by Laura Frantz
He squinted at the sky. “I need to return to the landing, and you need to meet the rest of the staff. Mrs. Lamont will introduce you properly when you’re ready.” Bending, he locked his fingers, giving her boot firm footing so she could remount. “If you ever have trouble with anyone, come to me first.”
There was a subtle warning in the words easily taken to heart. Anne had had trouble. With Riggs. Myrtilla. Perhaps others. Sophie prayed she’d win the staff over from the start.
So this was Myrtilla.
Sophie knew at first glance why she’d been troublesome for Anne. Myrtilla locked eyes with her the moment she set foot in the spinning house, erasing every hope Sophie had of her being a docile servant. Her expression was stony, but she was a handsome woman, younger than Sophie had imagined, with a proud, almost regal bearing. At sight of Sophie, she all but turned her back.
All Sophie knew of Myrtilla was what she’d gleaned from the diary and Evelyn Menzies’s unfortunate role in her stillborn baby’s birth. After she’d lost her own child, Myrtilla had been Lily Cate’s wet nurse. She’d continued to care for Lily Cate because Anne could not or would not. She was devoted to Tall Acre, to Seamus. It was he who had saved her and her brother from an abusive slave trader before the war.
Sophie stood by Mrs. Lamont and took in the activity in the busy room. Half a dozen spinning wheels were in motion, their gentle whirr creating a slight draft. A hefty loom claimed one corner, operated by a thickset weaver. Hanging from racks were finished linens, a tablecloth, and assorted garments ready for dyeing.
“Spinning and weaving go on here from sunup to sundown,” Mrs. Lamont told her. “The women are allowed regular breaks and a generous dinner hour. General Ogilvy doesn’t like the girls to be too young when they start.”
“Does the spun cloth provide for all of Tall Acre’s needs?”
“Yes, nearly everything is made right here on the estate. There’s little need to order from Philadelphia or elsewhere.” With a keen eye, Mrs. Lamont examined a coverlet. “Spinning is something of a coveted spot, far preferable to field work.”
Sophie could well understand why. The heat and horseflies alone made outdoor work grueling. With its wide windows and lofty ceilings, the spinning house provided a cooler workplace in the summer and a snug one in the winter.
“When Mistress Ogilvy—the first Mistress Ogilvy, mind you—was alive, she would visit each dependency, treat any sickness . . . Of course, you may do as you wish.” Mrs. Lamont led her back outside.
Sophie was relieved when they parted. All their walking to and fro, the memory required for names and places, was daunting. She’d created a mental map of sorts, but in truth all the dependencies looked alike and there was a veritable maze of them. Her heart pulled her to the quiet orderliness of the stillroom situated by the summer kitchen. Once Seamus’s mother’s domain, the stillroom was low-ceilinged and suggested usefulness, an odor of withered herbs and flowers clinging to the air. It seemed to be waiting for her to claim it, though it was the infirmary, smelling of camphor and holding four tiny patients that needed her now.
As she checked each child for fever and administered the tonic on hand, she prayed for wisdom. One boy in particular was very ill, his mother at his side. The doctor had been sent for, but there’d been a delay.
Heartsore, she returned to the house to find Lily Cate waiting on the rear veranda in cape and bonnet. “Mrs. Lamont said I should take you to the nursery as she forgot.”
The nursery? Yet another dependency? Hand in hand they traversed the shell path to another building newly painted white. Inside, two women tended a roomful of young children. Sophie was thankful to find it clean, even cozy, the upraised brick hearth burning brightly and encased with a protective screen lest the children come too close.
Lily Cate introduced her and then began playing, her delighted expression making Sophie realize how much she needed to be with other children. Once the weather warmed and they could be out of doors, she wanted Lily Cate to be the child she was, barefoot and carefree.
“Afternoon, Mistress Ogilvy.” Shay’s wife, Kaye, returned Sophie’s greeting as she nursed her son near the hearth.
There were other newborns present, making Sophie’s arms nearly ache.
“You fond o’ squallin’ babies, Mistress Ogilvy?” A plump, apron-clad woman gave her a near-toothless grin. “Sounds like a bunch o’ calves bawlin’ in a hailstorm to me.”
