The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Sitting down in the attic stairwell, she shut her eyes and listened. Corelli. Haydn. Guarneri. All known, all beloved. In time she matched him note for note as surely as if she accompanied him on her harp. The last piece was somewhat melancholy. “His fiddle weeps,” Isabeau had said the first time she’d heard him, complaining that he kept her awake.

  He finished the final piece, drawing out the last notes. She pictured his bow sliding free of the strings. Tried to imagine what led to this nightly concert. Perhaps one day he would play for her. And the song he chose would be joyful.

  The next morning found Noble in the stables. His head groom had saddled the Narragansett pacer, which was stomping and tossing his head as if wanting to return to Rhode Island.

  “He’s a beauty, sir. Tires a bit easy on account o’ the heat but can pace a mile in a little more than two minutes,” his head groom said with satisfaction. “A fine racer.”

  Noble swung himself into the saddle, fighting the familiar dread of what lay beyond the safety of the stable doors. It hovered like a dark presence, nearly eclipsing the pleasure he once felt. He’d even considered selling his stock and abandoning riding altogether. But few walked save a vagabond or fool.

  No one spoke of Enid’s accident here. But they’d not forgotten it. He could see it in their wary expressions when he came round, as if the sight of him resurrected the horrific details of that day. Most of the stable hands had been privy to what happened. And the sight of them set off his own internal alarms.

  “You’ve got company, sir.”

  His groom gestured to the far stable entrance, looking surprised. Inquiring. Noble felt the same when his eyes fastened on Liberty. Libby. Dressed to ride. She could hardly be missed. In scarlet cloth with gilt buttons, the very color of the British army uniforms, she wore a dark little tricorn hat that was twin to Enid’s own. Topped with a white feather, it gave her a jaunty air. He was feeling far from jaunty. The resemblance was uncanny. What else did she have in that sole trunk of hers?

  He dismounted as quickly as he’d mounted, walking to meet her before she’d ducked into the stable’s dusty, manure-laden confines.

  “I wanted to ride out with you, if only for a few minutes. I—”

  “Nay. No riding.” He spoke so emphatically her face fell. “I mean—I—there’s no suitable mount. You see . . .”

  She looked about in confusion, as if calling him on the blatant falsehood. A half-dozen mares were in stalls on both sides of them. An odd hope skipped through him. Liberty wanted to ride. With him. If not for Enid . . .

  As usual, she was graciousness to the bone, sparing him a painful explanation. “Very well. I shan’t ride then. I suppose I should have asked about that.” She managed an apologetic smile. “There’s no need for me to keep to the house any longer. I’m leaving, you see.”

  Leaving? He reined in his misery. Turning, he instructed a groom to ready the riding chair. It was brought round, and she spoke to the hitched pony in soothing tones as if she’d been raised to the saddle. He helped her up onto the upholstered seat and got in after her as another memory of Enid took hold, darker than before.

  Abandoning his plan for a solitary jaunt, they left the stable yard amid the clatter of hooves, much like he and Enid had that last day. But it had been stormy then, and today not a cloud marred the sky. A mile or more they rode in silence, past Ty Mawr’s fields and barns and field hands till they reached his property’s highest vista.

  She looked down at her gloved hands rather than the expansive view. “I want you to know how grateful I am for all you’ve done. It means all the more when I realize you did it at considerable personal cost.”

  “Cost? Nay, none worth mentioning.” He felt a twist of alarm that she was leading up to something. Perhaps joining her father for good? “Have you come to a decision?”

  “You know I cannot stay.”

  She was looking at him with a strange mix of concern and wistfulness. It tugged at him all the harder.

  Of what shallow stuff is the heart made if one can fall in love in a fortnight . . .

  He gripped the reins harder, trying to right himself, to return to that passionless place where reason ruled.

  “You don’t have to make a decision quickly.” He swallowed hard, his voice a bit ragged. “Not yet.”

  “Stay on for a while longer, you mean?”

  “Aye, if you would.”

