by Laura Frantz
“Most mornings, yes. She’s rather afraid of horses, but her new pony is bringing her round.” Sophie gestured to the window overlooking the east pasture. A groom led Polly by the bridle, Lily Cate atop it. “’Tis been so long since I’ve seen you. I hope you’ll come visit at Three Chimneys. I have few friends in Roan as I spent so many years in Williamsburg.”
“I’ll admit to being surprised at finding you unwed. Once you were Mrs. Hallam’s star pupil—light on your feet, first honors in everything.”
Sophie laughed. “Your recollections are rather rosy. All that seems so long ago. I’m far more interested in you and what you’ve done since finishing school.”
“What I’ve done? Precious little since ’76. Who would have imagined? There we were, poised to enter society, outfitted in London’s finest, and then the war stole away everything. Sadly, my father passed soon after my mother. I tutored and earned a little, but not enough to keep my parents’ townhouse. I have no family to speak of beyond Williamsburg.”
“I understand.” Sophie’s thoughts swung to Curtis, the long wait leeching a little more hope from her heart.
“I lost my fiancée at the battle of Brandywine.” Amity paused, taking a handkerchief from her pocket. “He served with the 1st Virginia Regiment.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Naturally the general’s been very solicitous, being a widower himself. Grief seems to bind people together.”
Though sympathy tugged at her, Sophie’s imagination made fearsome leaps. The grieving widower. A destitute governess. A motherless child. It had all the makings of a scintillating novel.
She looked to the tea table prepared for them, now no more appetizing than Tall Acre’s bricks. “I hope you’ll be very happy here,” she heard herself say. “Perhaps in time, Tall Acre will feel like home to you.”
“I think it shall.” Amity had dried her eyes and was looking around as if finding everything to her satisfaction. “The general mentioned taking Lily Cate to Alexandria for some finer clothes. I’m going to insist on stays if she’s not in them already.”
“She was in thread stays, but they weren’t a good fit. There’s a fine seamstress in Roan—”
“Oh my, Roan is so rustic. Alexandria is much better. I’m going to be fitted for riding clothes in the city as well. The general thought I might help with Lily Cate’s horsemanship. Remember our canters down Palace Green in Williamsburg?”
Sophie said nothing. She’d locked those carefree days away much as she had Anne’s diary, but Amity seemed to relish every dusty detail.
A sudden commotion at the door drew their notice. Lily Cate appeared, feather dancing atop her riding hat. She looked longingly at Sophie yet seemed noticeably shy of her new governess.
Sophie welcomed her in. “You’re just in time to meet Miss Townsend.”
Lily Cate came nearer and curtsied, eyeing the scones. “May I have one, Miss Sophie?”
“Best ask your new governess.”
Gesturing to her muddy riding habit, Amity frowned. “You’re welcome to join us once you’ve freshened up and changed clothes.”
“I fell off as I dismounted.” Brushing at a dirty sleeve, Lily Cate began backing toward the door, a hint of triumph in her eyes. “But I didn’t cry.”
Amity watched her leave, thoughtful. “She seems a charming child. I wasn’t sure what to expect given she’s been without a mother.” She raised an inquiring brow. “I’ve heard rumors the general might remarry. Word is he’s courting a woman who is very well placed.”
Sophie hid her dismay. One of the women who’d come to Tall Acre before Christmas? They’d all been of good family, of notable fortune. She prayed it wasn’t the lofty Clementine. She looked unwillingly at the open door of the Palladian room where the portrait of Anne hung, the uncontested mistress of Tall Acre. Would Anne be replaced?
Amity hurried on. “None of my concern, I suppose, but in my position ’tis sometimes wise to inquire.”
“I understand.” Being at the whim and mercy of employers was not an enviable position. Sophie’s own future was nearly as bleak. “If the general remarries, I’m sure your position as governess would remain unchanged. Lily Cate would still be in need of schooling.”
Lily Cate reappeared in time, washed and changed. “Papa wants to see you before he goes, Miss Sophie.”
“You can take my place, then.” She gestured to a chair. “’Tis a fine time for you to become acquainted with Miss Townsend.”
