The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Because Father abhors public displays.

  Even now he seemed to hover, tainting their goodbye. They embraced, not the lingering, heartfelt exchange Liberty longed for but short and sparse with none of the emotion of their prior meeting.

  “Please write to me, Mama.” Letters had been few betwixt England and Virginia.

  “Of course, once I arrive.” Her mother’s hands clasped Liberty’s shoulders with a fierceness that belied her injury. “Promise me this. No matter how much life as you know it changes, I implore you to marry for love, naught else.” Woven within the entreating words were years of heated disputes and icy silences, broken dreams and dashed hopes. “Promise.”

  Marry for love?

  Liberty had no wish to marry at all.

  18

  Noble handed a gold guinea and Seren’s reins to Billy. The boy’s eyes lit like a match, not from greed but from gratitude. A trifle thin, he seemed in want of the confections wafting enticingly on the sultry air from the bake shop’s open windows. As far as Noble knew, Billy was an orphan as well as a lad of all work about the Raleigh. The proprietor, Southall, had an admirable benevolent bent.

  Noble took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh to unsettle the dust. “Any news round Williamsburg I might have missed?”

  “News, sir?” Billy’s freckled face scrunched in thought as he tucked the coin in the bosom of his soiled shirt. “Another litter of pups was just born in the woodshed should ye want one. As for ye Patriots, Mister Jefferson spent the night but was well on his way early this morn to Monticello.” Brightening, he gestured toward the back of the ordinary. “There’s a new face in the folly.”

  Noble’s gaze shot beyond the fence to Southall’s abandoned office. The door to the small outbuilding was thrown open wide, the windows raised. The small Virginia flag that hung to the right of the entrance was now accompanied by a length of lace. It danced in the wind, a frothy, furling, eye-catching white.

  Liberty Lawson, lacemaker?

  His pulse did a jig. Privately he lauded her for choosing the Raleigh. Though it had been merely a few days since he’d seen her, the longing to do so had not only lingered but intensified.

  Billy started toward the back pasture, leading Seren. Throat parched from his ride, Noble nevertheless turned his back on the Raleigh and bypassed both the well and kitchen garden, taking the bricked walk to the folly.

  He wasn’t above a little sentiment. A burgeoning magnolia bush was to his right. Reaching out, he broke off a showy blossom, drawing the watchful eye of a mulatto woman working among the vegetables. He preferred the meadow wildflowers between Ty Mawr and Williamsburg, but there was something about the magnolia, pure and unsullied, that reminded him of Libby.

  He took care to stand on the folly steps and knock on the lintel, averting his eyes from within. In the pause that followed, his anticipation left him a bit breathless. A ray of sunlight cut across the pine floor, and she stepped into it. Libby, at last.

  “Mister Rynallt.”

  “Your first guest, mayhap, this quiet Tuesday morn.”

  Her cheeks pinked. “Well, sir, you have found me out.”

  “’Tis not hard in so small a town as Williamsburg. Some two thousand souls at last count.” His gaze lifted to the folly’s rafters, finding it free of cobwebs at least. “Still, an unlikely place for the daughter of an earl.”

  “Yet charming, no?” She pushed the door open wider, standing aside to better let him see in. “Perhaps not as grand as Ty Mawr, but . . .”

  He smiled, warming to the playful lilt in her voice, glad she had landed on her feet. He handed the magnolia blossom to her.

  Her face softened. She breathed in the heady fragrance, her eyes holding his. “Reminds me of when I was a little girl in leading strings. Our gardener had the onerous task of shooing me away from our magnolias. I was besotted by them and bruised the blossoms, he always said.”

  “Well, I’m no crotchety townhouse gardener, just a man who likes to tie up loose ends.” He reached into his waistcoat and extracted the paperwork and money he owed. “For your maid’s indenture.”

  “Isabeau?” Her forehead furrowed. “Perhaps that matter is more for my father.”

  “She’s your maid, aye?”

  She pocketed the coin and paperwork, the magnolia still in hand. “How are . . . things?”

  Things? He swallowed down a dozen unsavory answers.

  Virginia politics are still a-simmer. We’ll soon be more in need of soldiers’ shirts than lacemaking. Your townhouse goes on the block in July. Isabeau needs a lady to wait on.

