The Mistress of Tall Acre

  “Does she share your patriotism?”

  He nodded, well aware of where Washington was leading.

  “And are you not a widower with a young daughter in need of a mother?” The ensuing pause was painful. And then a wry glimmer lit Washington’s silver-blue eyes. “As one of my top officers, you’ve never needed me to spell things out for you, Seamus, so I’ll simply ask—what are you waiting for?”

  Seamus bit back an excuse, though he couldn’t fault Washington’s logic. He himself had married a young widow with two children before the war. Martha Custis Washington was as charming and amiable as they came.

  Washington clapped him on the back. “Why not save me any wrangling with Congress over Tory holdings and settle the matter yourself?”

  Colin appeared just then, sparing him an answer. “Time for cards and drinks in the parlor, gentlemen. We’ll have a little more merriment before Sally and I are on our way.”

  Seamus joined in halfheartedly, so distracted he couldn’t attend to the hand in front of him. He ended up losing at whist, his partner and opponents staring at him in stark surprise. With skills honed around countless smoky campfires, he was usually top of his game in terms of strategy and tactics.

  His thoughts spun and refused to settle. Here he’d just told Colin he had no thought of remarrying, and Washington was making a case and trying to talk him into it.

  Sophie Menzies Ogilvy.

  It was too obvious, too easy a solution. Even if Lily Cate was wild about her, he didn’t love Sophie Menzies. He’d never thought of her as anything but the unfortunate daughter of a despised Tory.

  She’d never considered him either, he was willing to wager.

  The motion of the rocking chair was soothing, the snap and pop of the fire nearly lulling Sophie to sleep. Lily Cate’s warm weight spread across her like a quilt, her dark head upon Sophie’s bony shoulder, her small body curled catlike in her lap. As the clock struck seven, the winter darkness crept in, moonless and deep, magnifying the night sounds.

  She heard hoofbeats even before Glynnis announced someone. She knew it was the general. But alone . . . or with a bride? Though he’d only been gone a week, it felt far longer.

  In a few minutes he stood before her, winded and windswept, his cocked hat tucked beneath one arm. She looked up at him, masking the way her heart jumped at his appearing. How could a man look and smell so fine after so long a ride? Almost like a . . . bridegroom.

  “Come sit by the fire and warm yourself, General.” She mulled the address. Her father had been a general. His rank meant very little, for it had been bought, unlike Seamus Ogilvy’s. “Glynnis has gone to fetch you a toddy.”

  “I won’t refuse you.”

  Still, his face showed surprise. She knew why. Despite their lack, Three Chimneys reeked of spirits. Her father was known for the finest pipes of Madeira and East Indian rum throughout Roan. What the British hadn’t drunk, their hired man Henry had hidden away. For medicine and wounds and a wee dram or two.

  Seamus shed his cloak and draped it over a chair back before sitting opposite her. The fire sputtered, sending a colorful spray of sparks past the andirons. His hat and gloves he placed near the heat, much as Curtis used to do. She missed that homey touch, the comfort and security a man’s presence wrought. She opened her mouth to welcome him home. But this wasn’t his home. And this wasn’t their wee daughter.

  He sat back, eyes never leaving Lily Cate. “How is she?”

  Missing you, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t, not honestly. Just this morning Lily Cate had cried because their time together was nearing an end. “She’s well. We went riding this afternoon.”

  “Riding?” His brow lifted. “She won’t get near a horse.”

  “She rode with me on one of Tall Acre’s very gentle mares. But I’m afraid she got quite worn out.”

  “Wise to go today. The fair weather’s spent.”

  Glynnis returned, bearing the toddy and a tray. Biscuits layered with the ham he’d provided were stacked beside a sliced apple on a pewter plate. He smiled his thanks, remembering her name. Flushing like a girl, Glynnis curtsied, leaving Sophie somewhat bemused. So the master of Tall Acre could even charm the help when he wanted, ensuring unending hospitality to come.

  “You spoil me, the both of you.” His glance widened to take Sophie in.

