The Lacemaker

  Despite all his wondering, the elation he’d felt at her response stayed with him. He’d expected outright refusal, even a wait-and-see. Somehow the timing seemed right. If the folly’s burning had done anything to turn things in his favor, he was glad, despite Southall’s losses.

  Soon there’d be a mistress of Ty Mawr, or rather Ty Bryn for now. Glad he was he’d given Ty Bryn a thorough grooming of late. He’d had it in mind for Libby all along, even if she hadn’t agreed to marry him. Few came here. Fewer knew it existed. To reach it one had to pass by Ty Mawr.

  The next days were a blur of heat, dust, and expectations. At last Noble returned home from Richmond. He stabled his horse before going in Ty Mawr’s side entrance, then taking the stair from his study to his bedchamber.

  Ninian greeted him with a word that all was well. “Your bride is making ready at Ty Bryn, sir.”

  At the washstand, Noble rinsed the dust from his face and decided to bathe. A day’s growth of beard needed banishing, and he owed his bride his best suit of clothes, at least. Remembering a detail, he opened the lone drawer of his shaving stand. His mother’s ring was cocooned in a scrap of velvet.

  Don’t let them bury me with it. Keep it for your bride-to-be.

  She’d prayed to that end, she’d told him. Was Libby an answer to his mother’s prayers? And Libby’s own mother—what would her reaction be?

  The afternoon waned and he rode to Ty Bryn, stabling his horse with Dougray. As twilight descended he found himself in the miniature garden, walled like Ty Mawr and arguably the most fragrant, as if all that hot brick hedged in the intoxicating scent of blooms and herbs.

  Soon Gabriel Tannant joined him at the wall, looking outward on the James, the river mostly empty save a familiar batteau and skiff. Its calm surface was a striking counterpoint to Noble’s unrest. Not because of Libby but because of her father, Dunmore, and the simmering colonies.

  “No river pirates on the Sabbath, I hope,” Tannant said.

  “Nay, thankfully. Not on my wedding eve.” Noble gave him a searching look. “Everything in order for the hasty ceremony?”

  “Indeed.” Tannant smiled, thumbing through the open Bible in his hand. “Why wait, truly. You either know you want to wed or you don’t. Times are changing. I just heard word the rector of Bruton Parish has struck the king’s name from the church Bible.”

  “He’s a Patriot then.”

  “Aye, little time left to take sides.”

  The clouds shifted, revealing a rising moon, just light enough to see the silhouettes of Mistress Tremayne and Isabeau following in Libby’s wake. His eyes were for his bride, the lacy lines of her veil flowing about her and turning her almost ethereal.

  His birthday bride.

  Though she was a small slip of a woman, she had a gracious carriage. And even the gathering darkness couldn’t hide that she was looking at him. Her hands were empty—ludicrous amid so much color. He began picking flowers, robbing the recently weeded beds. Lilies and roses and hollyhocks. By the time she reached him he had a generous, unkempt bouquet. Clearly delighted, she took the blooms, cradling them in her arms.

  He made introductions. For all his earthiness as a farmer, Tannant was a fine preacher, his poet-pastor roots coming to bear. The opening words rolled off his tongue like a prayer. Noble stood stone still and took in Libby’s bent head, the fall of her veil. If she wore one of Enid’s dresses, he didn’t remember it. The thought tightened his throat. His sister should be here. Libby’s mother should be here. In a perfect world, all their parents would be. This felt right, but it wasn’t easy. This act required courage. Hope. Faith.

  Love.

  Liberty was aware of a great many things. How calm Noble seemed. Tennant’s Welsh and English vows. The fly bedeviling Isabeau, who was trying not to bat at it but stay still. The look of satisfaction on Mistress Tremayne’s face. Liberty lowered her gaze to the blooms Noble had gathered for her. She could not meet his eyes. Doing so seemed an intimacy not yet warranted, yet his gift of flowers was a gallant gesture that made her insides dance.

  The pull to look at her groom, weigh his reactions, gauge his thoughts, was nearly irresistible. She knew him well enough to rule out any impulse or rashness. Noble Rynallt of Ty Mawr was of sound mind taking a Tory bride. He’d thought it through like the barrister and former burgess he was in ways she hadn’t. The ring he slipped on her hand was proof. It left her wishing for more light to better admire it.

