The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Two hours and a hemming later, the mirror reflected the belle Liberty used to be.

  “You are so lovely.” Isabeau looked like she might dissolve into tears. “I fear your father will keep you aboard ship.”

  “Nay, Isabeau. Of what use am I in the harbor? ’Tis Patriot information Papa is after, and that I shall bring him, embellished and misleading. As for tonight, I will mostly dance . . . and listen.”

  A knock sounded and Mistress Tremayne appeared, jewelry case in hand. “Enid’s favorites, m’lady. Mister Rynallt thought you might find something of use.”

  “How kind,” Liberty said as Isabeau took the offering. The door shut softly as the housekeeper went out again, and they examined the burgeoning contents.

  Aquamarines. Sapphires and garnets. A circlet of diamonds. Liberty decided on a pearl choker much like her mother once had. For all she knew Father had taken their jewelry when he’d fled. She fingered the pearls once Isabeau clasped them about her neck. They complemented the sea green of the gown and were more elegant than garish, unlike the popular paste gems of the day.

  “Your hair lacks powder,” Isabeau lamented.

  “Never mind. Powder is going out of fashion. Shall we?”

  Dougray was waiting beyond the front steps, sitting atop his box, a cap obscuring his Scottish features. With Ninian’s assistance, Isabeau got into the coach while Liberty tarried in the foyer near Noble’s study door. Why the need to speak to him a final time? Deep down, did she want him to see her dressed in her best as she used to be? If only to make a lasting memory because she feared she wouldn’t be back?

  Precious seconds ticked by, the London-made clock in the empty foyer marking time. Was he not near? Had he no wish to see her off? Clutching her folded fan, she started for the coach.

  “Libby.”

  She turned. Noble stood behind her, boots muddy. Had he been riding? She found herself wishing he would go with her. Protect her. Cover her.

  “Stay, Libby.” His words fell flat. He was giving her a last out, eyes dark with intent. “Dougray can return you to Williamsburg instead.”

  For a moment she wavered. “I . . . just . . . Pray for me.”

  “Aye, so I have. So I will.”

  A semblance of peace sifted through her at his calm words. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  This was the incentive she needed, the reward for what she must do. He would be waiting. That alone would get her through.

  25

  Liberty squinted into the clash of sunlight and gleaming water as dusk drew a curtain about the harbor. If not for Isabeau slipping her a ham-laden biscuit, she’d be ravenous and light-headed. The ham made her thirsty, and the only drink in sight was salt water. Surely there would be punch on deck.

  As she was escorted up the gangplank of the Otter, she took a last look at the street Dougray had turned the coach down. The inn where Isabeau would be waiting was just beyond.

  She was hardly the first guest to arrive. The merchant vessel’s expansive deck bore a crush of people, uniformed naval officers and civilians in courtly dress. Overriding everything was the lilt of violins.

  Her father’s silhouette required no searching. He stood at the Otter’s bow, Lord Dunmore near. The sun was just setting off the ship’s stern, a fiery palette of crimson and cream.

  Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.

  “Lady Elisabeth.”

  The ship’s captain? She smiled and extended her fan. She felt a wild fluttering in her rib cage. Her ruse had begun.

  He gave a little bow. “I heard you might attend.”

  She avoided his eyes. “If only Lady Charlotte and her daughters were here.”

  “Agreed. I’m surprised you didn’t join them aboard the Magdalena. Or perhaps accompany Margaret Gage on the Charming Nancy.” In his own way, he seemed as probing as her father. “Staying on as you are means courting danger, and in a Patriot stronghold like Williamsburg . . .”

  “Oh yes, that. A trifle, truly. The capital seems to have gone to sleep. Much ado about nothing, I think.” She smiled and fluttered her fan. “Once the king’s reinforcements arrive here in Norfolk, this little uprising shall come to an end.”

  “Reinforcements?” He shrugged. “They’ve yet to materialize. No word from Whitehall since May either.”

  So the king was strangely silent. Or communications had been delayed. Perhaps nobody thought the unrest was of much consequence. Still, the gaiety around her seemed somewhat forced.

  “Shall I get you some ratafia?”