  There was an alarming lilt to his voice she’d not heard before. And that smile . . . It eased all the rugged, weathered lines of him, giving her a nearly forgotten glimpse of the young man he’d been. Confident, even cocky. Self-assured yet unchallenged. He’d had little to do with her back then, before she went to Williamsburg. The war had mellowed and matured him like fine wine in Three Chimneys’ cellar.

  He seemed entirely too high-spirited tonight, having ridden untold miles in the cold to get here. She braced herself for some announcement, some startling revelation. Was he merely betrothed? Or had he left his bride at Tall Acre before coming here?

  “How were your travels?” she blurted, wanting an end to her misery.

  “Uneventful,” he said, reaching for the toddy.

  She stared at him, heart in her throat.

  He returned her stare. “You’re looking at me like I just lied.”

  “I hardly call a bride uneventful.”

  “A—what?” His amused astonishment brought the fire to her cheeks. “I don’t remember saying anything about a bride.”

  “Little jugs have big ears.” At his quizzical expression, she rushed on. “You’d do well to conceal your personal correspondence if you’d like to keep it that way.”

  He sat back and watched the steam curl round the tankard’s rim, mulling her words. “Meaning my maid does more than dust my desk.”

  “I don’t mean to meddle but thought you’d want to know.” She forged ahead. There was simply no way to dance around it. “Lily Cate believes you went away to wed someone.”

  He took a long drink, leaving her hanging. “I went to Bracken Hall to see someone wed. A fellow officer. I was best man. It was, as I said, uneventful.”

  She rested her cheek against Lily Cate’s hair as a strange euphoria rushed in. He was not wed. Not taken. Just looking annoyed that she had imagined it. She gave the rocking chair a gentle push with her foot, wondering what Lily Cate’s reaction would be upon waking.

  Lord, let her be glad to see him again.

  “Have you ever considered a post as a governess?” He reached for a biscuit but didn’t eat, as if awaiting her answer first.

  ’Twas her turn to be surprised. “You’re not seeking my services, I hope.”

  Her distaste must have showed on her face, for he said quietly, “Is the prospect so abhorrent to you, then?”

  “I . . .” She could just imagine that arrangement. First in line to observe the bride he would eventually bring home. Babies. A domestic scene long denied her. “I’ve posted a letter to Mrs. Hallam about a governess. Hopefully there’ll be a hasty reply.”

  He ran a hand over his jaw, drawing attention to his shadow of beard. “You’ve been a great help to me with my daughter. I’d like to return the favor, if you’ll let me speak freely.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You seem to have little trouble on that score, General.”

  “Forgive me for that.” He shot her an apologetic glance. “Sometimes my field manners follow me into the parlor.” Setting his tankard aside, he leaned forward. “Since we’re discussing the matter of personal correspondence, I need to know if you’ve received any word from government officials concerning Three Chimneys.”

  So he knew. Somehow it hurt, humiliated her, that he did. “Just yesterday a letter came,” she answered, resuming her rocking. “The post is in the study. On my fa—Curtis’s desk. You may retrieve it if you like.”

  He got up without waiting for more. In moments he sat back down, letter in hand. “I have a proposal.”

  Her girlish heart lifted. His words, the hushed way he said them, made her stomach s
pin, and then sharp reason reined her in. He didn’t mean that kind of proposal. She tried to stem the thought of him on bended knee. Was that how he had proposed to Anne? He didn’t seem like a romantic sort of suitor.

  The look he gave her was all business, driving every romantic notion from her head. “I’m prepared to pay back taxes on Three Chimneys in exchange for your leasing land to me.”

  “A lease? Why?”

  “Tobacco is no longer a good cash crop as it weakens the soil and is labor intensive. If Tall Acre is to turn profitable again, I need to diversify. My goal is to cultivate wheat and cotton—”

  “Cotton?” she exclaimed. “’Tis nearly as hard to produce as silk.”

  “Only till someone finds a reliable way to harvest it,” he countered, seeming unperturbed. “If you’ll agree to the land lease, I can guarantee a profit. I cannot guarantee you’ll retain Three Chimneys, but I’ll do what I can.”