  Following the pastor’s lead, Noble spoke the words Liberty had never thought to hear. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  She was penniless. Dowryless. No matter.

  “I, Noble, take thee, Liberty, to be my wife . . .”

  Together they knelt on a small, brocaded bench someone had brought from the parlor as the final prayer was said.

  Finally, her gaze found her groom’s, her shadowy veil between them. There was no call for any bride kissing. A question rose in her eyes. Her heart. He started to raise her veil then stopped, as if paralyzed with uncertainty as to what she really wanted from him.

  “Noble and Liberty Rynallt of Ty Mawr,” Tannant proclaimed as they rose from the bench.

  “God be praised,” Mistress Tremayne exclaimed. “Now if the bride and groom will lead the way to the parlor, we shall celebrate.”

  She had shed her Tory name. No longer was she Lady Elisabeth Lawson but Liberty Rynallt. Mistress of Ty Mawr and Ty Bryn. Everyone’s continuous smiles were a reminder of the sudden, surprising change. Isabeau’s was especially broad, as it signaled her return to lady’s maid.

  A wedding cake was served, its icing soft in the heat. The delightful confection was small but beautifully done, adorned with candied flowers and orange and lemon peel. A marvel. The Williamsburg confectionery could have supplied no better.

  As she sipped her punch, standing to the right of her groom, she took note of guests. The pastor’s wife and children were sprinkled about the parlor, the youngest girls enamored by some glass figurines on a small table. There was Ninian shadowing Isabeau and Mistress Tremayne speaking with Nell and Dougray. Glad she was it was the Sabbath and so quiet, the ceremony hushed.

  Still, she wondered. What if the news of their marriage seeped to her father? It took but one loose-lipped servant . . .

  Lord, protect us, please.

  “A toast to Ty Mawr’s master and new mistress.” This from Ninian, wearing merino broadcloth.

  All raised their glasses. The toast was made in Welsh, the valet’s eyes shining his pleasure. He looked jubilant, though their marriage meant a change to his routine, surely. Liberty took his measure. Old enough to be Noble’s father. Immaculate in dress. Neither portly nor thin. And by all appearances as besotted by Isabeau as she was him.

  As she pondered it, a new qualm beset her. What of their wedding night? Would they dismiss the servants? Be alone? If only Mama was near enough to ask about what came next. She could well imagine Cressida’s reaction, having set her sights on the handsome Welshman now married.

  “Your ring—how lovely!” This from the pastor’s wife looking at her hand.

  In the rush, Liberty had forgotten it. She slipped the ring free of her finger, admiring the trellis pattern of gold and silver, squinting at the tiny engraving within. But alas, ’twas in Welsh.

  Noble intervened, not looking at the ring but at Liberty. “‘No heart more true than mine to you.’”

  Returning the ring to her finger, she smiled up at him, a bit bashfully, aware of a great many eyes on them.

  “’Twas my mother’s ring given by my father on their wedding day,” Noble remarked when Mistress Tannant had moved away to chasten one of her children.

  “And a happy marriage it was, forty-eight years long,” Mistress Tremayne said. “I was privileged to witness it myself.”

  “I wish I’d known them,” Liberty said.

  The housekeeper gave a smile of expectation. “You’ll
see them in the faces of your children, surely.”

  “A lovely thought.”

  Beside her, Noble was noticeably silent.

  The cake was cut and served on fine china bearing the Rynallt monogram. She appreciated it like the stranger she was, at sea with all the little details new to her. Someone had placed the flowers Noble had picked for her bouquet in a silver pitcher beside the china. Coffee was served, and also something finer and far more fragrant and forbidding than liberty tea, as if it had been secreted for a special occasion.

  He took a bite of cake, murmuring something about preferring the savory to the sweet. Another small revelation. Everything he did surprised her—because she knew him so little.

  Oh, what had she done, marrying a stranger?

  Was he thinking the same about her?