Excusing herself, she crossed the foyer to Seamus’s study. The door was open, his desk a shambles, but he was missing. Turning, she nearly bumped into a plump maid armed with a feather duster. Florie?
“The general’s left for the stables,” the girl said hurriedly, gesturing to a rear door tucked behind the staircase. “The weather’s taken a bitter turn, and he wants to leave as soon as possible.”
At that moment Henry entered, carrying her valise. She thanked him, struck by a sudden whim. Opening her belongings, she removed the scarf she’d knitted and passed out the back door before she could change her mind. The general was likely on his way to see his sweetheart, if Amity’s confidence rang true. Her gift would be given in friendship, nothing more.
The walk to the stables wasn’t far, and the cold filled her lungs, bracing her. Long, shadowed corridors of stalls held the earthy reek of hay and horses. Myriad stable hands were at work, cleaning tack and refilling water buckets. She barely noticed them, intent on Seamus’s tall silhouette as he led out a saddled stallion at one end. In years past she’d watched him riding from afar, often bareback and with unforgettable dash. If someone had accompanied him, she couldn’t recall. All her memories had been swallowed up by him.
She stopped a few paces away. “Lily Cate said you wanted to speak to me.”
He swung round, holding the reins in a gloved hand. “Before I go, aye.”
A groom scurried past, toting a bucket of oats. Other than that they were alone. Dust motes danced in a stray beam of light, accentuating the vibrant hue of his eyes and the fine creases at their corners. He was looking at her as if he’d forgotten what he wanted to say. Or perhaps it was the scarf in her hands. Or the fact she had on no cloak.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, his breath a cold mist. “’Tis freezing.”
She stepped toward him, holding out the gift. “You’ll be needing this for your long ride.” When he didn’t take it, she came closer than she ever had and wrapped it around his neck, tying it into a loose knot. The handsome plaid matched the blue of his cloak and would keep some of him warm, at least.
“You made it . . . for me.” He looked down at her, surprised.
She nodded. “For Christmas.”
“Which you missed,” he murmured. “A lonesome time we had at Tall Acre without the lovely Sophie Menzies present.”
Smiling, she stepped back. “I haven’t thanked you properly for the gift you sent round.”
He gave a slight shrug. “’Twas nothing.”
“I hardly call a silver tea service from Denzilow of London nothing.”
His sudden grin was unsettling. “You’re not still feeling like a kept woman, are you?”
“If I am, I’m a well-kept one while you, sir, have a very poor showing for all your silver.”
Chuckling, he touched the scarf. “Not anymore.”
A wind whipped past, and she crossed her arms against the cold, steeling herself against his leaving and the emptiness she felt in his wake.
He looked to his boots, contemplating the muddy straw, before his gaze locked with hers again. “I’ll be lodging at Gadsby’s Tavern in Alexandria. I don’t expect any trouble from Williamsburg as we’ve seen no more of the trespasser for a month. But if something should happen, send word to me at once.”
He was the general again. Commanding. Decisive. On the defensive. She nodded. “I’ll take fine care of Lily Cate.”
“I’ll be back by week’s end, Lord willing.�
�� A note of lament chilled his voice. “I haven’t told Miss Townsend about the trouble. I’d rather it be kept quiet.”
“I shan’t say a word, though I can’t say the same of everyone.”
“My wee daughter, as you call her, has the gift of gab.” The look he gave her was half amused, half exasperated. “Mayhap you can help with that too.”
Turning his back, he swung himself into the saddle as another shiver of apprehension slid through her. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. But just who was being watched? Her? Lily Cate? Or was it Seamus himself? What if someone meant him harm? The worry in her eyes gave her away.
“You’re looking at me like I might not come back,” he said.
“Why not take an escort? A groom, at least?”
“No need.” Parting his cloak, he revealed the weapons beneath. “Despite my bad hand, I’m still a fair shot.”
Anxiety wore a hole in her. “I shall pray you there and home again.”
“If I don’t return, Lily Cate will go to my sister in Philadelphia. I’ve made out a will to that effect . . . though I’d rather she go to you.”
