by Laura Frantz
Never had she spoken to her father in such a manner. Since childhood she had accepted his domination as part of the natural order of things, like Newton’s laws or the inerrancy of Scripture. Upon her marriage she’d expected to do the same with a husband of his choosing. Though she believed every word she’d spoken aboard ship, it cut her mercilessly to have said them.
The realization that her father viewed her and used her like a pawn in a chess game, only to abandon her when the moves were not to his liking, was beyond understanding. Her respect for him, small as it was, eroded completely in the face of her pain.
He had chosen Miles Roth for her because Miles was a mirror of his own deficiencies and ambitions. Her whole life might have continued as little more than a game piece if not for the present rebellion. Perhaps instead of railing against the loss of a home and a husband who was grievously wrong for her, she should fall on her knees and thank God for breaking the pattern of destruction in her life.
But at what a cost.
Crying soon gave way to sleeping. They came to the outskirts of Williamsburg at dusk, the exact time the sun would be flooding Ty Mawr’s south portico with final light as it swept off the river. Noble was oft here. The thought burrowed beneath her numbness to steady her. Was he staying at the Raleigh? Or at the home of his friend George Wythe along Palace Street? No matter, she was intent on her townhouse.
The footman lowered her trunk, and Dougray shouldered it to a side door, which they found locked. “I canna leave ye here alone, m’lady,” he told her. “I dinna see naught but boarded windows and broken shrubs. Master Rynallt wouldna be happy with the arrangement, ye ken.”
She said nothing to this, joining him in perusing the lawn of tall grass made ugly by shards of broken glass.
“Besides,” he protested, “ye dinna have a way in.”
She reached into her indispensable and produced a skeleton key. “Isabeau saved this for just such an occasion.”
He rubbed a ruddy brow and looked more befuddled. “Och, a smart lass, tae be sure. But what will I be tellin’ the master?”
She sighed. “The truth. That I asked you to bring me here after York. Surely there’s no crime in that.”
He took the key and opened the door, hefting her trunk in after them. The little hall was cool, the shadows deep. She felt a twist of lonesomeness to find it empty when it had never been empty before. The servants liked to gather here at day’s end, talking or resting from their labors in the half-dozen chairs scattered about. When she was small she’d sat on soft, aproned laps, partaking of a sweet or some delicacy snuck from the kitchen till her nursemaid called her away.
“Are ye sure, m’lady?”
“Indeed,” she said, far from feeling it. “Please tell Isabeau not to worry. And please thank Mister Rynallt for the use of his coach.”
He bowed out, the gallant gesture refining his roughness. For a moment she leaned against the door she’d shut after him, ruing her decision, then slowly she made her way to the heart of the house, trying to grow accustomed to the quiet. Had it only been a short time ago she’d awoken to absolute mayhem?
Her heart pulled her to the music room. There in the shadows was her harp. Her broken lute. She stepped carefully over glass and around overturned furniture, took a stool, and positioned her hands to play like countless times before. A Scripture wove through her head like a song.
Therefore my harp is turned to mourning and my flute to the sound of those who weep.
Her hands fell to her sides as if broken. She simply sat, remembering the music of the past, praying she could find a way to keep one instrument at least. ’Twould not be the harp, as large and unwieldy as it was, though it bespoke countless concerts and soirees at the Palace.
Her lute, perhaps. Though damaged, it might be mended by the Williamsburg luthier. She picked it up, gladdened by its familiar weightlessness and elegant lines. Holding it to her chest, she walked about the house, searching for anything of value that was small enough to sell at market. ’Twas clear that she couldn’t remain here even for one night. Fearful she was not. But she had no light. Without a fire to kindle or a taper to illuminate her bedchamber, she faltered. But ’twas something else too, something she could not name that bade her leave. There was a profound emptiness here that finally sent her scurrying down the alley behind the house.
Her beautiful, beloved Williamsburg was reassuringly familiar yet achingly strange. The gardens, the rear porches, the stables, and the dependencies along these streets were no different. But she was changed. No longer welcome. No longer a resident. Simply and unalterably an outcast.
