How could she turn him away?
For hours on end Sophie sat in her wedding gown, serene without and at war within. When she wasn’t posing for her portrait, she went up to Lily Cate’s room, where the doll dresses Sophie had sewn for her lay across a little chair, the doll beside them. The beloved toys haunted.
If Lily Cate had run away, why hadn’t she taken her doll? It went everywhere with her, even to the necessary. Sophie smoothed the silken dress worn soft by small hands, the dark hair a bit thin, the eyes lackluster.
Lord, bring Lily Cate home. I’ll not even ask for Seamus’s heart. Just return her. Restore our family. Please.
The irrational prayer made little sense, nor did the continuous fire she insisted be kept burning in the grate before her. The days were getting longer, warmer. But if she let it go out, lost hope, Lily Cate might not come back. Desperation twisted her mind and emotions. She could only imagine how Seamus must feel. He’d won a war yet lost his daughter. Could he live with the heartache if she never came home?
The sweet song of a lark rent the April air. Sophie leaned against a column of the garden folly, the whimsical little clapboard building Seamus’s father had built for his mother. Perched at the far end of the garden, it overlooked the river and courted a sultry breeze, its pagoda roof a shelter from the sun. Fragrant wisteria twined with climbing roses and decorated its exterior, smothering her in shade and scent.
She’d lost all track of time, almost forgotten the season. Though another week had passed and Seamus was still away, Sophie felt disoriented. Everything in her world revolved around Lily Cate and Seamus, and without them her world had shrunk to shadows.
Blind to the beauty, her gaze traveled across the water, past the long weathered dock and bobbing rowboat, to Early Hall. It sat silent and empty while Tall Acre was humming and thriving.
A litter of foxhound puppies had just been born, as well as the first crop of lambs. They dotted the pasture like dandelion down, scattered bits of white, their sweet bleating carrying on the wind as they followed their mothers. Watching them, Sophie felt her heart trip. This was the season she and Lily Cate had looked forward to most, making plans for picnics and rides and games out of doors. Seamus was even going to teach Lily Cate to swim.
“Mistress Ogilvy . . .”
She turned away from the river when Myrtilla’s voice reached out to her, unmistakably kind. “We thought you might like these.” Jenny stood behind her mother, her face marked with sadness, holding out some pussy willows.
Sophie took the offering, her cold fingers touching the velvety nubs that had burst into bloom. Numb as she was, the gesture was not lost on her. Whatever Myrtilla’s feelings about Anne or even Sophie herself, there was no doubt she cared for Lily Cate.
Myrtilla came nearer. “Jenny has somethin’ to tell you. Somethin’ she remembers.”
The folly came sharply into focus. Sophie looked at Jenny, hopeful yet afraid.
“I ’member Lily Cate saw that man again in Williamsburg.” Jenny swiped the wetness from her eyes with a linsey sleeve. “The bearded man who used to come here.”
Sophie’s heart seemed to stop. “And you? Did you see him too?”
Jenny shook her head. “Just Lily Cate. She said he was watchin’ us across the fence when we played in the garden, and then he was gone.”
Sophie put her arms around Jenny’s bent shoulders and hugged her, suddenly aware of how different she was than Lily Cate. Bony and tall and smelling of wood smoke. Not soft and lavender-scented and small. “Thank you for telling me. ’Tis important.”
Jenny leaned against her, her words a whisper. “Granny Bea says God knows where Lily Cate is, even if we don’t.”
Sophie nodded, needing the reminder in light of their helplessness.
“Come along now,” Myrtilla said in her no-nonsense way. “I need to return to my spinnin’.” Her face was a dark mask again as they left the folly.
Sophie fetched a vase from the stillroom, went to the well, and drew water for the pussy willows. Tall Acre’s back door was ajar, the maids busy beating rugs in the open air. She was used to seeing Seamus striding about. He needed to know what Jenny had told her, flimsy as it was. Though it might not help locate Lily Cate, Sophie felt sure this unknown man played a role in her disappearance. It couldn’t be coincidence. Wishing for something more substantial, she went to Seamus’s study to pen the news to Williamsburg.
