The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Liberty turned away from the window. “Perhaps ’tis only a barn or outbuilding.”

  “Oui, perhaps. With the weather so dry . . .” Isabeau touched her forehead as if she felt faint. “But what if they come here? What if they set fire to this very house—”

  “Nay, surely not.” But she was not sure, her voice fading at Isabeau’s next exclamation.

  “L’aide de Dieu!”

  Beneath the light of torches were a dozen or more silhouettes on the grounds below. A cold finger trailed down Liberty’s spine when Nell came in and said, “Dougray has roused all the tenants and the overseers.”

  Armed with hoes and axes and muskets, Ty Mawr’s ragtag army was headed to its gates. “Ninian and several tenants are armed and surround Ty Bryn,” Nell added. “The master gave orders before he left.”

  So Noble had thought of everything. Liberty wasn’t surprised. Though he’d said but a few terse words about potential trouble, she knew there was a great deal he’d left unspoken. For the first time she was glad the nursery was empty.

  The three of them left the bedchamber and moved to the landing. Ninian was below, a holster pistol in one hand, its steel barrel a-shine in the candlelight. As Isabeau and Nell joined him, Liberty bent her head. What could she, a sole woman, do at such a time? Prayer seemed the greatest need they had.

  Liberty never left his head, quite a feat when the unfamiliar names of his men and countless military maneuvers filled his days and wartime correspondence his nights. Noble had just lain down on his cot beneath the canvassed arch of his military tent when the unwelcome news came.

  Fire on the James.

  Fire in August was an onerous thing, no matter how it started. Never had he stood on his feet so fast, his premonition that Dunmore would strike like a rattler when the militia was inland coming to bear. He heard a commotion as his adjunct readied his horse outside. He wasn’t the only officer given leave to return home. Colonel Woodford was sensible and shrewd, well aware the British fleet had taken control of Chesapeake Bay and had a malicious eye on Patriot plantations.

  Noble emerged from his tent to a moonless night.

  “Major Rynallt, betimes the road is safer for two than one, especially in the dark,” his adjunct said.

  “Aye, but I know the way even at night and you do not,” he replied as he swung himself in the saddle. “A false alarm, mayhap.”

  But he scarcely believed it. He rode hard the few miles home, his horse soon flecked with foam. Providence guided him as the night was so black. He kept off the main road, taking fences across fields and bending low in the saddle amid copses of trees. His riding whip was scarcely needed save for the mastiff at the mill right before the road gave way to Ty Mawr. The barking dog rushed at him, but he kept on, going at a precarious gallop till he neared home. A gathering of his tenants met him at the gate. No one seemed to know yet where the fire was or how it had started, though his overseer had gone out to find answers.

  “No harm’s come to either house, sir,” Dougray said, his face shining beneath a torch’s light. “Nor any of your dependencies or horses.”

  Relief coursed over him like rain. He turned up the treed lane to Ty Bryn, drawn by the sole light shining like a star in a second-floor window—Libby’s own.

  “Major Rynallt, sir.” One of his ablest field hands cast a bulky shadow near the stables. “All’s quiet here.”

  “Good. We’ll soon learn what’s afoot. Till then keep watch and you’ll be rewarded.”

  “I’ll see to your mount, sir.”

  Noble dismounted and led Seren by the bridle to the man’s outstretched hand. Once on the steps of Ty Bryn, he exchanged a few words with Ninian before Nell met him at the door, eyes wide. “God be praised, sir! I never expected to see you on such a night as this. Lord Dunmore’s river pirates, mayhap, but you, nay.”

  “How is Mistress Rynallt?”

  “Calm as a summer’s morn.” Nell cast a glance upstairs and rolled her eyes. “But her maid, nay.”

  He envisioned Isabeau’s hand-wringing, which Libby never seemed to mind. Mayhap Ninian would be a calming influence during his absence.

  “Be you hungry, sir?”

  “Just thirsty.”

  “I’ll fetch something then.”

  Before he’d set foot on the stairs, a slight noise in the hall caused him to look up. Isabeau? Nay. A smiling Libby, looking sleep-disheveled and delighted in the candlelight. And as glad to see him as he was her.

