To reorient himself, he latched onto the open corner cupboard where medicines were kept, the two wing chairs and tea table before the cold hearth. His gaze finally settled on the bed dressed with crewel embroidery.
“Seamus.” Anne lay back on the bank of downy pillows, looking exhausted but triumphant. “Come meet your new daughter.”
Spurs scraped the heart-pine floor before he stepped onto a lush rug and took a seat on the edge of the four-poster bed as carefully as he could. In light of the doctor’s unwelcome words, the ever-delicate Anne seemed made of spun glass. If she was broken, he was to blame, at sixteen stone and over six feet.
As she settled the newborn in his arms, the catch in his throat nearly stole all speech. One tiny hand peeked from the blanket, the plump face red and round as an orchard apple. He swallowed hard. “She’s . . . beautiful.”
Something wistful kindled in Anne’s eyes. “You were hoping for a boy, though you never said so.”
He gave a slight, dismissive shrug. “Soldiers always want sons.”
“There’ll be some, Lord willing. As soon as I’m well again . . .”
Her guileless words seared his heart. Spurlock hadn’t told her then, but had left it up to him. Well, he wouldn’t do it now. Let their dream of a large family be left intact a little longer.
Her lovely face turned entreating. “What shall we call her?”
The pride and expectancy in her eyes brought a wave of shame. He wouldn’t confess he’d only entertained male names and had given little thought to a girl. Even his men had wagered on a boy, placing bold bets about the campfire till he’d ridden home to settle the matter himself.
“A name . . .” Lowering his head, he nuzzled the baby’s ear, her downy neck and fuzz of dark hair. The decision came quick. He was used to thinking on his feet. As Washington’s newly appointed major general, he could do little else. “Why not Lilias Catherine?”
“After my mother and yours?” Surprise shone in Anne’s eyes. “Of course. ’Tis perfect.”
He hesitated, looking into his daughter’s face as if seeking answers. She seemed too little to merit such an onerous name. “We’ll call her Lily Cate.”
Nodding, Anne sank back on the pillows, her face so pale he could see the path of blue veins beneath. “I’m relieved. I didn’t want you riding away without knowing.”
He smiled. “Let me take her till you’ve slept for a few hours. Doctor Spurlock said she won’t be hungry yet, and—” He took a breath, fighting the lurch of leaving. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.” The casual phrasing was more lie. He didn’t know if he’d be back.
Her hazel eyes held his. “How is it on the field?”
The question wrenched him. She rarely asked. Their brief times together were too precious to be squandered on melancholy things.
“’Tis a strange war. We drill. We wait. We fight and fall back.” He wouldn’t tell her the biggest battle of his life was imminent, or that American forces were weak—deprived and diseased—and no match for Clinton’s redcoats. Leaning forward, careful of the warm weight in his arms, he kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’ll go below and introduce Miss Lily Cate to the household.”
Yawning, eyes already half closed, Anne gave a last, lingering look at the baby. Down the wide, curving stair he went to a staff on tenterhooks since dawn. The birth had been—what had Spurlock said?—brutal. His people deserved a look, at least. The midwife was in the foyer preparing to leave, her daughter with her.
“Mistress Menzies, I’ll settle up with you before you go.” He glanced from her to her daughter, both of them looking far less disheveled than the doctor.
“There’s no fee, General, not for a hero of the Revolution.” Pulling on her gloves, Mistress Menzies smiled in her genteel, unruffled way, reminding him that she was no ordinary midwife.
“I have you to thank for calling in Spurlock when the situation became . . . untenable,” he told her.
“You can thank my daughter for that, General. She is fleet of foot and a midwife in the making.”
He took in Sophie Menzies in a glance. Dark. Plain. Clad in a fine crimson cape like her mother’s.
“Then I thank you too, Miss Menzies,” he said.
She smiled up at him, blue gaze fastening on the baby in his arms. “Have you named her, General Ogilvy?”
“Aye, she’s to be called Lily Cate.”
The pleasure in her expression seemed confirmation. “Lovely and memorable,” she said with her mother’s poise and a hint of her father’s Scots burr. “I bid you and your wee daughter good day.”
They withdrew out the front door while he went out the back, which was flung open to the river and leading to Tall Acre’s dependencies. At his appearance, the steamy kitchen at the end of a shaded colonnade came to a standstill.
“Why, General Ogilvy, looks like you mustered up a fine baby.” Ruby, his longtime cook, hastily left the hearth as the other servants looked on. She leaned near, and one ebony finger caressed a petal-soft cheek. “She’s got your blue eyes and black hair, but I see the mistress in her pert nose and mouth.”