Not long ago everyone had vowed allegiance to the Crown. Now the Gazette, once notoriously Tory, was printing names of townsfolk found to be sympathetic to England and English goods. But why? She raised a hand and rubbed her pounding temples. She didn’t understand independence if one wasn’t allowed to have independent thought.
Her footsteps quickened as dusk raced to meet darkness. As she hurried along, her skirt hem trailing in the dust, her hat no longer needed, she was quick to retreat to the shadows if a horseman or carriage thundered by. Few did. Nightlife was centered deeper in town at the Raleigh and the other ordinaries. Passing Palace Green, she was careful not to look down the long drive of catalpa trees to the royal residence. It sat as dark and empty as her thoughts. She tried not to dwell on her lonesomeness as she went, tried not to think of Noble Rynallt, wherever he was.
She felt a bit guilty that she’d left in such a rush, confused about a great many things except that he not be involved with her. Yet even now the exchange between them haunted. He’d asked her to stay on at Ty Mawr. She sensed there was something more behind his offer than simple friendship. Or was she simply craving security? A home?
Even now the ache for something more followed her in the twilight. All the feelings she’d contained so carefully in the fortnight she’d known him were magnified here. She was on the verge of a great many new things, all of them a bit shattering.
A new name. A new home. A new life.
14
Miles Roth was gambling his fortune away. Everyone at the Raleigh knew it. The only question was who would receive the lion’s share when all was said and done. The stakes were very high, the men inebriated, Miles most of all. Noble watched from across the smoke-filled taproom, glad his cousin’s parents were not here to see their legacy squandered and he had no wife to drag into debtor’s prison after him. The rattle of dice boxes seemed to him like dead men’s bones. He’d never been a gambler or a drinker, though he had reason aplenty of late. Miles seemed to have received a double portion of the knavishness he lacked. Though he’d intervened in the past—dragging Miles home, paying minor debts, averting quarrels and duels on his behalf—he could do so no longer.
Now, standing in the tavern’s foyer with Patrick Henry, waiting for Jefferson and Washington to come down from their rooms, he felt Henry jab him with an elbow. “So ye’ve cut the leading strings at last?”
Noble eyed the stairwell without comment as more Patriots gathered.
But Henry wasn’t letting up. “Ye know, if we were to channel all Roth’s wasted energy—and his finances—to our cause, we might well win this Revolution.”
“Betimes a man must reach bottom before grabbing hold of what’s right.”
“Ah, indeed.” Taking his eyes off Miles and the mounting tension of the game, Henry cleared his throat. “And how is the lovely Lady Elisabeth?”
“’Tis Lady Liberty now.” Noble removed his hat and hung it from a near peg. “Gone.”
“Say what?”
Noble turned to him, glad he didn’t have a mouthful of ale lest he spew it out in amusement at Henry’s comical expression. “Gone. Away from Ty Mawr.”
“Blast it, man! I heard you the first time! Where to?”
“To see her father in York.”
“Ah, good riddance, I say,” Henry replied. “I feared she was about to make you lose all reason. Let u
s hope all that is in the past. Your involvement with her is so unlike you, so rash. You’ve always been a man of careful deliberation and sound judgment, the very last to take such a leap.”
“I’m in danger of being hung for treason by the Crown. Anything else hardly seems a risk.”
Henry chuckled then grew grave. “I need no reminding. As Franklin said, we must all hang together or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.” Disgust clouded his face as he studied Roth across the crowded room. “Mayhap her ladyship will even reconcile with the rogue.”
“Nay, that is no longer a possibility.”
“Well, congratulations on your avoiding marital disaster then.”
“I have no desire to wed anyone,” Noble said with lessening conviction, though one recurring thought continued to nag him. “I’ll not leave a widow if there’s war.”
“Glad to hear it. There might be a great many of those once this is done.” Perspiring, Henry gave a tug to his stock. “Well, I must admit at the very least that Lady Elisa—Liberty, as you call her—is a fine specimen of womanhood, even dowry-less and a Tory.”
