As the clock tolled three she came to a standstill before the accomplished John Singleton Copley. The artist had left the colonies for England shortly after painting Margaret Gage, the wife of the commander-in-chief of British forces in America, Thomas Gage. The duchess, as Gage’s officers called her, was rumored to be aligned with the Patriot cause. She was also a close friend of the countess, Liberty’s mother.

  Next was a painting of a woman in a jade velvet gown. Enid. Looking a tad like her handsome brother. The cut of the gown, the lace sleeves resembling the very lace Liberty worked, turned her thoughts to other matters. Her girlhood. The carefree jaunts to the millinery shop or the Raleigh bakery or bookshop lectures. For the first time in her almost three and twenty years she felt she stood on the cusp of old age, looking back on past pleasures she’d never truly appreciated before.

  Time wastes too fast . . . The days and hours of it are flying over our heads like clouds of windy days never to return.

  The line from Tristam Shandy had never meant much till now. She turned away from the painting, trying to anchor her blurred vision to something else. She would expect not the worst but the best. She refused to let the delay forebode dire things. If Noble Rynallt couldn’t turn things in her favor, the Almighty certainly could.

  “Lady Elisabeth.” The hall seemed to echo. Mistress Tremayne had a way of approaching that was silent as a cat. “Mister Rynallt has asked that you join him in the dining room for supper.”

  The dining room? At least she was dressed for the occasion. Isabeau had insisted on her wearing her best—her wedding attire—despite all protests. Sadly, the lovely gown was a goad, a reminder of Miles Roth’s rejection of her but one of the few garments they’d brought. She tried not to dwell on the melancholy, but after months of fuss over the fittings, she would always associate the dress with her thwarted wedding day.

  With a nod, she followed after the housekeeper, trading the portrait hall for the circular staircase, and then Ty Mawr’s never-before-seen dining room.

  The long mahogany table had been laid, centered with a vase overflowing with peonies and roses from the garden. There were but two places set. Was she to dine with the master of Ty Mawr alone? But of course. Who else could possibly be present? He certainly wouldn’t parade her before his fellow Patriots.

  Tension ripened in the pit of her stomach. Yet another new hurdle. Never in her life had she partaken of a meal alone with a man, aside from her father.

  Candles danced in a wayward draft. Other than a serving girl placing butter pats on a plate with silver tongs, she was alone in the unfamiliar room. French doors were open to the river and portico, making her feel less hemmed in, less awkward.

  Crossing to the doors, she looked out on the bricked summer kitchen just beyond the west eave. The windows and door were open wide. Figures in white aprons and mobcaps moved about inside the building. How would it be to stand over a fiery hearth on such a hot day week after week, year after year, preparing food meant for the enjoyment of others?

  She’d not seen one slave at Ty Mawr, just indentured servants. No doubt Noble Rynallt was opposed to slavery. Many Patriots were. Yet many Patriots were slave owners too.

  How is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of Negroes? She’d read the words in the Virginia Gazette but couldn’t remember who’d written them.

  The door behind her opened. Clutched with tongue-tied apprehension, she looked everywhere but at Noble Rynallt. Conspicuous in her bridal attire—and an ill-wanted guest to boot—she wished she could beg for a simple supper tray in the attic.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he said. “I’d thought to meet up with you yesterday.”

  She smiled. Miles had always kept her waiting. Noble Rynallt was barely tardy. “I’m not mindful of the time, truly.”

  He came nearer. “You look especially . . .”

  She waited, breath held, for his opinion.

  “Eirian. Lovely.”

  She softened. Toward the wasted wedding gown. Her host. “Thank you.”

  He glanced at the clock in a far corner before seating her with an easy grace as if they’d been having supper together for a lifetime. “I wanted to talk with you alone, before I return to Williamsburg tomorrow.”

  She nodded and placed her serviette in her lap, her plate with the Rynallt crest a safer focus than his earnest face. The rich timbre of his voice, becoming more familiar to her now, was carefully measured.

  Did he always take his time speaking? And with such deliberate thoughtfulness? It left her on pins and needles. She was too used to her father’s sudden outbursts, his surliness lingering for days.

  He shot her a quick glance. “I know hearing about events secondhand must be hard for you. But ’tis only fair you know how things stand.”

  Her pulse picked up. “You’ve word of my father, then, and Lord Dunmore?”

  “Aye. They’re still aboard the Fowey, calling it the seat of government and sending communications to the former House of Burgesses from there.” His tone told her they were making no headway. “As far as we’re concerned, Lord Dunmore has abdicated. A committee of safety has been vested with legislative powers, and we’ve become the Virginia Assembly.”

  Eyes down, she asked the obvious. “There’s no going back then?”

  “To the way things were?”

  She nodded, half clinging to the old, half craving change.

  “Nay. No going back. Only forward.”

  She toyed with her serviette in her lap. No going back. Not in Virginia. Not in the other twelve colonies. The Crown wasn’t going to let the colonies go without a fight. And her host and his fellow Patriots had helped bring this about. She sensed his resolve and knew she could rely on him to give her an honest answer, even if it wasn’t one she wanted.