  She nearly sighed aloud. She’d rather he’d come striding in, take his daughter, and make no honorable proposals. With every bold word, he was wedding himself deeper into her head and heart, and she felt a new kind of desperation. She couldn’t get lost in him, couldn’t depend on him. Yet she felt herself warming, soaking up his attention like a neglected flower left too long in the shade.

  Lily Cate stirred in her arms, slowly coming awake. She took her father in, her whisper soft and sleepy. “You’ve come back.”

  Sophie longed for her to show joy at his appearing. The guarded hope in his gaze rent her heart. Despite their shaky start, he loved his little daughter deeply. Couldn’t Lily Cate sense that?

  Bending her head, Sophie whispered so low in her ear he couldn’t possibly hear. “Go to him.”

  Slowly Lily Cate eased off Sophie’s lap and onto his. “Sir, where is she?”

  He touched her sleep-flushed cheek with his good hand. “Who?”

  “Your bride.”

  A slight pause. “I don’t know . . . I’ve not found her yet.”

  Sophie began wrapping the remaining biscuit and apple in a linen napkin, turning away from the intimate scene. Already she felt a bit empty. Their presence was a warm, living thing, staving off bedtime and her dread of the dark. Nighttime was always hardest, when the darkness seemed ready to devour her.

  “Miss Menzies.”

  Unwillingly her gaze found his again.

  “We need to finish our conversation.”

  “Another time,” she said vaguely.

  “Tomorrow, mayhap.”

  She gave him a fleeting, noncommittal smile. “Tomorrow is the Sabbath.”

  “The day after, then.”

  She bit her lip. If he was this persistent on the battlefield, no wonder the war had been won. “Goodnight to you both.” Bending down, she cupped Lily Cate’s chin with one hand and pressed a kiss to her brow.

  When she straightened he towered over her, making her feel as small as Lily Cate. He chuckled when she handed him the burgeoning napkin. Old habits made her forget Tall Acre’s larder wasn’t lacking.

  “Till Monday,” he said, purpose in his gaze.

  8

  Sir, do you not go to church?”

  Sir. Would she never call him Papa again?

  Seamus looked up from his desk, over stacks of ledgers and quires of paper, to see Lily Cate in the doorway of his study dressed in her best, if one could call it that. A pink gown and quilted petticoat. Cardinal cloak. Green slippers and protective black pattens. A muff and bonnet. Nothing matched, but she’d taken pains with herself, clearly.

  She took a wary step into the room. “’Tis the Sabbath, Miss Sophie said.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. Whatever Miss Sophie said was law and long remembered. “I used to go to church,” he told her. Before the war. Before death and disease and destruction darkened a searching heart. “To be honest, I’d forgotten what day it is.”

  She took another step, looking about his study, a place she’d not yet been, like it was some sort of dank dungeon. And then her eyes lit on the mantel where the painting of her pony rested, and she flashed him a shy smile. It was Anne’s smile, reminiscent of a better time and place, and it warmed him like a spring day after a long winter.

  “May I go with Miss Sophie?”

  “Nay, but you can go with me,” he said quickly.

  “Thank you,” she replied, clutching her little purse.

  Her manners are very fine.

  Miss Menzies was right. Whatever had happened with his daughter in Williamsburg, someone there had taught her to be mannerly.

  “I’ll need a few minutes to have the coach brought round, make myself presentable,” he said.

  In a quarter of an hour they were hurtling down the lane to Roan Church, leaving the problems and pressures of Tall Acre behind. He hoped they wouldn’t be late.

  “May we sit with Miss Sophie?”

  “Nay.” He felt a hitch of regret. He always seemed to be telling her no. “The Menzies family has their own pew, as do the Ogilvys.”

  “If she was my mama could we sit together?”

  The coach lurched along with his heart. “Aye, but she is not, and I—I cannot marry her.” Washington’s words bore down on him, challenging him. But it was his daughter’s stare, full of surprise and indignation, that pinned him.

  “Well, why not?”

  It was the sauciest he’d ever seen her, and he nearly smiled. Mayhap she did have a little of the Ogilvy fire, after all. “Because I don’t love her. We’re simply friends.”