The maids and housekeeper gathered round next on the rear veranda, cooing and sighing like the dovecote’s doves. Next he went to the stables, a fatherly pride swelling his chest. By the time he returned to his study, his daughter had slept through a brief meeting with his estate manager and a first look at a prize foal. Completely smitten, he crossed to a wing chair in his study, reluctant to let her go.
“You’re only a few hours old and already you’ve worked your way into my heart.” His voice was a ragged whisper. “But there are some things you need to know. I don’t want to leave you. I’m willing to die for you . . . and if I don’t come back, I want you to forgive me.”
The choked words staunched none of the pain. His daughter opened wide indigo eyes and stared up at him, as if she understood every syllable. He pressed his damp, unshaven cheek to hers, savoring the feathering of her warm breath on his face. Her flawlessness turned him inside out.
“Till we meet again, Lily Cate Ogilvy of Tall Acre. Never forget your loving father’s words.”
Author Note
Readers often ask if I have a favorite book of the ones I’ve written. This is one of them. Though this story required more research than other novels, I’ve enjoyed the journey so much and have learned a great deal along the way. I even cried when I wrote “The End,” something I don’t always do.
From childhood I’ve been enthralled with Pocahontas’s life and legend. But the Pocahontas I discovered while researching this novel was not the one taught to me in school. The most helpful sources came from Pocahontas’s own people. Their unique perspective, oral tradition, and written history about her ring true and make her even more remarkable. I’ve attempted in a small way to honor her memory here.
John Rolfe’s romantic letter about Pocahontas prior to their marriage is especially moving, and so I have included it in the novel:
It is she to whom my heart and best thoughts are and have been a long time so entangled, and enthralled in so intricate a labyrinth that I could not unwind myself thereout.
Alexander Renick’s character was inspired by John Rolfe, just as Mattachanna was inspired by Pocahontas herself.
When I was planning this novel, the NPS Historic Jamestowne website and Encyclopedia Virginia were of particular help to me in creating characters like the Hopewells. They were inspired by Captain William Peirce, his wife Joan, and their daughter, who married John Rolfe, the widower of Pocahontas. Sadly, John Rolfe disappears from the historical record around 1622, which makes me even more thankful to write fiction that offers hope and happily ever afters.
Historical purists will note that tobacco brides came to Virginia’s shores earlier than the date of the novel. For the story’s sake I chose 1634, as the colony was well past the starving time of earlier years and proved solid ground for the story to unfold. But it was still a highly volatile, dangerous period until the m
ore settled eighteenth century. Place names like Mount Malady have been resurrected beyond their time in history to help in the telling of the story.
I had a great deal of fun with Widow Brodie’s Old World insults and was only too happy to return to my love of etymology and discover that the phrase “do or die” originated in the fifteenth century, if not earlier.
The last time I visited Jamestown on a chilly spring day, few were there. It is a moving, beautiful place in any season and feels like hallowed historical ground. We’ll never know all that happened during those early years, but one of the joys of historical fiction is breathing new life into people and events so that history and our American heritage are not forgotten.
Acknowledgments
Huzzah to Revell—my publishing home for twelve novels—for supporting my stepping back a century to write this book. They are exemplary in their commitment to bringing readers edifying fiction and nonfiction. It’s an ongoing honor to carry their imprint.
And to my agent, Janet Grant, for always having a vision of what a story can be and cheering me on from start to finish. You make me a better wordsmith. Thank you.
None of this would be possible without readers, not fans but friends. So many of you have enriched my life, provided ongoing inspiration for my writing, and supported my books in countless ways. You are one of God’s best gifts.
To those new to my novels or who want to stay connected, I’d love to send you my seasonal, free e-newsletter. To sign up, just visit my website: www.laurafrantz.net. I hope you’ll visit my social media accounts on Instagram, Facebook, and Pinterest, where I post often about my novels and historical interests. Staying connected is a joy to me and I hope to you too.
I look forward to our next historical adventure!
Laura Frantz is a Christy Award winner and the ECPA bestselling author of twelve historical novels, including The Frontiersman’s Daughter, Courting Morrow Little, The Colonel’s Lady, and the Christy Award–winning The Lacemaker. When not reading and writing, she loves to garden, take long walks, listen to music, and travel. She is the proud mom of an American soldier and a career firefighter. When not at home in Kentucky, she and her husband live in Washington State. Learn more at www.laurafrantz.net.
LauraFrantz.net
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for An Uncommon Woman
Books by Laura Frantz
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Sneak Peek of Another Novel by Laura Frantz
Author Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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