She savored the words, surprised at how easily he said them. As if he’d given it considerable thought. She, on the other hand, had all but forgotten he had an older sister. “Godspeed, General.”
“Aye. Till we meet again, Miss Menzies.”
He didn’t look back at her, but she continued to watch him till he was no more than a pinprick on the frozen, skeletal horizon before fading from sight.
15
At midnight, Sophie was ensconced in Anne’s bedchamber, having stayed up late with Amity reminiscing about their time at finishing school with a sort of awe and reverence. There’d been the gay assembly days where all of Williamsburg seemed one riotous festival, the hallowed Sabbath services at Bruton Parish Church, the charming, late-night dances at Raleigh Tavern where Martha Washington and other ladies gathered on the eve of the Revolution. Now it seemed naught but an extravagant dream. A make-believe world.
Had she really been so carefree back then? Consumed with dancing and dresses? The latest plays and diversions? How shallow she had been! She turned back to her reading. The Bible lay in her lap, open to a favorite Psalm.
O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off.
Her thoughts drifted to Seamus in Alexandria, then Lily Cate who slept soundly through the adjoining doorway. Amity was on the third floor. Sophie could hear muffled movements overhead as she readied for bed.
Setting the Bible aside, Sophie lay down and sank into the familiar feather mattress, strangely wide-eyed. Minutes ticked by as she counted the pleats in the high canopy overhead before moving to the intricate embroidery of the bed curtains. Had they been worked by Anne? She tried not to think of the hidden diary. Why this irresistible pull to read it?
One page.
She fought the notion. Lost. Getting up, she went to the desk. Curiosity withered to regret at the first line. Sophie felt Anne’s misery as if it seeped from her pen.
January, 1780
Seamus has finally sent a letter. From a place called Morristown. There the men are falling right and left, infected with camp fever. Disease is more fatal than any redcoat could ever be. ’Tis the worst winter possible with snow six feet deep. A soldier’s rations amount to one half pound of salt beef and a half pint of rice for a week. I imagine Seamus is nigh starving too. If he dies, I suppose he wants me to have warning. I want to tell him he has been dead to me since he first enlisted.
He asks about his daughter, begs me to write. But what can be said of a baby who is nothing but a sickly, crying little animal? Who wants to nurse night and day, so depleting me that I have given her over to Myrtilla to tend. The doctor says Lily Cate has the hysteric colic and advises laudanum, ten drops.
Riggs, the estate manager, looks askance at me. I know what he is thinking, that I have deprived him of his best spinner. But I have no heart or strength to tend to Lily Cate. Let the spinning house go to blazes! I wish I had borne Seamus a son. A son would not have caused so much trouble.
Stunned, Sophie stopped reading. Oh Anne, could you not count your many blessings? You were warm, well fed, home safe with your wee daughter, while your husband was helping command a sickly, starving shadow of an army for eight unending years.
Snapping shut the diary, she looked toward the hearth. Should she . . . burn it? Though it wasn’t hers to dispose of, she stood poised to surrender the book to the flames, eager to watch it curl to ash, incapable of harm. If it was found, she could only imagine Seamus’s reaction. With a revulsion she felt for snakes and sordid things, she locked it up in the desk.
Sleep was slow in coming when it came at all. She drifted off, then wrenched awake. The clock struck three far below, and through its ponderous chime she heard a noise. Seamus . . . was he home? Someone was at the door below.
On her feet before the cobwebs left her head, Sophie made it to the empty foyer below. To her right was the hall with its door leading to the west lawn. The violent turning of the knob sent her backing up a step. The trespasser Lily Cate had spoken of? The broad mahogany door heaved and shuddered but held fast, at least for the moment.
Turning, she fled down the hall. The blackened staircase seemed endless as she felt her way upstairs. Lily Cate—was she safe? Asleep? Trembling so hard she could barely bolt the door, she locked Lily Cate’s bedchamber. How had Seamus kept down his fear in battle? She felt nigh smothered by it.
The intruder had not let up. Did no one else hear? She remembered the housekeeper lived in a cottage on the grounds. The servants were in the quarters. Only she and Amity and Lily Cate occupied the house. Mrs. Lamont usually checked to make sure the house was locked. Had she forgotten any one of the doors?