“Well said.” Noble nodded. “If I was a betting man, I’d wager you’d find her as agreeable as I do.”
“I hope not, for the future Mistress Henry’s sake,” he returned with a wink.
Liberty awoke to stiffness and the scent of hot cross buns carrying half a mile on the Williamsburg wind. What had Mistress Tremayne called them? Byns y Grog? Given this, the town’s nearest bake shop hardly needed a shingle above its door. Her stomach growled a complaint as she bestirred herself. She should have brought something along from Ty Mawr, a biscuit or apple. She could not spare the few pence in her indispensable for even the humblest bun.
The townhouse’s aromatic kitchen stormed her thoughts, all the resurrected spices and sweetmeats. Anything she wanted had been within easy reach. The hollowness inside her deepened. She’d spent the night away from the only home she’d ever known and had finally slept, secreted away in a corner of the Palace gardens known to few but her and Lady Charlotte’s daughters, a tiny bower overhung with honeysuckle, as fragrant as it was hidden. Aside from a few insect bites, she hated to leave it to begin her eventful day, but she must.
Half an hour later, having backtracked to the townhouse, Liberty stood before a full-length mirror in her dressing room, somewhat satisfied. Without Isabeau, managing her underpinnings proved nearly impossible. She’d finally found some front-lacing stays and a gown that didn’t need much pinning. ’Twas a simple striped muslin, the plainest she owned. Removing the gauzy sleeves and kerchief, she rendered it plainer still. A simple cambric apron, lined with lace from her own hands, completed her toilette, along with a simple pinner atop her head. With her hair caught back in a tidy bun, not elaborate coils, she looked quite unlike herself. To complete the ruse, she plucked the violets and ribbon off what Isabeau called her milkmaid hat before securing the chin ribbons against the ever-present Williamsburg wind.
’Twas market day and she had little time to waste. Her heart pulsed wild as a hummingbird’s wings. Pushing aside all her qualms, she hung a basket from her arm and set off toward the heart of Williamsburg under the guise of an ordinary tradeswoman. Of the many ordinaries in and around town, she’d go begging at all but the Raleigh.
Chowning’s was first on her list, far enough down Duke of Gloucester Street from the Raleigh for comfort. She’d enter through the back door to keep her business secret. Yet as she drew nearer, she recalled something her father once said about Chowning’s being more alehouse and gambling den. Perhaps she’d best keep going.
Now a part of the milling, hustling market crowd, she glanced about discreetly, praying she’d not see anyone she knew. Likely somewhere in town was Noble Rynallt. The thought warmed her and lined her with lead all at once.
Lord, make me inconspicuous.
Yet she wanted to be seen. To be rescued again. All the implications of her decision to be independent came crashing down, dogging her dusty steps. Though she’d been a part of Williamsburg since birth, she now felt far from the beat of town life. Even with her father away, unaware of what she was doing, she sensed his displeasure should he find out. It shadowed her at every turn. He’d always forbidden her to go out with the rabble, as he called them.
Truly, market days were noisy, boisterous affairs. Along with her identity, the newness of everything tugged at her and bade her tarry. She paused to watch a puppet show, nearly forgetting her mission. The little stage erected in the shade of a giant oak was clever—Punch and Judy painted and provocatively dressed and loudly mocking the king.
Turning away, she was bumped by passersby, her basket nearly upended. Isabeau had oft warned of pickpockets, though any who filched her today would be sorely disappointed.
Making her way up the walk of the King’s Arms, a more respectable establishment, she lowered her gaze. Never mind that it was across the street from the Raleigh. A few men lingered outside the entrance, doffing their hats as she went in. A serving girl greeted her and took her to a small office at the back of the ordinary, where Liberty waited, tongue-tied. The pretty speech she’d rehearsed flew right out of her head as other distractions came to roost. A distillation of spirits, stale tobacco, and fried fish snuck into the tiny space and aggravated the queasy flutter in her too empty stomach.
When Jane Vobe, the tavern’s owner, finally appeared, Liberty rested her hand on a chair back to steady herself.
