The Mistress of Tall Acre

  “Simply put, I adore her.”

  “Mayhap by the end of the visit, you’ll find something not to your liking,” he said, their familiar banter of old taking hold.

  “Hush,” she shot back, busying herself with sugar and cream. “Truly, Seamus. She’s lovely. She’s also candid and engaging and remarkably well read. She’s even—”

  “She’s in love with someone else.”

  “Oh?” Her greenish gaze swiveled back to him. “Then why did you wed her? Or perhaps the better question is, why did she wed you?”

  “The man she cared for didn’t care for her.” The words came hard, but there was no skirting the truth. “She was about to lose her home and had few options.”

  The drums quieted as Lily Cate switched to the fiddle, but the hammering in Seamus’s chest stayed steadfast. Perhaps Sophie would have been better off in Edinburgh. If he’d not intervened, she would be on her way there now, not tied up in matters of his own making.

  Cosima pulled him back to the present. “She’s absolutely devoted to Lily Cate.”

  “That’s why I married her,” he admitted.

  “So this isn’t a love match.”

  He hesitated. “One day, mayhap.”

  Cosima sipped her tea, her prolonged pause preparing him for her next volley. “Is that why you’re keeping separate chambers?”

  Heat snuck up his neck. His voice was low and flat beneath the squeak of the fiddle. “I cannot wed and bed a woman without knowing she has some feeling for me besides reluctance—or duty.”

  “Well, removing Anne’s portrait from the Palladian room might help. She is no longer the mistress of Tall Acre, mind you. Sophie Menzies Ogilvy is.” There was chiding in her tone, but she was treading carefully. She knew not to push him. “Start there, Seamus.”

  “Your point is well taken,” he said as if discussing battlefield strategy with his fellow officers. “But in my defense, that room is rarely used, and I’ve forgotten all about the painting.”

  “Perhaps Anne’s Williamsburg relations would like to have it, or Lily Cate when she’s older. At least put it in the attic till then.”

  The drums were thundering again, and Sophie gave a tentative try to the whistle. Cosima laughed as Sophie winced and switched to the trumpet instead. For a moment she seemed as winsome and childlike as Lily Cate, tugging at Seamus in fresh ways.

  “How is Philip?” he asked, changing course.

  “Never better. We celebrated our tenth anniversary recently, you know. He regrets business kept him in Philadelphia but hopes to join you for some foxhunting in the fall.”

  “He’s welcome at Tall Acre anytime, as are you.” He pulled himself to his feet, the weight of the pistol hidden in his waistcoat an unwelcome reminder of the bearded stranger and strange light. He’d searched Early Hall himself after Lily Cate’s revelation and stirred up nothing but dust and unwanted memories. His daughter had an active imagination. The moon could easily reflect off glass and mimic a light. “Time for my nightly rounds. I leave for Richmond on business at daybreak.”

  “Sleep well, little brother,” Cosima said, laughing again as Lily Cate began blowing the whistle and beating the drums.

  Seamus swam upward through a swell of fog and pain. His left leg was almost useless and would bear his weight for only a moment at a time. His right hand needed to be amputated, the surgeon said. The dark blue of his uniform was torn and streaked with blood and grime. He wore no shirt, for it had long since gone for bandages. His boots were unspeakable.

  Through the haze and heat of his battlefield dreams, all the fighting and falling back, she stayed uppermost, rising above deafening musket fire and the never-ending stench of smoke and powder.

  He jerked awake, clammy despite the chill. For a few disorienting seconds the room spun and then settled into cold, unfamiliar reality. Grant’s Tavern. Early morning. Late March. The war won. But his chest felt empty, as if carved out by a cannonball.

  He was missing . . . Sophie.

  He shut his eyes, still at war within. If he didn’t love her, why did he miss her? Why this nagging need to make things right between them, move toward more of her, more of them? Why did his blood rise at the mere thought there might be something between them?

  All his tattered memories of Anne rose up and made him want to retreat. Yet some small, stubborn hope challenged him to wade through the hurts of the past lest he repeat them, taking hold of what was before him. Sophie. Second chances. Not distance and coldness and regret.

  He dared a tentative, heartfelt prayer. For forgiveness. Direction. Wisdom.