Lord, help us. Protect us.
If something happened to Lily Cate . . . She pressed shaking hands together in a sort of prayer. Seamus would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself.
Crawling into bed, Sophie sought Lily Cate’s reassuring warmth. The bedchamber door was bolted. Surely an intruder wouldn’t break a window. The night watch—was he not making the rounds? Desperate for daylight, all thought of sleep chased from the night, she wanted Seamus back. His calm, steadying presence was the only anecdote.
At daybreak Sophie heard Mrs. Lamont come in. She returned to her bedchamber and dressed, still shaky from fright and lack of sleep. Amity met her on the stairs, intent on breakfast.
“How was your first night?” Sophie asked hesitantly.
“I slept so soundly I didn’t wake till dawn.” With that Amity went in to breakfast, ready to begin lessons with Lily Cate.
Sophie stepped outside the riverfront door to find Tall Acre already astir. The ring of a blacksmith’s hammer and a rooster’s crowing ushered in a flawless dawn. As she neared the kennel Lily Cate had shown her, Seamus’s foxhounds began barking. Taking liberty, she bent and rubbed the largest dog’s bristled face before turning him loose. If he could chase a fox, could he outfox an intruder?
She followed at a distance while the hound made for the side entrance to the house, nose to the ground. Only in broad daylight and a dog’s steady presence did she have the nerve to take in the side entrance. The west door stood stalwart, as if she’d only imagined the noise in the night, only had a bad dream.
“Miss Menzies, somethin’ the matter?” The gardener was regarding her solemnly, shovel in hand.
“Someone—” Her voice warbled shamefully. She was glad Seamus couldn’t see her so undone. “Someone tried to break in last night.”
His eyes darkened as his knobby fingers traced the line of a fresh scar in the wood. “Mebbe the same man who was trespassing before Christmas?”
“I don’t know. Whoever it was, I feared he’d break the door down.”
“Miss Lily Cate safe and sound?” When she nodded, he said, “The general
returns soon. He’ll set everything to rights.”
Oh, what faith they had in Seamus. She was an outsider yet sensed their ongoing regard for him. But she wasn’t sure this was a battle he would win.
Seamus had always preferred Alexandria to Williamsburg. Alexandria held no haunting memories, no bitter family scenes and secrets. The little town was vibrant and thriving where Williamsburg was faded and wanting. Turning onto Oronoco Street, he made his way down the frozen, tree-lined avenue toward the home of Richard Ratcliffe, tax commissioner and land speculator.
A surly wind pushed against him, tearing at the scarf Sophie had carefully wound round his neck. He reached up a leather glove and tugged the scarf upward over his nose and jaw, his grim expression frozen into place. The nap of the fine wool was soft as a woman’s skin. He fancied it carried her rose scent. At the thought he shoved his boots farther into his stirrups and shifted in the saddle. Dwelling on her was agony, but he’d nearly come undone when she’d given him the scarf.
Standing alone with her in the solitude of the stables, he’d hungered to reach out and touch her, clasp her wrists, and pull her close. But deep down he knew that was the wrong kind of wanting. He was simply craving companionship. Closeness. A distraction from outside pressures. Trying to blot out Anne’s memory with Sophie was a terrible mistake.
Still, the wanting gnawed at him, made him wish halfheartedly that the man who spurned her would change his mind. If Sophie married, her future would be secure. It wouldn’t matter so much if Curtis returned or not. And it would end the way Seamus had begun to think of her.
He blew out a frustrated breath. Best get his desires unmuddled before returning to Tall Acre lest he do something rash, something stupid. He couldn’t risk driving Sophie from Lily Cate’s life, not when his daughter needed her most.
His stallion was plodding now after so many miles, needing a warm stall as much as he needed an inn. He swung down from the saddle, tethered Vulcan to the iron rail at the front of a handsome townhouse, and stepped up to the door. A maid came straightaway, smiling at the sight of him, cheeks pinking. She was looking at him coyly from beneath her cambric cap, her dark coloring so like Sophie’s that she stormed his thoughts again.