  Ty Mawr needs a mistress.

  He abbreviated his answer. “Busy.” His gaze moved to the overflowing baskets near a small cane-bottomed chair by a window. Her work?

  “’Tis my mending. A great many men’s shirts from the Raleigh. Any time left over is for lacemaking.”

  Precious little time left, likely, though her lace pillow was out, resembling a porcupine with its many pins.

  “The lighting is perfect, better than the townhouse.” She smiled up at him, then her face darkened. “Much has happened since we last met. You should know my mother is on the King’s Highway to Philadelphia as we speak. She cannot reconcile with my father.”

  No surprise there. But Noble wanted to take the hurt from her comely face. “Why Philadelphia?”

  “She has friends in the city.”

  And few here. He silently commended Southall for taking on a Tory. In the span of a few days, Liberty Lawson had waded through the shambles of her cosseted life, shunned Noble’s advice, and set forth on a new venture that both baffled and intrigued him.

  “Mister Southall has given me leave to travel to Norfolk every fortnight. I’ll go to market, see if I can make enough contacts that merchants come to me for orders. I’ll need to visit the bookbinder there and beg some parchment for lace patterns.”

  “The Williamsburg bookbinder might oblige you.”

  She looked away. “He turned me out. My father owes him, you see.”

  He sensed her humiliation. So her father had unpaid debts? “You’ll be passing by Ty Mawr on your way to and from Norfolk.” He hesitated, allowing himself one last chance with her. Would she shoot down his invitation? “Should you need to stop there . . .”

  “Thank you. I thought perhaps to stay at Richneck Plantation, but as it stands, those doors might be closed to me.”

  So she’d come to Ty Mawr as a last resort?

  Her smile resurfaced, raising his hopes, then dashing them at her next words. “I might see Isabeau.”

  “Aye,” he said, beginning a slow retreat. He would not ask again. Slowly the door between them began to shut. He canted his thoughts to the upcoming ball at the Raleigh, and the women who would be more obliging than the tarnished Tory before him.

  In truth, Liberty Lawson was beyond his reach. Once his social equal, she’d lowered herself to middling tradeswoman, and his political adversary at that. Mayhap he’d best heed Henry’s warnings.

  “Godspeed.” He returned his hat to his head, hating the finality he felt. “I wish you well in all your endeavors.”

  “Ffarwel,” she answered in Welsh. Goodbye.

  He hesitated. Who had taught her that? Her pronunciation was flawless, upending him. Her sunny smile was his complete undoing, somehow tightening the tie that had begun to unravel.

  He walked away and didn’t look back.

  Her days became a blur of work. She measured time by eye strain and back pain. Up before dawn, she labored by candlelight, her foremost priority taking care of the Raleigh clientele. She knew who was at the ordinary by the identifying marks on their garments. Her goal was to finish each forenoon and attend to her lacemaking after, but there were simply not enough hours.

  How idle she had once been. How at ease. While those around her had callused their hands and catered to her every whim, she’d given it little thought, simply dropping a polite if rote thank-you like a scattering of cr
umbs.

  As she worked her tiny, mundane stitches—twelve stitches to an inch of cloth—her thoughts ran amok. Had Mama made it to Philadelphia? Was Papa still aboard the Fowey? Gossip rumbled like thunder as June melted into July.

  The magnolia blossom Noble had given her lay in a windowsill, a dirty, limp brown. For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Oddly, the faded blossom seemed a symbol of herself. How many days had passed since he’d pressed it into her hand? She hated that she looked for him, raising her head to peruse the horses in the far field, fixing her gaze on the Raleigh’s rear door at busy times to catch his coming or going. But he hadn’t come back.

  ’Twas Saturday. The ordinary bristled with new purpose. If gaiety had a scent, she now smelled it.

  Today the rooms’ windows glittered from a good washing, and a great many scurrying maids foretold a merry occasion.

  “You starin’ at that room like you is wantin’ to go to the ball.”

  Startled as much by Thalia’s presence as her uncanny ability to read her thoughts, Liberty lost her precious needle. It fell between two floorboards, glinting out of reach. The young mulatto woman promptly dropped to all fours and deftly retrieved it. Liberty met Thalia’s eyes and found them warm, the few pockmarks on her tawny face situated like beauty patches. Not even smallpox could dent her comeliness.

