The Mistress of Tall Acre

  “You’ve noticed nothing amiss?”

  She hesitated. “Nothing near at hand.” Dare she share her fears? “I’ve not quite gotten over the war years. Sometimes I still feel a bit . . . haunted. Mostly after dark.”

  He looked at her, his expression grieved. “If you need me in the night, Sophie, don’t hesitate to come to me.”

  His earnest words broke over her, stirring and sweet. She steeled herself against the rush of emotion sliding through her. “I’m not frightened, Seamus. Not with you here.”

  He set down his fork. “I promise you this trouble will have an end.”

  She looked to her mostly untouched plate, the knot in her throat expanding. Would it ever end? Would Lily Cate find her way back to them? Would they somehow find a way back to each other?

  He said nothing more, just took a few more halfhearted bites of supper before setting both their trays aside. She watched as he opened his father’s Bible. Before Lily Cate had left, they’d made an attempt at family devotions, reading a Psalm aloud each evening, a blessed end to their busy days. But she was unprepared for his resuming the readings tonight.

  “Except the LORD build the house; they labour in vain that build it . . . Children are an heritage of the LORD; and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”

  His voice cracked. And then he stopped reading without explanation.

  Heartsore, she waited. That terrible sadness had descended, driving out all peace, however fleeting. She got up and lay a hand on his shoulder as she passed behind. Not trusting herself to say goodnight, she left the small parlor, the dilemma of separate quarters tugging at her again.

  Upstairs, she passed down the hall to his room, struck by its starkness. She’d had no cause to come here before. ’Twas completely masculine, a shock to her feminine senses. No doubt he’d find her chamber just as strange with its frills and flourishes. She shut the door and allowed herself a few luxurious liberties. A linen shirt hung from a near peg. She reached for it as hungrily as if it had been Seamus himself, burying her face in its soft, scented folds. Her fingers grazed the razor and leather case on his shaving stand, the soap and toiletries scented with lime and sandalwood. A linen stock lay beside a clothes brush and a nest of queue ribbons. Across the room a cupboard door stood ajar, revealing fine broadcloth suits. She wondered where he kept his uniform. His cocked hat with its finely worked cockade rested in a window ledge.

  The bed . . . it was so big. Did a man need so much room? Once Florie brought her a nightgown, she used the bed steps to climb atop the high tester, the lush feather mattress sinking beneath her weight.

  She’d rather have Seamus than his room, the comfort of his arms rather than the warmest coverlet. But even this was far more than she’d ever dreamed of.

  After working at his desk till midnight, Seamus checked all the doors in the house. Once in Sophie’s bedchamber, he nearly forgot the threatening note. Evidence of her trousseau—a hat and gloves and stockings—lay about in provocative disarray. Two dresses he’d never seen were draped across a love seat. He studied them, tongue in cheek. Was she trying to tempt him? Or had Florie just left things untended?

  He was more undone when he lay down. The bed linens held her subtle scent, the pillow a slight indentation. A lone candle threw light around the room, calling out all the ways she’d made it hers. He rolled over, facing the wall where the shadows were the thickest.

  She was overhead, sleeping in his very bed. Did she ever think of him in a more than practical way? Need him . . . desire him? Did she ever long to embrace the life God meant for them as husband and wife? That holy, mysterious intertwining marriage wrought? Not just in body but in soul?

  Despite his ongoing anguish, his visceral need of her was unrelenting, but it strayed well beyond that. ’Twas more the depth of his desire, his wanting more of her. Her friendship, first and foremost. Her companionship. Her devotion. The thought of it being ripped away, the loss of her, had flipped his world on end again.

  Prayers for her protection crowded in, desperate and beseeching. He finally slept, and then, like getting a face full of icy water, he jerked awake. Lily Cate? Cold reality rushed in as he recalled the loss. The rousing cry held a woman’s strength, sharp and strangled, before snapping short. He was on his feet, grabbing his pistol before taking the back stairs to his room. Its familiarity was his advantage. Even in pitch blackness he quickly determined there was no danger.

