The Lacemaker

  An opening minuet ended and a jig began. The Raleigh’s windows offered an ample view of who danced with whom, the endless imbibing at the punch bowl, the fluttering of fans and side conversations. Miles Roth was not long for the dancing. He soon moved to the taproom and gambling. But Cressida in her celestial-blue silk was the belle of the ball, partnering with every Patriot in sight.

  Except Noble Rynallt, who had not come.

  19

  Twas just past noon when the auction began. Standing in the glare of a cloudless July sun, Noble counted the serious bidders. The crowd was thick, mostly curious onlookers anxious to see the Lawsons’ personal lives and possessions paraded before them when they’d been denied the details before. He himself could ill afford to be here. Last year’s tobacco crop was less than desired, exports nearly nonexistent now. His purse was stretched at the seams.

  John Greenhow stood atop a raised platform in the ransacked garden of the Lawsons’ townhouse, sweating and harried. After the usual welcome and recitation of the rules and a reminder that two bids must be made by persons unknown to the other, the Lawsons’ belongings went on the block as confiscated Tory property. Furniture. Wine. Art. Saddles and bridles.

  “Credit will be allowed until the twentieth of December next for all sums above fifty shillings, the purchasers giving bond, with approved security . . .”

  The bidding began. Hands shot up. Beneath a battered ornamental tree that had somehow survived the ransacking, Miles Roth was adjusting his hat.

  Unseen by him in the jostling audience, Noble wondered what it was his cousin wanted here. Simply put, Miles’s presence grated. Had he taken Noble’s gibe to heart? Was he going to bid on the townhouse?

  Item by item, the townhouse’s lavish contents were carried out. A beautiful cherry dressing table—was that Libby’s own? An embroidered sampler dated 1771—worked by her hand? An enamel patch box. A necklace of ruby glass beads. A complete set of Nanquin tea china . . .

  Midafternoon his own wait was rewarded as the remains of the music room appeared. The elaborate harp was the first instrument up for bidding. How had it survived intact?

  Noble sent another glance Miles’s way, knowing his cousin likely wanted the townhouse, not the contents. When the bidding on the harp began to climb, Noble raised a hand. His number was high enough to deter any but the most covetous.

  “Going once . . . twice . . . Sold!”

  A burst of elation warmed him. He considered a broken lute and a rare violin with a missing bow. But the harp seemed enough. Dougray waited near at hand to haul it home in a wagon.

  Miles was staring at both of them, frowning, as Noble examined his prize before Dougray secured it for the few miles’ journey to Ty Mawr. Was Miles expecting him to leave?

  The day wore on. The auctioneer grew more hoarse. Carts and wagons toted myriad items away. The sun was slanting beneath Noble’s cocked hat now, and he pulled it lower. A drink from his flask revived him, but there was no help for the onslaught of gnats badgering the crowd.

  His spirits, high when the harp was his, began to ebb as the heat climbed and more personal items went on display. Each was part and parcel of Libby Lawson’s former life. How would it feel to lose Ty Mawr? To relinquish so many personal possessions? He might well experience it given Virginia’s crisis. And not only his estate. His very life.

  A quick scan of the crowd assured him Libby was not here. That alone bolstered him. The folly in back of the Raleigh was now her home, for however long it lasted. And God be thanked for that.

  The bidding for the townhouse began at last, disrespectfully low. So low Noble nearly flinched. Miles’s hand shot up straightaway. So he’d discarded his would-be bride and set his sights on her townhouse instead?

  Noble took another swallow from his flask, the tick of his pulse climbing bid by bid. Aye, Miles seemed determined to have it. He’d elbowed his way to the front of the throng, just beyond the reach of the auctioneer’s silver-tipped walking stick.

  Disgust threatened to unseat Noble’s stoicism. God help him, he’d go to the poorhouse before Miles won Libby’s former home.

  “A thousand pounds more,” Noble shouted.

  Miles craned his neck and glared, promptly outbidding him. Another gentleman intervened. But not by much. Undeterred, Noble put forth a higher amount, which Miles countered by a measly ten pounds.

