by Laura Frantz
Since Lily Cate had set foot at Three Chimneys five days before, she and Sophie had played and napped, taken tea, rearranged the dollhouse, and even sewn some new garments for the doll Sophie. A mobcap and fichu now graced her person, and a tiny folded fan made of gilt paper and lace adorned her wax hands. But most importantly, Lily Cate had begun to learn her letters.
“A . . . B . . . C . . .” They made a game and a song of it, wrote the alphabet with stylus and slate, and by week’s end Lily Cate could pen her name. Ogilvy proved rather difficult, but even her Christian name was deemed quite an accomplishment.
Sophie hadn’t forgotten the general’s request for a governess. To that end, a post to Mrs. Hallam lay unfinished on her desk, sparking new questions. Was the general a progressive man? Valuing education for females? Or did he simply want Lily Cate occupied so she wouldn’t be a bother? Sophie longed to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Your papa will be so proud of you. You’ve made a fine start.” Hugging her, Sophie glanced at the painting Lily Cate had done of her new pony, Polly, atop the morning room mantel. In one corner she’d signed her name. But Polly, sadly, inspired fear much like the girl’s father.
“When will the gen—Papa—be back?” Lily Cate asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Any time now,” Sophie answered quietly, unsure what the day would bring. She braced herself for the likelihood of a new bride for Tall Acre, hating herself for her dismay. When had Seamus Ogilvy gained a foothold in her needy heart? ’Twas more than the loss of Lily Cate that rubbed her raw.
“Well, I’d like for him to stay away a little longer,” Lily Cate whispered.
Sophie studied her, the soreness inside her easing not a whit. Since Seamus had left, she’d not stopped thinking of why and what it portended. Lily Cate shied from a strange father and might a strange mother too. Her small world had been turned upside down since she’d been born. Would she now have to adjust to a new mother? A new life?
As the hours passed, the waiting turned tenser. Lily Cate chewed her fingernails to little bits. Sophie’s own nerves felt frayed. Even Glynnis seemed a bit on edge.
“A rider’s coming down the drive, Miss Sophie.” Glynnis hastened away to answer the door before Sophie could ask any questions.
Leaving Lily Cate to her letters, Sophie met a post rider in the study, news of Curtis no longer uppermost.
“From Richmond, miss.”
Richmond had assumed dire proportions in her mind. She took the letter, smudged from its journey in a damp, crowded saddlebag, her thoughts whirling. Might the general have married and gone on an extended honeymoon? Left Lily Cate in her care indefinitely? The troubling uncertainty sent her to her father’s desk chair, a throne-like monstrosity that was a testament to his pride. Then and there she decided to chop it into pieces and use it for firewood.
Praying for good news, she opened the post. Not the general’s handwriting after all. An official letter from Richmond, it was addressed to the present occupant of Three Chimneys, the first paragraph a scolding about back taxes. She reckoned she deserved the rebuke given she’d never paid them, but she’d had no means, and with the war on no one seemed to care about collecting them either.
It was the second paragraph that stole her breath. Three Chimneys was . . . what? In the possession of the newly formed, independent American government? No longer belonging to the Menzies family, it had been confiscated as Tory property. The new occupants, yet nameless, were to move in the first of April.
Her emotions began to roil, half fury, half disbelief. She’d feared a formal notice was coming. Hope had held it at bay. Three Chimneys. Her home. The house where she’d been born. The dowry her British-born mother had brought to her ill-suited marriage. Her father had assumed ownership yet had always preferred Williamsburg and Edinburgh. But Sophie loved it, every inch, every crumbling, ivy-covered eave. She latched on to the small flag atop the desk with its stars and stripes she’d painstakingly sewn in a moment of deep desperation.
Did it not mean liberty for her too?
Letting the letter drop atop the desk, she covered her face with her hands, glad the rising wind helped mask her weeping. What of endless days and nights quartering British soldiers against her will when she feared they might burn Three Chimneys to the ground? What of her unwavering loyalty to the cause despite it all? What of Curtis’s fighting with the Continental Army?
