The Mistress of Tall Acre

  He left his bedchamber, passing by Lily Cate’s and feeling the familiar ache. But for the moment Sophie was waiting. He took the back stairs to her bedchamber slowly, a sconce on the landing lighting his way. Thankfulness warmed him, pooling in his chest till his eyes smarted. Sophie was God’s gift to him. For years of war. Griefs unspoken. Heartaches on the field and at home. He paused at her door, head bent. Humbled.

  His heart had never beat like this for Anne.

  Sophie could barely breathe. As she shook the pins from her hair, the candlelight called out her expectant, pensive expression in the looking glass. She wasn’t sure of Seamus till she heard his footfall on the stair. She’d forgotten to leave the door ajar. Would he think she meant to turn him away?

  Self-consciousness flooded her. She was unsure of what was to come. The intimacies of marriage were unknown to her, but this melting ache inside her was becoming all too familiar. Did Seamus feel the same?

  As her hair tumbled past her hips, she reached for her nightgown, little more than a skim of lace, the fabric was so sheer. It fell into place as his light tap on the door turned her round. She called to him and he pushed the door open, standing on the threshold, a final question in his eyes. With a shy but joyous smile she doused the candle flame and opened her arms to him.

  By morning it seemed they had always been this way, she curled against him, her head on his hard shoulder, he on his back, his relaxed features barely visible in dawn’s feeble light. Nothing in the big house stirred. A rooster crowed beyond the shuttered windows, but it barely intruded on her happiness.

  In the drowsy haze of half sleep, she remembered it was the Sabbath. Lily Cate was not with them. They would go to church without her. And then all the wonders of the night rushed in, making her rue the morning.

  Seamus’s sleepy voice roused her completely. He turned on his side and looked down at her with a new tenderness that was her own special possession. “I must be dreaming . . . you . . . this.”

  “If this is a dream, I never want to come awake,” she whispered.

  The intoxication of their closeness lingered, making her wish it was nighttime again. As she thought it, he took her in his arms, showing her she needn’t wish for anything at all.

  32

  A tumultuous month passed, half of it spent in Williamsburg. This time Sophie went with him. Seamus hadn’t told her about the note found in the stables. He’d simply given it to the sheriff, who now knew that the threat extended beyond Lily Cate. The strain of her disappearance never lessened, but life went on its relentless, consuming way, tarnishing his beloved memories of her.

  Sophie filled the emptiness, a tonic for his fury and loss. They returned home to Tall Acre, determined to start anew. Once again he was pitched headlong into the needs of the estate from dawn till dusk. But his priorities had altered. His evenings, his every waking thought, were hers.

  He left his study their first eve home, the strike of the clock and his own rumbling stomach announcing supper.

  Mrs. Lamont met him in the foyer, a worried pinch to her brow. “We’re ready to serve, General, but Mistress Ogilvy is sleeping.”

  Sleeping? At this hour? He said nothing, and she continued on genially. “I’ll delay the meal till you’re ready.”

  The aroma wafting from the summer kitchen convinced him Cook had prepared a feast. He thanked her and moved to the private hall of their bedchamber, the door ajar.

  Sophie lay atop the counterpane, a letter from Cosima near at hand. His heart clenched as he took in her abandoned slippers on the rug, so small compared to his own brawny boots. She was on her side, one arm curved beneath her head, her lovely features at rest.

  He knew every inch of her yet couldn’t look enough at her. Couldn’t touch her enough. Her skin was soft as lamb’s wool beneath his ravaged hand. Even now he wanted to take the pins from her hair. They winked at him in the light, tiny pearls amidst piercing blackness like stars in a night sky.

  He’d grown so used to men. Soldiers. Their vile habits and weaknesses. Their wild snoring and smells. Living with Sophie was bliss. Even in sleep she was ladylike. Delicate. He forgot all about supper.

  He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, a new worry scratching at the surface of his conscience. Was she ill? Fever, an ever-present malady, was spreading in the quarters, though they’d quarantined those most sick. In truth, she’d never looked healthier. She seemed to give out light like a candle.