  Noble was cast back to the wrestling matches they’d had as boys. Miles usually resorted to kicking and biting and looked like he might do so now.

  “Going once . . . Going twice . . .”

  Noble cast a last bid. The other gentleman topped it. This stranger was from Alexandria. A wealthy lawyer, someone said. Miles was strangely, furiously silent.

  Noble held his peace as the townhouse went to the persistent lawyer. Throwing down his snuff box, Miles stalked off into the heated haze of the afternoon.

  The folly door was ajar. Would he always find her within? Or would she disappear one day like her father had done? He still wasn’t sure of her. Or her loyalties. Her affections.

  He paused at the Raleigh’s back gate. He had to pass by the garden first, and the woman who tended it was standing guard over a patch of peas. Thalia, Dougray’s new sweetheart. He hardly recognized her in her bright kerchief. Sometimes slave auctions were held on the ordinary’s front steps, and Thalia had been bought by Southall at one of them months before. Likely Libby had been sheltered from such. If she had witnessed one she might not find the folly so agreeable.

  He turned over the serinette he’d bid on and won. French made, it was fashioned of European walnut, capable of playing ethereal tunes. A rarity of a music box. It had gone for only a few guineas while the harp had taken considerably more. He wanted to have something to give Libby. No doubt she knew her former home was on the block. The auction’s hubbub could be heard for miles.

  Thalia spoke in back of him. “She ain’t here, sir. She’s gone for pins and thread.”

  He felt a sudden misgiving. A sewing kit had been auctioned to a woman earlier in the day. Mayhap Libby had more need of that. Both serinette and harp seemed frivolous somehow, an impracticality in her highly practical life. She could fit the serinette in the folly. The harp had already been wrapped in a quilt and was nearly to Ty Mawr.

  “I’ll leave it here then.” He set the gift inside the folly door just as a gentle voice sounded behind him.

  “What have you . . . ?”

  He turned.

  Libby looked past him, eyes widening as she took his gift in. “Boîte à musique?” She dropped her basket and reached for it, opening the lid so that a tune floated out. Her delight was worth every guinea. “How did you come by it?”

  ’Twas the one question he hoped she would not ask. But it deserved an honest answer. “At auction. I did what I could.”

  “Ah, that. I purposed to shy away from England Street.” She shut the serinette. Her eyes shone. “I owe you.”

  “Nay. There’s your harp besides.”

  “You saved my harp?” For a moment she seemed overcome.

  “’Tis on the road to Ty Mawr as we speak, though I cannot testify to its safety in a wagon bed. ’Twill be there for safekeeping till you have need of it again.”

  Stepping into the folly’s shade, she faced him. His broad back blocked the blistering sun, his shirt damp beneath his coat. Sweat trickled down his neck, turning him itchy.

  “So the townhouse . . . ’tis gone.” Her chin trembled.

  “Sold to an Alexandria lawyer, aye.” Such pain crossed her face he veered to a safer path. “How was your errand?”

  In other words, How did the shopkeeper treat you? Were you welcomed or shunned? He picked up her basket and set it inside.

  She expelled a breath. “Pins are scarce these days. I’m always in need of them but just learnt that a dozen equal the value of a bedstead.”

  “Why more pins?”

  “The wider silk laces require a great many. I go to Norfolk on the morrow. P
erhaps I shall find them there.”

  He gave a nod. “Stop at Ty Mawr and ask Mistress Tremayne if she has any. Isabeau can even accompany you to Norfolk if you like.”

  She gave a shake of her head. “No need for a companion. The Quarterpath Road is heavily traveled.”

  True enough. Still, Noble didn’t like the thought of her without an escort. He couldn’t rid his mind of pickpockets and rogues, though she had precarious little to steal. Coin, anyway. Her virtue was another matter. “You’ll ride?”

  “Mister Southall has a gentle mare in need of exercise. But I might lodge at Ty Mawr coming or going.”

  His hopes revived though her words seemed elusive. “The invitation stands,” he reassured her.

  Hugging the serinette to her chest, she sat down in the doorway. “What is happening with England?”

  The abbreviated answer? “There’s still hope of reconciliation. The colonies have extended an olive branch of sorts, asking King George to rein in Parliament and end their unbridled legislation over us.”