  A single taper burned on a low table. Sophie sat in the center of his bed, knees drawn up to her chin. With a little moan of dismay, she seemed embarrassed at his appearing. Her hands went to her unbound hair in a show of modesty before circling her knees again. She looked touchingly girlish. He found himself wishing she’d open her arms to him like she often had Lily Cate.

  “Sophie?” The tenderness of his voice seemed to ease her. What had she said?

  I’m not frightened, Seamus. Not with you here.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, determined to still her shaking. When he leaned nearer she almost seemed to startle, making him second-guess what he was about to do. He ached to hold her. To make amends with more than words, gifts. The busk he’d given her seemed a paltry thing.

  Go slowly. Don’t scare her.

  The reminder was at odds with his need. The glint of her wedding ring caught the candlelight as he took her hand. She lowered her eyes, thick-lashed and black, and the last of his reserve cracked. How could he have ever thought her undesirable or plain?

  The feel of her was so unfamiliar it shook him. He rested his chin on the crown of her bent head, aware of a great many things at once. Her wildly erratic heartbeat. Her shallow breathing. Her skittishness.

  His pulse began a slow climb. Their unexpected closeness begged him to do something.

  If she wasn’t so uneasy, he would tip her chin up and kiss her . . . Aye, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted her to kiss him back. Fully. Feverishly. He wanted his everlasting misery over Lily Cate to abate if only momentarily in the sanctuary of her arms.

  He went still, wrenched back to reality as she slipped free of him. “Just a bad dream, Seamus. No more.”

  Though her words were reassuring, he sensed something else at play. He sat silent for several moments, listening. Gauging the darkness.

  “You’re all right . . . alone?” At her nod, he made a reluctant exit, casting a last, uneasy look at her from the doorway.

  When Seamus left, Sophie started toward Anne’s former bedchamber. Taking up the candle, she shouldered aside her dread. The adjoining door opened soundlessly with the turn of the knob. Her hand shaking, the light wavered and threatened to go out.

  There on the floor was the vase she’d heard fall from its perch on the nightstand, jarring her awake. She held the candle higher. In the deepest shadows, the chair to Anne’s desk was pushed back. Fumbling, afraid, she felt beneath the familiar panel and released the secret latch. The drawer was empty.

  Anne’s diary was gone.

  Returning to bed, Sophie lay awake till dawn. Seamus reappeared, surprising her yet again, trying his best to be quiet. Broad back to her, he was fumbling in a cupboard, clad only in breeches, feet bare. Clearly they’d thought too much about Tall Acre’s thief and not enough about the practicalities of switching rooms.

  She lay quietly. This was how it would be . . . should be. Not separate rooms or separate lives. Not wondering when he’d gotten up or where he was.

  He turned round and she shut her eyes. Soon he came to stand by the bed. She felt him there—his presence, his warmth, the wholeness of him. The heat of the blankets reached her face. Did he find her lacking, all mussed by sleep? Was he remembering last night?

  Her breathing thinned when she felt his touch. Gently, almost imperceptibly, his fingers stroked a strand of her hair. The gesture, simple though it was, brought healing. Rekindled something lost.

  Oh
, Seamus.

  She wanted to open her eyes. Her arms. But he stepped back and left as quietly as he’d come.

  31

  Sophie recited the alphabet, thinking The New England Primer too melancholy. “A, in Adam’s fall we sinned all . . . G, as runs the glass our life doth pass . . . Y, while youth do cheer death may be near . . .” But Myrtilla and Jenny seemed not to mind, dutifully repeating each verse after her and scratching out letters on their slates.

  She’d begun teaching in Seamus’s absence. Now that he was home again, the lessons continued. With its fresh paint and repaired chimney, a crate of new slates and books, the schoolroom had a bright, expectant feel. Above the mantel were colorful prints of animals. On the walls were maps. A window was open wide to the garden, ushering in a welcome breeze. Word was spreading in the quarters that lessons were not only pleasant but a blessed reprieve from work.

  Sophie looked up as a stable hand darkened the doorway. “Come in, Jim.” Pleased, she gestured to an empty desk, retrieving a slate and stylus for him to use.