Chuckling, Sophie sat down in an empty chair. “Reminds me of my mother’s days as midwife.”
“I remember too, God bless her.” The woman gave a bounce to the fretting child in her lap. “My name’s Granny Bea. This here’s my grandbaby, Bristol.”
The tiny boy looked up at Sophie, and his crying hushed. He reached out a plump hand and touched the chatelaine pinned to her bodice when Sophie took him on her lap. “Can you tell me the names of the others? I won’t remember them all, but I’ll try.”
A bony finger pointed round the room. “There’s Opey, Kitty, Doll, Paris, Truman, Cleve, Carter, Jenny, and Miss Lily Cate.”
Lily Cate was kneeling now, wide-eyed over a spinning top. A girl her own size stood beside her, her ebony hair a mass of velvety ringlets. Myrtilla’s daughter Jenny? Half-caste, she stood out noticeably among her darker playmates.
Despite the spilled milk and soiled clout odor, there was peace and a sense of purpose here. A vibrant heartbeat of a place. Sophie dandled the baby on her knee, speaking quietly with Bea and watching the children play. Her sense of wonder grew. She finally had a purpose. A plan. ’Twas overwhelming but . . . good.
God had given her so much. Those long, bleak years of hunger and isolation at Three Chimneys made her present circumstances seem like nothing short of a miracle.
Even without a husband’s affection.
“Papa said we’re to eat in the small parlor instead of the dining room, but he’s not here,” Lily Cate told her that night at supper. “And tomorrow is his birthday.”
“Birthday?” Sophie felt a start. Yet another detail she didn’t know. “Are you sure?”
With a solemn nod, Lily Cate nibbled on a biscuit. “Florie said so.”
So Florie knew . . . while the mistress of Tall Acre didn’t have a clue. “Then we must plan a little party for him. A surprise.”
Lily Cate’s brow furrowed. “What if he doesn’t come?”
“Well, last night required he ride to Roan, and tonight . . .” Sophie overheard voices coming from the study. Tonight he was meeting with Riggs. Again. If Riggs wore a petticoat, she’d be green with envy.
“His supper will get cold,” Lily Cate pointed out with a frown.
“No matter.” Sophie tweaked her nose gently and she laughed. “Cook is keeping it warm in the kitchen. Perhaps ’tis providential he’s not here. All the better for birthday surprises. Do you know what he likes best to eat? Should we have a celebratory sweet?”
“Best ask Florie.”
Oh? She’d met the glib Florie and decided she was simply smitten with the master, a common happenstance in large households. An indentured housemaid, Florie had a mother in the dairy, a father in the fields, and a brother in the stables. Sophie was sorely tempted to move her to the spinning house.
As Lily Cate finished her pudding, Sophie roamed the room, leaving her own dessert half eaten. Like her bedchamber across the hall, the small parlor reminded Sophie of spring with its pale mint walls and floral wainscoting. Though it was seldom used, Seamus had left his mark here. A pair of field glasses and a chess set rested on a near table. Above the fireplace was a portrait of his parents, both bearing a marked resemblance to Seamus. Was it any wonder she missed him when everywhere she turned bore some reminder?
Seeking a distraction, she returned to her sewing basket. Lily Cate soon sidled up to her, asking for her sampler.
“Twelve stitches to the inch,” Sophie reminded gently, her silver thimble glinting on her finger much as her wedding ring glinted on her hand.
As she plied the soft fabric of a petticoat, a noise sounded in the hall. Her heart jumped. Would Seamus join them? On their honeymoon she’d grown used to his slow smile and measured way of speaking, his studied patience with his little daughter, and even his occasional bumbling.
She heard his rumbling voice, measured and distinct, as he and Riggs emerged from the study.
Then the riverfront door closed, and all her hopes along with it.
24
The birthday cake had been made, a special supper prepared of Seamus’s favorite dishes. Cream of peanut soup. Spiced ham. Sweet potatoes with coconut. String beans with mushrooms. Sophie recalled what Seamus’s mother had penned in the back of her housekeeping book.
Let the wife make her husband glad to come home.
But Seamus did not come.