28
Sophie stood with Mrs. Lamont in the Palladian room turned studio. The smell of oil paint was strong, the large canvas facing the riverfront windows for the best light. Brushes and jars abounded, but Mr. Peale was taking a walk in the garden. Sophie focused on the bare place above the mantel where the new portrait would hang when done. What had become of Anne’s portrait, Sophie did not know. Not even Florie had told her.
“Well, I must say, Mr. Peale has remarkable talent.” Beside her, Mrs. Lamont stared at the work in progress, her expression already pronouncing it a success. “Certainly a fine feat for a saddle maker turned artist.”
Sophie stared absently at the canvas without comment. Would she always associate this portrait with heartache and loss?
“I forgot Peale was coming.”
Seamus’s low voice spun Sophie around. He studied the painting, his expression unreadable. He’d been gone a fortnight, the longest two weeks of her life. And now he’d returned but had no answers. She could tell just by looking at him. His unshaven jaw, the weary lines about his eyes, and his rumpled clothing and muddy boots bespoke sleepless nights and hours in the saddle.
Mrs. Lamont excused herself, leaving them alone.
Seamus looked at her, but his blue gaze seemed washed out, without focus. “We know little more than we did. She vanished sometime the night of the second. The servants deny any wrongdoing. Nothing was disturbed in the house. The Fitzhughs state the doors were locked and they don’t know what happened, but since they’re the prime suspects, they’re still being questioned.”
“And the man Jenny told us about, the one here and in Williamsburg?”
“We have little to go on, I’m afraid. Lily Cate is the only one who’s seen him.”
“And so we . . . wait?” For days, months, years. She saw the futility in his eyes, and it shook her to her soul.
“I’ve posted a substantial reward. The sheriff and constables are doing all they can. They even questioned me.”
“You?”
He gave a weary nod. “Has anyone threatened me or my family? Just a trespasser. Is there anyone who bears me a grudge? Aye, the whole British army. Do I get along with Anne’s relations? Nay. Did I harm my daughter?”
“Oh Seamus . . . they didn’t.”
“I keep thinking of her hungry. Cold. Bewildered.” His voice wavered. “Wondering why I don’t come.”
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips. Such torment, all this wondering. Where was God amidst such anguish? Would it drive Seamus away from Him? Or bring him closer? His fierce reserve left her more undone. He seemed so strong. Unbending. Or had war so hardened him that he was able to stay standing while inwardly he was coming apart?
His low voice was raked with exhaustion. “I have known pain. But I have never known pain like this.”
“Mistress Ogilvy, there’s a matter that needs discussing.” Riggs stood before her, hat in hand, gaze on the stillroom floor.
Surprised, Sophie took him in, seeing echoes of Jenny in his pockmarked face though his daughter mostly resembled Myrtilla. Sophie’s hands stilled on the mortar and pestle she was using to blend herbs for another needed tonic. “Of course, Riggs. Speak freely, please.”
“It’s the general, ma’am. Says he saw another light late last night at Early Hall.” He looked up at her, stark worry in his eyes. “Trouble is, nobody else saw that light.” He swallowed, clearly ill at ease. “I’m not nay-saying him. I just know the master’s a mite touchy about his first wife. I thought maybe it would help to do away with the riding chair
. He mentioned it once but never gave me the order to be rid of it himself.”
She hadn’t forgotten finding Seamus’s note about it. Did he know the history behind that chair? She’d hoped to have it painted. Use it for outings with Lily Cate. But now in light of Riggs’s words she saw how unwise a wish that was. “I’ve seen it in the coach house.”
“Aye. With your permission I could have it moved to Three Chimneys.”
Locked away, like Anne’s diary? Riggs was clever and clearly wanted to help Seamus.
He continued. “The general is meeting with his tenants this morn. Now might be a good time.”
“By all means, move it immediately. Three Chimneys’ coach house is empty.”
Thanking her, he left, leaving her to ponder his words.
The master’s a mite touchy about his first wife.
Just how much did Seamus know about Tobias Early?
At sunrise, Sophie was awakened from a fitful sleep by the slamming of the riverfront door. Seamus? Rattled by the sound and what it meant, she flew to the window and caught his agitated stride before he disappeared behind the boxwood hedge.