  Mumbling his thanks, he sat as Jenny murmured a greeting and returned to her work. For the next half hour, Sophie taught the lanky boy to spell his name, introducing him to a picture book that had been Lily Cate’s.

  If Lily Cate returned, what a help she would be. If. Biting her lip, Sophie prayed for a miracle. When Lily Cate came home, the joy of the schoolhouse would be complete.

  As she thought it, a slightly sheepish Granny Bea entered, a baby on her hip. “I suppose I ain’t too old to learn my letters . . . read a book.”

  Taking the baby from her, Sophie assured her that age had nothing to do with it. Busy minutes passed, the warmth of the day calling for Sophie to open the door. When the bell sounded from the blacksmith’s announcing the noon hour over, all returned to their work reluctantly.

  The sudden emptiness seemed lonesome, the mosquito whining about her head assailing her as doggedly as the events of the last hours. Seamus’s unexpected return. The change in their rooms. Anne’s missing diary. What would happen next?

  She straightened slates and books, craving order, wishing she could do the same with their unsettled circumstances. A bit woozy, she remembered she hadn’t eaten breakfast. Days and nights of neglect were taking a toll. She felt wrung out, benumbed, but for those fierce bursts of grief that ambushed her at every turn. She knew it went harder on Seamus. To lose a child, not to the grim, irreversible grip of death, but to be forever undone wondering . . .

  Bear up, lass.

  Her mother’s voice came clear as daylight. But this time it brought little calm.

  Closing the schoolhouse door, Sophie paused on the sunlit stoop, bone weary. Before her, Tall Acre was spread like a lush landscape in oils. She stood unmoved by its beauty. She’d lost sight of the wonder of being its mistress, married to the man who was just now coming through the river doorway, sunlight framing every hard-muscled line of him. Unaware of her, Seamus took the shell path to the stables.

  Her gaze trailed after him as he called to a groom before entering a far paddock where a new horse had recently been broken. The high-spirited bay shied at his approach, but he spoke a few words and began checking the horse’s girth with a sure hand. She nearly held her breath as he, in that effortless way he had, took the reins and swung himself into the saddle. Immediately the proud horse reared and danced, stirring up a whirlwind of dust.

  Riveted, she watched from her porch perch, sensing Seamus warmed to the challenge, was adept at courting danger.

  Or had ceased to care what happened to himself.

  He held fast for a few breathtaking seconds, and then he fell, one booted foot caught in the stirrup. With a shrill whinny, the bay bolted round the paddock, dragging him through a storm of dirt and rock.

  Her life—their life—flashed before her eyes. Every misspent second, every withheld word.

  With a little cry, she jumped from the porch and ran toward the paddock.

  A nimble groom gave chase and grabbed for the reins, finally bringing the agitated horse to an uneasy stop. Another groom disentangled Seamus’s boot from the stirrup, but for a few moments he simply lay on the ground, chest heaving and head spinning. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, more mindful of his pride than any injury. He spied a flash of blue and saw Sophie—calm, competent Sophie—running toward the paddock, a look of terror on her face.

  “You all right, sir?” The nearest groom was regarding him as if he doubted it, apprehension foremost.

  “I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t gone for the bridle,” Seamus said with a small smile of thanks as he bent and retrieved his hat. “Turn Prince loose in the far pasture, aye? I’ll not do any more riding today.”

  The stallion was led away, still shying and snorting, as Sophie entered the dusty paddock, looking even more frightened than when he’d come to her in the night. “Seamus, you’re hurt.”

  He touched his temple, his fingers warm with blood. “A scratch.”

  “Come, let me look at you.” Taking his arm, she was intent on the stillroom, reminding him of the flowers he’d left for her that long ago, half-forgotten afternoon.

  For a moment he stayed dizzy, and then the sharp tang of herbs cleared his head as she led him to a chair. Unused to being on the receiving end of her care, he stayed silent while she took out rags and salve and, with the finesse of a physician, set about cleaning him up.

