The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

“On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that I want my husband and daughter back—”

  “You’ve already thrown that away, declaring yourself dead and fleeing to England.”

  “So what will you do, Seamus? Divorce me? Our union is still legal as I’m very much alive.” She moved away, backtracking to retrieve her hat and making a wide circle around him. “I’m staying with old friends, the Alexanders, a few miles from here.”

  He yanked his gaze back to her. “The Alexanders who are now accomplices in your kidnapping scheme.”

  “Be that as it may, our daughter is well but is proving rather inconsolable as she is so attached to your mistress.”

  He left the barb unchallenged, wanting to be free of her.

  Only he wasn’t free. And he might never be.

  33

  He expected an ugly confrontation. More fight. Anne was a formidable opponent, after all. But he saw no sign of her carriage or her manservant as he rode up the drive to the Alexander estate soon after she fled Tall Acre. British to the bone, Artemus Alexander and family only paid lip service to the American cause. His ivy-coated home was the perfect refuge for Anne. Artemus was, he remembered dully, a cousin of Fitzhugh.

  Dismounting, he fixed his eyes on the carved pineapple finial adorning the mansard roof, an ironically hospitable symbol. Before he’d set one foot in its direction, the front door swung open and Lily Cate ran out as if her heels were on fire.

  “Papa!”

  Never was a word more sweetly spoken. He caught her up, choked and overcome at the sight and feel of her. He’d thought she was lost to him. Gone forever. But here she was, as warm and wiggly as a puppy, burrowing deeper into his arms before covering his bristled jaw with a flurry of kisses.

  “Papa, I knew you would come. They told me you wouldn’t but I knew better.”

  He wondered at the they she spoke of. The Alexanders . . . Anne. For a long moment he didn’t speak, so torn with emotion his eyes smarted and he couldn’t focus. “I’ve come to take you home. Soph—your mother—is wanting to see you straightaway.” He pulled back from her, eyeing her disheveled dress and lank hair. “They didn’t mistreat you?”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “They fed me a little—and locked me in a room.”

  Behind him, two of his grooms waited silently on their mounts, pistols drawn, their attention riveted to the house as if expecting a fresh outburst of opposition. But all was quiet. Eerily quiet. Seamus had the distinct impression they were being watched from myriad windows, but the Alexanders didn’t dare intervene.

  “To Tall Acre,” he told the grooms, setting Lily Cate atop his own saddle before swinging up behind her. “I’ll deal with the Alexanders in time.”

  ’Twas candlelight. The supper smells were thickening, the clatter of cutlery and dishes oddly comforting, penetrating Sophie’s pain. Her mind felt broken, replaying the afternoon’s events endlessly. Despite everything, Lily Cate slept in her arms, having grown noticeably taller in the weeks she’d been gone.

  The hours following Anne’s leaving were a frantic blur. All Sophie knew was that Seamus had gone to an estate a few miles east, where close friends of Anne had been sheltering her and Lily Cate. Seamus spared Sophie the details of just what had occurred when he’d arrived there, leaving her to sort through her scattered thoughts and emotions while he sent word to Williamsburg to call off the search.

  Now, every few minutes Sophie pressed a kiss to Lily Cate’s brow as if to convince herself she’d truly come home. As the night’s shadows lengthened, Lily Cate stirred and yawned, looking about as if unsure just where she was. Then, finally, “Mama, who was that strange lady who kept me? She looks like Aunt Charlotte.”

  Sophie was at a loss for words. Should she say it was her mother, the woman Lily Cate had no memory of? Had Anne not identified herself as such?

  Lily Cate filled the uneasy silence. “She is very unhappy with Papa.”

  “Yes, sometimes grown-ups quarrel. Your father is upset that she took you away from us.”

  “The bearded man took me away, the one who used to come here and watch me.” She sat up and hugged her doll closer. “But I’m home now. I’m ready to start school and play with Jenny and ride my pony.”

  “Oh aye,” Sophie replied absently. She rested her cheek against Lily Cate’s hair, wishing matters would end so happily for herself and Seamus.

  With supper over, Sophie tucked Lily Cate in once prayers were said. After a joyful reunion, Lily Cate begged Jenny to stay close and sleep in the trundle bed. Myrtilla, ever devoted, had positioned herself outside Lily Cate’s bedchamber to stand watch all night. At Seamus’s bidding? In the light of a single candle she knitted, her ebony face unusually serene.

