The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

  “If I’m away, it’s because of estate business as I’ve just returned from nearly a decade of war. As for my daughter, she’s closely supervised at all times—”

  “Closely?” Fitzhugh’s voice climbed to new heights. “We’re aware you cannot even keep a governess on hand—”

  “And I’m well aware you sent Miss Townsend to Tall Acre, masquerading as such,” Seamus shot back, his surface calm deserting him. “The least you could do is to not be so blasted stupid about spying!”

  “You have no proof!” Fitzhugh flung at him. “’Tis hearsay, all of it!”

  “Nay, not hearsay.” Seamus’s own voice rose and crested, overriding his former brother-in-law’s. “I suspected something amiss from the first.”

  “Gentlemen, please!” Charlotte intruded, nearly as irate. “Need I remind you that we merely want Lily Cate to come for a visit? ’Tis been ages since we’ve seen her.”

  A visit? As if this was some social call? Would they never listen? Seamus didn’t hide his disgust.

  Fitzhugh regarded him through narrowed eyes. “A visit seems meager at best when Anne’s daughter should be returned to our care permanently. If you’re not agreeable to even a brief meeting, perhaps a court order will help change your mind. I’m prepared to force the issue if you deny our request—”

  “You can threaten all you want. I’ll not bring my daughter to Williamsburg. I’ve already told you that you can come to Tall Acre if you send word well ahead of the date.” Even that was more than Seamus was willing to concede. And a supervised visit it would be. “I’ll not bring her here—leave her here—court order or no.”

  “You’re in grave error, General.” Fitzhugh was nearly spitting in his ire, unused to being thwarted. “Anne’s daughter is, per Anne’s request, rightfully ours based on your history of absence and neglect. I needn’t remind you that we have it in writing—”

  “Nay, you needn’t remind me.” Seamus’s tone flattened. “Anne did me a grave disservice, but that is all. Nothing you say or do will take my daughter from me.”

  “Gentlemen, please!” Charlotte looked at them, palms raised imploringly. “As I’ve said before, our main concern is that Lily Cate needs a woman’s influence—”

  “And she’s to have one.” Seamus returned his hat to his head and took a step back. “You’re among the first to know I’m to wed.” They stared at him, their shocked expressions giving him a small, sweet taste of victory.

  Finally Fitzhugh said, “Marry? When?”

  “As soon as I return to Tall Acre.”

  Confusion colored his face. “Who on earth are you to marry?”

  “A lady from Roan County.”

  Charlotte frowned, her surprise giving way to petulance. “And who might that be?”

  “Miss Sophie Menzies of Three Chimneys.”

  “The turncoat’s daughter?” they said in unison.

  Seamus gave a nod, pulse pounding. “Aye. I’m to have a wife. Lily Cate is to have a mother. No argument you devise can stand up to that in court, so I advise you to quit your case.”

  He turned, ignoring the bitter barb Fitzhugh flung at him and Charlotte’s gaping dismay. His elation lasted till he reached the foyer and realized just what he’d done.

  Become betrothed to a woman who didn’t have a clue.

  Passing into the cold Williamsburg night, the stars hanging like icicles in the frozen sky, Seamus made for the Raleigh Tavern, wishing he could return to Three Chimneys by the light of the moon and talk—nay, argue—Sophie Menzies into marrying him. For all he knew, she was still in Annapolis. As it was, there was no going home till morning. An unappetizing meal at the Raleigh would have to suffice till then, followed by a long, sleepless night.

  Next morning, in a bold move his heart wasn’t quite willing to make, he found himself at James Craig, Jewelers, hunting up a ring. As luck would have it the shop was empty, sparing Seamus any explanation of why he had come in so early, though Craig was looking at him in a bemused sort of way.

  “And what exactly did you have in mind, General Ogilvy?”

  “A wedding band . . . nothing too ornate. But no pinchbeck either.” Anne had hated anything inferior or counterfeit. He guessed she’d been buried with the ornate ruby ring he’d given her. Or mayhap the ever-grasping Charlotte had kept it. The uncharitable thought nicked him, but he aimed for honesty, at least in the sanctuary of his own head and heart.

