The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Her eyes softened. She liked that he called her that. He could tell. His own soul felt softer saying it. The endearment held an intimacy that tightened their tie and had even turned his unexpected marriage proposal in his favor. Beloved she was.

  A slight commotion and then Isabeau stormed through the door, a pair of lace mitts in hand. “Mistress—” Seeing them together, she blushed a bright poppy red. Slowly she began backing up. “Pardon!”

  With a slight smile, Noble stood and gave Liberty a last, lingering look. “Till supper, aye?”

  “And how is the groom this evening?” his valet asked for the first time that day.

  “Still stunned,” Noble replied truthfully. “At least matrimonially.”

  Ninian chuckled. Only a few servants had come up the hill to Ty Bryn from Ty Mawr. He wanted to send them all back again. But he and Libby—his anwylyd—must eat. Dress. Try for a return to normalcy, whatever that was.

  “I’ve brought the papers from your study and the latest post, sir.”

  “Leave them on the table there, and then you’re at your leisure.”

  Ninian looked startled. “On a Monday, sir?”

  “My honeymoon Monday, aye.”

  Noble turned toward the window to see Libby waiting for him in the rear garden, a wicker hamper on the stone bench beside her. At her request, Cook had packed a picnic supper. He couldn’t have ordered a better evening. The wind had died down, and the recent rain cooled the heat of August considerably.

  “Should I come up the hill tomorrow, sir?”

  “Only should the need arise.” Noble gave his valet a grin. “I’d like to shut the world out a little longer.”

  “Of course, sir. One more concern. Mistress Tremayne said a courier came. Some matter about the militia. Good day.”

  Ninian disappeared. The militia matter remained. But at the moment all Noble could think of was the countdown to Gosport.

  He leaned out the window, unable to take his eyes off Libby. She was looking up at him, clad in a gauzy summer dress, a wide, beribboned hat hiding her comely features.

  “Are you not hungry?” she called.

  “What have you in your basket?”

  She smiled and lifted the lid. “Fried chicken and smoked ham. Scotch eggs. Cheese and pickles. Butter wrapped in lettuce leaves and warm bread. A feast!”

  A door slammed below. Isabeau appeared with a quilt. In the stable courtyard, Dougray waited with a pony cart. It had been Noble and Enid’s in childhood, its battered box painted a fresh green and bringing an avalanche of memories, most of them pleasant.

  Noble went downstairs with his riding whip, ready to return the remaining servants to Ty Mawr. In so small a house they seemed forever underfoot. Or mayhap it was only his need for privacy that made him wish for time alone with Libby.

  “Just the two of us?” she asked with what seemed no small satisfaction.

  “Not entirely.” He nearly smiled as Madoc wended his way around his boots.

  “He’s quite a handsome cat.”

  “Aye, he’s a tom with an independent streak.” He helped her into the cart before securing the picnic basket and taking a seat beside her. Madoc jumped in at the last, and they laughed as he sniffed the contents. “Out with you.”

  Noble returned him to the ground and they set off, taking the path nearest the James, the most secluded part of the island. Tobacco and cornfields spread to one side, the water on the other. The day’s work was done, and few hands could be seen save an overseer repairing a fence at a distance.

  “One could almost believe there was no discord anywhere,” Libby said, her eyes on the river as if expecting to find a fleet of warships there.

  “None on our island,” he replied with a new contentment. The waiting post flashed to mind, but he blocked it. “A more serene eve I’ve never seen.”

  “How much land is yours?”

  “Ours, you mean?” At her look of surprise he said, “All of Mulberry Island and two thousand acres on the mainland.”

  “You hardly have need of my lost dowry then.”

  “You need no dowry, anwylyd.” The words came easy despite his lack of practice saying such. “You are enough.”

  “I hope you can say that in another ten years, or twenty.” She untied the chin ribbons of her hat and put it in her lap. “How long must I stay out of sight at Ty Bryn?”

  “I can’t answer that yet.”

  “Well, it shan’t be a hardship to be Ty Bryn’s mistress, though I do wonder what I’ll do with all these hours.”

  “What did you do in Williamsburg at the townhouse?”