When she lost sight of him, inexplicable panic set in. She tore off her nightgown and began dressing, her frantic fingers working the hooks of her gown. There was no time for stays or stockings or minding her hair. Stuffing her feet into the nearest pair of slippers, she left her bedchamber and went out into a day so soft and hushed it only magnified her turmoil.
Was he at the stables? One of the dependencies? He’d been home but two days. He was barely sleeping or eating. He was always armed—never a worry till now. Sometimes shock, grief, drove people to extremes. Something urged her to action, but she hardly knew where to begin.
Half sick with alarm, she finally found him at the river’s edge, untethering a rowboat. “Where are you going?”
He turned, his bloodshot eyes like a blow. “Across the river.”
To Early Hall? She looked toward the shuttered house. Had he seen another light? “I’ll come with you.”
“Nay, Sophie.” His back to her, he shoved the boat into the current and jumped in with an ease that belied his exhaustion, leaving her little choice but to wade in after him.
Clutching her skirts, she held them high as the current tugged at her and wet sand engulfed her slippers. Heedless of his disapproval, she climbed into the bow unaided, rocking the boat as he took up the oars.
Their glide across the river was silent save the splash of the water, a few dragonflies darting about, their incandescent wings the bright blue of the river. Seamus ignored her, his angry paddle strokes bringing them swiftly to the opposite shore. Gripping the sides of the boat, she steadied herself as he ran aground. In a gesture more angry than gallant, he picked her up and planted her on the grassy bank as if she were little more than a hogshead of tobacco.
Shaken, she smoothed her rumpled clothes as they started up the hill, her skirts dragging in the dew-damp grass. Seamus’s face darkened the nearer they came. Together they took in the crumbling brick outbuildings before fastening on the abandoned house. Ivy wove a thick web across a multitude of doors and windows. Early Hall looked unwelcoming and forbidding even in broad daylight, making Sophie want to tug on his sleeve and retreat.
When they reached the edge of the garden, once carefully laid out in elegant parterres, she felt a sadness she couldn’t explain. It was a ruin of weeds and vines, impassable. They skirted it, Seamus leading. Every door was locked save a side entrance with a broken latch.
His tone was terse. “Stay here while I go in.”
Uneasiness rising, she waited a few seconds then followed. Inside, the house was still as a crypt. Pale with dust, the spacious, well-appointed rooms held once-treasured ceramics from Europe and the Orient and fine oil paintings on peeling walls. Dust covers draped a crush of furnishings. Mice and bats had had a heyday and were still. She walked about slowly, touching nothing but perusing everything.
Had Seamus gone upstairs?
The startling sound of breaking glass was her answer. Spinning round, she took the grand staircase by twos, slipping in her haste and skinning her knees on the landing. “Seamus!”
Her cry was smothered by more violence coming from a distant room. Chest heaving, she ran toward the sound till she found him, a sea of shattered glass between them. Every window in the once-lovely chamber had been destroyed. A humid wind buffeted moth-eaten drapes, brushing her flushed face.
Seamus stood looking at her, stance wide and hands fisted at his sides. Face ravaged with a consuming misery, he seemed one step away from madness.
Her voice broke. “Seamus . . . please.”
She started forward across the wreckage, barely aware of the sharpness beneath her thin soles. In back of him was a marble hearth, an abundance of ashes within. A recent fire? Perhaps the explanation of the strange light? Some passing vagabond or gypsy, likely. Many were homeless and wandering with the war won. She tore her gaze away, searching for some tenderness, some familiarity, within the face she loved so well.
His eyes were on her, his own chest heaving, staring at her as if she were little more than the enemy, the wife no longer wanted, no longer needed. The truth of it didn’t have to be spoken. It resounded in the glittering chasm between them as if he’d shouted it. Without Lily Cate, what purpose did she serve? She was naught but a burden, a reminder of his loss, his heartache.
With three quick steps, he closed the distance between them, glass crunching beneath the hard soles of his boots. Still taut with fury, he picked her up and carried her out of the battered room and down dirty stairs into a day so brilliant she squinted beneath its fierce glare.
Again he set her down roughly. “I told you not to come, Sophie.”
