The Lacemaker

  Henry led them through the lower rooms, including the blue ballroom and adjoining supper room, assessing any damage before going up the pine staircase. Through the arches at the top of the stairs was a middle room or royal audience room where Virginia’s royal governors had conducted business for more than fifty years.

  Henry sat in the throne-like chair, once Dunmore’s own, looking quite at home. Noble and the others stood about the immense desk, their gazes never settling as Henry spoke.

  “Virginia’s government is now in the hands of the people, who have no intention of returning it to royal authority without a fight.”

  Noble listened without comment as Henry and Wythe discussed the coming Virginia Convention and its new purpose.

  Eventually they retreated to the Raleigh for a pint and a pipe. Noble was anxious to excuse himself, taking the necessary paperwork with him.

  “About those documents. How soon shall we see them?” Henry asked.

  “If I ride out within the hour I can have them back to you on the morrow,” Noble told him.

  “Done.” Henry’s satisfaction turned probing. “Now do I sense a wedding in the offing?”

  Noble studied him thoughtfully. “Yours, mayhap?”

  The men rumbled with laughter. Newly widowed, Henry had six children at home and little time for courting yet little reason to delay. He looked a bit shamefaced, as if he’d been keeping secrets. “Very well then. Since rumors are flying you might as well know firsthand. After the political dust settles I’m to wed Dorothea Dandridge.”

  Wythe chortled loudest, pounding Henry on the back in congratulations. “Now that confession calls for some oysters and Virginia ham,” he crowed loudly to the approving nods of the rest.

  Noble delayed his departure for a half hour more as they ate amid the clink of utensils and curl of tobacco smoke in a private room free of passersby. Finally, Laurens and Wythe slipped away for a game of whist in the adjoining taproom, leaving Noble and Henry alone.

  Noble pushed his empty plate away, preoccupied with a final matter. “What’s to be done with Tory holdings?”

  Henry hunched over a glass of Madeira, pipe stem between his teeth. He seemed to take an age to answer. Noble was surprised to find that he himself was sweating, more indicative of his angst than the summer heat. With Elisabeth Lawson’s entreating face firmly in mind, the matter assumed unusual importance.

  “Lawson’s townhouse, ye mean?” At Noble’s nod, Henry said, “All Tory property is to be confiscated by the Americans in time—servants and furniture auctioned, and all the rest.” He puffed on his pipe, gaze never wavering. “Don’t look so glum, man. Could be worse.”

  Worse. The word sat uncomfortably between them. “Mayhap we should revise the wording of the document.”

  At this, Henry’s affability soured.

  “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” Noble said, “for all but Lord Stirling’s daughter and fellow Tories, and every slave in the thirteen colonies.”

  Henry expelled a ragged breath. “Now, my good man, ’tis not a perfect world.”

  The answer was patently unsatisfying. Noble fixed his eye on a beam of sunlight slanting through a tall window to his left. Dust motes danced in the warm air, and his mind began to drift, cast back to long nights spent laboring over Virginia’s fledgling independence papers. Hand cramped from writing, he’d pressed on till dawn, never dreaming of the consequences.

  Henry cleared his throat. “How personally involved are you in all this?”

  Noble wanted to sidestep the issue, knowing full well Henry wouldn’t let him. “In independence?”

  “Nay,” he growled. “Lord Stirling’s daughter.”

  Noble met his searching gaze directly. “I’ve just come out of mourning. Ty Mawr lacks a mistress. Lady Elisabeth is not without personal charm. If I told you she has no effect on me whatsoever I’d be lying.”

  “Ah, Noble. You’ve always had a tremendous gift for understatement.” Henry partook of his pipe, his voice dropping a notch. “I sense you’re enamored of her, and it couldn’t happen at a more inopportune time.”

  “One cannot be in love in a fortnight. Infatuated, mayhap, given the little time I’ve known her. But not in love.”

  “Man, are you daft? Affection doesn’t consult the clock! ’Tis that barrister brain of yours trying to make sense of what you yourself cannot deny, is it not?”

  “Then what is your recommendation?”

