by Laura Frantz
Though Noble guessed Libby didn’t feel like eating, she made over the lovely offering, leaving his housekeeper beaming.
“And these meringues are colored a pale pink with a bit of beet juice,” his housekeeper said.
Libby took one, declaring it divine.
“I shall tell the baker, who will be quite pleased.” Mistress Tremayne turned to leave the room, a reluctant Isabeau in tow. At the door, she asked, “Will you be lodging here tonight, m’lady?”
A slight pause. Libby looked down at her bodice as if missing her timepiece. Likely auctioned off along with the jewelry case. He rued he’d not bid on more of her belongings.
He spoke in her stead. “In case her ladyship decides to stay, ready the best room on the second floor.”
Not the attic. He was expecting no guests, and if there were some, he was done with her hiding. It was now midafternoon. If Libby changed her mind, his stable could supply her with a means to Williamsburg at any hour, but if he read her right she had no wish to go.
“The best second-floor room, sir? That would be the chamber next to dear Enid’s then,” his housekeeper said. At his nod, both she and Isabeau went out.
Her voice came soft. “You must miss your sister very much.”
He wasn’t expecting this, though Enid was never far from his thoughts. Somehow Liberty made the mention less sore. “Aye.”
“I met her once at a party given by Lady Charlotte. I remember Enid as amiable. Kind.” Her gaze lifted to the ceiling’s elegant plasterwork with its medallions and flourishes. “She spoke of redecorating Ty Mawr.”
“This was her favorite room. She didn’t want it altered so left it alone.”
“’Tis beautiful, all the greens. Tranquil. Like being in the woods.” She sat back, seeming more at ease though her color was still high.
He felt a qualm. Summer fevers were commonplace in the Southern colonies, a few deadly. Hadn’t Hessel said she was prone to illness? “Are you feeling unwell, Libby?”
She returned her gaze to him. “Why do you ask?”
“The house is cool. You’re flushed. I heard of a fever going round Williamsburg.”
“I’m only weary from the day’s events.” She tried to smile, but it fell far short of the winsome woman he knew. “You needn’t worry about me, Mister Rynallt.”
Liberty finished a tall glass of lemonade and ate both a meringue and gingerbread spread with fairy butter, unwilling to dint Mistress Tremayne’s delight. She sat alone with Noble, too weary to care about any impropriety. Too disturbed by her time aboard the Fowey to relinquish the comfort of Ty Mawr. It felt safe to sit here in this lovely old room. It felt familiar and reassuring to be in silk and not the garb of a lacemaker. She was not a tradeswoman. She might never be. ’Twas like trying to fit a round cog in a square hole. Forced. Unnatural. Exhausting.
Lacemaking for pleasure was a far cry from lacemaking for profit.
She pulled off her mitts and looked at her hands. She understood the doctor’s dismay now. There was nothing wrong with work-worn hands, but mightn’t she use her wits and genteel wiles in a more indispensable way?
“I believe the role of spy may well suit me.”
Noble looked hard at her. She read his consternation. To his credit, he stayed silent.
“I take back what I said about giving all those guineas to the poorhouse. They might be of better use in my ruse as a spy for the Patriots.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
She lifted her shoulders. “I shall learn as I go.”
“And endanger your life in the bargain—”
“While helping many,” she said in a rare interruption. “You Patriots must have something afoot, some secret intelligence plan in place.”
He regarded her for a long minute, then took a letter from his waistcoat, opened it, and read, “‘The necessity of procuring good intelligence is apparent and need not be further urged—all that remains for me to add is that you keep the whole matter as secret as possible. For upon secrecy, success depends.’”
“And the author?”
“General Washington.”
“Then why not?”
He returned the letter to his waistcoat. “What are your motives, Libby?”
She felt a little jolt. Did he think her bitter? Rebellious? “You suspect I simply want to strike back at my father.” Did he believe her so low? “’Tis unfounded, if so. Granted, I am angry at his actions—”
“Anger is a shaky foundation for espionage.”