Would her brother not come? She had tried to hold on, refused to let go. Anything else seemed like giving up. Her mother was gone. She had no coin. She’d soon grow lean and tired and hungry again, only this time, save Glynnis and Henry, she’d be alone.
Could Seamus Ogilvy do something? If she swallowed what was left of her pride, she might plead for him to intervene lest she end up in the poorhouse.
Surely a hero of the Revolution had the clout she didn’t.
Williamsburg was as altered a place as he was a man and soldier. Since the Virginia capital had moved to Richmond, the old town had a tattered feel, still handsome but a shell of what it used to be. The high-spirited assembly days were gone, the fine livery and equipages sauntering down the shaded streets a memory. Williamsburg in its heyday was something Seamus carried around in his head like a map, reluctant to roll it up and let it go. Here he’d been young. Inexperienced. Carefree. Here he’d met Anne. Here he’d proposed. Here his fellow soldiers had feted him on news of his engagement.
And here he’d run into trouble with Anne’s relatives.
He was only too glad to leave it all behind, not looking back once he’d left the Fitzhughs’ townhouse. Fury spurred him on every mile of the frost-laden distance north to Bracken Hall but blinded him to the beauty of late fall. ’Twas the first unfettered autumn he could remember. War had stolen much, including an appreciation of the seasons.
Stallion lathered, his own chest heaving, he arrived at his destination after dark, unfit for any merriment or much company, and in no mood for a wedding.
It struck him as odd to be with his fellow officers anywhere but a battlefield. Turning joyful after so much hardship and tragedy, even if they had won the war, required a new set of skills he wasn’t sure he had. But this was a long-awaited occasion, after all. For a few hours at least he could play the part of the amiable, obliging best man.
Being at Bracken Hall made it somewhat easier. It had been the home of the Grayson family for over one hundred years, their vast holdings swallowing the verdant hills outside of Richmond and boasting the largest tobacco crop in Virginia. Seamus had spent an earlier visit riding round the estate, making a mental inventory of how to improve Tall Acre and turn a profit. But he wasn’t sure tobacco was the cash crop it was reputed to be. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
The next morning found him in a many-windowed parlor, better rested but still full of the bad feeling of Williamsburg. Try as he might, Seamus was unable to embrace the gaiety of Bracken Hall.
“So much fuss, a great many guests.” The groom’s usual calm was missing, and a faulty tenor filled the parlor instead. “Blast! I haven’t felt this rattled since Brandywine.” Colin Grayson appeared nervous, like he was facing a line of saber-tipped redcoats. “How do I look?”
With a wink, Seamus tried to lighten both their moods. “At ease, Colonel, at ease. Nobody is going to be looking at you but the bride.”
Colin chuckled. “I forgot you’ve been through this before.”
“I don’t remember much,” Seamus admitted with a hitch of regret. Everything had been blunted that bright spring day. He’d been one and twenty, Anne only seventeen. There’d barely been time for a ceremony as he’d just enlisted.
“Ever think of doing it again?”
Reaching up, Seamus adjusted the knot of his hastily tied cravat. “Nay.”
Colin studied him shrewdly. “If you’re not courting now that you’ve returned home, how have you spent your time?”
“Trying to restore order at Tall Acre. I’m in need of a cook a
nd a secretary—and a governess.”
“A governess? There are some fine girls’ schools in the east, Boston and thereabouts. Why not consider sending your daughter there?”
“Because—” Seamus struggled to make sense of the emotions swirling round his heart and head. “I’d like to be a father to Lily Cate rather than a stranger.”
Colin took a seat and sent a tense breath into the silence. “Any more trouble from Anne’s kin?”
“Aye, in spades.” Seamus looked out a window in Williamsburg’s direction. “Managing an army on campaign is one thing, disgruntled relations another.”
“How so?”
“When I was discharged, Lily Cate wasn’t returned to me as requested, so I went to the Fitzhughs’ and took her in the night. It seems Anne’s relatives had no intention of giving her back. Part of the problem is they have no children of their own—”
“So they want to keep yours.”
