by Laura Frantz
“General Ogilvy, do come in!”
“I’m here to see Mr. Ratcliffe, if he’s available.”
“Of course, sir. He’s in the parlor. I’ll fetch a groom to stable your horse.”
Standing by a welcoming fire was the man he’d known for twenty years or better, hand outstretched, smile broad. “Seamus, what brings you to town in the dearth of winter?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned toward the maid. “Some grog and a meal for the general, if you will.”
Seamus nodded his thanks and took the proffered chair nearest the fire. “I’ve come to discuss the military land grant awarded me in Kentucky. I may have need of it in future.”
He was home. At last. Lily Cate flew down the stairs, nearly stumbling in her haste. But it was Sophie she ran toward, peering at him cautiously from the folds of Sophie’s full skirts.
“You’ve come back,” she said shyly, as if he’d been away so long he was more stranger. “And Miss Sophie must go?”
“In a little while,” he answered, trying to allay her disappointment. “I’ve brought you something—all the children, actually.” He’d felt a little foolish buying so many trinkets, but his staff had served him well while he was on the field, and there was no quicker way to their hearts than to reward their children. “The toys are in Mrs. Lamont’s keeping. She’ll go with you when you’re ready to hand them out.”
At this she began walking backwards, curiosity taking such hold that she flew away again, leaving them alone. Sophie turned back to him, her expression so wrenched with concern the joy of his homecoming was forgotten.
“I’m sorry to start off on so troubling a note, but something happened a few nights ago.” She spoke calmly, but he sensed the beat of fear beneath. “Someone tried to get into the house through the west door. Thankfully it was bolted and held fast. I stayed the night with Lily Cate, locking us in.”
“You saw no one? Heard no voices?”
“Nay.” She looked about the empty foyer. “I’ve said nothing to Lily Cate or the governess, just Mrs. Lamont and the gardener.”
He took a labored breath, all the wind knocked out of him. It was all coming back—Williamsburg, Fitzhugh’s threats, the prowler he’d thought dealt with. Without another word, he left the study and took the private hall leading to his parents’ bedchamber and the west door.
He unbolted it and pulled it open to birdsong and sunlight. The day looked anything but ominous, yet a thick sense of violation was crowding in. Sophie stood behind him, but he was barely aware of her. His attention was fixed on the door’s scar, a deep groove that a saber might have left.
“I’ll question the night watch.” He shut the door, sliding the bolt into place. “Meanwhile I’ll have my coachman take you home . . . just in case.” He tried to focus, to be at ease. “Thank you for taking fine care of my daughter.”
She hesitated a moment, then left to collect her belongings, leaving him alone and flummoxed. He went back to his study, his eyes roaming the walls with its myriad accoutrements and weaponry. He’d thought to have little use for them now. Flintlock and bayonet. Cartouche box and tomahawk. Musket. Saber. Sword. Pistols.
He was at war again.
16
Sophie returned home to Three Chimneys, unsurprised to find Glynnis’s replacement on her heels. ’Twas a blessed, almost divine distraction.
“My name’s Mistress Murdo, Miss Menzies. From Dumfries.” Her lilt was rich and thick as Dumfries porridge. “I’m to cook and keep house to yer content.”
A fellow Scot! Sophie couldn’t contain her delight. “Welcome to Three Chimneys, Mistress Murdo. I’ll show you to your room. If you have need of anything . . .”
Seamus seemed to have orchestrated events with the precision and efficiency of the officer he was, keeping Sophie’s loneliness at bay like it was a line of warring redcoats instead. But it was an odd arrangement, the length of Mistress Murdo’s stay uncertain, her wages paid by the general. She’d return to Tall Acre in time, but for now she settled in with an apron and a smile broad as her waistline.
“I’ll get right to work in the kitchen. A hearty meal is in order.” She surveyed her new domain with a keen eye, intent on the worn copper pots and larder. “Ye’ve plenty of neeps and tatties, I hope, and oats enough for oatcakes.”
“All of the above.”
“We’ll get along well, then.” Mistress Murdo chuckled. “Though Henry’s an Englishman, I’ll not hold it against him.”