“You do know French,” she teased, wanting to lighten the mounting tension between them. “The fact is I’ve always been at odds with my father. We’ve been estranged since my birth. I was not the son he wanted. He never forgave my mother, or me, for that. I was seldom allowed an opinion, a voice, till now.”
“What makes you more Patriot than Loyalist?”
“My father’s rule. ’Tis like the king’s and Parliament’s. Unreasonable. Tyrannical. Absolute.”
Her handsome host still looked doubtful.
She said quietly, “Do you want something nobler?”
“I want you safe. Far from the fray.”
“But that I am not, being Lord Stirling’s daughter.” She toyed with the velvet pouch and finally spoke what was foremost on her heart. “I’m sorry about my father. His character.”
“’Tis not your fault, Libby.”
“I am still ashamed for him. Of him.”
“Let the Lord make a gentleman of him.”
She stilled, warmed by the gracious thought. “Can one make a silk purse from a sow’s ear?”
“If the Almighty can take an undertrained, undermanned Continental Army and pit them against the world’s largest fighting force and win, all else is of little consequence.”
“Then I’m inspired to continue my work. ’Tis a perfect ruse, is it not? Discarded daughter turned lacemaker by day. Spy by night.” She went a step further. “I wonder what Mister Henry would say?”
The dismay in her host’s usually stoic face assured her that Patrick Henry would warm to her plans. He hated her father and Lord Dunmore. What sweeter revenge than to have them brought down with the aid of a daughter?
Noble passed a hand over his jaw. “Look to your conscience, Libby. Aside from the risk, can you live with the consequences? Not only a permanent estrangement from your father but the loss of all you hold dear, an irrevocable cutting of past ties.”
“I’ve been estranged from my father my entire life. And I’ve just discovered I have few true friends. Besides, estrangement seems the word of the day. This is nearly war. Even the most congenial of families are turning against one another. Look at the Randolphs.”
“Aye, brother against brother . . .” He left off as if weary of the subject. “Your room is ready for you if you want to go upstairs.”
She did not protest. She was the first to break their gaze, let down that their talk was at an end. Only it wasn’t truly at an end, not on her part, on account of her new purpose.
’Twas another beginning.
23
I fear the worst, sir.” Mistress Tremayne faced him in the glare of light through the study windows. “Her ladyship has slept through supper and now breakfast, and ’tis nearly noon. Mightn’t the doctor be sent for?”
Never had his housekeeper intervened like this. ’Twas a testament to her fondness for Libby. He studied her, weighing his dilemma. Mayhap Mistress Tremayne had a mild touch of Isabeau’s hysteria? Had the maid put her up to it? Or was his own calm uncalled for? Granted, his disappointment went deep when Libby had not joined him for supper. She was clearly worn down, the events of the summer catching up with her. And that was the end of it. Or so he’d thought. But women sometimes sensed things men didn’t.
Having a recovering Tory beneath his roof was one thing. A dead one, altogether different.
“Have you checked for signs of sickness?” He was out of his depth doctoring. Leave that to Hessel and oth
er physics. “Fever?”
“She seems quite flushed. She’s not even awakened to take so much as a sip of water.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. But call in Hessel? Nay. He mulled his options for a few tense seconds. “Prepare a tray. Broth. Bread. Some of that English tea I suspect you of secreting.” She managed a small wince at the mention. “Bring it to me and I’ll take it up to her.”
“You, sir?”
“Aye. I’ll not rest till I see her myself and warrant if Hessel needs sending for.”
The tray was promptly brought. Isabeau stood in the foyer, occupied with her usual hand-wringing. When she started up the stairs after him, he balked. “Stay below and help Mistress Tremayne.”
“But, sir—” The threat of indecency raised her voice. “Merci!”
Leaving her below, he prayed the rest of the way up, pausing to balance the tray in one hand while grasping the doorknob with the other, marveling the servants did it with such grace. Unsure of what he’d find, he swung the door open slowly after a cursory knock, its noisy hinges in need of oiling.