  “And my father? Lord Dunmore?”

  “They remain in Yorktown’s harbor, or so I last heard.” He wouldn’t tell her about the death threats. The mounting danger. “Mostly ’tis clonc.”

  “Clonc?”

  “Gossip.”

  She smiled, a rainbow in their storm. “A fitting word for tittle-tattle.”

  Setting the serinette aside, she reached for a dried magnolia in a deep windowsill. The one he’d given her? “How do you say flower in Welsh?”

  “Blodyn.” A clumsy name for something so fine, he’d always thought.

  The picture of charm, she repeated the word, making it sound almost fetching.

  A dozen other words clamored to be said.

  Del. Pretty.

  Calon. Heart.

  Rwy’n dy garu di. I love you.

  And his personal favorite—anwylyd. Dearest one. Beloved.

  He’d removed his tricorn and now slicked the sweat from his brow, ending all romantic musings. Knowing Thalia was near, privy to their meeting, he took a step back. If he wasn’t careful he’d be smonach. A mess.

  “Godspeed, Libby.”

  His sudden goodbye took some of the light from her face, but he had other, more urgent matters to attend to than delivering serinettes and harps.

  “Ffarwel,” she called after him.

  Weariness followed the next fortnight, draping Liberty like a cloak. Her fingers stiff and sore from so much needlework, she finished the lavender card holding her lace samples. On the back of the card she’d written, Lace of the kind made in Williamsburg, Virginia, stemming from Buckinghamshire, England. Thankfully, lace was lightweight and could be rolled into a small bundle and taken to market.

  The boycott of British goods was a blessing in disguise, making her own work more sought after, or so she hoped. Women’s caps and handkerchiefs were adorned with lace, and colonial women were having their portraits painted while wearing lace shawls, mostly black silk. Her own mother had posed in such only last winter. But even the humblest women often scraped and saved to afford a bit of lace adornment to call their own.

  She looked down at the work of her hands, recalling a psalm.

  Lord, please bless the work of my hands.

  She set what she’d take to Norfolk by the folly door. The only remaining riddle was whether to stop at Ty Mawr. How she’d love to see Isabeau again and have refreshments with Mistress Tremayne.

  Opening the serinette, she sat on a stool near the folly’s open door to listen and court any breeze. She took a deep breath to settle herself, only she didn’t settle. Like a bee in a butter churn she was, ever since the upheaval in June. But ’twas more than this, truly.

  Just when she thought she could forget about Noble Rynallt, move past his many kindnesses to her, he’d reappear. Going to Ty Mawr would only fan whatever spark had started. At least on her part.

  The serinette’s ethereal notes ceased and begged winding. But music was not what was needed. She craved a bath. The copper hip tub from the townhouse. No doubt that had been auctioned off too.

  Who was behind confiscating Tory property? Why hadn’t they waited to see if England would make amends? Did her father know he’d lost his home?

  She reached for the letter newly arrived from Philadelphia.

  Dear daughter, I am safely settled in this great city. I wonder that it took me so long . . .

  Mama sounded elated. The Dickinsons had opened their home and hearts to her, and she was surrounded by free-thinking Quaker friends far removed from the petty, personal politics of Virginia’s capital. If things turned sour, if Liberty’s lacemaking venture failed, she could find refuge in Philadelphia too, Mama restated.

  She took up a quill to answer, only to realize she’d run out of ink. And could ill afford more.

  Nay, for now, she couldn’t leave Williamsburg. Her heart and her hopes were here.

  Beneath wide-open skies the precise hue of Cressida’s party dress, Liberty’s spirits expanded. The folly, so tiny, seemed to clip her wings. Outside its narrow walls she felt she could fly. Norfolk didn’t seem so far. Every mile brought a reward. A riot of wildflowers. The capering of lambs. A coastal breeze. The tall, stalwart chimneys of plantations in the distance, ever reassuring.

  Her mare was another matter. Little wonder Mister Southall had spared such a creature. Every patch of clover caught her eye, and she was fond of stopping all of a sudden for no apparent reason, nearly unseating Liberty from the worn saddle.

