by Laura Frantz
Liberty felt she’d stepped into a dollhouse, a very elaborate one. “How charming this is.”
The maid smiled her pleasure. “Aye, ’tis that, m’lady. Let me show you to your rooms.”
Up they went, Isabeau following. The hall was narrow but not confining, the carpet soft beneath her feet. The maid opened a door at the top of the stair, allowing Liberty to enter first. All the windows were open, giving the room an expansive feel. From where she stood, Liberty saw the reassuring tip of Ty Mawr’s tower rising above the trees. Beyond this spread the James in all its blueness, backed by a patchwork quilt of green pasture and hills. Ty Bryn seemed to be on top of the world. Hill house indeed.
“My name’s Nell, m’lady. Short for Penelope.” She softened her next words with a bit of a smile. “Mister Rynallt has gone to town. There’s been some trouble in Williamsburg.”
“Trouble, you say?”
“Aye, I’m afraid I know very little.” At this, she went out, leaving Isabeau to take charge.
“Did you know of this move to Ty Bryn?” Liberty asked as her maid plucked the pins from her hair.
“Only that Monsieur Rynallt feels it is safer for you here,” she said tersely, leaving Liberty with the impression that her maid was missing Ninian and Ty Mawr.
In a quarter of an hour the undressing was finally done. “To bed with you, mistress.” Isabeau took on the tone of Mistress Tremayne. “When you awake we shall have a proper Welsh tea.”
Too weary to argue, Liberty climbed the bed steps of the room’s centerpiece, a chintz-hung bedstead. The bold floral design was of costly Indian cotton, not the English imitation. Of varying hues of blue and green, it matched the striped papered walls. Some of the furniture looked new, and flowers graced a side table as if picked just for her. Noble had spared no expense on this place or her coming here.
Isabeau adjusted the mosquito netting, then went out on quiet feet. Though the room was warm, Liberty felt chilled, drawing the linen sheets up under her chin.
Sweet dreams she did not have.
Noble smelled smoke long before he saw the ruins. A crowd gathered in back of the Raleigh, the heat of the flames scorching and wilting the surrounding flower and vegetable gardens. His gaze swung to the Raleigh’s mansard roof and those of the outbuildings. Tinder-dry as the weather was, it seemed a miracle the fire had not spread. On a windy summer’s day, aye, but ’twas still as the grave.
He kept to the Raleigh eave, watching and waiting. The folly, once so charming and picturesque, was now a blackened, smoky crater, the only evidence something stalwart had once stood.
James Southall surveyed the damage, hat in hand, expression vexed. The gardener, Thalia, was shaking her head.
“You do not know the lacemaker’s whereabouts?” Southall asked.
“No, sir. Who can say?” She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her apron, a small pile of what looked to be Libby’s few belongings at her bare feet. The serinette and lacemaking kit. A commonplace book.
Noble felt a surge of gladness nearly as great as his relief that Libby wasn’t present.
“So long as she’s not inside.” Southall kicked at a charred beam. “You saw nothing, you say? No one suspicious about?” At the shake of Thalia’s head, he muttered, “’Twas no accident. That much is plain.”
Noble passed into the ordinary, mindful of the Sabbath. The bells of Bruton Parish Church were pealing as if announcing the calamity, not simply the end of divine service.
He’d wanted to be the one to meet Libby at Ty Mawr once she returned from Norfolk. Now the stench of sour ashes storming his senses gave rise to the deeper worry that someone meant her harm.
Before he’d cleared the hall and stepped into the taproom, Southall’s riled voice reached out to him like a tug on his collar as he followed Noble. “Blast! You can bet I’ve been torched by a Tory. It has less to do with Miss Lawson than myself, owner of an inn infested with rebel rats, as Dunmore calls them.”
Or a Patriot thinking Libby was a spy. Noble said nothing. To reply would only fuel Southall’s ire. All he wanted to do was quench his thirst, learn all he could about the fire, and return to Ty Mawr. The few shillings he’d paid Billy to bring him any news had been well worth the cost.