  “Shamelessly little. I’m amazed at how much time I devoted to taking tea and playing the harp.”

  “You’ll miss your lacemaking then.”

  “I do love my laces, not for profit but for pleasure. I suppose all of that burned in the folly fire.”

  Thalia flashed to mind, and his retrieval of Libby’s belongings a few days later. Only he’d forgotten to give them to her. “Start a little enterprise sewing shirts for the militia and knitting stockings. Just leave off the lace.”

  She brightened. “Like something my mother would do, one of her charitable endeavors.”

  “Libby . . . about Gosport.” He swallowed, eyes on the lush lines of the sunset. “I’m more concerned about it than you think.”

  “Have you any news from there?”

  “Only that Dunmore has commandeered Andrew Sprowle’s fine residence and is quartering soldiers in Sprowle’s warehouses along the waterfront.”

  “Who tells you these things?”

  “Patriot spies.”

  “My father is right there in the thick of it, no doubt, raiding the wine cellar and carrying on with his mis—” She stopped, a decided edge to her voice. The taint in her tone was so unlike her, Noble was more surprised by that than her father’s peccadilloes.

  “Your father has a mistress?”

  “I’m sorry I spoke of it.” She looked contrite. “I cannot cast stones. ’Tis bad enough my father is being played the fool with my going aboard his ship, pretending to be who I am not.”

  “Another reason to abandon Gosport.”

  She sighed and he frowned. Their conversation had taken a negative turn. Before he changed course, she pointed to a blue heron. “’Tis good to be away from town. There are no herons in Williamsburg proper.”

  “The country agrees with you.”

  “’Tis peaceful. Beautiful. I welcome the quiet.”

  “You don’t miss Williamsburg or the folly then.”

  She smiled. “Not when I have Ty Bryn—and its master.”

  They crossed a shallow creek, the cart’s wheels skittering over stones. Ahead was a small glen, the place he had in mind. The picnic was Libby’s suggestion, something Enid had often wanted but he’d no time for. Now his priorities had shifted. His and Libby’s time was so limited. He wanted everything to be perfect. Memorable. No regrets.

  He applied the hand brake as she took up the quilt and basket. Helping her down from the cart, he surveyed their surroundings. The peace of the scene was jarringly at odds with their circumstances. He was now wed. To Lord Stirling’s daughter. The colonies were in rebellion against the king. War was imminent. His new wife was acting as spy. He himself was a wanted man.

  “What a lovely spot.” Liberty yanked him back to the immaculate present. “I can’t remember when I last had a picnic.”

  Fireflies began winking in the twilight. He was glad for the gloom. The privacy. Though he felt safer behind walls, he’d enjoy this one outing, given it was their honeymoon.

  “You look much too serious for a new groom,” she whispered.

  “It happened so fast I half forget I am one. But I regret none of it,” he added, in case she wondered if he did. “I’ve wanted to marry, share my life with someone, for longer than I can recall. Yet I never met anyone who seemed to fit what I’d envisioned here at Ty Mawr and Ty Bryn. Till you.”

  “Glad
I am of that. Being Libby Rynallt is far more agreeable than plain old Lady Elisabeth Lawson.” She spoke with lowered lashes and a teasing lilt. “Your words could well be my own. For as long as I remember I’ve dreamed of this day. A husband. A happy home.” She reached for his hand a bit tentatively, and he gave it without hesitation. Her gentle touch was the most pleasant thing he knew.

  They said grace and she began unpacking their picnic, tempting him as much with her gracious, feminine movements as the fare. “Tell me how you acquired Ty Mawr.”

  “My grandfather acquired it through royal patent. But the land was originally tilled by John Rolfe.”

  “Rolfe? He wed Pocahontas.”

  “Aye. They were among the first settlers here, planting the sweet tobacco that made them prosperous. Mulberry Island has a rich history.”

  Her brow creased. “I hope ’tis yours—ours—for years to come.”

  She was thinking of the confiscated townhouse, no doubt. “Lord willing, it will be ours for generations.” He had no fear of losing the land, more his life. His wife. But that was in the Lord’s hands as well.