  Her lips parted, but it was several seconds before she spoke. “Keeping Tory women in third-floor rooms cannot be good for the liberty-loving master of Ty Mawr.” Her aim at a little levity fell flat. Neither of them so much as cracked a smile.

  He shook his head. “I have another place in mind a short distance from here. Ty Bryn. It means ‘hill house’ or ‘little house’ in Welsh. ’Tis well-built. Private. You could live there with your mother.”

  “Assuming my mother comes.” Her look implied doubt. “I want to tell you my plan. It may even make an Independence Man proud.”

  Would she dismiss his offer so easily? Make her own way? A grudging admiration took hold. “Go on then.”

  “I am a lacemaker. I learnt when I was five years old after my mother began sponsoring a small group of lacemakers in Williamsburg. Her hope was that these Southern lacemakers would be as enterprising as the ones of the Northeast, like those in Ipswich, Massachusetts.”

  “Your mother has a head for industry.” He remembered Priscilla Lawson was patron of several charities, had even helped establish the poorhouse in Williamsburg. And she was a firm believer that women were more than property and capable of greater endeavors.

  “She has a head for a great many things, most of them a bone of contention with my father. She’s a little like the late Mistress Franklin and her post office.”

  “But lacemaking . . . you?” He glanced down at the sleeves of her riding habit, the ends trimmed in the most fetching handwork he’d ever seen. He wasn’t given to examining laces but had to admit these were very fine.

  “Yes, these lace cuffs are of my making.” A smile softened her somber features. She held a sleeve aloft for closer inspection, even admiration.

  “You are good at it. But ’tis a trade, aye? Like a common woman would do.”

  “And I am suddenly a common woman, without a dowry or a means to sustain myself.”

  He weighed his response. He didn’t want to tramp on her hopes. He could only imagine what the haughty former lieutenant governor would say about his tradeswoman daughter. “So you would make lace to barter and sell . . . to maintain yourself.”

  She nodded, looking up at him so expectantly he didn’t have the heart to naysay her. So he stayed quiet. Painfully so.

  Her chin lifted. “Friday I shall go to Williamsburg and inquire about work.”

  Friday. More time with her then. But work? She made it sound blissfully easy. He allowed himself one caution. “You realize what people will say about you. That they might shun you given your family name. Your father.”

  “I shan’t conduct myself as one of the Lawsons. I shall simply be Liberty.”

  Did she like the unassuming name that much then?

  “I shall dress humbly and keep to my rooms—”

  “Which would be where?”

  “One of the Williamsburg ordinaries, perhaps. I can take in mending and whatnot too.”

  Her plan was flawed. He wanted to shelter her from what was coming. Warn her. Prevent her. Provide for her.

  Marry her.

  “Before you set your”—he kicked aside the word rash—“plan in place, I’d recommend you see your father aboard the Fowey.”

  “My father? Why?”

  For the first time he detected revulsion, even a taint of bitterness, in her tone. He was in no frame of mind to advocate for the earl of Stirling, but he wanted no regrets. “Consider it a means to an end. You meet with him, try to come to some understanding. The encounter will do one of two things. You’ll decide ’tis in your best interest to go with him, or you�
��ll resolve to strike out on your own in Williamsburg.”

  She frowned, obviously as torn hearing it as he was saying it. A dire proposal indeed. “Very well.” She nodded again, the feather atop her hat dancing. “I have no illusions as to how the meeting will go, but I am willing to follow your lead. I shall see him Friday then.”

  He nodded, considering all the implications. When she left Ty Mawr he might never see her again. Lawson was not above abducting his daughter or making it very difficult for her to leave the ship. Lady Charlotte and her girls were another lure. They might well enjoin her to return to England with them.

  “The best outcome would be for Lord Dunmore to return to the Governor’s Palace and my father to reunite with my mother and myself at the townhouse. But that is not to be.”

  Was she a realist as well as an adventurer and dreamer? “Nay. It is not.”

  Their eyes met briefly. He detected a resigned acceptance there. She hadn’t mentioned being reconciled to Miles Roth. And it made her all the dearer to him.

  “My coach is yours for travel. Take your lady’s maid when you go to meet your father. I can ride along as escort.”