  Snapping the ribbons, Liberty coaxed her on again and again. Past the turnoff to Carter’s Grove. Past the stately gates of Ty Mawr. Into full view of the James River as it flowed southeast to the Chesapeake Bay.

  A great many people traveled this road alongside the river. She breathed their dust, took note of their persons. Noble Rynallt needn’t worry about her. She didn’t miss Isabeau’s company too much. Didn’t garner too many inquiring glances.

  In her simple linen dress and straw hat she was simply Liberty the lacemaker of Williamsburg.

  20

  The latest documents from the Second Continental Congress had arrived by express that morning, ink-smeared and smelling of saddle leather. The title gave Noble pause.

  The Declaration of the Causes and Taking Up of Arms.

  Forbidding. Decisive. Final. Everything was inching toward war. He’d be more alarmed if George Washington hadn’t been made commander in chief of the newly formed Continental Army. Washington was fearless, a veteran soldier from the French and Indian War. But what was a pittance of colonists against hordes of professional British soldiers?

  He looked up as a knock sounded. The door to his study opened.

  “You’ve a visitor, sir.” Mistress Tremayne was hard to read, but he detected a glimmer of discontent. “A Miss Shaw has come.”

  For a few seconds he drew a blank. Miss Shaw . . . Libby’s friend? So framed, it made more sense. Out of the social whirl as he’d been, with only an occasional dance at the Raleigh, few women stood out. Had Miss Shaw come carrying news about Libby?

  Wary now, he simply said, “I’ll meet her in the East Room.”

  He crossed the threshold to a small parlor seldom opened. At times he felt he needed but three rooms, his bedchamber and his study and the kitchen. At least the whole of Ty Mawr gave him exercise and was large enough for a family, in time.

  “Good afternoon, Mister Rynallt.”

  “Aye, so it is, Miss Shaw.”

  She stood to his right as was proper, eyes downcast beneath her elaborate hat. This close he was reminded he’d once partnered with her at some function. Where, he couldn’t recall. She’d been eager, flirting with him and fluttering her fan. It had made him uncomfortable then. He was doubly uncomfortable now.

  He glanced at the parlor’s other door, open wide. Mistress Tremayne remained in the foyer, he suspected, for the signal to bring refreshments.

  “What a charming chamber.” Miss Shaw’s gracious w
ords seemed forced, but he cast an appreciative glance at the paneling and carved mantelpiece. She turned in a little circle as if to show herself off to full advantage, taking in the entirety of the room as she did so. The Prussian blue paint was much like the color being considered for the Continental Army uniforms. ’Twas an old room, one of the few Enid hadn’t redone.

  “’Tis a replica of the family parlor in Wales at our estate there,” he said. “My father designed the original.” She might not know the local history, as she was a relative newcomer to Williamsburg. Boston bred, if he recalled. Bits and pieces were coming back to him now. Her father was a wealthy merchant. And a fence-sitter regarding politics.

  “Lovely indeed.” She took something from her purse. A letter? “I hesitate to be the bearer of bad news, but after much prayer I felt you were the one to consult about the matter.”

  He felt an immediate check. Beware the things that come cloaked in prayer. “And the matter is . . .”

  “The letter speaks for itself, though I can vouch for its veracity.” She passed it to him. “I’ve suspected as much.”

  The letter’s seal had been broken. The handwriting was bold. Black. Masculine. In the copperplate style, as opposed to a woman’s elegant Italianate hand.

  Dear Sir,

  This is to forewarn you of traitors in your midst, namely the daughter of the former lieutenant governor, Lady Elisabeth Lawson. She is guilty of carrying correspondence to her father that will do the American cause harm. Lady Elisabeth has been to Norfolk of late, even Yorktown, under the guise of a lacemaker. Do not be fooled.

  There was no signature. He looked squarely at Cressida Shaw. “The letter loses credibility being unsigned.”

  Her chin lifted. “These are dangerous times. A signer might implicate himself—”

  “Like I did when I signed dozens of documents questioning the king.”

  She colored at this, her face the hue of her rose dress. “I only want to do my part and warn you.”