The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  How ironic her new name.

  She felt anything but at liberty.

  The time was at hand. She chose her attire carefully, unearthing one of her best gowns from former days. Counting a few coins from Isabeau’s indenture, she hired a coach and left at first light since the market traffic would soon glut the road. Besides, the daughter of an earl and the former lieutenant governor of Virginia Colony didn’t travel on the back of a decrepit Raleigh mare.

  Painted sage-green and black, the coach was the best to be had on short notice, the coachman experienced and courteous. The dusty miles flew by, and she was soon smelling the salt air and hearing the cry of gulls.

  Beside her on the upholstered seat was a small basket filled to the brim with her father’s favorite pastries from the bake shop. She ate one absently, but it was no match for bara brith. Either that or the coming confrontation soured her stomach.

  Today the Fowey sat at anchor a safe distance from the dock where red-coated soldiers swarmed. It took several minutes, a few coquettish smiles, and the loss of two confections for her to be rowed to its bulk. The dinghy’s oarsmen made quick work of the watery distance, and Liberty gave silent thanks for a fair day. The calm water mirrored the clear skies.

  “Who goes there?” someone thundered from deck. At her name and request to see her father, she was hoisted up in a bosun chair, clutching her basket in one hand. Glad she was that kid leather covered hands that bore no resemblance to the Lady Elisabeth of before.

  Looking back toward the wharf and the waiting carriage brought a cold dousing of dread. She and her father had not parted on the best terms. Would he remember her fury? The words she wished back? At least they gave her good reason to return. Her bun-filled basket would serve as the apology she had no heart to make.

  The ship’s captain, Montague, eyed her sternly from the bow as her feet touched deck. Smiling at him politely, knowing he could send her packing, she made a wide swath around him and followed a midshipman to her father’s quarters below. One knock earned her entry, and she found herself facing the man she’d not seen for more than a month.

  “You came alone?” he asked, rising from his desk.

  Was he expecting Mama too? “Quite alone, yes.” Forcing a smile, she held out the basket to him.

  Closing the distance between them, he made a face. “We are in need of meat. Mutton. Pork. And you bring me sweets?”

  Her smile slipped.

  He set the basket on his desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “Why have you come?”

  She swallowed down a barbed retort. “I’m sorry, Papa. Please forgive me for being so thoughtless. With Mama in Philadelphia, you are my only family here, are you not?” The sentiment was true, at least on this side of the Atlantic. But it did not dent his stiff demeanor, which made her subterfuge all the easier. “I’ve come with news . . . from Williamsburg.”

  At this his gaze sharpened. He gestured to a chair.

  She sat, her legs unsteady, the pastry she’d eaten churning. “I thought it only fair to tell you that the rebels are mustering militia, some forty thousand across the colony.”

  “Go on.”

  “A plan has been hatched to march to Yorktown and send your fleet up the Chesapeake to prevent you from blocking the supply of rebel munitions from the West Indies.”

  His expression hardened. She took a breath, sensing his surprise. Her legs nearly cramped from the memory of crouching beneath the taproom’s windows as she pulled weeds and tended plants in Thalia’s stead, gleaning what she could. Scraps of news. Bits of hearsay she had embellished for this very moment.

  “Where did you hear such?”

  Her ruse was nearly flawless. “I am in Mister Southall’s employ at his ordinary.”

  “The Raleigh?” His tone was flat. She couldn’t tell whether disgust or astonishment was uppermost. “In his employ?”

  “I had nowhere else to go.”

  “So you’re in the very nest of the Independence Men, those beardless boys throwing Virginia Colony into woeful confusion.”

  Beardless boys? Hardly that. She wanted to laugh. “What’s more, they have confiscated our home, all our belongings.”

  “You could have gone north with your mother.”

  Or to Ty Mawr. That impossibility alone wooed her. But she could hardly tell her father that.

  She changed course. “Where are Lady Charlotte and the children?”

  “Aboard the Magdalena en route to England.”

  ’Twas her turn to be surprised. It meant Dunmore expected the worst. Gone were the carefree hours, the long walks and talks in the garden, the endless parade of new gowns and entertainments, and that full, joyous feeling of belonging, at least when she was with Lady Charlotte and the children.