  “I suppose you deserve a little merriment workin’ night and day like you do, just stoppin’ long enough to eat or go to the necessary.”

  “You work as hard or harder,” Liberty returned, thinking of Thalia’s unceasing care of the Raleigh’s kitchen and flower gardens. Nary a weed sprouted before she’d uprooted it. “At least I’m in the shade.”

  Thalia removed her linen kerchief and caught a trickle of sweat. “We’ll likely get no sleep tonight with the dancin’ goin’ on till dawn. That punch bowl’s mighty big besides.” The Raleigh’s silver-plated bowl and ladle were reputed to be the largest in the colonies.

  Setting her sewing aside, Liberty walked to the well, drawing water enough for them both. She’d noticed Thalia limping down rows of leafy lettuce and plumy carrots, rarely pausing for a drink.

  Nodding her thanks, Thalia took the wood dipper and drank deeply, offering it to Liberty next. Liberty felt a twist of dismay drinking from a bucket, then took an extra swallow to quell it, dismissing the shiny memory of pewter and silver in the butler’s pantry of the townhouse.

  “Iffen you like, we can watch the goings-on from over there.” Thalia gestured toward a crude wooden bench half hidden by a bed of lofty hollyhocks. “Mister Southall, he give me the night to do as I please on account o’ my leg.” Lifting a petticoat, she revealed a jagged gash above one garter-tied stocking.

  Inwardly Liberty recoiled. How had she come by such a wound? Asking seemed too familiar somehow. Staying stoic, Liberty gestured next door. “The apothecary is at hand. Or I can send for Doctor Hessel.”

  “Nay, I just needs to rest.”

  Night was pressing in, the gathering clouds snuffing what little sun was left. The apothecary would soon close.

  Without explaining herself, Liberty backtracked to the open apothecary door, nearly colliding with a portly gentleman in black. Like the Raleigh’s Apollo Room, she’d never been in Galt’s shop before. A servant was always sent for whatever was needed, allowing her a measure of anonymity now.

  She breathed in a dozen different potent scents as her gaze settled on Doctor Galt’s medical certificates hanging on a far wall. Decorative jars adorned a high shelf, but far simpler containers abounded below it. She recognized a few. Licorice root for sore throats. Tooth powder. Quinine for fever.

  “Need something, miss?” No kindling of recognition lit the assistant’s eyes. And then . . .

  “Lady Elisabeth?”

  She turned toward the door, clenching one of Noble’s guineas in her fist.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Doctor Hessel was regarding her as if she was a spectacle. Granted, she’d traded her fancy dress for some of the servants’ garments she’d found at the townhouse. But they were clean. Serviceable.

  Doctor Galt came out of a back room, hailing Doctor Hessel and regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

  “I’m in need of a physic,” she murmured.

  Hessel raked her from head to toe. “Are you unwell?”

  “Nay, someone else.”

  In moments they had exited the shop, and Hessel was examining Thalia’s leg in the privacy of the folly. “’Tis deep. A wayward garden implement, you say? A poultice should set it right.”

  This time it was Thalia who was sent for the remedy, leaving the doctor and Liberty alone. His stoicism flared to exasperation.

  “Blast! First your mother leaves and then I can’t locate you—”

  “But you have.” She waved a hand about the folly, making light of his concerns. “As you can see, I’m safely settled and employed.”

  “I nearly didn’t recognize you.”

  “Glad I am of that.” She looked down at her simple attire, appreciating how little fuss it was to dress oneself, though she did miss Isabeau. “I hope in time to be known as the lacemaker and not the earl’s daughter.”

  “You should have gone with your mother to Philadelphia. What is your arrangement with Southall?”

  “Sewing and mending mostly.”

  He reached for her hands. Had he never seen them ungloved? He studied them as if diagnosing them. His brow creased. “Your lovely hands. They’re marred.”

  “I’ve been waited on hand and foot since birth.” Gently she pulled free. “What are a few pinpricks and calluses now?”

