The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

  She could hear Glynnis approach, her slow tread on the stairs giving a warning. Her bent frame filled the doorway, invitation fluttering from her hand.

  I told you so, her expression seemed to say.

  “Not only a ball but a merry four days’ stay!” Stepping into the room, she watched Sophie examine the lustring. “I thought you’d pick that one, though we’ll have to alter the other two for you to wear while you’re there.”

  “Is there time?”

  “Perhaps, if we get to work at once.”

  “We’d best begin,” Sophie said, eyeing the clock.

  And pray I get the influenza instead.

  10

  Sophie could only remember two visits to Tall Acre, once when the general married and they paid a call to his bride, and then at Lily Cate’s birth. Oddly, the memory of the lovely Anne Ogilvy was no longer fixed in her head as firmly as a framed miniature in oils. She only remembered the feel of her. The former mistress of Tall Acre seemed kind but condescending. Soft-spoken yet sharp-eyed. Sophie and her mother had not returned nor been invited back.

  Sophie recalled it now as the new Ogilvy coach came round to collect her, giving her a taste of the refinements to come. Lined with green Morocco leather and boasting diamond-cut plate glass, the vehicle was Philadelphia made. Sophie was glad the coachman took his time on the rutted road so she could compose herself, but no amount of prayer or preparation could quiet her heart as the hundred-year-old house came into view. Three Chimneys was lovely in its own tired, genteel way, but Tall Acre was magnificent with its sweeping porches and three-storied brick facade.

  She wasn’t the first to arrive, but Lily Cate was waiting for her, a servant by her side. Through the coach window Sophie could see her hopping on one foot and waving wildly, finally jumping down from the front veranda and dashing toward the mounting block. Her wordless hug told Sophie everything. Both of them had been counting down the days till they were together again.

  “Papa said that I could show you to your room—’tis next to mine—and sit by you at supper.” Taking Sophie’s hand, she led her into a gleaming, beeswax-scented foyer with a wide staircase soaring upward, weaponry and paintings covering the paneled walls. Masculine voices and laughter seeped beneath a stalwart mahogany door to their right. “He’s in his study with his army men.”

  Sophie hid a smile. Her prayers had been answered. She’d been spared an awkward entry and was in the company of the one who mattered most. “We’ll not disturb them, then.”

  They climbed the central staircase, then headed down a long hall toward a door opened wide as if in welcome.

  “I asked Papa to give you the room next to mine. ’Twas Mama’s, Florie said.”

  Surprised, Sophie followed as a servant set her valise near an open, empty wardrobe. “Do you remember your mama, Lily Cate?” She regretted the question as sorrow crowded the girl’s little face.

  “I only remember Aunt Charlotte.”

  Charlotte. Anne’s sister. They seldom spoke of Lily Cate’s life in Williamsburg, though Sophie remembered the Fitzhughs. They’d been friends of her father’s. Pockmarked and gaunt, Fitzhugh was every bit as cold and calculating. In the back of her mind lay hazy allegations. Of dishonesty. Darker deeds.

  “Miss Sophie, look!” Lily Cate showed her a tester bed, an elegant dressing table with a mirrored back, and the bank of south-facing windows overlooking the front lawn where myriad shade trees grew. All personal effects had been removed. She’d have thought it any other room but for the connecting door to Lily Cate’s bedchamber.

  There was another door on the opposite wall. She could only guess where that led. Her lingering gaze gave her away.

  “That’s Papa’s room,” Lily Cate told her.

  Locked, most likely. Somehow being sandwiched between them made Sophie feel unsettled and secure all at once. She was a restless sleeper since British soldiers had occupied her home. Sometimes she had nightmares. The thought of waking either Lily Cate or her father was enough to keep her sleepless all week.

  The crunch of wheels on the drive returned them to the windows. A line of coaches was delivering more guests, not officers but refined ladies, their capes and bonnets adding a bit of color to the dreary landscape. Would Tall Acre hold them all?

  Lily Cate’s face was alive with excitement. “I’m supposed to let you rest till supper, but I’d rather play.” Pushing open the connecting door, she all but skipped into her bedchamber, a charming room made bright with floral wallpaper and a quilted yellow counterpane. “Papa gave me a dollhouse like yours from Richmond.”