  Sophie went below, going through the motions of undressing without Florie. She couldn’t risk the maid’s questioning. She had no answers and felt so at odds—elated that Lily Cate was finally home, anguished over Anne. Tugging at her front-lacing stays, she pulled them free, standing in her shift before the candlelit mirror. That old, insidious dissatisfaction swept in with the evening shadows. In light of Anne’s sheer physical beauty, she felt lacking. Second best.

  Listening to the old house settle, she wondered if Seamus would come. What he might say. Panicked prayers, a cup of chamomile tea, did nothing to ease her. All normalcy had fled. Benumbed, she could only climb into bed alone, a new awkwardness overtaking her.

  At midnight the door opened. She stayed quiet as Seamus’s tall shadow moved in the moonlight shining through shutters she’d forgotten to close. The feather mattress sagged beneath his bulk when he finally undressed and came to bed. The silence was rife with tension.

  “Sophie.”

  Tears close, she couldn’t answer. He had become so gentle with her. So tender. Would that end? Was it wrong to be here, in this intimate moment, wanting what only a husband could give?

  He lay down beside her, the quaver in his voice matching the one in her spirit. “I want you to know I didn’t suspect any of this with Anne. I never once doubted she was dead. I would not have wed you had I any inkling—”

  “I believe you.” She turned away from him, the wall a poor refuge when all she wanted was his arms. “But what are we to do?”

  “We will hope. Pray. There shall be no barriers between us.” The strength in his voice, honed from years on the battlefield, brought little comfort. He placed a careful hand on her bare arm. His reassuring touch was like fire, like salt to her rawness. “You are my wife, Sophie, heart and soul and body. There is no one else.”

  He lay back, releasing her. But his words went deep, echoing into the sleepless night. Enduring, heartfelt words she’d long dreamed of, but ones that held no promises nonetheless.

  The next morning Seamus went away without warning. When he returned the day after, he faced her across the expanse of his desk, its bulk symbolic of the deep chasm between them.

  “We need to talk this out, Sophie.” He went and closed the door. “Away from Lily Cate.”

  She sat down on the edge of a Windsor chair, her poise deserting her. “She’s—” Unshed tears made a hot knot in her throat. “She’s not yet awake. After breakfast she’ll be in the schoolhouse with Jenny and the others. ’Tis important to keep to a schedule, I ken.”

  He nodded absently, sitting back in his chair. His cravat hung loose and he was in his shirtsleeves. Black fringed his angular jaw, giving him the look of a rogue. She could trace in his face a sleepless night and more. The old Seamus was missing, lost in the depths of some fierce, internal struggle he might not win.

  “I met with both an attorney and a judge yesterday in Richmond. They advise filing a petition with the Virginia court.”

  She took the words in, sensing a long, complicated fight looming. She knew little about Virginia law in light of the Revolution. ’Twas Seamus’s own words that kept coming to mind in regards to Curtis. He’s family. The war is won. We should be glad he’s alive, all loyalties aside. On
e day it won’t matter. Rational. Humble. Wise.

  Shouldn’t the same be said of Anne?

  Although she stayed silent, he was regarding her in that uncanny way he had, gained from years on the field when he’d read men like maps. “Anne has deserted. Falsified her death. Grounds enough to keep my marriage to you intact.”

  She pushed back a strand of hair she hadn’t bothered brushing, praying for calm. “Answer me this, Seamus. If not for me, would you take her back?”

  “Take her back?” He leaned forward and his eyes held hers, stunned. “Why would you even ask such a question?”

  Nearly flinching, she bit her tongue. He was too angry, too sore, her careful question like flint against steel, igniting his temper.

  “Anne and I—” He broke off, fighting for words. “’Twas a marriage gone wrong from the start. Suffice it to say there is far more at play than first appears.”

  “I sense that . . .” Nay, she knew. Anne’s diary was proof. But it was also missing, unable to prove Anne’s misdeeds. She wouldn’t mention it. He’d been hurt enough. “But I—I cannot remain here at Tall Acre. Not when I’m little more than—”

  “Nay.” His gaze held hers, daring her to defy him.