  “Please, you needn’t demean yourself. This place—” He looked about, appearing disgusted. “You’re little more than a scullery maid. A slave. Let me take you away from here. I have new rooms on Francis Street.”

  Did he? She’d never given it much thought. The invitation seemed unseemly somehow. “Your rooms? Are you asking me to . . .” She hesitated, unsure of him.

  Thalia stood on the doorstep, poultice makings in hand.

  Hessel took a step back. “I’ve other patients to see. We can continue our conversation later.” With a stiff bow he went out, leaving Thalia shamefaced and untended, as if he’d forgotten her altogether.

  “Pardon, Miss Lib.”

  “No need.” Summoning a smile, Liberty felt a sweeping relief. “Let’s dress your leg. We hardly need the doctor for that. Now that the day’s work is done, you can rest.”

  From across the garden a fiddle squeaked, evidence of the jollity to come. Listening, Liberty did the best she could with Thalia’s wound, binding the leg with a strip of clean linen when done.

  Thalia leaned nearer. “You sweet on the good doctor?”

  The straightforward question set Liberty oddly at ease. “I feel nothing for him but friendship.” There, she had said it. On the heels of this came her mother’s voice. Marry for love, naught else. “And you?”

  A measured nod. “There’s a Scotsman, a coachman that serves at Ty Mawr.”

  “Ty Mawr?” The swell of pleasure Liberty felt overrode the sting of Doctor Hessel’s hasty exit. “Would his name happen to be Dougray?”

  “Sure enough.” Thalia gave a winsome smile. “You met him?”

  “In part. Mister Ryn—” Liberty changed course. “I know the housekeeper. Some other servants there.”

  Liberty looked toward the Raleigh’s front entrance. A small dust storm obscured the street as carriages delivered guests. She and Thalia made their way to the garden bench amid the flare of fireflies. A lamplighter passed by, further illuminating the ladies and their escorts stepping through the dusty twilight.

  “The Raleigh’s nigh to burstin’.” Thalia leaned into Liberty, her words a whisper. “You know any o’ them fancy folk?”

  Liberty kept the wistfulness from her voice. “Most of them.” Yet here she sat, hardly believing she’d once been at the apex of the socia
l whirl. “Why do you ask?”

  “’Cause you be as fine as them, no matter yo’ plain linen and scuffed shoes.”

  Was it so obvious then? Liberty smoothed a wrinkle from her apron. Would Noble Rynallt attend? More than a few of his fellow Patriots were here. There was no mistaking George Rogers Clark’s robust laugh or the scarecrow-like silhouette of Patrick Henry.

  A four-wheeled post chaise was slowing, one Liberty quickly recognized. Cressida stepped down from its upholstered interior, the cut of her gown drawing more eyes than Liberty’s. Miles Roth drew up behind her . . . in the very coach he had given her, his betrothed. Had he taken it back after all the mayhem? Yet he had discarded her?

  For a few excruciating seconds it was too much for her heart and head to hold. She looked toward the Palace, where there had always been a glimmer of light. How long would her father and Lord Dunmore and fellow Loyalists sit aboard ship? Cooped up like the Dominique and Nankin chickens Thalia tended, while the whole of Williamsburg waited and mocked?

  Thalia got up from the bench and made her way to the kitchen and the hive of activity there. Liberty watched her slow going, her own stomach cramping in anticipation. She’d been so busy she’d forgotten to eat. The savory aroma of the dishes being carried to and fro was both torment and temptation.

  Cressida and Miles disappeared inside the ordinary as other conveyances clogged the street. Biting her lip, Liberty let some of the angst bleed out of her. As raw as Thalia’s wound she was. Numb and riled by turns, she had no idea what to do with her fractured feelings. In her mind’s eye the decorative jars in the apothecary reappeared, her hands frantically searching. Would that one’s unseen hurts be as easily remedied as Thalia’s leg.

  “Here you be, Miss Lib.” Thalia’s low voice and open hands reached out to her in the gathering darkness.

  How glad she was Thalia’s mother was boss of the kitchen house. Thanking her, Liberty took the offering, a small meat pie still warm from the oven, the crust a greasy gold. Gratitude eased her angst. Forgetting her manners, she downed the delicious pie in a few ravenous swallows, brushing the crumbs from her apron and wishing for more.