  “Get her out of your house immediately. ‘Feed not thy affections,’ as my father used to say. For all we know she might be a Tory spy. When word of this spreads, I shudder at the consequences.”

  “Her ladyship has nowhere to go.”

  “There are fifteen ordinaries in and around Williamsburg, by my last count.” Henry’s tone turned a trifle exasperated. “Has she no one willing to take her in? No friends?”

  “Few faithful ones,” he said, thinking of Cressida Shaw.

  “No relatives elsewhere in the colonies?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Why doesn’t she join her father and fellow Tories aboard the Fowey?”

  “Her mother is expected any day, and that is where her loyalties lie.”

  “Ah, the countess. Banished to the mother country on account of her patriotic pen.”

  “Aye, the one we’ll soon be at war with.”

  Henry sighed. “What a fine kettle of fish this is.”

  Their attention swung to the taproom’s entrance, where a few more Patriots gathered. George Rogers Clark’s booming voice warned Noble he’d be further delayed. Mayhap he could slip out the back.

  As Noble rose from the table, Henry fixed him with a fatherly stare. “I admire you for coming to her aid when no one else would, but be careful, man. And don’t be so quick to trust the lass in question.”

  From her position at the window, Elisabeth watched for the return of Ty Mawr’s master and was at last rewarded. Never had she been so enamored of approaching horse hooves. Her insides did a riotous dance as she set aside her lacemaking and rested her hands in her lap. The piece she was working was complicated. And as black as Isabeau’s mood.

  “So he’s finally come.” Isabeau flew to the window, her mouth slanting disapprovingly. “All day we wait and now he comes late—with half a dozen rogues on his heels?”

  Joining her at the window, Elisabeth counted five additional riders, each nearly obscured by dust. Other than Noble, she most easily recognized the unmistakable figure of Washington. “He keeps fine company.”

  But Isabeau did not hear her, for she’d gone to the door to let Mistress Tremayne enter with a supper tray. Elisabeth turned away from the glass reluctantly. For once Mistress Tremayne looked tired, as if something more was stirring than Ty Mawr’s expected company. The sumptuous contents of their supper wafted into the room. Roast lamb. Tintern cheese. Welsh cakes. An abundance of butter and preserves.

  Isabeau relieved her of her burden, and Elisabeth took a seat at the small supper table, thanking her. “You look tired, Mistress Tremayne. Won’t you sit for a moment?”

  “I’m afraid not, your ladyship.” The housekeeper glanced at the nearest chair longingly. “I’ve another supper to oversee before the night’s through. These Patriots are very fond of dining.”

  The arrival of so many men at once sounded like a small storm. Elisabeth felt both keen disappointment and curiosity. ’Twas an empty house she wanted, if for no other reason than to be alone with her host again. Pleasurable pieces of their time together kept returning to her even now. “Ty Mawr is a hospitable place.”

  “Once upon a time it was. For now it will host a few of the Independence Men, including George Rogers Clark, just returned from the Kentucke territory.”

  The rebels. Elisabeth saw the fire in Isabeau’s eyes.

  “I wish some feminine company for you,” Mistress Tremayne murmured, sympathy in her gaze. “I daresay ’twill be a bit mundane with all the male talk.”

&
nbsp; She went out, leaving Isabeau to hiss, “Tar and feathers! Are we not hemmed in on all sides by the treasonous beggars?”

  “Tar and feathers, indeed. There’s not an ungentlemanly one among them, although I’ve heard George Rogers Clark is a bit knavish at times.” Elisabeth turned her attention to their supper. “Look, Isabeau. Strawberries!”

  Isabeau waved her hands, ignoring the crystal dish. “I have no appetite. These men convene like a murder of crows. There is to be war, I feel it to my marrow.”

  “’Tis a tempest in a teacup.”

  Isabeau glared at her, gaze dropping to the edibles.

  “I’m ravenous,” Elisabeth replied, wondering what to partake of first. “Now kindly dismiss any thunderclouds and join me.”

  “Non, non. I am to dine with the other servants below.”

  “With Ninian Landeg, I presume? Surely that is cause for celebration.”

  Isabeau pinked, staring at her mistress’s heaping plate in disbelief. “What is this? You rarely eat more than a thimbleful at a time.”

