The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

  You’re a riddle, Sophie Menzies . . . a beautiful, bewildering riddle.

  After that, all had blurred. She’d left Shay’s wife, Kaye, in good health and spirits, the baby nursing and thriving. Lily Cate had not cried, only asked when she’d be back, as if she’d been warned by her father to rein in her emotions. Somehow Lily Cate had knit herself to Sophie so tightly she feared the tie could never be unknotted.

  As for Seamus, he’d simply stood a few feet from her, saying little. Anne’s diary was hidden in the bottom of her valise beneath her smallclothes and dresses. She was relieved to have snuck it out of Tall Acre, out of Seamus’s reach, but was troubled nonetheless. Guilt clawed at her and left her wanting to be rid of it for good.

  Annapolis, unknown to her, would be a welcome diversion. Perhaps she’d find the elusive answers to her future there, gain the distance she desperately needed. Edinburgh, once a sort of prison, now seemed her only refuge.

  She waited till the next change of horses to pull out Anne’s diary. Reading in the coach made her queasy, but she was driven by a need to finish.

  3 May

  I have met a man, the erstwhile master of Early Hall, an Englishman. His name is Tobias Early. He has sent over a traveling wheelwright from Richmond, come to make me a riding chair. Strangely enough, Mr. Early reminds me of Seamus. Tall and strapping and quick to laugh. He says he will take me out once the chair is finished. He is quite fond of Lily Cate. Unmarried, he has no children of his own.

  12 June

  First time out in my new Windsor riding chair. Left at noon and didn’t come home till half past five. The day was lovely. Just the two of us. Tomorrow we shall have a picnic. I want to show Tobias the little spot downriver rife with wild roses.

  23 June

  The heat leaves me quite wilted in the house. If not for my rides with Tobias, I do not know what I would do. Fresh air and exercise are good for what ails us. Isn’t that what Seamus always said?

  No word from him other than a short letter. He knows I do not care for his Patriot sentiments. Tobias agrees with me. He secretly hopes the British win the war. The colonies cannot resist so formidable a foe, says he. General Washington is but a man, not a god.

  31 August

  Tobias has gone. The rains of late summer have come, and my mood falls with them. Riggs has refused to fill my order for absinthe with the apothecary. He says Seamus forbids it. The violent fury I flew into did not move him. It never does.

  11 October

  I am undone. Myrtilla suspects. She will tell Seamus when he comes home. Her loyalty to him has no end. Only Seamus may not ever come back, I told her, so she can keep her secret—and mine. My sister tells me I must come to Williamsburg and go into seclusion. Seamus need never know. I tremble to think what he would do if I am found out. Still, I am not sorry to have had my time in the sun. If he was at home, none of this would have happened. He is entirely to blame . . .

  There were more entries, each shorter and more scrawling as if written in the dark. Sophie tucked the diary away, harassed in spirit.

  She arrived in Annapolis in the grip of an icy rain, heart full of Seamus and head full of Anne. Glynnis was sleeping, so her sister, Elizabeth, showed Sophie upstairs. A tiny attic bedchamber awaited, and she had a few moments alone as Elizabeth went below to make tea.

  She opened her valise and took out the diary. She’d finally finished reading it, every word. Stepping toward the hearth, she weighed her actions, wanting to protect Seamus. Lily Cate.

  If she destroyed it, would she feel a profound rush of relief? Or would the lick of guilt remain?

  Could the day get any worse?

  First, no Sophie Menzies. And then no governess either.

  Sophie had been away for nigh on a month; Amity Townsend had been gone a mere twenty-four hours. No note. No excuses. Just a silent, secretive departure.

  It was quickly apparent who was most missed.

  The rattling clink of cutlery and the everlasting echo of the dining room nearly stole Seamus’s appetite, as did Lily Cate’s somber expression as night settled in. Across from him, she was fighting tears, pushing him nearer the cliff’s edge of despair.

  “Papa, why is the dining room so big?”