  Her joy was so contagious Sophie felt her own spirits take wing. Dropping down beside her on the thick carpet, she lost herself in a tour of rooms, charmed when Lily Cate introduced the master of the house, a small wooden soldier in blue uniform.

  “Where are you?” Sophie asked.

  Peering into a miniature parlor, Lily Cate pointed to a dark-haired girl in a yellow silk dress. At her feet was a cat curled on a braided rug. What? No mistress? Grieving widower that Seamus was, Sophie almost expected to see a miniature version of Anne presiding.

  As dusk darkened the windowpanes, the rich aroma of bread and roasting meat told them supper was near at hand. A maid delivered towels and hot water, replenishing the fire and helping Sophie dress. All thumbs, or all nerves, Sophie dropped her mother’s cameo and sent the maid scrambling to retrieve it. Finally trussed in stays and a remade gown of apple-green brocade, she stared back at a stranger in the looking glass. The maid had done wonders with her hair, arranging it high at the back of her head with curls spiraling to her bare shoulders. Unpowdered, it held the patina of black silk, turning her skin to frost. Again that sense of dissatisfaction crept in. She was too pale. Too thin. More shadow.

  Lily Cate had been fussed over with her own head of curls and rose taffeta dress. They stood gawking at each other in mutual admiration before Lily Cate took her hand and led her downstairs, the open dining room door looming large. Second thoughts rushed in, slowing Sophie’s steps.

  Whatever had possessed her to come?

  She could hear the lilt of feminine voices mingling with the rumbling tenor of the men’s. Her name, her family, made her feel small. Once her lineage was proudly bandied about; now she was ashamed of being a Menzies, daughter of a turncoat, in a roomful of Patriots.

  Glad for the pressure of Lily Cate’s small, warm hand, she stepped cautiously over the threshold. Across the sea of Wilton carpet, the general looked their way as if he’d been waiting. Sophie’s gaze dropped to the place cards set about the immense table, wondering where they’d sit. For now Lily Cate was intent on leading her to her father standing with a few fellow officers.

  “Miss Menzies.” His eyes held hers. Warm. Kind. As if their last exchange hadn’t been a heated one in a busy tavern. “Welcome to Tall Acre.”

  “Good evening, General Ogilvy.” ’Twas all she could manage. Her smile felt pasted in place.

  With a gesture to a servant to commence supper, Seamus pulled out a chair, seating her and then Lily Cate, as the other guests found their places. An older couple sat beside them. Had Seamus kept her separate out of courtesy because he knew she’d feel uncomfortable? They were at the end of the table, well away from the vivacious Clementine Randolph and the ladies intermingled with the officers. Relief swept aside her unease. Years before, Clementine had attended Mrs. Hallam’s school briefly, but the other women were unknown to her.

  As myriad dishes were served, Sophie took in glazed green woodwork and Turkey red carpet, drawn to the white damask tablecloth and Wedgwood dinner service. Without liveried servants, Tall Acre seemed less formal than other great houses, though plenty of spirits and silver abounded.

  Lily Cate ate everything set before her, particularly the sweetmeats, making Sophie worry about a stomachache. But she’d be near at hand if Lily Cate had a bad night. She ate little herself, stomach rebelling, every dish rich if perfectly seasoned. She was used to bland f
are or none at all.

  As glasses were emptied and refilled and hot dishes replaced cold ones, all brought up or whisked away by a pair of ingenious dumbwaiters framing the fireplace, Sophie kept time by the tall case clock in the corner. Half past nine.

  The women were full of gossip, the men discussing politics and the government’s efforts to unify the new states for the first congress in the spring. Through the dazzle of candlelight, Sophie stole a look at the general at the head of the table. Heart-tuggingly handsome. The perfect host. The ladies obviously found him fascinating, one or two noticeably so. There was none of the intensity about him tonight that marked their personal exchanges. He seemed relaxed, more at ease. At meal’s end the gentlemen remained behind in the dining room while the women passed into a room made rich with countless Palladian windows, the pier glass and striped taffeta elegant.

  Stepping over the threshold, Sophie fell in love in a glance. Corner fireplaces were at each end, fire screens worked in vivid, intricate hues. By Anne’s hand? A portrait of Tall Acre’s former mistress hung above one marble mantel. Unsmiling but serene. Too young to perish.