  “Must be the country air,” Elisabeth mused, biting into a berry.

  “That, or you are looking to the day we go hungry, no?”

  The strawberry’s exquisite sweetness turned sour. She’d never known hunger in her life. But she’d seen it on the streets of Williamsburg and had witnessed their French chef ease it in a small way by dispensing victuals out their kitchen door. “God hasn’t forgotten us, Isabeau. There’s been no revolution up above, remember.”

  Still, the faith-filled words were touched with uncertainty, and Elisabeth felt a tendril of fear take root.

  Isabeau went out, and the room was blessedly still save for the snap of a curtain in the warm, coastal wind. Elisabeth was left to her private supper and the distinct sound of male voices on Ty Mawr’s ground floor.

  Ty Mawr assumed a different feel depending on who was in it. Tonight was rife with power and quiet dignity and purpose, no doubt owing to the men beneath its roof. Elisabeth felt a welling inside herself of unbridled curiosity and grudging admiration that these men who had so much would risk their very lives and all they held dear to turn against the Crown and be labeled traitors.

  Her fascination kept her rooted to the attic’s riverfront window, which gave her an exceptional view of broad backs and striking profiles. These Independence Men had been below in the study, Mistress Tremayne told her. But now, as if tired of being cooped up and wanting to stretch their legs, they’d moved onto the rear lawn.

  Of all the men, other than Noble, Washington intrigued her the most. Past forty, he was a physical giant, slim of shoulder and long of leg, a touch of youthful red still lingering in his queued hair. She’d never seen such enormous hands.

  Most of these men had been in her father’s drawing room before they’d posed a threat. More often she’d seen them within the Governor’s Palace or about Williamsburg. Then and now she was struck by the vast differences between her father and Governor Dunmore and these unpowdered Patriots. None of these liberty lovers wore wigs. All were in plain but fine broadcloth, not only because there were no Spitalfields silks or other fine exports coming out of England, but because their tastes ran along simpler lines. Only one wore expensive lace at his cuffs, making her take a second look.

  “Careful, mistress, lest you learn something you shouldn’t,” Isabeau cautioned, having returned from her supper. She went about putting freshly washed underpinnings away. In a strident whisper she said, “What are they doing now?”

  “Admiring the view, talking. Supper is about to begin.”

  “Any dames about?”

  “Nary a lady, nay.”

  Isabeau began mending a dress hem, singing under her breath, “God save great George our king. Long live our noble king. God save the king! Send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign o’er us. God save the king!”

  Elisabeth winced, but the masculine talk below was so robust she didn’t shush her maid. She had a mind to remind Isabeau that as she was French, King George was not her liege, but left it alone.

  Twilight crept in, lit by the glitter of fireflies. The evening promised to be a late one. Tonight there would be no answers for her from Williamsburg. Something far more pressing was afoot with these Patriots.

  Before turning away from the window, she lingered on Noble. How quickly she’d taken to heart the whole of him.

  In the span of that tender thought as she stared down at him, he looked up. Across the expanse of slate roof and emerald lawn his gaze lingered, and it seemed he’d reached out and touched her. Delighted, she leaned in to the glass, hands flat upon the sill. Her breath held.

  Dangerous, that.

  She spun away, chiding herself. Now was not the time to flirt. To be coy. In an already unsettled world she needed to stay grounded. She needed to just be . . . Liberty.

  Free. Enterprising. Independent. Beholden to none.

  She must change her name. Hereby, from this night forward, she would be known to all as Liberty Anne Lawson.

  11

  When Enid died, Noble had considered leaving Ty Mawr and moving to Ty Bryn. As he’d never been one for flinching at shadows, he’d abandoned the idea, only to take it up again after the doctor’s recent visit to Elisabeth. He mulled it again after midnight when his fellow Patriots had left for home and the house was still.

  Leaning back in his chair, he passed a hand over eyes still burning from too many late nights and an abundance of tobacco smoke and intense talk. Mayhap he’d ride over to Ty Bryn on the morrow and see if the cottage was in good enough repair to move into. Of all his properties, Ty Bryn was the dearest. Since his parents had passed, the place had sat empty. A waste, given its unparalleled river view.