  “’Tis not so big when it’s full of people. Guests . . . a family.”

  “I can hear my voice come back to me.” She raised damp eyes to the plasterwork ceiling with its fine flourishes and medallions that seemed high as the heavens.

  “Mayhap we should start eating elsewhere,” he said.

  “Miss Sophie and I eat in the small parlor when she comes.”

  He nodded, and she returned her attention to her plate. As he cut his meat, he saw that she struggled to cut hers. Her knife slipped, and the mutton went sliding onto the linen tablecloth, creating a muddy puddle. Shamefaced, she let go of her knife and fork altogether and hung her head.

  A pang of pity shot through him, and he got out of his chair. It seemed a long walk around the immense table to reach her, but once there he took her small hands in his and rescued the meat, returning it to her plate and showing her how to cut it. “From here on we’ll eat side by side in the small parlor.”

  She took a bite, chewing pensively. He was thankful her appetite had returned. She’d taken the grippe recently, and he’d been up with her nights. She’d wanted Sophie, but he’d done the best he could.

  “Are you sorry Miss Townsend is gone, Papa?”

  He took his seat as a servant brought in dessert. “Sorry, nay.” Furious, aye. “I don’t want her to stay if she doesn’t want to.”

  “Did I do something to send her away?”

  “You had nothing to do with it.” He’d put that thought to rest once and for all. “She is not meant to be a governess, I think.”

  More spy.

  Since coming back from his morning ride about the estate, he’d learned Miss Townsend had fled without so much as a note. Pieces of the strange puzzle had begun to fall into place—his unease with her, her objections to Sophie, Lily Cate’s subtle struggle with lessons—all turning his thoughts once again to Williamsburg. He may have won the war against England, but he was losing the one at home.

  “Are you going to get another?”

  He looked at Lily Cate through the haze of candlelight. “A governess?” At her nod, he softened. “What do you want me to do?”

  Her eyes shone with such hope he realized his error immediately. “Can Miss Sophie be my governess?” At his hesitation, she hurried on. “Do you think she’s going to stay away forever?”

  He weighed the possibility. “I imagine her former housekeeper has worsened and needs her.”

  Worry marred her face. “Would you ask her, Papa?”

  “To be your governess?” Her longing for Sophie to be here, beneath their roof, was acute. His own feelings about her, muddled as they were, were acute. “Why don’t we think more about it first?”

  “Will you pray, Papa?”

  Pray? She was looking at him entreatingly, her eager face framed by tangled curls in need of combing. His heart felt swollen, too big for his chest. Her request, small as it was, was beyond him. He was at sea, borne on a tide of guilt and regret. He opened his mouth to refuse—

  “Please, Papa?” Her eyes were stars, glistening amidst his darkness.

  He bent his head. For several tense seconds the emotional words lodged inside him without release. Would God hear the plea of a little girl, if not her father?

  “Lord, we deserve nothing from Thee, but we are in need of much. We ask Thee to provide us with—we ask that Miss Menzies be willing to act as governess or whatever would be best for her . . . for us. Thy will be done. Amen.”

  “Amen,” his daughter echoed, her tears retreating.

  He pushed his plate aside and took a breath. “There’s another matter.” He was reluctant to bring it up, but she needed to know. “Come morning I have to go away again. Myrtilla will be with you as usual, and I’ll be back by week’s end
. Mayhap by then we’ll have an answer to our prayer.”

  For once she said nothing, just gave a slight nod as she scraped her plate clean. He wouldn’t tell her where he was going. Why. The coming confrontation left him cold. But it was past time to mount a counteroffensive.

  He’d leave with both a day and a night watch in place. They were mere grooms, most of them, but excellent marksmen and hunters. He’d told them to shoot any trespasser on sight. By law he was within his rights. But he’d had enough of struggle after so long a war. He was sick to death of conflict.

  Lily Cate looked over at him and excused herself from the table. He wanted so much for her. Wanted to make everything better for her. Suddenly he felt powerless. Ineffective.