  Defy him she did. She who had been reared a Menzies and finished with Mrs. Hallam’s airs and graces was little more than his mistress. “I am your—”

  “You are my wife. I wed you and made you mine in good faith before God and all of Virginia.”

  She shook her head. “Your first wife is alive, making a second marriage invalid. I am not your wife no matter how much you or I wish it to be.” Her voice frayed, but she clung to reason. “Nor am I Lily Cate’s mother.”

  “You are both a mother and a wife in all the ways that matter.”

  “That changes nothing.” She stood, too worn to argue. “Anne is back and I—I must go.”

  “Where?”

  “To Three Chimneys.”

  “You realize your absence lends credence to Anne’s claim. That you are not the rightful mistress of Tall Acre.”

  In the anguish of the last few hours, she’d not thought that far. She looked to a shuttered window as all the repercussions came crashing down.

  “Sophie, look at me.” He’d left his chair and now stood too close. “This is not about Lily Cate any longer.”

  “Seamus, please . . .”

  The feel of his hands on her shoulders sent a shiver of longing through her. “Whatever our beginnings, Sophie, I love you. I have never loved a woman the way I love you. Nothing can change that.”

  She gave another shake of her head, trying to build a wall his tender words kept tearing down. Now that she had his love, what did it matter? She took a step back. “Seamus, feelings aside, I cannot stay, no matter the reasons.”

  “Then you should know about the note that was found in the stables when I was away in Richmond last. Someone left a threat concerning you. I’ve since given it to the sheriff, who feels it is a part of this business with Anne.”

  “You didn’t tell me . . .”

  “I didn’t want to frighten you. I only tell you now because if you leave, I cannot guarantee your safety even with a guard posted.”

  “Then I’ll take extra care myself and rely on the Lord.” She turned away and thought he might reach for her—stop her leaving—but he was a man of honor and would let her go.

  Even as she walked the hall to their bedchamber, she felt the ache to be close to him. Would she never know him as her husband again? The threatening note bothered her but little. How to sever two fiercely woven hearts, two bodies made one in the truest biblical sense?

  She shut the door to their room, overwhelmed with where to start. Her personal belongings, all she’d brought from Three Chimneys, were scattered about, mingled with that of Seamus’s own.

  She pulled a worn trunk from beneath the bed and began packing essentials. Smallclothes and underpinnings and a few simple dresses. The lovely busk he’d given her. Her comb and hand mirror. She clutched the pearls that were his mother’s then put them back. Her movements were slow, unwilling. She didn’t stop till a beloved voice sounded in the doorway, turning her cold.

  “Mama, where are you going?” Lily Cate stood in her nightgown, clutching her doll.

  The plaintive question, couched in alarm, hurt more than anything that had gone before. Dropping down on a loveseat, Sophie took Lily Cate in her arms. She’d make this no harder than she had to. “Remember when I lived at Three Chimneys and you used to come visit me?” At her thoughtful nod, Sophie continued quietly, “I need to return and take care of matters there.”

  Sorrow engulfed the girl’s small face. “May I go with you?”

  “I wish you could, but your papa needs you here.” The words rang hollow. How could she explain such a tangled web? Forcing a half smile, she gestured to her trunk as if she were going on little more than an outing. “Can you help me pack? Fetch my clean linens from Florie?”

  With a nod Lily Cate was off, leaving Sophie to look about the room for anything she might have missed. Seamus would have to explain her leaving to the staff. She had no heart for it and couldn’t answer the awkward queries sure to follow.

  She moved to her desk and took Curtis’s letter out of a drawer, the money neatly folded. More money than she’d had need of till now. Was this what was meant by the Almighty bringing good out of all things? Somehow the Lord had provided for her through her brother’s and father’s desertion when she thought nothing good could ever come of such twisted circumstances.

  She bent her head in silent thanks, unwilling to think beyond this painful moment.

  Lord, I am Yours. Yours alone. Not Seamus’s. Not Lily Cate’s. None but Yours.

  Three Chimneys was no longer home. Home was Tall Acre. But at least Mistress Murdo and Henry were waiting. Since wedding Seamus, Sophie had only returned to visit a few times. But this . . . this was different. Shameful. Humiliating. She walked up the front steps, the groom carrying her trunk on one broad shoulder, her conundrum written on his solemn face as they entered the empty foyer.