  Flushed from sleep, she turned on her back. “Seamus?” She raised up, and he realized he was blocking her view of the clock. “What time is it?”

  “The supper hour.”

  Her face dimmed as awareness rushed in. He knew she was thinking of Lily Cate, reliving the heartache all over again. Every morning upon awakening he did the same, spirits sinking as he faced another day without her, the ache never lessening, only lengthening.

  “’Twill be our last meal together for a time. I leave for Williamsburg again in the morning. The sheriff wants to see me.”

  Her sleepiness fell away. “Oh Seamus, do you think . . .”

  Touching her cheek, he reined in his own disappointment. “He said it’s not urgent, to come when I could.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No need. I’ll be away a day or so at the most.” He weighed the implications of telling her about the threat and decided against it. All seemed to know but Sophie and were on alert. “You’re most needed here.”

  “Then I shall count the hours till you come back.”

  Bending near, he kissed her. “I’ll do the same, aye.”

  Smothering a yawn, Sophie rummaged through glass bottles in the stillroom, some highly decorative and some plain. Essential Salt of Lemons. Hill’s Balsam of Honey. James’s Fever Powders. Daffey’s Elixir. Though she was intent on some help for the fever toppling the staff, nothing she’d found or concocted had curbed it yet.

  Seamus had left that morning, but she’d hardly had time to ponder it, not with so many servants ill. So far Jenny had been spared, though a baby had died, adding to Tall Acre’s melancholy. Myrtilla was a tireless nurse, working close as Sophie’s shadow. They trod back and forth to the icehouse, applying cold cloths and changing bed linens and dispensing medicine, trying to make the sick more comfortable. Dr. Craik had been summoned but was slow in coming, busy with a smallpox outbreak elsewhere.

  Sophie’s bleary gaze fastened on a bottle of absinthe. Anne’s diary had been riddled with its mention, and she shrank from the sight. She shut the cupboard quickly, her breakfast of toast and tea rising to the back of her throat. Swallowing hard, she left the stillroom but made it no farther than an iron bench against an ivy-clad wall. If she was perfectly still, the wooziness might pass. She couldn’t fall sick herself, not at a time like this. She’d rest for just a moment, not long enough to be missed.

  The gentle drone of June’s bees and the heady scent of honeysuckle lulled her, and she dozed, unmindful of her missing hat or the way her complexion freckled in the sun. Sleep was a refuge, a world beyond the worries of the present.

  “Mistress Ogilvy.”

  Sophie stirred on the bench. How long had she napped? Too long, her overwarm skin told her.

  Mrs. Lamont hovered nearer, still a bit wan from falling ill herself. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you have a visitor. She’s in the Palladian room as the large parlor is being painted.”

  Sophie nodded and thanked her. Probably a neighbor expressing concern and asking about Lily Cate. Standing, she smoothed her skirts and started up the shell walkway to the house.

  The shadowed foyer was cool, the door to the Palladian room open. Sophie’s eye was drawn to Peale’s finished portrait above the mantel. She always felt a little start when she saw it, as if staring into a mirror. She, Tall Acre’s unlikely mistress.

  The visitor’s back was to her, and she was looking up at the portrait too. Her polonaise skirts were drawn up over lush petticoats trimmed with fine ecru lace, her matchi
ng hat trailing periwinkle ribbons.

  Sophie’s greeting carried across the elegant room. “Welcome to Tall Acre.”

  Slowly, the woman turned, a lace veil obscuring her features. “The general isn’t in, the housekeeper said.”

  “He’s away, yes.”

  “How unfortunate.” She looked about as if getting her bearings, gaze returning briefly to the portrait.

  Sophie gestured toward a settee. “Would you care to sit down?’

  “Perhaps . . . I suppose we should make introductions.”

  Raising gloved hands, the visitor pulled loose a pin and removed her elaborate hat and veil. Sophie fought to place her, shaken by a strange familiarity she couldn’t quite grasp hold of. Her eyes—were they brown? The woman wasn’t smiling. Her pale, blue-veined features seemed more ice, but even their coldness couldn’t blunt her beauty. She was the most dazzling woman Sophie had ever seen.