The room smelled stale, the heavy drapes and shutters drawn closed. He set down the tray and opened one window, letting in light and fresh air before turning to the bed with its mosquito netting. Lifting that, he looked down at Libby. Still flushed. Still asleep. Even lovelier than he remembered, if that was possible, her hair loosely braided, the neck of her nightgown encircled with delicate lace trim.
Gingerly, he brought a chair near the edge of the bed. ’Twas scandalous, this. For a moment he had second thoughts. He wasn’t sure of her reaction, but his intentions were honorable enough. Sitting there, contemplating an exit, he nearly forgot to breathe. Should he wake her? Surely sleeping round the clock was enough. One needed to eat, do other things . . .
She slept on, allowing him an unhindered look at her. She resembled her mother more than her father, but Lord Stirling was there in the arch of her brow and fair hair. He placed his palm lightly on her forehead, then her soft cheek. Fever, nay. Sheer exhaustion, aye.
He swallowed, wanting to say her name, but it seemed to stick in his throat. Nay, more was needed. He hesitated, on the verge of something momentous, at least to him. Something far sweeter.
“Anwylyd.”
He said it once, twice, never having spoken it to another living being. But it came unbidden, rising from his heart to his lips.
She stirred like a cat, eyes shut but stretching her arms over her head as if awakening from the soundest sleep. When she saw him, pleasure trumped surprise, even if his being here was shockingly unconventional. She smiled so broadly the dimple in her cheek all but disappeared. “Are you my guardian angel come to rouse me?”
He chuckled. “Mayhap you’ve risen from the dead.”
A slow awareness came to her then. She half sat up. “What is the hour?”
“Nearly dinner.” Two o’clock was Ty Mawr’s usual time, at least.
“Then I have not missed it.”
Relief turned him lighthearted. “Nay, but the rest of us have been missing you.” Reaching out, he plumped another pillow to go behind her.
“I suspect Isabeau has called you to arms.” Her face darkened like a storm cloud passing over. “Goaded you into coming up here like this.”
“Nay. She is quite put out I’m here. ’Twas Mistress Tremayne’s doing.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to be so worrisome.”
“Never that. I’ve brought you something from the kitchen.”
He rose and served her the broth and tea, now cooled considerably, then took a chair again. “A motion has been made to call the doctor.”
“Hessel? Nay, please.” She looked grave again, her gaze a troubled blue as it held his. “I am not ill, just . . .”
“Heartsick, mayhap,” he said.
A quiver of her chin gave her away, and her eyes filled. Aye, heartsick.
He swallowed, moved by her emotion and the fact that he’d read her so well. “The Welsh have a word for it. Hiraeth. ’Tis a longing for home or what once was. A grief for the lost people and places of the past.” He went slowly, giving her time to say something if she would. “Just remember, you are homeless but not rootless. A guest, but not unwelcome. If I could fix things for you I would. ’Tis a man’s nature to remedy matters. Find solutions. But there is no answer for hiraeth, not that I know of.”
“This hiraeth you speak of, have you ever felt it?”
“Aye. It rises up unbidden at odd times and places.” He’d oft felt it over Enid. The loss of his parents. The absence of his brother. Even aboard ship leaving Wales and coming to Virginia long ago. Sometimes it still came over him as he walked about on a lonely stretch of beach or in a field, or felt the sheer expanse of the night. It even came when he let his thoughts drift and foresaw a future alone, without a wife and children.
She leaned back against the bank of pillows. “’Tis as acute as any physical illness.” Her sorrow was palpable, and he longed to give her some relief, something to ease the strain and weariness lining her face. “’Tis sad there is no remedy. Not this side of heaven, perhaps.”
True enough. But there was a scriptural anecdote at least. Be thankful in all circumstances. “To counter it we must make the most of what we have been given.”
“Then I must eat. Dress. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“No need for the latter.”
She attempted a smile. “But I must. You needn’t stay. I know you have other things to tend to, Noble.”
’Twas the first time she had ever said his name. And it left him flushing like a schoolboy, hardly the seasoned master of Ty Mawr.
