The Lacemaker

Stunned, Liberty backed up as the fracas intensified. She was aware of Dougray jumping down from his box and starting toward them just as a second man emerged from the shadows, blocking him.

  With effort, Noble got to his feet, as did his attacker, who lunged for him again. Liberty stepped nearer, torn between fleeing and helping if she could. They’d not harm a woman, surely. But a woman could do harm. Yet she had no weapon.

  Hands unsteady, she bent and pulled free a hat pin in her garter. She’d thought to bring it at the last, its needlelike point now of far better use securing a husband than a hat. She leaned in as Noble pinned his opponent, but in a heartbeat the thickset man thrust him aside, thwarting her aim. Finally, frantically, she drove the hatpin home, rewarded with a howl of pain.

  Dougray rushed forward, having bested the second man who’d joined the fight. Together, he and Noble drove the first assailant backward with a punch and a shove. Off the dock he went into the dark water with a satisfying splash.

  Trembling, breathless, Liberty kept to the light beneath a street lamp. And then the fierce tug of her husband’s hand was enough to send her running, done with Gosport for good.

  32

  Let me tend you,” Liberty said. ’Twas a woman’s task, a wife’s. Not a valet’s.

  Noble’s jaw bore a mean gash from his waterfront scuffle, a purplish bruise marring his right eye. Still, he winked and looked askance at her as she approached him in the privacy of their second-floor sitting room. “Just what was it you were wielding there at the last?”

  She gave a satisfied smile. “A ferocious ivory hat pin of cut steel. Nearly as formidable as your sword or bayonet.”

  “Beware hat pin–wielding women then.” He sat down in a chair with a little groan that did not escape her notice. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “I’m not all ribbons and roses.”

  “Nay, you are not. The poor man will never be the same.”

  “Poor man, indeed. Who do you think he was?”

  His slight shrug was more wince. “One of any number of Tories.”

  She sniffed at the ointment Mistress Tremayne had given her, breathing in comfrey and rosemary from Ty Mawr’s herb garden. Gently she applied it with a clean cloth.

  Patient beneath her gentle hands, he mused, “Who needs Doctor Hessel when Nurse Rynallt will do?”

  “I don’t know that I will ever see the doctor or my father again.”

  “Does that make you melancholy, Libby?”

  She shifted, her gown of silver tissue rustling. “It makes me fear for my father eternally. He knows no saving grace, no Savior. On the other hand, all this simply makes my loyalties clearer. My true ties dearer.”

  “What about that guest Dunmore and your father were expecting? Did he or she ever arrive?”

  “’Twas naught but a ploy to bolster Tory spirits and raise flagging expectations, I suspect.”

  The evening played out in her mind like a sordid stage production. She was exhausted now at nearly two o’clock in the morning, but she continued to apply the salve, Noble’s comfort foremost.

  “I’ve posted a guard in case someone followed.”

  Alarmed, she stilled her hands.

  “A precaution, ’tis all. You were wise not to tell them you’re my bride. As it is, you’ve stirred their interest and eluded them, with a little help from irate Kate.”

  Truly, if not for the exasperated Mistress Sprowle, she’d likely still be in the locked study. She gave him a sheepish smile. After tonight, she felt rash. Foolish. Embarrassed. “I pray, if worse comes to worst, we’ll billet no redcoats here.”

  He stood. “I’ll send Isabeau in.”

  She set the ointment aside, wishing for a little coffee or tea despite the heat. But they needed to be abed. “You’re not going to rest?”

  “Not yet. I’ve unread correspondence to see about.”

  She’d oft seen the stack of posts from Philadelphia, even Boston and New York, some delivered by secret courier. Likely more had arrived today. She got to her feet, hoping her disappointment didn’t show. She wanted nothing more than his help with her dress and underpinnings. While romance wasn’t on her mind, comfort was. He was her refuge in all the ways that mattered.

  “I’ll be below if you need me,” he told her.