  “Will those aboard the Fowey be allowed to leave for England in peace?” she asked.

  He reached for his goblet, the glass sweating in the heat. “If they go in peace, aye.”

  All her breath expelled in a relieved little rush. They grew quiet as supper was served, salat set before them. But as soon as the servants slipped away for the next course, the conversation picked up again. He skewered a piece of lettuce with his fork but made no move to eat.

  “’Tis not too late for you to join your father—you and your mother,” he said.

  Not too late. She felt paralyzed by uncertainty. She who had hardly been able to make an independent decision in her life now had life by the tail. Questions pummeled her, all without answers.

  Where was her mother? Why the delay? She picked up her fork, only to set it down again. “How late is too late?”

  He hesitated. “If you don’t decide soon you’ll have no options. The sea will be unsafe for travel.”

  His quiet words only underscored the urgency of her leaving for England at once if that was what she wanted. Yet how could she possibly tell him all that pressed upon her heart?

  She took a drink. “England might not be the enemy, but ’tis a stranger to me. Virginia is the only home I’ve ever known.”

  He looked at her then. The light slanting low across the table caught his hair in its golden fingers, and she saw a glint of silver again. But ’twas his eyes, that rich, burnt umber flecked with yellow light, that pi
nned her. Rimmed with black lashes, they lent a softness to his hawkish features and turned him so very . . .

  She took up her fork again with great effort, only to almost drop it when he said, “’Twould grieve me to see you go.”

  Truly? Her eyes stung. She kept her attention on her plate, willing herself not to blink lest the tears fall. This sudden crack in his own self-containment was her undoing. Was he moved to see her so . . . lost? Lost was the only word that came to mind. But for him she’d be on the street.

  Quiet moments passed. Her tears retreated. She forced herself to eat the delicious salat, taken from Ty Mawr’s own gardens. Next was salmon, thin slices of Virginia ham, tiny new potatoes, baby beets, and buttered biscuits. The silence, though strangely comfortable, seemed weighted with things still unspoken.

  Eyes on her plate, she mustered the courage to ask, “Have you found out what will happen to my father’s townhouse? My maid?”

  He cut his meat with a steady hand. “All Tory property is to be confiscated. Auctioned. From the royal governor’s country estate of Porto Bello on down.”

  This was a blow she’d not anticipated. Yet she admired him for his unblinking honesty. The truth must be told.

  Her harp sprang to mind. It was no longer hers but would be the highest bidder’s. The thought left her slightly sick. Though she tried to school her emotions, she knew they were splayed across her face. “I’m most concerned about my maid.”

  He looked up from his plate. “I could assume her indenture and spare her—and you—the indignity of the block.”

  At this came such a rush of relief she wanted to fling her arms around his neck. “You would do that?”

  He returned his attention to his meal. “She could go with you wherever you go, or live here if she was willing.”

  Help Mistress Tremayne? Perhaps even become a lady’s maid to the future mistress of Ty Mawr?

  Though Isabeau protested being here, Liberty saw through it to the sham it was. Isabeau was as infatuated with Ty Mawr as Cressida was. And the attentive valet didn’t hurt. Liberty’s thoughts leapt ahead, seeing Isabeau married with children and a home on the grounds.

  “Please.” Her voice wavered with emotion. “Do that for Isabeau. For me.”

  He set down his fork. “Consider it done.”

  A servant came round, pouring coffee, while another served dessert in small silver cups and yet another whisked away empty dishes. She’d hardly looked at Noble during the meal, but she snuck a peek now to see him shunning cream and the fine turbinado sugar so favored in the colonies. So he liked his coffee black. Taking up a spoon, she stirred both cream and sugar into hers, a luxury she would soon do without.

  Night was falling fast. A warm wind lifted the edge of the tablecloth and freed a few loose petals from the fragrant bouquet. She couldn’t explain the peace she felt here. The almost palpable pleasure. In the last few days even the chair she often sat upon had assumed a sweet familiarity, the view of the James etched indelibly across her mind and heart. Though she would soon leave, it would never leave her.

  “I could also,” he told her, “try to secure some of your possessions prior to the auction.”

  Like her harp? She took a sip of coffee, wanting to ask for that and that alone. She wouldn’t trouble him beyond this. If she just had her precious harp . . .

  “Or you could . . .” He hesitated.

  She waited, poised for she knew not what, and found her hand shaking inexplicably as it held her cup. Securing it in its saucer, she waited for the words that never came.

  Their eyes locked. Even in the shadows she saw the unclouded invitation in his handsome face as his rocklike reserve shifted and his striking features gentled. He seemed to be waiting for her to help finish the sentence, only she didn’t know what she was supposed to say. The silence was riven with tension. It turned her absolutely breathless.

  “Libby . . .”

  Her eyes went wide. Libby. Wherever had he gotten that? Not Elisabeth. Not Lady Elisabeth. Not even m’lady.

  “Libby?” she echoed.

  “Aye.” He leaned back in his chair, his coffee untouched. “Libby.”