“What say ye?” The scowling woman shifted her considerable bulk behind the crowded desk, bidding Liberty to take a chair.
She sat, nearly sighing with relief, basket in her lap. “I’ve come seeking work.”
Sharp green eyes assessed her. “Work? What kind?”
Steeling herself against her rising embarrassment, she mustered as much resolve as she could. “Sewing. Mending.”
“For my patrons?”
“Aye. I am a lacemaker too.” Liberty opened her basket and withdrew embroidered cuffs and handkerchiefs, even clocked stockings.
Jane rose and looked closely, turning the items over in her plump, chapped hands and making little noises of appreciation. “’Tis a mite fine for my ilk. Ye might have better luck at the Raleigh. Now what did ye say yer name is?”
“Liberty.”
“Liberty, aye? More like Lord Stirling’s daughter, God’s truth.” Jane returned to her chair, sitting down so hard her ample body quivered like aspic. “Now why’s a lady like you seeking work at an ordinary? Why not be a governess or a lady’s companion? Something genteel?”
“Because,” she began slowly and with conviction, “I prayed . . . and this was the answer that came to me.”
The shrewd eyes softened. “I can’t offer ye work, but I can give ye a sound meal. Ye look sore in need of that.”
“Nay, please, I’ll not trouble you further.” Returning her handwork to her basket, Liberty stood—and the whole room spun like a child’s top. She made it to the door, only to clutch the handle in a feeble attempt to stay upright.
Jane was close behind, steering her back to the chair she’d just left. “A plateful of eggs and sausages should do, or ’tis off to the apothecary with you.”
“But I cannot pay—”
“Nary a ha’pence I’ll take.”
Resigned, Liberty marveled at the speed with which breakfast could be had. At Jane’s bell ringing, a serving girl appeared, then disappeared and returned with a large tray mounded with more than eggs and sausages. A small mountain of biscuits crowded a platter, and a bowl of fried potatoes competed with a dish of grits pooling with butter. Steaming black coffee was set before her with a small jug of cream but no sugar.
Jane heaped a trencher full and handed Liberty a pewter fork. “I don’t expect ye to eat like a lady, hungry as ye are, so have at it.”
Liberty obeyed, feeling her stays expand with every bite. Jane’s eyes remained on her, her hostess appearing sincerely interested in her plight. “Where are ye
off to next?”
“Christiana Campbell’s.”
“Yer too fancy for that establishment. Why not the Raleigh?”
Liberty set her fork down, unable to meet Jane’s probing gaze. “’Tis a Patriot stronghold. My presence there would be naught but a joke.”
Heaving a sigh, Jane pressed her palms over the wiry red curls beneath her mobcap in a futile attempt to subdue them. “The owner, James Southall, is a Christian gentleman who might well need a seamstress and lacemaker. He sends a great many shirts down the street to the beleaguered tailor and Margaret Hunter, who makes noises about leaving. His clientele is top tier like yerself.”
Liberty nearly flinched. “Yet another reason why I cannot go there.”
“Pride, is it?”
With a nod, Liberty accepted the candid rebuke. “Perhaps.”
“Well, I’d see him right quick before the burgesses—delegates—end their session. Word is they’ll be tied up till this evening on serious business—something about taking up arms. Sounds positively traitorous to me, but I’m as tired o’ the king as the rest o’ them.”
And Noble Rynallt was smack in the middle of it. After taking a last bite of biscuit, she thanked Jane warmly and exited through a back door, turning left instead of right and wondering if Jane watched her from the window.
On a whim she crossed the street to the milliner’s, dodging carts and carriages all the way. She saw a few familiar faces and simply lowered her hat, praying her plain dress disguised her. Fortunately, the mantua maker was in, coming out of the back room at the jingling of the shop door. For a moment Liberty thought her disguise too believable. No sign of recognition lit Margaret’s face.
“’Tis me, Margaret. Elisabeth.”
“M’lady?” Margaret’s prim mouth grew slack. Reaching for her spectacles on a near counter, she peered more closely. “Lady Elisabeth? But I’d heard you were with your father aboard the Fowey.”