Isabeau was rummaging through a wardrobe and finally took out a garment, smiling her pleasure. She had recovered from the shock of Ty Mawr’s master in the bedchamber, impropriety aside. “How glad I am we have some female attire here, given your trunk is in Williamsburg.” Holding a garment aloft for Liberty to see, she fingered the embroidered sash. “For today you will wear this sultana, non?”
“Non. Sultanas are for lounging. I must return to Williamsburg. Mister Southall will wonder where I’ve gone to.” No telling what work awaited after a busy weekend at the Raleigh. Her Sabbath rest was over. Reluctant but determined, she pushed back the bedcovers and put bare feet to the floor.
Isabeau frowned. “But, mistress, you are exhausted and must stay on till—”
“I am not the mistress of Ty Mawr, just the lacemaker and seamstress at the Raleigh.” Impatience made her sound imperious. “Please go below and ask about a way back to Williamsburg.”
Isabeau stood her ground, clutching the sultana to her chest. “First I must help you dress.”
“No need. I’ve learnt to dress myself. Front-lacing stays are a godsend.” Liberty softened her tone. “Perhaps Ninian can help with a conveyance. I don’t want Mister Rynallt disturbed.”
At the mere mention of Ninian, Isabeau brightened and went out, leaving the silky sultana for another day. The bedchamber stilled, and Liberty surveyed it in a way she hadn’t upon arrival. In some ways it reminded her of her townhouse bedroom with its bright chintz and cherry furnishings. A sumptuous room, made all the dearer from the memories she and Noble had just made.
Her fingers stilled on the knot she tied in her stays. What had he called her at first? Before she’d opened her eyes? He’d spoken in Welsh, a word she’d never heard. Anwylyd. The mystery of it begged unraveling, but the lovely word, the tender way he’d said it, meant she could not ask Mistress Tremayne. For now she would just hold it close. And wonder.
A movement out the window led her to the glass. Noble was down by the river. The spring shad and herring season was over, and the wharf was absent of netting and labor and the reek of fish. He was crouched on shore, boots planted firmly in shell-strewn mud, studying something. Footprints? Trespassers? With the British fleet raiding plantations in the dead of night, no smokehouse or cellar was safe. Her worries about Ty Mawr swelled. She’d not be a burd
en or distraction for its master any longer.
She dressed, wearing the simple clothes she had on yesterday, a fichu about her shoulders, sturdy shoes on her feet. A look in the glass told her she was nearly ready, but her soul chafed at being on her way again. Now for her hair . . .
Half an hour later she came down the stairs, Ninian awaiting her. Liberty looked out the open front door to the chosen coach, not the one bearing the Rynallt crest but a simpler unmarked one, all black. ’Twas certainly how she felt.
Mistress Tremayne’s bustling took away some of the sting of leaving. She appeared with good cheer, carrying a hamper filled to the brim with edibles.
“Might I ask one last thing?” Liberty looked down the long foyer with its many doors, wondering which led to the music room. “I should like to see my harp.”
“Of course. ’Tis yours, m’lady.” Mistress Tremayne led Liberty to another lovely room, this one holding Enid’s spinet. Liberty’s harp rested between two tall windows, so placed it seemed the showpiece. “I have a fondness for the harp. And I’ve long heard you play like an angel. My hope is that one day you’ll give us a private concert.”
“One day, perhaps.” But Liberty had no heart to play. Though she loved her music, it seemed to have little place in her present life.
“Shan’t I alert Mister Rynallt, m’lady? Surely he’d want to bid you goodbye.”
“Nay, no need to disturb him. I’ve taken enough of his time.”
“Very well then.”
Thanking her, Liberty turned to leave Ty Mawr.
’Twould be the last time, surely.
“Well, I’ll be switched.” Thalia stood in the folly’s open doorway, face shiny from the heat, fully recovered from her fever. “You is back, but there’s been a line o’ folk to yo’ door payin’ a Sabbath call.”
“Oh?” Liberty poked another pin in the lace pattern she was working.
“The good doctor came first and saw to my fever. And then comes Reverend Bracken. After him was that highfalutin Miss Shaw.” Thalia was studying her closely as if gauging her reaction.