  And desperate to protect his daughter.

  18

  On this, the first of March, Seamus crossed the sodden Williamsburg street, mud oozing beneath his boots, intent on a meal at the Raleigh Tavern before going upstairs to his regular lodging.

  The proprietor met him at the door. “Good afternoon, General. A pint and a pipe?”

  “Aye,” he answered. ’Twas what he always ordered but usually enjoyed in company. He knew a great many people in town. But today the Windsor chair opposite sat all too empty, unable to provide a distraction or a buffer against the ordeal to come. Taking a list from his pocket, he unfolded it, fingers stiff from the cold, and spread it out atop the scarred table. As soon as he returned to Tall Acre, he’d be busy making another. Getting the estate running full bore took every moment and speck of specie he had.

  Fifty pounds spermaceti candles. One hundred pounds grass seed. Four pair riding gloves. One fire screen. Black satin queue ribbon. One dozen packs playing cards. One mahogany stool with place for chamber pot. Langley’s New Principles of Gardening.

  The tankard came, steam redolent of nutmeg and rum, returning him to Three Chimneys’ kitchen. Sophie had ruined him on toddies. Somehow any others paled next to the ones she’d made. He sipped it gratefully all the same, languorous warmth stealing through him.

  One glance out the window at the melting snow left him wishing for better weather. He didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary. Already he was missing his paneled study and Lily Cate’s chatter and the glow of candlelight at day’s end.

  She’d looked so troubled at his leaving—like she feared he wouldn’t come back. She was still struggling with her riding lessons and had taken a nasty spill. The bump on her forehead had swollen her right eye shut, and it hurt him to look at her, though she had no breaks or other bruises.

  He realized how fragile she was right then, how he’d torn her from her familiar world in Williamsburg and handed her Tall Acre instead. With its empty rooms and unhappy memories. Its high expectations and fearsome challenges.

  Stooping so that he could meet her at eye level, his heavy cloak fanning out around him, he said quietly, “Keep praying, aye?”

  She bit her quivering lip as his arms went round her. He held her close, feeling the tick of her pulse, her soft hair catching on his whiskers, her small hands holding on to him like she’d never let go. His heart turned over . . . held still.

  That bittersweet moment had warmed him the entire thirty-two-mile ride to Williamsburg, making him want to hurry home lest he seem a stranger to her all over again.

  If he lost her . . . if he had to give her up . . .

  He’d rather have died in battle.

  Sophie arrived home on a blustery day with a clear head and fresh resolve, her feelings for Seamus in check. Thankfully, Glynnis was improving and they’d had a lovely visit, making Sophie realize how much she’d missed the fellowship of friends. Even in the snow, Annapolis held a blessed noise and bustle that staved off melancholy. She’d even frequented a nearby tearoom with a few of her halfpennies. The Busy Bee was as good for the soul as the stomach, its whimsical name making her smile.

  She’d also sent a letter to Edinburgh to her father, asking about his health and testing the waters of welcome. Mostly she wanted to see if he’d had any word of Curtis. ’Twas now a weary wait for a reply. And if there was none, what then?

  “Och!” Mistress Murdo crowed in satisfaction at the sight of her. “Annapolis must have agreed with ye. Yer not so peely-wally now.”

  Sophie smoothed the bodice of the caraco jacket she’d sewn while in the city, glad to return to the size she was before the war. “You can tell I’ve had one too many Annapolis teacakes.”

  “Well, I found some lovely cloth in the attic. I thought ye might be in need of a new gown.” Mistress Murdo hastened up the stairs to the dust and cobwebs and returned with a length of peach taffeta and velvet ribbon. “Between the two of us, we’ll fashion a loosome dress for some future frolic.”

  Sophie held her tongue. She’d never unearthed such fine cloth and fripperies in her attic searches. Had the goods been gotten from Tall Acre on the sly? A new gown was hardly needed, especially one so fine, unless . . . Might Mistress Murdo be withholding some news? Amity’s disclosure of Seamus’s courtship was never far from her mind. A month’s absence might mean a wedding was in the offing. Though she ached to see Lily Cate and mend the distance between them, she wanted to honor her personal vow to keep Seamus at arm’s length.