  He dared a somewhat safer subject between swallows of meat and bread. “I think all this picnicking is good for me. You’re good for me. I suppose we’re having a sort of backward affair of the heart.”

  She smiled—and sighed. “Somehow we did manage to marry without a proper courtship.”

  So she minded? She was looking at him so bewitchingly, he certainly did. “We could remedy that.”

  She gestured to the hamper. “This twilight meal for two is a fine start.”

  “Your idea. Just who is courting whom, I wonder?”

  At his teasing she returned to her supper, still smiling. It was the kind of flirtatious banter found in ballrooms, a remnant of the not-so-distant past.

  He turned his attention to the river. The rising moon was full, the gathering dusk idyllic for poets and dreamers. His own musings were decidedly unpoetic. Patrick Henry seemed to shadow him. Once they’d returned to Ty Mawr, he’d look at his correspondence and his papers in the small study below their bedchambers.

  But all he wanted was his wife. Children. A fuller life.

  29

  Was there ever a lovelier garden? Once Liberty thought the Governor’s Palace gardens sublime, a work of art, but now Williamsburg’s best seemed stilted and formal, even Ty Mawr’s too grand. Ty Bryn’s was near perfect, even with a few weeds showing, and definitely whimsical with a child-sized stone dragon at the gate. Draco, Noble called it. This morning, the day after their picnic, she sat on a teal garden chair with a leaf design, feeling like the queen of her own little kingdom, caught up in her own fairy tale.

  White sand walkways divided nine planting beds, hemming in a glory of larkspur and columbine, hollyhocks and snapdragons. A tiny, tinkling fountain was at the garden’s heart, a cherub at one side. The garden’s wall provided a windbreak as well as privacy, hiding her from the drive. Whimsical indeed.

  She felt protected. Blessed. The wedding band glinting on her hand was a constant reminder. But with two nights in separate rooms it seemed she was only half his. She’d thought—hoped—Noble would indicate his desire to make her wholly his wife. Or was he indeed leaving it to her? If so, how would she approach him? On tiptoe at bedtime, breath held? Or did he prefer a more direct overture?

  Noble, can I be near you tonight?

  She flushed even thinking it. What if he was content with their marriage being in name only? His absence a second night seemed to say so. And she was bound for Gosport on the third . . .

  Her gaze trailed to the kitchen house, a miniature of Ty Mawr’s. The rattle of crockery foretold dinner was in the making as much as did the chimney belching smoke. She spied Dougray leading out the quarter horse Noble had given her, a beautiful red sorrel mare. The horse whinnied as he walked her, for she’d been newly shod. Isabeau was hanging the wash while Nell beat rugs at the parlor door.

  And Noble?

  He had gone down the hill to Ty Mawr long before she’d awakened. Years of habit and early rising had made him quiet as he left the house without so much as a footfall. But his absence was keenly felt.

  She’d risen at half past seven, stealing to his room as he’d done hers yesterday, hoping to find him sleeping and surprise him. But he was gone. She’d then hurried downstairs, thinking to overtake him at breakfast, only to find Nell dusting the parlor, her broad face lighting with pleasure at Liberty’s greeting.

  “Good morning, m’lady.” Nell ushered her into the study. “The master had me bring some things up from the big house for you.”

  For a moment Liberty just stared. Her harp? And her serinette. Beside these were her sewing basket and lace kit. All that remained of her former silken, cosseted life. Her lace pillow protruded, the bobbins still in place from that last complicated piece she’d been working. Someone had saved it from the fire. Thalia? A rush of gratitude wet her eyes.

  Picking up the basket, she smelled the smoky contents. The purple lace cards were a tad brown at the edges, but the laces were unscathed.

  “A buttermilk wash and all should be well,” Nell said. “Shall I?”

  “Please. But I’ll see to the lace pillow and finish what I started.”

  Last was her commonplace book. What kind of businesswoman was she? Within its pages were lace orders aplenty and she’d all but forgotten them.

  The clock chimed, reminding her time was against her. She didn’t want to spend her honeymoon filling lace orders, if one could call this chapter of her life a honeymoon. She sat down at her harp, tuning it to an open C chord. The strings seemed good as new. Should she ask Noble to bring up his violin from Ty Mawr? Together they would fill Ty Bryn with music. Life. Memories.