“He’s been out foxhunting,” Mrs. Lamont told her as night closed in. “But now he’s down at the stables again as his favorite mare is foaling. I don’t expect he’ll be back anytime soon.”
Her apologetic tone fueled Sophie’s disappointment. She should have asked him about his plans for supper, given some warning, if only for Lily Cate’s sake. Their wee daughter stood waiting in the small parlor, a fresh painting of a horse in hand, eyes swimming.
“We’ll put your picture on his desk along with the cake so he can see we were thinking about him on his birthday,” Sophie said.
“Well, he isn’t thinking of us!” she exclaimed, a tear falling free.
Sophie swiped at her cheek with a handkerchief, feeling near tears herself. Being told of her husband’s birthday and whereabouts by servants didn’t set well, but what was she to do? Theirs was an odd arrangement. She’d known that before the wedding. Who was she to bemoan it after?
“Your father is a busy man, and we’d best get used to that. We have each other in the meantime.”
Lily Cate brightened. “And Sassy!”
“Sassy, yes,” Sophie echoed, smiling down at the kitten at their feet. “We have our very own list of things to do. Tomorrow we must go to Roan for new stays and pay a visit to Mistress Murdo at Three Chimneys.”
“Then we shall be as busy as Papa is.”
“We shall indeed.”
Seemingly satisfied, Lily Cate wandered about the room, looking through the vue d’optique on a corner table and exclaiming over the lifelike pictures while Sophie sat down at the harpsichord, a smaller version of the one in the Palladian room. The ivory keys were cool beneath her fingers. One tentative touch to them brought the room to life. No music graced the stand, but a once beloved piece by Scarlatti played in her head. Her fingers felt rusty. Dusty. Free. She’d nearly forgotten the joy of it.
Lily Cate was soon by her side, and they began singing a simple tune. Lily Cate had a sweet soprano, leaving Sophie to wonder about Seamus. Did he like to sing? His voice was rich and sonorous even when he was speaking. They sang on till Lily Cate did more yawning than singing and needed to be abed.
With Lily Cate asleep, the night stretched before Sophie without end. She returned to the small parlor, wishing she’d not made such a ridiculous effort to look nice for naught. She had on her wedding dress, his gift of pearls about her throat. A maid wielding curling tongs had added unnecessary ringlets parading down her back. She’d even been too liberal with her cologne, smelling like a veritable garden, thanks to Yardley of London.
Across from her, the chair that had been Seamus’s father’s was empty. Less than a month wed, had they already established a pattern of separation? The coldness of it stole over her, and she couldn’t find her way past it. Had she not lost her heart to him, it wouldn’t hurt so wide and deep. But if she complained or grew bitter, she’d simply push him farther away.
She focused on the portraits of his parents, somewhat solaced. If she couldn’t have all of him, she could have some of him. His name. His daughter. His house. His history. She was part of a family again, however fractured.
Who was she to ask for more?
By lantern light the foal emerged, bringing with it a relieved exhilaration. Sitting back on his haunches, Seamus watched as the mare nickered and nuzzled her newborn, welcoming it into the dusty confines of the stall where it would soon attempt to stand. The markings of each, whether colt or filly, were always unique. New life always renewed his sense of wonder, pushing back the punishing memories of war.
Once the foal was on its feet, Seamus left the head groom to oversee the rest. He emerged from the stables, gaze on the ground, nearly missing the moon’s alluring rise. He was struck nigh speechless by the stars. Orion’s belt had never been so bright, the North Star so chilling and sharp. Awed, he leaned into a near paddock, feeling small. Swallowed up by the vastness. Another light caught his eye, this one from a back window of Tall Acre.
Had Sophie not yet gone to bed? He’d heard music earlier, and it had drawn him much as his mother’s playing used to. He’d given little thought to the pianoforte being one of Sophie’s accomplishments. Anne had not been musical, and he gave silent thanks. Her memory couldn’t interfere with his present pleasure.
He pulled his gaze from the house. Beneath a starlit sky, it was all too easy to forget there was anything pressing in, demanding notice. No rotting roof. No piazza in need of replacing. No mulish tenants and indentures. No new wife and needy daughter. No barely quelled rebellion in Rhode Island or riots in New Hampshire. The newly formed American government was on as shaky ground as he.