  She looked toward a porthole. “Yet you and Lord Dunmore and fellow Loyalists remain.”

  “To leave would be to admit defeat.” He circled the desk and poured Madeira into a crystal goblet. “We shall soon move the fleet to Norfolk. ’Tis a Tory town full of Scots merchants loyal to the Crown. General Gage, who is headquartered in Boston, is sending reinforcements, but there seems to be a delay. Once they arrive, any colonial rabble bent on an uprising will be quelled.” As if realizing he’d said too much, he took a long swallow.

  She folded her hands in her lap, committing the details to memory, few though they were. “You spoke of meat. Are you in need of provisions?”

  “We need supplies, aye. But we’ve sent men ashore to gather what we can from various plantations.”

  At gunpoint, she guessed. Was Ty Mawr a target? “I noticed a great many Negroes aboard ship.”

  He nodded. “We’re offering freedom to any slaves and indentures who join our fleet.”

  “Then you will strike at Virginia’s very heart.” The powder keg her mother wrote of had been lit. Virginia’s entire economy was driven by slaves and indentures.

  “Our strategy is to quell the rebellion at all costs.”

  The door opened without a knock. Lord Dunmore entered, the smile he had for her reminding her of the one her father hadn’t given. She stood. Curtsied. Only at his directive did she sit down again. Courtly protocol still ruled whether she was aboard the Fowey or in the Palace.

  “A shame you did not sail with Lady Dunmore,” he remarked as her father poured him Madeira. “The long journey would have been better for all concerned.”

  She felt a final qualm. If Noble had gotten her lost letter away from Patrick Henry and returned it in time . . . Nay, there was no room for regret, no turning back the clock.

  “My daughter has been telling me news from the capital. The rebels are mustering militia and whatnot. Our townhouse has been confiscated, so I suppose the Palace will be next.”

  “Porto Bello as well.” She suppressed a smile. In truth, she rather enjoyed painting a rosy picture of the Patriots, endowing them with all sorts of furbelows and fancies meant to inspire alarm. But ’twas a sticky web of deceit. She added, “Rumor is the royal residence will serve the new Williamsburg mayor.”

  Both men studied her. Flummoxed. Transfixed.

  She grew bold. “I am confident that will be none other than Patrick Henry.”

  Dunmore’s disgust was unveiled. “Better that than the conniving Washington. Commander in chief of the Continental renegades, or some such nonsense.”

  Her father’s eyes never left her. “What of the Patriots Noble Rynallt and Thomas Jefferson? They continue fomenting sedition with quill and ink, do they not?”

  “I am unsure of Jefferson, as I’ve not seen him around Williamsburg of late. ’Tis no secret he prefers the country—Monticello—to town. As for Rynallt, I know very little.” Alarmed now, she felt the need to protect Noble at all costs. “Word is he is keeping company with George Rogers Clark. They are rumored to be going west to enlist natives to help fight the Crown.”

  This was pure fabrication, but it hit the mark. Her father nearly choked on his drink. She felt vastly pleased. B
ut would they believe it? Dunmore had courted the Indians in the past, was no doubt counting on their help in subduing the Virginians. She’d heard he’d sent emissaries west recently to do that very thing.

  “You are certainly a pretty parcel of information.” Dunmore set down his empty glass. “Perhaps you should journey to the coast more often. Bring news from the capital. The arrangement might prove beneficial to us both.”

  “Indeed.” Her father reached into his waistcoat and removed a small velvet pouch. “Return in seven days’ time, or sooner should the occasion warrant.”

  Reluctant, she took the money pouch, thereby accepting their terms. Did this make her a spy? Was she now consorting with the enemy? Half sick, she nodded and let herself out, following the waiting midshipman through the bowels of the Fowey and beyond.

  Across the sun-polished deck she went to the waiting dinghy, all a blur of wind and salty spray and the stare of a great many curious sailors who were witness to her comings and goings.