  Sophie straightened her shoulders and weighed what she would say, only to have it unravel in seconds. The moment Mistress Murdo spied her, the housekeeper burst into a torrent of tears. Thankfully, word traveled fast among the staff, sparing Sophie an explanation.

  “I’ve heard the news but can scarce believe it.” Mistress Murdo dabbed at her eyes with her apron hem. “I knew ’twas something shifty behind Lily Cate’s disappearance. Mistress Anne and her manservant are to blame.” At Sophie’s silence she rushed on. “His name’s Blackaby. ’Twas him who snatched Lily Cate in Williamsburg and him who was trespassing and scaring folks here. I’ve no doubt he’s behind the light shining at Early Hall. When the sheriff nabbed him, he confessed in hopes to gain some sort of pardon.” She sniffed. “Shows how little allegiance he had to Mistress Anne.”

  Seamus hadn’t told her this. What had he said?

  Suffice it to say there is far more at play than first appears.

  “Yer in need of refreshment, looks like.” Taking Sophie’s hand as if she were no older than Lily Cate, Mistress Murdo led her out the back door toward shade and fresh air. A bench was situated beneath a sprawling magnolia tree nearly as old as Three Chimneys.

  Sophie surveyed the kitchen garden, the tidy rows a patchwork of green. “Have you any ginger tea?” Her request seemed more a weary guest’s. “I recall some in the larder.”

  “Ginger, is it?” With a nod Mistress Murdo hastened back inside, then returned shortly with a tray bearing a buttered scone and porcelain pot.

  Sophie sipped the tea cautiously, not trusting the scone.

  “Ye’ve nae turned down a sweet yet.” Mistress Murdo’s eyes were penetrating as an owl’s. “But under the circumstances . . .”

  “There’s a fever going round Tall Acre. I’m feeling a wee bit . . .” She left off. If her innards were chancy as a butter churn, it was because of Anne, nothing else.


  Mistress Murdo released a mournful breath. “Well, peely-wally or no, you look right bonny. I’ll go back into the kitchen and see about supper.”

  When she’d returned to her tasks, Sophie braved another sip of tea, the gold glint of her hand nearly making her sputter. She set her cup down and twisted her wedding ring off, sorrow overriding the nausea as it came free. She pocketed the ring, torn between keeping it and returning it, glad there was only one wedding band and Seamus was spared doing the same.

  If the Almighty could bring good from this predicament, then He was Almighty indeed.

  Her presence had filled Tall Acre and now her absence emptied it. Though she’d taken only a few of her belongings, he’d rather she have taken them all. After two days of legal counsel, Seamus returned from Richmond to find Sophie gone. Despite her warning that she would be at Three Chimneys, he felt foolish in his grief. Standing before a corner cupboard, he’d taken her wedding dress in his hands and buried his face in its silken folds and wept.

  Later, lying on his back in bed, an arm thrown over his eyes to block the sight of her remaining things, he heard the door open with a telling creak. Lily Cate’s small form was a flash of white as she rushed toward him in her nightgown. Papa, where is Mama? he expected her to say. But she climbed the bed steps and burrowed into his arms without a word as if sensing he had no answers.

  She’d asked him about Anne but once. “Who was that strange lady who took me away?”

  He’d replied, “Her name is Anne Howard, sister to your aunt Charlotte.” He would not call Anne mother. Or wife. Lily Cate had merely nodded at his choked answer, the confusion in her face finally giving way.

  Now he held her close, her warm breath tickling his cheek as she lapsed into sleep. In Sophie’s absence, Myrtilla mothered her as much as she did Jenny. He need not worry about Anne or her manservant causing more mischief, not with Blackaby sitting in the Richmond jail on kidnapping charges.

  In the hours ahead, he suspected Anne would come to Tall Acre just as she had before he’d left for Richmond, uninvited and without warning, wanting to wear him down amidst the scandal to ensue. No longer blindsided by her beauty, he’d faced her, immune to her threats and cajoling and tears. Years of war and ongoing reports from Riggs of her absinthe-induced rages had stripped him of all gullibility and sharpened his vision. He’d turned her out before she’d uttered a single sentence.