  Conversation swirled then stalled. Ten o’clock sounded from the lofty case clock in the foyer, and Mistress Tremayne and Nell began tidying up. The guests gave the happy couple their last best wishes, and soon the newlyweds were left facing each other. The lovely room seemed to shrink. Or was it only because they were standing so close to each other?

  “A guinea for your thoughts,” he said.

  She set down her empty cup. “I’m finding it hard to believe I left my father’s ship only a few days ago an unmarried woman, and now I’m standing here and ’tis a very different story.”

  “One that has a far happier ending, aye?” For a moment he looked stunned about what they’d just done. “We’ll take it as it comes. One circumstance at a time.”

  She liked that he said we. It sounded solid. Enduring. Far safer than going to and from Norfolk with the circumstances’ changing tides.

  “I’d still like you to allow me one important consideration,” she ventured. “I do want to go to Gosport.” His troubled expression nearly stole her courage. “’Tis critical, I feel.”

  “One last spying mission, so to speak.”

  “Yes, the very last. Think on it, please.” Leaving his side, she crossed the room to stand at the window looking out on the James. Daylight had eroded completely, and the rumble of thunder sounded far off through the darkness. Summer thunderstorms were a favorite of hers. She used to watch them from the oriole window of the Williamsburg townhouse.

  “If I could, I’d take you to honeymoon in Wales.”

  “How I’d love to see your native land.” A sudden whim turned her impish. Or perhaps it was the ratafia seldom drunk. “Why don’t we turn the tables on my father and steal away in one of Dunmore’s ships and sail there?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Together they took in the night as the storm sent a jagged slash of lightning over the garden, illuminating the flower beds and fountain with eerie light. But she was far more conscious of his nearness than the storm outside. This moment, this new, wondrous oneness, would never come again.

  “You must be tired.”

  She smiled up at him. “Mostly I am happy.”

  His answering smile reassured her that he was too. “Happy birthday, Libby. I’ve been pondering what to give you.”

  “Your lovely wedding ring will do.”

  His hand caught hers, her fingers enfolded in his warm grasp. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

  Her heart skipped. Would he take the lead? Take her in his arms and forever silence her doubts about his devotion? Slowly they climbed the steps, and she heard Isabeau humming. So he’d not dismissed the servants. She’d hoped ’twould be just the two of them. But he bid her good night at her half-open door before continuing down the hall to his own room, bypassing the connecting sitting room. Perhaps ’twas best. Exhaustion pummeled her in little waves, making her crave the comforts of her new bedchamber.

  “Ready to retire, sir?” came Ninian’s muffled words two rooms away. The respectful question rose above Isabeau’s humming in the dressing room.

  Curiously let down, Liberty faced her maid.

  “Oh là là!” Isabeau came forward to unpin her veil. “You are now mistress of Ty Bryn and Ty Mawr. I can hardly take it in!”

  Through the connecting door, Liberty saw Noble shed his fine coat. He turned around right then, his eyes meeting hers from a distance. Her heart skipped again. And then Isabeau and the valet unwittingly moved to shut the door between them.

  Hoofbeats? At this hour?

  Noble yanked at his stock as Ninian went to investigate. He returned and said, “Mister Henry to see you, sir.”

  His resistance roared. On his wedding night? Only Henry wasn’t privy to that intimate detail.

  Though Noble said nothing in response, Ninian read his displeasure. “He’s insisting on a meeting, I’m afraid, having been to Ty Mawr first.”

  Reluctant, Noble retied his stock. Tight as a noose it felt. Noble dismissed Ninian and took the stairs to the study, bypassing Libby’s closed door, only to slow and take a step back. The feminine, floral fragrance of her seemed to linger, wafting beneath the door. Or was it merely the essence of his own mounting yearning?

  He reached the landing. Henry had better be prepared for a hasty meeting. And have a sound explanation for his midnight intrusion.

  “Rynallt. Finally.” Henry fanned his cocked hat about his flushed, damp face. “I nearly had to threaten your housekeeper with gaol to learn your whereabouts. You’re hiding out here in this cottage, no doubt, because you’re first on the Tories’ latest blacklist to be hung.” He sighed in the face of Noble’s continued silence. “You look . . . frustrated.”