  ’Twas said with the utmost ease, a telling simplicity, even an intimacy therein. She felt she would drown in the delight of it. “No one has ever called me that.”

  “Times are changing.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. “Mayhap it would be best if you go by something else.”

  She smiled. “Just recently I decided to forsake Elisabeth and go solely by Liberty. Your calling me Libby seems blessed confirmation.”

  Beyond the perimeter of her sated senses she was dimly aware of the staccato tap of heels in the foyer. Their idyll was broken. Even Mistress Tremayne looked discomfited by the interruption.

  “’Tis Mister Henry, sir. He’s on the way back from Burwell’s Landing and says ’tis urgent.”

  Liberty fought down her dismay. Noble excused himself, then left the table. She suspected more Patriot business was brewing. What she most remembered of Patrick Henry was her father’s rantings.

  A Quaker by religion but an absolute devil in politics.

  ’Twould be a late night for her host. She’d best tell Isabeau the good news. Though what she wanted was to linger at the table till the moon rose and he came back and finished whatever it was he’d been about to tell her.

  12

  Someone had taken care to light a lamp. Her room, so blue in daylight, held a silvery cast at night. Shutting the door softly, Liberty let her mind roam, surprised that till now she’d not thought much about his room. Was it just beneath them on the second floor? Or in another part of the house entirely?

  Peeking through the adjoining door to the dressing room where Isabeau slept, Liberty found it empty. She didn’t want to be alone with her tumbled thoughts, to try to make sense of what had happened below. Because it simply made no sense.

  Libby.

  She placed a hand against one cheek and found it fever hot. Her fair skin had ever been an indicator of her emotions. Tonight was no exception. Perhaps Isabeau’s absence was a blessing. One long look at her and her maid would know more than dinner had been partaken of below.

  Opening a window, she sat on the wide sill and let the night air cool her. ’Twas ten o’clock. The house servants were finishing their duties. She could hear the soft padding of their feet on the floor below. She tried to think of something, anything, to take her mind off the man meeting with Noble in his study. Always her mind returned to the trouble at hand.

  Lord, what is in store for me?

  The door clicked open behind her and Isabeau appeared. She looked ridiculously contrite. “Mistress, have you been here long?”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  “Who lit the lamp?”

  “Mistress Tremayne, likely. Sit down, please. I have good news.”

  “About your mere, your papa?”

  “About you.” Liberty gestured to the chair beside her, wondering how to begin. Noble always came to the truth of the matter straightaway. So would she. “You’re no longer bound to me, Isabeau. All that has changed. Mister Rynallt has offered to assume your indenture.”

  “Aidez moi!” Her maid’s astonishment was so complete Liberty couldn’t tell if she was dismayed or pleased. “But I shan’t leave you—”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice.” Liberty trod carefully but candidly. “Our host has just explained it to me. All Tory property is to be auctioned, even the servants. Do you want to go on the block before all Williamsburg?”

  At this Isabeau shuddered. She shared Liberty’s abhorrence for auctions.

  “You’ll stay on here at Ty Mawr,” Liberty told her. “You’ll have a new home, a new life.”

  “All that is well and good. But what about you?”

  The plea in her maid’s voice threatened her resolve. “I’ve been considering what I can do to be independent.”

  “Independent?” Isabeau’s shock underscored the outrage
ousness of the plan.

  “Aye.” With a determined wink Liberty rattled her maid further. “Independent. But I shan’t tell you my plan till I’ve told Mister Rynallt.”

  “Mistress, are you fou?”

  “Lunatic? Perhaps. Here’s another matter. No longer are you to call me Lady Elisabeth but rather Liberty. Now go on to bed. I shall manage.” She placed a hand on her bodice, mindful that the gown hooked from the front and not behind, a convenience she’d not planned on. “I have some reading to do . . . a letter to write.”

  With an aggrieved nod, Isabeau disappeared into the sitting room, and the house seemed to settle with her. Liberty was still upended by all she’d learned at supper, and her thoughts would not let her rest. Not even her favorite passages in her Anglican prayer book sufficed, leaving her wondering what the Presbyterians used, if anything. Her every contemplation returned her to Noble Rynallt.

  Toward midnight she heard a violin. Henry had gone then. Though she’d been at Ty Mawr but a short time, she’d learned Noble played only in the dead of night and in very controlled tones. ’Twas him, wasn’t it? Who else? He was no novice.

  She went to the washstand and poured water into a wide porcelain bowl, scenting it with rose cologne and refreshing her face and shoulders and hands before drying them. The nightly ritual grounded her. Pulling the pins from her hair next, she shook it free of its tight coils. It tumbled over her shoulders to the small of her back as if grateful for release. One hundred strokes and then a loose braid. In the looking glass her reflection was pale. Perplexed.

  She held her breath as she went out the bedchamber door, afraid Isabeau would come flying out after her. But it shut with nary a click as she crossed the polished floor to the landing, the music below drawing her as if she was pulled along by an invisible string. Before now she’d been uncertain of just where he was, guessing it was his study, the door now closed.