  What now, Lord?

  Turning over, pulse drumming in his chest, he hardly expected an answer.

  You need to court her.

  He went completely still. The thought was not his own. He hadn’t the courage to court her. But aye, he needed to court her. Woo her. Make her his. But how? A strange task to woo a woman after the wedding, but there’d been no time before.

  He lay on his back, staring the idea in the face like he was preparing for battle, as if determined to drive any other man from the farthest reaches of her mind. With the Lord’s help, he would court her. Only with the Lord’s help was he capable of courting a woman as a woman ought to be courted . . . loving Sophie as she ought to be loved.

  He wanted to be an attentive, tender husband. Wanted to savor more moments like the one that had passed between them by the hearth’s fire when he’d playfully called her his bride. Something had happened in that too fleeting instant that left him changed.

  Had she felt it too?

  The dancing master finally arrived, a score of Roan County children in his wake. Cosima was in her element supervising, a task Sophie gladly relinquished. With her energy and enthusiasm, Cosima turned the ballroom into a fete, leaving Sophie to her stillroom and her rounds. Seamus was still in Richmond. She wasn’t sure when he’d be back.

  Going into his study, she returned a quill and pen knife to his desk, breathing in the fragrance of pipe smoke and leather. The lengthy list he’d made atop the cluttered mahogany top couldn’t be ignored. She studied the page, noting his writing varied in intensity and clarity, finally fading to a weary scrawl.

  Graft 40 cherries and plums. Sow flax in west pasture. Ready Three Chimneys’ fields for planting. Finish rail fence along Roan Creek and put chariot horses there. Prepare lambing pens. Hire millwright. Rid coach house of Anne’s riding chair . . .

  The last sentence shook her. His wording was strong. If he knew the significance of that riding chair . . . She prayed he never would. Overwhelmed by all that needed to be done, she felt a bit shamefaced. Why had she not realized he was having such trouble writing? His maimed hand would only accommodate so much. He needed a secretary to help manage everything. Or a willing wife. She’d forgotten her promise to help him when she returned from Annapolis . . .

  Her gaze landed on an ill-concealed paper. To Seamus, Riggs had written in a tight, exacting hand, “As for Molly Kennedy, a more lazy, deceitful, and impudent hussy is not to be found in the United States than she.”

  The new indenture. There was always drama among the staff. Seamus had threatened to send Molly back to Ireland till Sophie had intervened, moving her from the dairy to the spinning house, where another wheel had been added and the women were making striped fabric instead of drab homespun. But Sophie didn’t know if the arrangement would last.

  Meanwhile Mrs. Lamont was laid low with gout and Sophie had assumed her duties, supervising Florie and the other two housemaids and kitchen staff. But at the moment, none of this was on her mind. She touched Seamus’s pipe with its familiar thistle Pollock, the tobacco scent pungent and pleasant. Being in his study, among his own beloved things, assuaged her need of him somewhat.

  A sudden movement sent her gaze to the door. Cosima stood looking at her, a fan in hand. Composed of peacock feathers, it fluttered artfully amidst the dark decor.

  Sophie smiled. “How goes it, the dancing?”
br />   “The children have nearly mastered the country dances, but you and Seamus are needed to step the minuet and show them how it’s done.”

  “I’ll be glad to.” Opening a ledger, Sophie quickly added to their order for Biddle in Philadelphia. Loaf sugar. Best Hyson tea. One small satin Capuchin hat. “But you’ll be hard-pressed to find Seamus as he’s still in . . .”

  She looked up, voice fading. Cosima was no longer in the doorway. Seamus was. Dressed for dinner and looking like he’d never left the house.

  “My sister’s powers of persuasion know no bounds. Would you do me the honor of a dance, Sophie?”

  She smiled her delight as he extended his good hand. Something about him seemed markedly different. He, who’d helped rout Burgoyne at Saratoga and laid siege to Cornwallis at Yorktown, looked touchingly unsure of her.

  “Of course I’ll dance with you, Seamus.”

  They crossed the foyer and entered the ballroom where the children were finishing a country dance. Lily Cate hurried across the floor to greet them, giggling all the way.