  She rushed down the spiraled staircase to meet him, feeling oddly like a heroine in a novel. Trouble lurked but here was her hero, pewter buttons glinting, the deep blue of his uniform reassuring. He smelled of horses and sweat and leather, but she cared little. She all but threw herself in his arms, finding him as steady and unmoving as one of the columns on the riverfront portico.

  Above, Isabeau hovered at the balustrade and Madoc yowled before Nell scooped him up and disappeared, allowing them some hard-won privacy.

  “You’ve come all this way.” Admiration laced her tone. “In the dark.”

  “’Tis not far.” Turning round, he kicked the door closed. “And to be completely honest, I can think of little but Liberty.”

  She took hold of the lapels of his uniform coat. “Your cause.”

  “Nay.” His smile was warm, even a bit sheepish. “My wife.”

  “You flatter me when a mysterious fire is burning but a few miles away.”

  “Colonel Woodford has sent patrols to investigate. We’ll soon have our answer and mount a defense if we need to.”

  She worked free the top button of his uniform coat. “You need a change of clothes. Something to drink.”

  He shrugged off the heavy coat, the linen shirt and weskit damp beneath. Nell came with a candelabra and they retreated to his study, where he set the light on his desk. Taking a chair, he stared down at his dusty boots as if wanting to tug them off. The perry cider Liberty poured him was gone in a few swallows. Did it steady him somehow? He seemed about to tell her something important. She took a seat on the footstool beside him.

  Reaching out, he clasped her hands in his. “You need to know there’s a royal bounty on my head. I received confirmation of it in Williamsburg. Miles Roth is said to be one of those who mean to waylay me and claim it.”

  “Miles?” She drew back, stunned. “Your own kin?”

  “He’s deeply in debt and in need of ready cash. Some suspect he’s a British spy. There’s another to be wary of as well. Cressida Shaw.”

  Liberty stayed silent. Cressida had ceased to be her friend when she tried to brand her a Tory spy, but somehow Miles’s perfidy seemed worse. Miles was family, a longstanding neighbor. Perhaps he and Cressida were acting together.

  “Dunmore has a ring on the mainland looking for Patriots. They mean to make an example of us once we’re caught.” He hesitated, and she sensed he held a great deal back. “I’m telling you this because everything I have will be yours should the worst happen. My attorney in Williamsburg drew up papers to that effect. It gives me peace of mind that you’re provided for.” He attempted another weary smile. “You’ll be as wealthy a widow as Martha Custis Washington once was if it comes to that.”

  “I’d rather be poor as a pauper and have you instead.”

  “Glad I am of that. For the time being, those of us who’ve been targeted have been offered a measure of safety. Washington has assigned us a few of his Life Guard until the worst of the danger passes.”

  She looked toward the dark foyer. “And yours is . . . ?”

  “On the way.” He got to his feet and she followed, stung with regret as he put on his handsome blue coat again. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m awaiting orders from Colonel Woodford. Don’t leave the house unless it’s burning down.”

  “I shan’t tell Isabeau that.”

  He checked a laugh. “Nay, downplay the danger.”

  “Aye, aye, Major.” She forced lightheartedness, not wanting him to leave on a sour n
ote.

  When he went out she thought of all he hadn’t said. He’d seemed on the verge of something at the last. Something tender, perhaps. Something memorable if he didn’t return. He’d not yet said “I love you.” Yet he called her anwylyd . . .

  She stood on the stoop as he mounted Seren. So straight in the saddle he sat. So controlled. ’Twas easy to envision him at the head of an entire army. Crossing her arms, she swallowed past what felt like a live coal burning her throat and fought the impulse to run to him and unravel completely. But she must stay strong. Must be a credit to a man who was willing to risk so much and provide for her so well.

  Lord, if anyone should be hunted down like a criminal for treason, let it be me.