Truly, Mistress Murdo and Henry got on like a pair of turtledoves. Sophie often found him about the kitchen in the days to come as their new housekeeper and cook turned out an array of tasty dishes and sweets.
“Why, these scones are the best I’ve ever tasted.” Sophie felt a tad disloyal to Glynnis saying so but helped herself to another just the same. “And your preserves are second to none.”
Mistress Murdo beamed. “Tall Acre has a fine orchard. I’ve put up a good many crocks since the general employed me. The peach is a favorite of Miss Lily Cate’s too.”
Sophie sorely missed Lily Cate and the bustle of Tall Acre and tried not to think of Amity and Seamus beneath the same roof. Snow began to fall again, erasing the lane between their houses, ensuring there would be no visits in the near future.
A chill seemed to hover whenever she recalled the midnight trespasser. Sometimes she herself felt a vague uneasiness. The shadow of war was slow to shake off. The guard and Mistress Murdo’s coming hadn’t changed that. Would she always be wincing lest another rock come hurling through a window or someone in Roan spit at her as she passed?
Yet how could she ignore that their larder was blessedly full, the lovely Denzilow tea service and an abundance of Hyson at hand? She kept content by knitting in the parlor or reading in her room by the fire. She prayed for Curtis’s homecoming. She wrote Glynnis letters.
She needed something more to do.
Though the weather kept him from another confrontation in Williamsburg, Seamus was glad of the snow. It prevented him from wandering to Three Chimneys bodily if not mentally. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking of Sophie. Lily Cate made sure of that. She stood in the doorway of his study, her new kitten in her arms, pouting in a most unbecoming way.
“Papa, I miss her.” The kitten gave a little yowl. “I want to show her Sassy.”
“Aren’t you busy enough with lessons?”
“I think we should go see her.”
“That’s not possible. The horses tend to panic in deep snow and damage themselves on the harness.”
“Why not take a sleigh?”
“We have none.”
“Then you must get one—with bells.”
He smiled ruefully at the order. “That requires ready cash and a long wait. By the time a sleigh arrives, it will be spring.”
Her face clouded. “Then we must pray for the snow to melt.”
“Aye, that would be far more practical and far less expensive.”
She sighed as she approached his desk. “Let us pray, then.”
She was so touchingly serious as she stood before him, her little face beseeching, he stifled the urge to laugh. “You have the makings of a fine preacher.”
Setting the kitten down, she bowed her head and folded her hands. “Heavenly Father, we pray for the snow to melt so I can see Miss Sophie. Please help Papa not to be so busy. Or Miss Townsend to give me too many lessons. Amen.”
It was the most direct prayer he’d ever heard. Still, she stood looking at him like he should do something, something other than bury himself in work. “You could pen Miss Menzies a letter . . . draw a picture.”
Her face lit like a candle. “Will you help me?”
His gaze traveled to his desk where agricultural manuals lay open, his painstaking notes beside them. “I have a meeting with my estate manager in a few minutes. Mayhap after that.”
“Papa, what if she’s lonesome?”
His gaze swung back to her. “Mistress Murdo is there, remember.
She’s good company and an excellent cook.”
She started to back away, clearly vexed by the lack of a sleigh, the snow, and his response.
“You’re not thinking of running away to Three Chimneys, are you?” he queried.
Her fierce reserve broke. “I may!”
“Don’t.” He leaned back in his chair till it creaked, calling a truce. “Come back here after lessons and I’ll help you pen a letter. Or you could have your governess help you instead.”
“I cannot.” With a decisive shake of her head, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I do not think Miss Townsend likes Miss Sophie.”
He studied her. “Why is that?”
“Because she—”
The study doorway darkened. Miss Townsend stood behind Lily Cate, who whirled round and faced her. “Are you ready to resume your schoolwork?”
Lily Cate nodded dutifully and scooped up the kitten.
“I’ll be along shortly. Go ahead and start on your sums.” Miss Townsend wasn’t smiling. She looked . . . sour. “I need to have a word with your father.”