  What would Sophie favor?

  Muttering about the price of gems in the wake of war, Craig laid out a generous selection of jewelry atop the wooden counter. Seamus examined pointe native diamond rings and plainer bands, drawn to a gold and black enamel ring wide enough for engraving. Simple and elegant, it wouldn’t overpower Sophie’s slender hand.

  He held it up to the light, wondering if he’d have need of it at all. Everything hinged on her response, and he hadn’t even asked her. But he’d ride clear to Annapolis if he had to.

  “If you’d engrave it with three names—Sophie, Seamus, Lily Cate.”

  Craig nodded and began putting the other rings away. “My congratulations, General. I wasn’t aware you were to remarry.”

  “These things have a way of happening,” Seamus murmured.

  “Aye, indeed they do.” Craig chuckled. “I’ll have that engraving done straightaway.”

  Seamus hoped he wouldn’t fish for details like wedding dates.

  He wasn’t sure there’d be one.

  19

  Twas candlelight when Sophie finished her supper and watched the last of daylight drain away. Rain streaked her bedchamber windowpane, but not so heavily as to obscure the long front drive with its lone rider hastening her way. Another post? Surely not. She’d yet to recover from the last.

  Her heart gave an unmistakable, maddening skip. There was no mistaking this long, well-muscled rider who rode with a penetrating purpose.

  Seamus.

  Had he come about Lily Cate? Some maternal instinct always propelled her to fear illness or accident. Had there been more trouble with the trespasser at Tall Acre or Anne’s Williamsburg kin?

  Turning toward the looking glass, she raised cold hands to fiery cheeks, dizzy as a girl. Any hedges she put up round her heart always tumbled at first sight of him. Hastily taking the pins from her hair, she shook it loose and wove in a satin ribbon, tying back the waves with practiced hands. A splash of rosewater at her throat and wrists completed her hasty toilette as Mistress Murdo announced him.

  “General Ogilvy is in the front parlor, miss.”

  Sophie thanked her, glad she’d asked Henry to lay a fire. Now was the time to tell him about Curtis. Would he think the worst of her? Shun her like Roan did?

  Gripping the banister, she went below, shame pummeling her the nearer she came to the open parlor door. Yet not even the dread of confessing the betrayal could dampen her gladness that Seamus was waiting. Her every sense was heightened by the mere anticipation of him.

  By the time she crossed the threshold and beheld his broad back, a dozen things she’d missed about him were satisfied. Unaware of her, he placed his cocked hat atop a settee and straightened to look into the mantel mirror and smooth his cravat. As if he cared how he looked for her. As if she were special . . . beloved. In that instant his gaze met hers in the cracked glass. She nearly forgot to breathe.

  Never would she forget the sight of him rimmed in firelight, his dark hair so wind-tossed that loose strands lay about his shoulders like spilled ribbon, his eyes keen and kind and searching all at once. Slowly he turned round. His solemnity gave a warning.

  He swallowed, the cords in his neck tensing. “Sophie . . .”

  She went still. Never had he used her Christian name. Her heart, so sore over losing Three Chimneys and Curtis, so torn over missing Seamus yet needing distance, felt like it would burst.

  He gestured toward a Windsor chair. “Mayhap you’d better sit down.”

  She stayed standing. “Whatever it is, please . . . just say it
.”

  He took another step toward her. “I’ve come to ask you—” He looked wildly uncertain yet determined all at once. “To marry me.”

  Her lips parted. No sound came.

  “I know that’s the last thing you expected.” His intensity assured her he wasn’t jesting. “I’m asking you to be my wife.”

  My wife. Not my dance partner. Not my houseguest or my daughter’s companion. Breaking their gaze, she sat down in the nearest chair.

  “Forgive me for being so abrupt.” Disquiet deepened his voice. “Ever since you left for Annapolis, I’ve thought of little else.”

  Oh? If she was tied up in his thoughts, she’d like to know the gist of them.

  “I admire and respect you. I doubt I’ll ever meet another woman like you.” His words held firm. “I’m indebted to you for being there for my daughter, and it’s because of her I’m here.”

  She found words at last. “Something happened in Williamsburg.”