  “Nay, I’ll not have you or Isabeau with me. She’s your servant now, not mine. I shall go alone.”

  Alone. To face her father, the scourge of Virginia Colony. She was made of sterner stuff than he’d thought.

  13

  There was no disguising the rough edges of York even in the sunlight and bustle of summer. Perhaps it was worsened by the fact that Isabeau was no longer at her side. A lady’s maid was security, especially in a seaport such as this, though the grandness of the Rynallt carriage was enough to keep most troublemakers at bay. It rolled through the congested streets with the efficacy of a black cannonball, clearing everyone in its way. Her driver, Dougray, was a man she’d seen at Ty Mawr’s stables, a burly coachman who wielded a whip for more than horses, he said. A lone Scot in a sea of Welsh servants. High on his box seat he sat with a decided scowl, leaving her to wonder if it was from the stifling weather or the riffraff in his path.

  If she’d not acted quickly, she might have lost the courage to come. Mistress Tremayne had sent word to the stables while Isabeau helped her dress. Not a murmur did Liberty utter about returning. Tonight she didn’t know where she’d lay her head, only that it wouldn’t be at Ty Mawr. She’d not involve Noble Rynallt further in the fall of the Lawsons.

  The coach lurched to a sudden halt. She braced herself for the coming ordeal, nearly wincing as Dougray’s Scots dialect grated on her ears. He was arguing with someone, but about what? Gaining proximity to the Fowey at the end of the wharf? British soldiers were posted everywhere. She’d likely be searched before the day was done. Might it be she’d come all the way here to be turned away? No sooner had the thought left her mind than the door was yanked open.

  Dougray was nearly snarling. “Ye’ll no’ lay a hand on the lady or I’ll have yer lobsterback in a sling.”

  A red-coated figure peered in, the plume of his helmet colliding with the doorway. A dragoon? “Lady Elisabeth, daughter of Lieutenant Governor Lawson?”

  She noticed he didn’t say former. “Yes, I am she.” The familiar refrain, once proudly said, now hung in her throat. She made a move to leave her seat and step out if that was what he wanted, but he slammed the door in her face. The coach jerked forward but at a much slower pace, as if they had a soldier’s escort.

  “Och, we’re here, m’lady,” Dougray thundered from his perch before jumping down to help her out. “But we dinna have any o’ them t’ thank.”

  She thanked him, eyes alighting on the town’s Main Street atop a bluff before taking in the glare of sparkling water and an enormous amount of rigging, sail, and wood. Her mind grappled with the enormity of the Fowey. Would the king and his ministers of state not send a thousand more warships just like it? Everywhere she looked were redcoats. What chance did Noble Rynallt and the Patriots have in the face of this?

  She sent up a silent prayer of thanks the Fowey wasn’t lying at anchor in the harbor, necessitating a row in a dinghy to reach it. A uniformed officer gave a little bow before her. Beneath the lace veil of her straw hat, she tried to work up a smile. Chivalry wasn’t dead, even in the face of rebellion.

  The gangplank was so sun-soaked she could feel its heat through the thin soles of her slippers. It distracted her from the odors—the stench of unwashed men, oil, the sweltering cargo in the hold, whatever it was. She tried to anchor her gaze on the coattails of the officer leading her she knew not where—up, down, and around cramped stairs and passageways like a rodent in a maze.

  A cabin door somewhere in the bowels of this great ship was their destination. At last the officer’s decisive knock on a far door gained her entry, and she stood looking at her father’s bald head. Seated at a desk beneath a porthole, he looked up only when he’d finished with whatever he was writing. ’Twas a full, infuriating minute, a delay she was well accustomed to but that had never set her seething till now.

  As expected, his cabin was splendidly appointed. Lacquered white walls were trimmed in gold and decorated with mirrors and copper engravings. A small bust of King George commandeered the ornate desk.

  “Daughter.” It was said with little surprise or welcome, as if she’d simply come in from the townhouse garden and interrupted him. A deep bewilderment took hold.