Seamus stood, taking her tone to heart. He never felt quite at ease around the governess, mayhap because he felt sorry for women in reduced circumstances and was rather rattled by her looks. It seemed strange to him she had not found a husband, war or no war, living in Williamsburg as she’d been. Not every eligible man in the colonies had enlisted. Plenty had paid their way out of service, even in patriotic Virginia.
“What can I do for you, Miss Townsend?”
“I heard that you might be traveling again soon. If so, I must tell you I’m fully capable of caring for your daughter in your absence. You needn’t send for Miss Menzies again.”
He clenched his injured hand, nearly at a loss for words. “That decision is not yours to make, Miss Townsend.”
Flushing, she lowered her eyes as if realizing she’d overstepped her bounds. “Very well. But I do need to caution you about your daughter’s unhealthy attachment. She seems inordinately fond of Miss Menzies, so much so that it’s proving a distraction.”
“Given she’s been without a mother, that’s no surprise, surely.”
“I suppose not.” Her chin firmed. She’d not given up the fight, whatever the cause. “If I might speak plainly . . .”
“By all means.”
“I was thinking it might be better if Lily Cate had limited contact with your neighbor. ’Twould be less a disruption to lessons.”
He frowned, gesturing toward a snow-spattered window. “They have no contact now.”
“Yes, but once the weather clears, that will change. Your daughter is so taken with her that she cannot accept anyone else. I fear Lily Cate doesn’t care for me.”
“You’re her governess, Miss Townsend. Miss Menzies is a family friend.” He didn’t mean to be unkind, just candid. “Though you might wish otherwise, there is a difference and there probably always will be.”
“I understand that, General. But your daughter’s constant references and comparisons make it difficult for me to conduct lessons as I wish—”
“Then I’ll speak with her.”
“Thank you.” The smile she gave him wasn’t genuine. Or hopeful. She stood abruptly and left without another word.
He watched her go, his pulse picking up at the odd exchange. His gaze returned to his desk, his English-made compass near at hand. Reaching out, he uncovered the surveying papers gotten in Alexandria. If he left Virginia with Lily Cate and began a new life, he’d leave sulky governesses and warring relatives behind. He’d been awarded a vast tract of land along Kentucky’s Licking River, remote and fraught with Indian activity. Few were bold enough to come through the gap that separated raw wilderness from the civilized world. But was he brave enough—or foolhardy enough—to subject Lily Cate to the danger?
“I apologize for being late, sir.”
Seamus looked up to find his estate manager in the doorway, hat in hand, eye on the study clock. If not for him, Tall Acre would have fallen into such neglect in his absence Seamus doubted it would be worth returning to. “You’re not late, Riggs. That clock isn’t keeping good time.” He went to the mantel, swung open the timepiece’s glass door, and wound the workings with a little key. “What I’d like to do is turn back to 1775.”
“Before the war began?” Riggs exhaled and chuckled in the same breath. “There’s no going back, sir, much as we might wish to. ’Tis almost plowing season once again.”
“Aye, so it is.” Returning to his desk, Seamus surveyed a lengthy list he’d finished in the night. “Once the weather clears, I’d like the fieldwork to commence in preparation for oats and clover. We’ll put lucerne in first, so you’ll need Mulatto Jack and the others to start grubbing the west pasture. Those two plows on order from Philadelphia should arrive by the time that’s done.”
“I’ve nearly finished the plow harness.”
“Good. After that the piazza floor needs replacing. I’ve ordered flagstone from England instead of using native Virginia rock.”
“I can set that myself,” Riggs said. “But we’re in need of a millwright ere long. The spring rains carried off the tumbling dam last April, and it begs repairing.”
Taking up a quill, Seamus made a note of it. “We’re also in dire need of another blacksmith. A bricklayer and carpenter are on their way, both indentures. And I’ve posted an advertisement for another gardener.”
“I’ll see about grafting the plum and cherry trees till then.”
“Leave that to me, along with rebuilding those fences we talked about.”
“You, sir?”
“I’ll not sit on my hands now that I’m home, Riggs. You need another able man, aye?”