  Frustrated? And why might that be? Because his bride waited upstairs and he wanted no interruptions should she decide to share their wedding eve alone with him? What would she think if he spent the night with Henry instead?

  “What brings you out in the dead of night?”

  “Intelligence that the British are planning a major rendezvous at Gosport. When I heard the news I thought immediately of Lord Stirling’s daughter, that she might be of use to us. Trouble is, no one seems to know what’s become of her after the folly fire.”

  28

  The remainder of Noble’s wedding night—that brief hour between Henry’s leaving and daybreak—consisted of lying on his back in a strange bed, the mosquito netting billowing from the damp wind charging through an open west window, his own thoughts just as chaotic as the storm outside. The strength of it bespoke the coming hurricane season and all that needed to be done to batten down both Ty Mawr and Ty Bryn.

  But his foremost concern was his bride’s safety. She now wore his ring, bore his name, was his responsibility. He was dead set against her going to Gosport despite all of Henry’s arguments to the contrary. There was only so much he could control once she was there. He had no power once she entered Tory strongholds. No sway with her father or Dunmore or Patriot-hating Tories.

  What would Lord Stirling do if he learned about her marriage? Send her to England, most likely. And Noble would probably only hear of it secondhand once she didn’t return to Ty Bryn.

  Dawn rode the horizon, a crimson scar to the east. He got up and donned breeches, leaving his nightshirt hanging and his feet bare. He pushed open the sitting room door and then the door to her bedchamber, where he stood transfixed on the threshold, his heart beating breathlessly fast.

  Libby stared back at him from the middle of her bed, sitting half upright, a bank of pillows behind her. The bed seemed too big and she too small, her pale braid falling over one shoulder like hemp rope, the bound end buried in the linen sheet. Unlike their first bedside meeting, she was fully awake this morning—and married. The storm had cooled the air and turned it more humid. He ran a hand through his own hair, the dampness making it unkempt and curled.

  He had never been much ill at ease in her presence, and he wasn’t now. But did she somehow sense he’d slept little, weighing their future?

  “The storm kept you up?” she asked, as if he charged in at dawn every morning.

  “Nay. You did, Libby.”

  At this she smiled, and he
nearly flushed from the irony of it. Kept up all night for all the wrong reasons. Grabbing hold of a chair, he sat down by her bedside.

  “I slept little,” she said, eyes on her ring finger. “And prayed much.”

  A stitch of guilt nicked him. She had him there. He had stewed much and prayed little.

  She looked up at him. “’Tis almost time to go to Gosport and see my father again—”

  “Nay, Libby. I’ve thought it through. As your husband—”

  “Just once more.” She raised her gaze to his, something so entreating in her face he melted like candle wax. “Once more is all I ask.”

  “Once more will lead to yet another meeting, other dangers.”

  “I must find out all I can while I can. Something huge is in the offing that will decide all our fates. Perhaps I can be of help in even a small way to you. Your cause.” Her gaze held his. “Our cause.”

  His opposition, whittled down by her entreating and Henry’s sound arguments, began to shift. He’d sworn Henry to secrecy about their marriage and restated his opposition to having Libby act as spy. “If do you go you’ll simply be Lady Elisabeth, unwed, with no ties to Ty Mawr. If your father has any inkling of what we’ve done . . .” He left the thought unfinished. It sounded underhanded somehow when all he wanted was to protect her. “I feel concerned enough about Gosport that I’m going with you, but I’ll travel ahead at a distance and on horseback.”

  Alarm filled her face. “But—”

  “I’ll keep occupied visiting the warehouses along the waterfront that once stored Ty Mawr’s tobacco and indigo. My presence there isn’t unusual, though I’ve not been since last shipping season.”

  “’Tis too risky.” Distress turned her paler. Hardly the bride on her wedding-after morn. “Someone might do you harm.”

  “Better me than you.”

  She began fidgeting with her long braid, breaking the composure he found so remarkable. “Now I know how you must feel when I go.”

  He took her hands, entwining their fingers. He had never touched her save escorting her to the Palace ball and then yesterday when they’d married and he’d taken her up to her room. “Anwylyd . . .”