  Her touch was light and capable. She stood so enticingly close he had to clench his hands lest he reach for her as he had last night.

  “Seamus, you might have been killed.” Emotion flooded her eyes, turning them a darker blue. “I saw you fall—”

  “I’m fine, Sophie.”

  “Well, I’m not.” The words came in a rush as if she’d been holding her breath since she’d seen him tumble. “I-I was thinking how life is passing us by, how sometimes there are no second chances.” She choked and stumbled over the words, though her ministrations never ceased. “All is well one minute, and then everything is turned on its head the next.” He smelled something strong but not unpleasant as she uncorked a bottle. “I could be here with you now, only you might be laid out on this table instead, broken and lifeless and—”

  “Sophie, what exactly are you saying?”

  “’Tis not what I’m saying, Seamus. ’Tis what I’m feeling.” She set aside the rags, nearly spilling the tonic. “I . . . I . . .”

  He felt a jolt of alarm at how pale she was, all the blood drained from her face. Unthinking, he caught her wrists and pulled her toward him. There was no other chair in the room but his lap.

  She sat down without a protest, with a willingness that had been missing last night. This close, he marveled how he could no longer chase her from his thoughts. Her wealth of dark hair, the memory of her bell-like laugh, her ongoing eagerness to please him combined with her befuddling distance, had worked a spell on his hardened heart. Despite everything that had happened to them and between them, he longed to touch her, to know her inside out. He wanted her and her alone. He wanted her intimately and lastingly and forever. Could she not sense that?

  Mayhap she did.

  Her gaze held his, open and honest, conveying things too deep for words. Leaning ever nearer, she took hold of his shoulders and pressed her mouth to his. His heart seemed to stop. She tasted sweet. Pure. True.

  “Seamus”—the words came on a rush of air—“I love you.”

  He fought for a response. For clarity. A question rose inside him, but his throat closed, denying him. Dazed, he tucked a strand of loosened hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her pale cheek.

  “There’s no one else. There never was. I told Captain McClintock what I did because of my feelings for you. At the time I knew you didn’t love me—might never love me. I could not tell you then, but I tell you now because sometimes there are no second chances . . .”

  He took the confession in, every stunning syllable. His thoughts cut to Lily Cate. It seemed almost a betrayal to
feel even painfully happy without her. The hole she’d left never lessened. But joy was here, in this very room, calling out for him to claim it.

  “Sophie, I believe I loved you long before this. Till now I don’t think I even knew what love was—”

  “Hush, Seamus.” She put gentle fingers to his lips. “We shan’t waste another second.”

  He kissed her hungrily, even fiercely, afraid he might startle her. But her response held a willingness he’d not anticipated. For long minutes they lost themselves in each other, passionately and unashamedly, till their breath was spent. He’d forgotten the wonder of this kind of closeness. He’d been without it so long he was stunned by the power of it, the way his blood raced, the way it left him shaken.

  Someone was coming. Yet another interruption. He could hear a footfall on the walk. They drew apart, flushed and breathless, and he felt the distance between them like never before. His thoughts raced full tilt to the sweetness of tonight. Being alone with her again couldn’t come soon enough.

  His wedding night had come.

  He took a breath, the razor in his maimed hand less steady than usual. He was a bridegroom . . . again. Though the war had ground sentimentality out of him or at least forced it into retreat, he found himself wanting to stop time, hover on the edge of this hallowed moment. Come morning his world—and hers—would have shifted. They’d be one in the truest, most biblical sense, never to be undone.

  At not yet ten o’clock, the house was locked, the servants settled. Finished with shaving, he ran a hand through freshly washed hair, feeling a bit self-conscious in bare chest and breeches. The floor was cold against his naked feet. He felt young and in love and uncertain again, not an experienced widower and soldier.

  His mind kept traveling downstairs. From this night forward they’d share his parents’ bedchamber. Was Sophie readying for him, wondering if he’d come? At supper she’d said little. A silent current had pulsed between them, as felt as lightning, making words unnecessary. Ever since she’d first kissed him in the pungent shadows of the stillroom, he’d thought of little else.