Riggs chuckled, his pockmarked face easing. “If you mend fences like you run off redcoats, General, Tall Acre will be in fine shape in short order.”
“So we hope.” Seamus set aside his quill, and the throbbing in his hand ebbed. He pushed his troubling conversation with Miss Townsend to the back of his mind to fester. “How goes it in the quarters?”
Riggs looked to his hat, somewhat apologetic. “There’s a sick spell starting. Ague, I’m afraid. And Shay’s wife is laboring.”
“Did you send for a doctor?”
“Neither Spurlock nor Craik can come in this weather. I usually fetch Betty from the kitchen to help, but she’s ailing.”
“Send for Miss Menzies then.” Seamus spoke without thought, wondering if Sophie was any more accessible than the doctors. “She’s a fine hand with babies from what I remember. I’ll see to the fever.”
“You, sir?”
Seamus smiled past his misgivings. “You keep saying that, Riggs.”
“Well, General, seems like you have plenty else to do right here.” His gaze roamed over the desk where fresh ink pots and a fat quire of paper lay amidst the clutter.
Seamus began shrugging on his greatcoat, fighting the feeling of falling further behind. He picked up Sophie’s scarf for good measure and headed toward a corner cupboard. “If you bring round Miss Menzies, I’ll take care of the rest.”
He unlocked the giant cabinet, opened the door, and stood stone still, barely aware of Riggs leaving. In front of him, eye level, was a bottle of absinthe. What had Anne called it? The Green Fairy? A brilliant hue, it reeked of anise-flavored spirits. Beside it lay Anne’s silver spoon and the cup she used for drinking. Bitter and mind-altering, the drug required ample sugar. Anne’s fondness for it had become a thorn between them.
He’d shunned this cupboard since he’d come back, knowing it would trigger an avalanche of unwanted memories. He hadn’t reckoned how many. Stomach clenching, he took the bottle in hand. Turning toward the hearth, he sent the absinthe colliding with the andirons in a startling storm of fire and glass. Green shards littered rug and fire pit yet seemed to lodge deep inside him instead.
Never again would he put himself in a position to be wounded. Betrayed. Deceived. Years of war had taught him many things, but none so
needed as how to build a high wall around his heart.
“The general what?” Sophie felt a qualm, realizing her sudden reply was less than gracious.
One of Tall Acre’s grooms stood before her in the foyer, twirling his hat in his hands, an extra mount waiting in the ice and snow of early afternoon. “You’re needed at a birth, Miss Menzies. General’s orders. There’s no doctor or midwife on hand.”
So Seamus had sent for her. Needed her. She swallowed, imagining his stern summons. She hated that surprise gave way to painful pleasure. And then the dread of the coming ordeal rushed in.
Folding up the recent letter she’d received from Glynnis, she wrestled with the need to be two places at once. With a reluctant nod, she said, “I’ll collect my satchel.” If she could find it without Glynnis’s help. Dusty and shelved for years now, the satchel had been her mother’s mainstay. She’d forgotten what it contained. She barely recalled her role as assistant.
Lord, help me remember. Help mother and babe be safe.
Tall Acre’s infirmary was tucked behind the boxwood hedge near the servants’ quarters, a medley of low-slung, brick buildings with crushed-shell walkways between. Sophie smelled the tang of wood smoke and heard a burst of masculine laughter from the stables as her boots made quick work of the shallow drifts, her cloak trailing like a scarlet wave behind her.
“This way, Miss Menzies,” the groom said.
Following, Sophie felt an odd connectedness with the past. Her mother had trod this same path alongside Seamus’s mother years before. Confidence bloomed and then dissolved at the sound of Shay’s wife crying through a thick brick wall. Had her ordeal just begun? The anguish returned her to Anne birthing Lily Cate while the general had nearly worn a hole in the floor with his pacing. All the little details came flooding back, intimate and unwanted. The heat of the August day. Her mother’s studied patience with Anne’s wailing. The dreaded ordeal, Anne had called childbirth. Sophie thought of it now with latent exasperation.