  34

  She waited up, strangely exhilarated by the combination of coffee and circumstances, her knitting needles flying. Every so often Isabeau would come in, but she seemed more settled as Ninian had come up from Ty Mawr with more weapons nearly as formidable as the master’s own. They conspired below, leaving Liberty alone with Madoc in the upstairs sitting room. She could hear them moving about downstairs, occasionally communicating with someone outside.

  Dawn painted the James with wan light before she heard the beat of hooves. At the door again, she was as overjoyed to see Noble as she had been before. Only now, hours later, he looked more haggard—eyes bloodshot and jaw bewhiskered—but still straight and soldierly.

  She met him on the bricked front steps, the taint of smoke on the sultry air. The coastal wind stiffened and threatened to remove his hat. She put a hand to her skirts lest they set sail as well.

  “Anwylyd,” he said simply, and took her hand.

  The endearment and his touch sent her stomach somersaulting all over again. Ever since their nursery tryst, she’d relived both a thousand times in her memory. But like the sudden intrusion of Mistress Tremayne, the news he brought was unwelcome indeed.

  “A British frigate landed soldiers at Hartwell and demanded a large supply of provisions. The factor refused, so they laid the plantation in ruins.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Thankfully the family was away in Richmond, but a great many slaves turned Tory and joined the British fleet.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Captain Graves of the Savage is headed our way.”

  Graves? She remembered him from Gosport. “Best teach me to shoot then.”

  “Shoot? I’ve a mind to dispatch you to your mother in Philadelphia, but I doubt you’d be much safer there.”

  Would he send her packing? Everything in her balked. “I’ll not leave you. Or my home here.” ’Twas easily said but less understood. Why did Ty Bryn seem more her home now than the Williamsburg townhouse of twenty years?

  A sudden gust shook the eaves and sent Noble’s gaze past her to the back door with its sidelight and view of the James. “You said you’ve been praying about all this. You’ve not asked the Almighty to send some sort of independence hurricane, have you?”

  She smiled as the wind struck another lick. “I’ve been praying the Lord would curb whatever mischief my father and the British fleet mean to make. If that includes a storm, so be it. But I do apologize for any damage incurred.”

  “Seems like we’re still recovering from the damage dealt us in ’69.”

  She shuddered at the memory. “I well recall it.” There was no way to prepare for such weather, but might it keep them safe from enemy hands?

  “No matter.” He tugged at his stock. “We know who controls the weather and we’re home together. Let’s make the most of it, aye?”

  While a northeaster rattled windowpanes and moaned about Ty Bryn’s corners, Noble slept after two days on his feet. But only briefly and only after battening down the estate as best he could against the weather. All the livestock was sheltered, every wheeled conveyance under cover, the barns and outbuildings barred shut. His crops and gardens he could do little about. His dependencies—summer kitchens, smokehouses, icehouses, dovecote, necessaries—were all as sturdy as brick could be.

  The ancient, towering oaks and chestnuts took the brunt of the storm, weakened by rain-soaked roots and buffeting winds. None were near enough Ty Bryn or Ty Mawr to damage either, but the tree-lined drive and lane might be littered with limbs and leaves by morning. Noble felt a sense of loss already. He loved these old, stately trees, planted by John Rolfe and kinsmen, a part of his own legacy. And now Noble’s children’s legacy, Lord willing.

  On a whim he confined all the servants at Ty Mawr, even Isabeau, who looked a bit put out to be separated from her mistress. With a last goodbye, he left the big house and began the walk uphill to Ty Bryn, which was hidden from sight by so much green, the place stripped bare and exposed only in winter. Rain slashed sideways, the ground a sponge beneath his boots.

  His empty belly grumbled like low thunder, and he fixed his eye on the frantic weather vane atop the garden’s wrought-iron gate. It spun like a child’s top, the copper bird Libby found charming threatening to take wing.

  Beyond, the usually picturesque James was surly and dark. The river had been named after a British king, and Noble wondered if that would change if independence was gained. For the moment the water seemed a reflection of the shifting times, as angry and white-capped as he’d ever seen it.

  God preserve us.