  “I well remember you.” The words were clipped. Precise. Thoroughly British and unmistakably condescending. “You’re the daughter of Midwife Menzies from Three Chimneys.”

  Sophie opened her mouth to reply, but her throat felt like dust. Again, that odd sense of familiarity settled over her then spun away.

  “’Tis clear you do not remember me . . . or do not want to.” With a graceful gesture, the visitor settled her hat upon the settee and sank down beside it, chin tipped up proudly. “I am Anne Howard Ogilvy. The mistress of Tall Acre.”

  Urging Vulcan on, Seamus fixed his gaze on the road to Williamsburg and ignored the quiet tug that told him to turn back. Lately his battle sense seemed to sharpen, his every instinct on alert. It had served him well on the field but was hardly needed at home, yet here it was again, following on his heels like some faithful, misguided dog.

  His thoughts veered to Sophie. She’d been restless in the night, murmuring in her sleep. She seemed preoccupied of late. More emotional. He feared she was taking the fever. He’d had a brief bout of it himself but had worked his way through it despite her protests to stay abed.

  Squinting into bright sunlight, he scanned the lay of the land as he rode. Blooming magnolia and catalpa spread across the valley on both sides of him, commanding his attention and making light of his fears. All the extravagance of early summer held sway, a warm wind drying out the muddy ruts in the road.

  Another tug to his conscience. Sophie. Having become one with her in the truest sense, was he now able, even away from her, to sense her need of him?

  Heeding it, he reined his stallion sharply round in a turn reminiscent of battlefield retreats. In less than an hour of hard riding he’d reached the borders of Tall Acre, his practiced eye moving past beloved fences and fields to the long alley where an unfamiliar coach waited near the front steps.

  Cutting across the sheep pasture, he cleared a sunken ditch and came to the stables, a noisy rooster crowing his arrival. He stopped long enough to wash up in the laundry where the new bath was nearly in place, then started for the house, casting a last look at the strange coach as he did so.

  I am Anne Howard Ogilvy. The mistress of Tall Acre.

  Sophie heard the words but couldn’t take them in. They made no sense. Nothing in her mind and heart had prepared her for this moment. Her hands clutched the back of the chair she stood behind, her nails digging into the lush blue brocade.

  Anne was dead of a fever, buried in Williamsburg during the war. Seamus had told her so himself.

  “I’m obviously the last person you expected. You’re looking at me as if I’m a ghost.” Anne’s cold half smile was locked in place, her composure seamless, as if she’d rehearsed their meeting. “To reassure you that I am indeed Seamus’s wife, I shall provide you with a few details. My husband bears a scar on his jaw given him by his sister during childhood. More intimately, he has a saber wound on his left thigh from early in the war. He also—”

  “Don’t.” It was the only word Sophie could muster. The wooziness she’d fought for days was winning, tiny flecks of black staining her vision as the blood left her head.

  Anne stood and began a slow walk around the room, fingering objects on tables as if reacquainting herself with them. “I don’t know what Seamus has told you. While he was away fighting, threats were made against me. He had so many enemies during the war that I became a target. Fearing for my life and that of my child, I left Tall Acre and fled to Williamsburg. Unfortunately, the danger followed me there, so I sailed for England.”

  “You left Lily Cate behind.” In the shock and confusion of the moment, Lily Cate stayed foremost. Was Anne behind her disappearance?

  Anne lifted slender shoulders in a shrug. “There was simply no other choice. Crossing the ocean with so small a child . . .” She gave a shake of her head. “My sister and her husband took Lily Cate to raise as their own. They erected a gravestone to quell questions. Once in England I went to Bath, where I have relatives, to gain some safety. Peace.”

  Peace? Sophie stared at her. Had she left Seamus peace? Or Lily Cate?

  “Now that the war’s been won, I’ve come back to reclaim my rightful place.”