  Her father was, as always, impeccably dressed. Even without his usual wig, his complexion was powdered, his stock pristine, while her every pore seemed glutted with dust. A trickle of sweat slid from the carefully done coiffure, down her neck to the back of her gown where her stays cinched tight. Having slept little the night prior, she was weary beyond words.

  “Would you care for some wine, Elisabeth?”

  She shook her head, fighting for composure.

  He motioned to a chair. “What brings you?”

  She stayed standing. “What brings me?” The words were edged in disbelief. She could scarcely push them past the tightness in her throat. As they faced each other, she could sense his restlessness. His mind was already returning to the letter on his desk, she knew. His entire manner had already dismissed her even if he’d not yet said it. Would he not even inquire about her mother? Or share anything he knew?

  “Speak, Daughter, speak.”

  She fought to keep her voice steady as resentment pooled in her heart. “Why did you flee and leave me that night?”

  “Leave you? On the eve of your wedding?” He gave a near roll of his eyes and turned toward a table where he poured himself some Madeira. “I left you so that your intended would rise to the occasion and rescue you—”

  “Which he did not do.”

  He swirled the dark liquid around in his glass and took a sip. “Then the fault is not mine, Daughter, but his.”

  Nay, never yours. Not then, not ever.

  Not once had she heard him ask for forgiveness, admit fault. Pride and arrogance had been the pattern of his life and the heart of his every interaction, but it had taken distance and turmoil for her to see it clearly. “Miles Roth may have broken our betrothal, but ’twas you who abandoned both myself and my mother, your wife.”

  “Your mother was not there that night. Besides, she has long had her own mind in matters.” His stare was stony. He brooked no argument. “Would you have me bring her aboard ship once she returns, given her politics?”

  “I would have you act honorably.”

  He drained his glass. “Then you are as lunatic as she is.”

  “Do you know nothing more about her?” Her voice rose another notch. “Do you have confirmation she even sailed from England? I—”

  He cut her off. “I do not know, nor do I care.”

  Before his ire she felt small again, the sting of his indifference like the slap of a hand. “No doubt you’ve had this planned for months now—leaving, being rid of us both. Perhaps Mama isn’t coming back. Have you planned that too?”

  He fixed her with fiery eyes
. “Mayhap you are imagining such things—”

  “Mayhap?” She was breathless now. She hated that her voice shook. “I am not imagining being left in the middle of the night while drunken men sack my house. Nor am I imagining a betrothal broken or the unknown whereabouts of my mother. Mayhap it is you who are lunatic, hiding out aboard a ship guarded by countless soldiers when not one Patriot has taken up arms against you—”

  “Enough!” He brought his fist down atop the table with such force the wine bottle overturned. “You impudent girl, you’d do well to remember it was not I who caused this rebellion!”

  She recoiled and collided with the shut door before turning and fumbling to open it again. The soldier who had brought her below was waiting outside. Pushing past him, she fled, intent on open sky and sunlight. Once on deck she ignored the stares of a great many men who seemed either amused or sullen at her appearance.

  Coming up the gangplank with an armed escort were Lady Charlotte and the girls. At the sight of Liberty, Lady Catherine and Lady Augusta burst into tears.

  “Dearest Lizzy, have you come back to us?” They rushed forward, circling her, drawing yet more attention. “Will you sail with us?”

  Liberty took them in against the ugly backdrop of York, so far removed from the elegant Governor’s Palace they’d called home. Her gaze lingered longest on Lady Charlotte who looked especially wan, even ill, much as she did during early pregnancy. Was she in circumstances again?

  Unable to speak, Liberty embraced them, and they huddled together till their wide, beribboned hats were askew and the guard watching was red-faced.

  “God bless you all till we meet again,” Liberty choked out. Finally pulling free, she took the gangplank at a near run, her blurred eyes on the waiting Rynallt coach down the crowded street.

  Dougray was at hand, cheek stuffed with tobacco. “Where to, m’lady?”

  “Williamsburg,” she said as he opened the coach door.

  The hot interior, suffocating all the way here, now seemed a refuge. Without Isabeau near, with the crush of carriage wheels masking any sound, she gave way to all her heartache and exhaustion.