  Though his hat dripped water and the wind shoved him sideways, he felt a bone-deep contentment, almost chuckling at the telling crack in the front door just ahead. But it was only the wind. For once, Libby did not look out at him. He’d not seen her since his nap, as he’d spent the bulk of the day riding about the estate, making sure his tenants were safe before the worst of the storm hit.

  He let himself in, the wind masking his movements and the shutting of the door. He locked it, the ring of skeleton keys jingling.

  Was she even here? Beyond the foyer’s far back door and sidelight the garden was taking a beating, rose petals scattering, the once proud hollyhocks twisted and toppled. Even an iron trellis was askew.

  “Anwylyd?”

  Another gust shook the eaves, and then he heard, “In here, Husband.”

  His study?

  He found her seated atop a buffalo-skin rug before an empty hearth, where a fire waited kindling in a colder season. Lush and thick, the buffalo hide was soft as Madoc’s fur. He’d not expected to find Libby there, fingers flying, a basket of stockings near at hand. She usually sat in the small wingback chair by the window.

  She smiled up at him, never missing a stitch. “Sitting down low to the ground seems safer somehow. I fear getting blown out of my seat.”

  “There’s always the root cellar.”

  “Oh my . . . I hope it shan’t come to that.” The candle on the footstool beside her danced in a vigorous draft. To her right was a hamper reminding him of their honeymoon picnic, if they’d even had a honeymoon. Did a kiss count?

  He was a patient man. Or a fool.

  Libby patted the basket. “Don’t laugh, but Mistress Tremayne sent up a basket from Ty Mawr so we wouldn’t suffer for supper.”

  “And the offering is?”

  “Fried chicken and biscuits. Cucumbers and radishes. Even your favorite peach tart.”

  She looked surprised when he sat down beside her. “You must be hungry,” he said.

  She set her knitting aside. “Yes. We shall have another lovely picnic despite the weather.”

  As the roof’s shingles took a pounding, she sounded positively gleeful. He nearly chuckled at her delight. Betimes she showed the pleasure of a child at the simplest things.

  “Shall we say grace?” She extended her hands to him expectantly.

  They bowed their heads, and he cobbled together a boyhood prayer. “Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all Thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others, through Jesus Christ our Lord. And we ask for special protection from the storm. Amen.”

  She passed him his supper on a linen napkin. He eyed the tart and wished for coffee to wash it down. But
two pewter cups with cider sufficed, a good beginning.

  “Thanks be to Mistress Tremayne,” he said.

  “Indeed. She spoils us. I’m not used to such. When I was growing up, Mama was always too busy reading and writing to make much sport, and Papa was mostly absent. Whatever frivolity I had was at the Palace with Lady Charlotte and the children. Many a picnic we did have in the Palace gardens.”

  “My boyhood was spent traipsing after estate factors and overseers when I wasn’t in the schoolroom. They were too busy balancing ledgers and tallying accounts for much merriment.”

  She picked at her chicken daintily and finished off a biscuit. In the brief time she’d been his, beneath his roof, she’d bloomed. His anwylyd was pale and rail thin no longer. He recalled the feel of her in his arms that day in the nursery. If Mistress Tremayne hadn’t interrupted them, no doubt he wouldn’t be sitting here now, interested in more than supper. He was done with interruptions.

  “Speaking of overseers and factors, where are Isabeau and Nell and your manservant?” she asked, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Banished to the big house.”

  Her brows peaked. “Are we all alone then?”

  He cast a glance about for Madoc. “Save one feline, aye.”

  “Madoc doesn’t like storms, it seems, and has been in hiding all day.”

  “All the better. I have you to myself.” He raised his cup, and she followed his lead, clinking rims. Her eyes sparkled and the candle sputtered. Soon they’d be in the dark.

  He all but forgot the howling wind. The magnolia torn to shreds beyond the nearest window. The candle that needed replacing. A drowsy goodness filled him along with the supper. He was locked in with the woman he loved. What more could he ask for than that? This moment was all they had.

  Finished eating, Liberty sank her fingers into the lush buffalo fur. “I’ve never before seen such a rug, save the skins the Indian delegations brought to Williamsburg to treat with the government.”