“So what brings you to Williamsburg on the Sabbath if not to attend church?” Southall asked him. “There’s been a curious lull among you Independence Men lately.”
“Most are in Philadelphia.”
Southall poured them both ale and slid Noble’s to him across the scarred counter. “The Continental Congress, aye? I’ve yet to understand why some of you venture to Philadelphia and some of you stay.”
“’Tis simple enough. Some are elected delegates whose presence is required. I chose to remain.”
“You wouldn’t know the whereabouts of Miss Lawson, I suppose. I’m not unaware of hearsay that she might be in league with her ousted father.”
“Don’t believe it.”
“Many do.”
“Buck the norm,” Noble told him.
Their eyes locked. Southall was the first to look away. “She was a fine hand with a needle.”
“Why are you talking about her in past tense?”
“I can no longer keep her in my hire.” Southall took a long drink. “The fire seems a warning. Wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t turn up.”
Aye, that was Noble’s greatest fear. Leaving his ale unfinished, he parted with some coin. “Send word if you learn the culprit behind the burning, or anything else related to her ladyship.”
Southall grunted his assent and Noble went out. Thalia was gathering up Liberty’s belongings. He wanted to take them with him to Ty Bryn, but to do so would raise suspicions. For now, best keep their association quiet.
With a last look at the smoking folly’s remains, he went to the green in search of his horse.
“He’s come, your ladyship.” The maid, Nell, was at the bedchamber door as Liberty had requested, though it wasn’t necessary. She’d heard a horse and rider on the drive, her spirits soaring along with it.
Despite being up all night aboard ship, Liberty had dozed lightly since, sensitive to any sound beyond her open bedchamber windows. Thanking Nell, she took a last look at herself in the mirror. Clad in a sultana, the lovely embroidered sash in place, she was ready to receive visitors, even the master of Ty Mawr. But where?
“There’s a service stair there,” Nell told her, pointing to a bookcase to the left of the bedchamber’s mantel. “It leads to the parlor.”
Liberty approached as Nell pressed a small lever beneath a shelf, which cracked open to the passage behind and a narrow stairwell. Liberty descended alone, gripping the unpainted handrail, drawn by the light illuminating the bottom steps.
She entered the unfamiliar room through a small door, again by the hearth. Noble stood by the largest window with his back to her, spyglass trained on the James. The surprising presence of Madoc relieved a bit of her angst. On sight of her, the cat approached with a swish of his tail, rubbing against her skirts. Noble stayed intent on the river as if he hadn’t heard her enter.
She said softly, “You might well see the fleet move south. To Gosport.”
He turned toward her, erasing every doubt she’d ever had that she was a nuisance, an inconvenience, a traitor. There was something alive in his face—a depth of feeling, even a profound relief. Or was it only because she had news he and the Independence Men needed?
Nell entered then, carrying a tray, reminding Liberty she’d missed breakfast. A small Welsh repast was the offering, even the delectable bara brith. And a pot of independence tea, from the scent of the steam, reminding her of Thalia’s garden and Williamsburg.
“Welcome home, Libby,” Noble said. “Or at the very least, welcome back.”
Home, indeed. She looked to the enticing tray, awash with a hunger and all sorts of sweet feelings that had nothing to do with her empty stomach. Did he sense how glad she was to be here? Immersed in a refuge like
Ty Bryn? Hidden away on Mulberry Island? At the Raleigh she felt a bit exposed. A target. Never quite comfortable or at ease.
She expelled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I should tell you everything I know straightaway lest I forget.”
“Aye, but have a seat first.”
She sat, fingering the sash of the sultana absently. ’Twas a relief to share what she’d observed and heard, names and faces and myriad impressions. She felt lighter at the telling, spurred on by his interest. Impressed by his well-placed questions.
“There’s one last thing that troubles me. My father and Lord Dunmore spoke of the imminent arrival of a mysterious guest. I sensed they believed it would alter everything for them. They even raised a toast.”
“But no name? No more details?”