  She took the captain’s offer, gaze sweeping the deck and taking an accounting. She knew few in Norfolk, but there was a heavy Scots presence here, their broad brogues so at odds with the precise, clipped English of the king’s men. A small group was moving her way, her father leading.

  “Daughter, how good of you to come. Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Ladd, who will be your supper partner, and Miss Phila Siddall, who’ll be mine.”

  Oh? Liberty feigned pleasure as the bosomy woman standing beside her father inclined her feathered, powdered head. She then turned to meet a tall officer in a blue frock coat and white waistcoat who reached for her hand.

  “A pleasure, m’lady,” he said while Phila Siddall looked on benignly.

  Was this woman her father’s rumored paramour? All eyes were on Liberty, perhaps on account of Enid’s lovely gown.

  “I daresay I’ve not seen such fine fabric in many a day,” Phila said. “With the slowing of imports and such.”

  “Father spared no expense on my wardrobe,” Liberty answered truthfully, knowing he cared little for such matters and wouldn’t know the gown was borrowed. “I had not thought to wear this, but the occasion seemed to warrant it. There’s little merriment of late elsewhere.”

  “Then we shall make doubly merry here,” Phila said with a sly smile.

  Liberty’s father was studying her closely, clearly hungry for information. “What news have you from Williamsburg?”

  She had a moment to collect her thoughts as the ratafia was handed her. “The burgesses—delegates, now—are mostly away, meeting in Philadelphia.”

  “The Continental Congress, you mean.”

  “Yes, these Independence Men change titles like they change clothes,” Liberty answered with a roll of her eyes. “Have you ever wondered what George Washington might be called? King George, perhaps?”

  This gained a hearty round of dismayed murmurings and an outright gasp.

  “Speaking of rebels and upstarts, there seems to have been a bit of division about who should lead the rebellion, but the middling planter George Washington, esquire, won the day,” Phila said with a knowledge that surprised Liberty.

  Esquire? The slur was not lost on her. The British were refusing to address Washington as commander in chief, Noble said. And Washington was refusing all correspondence addressed to him as esquire.

  “It seems those Patriots are as contentious as they are rebellious,” Ladd put in. “What of General Artemas Ward of Massachusetts?”

  “Ward?” Her father scoffed. “A military incompetent who is so portly he cannot mount his horse?”

  Liberty glanced at Lord Dunmore headed their way. “Ward is now second in command to Washington, or so I’ve heard.”

  “What of Henry? Still fomenting all manner of rebellion, no doubt.”

  “Patrick Henry fancies himself governor of Virginia, if not all the colonies.” With another roll of her eyes, she took a sip from her cup. “The man is rabid for war.”

  “Is he now?” her father said, finishing his drink.

  “The very summit of sedition,” the lieutenant said.

  “Quite,” Lord Dunmore replied with thinly veiled disgust. “Another of those beardless liberty boys whose ambitions trump all reason.”

  The minuet was opening, the crowd parting to make room for the dancers. Sand had been scattered on the deck to avoid mishaps. Already Liberty felt grains in h
er slippers. Lieutenant Ladd extended his arm, and she took it reluctantly. She preferred the sprightlier reels, but her partner proved a handsome dancer, never faltering. Father had paired her well on that score. A number of other brightly gowned women and their partners joined them.

  A few deckhands bore weapons, the ship’s cannon trained on the town. Was Dougray watching from the docks as planned? And Isabeau ensconced at the Patriot inn? This brought some comfort.

  Despite her wariness, Liberty took a small delight in dancing beneath the stars. The open air was far preferable to a crowded ballroom. Here there was room to breathe. All around them the fleet’s sidelights glittered like fallen stars. Singsong cries floated on the salty air as watches were changed and seamen cried the hour.

  “There are a great many in Lord Dunmore’s fleet,” she said during a lull. “How heartening.”

  “Some two thousand Tories all told, the largest ships being the merchant vessels,” Ladd said. “’Tis a bit crowded.”

  “Why not move south?”

  “That’s being debated.” He spoke without restraint, as she was, after all, Lord Stirling’s daughter. “The fleet may well move to the Elizabeth River. Gosport.”