  The room shimmered with silk, jewels flashing and cologne overpowering. Sophie was glad to be unadorned and unpowdered, fading into the woodwork but for Lily Cate. Tonight she’d become a chatterbox, clutching Sophie’s hand and proudly showing her around.

  Someone sat down at a harpsichord, playing softly. Sophie listened, longing to touch the familiar keys. With Three Chimneys’ music room a memory, she’d forgotten how lovely the sound. Charming, even romantic.

  “We’ve come a long way from our days at Mrs. Hallam’s, Miss Menzies.” Clementine approached, waving her fan with all the drama Sophie remembered. “I’d quite lost track of you, but here you are at Tall Acre looking quite at home. General Ogilvy tells me your brother served with distinction under his command.”

  “As a captain, yes.”

  “I’d also heard he’s not yet returned from the war . . .” Her eyes narrowed and took in Lily Cate, still by Sophie’s side. “And Three Chimneys is no longer in your possession.”

  Had the general told her that too? “I still reside there. Nothing has changed in that respect.”

  “Oh, but it will change.” Clementine seemed pleased to report it. “I have it on good authority that Three Chimneys is to go to a relative of mine.”

  Sophie’s hand went to the cameo at her throat. “I’m hoping my brother will return in time and that won’t be necessary.” Admitting anything less was saying Curtis was dead—or worse. Behaving dishonorably was not to be broached.

  “Oh?” Clementine’s expression was nothing short of smug. “My relations say the land taxes haven’t been paid either.”

  “Yes, they have!” Lily Cate’s voice rang out, clear and bell-like across the grand room. The harpsichord ceased playing, and every feminine eye turned toward them. “Papa paid the land taxes. Florie told me he did!”

  There was a stunned silence. Sophie looked at Lily Cate. Had he? Nothing else had been said about leasing the land. Why hadn’t he told her?

  “That day at the tavern when you were so upset—” Lily Cate turned wide eyes on her. “Papa hurt your feelings and you almost cried.”

  “Well, well . . .” With a sulky smile, Clementine folded her fan and moved away. “It seems I don’t know everything after all.”

  Squeezing Lily Cate’s hand, Sophie led her to a corner, sinking down in a chair so that they were eye level. “Those are private, grown-up matters.” She trod as gently as she could, relieved the others resumed talking and turned their backs to them. “’Tis best to keep quiet about such things.”

  “Like the man outside my window?”

  Sophie stared at her, embarrassment fading to confusion.

  “There’s a strange man on the lawn who watches me.”

  “A stranger?” Sophie looked toward the dining room doorway. “Does your father know?”

  Nodding, Lily Cate moved into the warm circle of Sophie’s arms. “He hasn’t seen him yet, but I have.”

  Lord, please, let it be her imagination.

  The genteel evening was in tatters. The ladies were looking at her again as if she and the general had more of an arrangement than simple taxes. Mention of a tawdry tavern hadn’t helped. And Florie would have to be dealt with sooner or later. But all of it paled next to Lily Cate’s revelation.

  Yawning, Lily Cate laid her head on Sophie’s shoulder. The gentlemen were coming in now, having had their after-dinner indulgences of Madeira and tobacco. Clementine began a few tentative notes on a flute.

  Sophie took advantage of the moment. “Please tell your father I’m taking you upstairs. We’ll read a story, say our prayers.”

  With a nod, Lily Cate went to him, but he was already looking at them as if sensing something amiss.

  Lily Cate came back, face pale. “My stomach hurts.”

  Taking her hand, Sophie led her through a far door and entered a darkened hall, unsure of where she was. Thoughts full of Three Chimneys, she was suddenly homesick, wondering what she would do if it was lost to her, but more worried about the little girl who had far more troublesome matters brewing than a stomachache.

  Once upstairs, Sophie summoned a maid to bring peppermint tea and replenish the waning fire. Soon Lily Cate was undressed and in a nightgown. While Sophie recounted Le Chat Botté, or Puss in Boots, promising to petition her father about a kitten, Lily Cate sipped from a dainty cup. ’Twas late, her yawning a signal to end the eventful evening.