He bent his head, an uneasy longing stealing over him much like the drowsy silence stealing over Tall Acre. For a few seconds he gave in to the notion of asking Sophie to go to Richmond with him next, show her about town. She might want to select some things for the house. Though he could ill afford the time, being together might curb the restlessness mounting inside him.
He’d thought all he had to do was marry and the matter with Lily Cate would be settled. He hadn’t anticipated a new set of obstacles. Separate schedules. Separate rooms. Sidestepping around each other. Whenever he said goodnight and retired upstairs, he felt in violation of the biblical commands regarding marriage. Yet hadn’t he asked her to wed him on the most practical terms, as a mother to his daughter?
What in heaven’s name had he been thinking?
Aye, it was owing to his botched handling of Sophie Menzies Ogilvy that accounted for his feeling lurched.
The big house was hushed. At almost midnight, the staff were abed. Though Mrs. Lamont had left a light burning on a sideboard in the foyer, it took Seamus a moment to get his bearings. To his right, the door to the small parlor stood ajar. Weary as he was, he almost overlooked it, intent on the sweep of staircase leading to his room. Usually closed, the door held an invitation. He stood on the threshold of what Sophie called the family parlor—somewhat ironic in light of their present circumstances—and looked within.
A fire still burned, as did a lone candle. The Windsor chairs fronting the hearth faced away from him, but he caught the shimmer of silk in the flickering light. A hint of cologne, an intoxicating blend of citrus and flowers, charged the air.
He ran a hand over his unkempt hair now missing a queue ribbon. He’d washed up in the laundry before coming in, though he still smelled of sweat and horseflesh. Mindful of his boots, he stepped into the parlor carefully. Was she sleeping?
A creak in the floorboards brought her upright. He hadn’t meant to wake her, but neither could he leave her in her chair. But what would he have done? Carried her to her room?
His voice cut into the quiet. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Looking surprised, she stood and faced him. Her hand went to her hair, as disheveled as his own and coming free of its pins. He was cast back to their honeymoon when she’d come to bed with it unbound and falling to her hips. In her lovely gown with its snug bodice and lace sleeves, she looked different than on their wedding day. Fuller of figure. Not so fragile. Or mayhap he was seeing her with new eyes.
She smiled a sleepy smile. “You’ve been out
foxhunting, Mrs. Lamont said.”
“Aye, but caught nothing after a five-hour run.” He rued the leisure time but had needed to curb his mounting restlessness.
“How is your new foal?”
“On its feet,” he replied, stifling a yawn. Did she want to talk? At this hour? “And you? How goes it with the staff?” When she delayed answering, he said, “A woman’s work is never done, aye?”
Her eyes held his. “I wasn’t the one late for supper, Seamus.”
He chuckled. A sense of fullness stole through him at her teasing. And then there was that chafing again, the certainty that she’d rather be standing here with someone else.
“At the end of my rounds I spent time in the nursery today,” she was saying. “Lily Cate seemed glad to be there. I think she could benefit from Jenny coming up to the house. They seem to be about the same age.”
“Jenny . . .” After he’d been so long away, some of the people, as his father had called them, were as new to him as they were to her. “That would be Riggs’s daughter.”
“Riggs, your estate manager?” She looked at him, a slow awareness dawning. “But . . .”
“A great many things went on in my absence that I’m not proud of.” He left it at that. “So you think Lily Cate needs company.”
“She shouldn’t be raised in isolation like I was.” Compassion warmed her eyes. “Until Williamsburg, I had few if any friends. The neighboring plantations were too far, and my father forbade any play with the servants.”
He wasn’t surprised. Lord Menzies had been rigidly class conscious, yet here sat his daughter aiming for the opposite. “Jenny’s too young yet to work at anything but the simplest chores. I don’t see how spending time at the house could hurt.”
“I’ve also written about a Scots tutor but wanted you to look the letter over before I post it.”
“A tutor, aye.” He’d already forgotten, but Sophie seemed to have a head for the details he didn’t, especially where Lily Cate was concerned. “Leave it on my desk then. If that sounds like an order, it isn’t.”