  “I told Anne’s kin I’m to wed.”

  “You told them you were going to wed me?”

  “I did.”

  “Are you so sure of me, then?” Her eyes widened at his audacity. “That I shall accept you?”

  A glimmer of amusement broke through his unease. “Nay, I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life.”

  “You, sir, are a wee bit bold . . .” Pleasure stirred and then reason staggered in. “Rather, Lily Cate is in need of a mother, and you stand to lose her if you don’t make a family again.”

  “Aye, to put it bluntly.”

  The truth sat squarely and unflinchingly between them, hardly the proposal of her dreams—but a proposal nonetheless.

  “I understand . . .” Her voice fell away. She felt painfully, impossibly . . . joyful. “But you see, I—I’m reluctant to marry a man . . .”

  “A man you don’t love,” he finished for her.

  Nay, a man who doesn’t love me.

  He looked to his boots. “I know you care for someone else, but I thought perhaps, given time, you might find me . . . worthy of your hand.”

  Had he no inkling of her feelings for him? Did he somehow find himself lacking? Undeserving of her hand, of love and marriage? The emotion filling his face told her so. Clearly, the misunderstanding about her ghostly suitor was between them, awkward and misleading.

  “Mayhap we’d better back up.” Taking a seat beside her, he changed course. “How was your trip? Glynnis?”

  She took a breath. “Glynnis is better. Annapolis is big . . . busy.” She tried to smile, to steady her voice, to return to normalcy. “How are things at Tall Acre?”

  “Well enough, though Miss Townsend left without warning.”

  “Amity?” Her mind whirled. “But she came well recommended from Mrs. Hallam.”

  His jaw firmed. “The same Mrs. Hallam who resides in Williamsburg and might well be friends with the Fitzhughs.”

  The truth dawned slowly. Was Amity part of their scheming? For the moment she couldn’t take it in. All that filled her head was his shocking proposal.

  She looked into the fire, the queasy knot in her middle expanding. How could she explain or let go of the girlish hope that she was waiting for someone, someday, who might look at her with longing? Someone who truly wanted to make her his in all the ways that mattered?

  Not . . . this.

  She folded her hands in a show of calm. “You should know that while I was in Annapolis, I wrote my father.”

  He said nothing, but she could sense his thoughts. You wrote the man who abandoned you? Who hasn’t inquired after you these eight years past?

  “At the time it seemed the right thing to do.” It sounded logical. Practical. Yet writing to him had cost her. Her pride. Her last hope. “I’m considering going to Edinburgh.”

  “To Edinburgh,” he echoed. There was no accusation or anger in his tone, just quiet contemplation. “You’d take Edinburgh over Tall Acre.”

  Would she? Her mind stayed muddled. Stunned.

  “Then, when I returned home yesterday, I received word from—” Tears smarted in her eyes. She nearly couldn’t speak. “Curtis.”

  His gaze clouded. She read a dozen things there, but prior knowledge and regret were uppermost.

  “You knew.” Her voice came soft, without blame. “But you didn’t tell me.”

  “I suspected, but there had been no confirmation. I didn’t want you hurt by false reports.”

  “He betrayed you, his commanding officer.”

  “Aye, but the war is won.” He held her gaze, obviously as settled in spirit about the matter as she was unsettled. “We should be glad he’s alive, all loyalties aside. One day it won’t matter.”

  Wise words. Humble words. And at such cost. Men he’d trusted and would have laid down his life for had gone over to the enemy more times than he could count. But she never imagined Curtis would be one of them.

  “I’m sorry, Sophie.” He looked to the hat in his hands, the once-colorful cockade faded. “If you think Curtis’s loyalties make me think differently about you or my proposal, they don’t. The future is yours—ours—to make of it what we will.”

  “Allow me time to pray about matters first.”

  “I won’t force the issue. All I ask is that you forgive me for being so . . . sudden.” He stood, averting his eyes, and with that instinctive gentlemanly courtesy she found so appealing, he said, “If you’d rather convey your answer by note, I’ll be at Tall Acre waiting.”