  She gathered up the little he let fly like bread crumbs, pocketing them for the future. The next few hours became a blur of changing partners and dance steps. She kept asking questions, memorizing names, ranks, associations. But could she remember? Was anything of value?

  The midnight supper found her with little appetite. While the majority of guests remained on deck, a few select ladies were escorted below to dine at the captain’s table. Seated thus where it was more stilted and formal, Liberty felt shut in, confined, like a bird in a gilded cage.

  Phila sat across from her, the only other lady present save the woman reported to be Lord Dunmore’s favorite, Kitty Eustace Blair. Liberty felt a bit wide-eyed at the presence of one who had been at the heart of a Williamsburg marital scandal a few years before. Mama had wisely hidden the newspaper accounts of the trial, though the taint remained.

  Her mind circled back to Noble, how they’d parted at Ty Mawr. Even now he was waiting for her, perhaps praying for her, while these men were rapidly becoming more sodden and free speaking by the minute. Epithets and innuendo flowed like wine.

  “Tell me, m’lady, how are you faring in the rebel town?” Kitty Blair was looking at her, knife and fork aloft over her supper plate. “I gladly extend the invitation to join us and the safety of the fleet.”

  Lord Stirling frowned. “My daughter can come to us at intervals. For now, she is keeping the pulse of Williamsburg and playing Patriot, is that not right, Elisabeth?”

  “Of course, Papa. Being thought an abandoned daughter at odds with her Loyalist father earns me all sorts of attention and information.”

  “You’ve a valuable pair of ears and eyes. Would that there were more like you.”

  “There are still a great many Lukewarms, I’m afraid,” Liberty lamented.

  A ripple of laughter rounded the table. “Lukewarms, you say?” an officer asked.

  “Those loyal to neither side, yes. Those waiting to see how matters turn. I daresay few would step forward as true Patriots if pressed.”

  “What about the creation of a Continental Navy we’ve been hearing about? Now that the colonial army is in place?” Dunmore asked. “We’ve heard rumors of such.”

  “I know nothing of that, sir. The Continental Army is feeble at best, few in number and fewer in training. As for the navy, where would they get ships and crews?”

  “From France and Spain, I fear,” her father said. “Though that would take time. If we remain where we are, controlling Chesapeake Bay, we can keep watch and thwart any such activity.”

  They droned on, talking both hearsay and fact. Liberty wished for ink and paper . . . and better company—Isabeau and Dougray, Noble himself.

  “We’re most concerned about the leading Patriots. The Virginians.” Dunmore set down a goblet as empty as Liberty’s was full. “Washington. Jefferson and Henry. Rynallt and Lee.”

  Noble. Liberty swallowed a bite of mutton with difficulty. “Hades hath produced nothing blacker than the Patriots and their schemes, surely.”

  Her father stared at her, and she wished the words back. She was sounding like her mother. In fact, had she not read that very sentence in her mother’s last broadside? Only it was aimed at Parliament and the king instead?

  “’Twould be a fine plan to kidnap those leading the cause and douse the Patriots’ fervor, so to speak.” This from her father, flushed and full of himself. “A public hanging or two might do the trick.”

  “A bold plan. I heartily concur,” Ladd said.

  Her father pinned her with another stony stare. “Bring more news of the main players next time. Their whereabouts.”

  “I shall do what I can.” She raised her shoulders in a disinterested shrug. “Betimes ’tis hard to sort fiction from fact.”

  “Find out all you can. When we next meet we shall have more.” He raised a refilled goblet as if cheering her on. “Are you in need of anything?”

  “Nothing I can think of, thank you. I ply my trade by day, tethered to Southall and the Raleigh.”

  “A clever circumstance, at least for our purposes,” Dunmore said.

  Phila toyed with her entrée, having eaten as little as Liberty herself. “You should tell her ladyship that the king’s standard is about to be raised at Gosport lest she seek us out here and find us gone.”

  Blessed confirmation then. Southeast of Ty Mawr, Gosport was familiar to her, being the seat of the Sprowles, wealthy Scots merchants and shipbuilders who were old friends of her father. The remove filled her with relief. Yet it likely meant a fleet growing in strength and numbers.