  Joining hands, they knelt on the carpet and bowed their heads, saying in unison what had become Lily Cate’s favorite prayer, taught to Sophie herself when she was young.

  “Dear God most high, hear and bless Thy beasts and singing birds: And guard with tenderness small things that have no words. Amen.”

  Afterward, Sophie rocked Lily Cate by the crackling hearth, wondering if Anne had done the same in this very chair. Her gaze trailed to the windows. Drapes and shutters were drawn against the cold, ensuring no stranger would be looking in at them. She’d leave the connecting door open in case Lily Cate cried out or was sick in the night, or worse.

  When Lily Cate was settled, Sophie returned to her bedchamber reluctantly. The music and laughter coming from below was like a jolt of coffee keeping her awake. Clementine’s voice was easily distinguished, witty and frequent, rising above the rumble of the men.

  Rubbing her arms against the cold despite the heat of the fire, she began a slow walk around the room, not wanting to climb into Anne’s bed. The coverlet bore the popular tree-of-life pattern, conveying a subtle irony.

  Was Lily Cate . . . conceived there?

  Her fingers closed about the doorknob adjoining her room to the general’s. Locked. The relief coursing through her made no sense. He was an officer, a man of honor. He had no designs on her, illicit or otherwise. Her being in Anne’s room was pure happenstance, all because of Lily Cate. Likely he wanted a sound night’s sleep and she would help ensure that. Farther down the hall were his many guests, filling up every nook and cranny of the upper floors.

  The fire popped, making her jump. She slowed her pacing when she came to a desk, twin to her own. Amidst the heavier Chippendale furnishings, the delicate Queen Anne piece seemed an outcast, tucked beneath a shuttered window and heavy drapes.

  Surprised, she ran her fingers over the polished wood. Did it contain a secret compartment like hers? Feeling beneath the panel triggered a latch. The wood gave way under her practiced hand. A small, leather-bound book lay in a hidden drawer. A Bible?

  Nay . . . a diary.

  She hesitated, hand hovering. The desk, the room, had been swept clean of Anne, all but this, and Sophie felt an inexplicable hunger to know the woman who had been Seamus’s wife.

  Picking up the diary carefully, she opened to the flyleaf.

  To my beloved, Anne, wife of my heart.

  Her own heart tripped. Beneath this tender dedication he had written in a bo
ld, familiar hand, Proverbs 19:14. Sophie knew the Scripture well, though he’d not spelled it out. House and riches are the inheritance of fathers; and a prudent wife is from the LORD.

  A spring date followed. Their wedding day? Had he bestowed the little book as a gift? If so, it held far more sentiment than she’d given Seamus Ogilvy credit for. She’d assumed the war years had bled all the softness out of him. Perhaps she was wrong.

  Taking a breath, she turned a page. October, 1778. Anne’s hand was fragile compared to her husband’s, lacy and loping and uneven where his was tight and precise and steadfast. Her first penned words carried the lash of a whip.

  I loathe Tall Acre.

  Sophie’s breathing thinned. She brought the diary nearer the fire so that light spilled onto the page. Suddenly the book assumed a weight it hadn’t before.

  Without Seamus here I have no purpose, no heart, no desire to do anything. The baby only makes matters worse. She grows fat and happier by the day while I seem to waste away. Tall Acre with all its woods and vales seems naught but a rustic outpost. I long to go to Williamsburg, but sister tells me ’tis unsafe. The British may attack the town and then where would we be?

  Sophie shut the diary, stung by the tone of the words. Anne must have been writing about Lily Cate, who would have been a few months old by then. Crossing the carpet, she returned the book to the secret drawer, sorry and half ashamed she’d given in to temptation and opened it. The fact that Anne was no longer living made her feel only slightly less guilty. Seamus was certainly alive and well, and hopefully oblivious to the penned outpourings of Anne’s heart.

  Something her mother once said, long dismissed, broke loose.

  “There’s trouble at Tall Acre.” Evelyn Menzies’s features had been pinched with fatigue, as she’d just returned from attending a birth in the quarters. “I didn’t go up to the house, but one hears things. With the general away, the mistress isn’t faring well.”

  At the time Sophie had held her tongue, and her mother said no more.