“Nothing,” she lamented. “And because of it, I feel the need to go to Gosport. To take part in the fete they spoke of. My father said he duly expects me.” She withdrew the velvet pouch from the folds of her sultana. “From my father. The fleet seems to be low on provisions but swimming in currency. Once I return to Williamsburg I’ll see that it goes to the poorhouse.”
“You won’t be returning to Williamsburg.”
She let go of the pouch in surprise, the coins jingling. “What do you mean?”
“Last night someone set fire to the folly. Southall doesn’t know who yet, but he has no more need of your services.”
Though it was gently said, she still felt stung. Fire? Her winsome folly? Had she been . . . dismissed? “Was I of no use to him then?”
“On the contrary. He said you’re a fine hand with a needle.”
“But . . .”
“Someone means you harm or means to send a message. Williamsburg is no longer the place for you.”
She poured tea with hands surprisingly steady. The amber liquid sloshed into the porcelain cups so like her mother’s fine china. Her thoughts whirled. Once again she was without a home, seeking a place to call her own.
Where shall I go? The unspoken question hovered between them.
“Do you like Ty Bryn, Libby?”
The simple question seemed almost ludicrous. She looked about the lovely room. She’d not seen all of Ty Bryn yet, but how could she not like it? “Very much.”
“And the Welsh fare?” There was subtle teasing in his tone as she served them both bara brith.
“’Tis pleasantly un-English,” she replied.
“What about Ty Mawr’s master?” His gaze canted toward the window, but his question went straight to her heart. “Might you grow used to an Independence Man with noble intentions?”
His design came clear. She took a sip of tea, unable to answer. The silence lengthened, so expectant it rent her heart.
“In other words, I’m asking for your hand. For you to marry me. To make Ty Mawr your home in time. To come under my protection.”
She listened, disbelieving. “Noble, indeed.”
He swung his gaze her way. The smile she was coming to know, the one that touched her in ways she could not fathom, warmed his bewhiskered face. Had he forgotten to shave in the tumult of events? She rather liked him swarthy. He had the look of a smuggler. A pirate.
She bit her lip, still at a loss for words. He’d just proposed marriage, and here she sat thinking of his whiskers.
“What say you?” he said, somewhat tenderly.
She felt little more than a puddle of delight. “I suppose this proves you do not think me a Tory spy.” How she had fretted about that. And how easily she now tucked that worry away. “You believe I am Patriot to the bone.”
“Aye. And as such, you would be imminently safer taking the name of Rynallt and bidding goodbye to Lawson.”
“So this is a marriage in name only?”
He hesitated. “’Twould be a marriage of whatever you want it to be.”
The enormity of that engulfed her. “But what of my spying?”
“I’m against it. The danger remains.”
“Should we keep our marriage a secret? Till the time is right to make it known?”
“Probably wise, aye.”
“And the servants? Suppose someone talks?”
“They’re a tight-mouthed group of Welsh, mostly. The few Tories I’ve employed have been dismissed or disappeared. Keeping you at Ty Bryn means you’re mostly out of sight and mind.”
“But the banns must be read—”
“Not any longer. Colonial customs are dying. All that is needed are witnesses and a preacher.”
“Not from Bruton Parish?”
“Nay, a Presbyterian preacher who is a tenant of mine. He occupies the farm next to Ty Bryn and pastors a small church.”
“No banns . . . a Presbyterian rite.” Her perplexity nearly seemed a refusal, or so his guarded expression seemed to say. “Would it be legal?”
“Aye, a hundred times aye.” He gave her a wry smile. “You can pass, Libby, say nay.”
Nay? There was not a nay bone in her body. Her very soul was shouting aye. Could he not sense it? Tea forgotten, she looked about the winsome parlor, trying to make peace with her swirling emotions and strange surroundings. Why was she pinched with surprise, less from his asking than her own heart’s cry? Was she being rash, wanting to wed him? Was it not a mad leap when she was unsure of his feelings for her?
She met his eyes. “There’s something else that needs knowing. A Welsh word.”
He waited, perfectly still, his eyes holding hers.