  “We must hold Virginia at all costs,” an officer said.

  “If we could only silence the press,” another replied, flushed with anger. “Shut down the Virginia Gazette and that endless drivel coming out of Norfolk.”

  “That matters little once our eminent guest arrives,” Dunmore said. “Hopefully in time for the coming fete in Gosport.”

  “Ah, the Sprowles’ ball, aye. Mark the date, Daughter. Your presence is duly expected.”

  “Guest, indeed,” the captain said, raising his goblet. “A toast to an imminent change of fortune!”

  The conversation grew heated and less tense by turns, but no more was said of the expected guest. Liberty forced herself to eat, wondering where they’d gotten such fine meat, being short of provisions. The meal lasted two hours, and then the dancing resumed. When she rose from the table she was more stuffed with news than supper, both unpalatable.

  At five o’clock in the morning when the stars were fading, Liberty left ship, another coin purse in hand. She walked down the gangplank, transfixed as night gave way to a bloodred sunrise, the very color of his majesty’s red-coated men.

  Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

  26

  Never had she been so glad to see Isabeau. Or climb into an overheated coach. Yet cocooned so she felt slightly sick, head pounding, glad her maid dozed all the way to Ty Mawr. Dougray managed admirably despite his sleepless night watch on the pier, and soon they crossed over onto Mulberry Island.

  ’Twas the Sabbath. The very day General Washington called for fasting and prayer. She missed Bruton Parish Church, the scent of old wood and candlewax. Would she never again sit in their box pew alongside rosette windows beneath that soaring ceiling? Somehow the Sabbath hardly seemed the Sabbath without church.

  At the long shaded avenue leading to Ty Mawr, the coach took an abrupt left, round a bend and up an incline rife with honeysuckle vine. They had bypassed the big house. But why?

  She stared out the coach window. How fragrant this path would be in season when the honeysuckle bloomed. The trees were thinning, the morning air humid and noisy with birdsong. The changing country was like a gift as they passed beyond a low stone fence.

  Throu
gh a narrow break in the trees a stone cottage opened up on the hill before her. Two-storied and surrounded by a flower garden and orchard, it unfolded like a storybook setting, perhaps a Welsh fairy tale.

  Dougray jumped down from the box and opened the door. “Welcome to Ty Bryn, m’lady.”

  Liberty expected to find it overgrown, as Noble had told her it sat empty. But this . . . this was as well kept as Ty Mawr. And far more charming with its Welsh slate roof and small entry door. And lo and behold, a regal gray cat swished its tail on the front stoop.

  “The cat . . . is it a resident?”

  “Madoc?” Dougray grinned. “He acts like he’s king o’ the manor, but he mostly prowls the stables. The master doesna ken how he came to be here. He just showed himself one day and has been lurkin’ ever since.”

  “I’ve always wanted a cat.” Her father had denied her the pleasure, finding cat hair disagreeable and disdaining felines underfoot.

  Dougray smiled and glanced back in the direction they had come. “I’m certain no one followed.”

  She took a last look down the drive, but all she saw was the raised dust from their coach wheels. Remembering Isabeau, she nearly had to shake her maid awake. Sleepy and silent, Isabeau climbed out of the conveyance, as unsurprised to see Ty Bryn as Liberty was surprised.

  Dougray slapped his hat against his thigh to dispel the dust. “The master hopes all is to yer satisfaction.”

  Pondering this, Liberty led the way. The cottage door was reached by a flagstone walk rimmed with elfin, low-growing herbs. Beneath her heels came the pleasing scent of crushed thyme and mint. At the door stone she bent, intending to run a hand down Madoc’s velvety back, but the big tom eluded her. Skittish of strangers then.

  As her shoe cleared the last step the door swung open to reveal a ginger-haired maid, one she recognized from Ty Mawr. The white-capped girl gave a quick curtsy, then welcomed them into a small white foyer swept clean of all adornment save a Queen Anne table and a bench opposite. Up the west wall climbed a staircase to rooms unknown.