“I understand their attachment to her, but—” He felt a bit sick navigating the emotional melee. “Lily Cate is all of Anne I have left.”
“You’re still in love with her.”
Seamus studied him, unwilling to deny it. Everyone still remembered how Anne Howard had flirted with him behind the folds of her lace fan at a Raleigh Tavern ball as the war began. He’d won her hand over a dozen other suitors. It had been romantic. Foolish. Utterly rash. If he was still in love with her as Colin said, it was only the illusion of her, not the essence. “Her relatives have threatened to take me to court over custody of Lily Cate. In short, it’s an unholy mess.”
“Ah, Fitzhugh . . .” Colin eyed him sympathetically. “Your former brother-in-law is a powerful man—and a Williamsburg judge. He could well influence the courts in his favor.”
Seamus rubbed his brow. “They’re already making a case against me, saying I neglected Anne by rarely coming home, seldom writing letters—”
“You were fighting a war!” Colin roared, bringing his hand down on a near tabletop. “And fighting it quite well too. I dare them to take issue with your term of service. Surely that counts for something.”
“Aye, but the war’s been won and any heroics will soon fade.” Forcing a slight smile, Seamus shrugged. “’Tis your wedding day. I want to forget about the trouble at home.” He looked to the door, his smile broadening. “Your bride is here to help us do just that.”
Colin turned round, his indignation fading. Seamus had forgotten what it was like to be in love, but Sally Lee made him want to remember. Looking up at her groom adoringly, she ran her pale fingers over the fine Mechlin lace of his stock and said in her no-nonsense way, “An eight-year engagement is far too long. I’ll be glad to see this done. Meanwhile, I’ll be happy to play matchmaker and introduce Seamus to some of my bridesmaids.”
“You’ll have to act fast,” Colin warned. “He’s leaving for Tall Acre in the morning.”
“Home?” Sally turned dismayed eyes Seamus’s way. “So soon?”
“It hardly matters,” Seamus returned lightly, “as you’ll be on your honeymoon.”
She smiled and patted his cheek. Seeing her in her yellow brocade dress, its fine lines accentuating her slender figure, Seamus was reminded of Sophie Menzies. The war years had stripped everyone and everything to bare bones. Even the new broadcloth suit he wore hung a bit loose.
Sally studied him. “I must say, Seamus Ogilvy, you’re looking every bit as handsome out of uniform as in it. Now where is that charming little daughter of yours?”
“Staying with a . . . neighbor and friend.”
“Well, we’ll have to come down to Tall Acre soon and meet Miss Lily Cate. For now General Washington has just arrived, and the ceremony is about to begin. Shall we, gentlemen?”
7
Seamus stood before the crackling hearth’s fire in back of Colin, a great many guests fanned out in the hushed parlor, all eyes on the bride and groom.
“Dearly beloved . . .” The reverend’s voice skimmed over him, unleashing memories he’d thought long gone. The scent of April blooms in silver bowls. Anne’s tentative smile. Their parents’ pleasure. Anne’s brother, Cabot, lost at Valley Forge, had been best man. Seamus couldn’t recall who’d been best maid. Anne’s troublesome sister, likely. Today there were too many bridesmaids standing in back of the bride as if she couldn’t decide between them or didn’t want to hurt their feelings.
He had the needling notion they were all too aware of him, as if Sally had reminded them behind closed doors that he was in need of a wife. They already knew about his war exploits. Colin had regaled them all at dinner the night before with tale after tale of their combined gallantry, skill, and military ardor to the point of giving Seamus indigestion. He looked down at his mauled right hand, a knot of badly healed flesh and bone.
He should have worn his uniform. In his worn blue wool and spurs, he felt more at ease. Bereft of them, he hardly knew who he was. Raising his gaze from his boots, he caught a soft, lingering look pass between Colin and Sally. Had Anne looked at him in such an all-consuming way? As if no one else existed? Or mattered?
If she had, wouldn’t he remember?
He shut his eyes as the reverend called for a kiss. He remembered his own bumbling when he’d first kissed Anne. She’d turned so shy, making him shy in return. But Colin and Sally were no mere boy and girl. They’d been loving and trysting for years, wresting from the war what it would deny them, meeting whenever and wherever they could.