  The waiting coach was suffocating in the July heat. Even with the shades raised she felt she’d been shoved into a bake oven. She needed air. Stillness. As they neared the fork in the road leading to Ty Mawr, her resistance gave way. She could not go another mile. Paying no heed to the surprise of the coachman, she got out and motioned him on before beginning a slow walk along the roadside. Only when he was out of sight did she turn down the gated alley that led to Ty Mawr.

  Such beauty here. Such peace. The rustling shade of countless trees was a balm to both body and spirit. She who was accustomed to town life with all its colorful confusion was now starved for quieter places. She walked on slowly, not so much from fatigue as from a heightened awareness. There was so much more to be had on foot than in a conveyance.

  Mulberry Island was attached to the mainland by a bridge of land, its command of the James River unsurpassed. Acres of farmland sprawled as far as she could see, some of it tilled and planted, some fallow. Ty Mawr crowned a knoll on the northern end of the island, a quarter mile more at most.

  Throat parched, she stumbled over a stone in the roadbed. Once she would have settled for nothing less than a crystal dish of ice cream. A tall glass of lemonade. Now she welcomed well water in a bucket. Never had she felt so unattractive, sweat stains beneath her arms and beading her upper lip, the grit of dust between her teeth. Her gown of silk lustring was lightweight, her skirts rising like a sail in the warm wind, her hem soiled from walking.

  The uphill climb to the big house seemed endless. She looked to the ditch, grassy and colored by wildflowers. Exhaustion tore at her. She wanted nothing more than to sit down and go no further.

  Lord, help Thou me.

  Caught between two worlds she was, belonging nowhere, neither here nor there. Williamsburg was no longer home. Ty Mawr was no more hers than the Williamsburg townhouse. Yet it rose up in the distance, a sort of refuge, its bricked entrance and porch tower stalwart against the blue horizon. She recalled the crushed-shell path. Circular brick steps. A wide door with a heavy knocker, all very Welsh.

  Would the master even be at home?

  22

  Noble trod a white sand walkway through fragrant flowers he could not name, intent on a brick wall at the southeast end of the garden. Built as a windbreak to protect the planting beds, it now served another purpose, more a redoubt erected for military defense. He stood behind its bulk and raised his spyglass.

  The James came into sharp focus, the gold glitter of sunlit water making him squint. Normally the sheer beauty before him would be cause for praise. Now it only reminded him of all that was at stake.

  “See anythin’ of merit, sir?” A gust of wind snatched Dougray’s Scots burr away. “Anythin’ at all?”

  “A bateaux or two.”

  “Who’d have thought the high and mighty Dunmore would turn pirate, plunderin’ plantations and the like.”

  “It bespeaks desperation,” Noble replied. The white sweep of a gull drew his gaze upward. On such a summer day all talk of Dunmore’s pirating seemed laughable as Blackbeard’s ghost.

  “Nary a redcoat I see by water. But land is altogether different.” Dougray’s attention shifted. “Best train your sights on the lane, sir.”

  Noble turned. The spyglass came down. Across the long sweep of green pasture was a windblown woman, the ribbons on her straw hat a-dance.

  Libby?

  There was no denying the sudden lift of his pulse. Handing the spyglass to Dougray, he began to walk in her direction. Libby here. Why? And on foot. In a fancy dress to boot.

  Gone was the workaday garb. She was Lady Elisabeth again, Williamsburg’s bride, her attire from head to toe London made. He knew little about women’s fashion, but he knew quality. British goods. The pale yellow of her gown was the ground for embroidered floral sprays, her lace sleeves twin to the lace on her hat, which shadowed her comely features.

  He could hardly take his eyes off her to watch his step on the uneven lawn. At last they met beneath an ancient, gnarled chestnut. He said nothing in greeting. His surprise eclipsed words. She knew she was welcome and he wouldn’t belabor that.

  Unsmiling, she met his eyes. “I’ve just seen my father.” Her voice seemed brittle, empty of emotion. “Dunmore’s fleet will soon sail to Norfolk. They’re awaiting reinforcements from General Gage and are running low on provisions.” She paused, eyes trailing from his face to the small velvet pouch she carried by a silken cord. “They have put out a call for all slaves and indentures to join them in exchange for their freedom.”