  Her rightful place? After leaving a wide swath of lies and brokenness in her wake? Was she . . . mad? Anne paused to look up at the portrait again, clearly vexed. Her thoughts were plain. Sophie was the imposter, the pretender. The real mistress of Tall Acre had returned.

  “You must understand I was one of many who fled in the wake of war. But now, peace has come . . .” Anne’s voice trailed away. She was looking past Sophie to the open doorway, expectancy in her expression.

  Seamus.

  Sickened, Sophie shut her eyes, unwilling to turn around and witness his reaction. The prolonged, stunned silence told her enough.

  Seamus entered Tall Acre’s foyer, gaze on the open Palladian room door. He heard Sophie’s voice, clear and lilting yet strained. She was speaking with someone whose tone and inflections stirred some vague, uncomfortable recollection. Not bothering to change his boots or greatcoat, he walked their way.

  In seconds he stood on the threshold. Overcome. Ambushed. Recognition rushed in like smoke clearing. His eyes made the connection, but his reason . . . nay. Like a barrage of musket fire, Anne’s appearance sent him reeling.

  His gaze swung to Sophie, who’d begun a slow retreat. She looked dazed, like she might faint. His chest was so tight he couldn’t breathe. The room lost its focus, spun wildly, and resettled, but his heart stayed at a gallop. “Sophie, wait.”

  Her hand grasped the doorknob of his adjoining study door. There was a plea in her eyes—a hundred questions—begging him to make things right.

  He returned his attention to Anne. His voice was so choked he nearly couldn’t speak. “What have you done with my daughter?”

  The flash of fury in Anne’s face told him he’d get no easy answers. He looked again at Sophie. She’d pressed her back against the door to his study as if it was the only thing holding her up.

  Anne waved a hand, her cloying cologne sparking tattered memories. “I was explaining to Miss Menzies—”

  “Miss?” He spat out the word, stepping into the room. “’Tis Mistress Ogilvy, my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Her voice hardened. “More your mistress, Seamus. I am your wife—”

  “Nay.” His voice came grieved and broken. “You are nothing more to me than a ghost of the past, and I’ve a gravestone to prove it.”

  A crimson stain spread over Anne’s finely wrought features. “Be that as it may, I was explaining how I fled for my life—”

  “Then you’ve been spouting a good many lies and excuses.”

  “Those threats were real, every one of them. Ask any of the plantations surrounding us or Tall Acre’s slaves—”

  “You were the only one who ran while they remained.” His curt indictment only fueled her ire. “Nothing you say can explain your absence—or your reappearance.”

  “How dare you!” Taking a step closer, she raised a gloved fist, returning the memory of all her
fits and whims he’d buried at the back of his conscience. “’Twas you—”

  He clasped her wrist, imprisoning it. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Safe and sound where she rightfully belongs.” She wrenched away from him with renewed rage. “I am her mother—”

  “You, who abandoned her to begin with.”

  “Who abandoned whom, Seamus? ’Twas you who left me with a baby and a miserable plantation to fight a war!”

  “You knew my politics when you wed me.”

  “That’s past.” Like quicksilver, Anne softened her stance and placed a hand on Seamus’s chest, dismissing his words with a turn of her head. “We can look to the future now—”

  “Where is she?” he repeated.

  “I’m not here about Lily Cate.” Her breath released in a pent-up rush. “I’ve come about us.”

  “Us . . . nay.” The word held an unwarranted intimacy. He looked toward Sophie, but she turned away, going into his study and shutting the door. Their hard-won happiness was beginning to fail like a faulty redoubt along enemy lines. He turned toward Anne unwillingly. “Why in heaven’s name did you come back? If you went to England and had a life there, why?”

  “Because I came to my senses in Bath, Seamus.” She blinked, eyes wet. From regret? Or the injury she felt he’d done her? “Surely you can forgive me that.”

  Seamus focused on Sophie’s portrait and set his jaw, the pressure so taut it ached. He’d do well to remember what he’d often told his men.

  Never let your emotions overrule your reason.

  He spoke slowly. “I may forgive you, but I’ll not stand by and let you destroy the life I’ve built here and now.”

  “Then I’ll go to the courts.”