The morning blurred and found him at the wedding breakfast, surrounded by too many unwed women amidst the fine napery of the dining room. Chicken, spiced ham, baked shad, and a host of other dishes lined the immense sideboard and table as if in outright defiance of war’s end and Britain’s penny-pinching rule. Seamus stayed quiet, self-contained even as they tried to draw him out. He could only guess the gist of their thoughts.
Wounded war hero. Grieving widower. Absentee father.
“General Ogilvy, are you staying long at Bracken Hall?” To his left, Clementine Randolph asked the question that had been broached half a dozen times already.
“Nay,” he said. “I leave at first light.”
“How is it returning home to Tall Acre after so long away with so much to be done?”
“Like battle,” he replied with a small smile. “I’m glad to have the winter to plan for a spring offensive—planting and the like.” He couldn’t say the repairs needed in his absence were appalling and his former creditors in London had yet to be paid . . . and here sat the unmarried Miss Randolph whose dowry would answer for any expense he incurred.
“I’ve heard Tall Acre is a lovely place. I believe it’s situated near the Three Chimneys estate just down from you on the Roan River?”
He raised his silver goblet. “You’re familiar with Three Chimneys?”
Miss Randolph’s smile was smug. In the warmth of so many candles, her wax makeup had begun to wane, though her hair with its plentiful pomade held tight. “My cousin Major John Franklin has just been awarded that confiscated property.”
Seamus nearly spilled his punch.
“I believe it formerly belonged to the Tory Lord Menzies,” she finished, making a disagreeable face.
He felt a sinking to his boots. “It did, aye, but is now occupied by his daughter . . . until her brother who served under my command returns home to claim it.”
She dabbed at her lips with a serviette. “I’d also heard her brother has gone missing or is a casualty of war, and that the taxes on Three Chimneys haven’t been paid in ages.”
Emily Lee leaned in on his other side. “I believe what Miss Randolph is telling you, General, is that she’d be happy to renew your acquaintance by coming to Tall Acre once her cousin takes up residence at Three Chimneys.”
They tittered conspiratorially and left him brooding. Sophie Menzies had said nothing to him of losing Three Chimneys. What else was she hiding?
Down the table General Washington was recounting news of their absent fello
w officers in his quiet, self-effacing way. Several of those missing had assumed political office, others taking up residence on Tory estates seized as a reward for their wartime service. But Seamus was no longer listening.
It was now late November. The treaty ending the war had been signed in October. Congress was obviously wasting no time dealing with Tory holdings. A sad state of affairs, especially when Three Chimneys had been Sophie’s mother’s to begin with. Though he didn’t know Sophie Menzies well, he knew her well enough to discern her loyalty to her home. And losing Three Chimneys would take her one step farther away from Lily Cate. The situation clawed at him, begged his help. All he could do was appeal to a higher power.
It was late in the day when he found General Washington alone. In full dress uniform, Washington cast him back to the battlefield and countless meetings with fellow officers. As always, the commander in chief listened thoughtfully as Seamus laid out the dilemma of Three Chimneys and asked him to intervene.
His expression was grave, his voice low. “You’re aware of the talk surrounding Major Menzies . . . that he may have defected with Benedict Arnold?”
Seamus all but winced. Washington never cast suspicion that wasn’t warranted. “I’ve heard unconfirmed reports. No solid proof.”
Washington nodded intently and then outmaneuvered him. “Is the property—this Three Chimneys—a valuable one? Good timber, fertile fields, ample water supply?”
“Aye, all of it.”
“And is the lady in question amiable? Young as you?”
Young? Seamus didn’t feel young. The aches and complaints in his limbs bespoke age and adversity and more. But Sophie, despite her painful leanness, still seemed youthful. “I believe she is.”
“Is she comely? In your eyes at least?”
Seamus hesitated. He’d not thought of Sophie in those terms. Didn’t want to think of her in those terms. But the general required honesty above all else. “She’s lovely, aye.”