He said nothing more as he rowed them across, the fine linen of his shirt torn and stained, knuckles bleeding. When they touched the southern shore, he sat listless at the oars, head bent, his unkempt hair a tangle of neglect. She shut her eyes, her heart empty of all but the simplest plea.
Lord . . . help us.
Once they started up the hill to Tall Acre, Seamus ahead of her, a servant met him about some matter needing immediate attention. Seamus walked away from her without looking back.
Benumbed, Sophie spent the rest of the morning in the stillroom, trying to plan the physic garden, a replica of Seamus’s mother’s in its heyday. Sitting on her worn stool, she tilled and planted the fertile acreage in her mind, counting seeds, all the while wondering where Seamus was.
High above, the roof was half shingled. The din of hammers stole her concentration and lent to her aching head. Setting aside her seeds, she opened the housekeeping book, gaze landing on a receipt that said Mistress Ogilvy’s Water. In the margin, Seamus’s mother had written, “John’s favorite scent.” Made up of thirty-three herbs and flowers, the concoction was distilled in white wine.
Never had she so needed the stout, soft-spoken Cornish woman who’d been Lilias Ogilvy. What would the former mistress of Tall Acre say or do about her granddaughter’s disappearance? What would she concoct to soothe her son’s bleeding hands and heart?
Early Hall raised a hundred questions she couldn’t answer. Why had Seamus gone there? Would she ever know? Was it simply to give vent to his blinding fury? Or did some secret knowledge of Anne and Tobias Early account for every shard of shattered glass?
As the needs of the day closed in, she met them as best she could. Two children in the quarters were down with croup and needed camphor and hartshorn. The child sickest with worms had recovered, thanks to prayer and constant nursing, but another child had fallen from the dovecote and broken his arm. The wants never seemed to end.
Basket on one arm, Sophie left the sanctuary of the stillroom and headed down the shell path to the spinning house. She’d timed her visit carefully. ’Twas the noon hour and dinnertime. She didn’t want to interrupt the workday. Riggs didn’t like it, and what’s more, Seamus didn’t like it.
She entered t
he building, her practiced calm eroding at Myrtilla’s frown. They were alone in the large room, the silence thick.
“I’ve come to see how things are faring here.”
Myrtilla stood by her idle wheel. “The weaver’s turnin’ out a fair amount of woolen cloth and linsey. I’m trainin’ a tenth woman to spin.” Her chin tipped up, eyes dark with discontent. “Molly’s been raisin’ a ruckus again, just so you knows.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve sent her to the laundry.” Done with Molly’s quarrelsomeness, Sophie moved on to other matters. “I’d like you to bring all the children to the small parlor to be measured for new clothes. This afternoon would work best, if you can manage it.”
“To the house?” Myrtilla’s dark hands caressed the distaff of the spinning wheel. “Mistress Anne never did abide any slave children near at hand.”
“Well, I’m not Mistress Anne, nor are there any more slaves here at Tall Acre.”
Myrtilla’s gaze sharpened. “Word is the general freed us on account o’ you. Makes me wonder why.”
Sophie set her basket on a near table. “I simply mean for you to live as the general and the good Lord intend, as a free woman, with all the rights and privileges that brings.”
“I may spin fine, but I can’t read nor write. Riggs says a body ain’t worth much without such.”
“Would you care to learn? You and Jenny?” For the first time since they’d met, Sophie sensed some common ground. “As a free woman, you have that right.”
Myrtilla’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, snuffing Sophie’s hopes. Had Myrtilla been so impudent with Anne? With Seamus she was docility itself.
Sophie tried again. “There was a woman in Williamsburg, a friend of my mother’s, who founded the Bray School. She taught enslaved and free children before the war. We might do the same here.”
Myrtilla started to speak, then clamped her mouth shut. The other spinners were coming in, ready to resume work, all giving Sophie a respectful greeting. Without waiting for Myrtilla’s answer, Sophie left to finish her rounds, thoughts of Seamus as heavy as the iron keys in her pocket. Another hour inched past as she emptied her basket, dispensing tonics and advice, speaking with servants who bore none of Myrtilla’s moodiness.