“Anwylyd,” she said softly, finding it poetic.
“Anwylyd,” he repeated, voice lowering melodically. “It means . . . ‘beloved.’”
Her heart turned over. This was her answer then. “Shall you call me that?”
“If you want me to.”
“Say it again . . . slowly,” she said.
“An . . . wylyd.”
The tender word cast her back to something Mama had said at the last.
I implore you to marry for love, naught else . . . Promise.
She set her empty cup down. “Seven days hence. On my birthday.”
’Twas his turn to be surprised. “Your birthday?”
“Soon, yes, lest you change your mind.” Or I do.
“If you’re sure.”
“More sure than not.”
“’Twould work well, as I need to travel to Richmond on business between now and then. You can stay here and . . . prepare.”
She scoured his handsome profile, searching for some sentiment. Tenderness. She found resolve. An honest, straightforward proposal seasoned with anwylyd.
“Send for your pastor-tenant then,” she said, a bit shy at the turn of events. Her sultana would hardly do. “I shall see about a proper wedding gown.”
27
Quelle?” Isabeau gaped. “Madame Rynallt?”
“If all goes as planned.” Liberty’s outward calm belied her careening insides. “On my birthday.”
Isabeau’s shock gave way to practicality. “We must have a proper gown, no? One sent up from Ty Mawr?”
’Twould be another of Enid’s, out of necessity. Yet a gown seemed frivolous in light of their circumstances. A marriage on the fly. Her future changed in the beat of a heart, a breath. Both their futures.
Liberty said nothing, hands folded in her lap.
Isabeau continued to regard her with wonder. “What news from your father you must have brought Monsieur Rynallt to come to this!”
Liberty smiled, suffused with a joy she’d not felt in months. She pushed all thoughts of her estranged family aside, refusing to allow even the slightest shadow on her present happiness.
“What of your hair?” Isabeau asked.
“Something simple, perhaps just ribbons. Best send word to Mistress Tremayne about a gown.”
Isabeau brought out straight pins for the gown’s hem. “Where are you to wed? The downstairs parlor?”
“In the garden, I hope,” Liberty replied. “At sunset. If the weather is clear.”
&
nbsp; She would not allow herself to think beyond the ceremony, yet her thoughts ran ahead to the hour the servants retired and the bride and groom were left alone to begin their honeymoon.
Noble’s gracious words now haunted.
’Twould be a marriage of whatever you want it to be.
What did she want? Moreover, what did he?
“You have need of what, sir?” Noble’s pastor-tenant was regarding him with amazed amusement even as he reached for his Bible.
“I need you to officiate at a wedding, if you will.” Noble stood, hat in hand, feeling far more awkward groom than master of Ty Mawr. “Mine.”
“And who is the blessed bride, sir?”
“Lady Elisabeth Lawson. Or simply Liberty.”
“Gwych!” came the enthusiastic reply. “A most worthy choice. Congratulations to you and your lady.”
“Thank you. Plan on seven days hence. I’m still unsure of the time. I’ll be away on business till then.”
Standing in the small parlor behind them, Gabriel Tannant’s wife was aglow, their brood of children, mostly girls, giggling.
“You are welcome to come to the reception after, impromptu as it is,” Noble told them, glad Mistress Tremayne was amiable on short notice. Even now she was in the kitchen while most of the staff was away on the Sabbath. “See you soon.”
Smiling, Noble went out. Theirs had been a lightning courtship, so they would marry in the same vein, with few trimmings.
He rode back to Ty Mawr at a steady clip, galloping the few miles beneath cloudy, breathlessly hot skies. Thunderheads rode the eastern horizon, turning the normally blue James a shining pewter.
Would Libby be ready in so short a time? She wanted to wed in the garden, Isabeau had told Ninian. A fitting spot. But would she change her mind between now and then?
And what sort of marriage would they have once they said “I do”? He craved a union in all the fullness the Almighty intended. Heart, body, soul. Had he given her too much leeway in deciding the terms of their relationship? How patient could he be if she decided their coming together would be in name only?