  “Papa, are you going to dance the minuet with Mama?”

  “Aye. And then I’m going to dance with you.” He looked to the fiddler and dancing master as they took their places, the children watching from the edge of the floor. The music began, and Seamus gave a bow to Sophie’s curtsey. One dance turned into two, three . . . six. Night set in and more candles were lit.

  Sophie had heard that George Washington, despite his great height and heft, was a graceful dancer. Seamus was the same. He never missed a step, though she nearly lost her footing trying to keep her mind on the maneuvering. Flushed and slightly winded, they danced a final, joyous reel, which led them down the length of the lovely room.

  Sophie looked up without thought to the marble hearth where a fire glowed. Something seemed amiss. Out of place.

  The portrait of Anne had come down.

  26

  Keys jingling as she walked, Sophie opened the door of the spinning house the next morning, the sound of angry voices fading as she stepped into the room. Myrtilla and Molly, the Irish indenture, faced off, bickering yet again. Dismayed, Sophie mentally raced through her options. Perhaps Molly should be sent into the fields. Or returned to Ireland, if Seamus had his way.

  “Molly, you’re needed in the dairy.” Exasperation rising, Sophie forced a calm she wasn’t feeling. “Myrtilla, I’d like to speak with you next door.”

  Molly sauntered past, head high, while Myrtilla followed Sophie outside. A sudden burst of girlish laughter lightened the mood of the moment. Jenny and Lily Cate were playing French hoops on the side lawn, brandishing their wands as gracefully as they could as they tried to catch the flying circles. Sophie waved as she went by, wishing she could join them.

  In the privacy of the schoolhouse, its walls still smelling of fresh milk paint, Sophie faced Myrtilla. “What are you and Molly quarreling about today?”

  Myrtilla stood, dark arms akimbo. “You only have to look at Molly to quarrel with her.”

  “If it keeps happening, I’ll have to pass the matter to the general, and I’d rather not.”

  Sophie saw the alarm in her eyes, sensed her bone-deep loyalty to Tall Acre. While she might bear Sophie a grudge regarding her mother, Myrtilla revered Seamus.

  “Don’t go troublin’ the general none, Mistress Ogilvy.”

  “The general put you in charge of the spinning house, and I don’t want that to change. But you and Molly must work in peace. What can be done to bring that about?”

  Myrtilla bit her lip. “Let Molly spin half a day and do kitchen work the rest. She don’t take to nothin’ long, though she spins fine once she’s settled.”

  “The next time Molly has an outburst, come straight to me and I’ll move her. Do your best not to provoke her in the meantime.”

  Myrtilla nodded, eyes roaming the room. “When you goin’ to start your schoolin’?”

  When, indeed. Would she ever find the time? “As soon as our guest leaves and Lily Cate returns from Williamsburg.”

  “Williamsburg?” Wariness flooded Myrtilla’s gaze, making Sophie regret the slip.

  “Lily Cate doesn’t know she’s to go yet. The general wants it kept quiet.”

  “Why Williamsburg?”

  “Lily Cate’s kin want to see her.”

  Opposition curled Myrtilla’s lip. “Mistress Anne’s, I suppose.”

  Sophie wouldn’t say they’d had little choice in the matter. At the same time, what could a visit hurt? “She’ll return to Tall Acre in a week.” Sophie forged ahead, a new plan forming. If Seamus was willing . . . “Would you consider letting Jenny go to Williamsburg with Lily Cate?”

  Her hopeful question was nearly snuffed by Myrtilla’s dark look. Keeping in mind Myrtilla was now a free woman, Sophie waited, sure of a refusal.

  Myrtilla ran dark fingers over an old slate. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Sophie nearly sighed. Whatever grievance Myrtilla had about the past seemed to have spilled over to the present. Not even Jenny’s friendship with Lily Cate had turned her temper.

  Stepping onto the sunny stoop just beyond the open door, Myrtilla gave her a last dark look. “If the general wants Jenny to go, she’ll go.”

  Sophie felt a small, surprising victory. “I’ll speak with him about it then.”

  Mid-afternoon, Sophie hurried to the house, the slant of the sun telling her she was late for tea. Cosima, for all her free-spiritedness, operated with a soldier’s punctuality. Tea was at four o’clock and not a minute later.