  “So he told you?”

  “Indeed. What’s more, he asked about you by name.”

  “Honored,” he said wryly.

  “I told him you would soon be on the frontier with George Rogers Clark, enlisting the Indian nations in your cause for liberty.”

  His half smile gave way to a deep-throated chuckle. “Did you now?”

  “’Twas an outright untruth, but I fear you may be in danger with their fleet so near Ty Mawr.”

  He could believe it. But ’twas the plan to sway slaves and indentures that most nettled him. “Anything else?”

  “In seven days’ time he expects a report on what is happening in Williamsburg.” She dangled the pouch from a lace-mitted hand. “I was given this today.”

  He took the pouch and opened it, spilling an abundance of gold guineas into his callused palm. “He’s rewarded you handsomely.”

  “I shan’t touch it.” Revulsion colored her tone. “’Tis meant for the poorhouse my mother founded.”

  “Why did you see him again?”

  “If I’m accused of spying, why not?” She attempted a smile, but it failed to reach her eyes. “Only I’ll bring any news to you Patriots. Which means I’ve chosen sides.”

  The gravity of what she’d done was not lost on him.

  Her expression turned entreating. “Do you believe me?”

  The question dug at him. “I’d be a fool not to.”

  She studied him and softened visibly. “Perhaps at the very heart of this is my desire to repay your earlier kindness to me. ’Tis in my power to help, even in a small way.”

  “I expect no recompense, Libby.” Returning the coin pouch, he came alongside her and took her elbow, steering her toward the house. A backward glance told him she’d not been followed, at least that he could see. “How did you get to Yorktown?”

  “I hired a coach but sent it back to Williamsburg. I wasn’t feeling well. Being aboard ship left me so rattled . . .” She left off, clearly shaken.

  “You know my door is always open to you.” They stepped into the shade of the entrance tower, and then he ushered her into the cool foyer.

  Mistress Tremayne soon hurried down the steps, her chatelaine clinking like a chime, her face alight at the sight of their guest. “Lady Liberty? Welcome.” She went to a tapestried wall and pulled on a bell cord. “You’re just in time for refreshments.”

  Liberty simply nodded. She’d removed her wide-brimmed hat, reve
aling a lace pinner beneath. She looked decidedly unwell. Her high flush spoke to the tumultuous events of her morning, her long walk. Or was it something more?

  “The Round Room,” Noble said, knowing Liberty would like it. Circular and small, the milk-paint walls were the serene green of the millpond in back of Ty Bryn. A calming color, Enid always said.

  He moved to open a riverfront door that led to an outer portico. Dougray was still at watch along the wall, spyglass in hand. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here sat Liberty in his parlor while her ousted father was raiding plantations along the James, or sending his minions to do the deed for him and Dunmore instead. For all he knew they might all meet at once in his parlor.

  Awkwardness threaded the room as he thought their situation through. She had no way back to Williamsburg. He’d need to provide a carriage. Mayhap send Isabeau along, as he didn’t want Libby alone. She looked so spent he stayed silent, glad when the promised refreshments were brought. Isabeau came in next, making a lot of noise, and though her former mistress looked happy to see her, Libby stayed subdued.

  Isabeau rattled off a string of rapid French, to which Liberty answered so adroitly Noble’s curiosity piqued. He understood little of the language and could only guess at the maid’s chatter.

  “Vous avez l’air malade.”

  He guessed malade was not a compliment. It sounded dire, punctuated with Isabeau’s frown. Libby rallied, replying with a musical volley that had no end, making him regret he’d chosen Latin over the Romance languages.

  “Pardon.” Libby looked his way at last. “Former habits are hard to mend. My mother, being part French, wanted a native maid for me so I could learn French conversation—”

  “Which you seem to have perfected,” he replied.

  A slight smile. “Only to you non-French speakers, perhaps.” She finished her lemonade and studied the tray Mistress Tremayne had brought crowded with sweetmeats, then gestured to a small dish decorated with candied violets. “And this is . . . ?”

  “Fairy butter, made up of sugar and orange flower water,” Mistress Tremayne replied proudly. “It pairs well with the gingerbread.”