  “Well, I love her.” The words were soft. Heartfelt. And still a tad indignant.

  He tugged on the window strap for fresh air, saying no more. Clouds were gathering in the east, stacked like cannonballs on the horizon, threatening rain. The oaks and hickories had lost most of their leaves, giving the valley, hailed as one of the most beautiful in Virginia, the look of a sodden gray quilt. Once again he was glad of a long winter. If he’d returned home in spring or summer, in the grip of the planting season, he’d be even more undone than he was.

  The church came into view, and he studied it with a critical eye. Situated on a knoll overlooking the Roan Valley, the building was small and of stone, the pews hard, the reverend old. The church’s interior had changed little since he’d attended years before, but the number of congregants seemed to be shrinking. He wagered Lily Cate would be fast asleep once the lengthy sermon began.

  After shaking hands with a few people, he led Lily Cate to pew number two, used by Ogilvys for three generations. His father had donated land to establish the building, even recruiting a clergyman from England, and so earned a prominent place, the Menzies family just behind. Unless their pew had somehow been confiscated, Roan hostilities considered.

  Seamus took a seat, Lily Cate beside him, but he saw no sign of Sophie Menzies. Soon Lily Cate began to squirm, craning her neck toward the door every time someone came in.

  In a few minutes curiosity got the better of him, and he looked back as Sophie entered, her cheeks the crimson of her cape. Had she walked all the way? Facing forward, he fixed his eye on the communion table, wanting to settle the matter of leased lands and land taxes. But he’d have to endure a lengthy service first. The thought brought a stitch of guilt. Was he no better than the moneylenders in the temple?

  Beside him, hands folded in her lap with only an occasional bout of fidgeting, Lily Cate did him proud till sermon’s end. Then, “I’m hungry.”

  He nodded absently, trying to catch Sophie’s attention before she got away, but a few people cornered him, wanting to greet him and hear his opinion on the new government, and she escaped after a quick hug from Lily Cate. He stood answering questions, cape flapping in the late November wind, the tick of his pulse impatient.

  “I need to . . .” Lily Cate was looking up at him, a plea in her blue eyes.

  She needed to . . . what? Her small gloved hand gestured to the necessary behind the church.

  He led her there, eyes on the road they’d soon
travel. By the time Lily Cate emerged, rain was pelting down, rearranging his plans to ride about the estate and talk to his tenants. The road was quickly turning to mud, and a fine mist was snaking in among buildings and trees, further obscuring his view. Where was Miss Menzies?

  “I’m hungry,” Lily Cate told him.

  I heard you the first time, he almost said, helping her into the coach. Climbing in after her, he shut the door but left the window cracked.

  They took the first bend in the road too quickly, causing Lily Cate to slide across the leather seat. The coachman was young and inexperienced, almost reckless, and Seamus raised a hand to pound on the lacquered ceiling. To no avail. Out the half-shuttered window he caught a glimpse of a cardinal cape as they flew by. The figure jumped out of the way all too late, a wave of mud and water drenching her before the coach slowed to a stop.

  Seamus got out, wanting to take the whip to the driver. Wanting to shake Sophie Menzies. What the devil was she doing walking so far on such a day? The sight of Lily Cate’s anxious face at the window cooled his ire. “Are you hurt?” he asked Sophie.

  “Just wet,” Sophie answered with a smile as wide as Lily Cate’s, as unbothered as if they’d splashed sunshine on her instead.

  “Why aren’t you riding?” he asked. Her face clouded, and he realized his mistake. No mount. No coach. He seized the moment. “The inn is just ahead. We’ll have something to eat and you can dry out.”

  Lily Cate clapped her hands as he opened the door and helped Sophie inside, tossing out a warning to the red-faced coachman. “If you cannot manage an easier ride, I’ll drive to Tall Acre myself and you’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  After that, they inched along to the Kings Arms, recently renamed The George Inn, its sign freshly painted and bearing a Continental cocked hat. Squat and unadorned, it boasted decent food and a welcoming stone hearth. He’d not seen Lily Cate so delighted since he’d last taken her to Three Chimneys.