  She and Lily Cate were gathered round a table in the small parlor, nibbling and chatting. The fragrance of Hyson was strong and pleasant, Sophie’s empty chair pulled out invitingly.

  “We’d all but given up,” Cosima told her, pouring her a steaming cup. “Between you and Seamus working night and day, Tall Acre will return to its former glory in no time.”

  Across the table Lily Cate smiled, her doll seated between them. “I saw you talking with Papa in the garden this morning.”

  Sophie reached for the sugar. “We were trying to decide what to plant. The gardener had questions . . .”

  “Just remember, all work and no play make the master and mistress dull indeed.” Cosima gestured to the pianoforte. “Though Seamus tells me you’re a fine musician, I haven’t heard a note in the time I’ve been here so will have to take his word for it.”

  Sophie digested that without reply. Cosima rarely made a frivolous comment; there was always a pithy message beneath. Before Sophie could divert her, Lily Cate took up the charge.

  “Aunt Cosima says I’m in need of a baby brother and sister—or a parrot.”

  Cosima winked. “And I’m so hoping it won’t be a parrot.” As the bird preened in its corner cage, Cosima shot Sophie an apologetic glance. “All I meant is that I hope you and Seamus make up for mine and Philip’s lack.”

  Sophie didn’t miss the sudden wistfulness in Cosima’s eyes. Playing along, she looked at Lily Cate. “So what would you like most? A baby brother or a sister?”

  “Both!”

  “Best talk to your father about that,” Cosima whispered conspiratorially.

  Did Cosima know of their separate rooms? Separate lives? Sophie sampled the gingerbread made rich with orange curd, the gnawing inside her having little to do with hunger. “You and Philip will have to come down for the christening . . . act as godparents.”

  Cosima’s brows slanted inquiringly as Lily Cate switched subjects. “Aunt Cosima says I must visit her in Philadelphia.”

  Nodding, Cosima brushed a crumb from her bodice. “I was asking about her former governess. If you cannot secure another, there’s a fine day school in the city founded by Quakers.”

  Curious, Sophie looked again at Lily Cate. “Would you like to go away to school?”

  Her head shook so vigorously her curls wobbled. “I would miss you and Papa—and Sassy.”

  Sophie rued the way her eyes darkened like Seamus’s did w
hen considering something dire. How would they break the news to her about the coming week in Williamsburg? “Perhaps when you’re more grown up you can attend, like I did at Mrs. Hallam’s.”

  “A lovely idea. As for me, I shall be leaving all too soon,” Cosima said with a dramatic sigh. “Will you miss me—and Shrub?”

  Lily Cate giggled again, eyes on the pet bird, her wary mood fading. “Yes, though Papa said he won’t miss Shrub at all.”

  “Well!” Cosima said in mock offense. “I shall leave Shrub with your uncle Philip next time. Or talk your father into having better manners.”

  The parrot squawked, and the three of them dissolved in unladylike laughter.

  The next evening ushered in the bittersweet. For the time being, Seamus felt at peace. Blessed. Able to keep the world out. Cosima had left for Philadelphia that morning, and the house was tranquil. Tomorrow seemed years away. Then the clock struck nine, reminding him that time could be a tyrant.

  As if sensing the moment had come, Sophie gave him a pensive smile, and he reached for Lily Cate, taking her on his knee. Looking up at him, she smiled and touched his bristled cheek. His heart turned over. She’d made such strides in accepting him. Would he now see it all undone?

  “Tomorrow we’re going to Williamsburg to see your aunt and uncle.” He spoke slowly, voice emptied of emotion, gauging her reaction. “They want you to stay with them for a few days.”

  There was a surprised pause. She sat looking up at him like he’d done her some injury. “Without you and Mama?”

  “We’ll be back to bring you home in a week.”

  She leaned into him, her fingers picking at his coat buttons. “Promise?”

  His chest went cold. She felt so small, the separation so large. “Aye, I promise.”

  “Will you come in the night like last time?”

  So she hadn’t forgotten. “Not in the night.” His fury with the Fitzhughs rose up and nearly choked out his reply. “Early in the day. Mayhap at first light.”