  Coming into Tall Acre’s foyer, Seamus found the house quiet, the immense case clock chiming ten. He’d wanted to see Lily Cate before she went to bed. By now she’d be asleep, unaware of the small storm he’d just created at Three Chimneys. Just as well. He didn’t feel like talking but getting on his knees and asking forgiveness. From both heaven and Sophie Menzies.

  What woman wanted a proposal like the one he’d just laid out? Heedless, he’d gone striding into her parlor and winged the question at her like he was pitching horseshoes and she was the target. Her shock and dismay would never leave him. And now her answer, or the lack of it, lay like an unexploded shell between them. He was sure she’d say no. And he didn’t blame her.

  But Edinburgh?

  Myrtilla met him on the landing, having come from Lily Cate’s room. “She’s sleepin’, sir. Everything’s been fine here with you away, though she’s been askin’ when you be back. And she’s missin’ Miss Menzies somethin’ fierce besides.”

  He thanked her and moved on to the second floor. He tore off his cloak and tossed his hat and gloves on a hall chair, then carefully opened the door of her room. Firelight caressed her face as she slept beneath the high canopy. The doll Sophie had given her was tucked beneath one arm.

  Straddling the bed steps, he sat down, willing his pulse to settle. She looked so peaceful. So unlike Anne. Lily Cate had no memories of her mother, something that both saddened and gladdened him. His daughter was as darkly pretty as Sophie. He could well imagine people thinking they were mother and daughter at some point in future, if the impossible happened and Sophie would have him.

  Lately Lily Cate had begun to open up, slowly escaping her shell of fear and confusion, reaching out to him in tentative trust. He could well imagine her joy if he were to tell her that Sophie was to be her mother. He’d give anything to shake Lily Cate awake with the news tonight.

  He rubbed his whiskered jaw with stubborn resolve, forcing his unsettled emotions into retreat. He might soon be telling her Sophie was leaving for Scotland instead.

  He touched her cheek, flushed with sleep, and brushed back a lock that curled over one eye. Her lashes were long and thick, fanning across the dainty planes of her face like black fringe. She was nearly perfect. She was in need of a mother. A happy home.

  A far better father.

  Sophie remained in the parlor, not bothering to go to bed, knowing sleep would never come. Facing the chair Seamus had sat in, she tried to reconstruct the scene. The shock of his unexpected pro
posal. The rush of disbelief. She felt backed into an impossible corner. Yet he was likely sleepless too, awaiting her answer.

  Stiff from sitting, she went to the window, looking out through the rain-soaked night to the pinpricks of light that were Tall Acre. Could she really be its mistress? She knew something of its workings from the pages of Anne’s diary, mainly Myrtilla’s early bond with Lily Cate. She sensed Riggs’s competence as estate manager, the constant upkeep and cash required to maintain so large an estate, Seamus’s love of hearth and home, the endless cycle of seasons in which the enslaved and indentured played such a part.

  She retrieved her Bible from her bedchamber and thumbed through its pages, searching, seeking answers, till her eyes crossed and her back ached. She prayed her way to daylight, but though dawn relieved her nighttime fears, it did little in the way of answers. Her choices seemed so simple yet were fraught with untold risk. She could go to Edinburgh and try to make a life there. Or she could wed Seamus and secure herself a home, a husband, right here in Roan.

  She had no template for marriage, at least a happy one. Her parents’ bond had been by arrangement. Oddly enough, her mother had cared for her father while he’d shown nothing but contempt for her feelings. The more loving she was, the more distant he became. Sophie had watched it play out like an unending tragedy. Always cold and indifferent, he had moved to Williamsburg and then Scotland, forsaking her altogether.

  If she wed Seamus, she must keep her love hidden at all costs. She could not bear to be an object of contempt, making him feel cornered, trapped, suffocated, only to turn away from her in disgust. The prospect lined her spine with ice.

  At the same time, how could she accept him and cast aside a chance for true love if it came? In Edinburgh, perhaps, or elsewhere?

  She bent over the Bible, the words bearing both solace and challenge. Let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth. The truth was she loved Seamus. He might be her only hope of a husband. She loved his daughter with all her heart. If taking a wife would ensure matters in Williamsburg would melt away, who was she to deny him what he most wanted?