  She left the third floor and paused at the oriel window, a flash of red catching her eye in the noon light. An express rider was coming up the long drive, barreling through slush and mud, the world outside a windy smirr of gray.

  She hurried down to the foyer, every anxious step smothering the high feeling she’d returned home with. She paid him the last of her pence and then tore open the letter. Half a dozen bills fluttered to the foyer floor like broken-winged birds, but she scarcely noticed, riveted to the page. Curtis’s writing hand was unforgettable, much like her father’s. Loping and proud and grandly elegant.

  8 October, 1783

  Dear Sophie,

  Forgive me for this latent letter. By now you likely know where my loyalties lie.

  I hope we can set our differences aside. I have returned to Scotland to take my rightful place as heir, and marry.

  She stared at the post, the hurt of betrayal rushing in. All this time she’d been waiting, wondering—and he was in Scotland?

  Word has come that Mother has passed and you are alone at Three Chimneys. Now that Tory properties are being seized by the new American government, Father and I agree it would be best for you to join us here in Edinburgh.

  Enclosed is money enough for your traveling expenses. Rest assured you will be welcomed with open arms.

  Your ever loving brother, Curtis

  Ever loving brother? Nay, traitor. A British resident again. Did he care nothing about Three Chimneys?

  Stooping, heart thudding beneath her stays, she began gathering up the unwanted bills, surprised by the amount. Her father was as frugal as he was Scottish. So they wanted her to return to them? Oh aye! Likely Lord Menzies had found some wealthy, doddering old suitor to foist on her in order to further his own purposes there.

  Stung, she stuffed both money and letter in a desk drawer, tears blinding her. She wanted Curtis to walk in and make things right. She wanted to find her way back to the girl she’d been, full of promise and expectation. For half an hour she paced the room, her love for her brother at war with her anger and hurt. Curtis wasn’t coming. He’d never meant to, after all. While she’d been waiting, praying . . .

  Spent, she curled up in a Windsor chair, her damp cheek pressed against the threadbare brocade back. Never had she felt so in need of her mother’s company. Her quiet confidence and unwavering faith. Her belief that God orchestrated all things.

  And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.

  She’d clung to that verse for longer than she could remember. But she was no longer sure she believed it. There had simply been too much loss.

  Seamus wasted no words once he’d set foot in the Fitzhughs’ Williamsburg townhouse.

  “I thought it on
ly fair to tell you I’ve decided to take legal action against you.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Fitzhugh, for all his pomp and polish, looked apoplectic. “How dare you—”

  “How dare you.” Seamus held his temper by a hair. “There is such a thing as plain dealing, but time after time you resort to underhanded tactics that leave me little choice but to seek a higher authority.”

  Charlotte seemed aghast at such bluntness. “General, do sit down. Let us be civil.” She flicked her fan toward a settee.

  Seamus stayed standing, hat in hand.

  Fitzhugh began anew. “You’re well aware—”

  “I’m well aware someone has been trespassing at Tall Acre, frightening my daughter and my staff.”

  “Someone?” Charlotte looked duly alarmed. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “An unknown man has been seen on the grounds more than once. He’s not yet been caught, but he will be.” Seamus looked straight at Fitzhugh. “And I’m holding you responsible for any trouble incurred.”

  The judge stayed stony. “Would you like us to add libel to the case we’re building against you, General?”

  “Build any case you like,” Seamus returned quietly. “Legally you don’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “I beg to differ.” Fitzhugh emerged from behind the desk, snuff box in hand. “We’re working to return the child—”

  “The child has a name.”

  Fitzhugh snorted. “As I was saying, we’re working to return Anne’s daughter to our care and see your mismanagement of her come to an end. We’re aware you’re often away from Tall Acre and she is unsupervised—”