  Yet once all the work was done—all the painting and moving of furniture and possessions, and the few staff who needed transferring—would the darkness still follow? What if he just let the past play out in his head and heart? What if when a memory surfaced, he let it alone and did not try to dislodge it? Would he then find a measure of peace?

  He’d been in his study but half an hour, the longest uninterrupted half hour he’d had in a fortnight. Ledgers and daybooks were open, but he looked past them into the library, where Elisabeth had gone when she’d ventured downstairs once his guests had left. Seeing him, looking embarrassed and surprised as if she’d expected him to have gone too, she’d turned and hurried up the staircase, candle flickering. But the image she’d left remained, a surprising blend of loosened hair and bare feet and pale blue dressing gown.

  Now that was a thought he’d best abandon.

  She was growing tired of her attic cage, no doubt. Perhaps looking for a book. Once she’d had free roam of Williamsburg, everything at her whim. But now . . .

  He’d put her off long enough. He knew she wanted word from Williamsburg. But he was loath to tell her the news.

  Or was it because once he told all, he sensed she would leave?

  He climbed the stairs to bed, listening for any attic noise. None. Yet the thought of her sleeping beneath his roof, in the very room above his own, was enough to keep him wide awake all night.

  Noble glanced at the mantel clock as the cock crowed and decided to ride. Then he’d meet with his houseguest. Riding had once cleared his head and given him answers he’d never gained clear of the saddle. Aye, a good, hard ride was what he needed, if he could master his memories. If Enid didn’t overshadow him. He pushed all thought of her to that corner of his conscience he revisited all too often.

  He’d not been to Ty Bryn in a month or better. ’Twas long overdue. He left the stables, determined not to let Enid’s memory intrude as she herself had that last day, following him on her mare at a precarious gallop despite the damp and his repeated warnings. If he could only rewind time, be less preoccupied with his own interests and more of Enid’s. He’d have made sure that saddle was not faulty, the ride from beginning to end more than a dark memory.

  In a low-lying meadow dott
ed with a tangle of wild honeysuckle vine, Noble cleared one stone fence and then another. The thoroughbred came down hard and nearly stumbled, then rose with tremendous grace and took him along the lane that led to Ty Bryn. Only a fraction of the size of Ty Mawr, what it lacked in grandeur it made up for in charm.

  With a tug on the reins, he guided the unfamiliar mount around the west side of the house, admiring the climbing roses clinging to one of four chimneys. As his gaze traveled to the well a few feet beyond the kitchen dependency, a flash of insight took hold. Mayhap Ty Mawr wasn’t for him but for her. Warmth seeped through him like brandy.

  Ty Mawr had a hold on his heart that few material things did. His father and mother had come from Wales and spent their last years within its walls. Happy memories for the most part, till age and infirmity ruled the day. Simply sitting atop his horse in the house’s cool shadow solaced him as little else could. Mayhap Elisabeth Lawson could find happiness here. Mayhap he could find his happiness in hers.

  As he passed beyond the house’s north wall, he heard a horse’s shrill whinny at the front. His mount’s ears flicked, and he drew up short. Across the yard, his farm manager sat atop his roan, looking relieved.

  “You’ve not been here much of late, sir.”

  “In Williamsburg mostly.”

  “Much afoot there, aye?”

  “Afraid so. How hard would it be to get Ty Bryn ready for occupancy? Can we spare the labor?”

  They discussed the particulars, the need for interior paint and a repair to the well. The garden was overgrown but not beyond a good weeding and pruning. With the stable already in constant use and the kitchen house in good order, Ty Bryn would soon be set right.

  “Let’s see it done then,” Noble said, leaving the details in his farm manager’s hands. He himself would deal with Lady Elisabeth.

  Up and down Liberty walked, waiting. All afternoon she’d tried to occupy her wayward thoughts with a stint of lacemaking, followed by bara brith and lemonade with Mistress Tremayne and now a solitary turn in the portrait gallery, a place the servants seldom ventured. All the while waiting for Noble’s return.