  A half hour passed and she grew restless. Her gaze strayed to the empty drive and tower of Ty Mawr through the lush trees before taking in all aspects of the small, unfamiliar parlor.

  Ty Bryn was still a bit of a mystery. Nell had told her of an attic. She decided to explore, but halfway up the winding stair she nearly changed her mind. The heat pressed down like a steamy blanket, the scent of dust overwhelming when she opened the attic door.

  A spiderweb caught in her hair and she brushed it away, next dodging a pesky fly. The attic itself was dark, its contents made visible by two windows at each end. Her gaze landed on an old trunk. A chair with three legs. A battered armoire.

  A cradle.

  Kneeling beside it, she examined the spindled wood. It was finely crafted if whitened with dust, hooded end engraved with a fleur-de-lis. It looked lonesome, somewhat forlorn.

  Nay, no longer.

  Dare she bring it downstairs? Would Noble even notice? Ty Bryn had a room across from their bedchambers. Newly cleaned and smelling of milk paint, it sat empty. Waiting to renew its purpose.

  Half bent, she walked beneath the heated eaves, debating. Here was another trunk bearing a brass nameplate. A Windsor chair. A figurine or two. A forgotten painting. With a little loving care she would have her nursery.

  Next she inspected a rolled-up carpet. Aubusson, the colors still bright. Mama had a penchant for such rugs.

  She imagined her mother’s delight at a grandchild. Her dismay if there was none. The weight of Liberty’s responsibility shadowed her. Now she understood her father’s disappointment with a girl. His legacy, their family name, had come to an end. She wanted to ensure the Rynallt name lived on. Noble needed an heir.

  But her own longing went far deeper. Since she was in leading strings she’d loved her dolls and wished for a brother or sister. Denied that, she found great delight in Lady Charlotte’s brood. A loving mother, Lady Charlotte had taught her much, involved as she was in her children’s lives despite their many servants. Despite an oft absent husband.

  Ty Bryn needed a family. A son or daughter, whatever the Lord deemed fit. But at such a time as this? With effort, she shuttered all worrisome thoughts of war away, knowing such was sin. She’d trust in God’s per
fect timing. Had He not shown Himself faithful? Even amid the tumult? Especially amid the tumult?

  Looking back, she could see how even divinely timed politics had prevented her from a disastrous marriage to Miles Roth. Living in the folly, seeing him about town if only from a distance, had shown her this. Though she didn’t judge him, she had no wish to be his wife.

  She took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her damp hairline and upper lip, then called for Nell. Joy bubbled inside her and banished any fear of the future. A new chapter of life had opened, every blank page full of possibilities.

  Including a nursery for Ty Bryn.

  Noble glanced at the clock on his study mantel. The midday meal was almost upon them. He could ride up the hill to Ty Bryn in ten short minutes on this, the third day of their honeymoon, and spend time with Libby. Or he could finish the paperwork before him. Away since dawn, he had a curious itch to return to her.

  As he shrugged on his coat and tucked the courier’s latest post in his breast pocket, Mistress Tremayne appeared at the door, abject apology on her face.

  “Mister Roth to see you, sir.”

  Miles? He felt a sinking to his boots. He’d not seen Miles since—

  “Morning, Cousin.” Miles swaggered in, bearing a lopsided, sheepish grin. Unshaven, his stock soiled, he looked like a caricature lampooned in the Virginia Gazette, the reek of spirits in his wake. “I’ve come to beg a loan—see that new quarter horse everyone’s abuzz about in Williamsburg.”

  “I’ve no loan to give you,” Noble said. “But I’ll show you the stables on my way out.”

  Without asking, Miles poured himself a brandy. Noble made a mental note to do away with the decanter or hide it till Henry or Clark came by.

  Downing the drink in two swallows, Miles set the glass down so hard the table rattled. “I’ve been sent by a select group of gentlemen to ask about reinstituting the races. Another subscription plate, if you will.”

  Revive the most popular race in Williamsburg? “Gambling, you mean.”