  She nodded and began removing the sapphires from her neck and ears, listening for Isabeau’s soft tread on the stairs. When she finally came, bearing a tea tray with the lovely Ty Bryn china, Liberty looked at her in astonishment.

  With a shrug, her maid said, “Tea on a hot summer night is fou, but if the master says so, it is so, no?”

  Liberty clasped her hands together in delight, more from Noble’s thoughtfulness than the favored brew. Tea or no tea, sleep would be long in coming, if at all. Perhaps she would wait up for him. Finish sewing his uniform.

  Relieved, she shed the heavy dress and its heavier memories. “Take it,” she told Isabeau, who favored the ornate French style above any other. “’Twould make a fine wedding gown.”

  Isabeau’s blush was telling, her thanks profuse. She went out, arms full of silver tissue, leaving Liberty in her sultana with her tea.

  Adversity is a school in which few men wish to be educated.

  Noble awoke as the cock crowed, the words of a letter he’d been reading at the last still circling in his sleep-numbed brain. His first thought was of Libby. Anwylyd.

  Ty Bryn was quiet, no servants about like at Ty Mawr. The candelabra on his desk was gutted, the spent wax a hardened puddle atop his desk. A small drift of ashes in the fireplace bespoke burned correspondence. The stakes were climbing higher. He’d been delivered a map taken from the British, identifying Ty Mawr as the estate belonging to “the patriot Rynallt.” Another confiscated letter from British officials spoke of “sending Rynallt and Henry to Boston in irons.” There General Gage held sway as the commander of British forces in America. No longer was there any question Noble was a marked man, yet all that filled his thoughts was the woman upstairs who made all these politics dry as dust.

  He took the stairs two at a time, eyes adjusting to the hall’s dimness. Most of the second-floor doors were kept closed, as were his and Libby’s. One door at the hall’s end was cracked open, a beam of sunlight cutting across pine planks.

  Curious, he trod down the narrow passage, avoiding the one board in the floor that creaked loud as a horn. Had the maids been cleaning and forgotten to close it? Madoc stepped out, swishing his tail and purring contentedly.

  To his recollection this particular room had always sat empty. He pushed the door open wider to sunlight and the scent of lavender. Small bunches of it lay about to sweeten what was now, without any doubt, a nursery.

  Half a dozen warring emotions slid through him. Was this Libby’s doing? He’d neglected his bride of days, thinking she needed more time to adjust to marriage. Believing she wasn’t ready for the intimate side of two becoming one. Wanting some encouraging sign from her.

  Man, are ye daft?

  So she wanted children. Was a family not his dream too? Aye, in safer, more settled times. His worst nightmare was not war nor capture nor death but leaving a widow and baby behind.

  He stood stone still, letting his emotions settle, aiming for an objective view. Libby had spoken of her admiration and affection for Lady Charlotte and her large brood. For an only child with an estranged father and absent mother, the prospect of a happy family would be more than appealing. For a kin-starved young woman, it would seem like heaven on earth.

  This nursery, though privately arranged, seemed an open invitation. And here he stood, so unaware of his new wife and her hopes that an odd sadness took hold.

  Stepping around Madoc, he entered the room, trying to imagine what his firstborn and an entire family might be like. The cradle looked small if sturdy. Everything in this readied space bespoke loving care. Madoc’s presence even seemed approving.

  “So . . . what do you think?”

  The soft vo
ice was as alluring as ever. He turned around to find Libby in her sultana, feet bare and hair plaited. He forgot all about the intimate business at hand.

  She looked contrite. “I hope you don’t mind that I robbed the attic.”

  He winked. “’Tis yours to rob, Mistress Rynallt.”

  “Then I shan’t feel guilty I didn’t ask first.”

  “Nay.” His focus returned to the room. “An unexpected surprise but not an unwelcome one.”

  Her face flushed the pink of her sultana, and he knew he’d given the right reply. “Here we are,” she said quietly, “and we’ve hardly discussed children.”

  “They usually arrive without much discourse,” he murmured.

  She laughed, and it was his collar that heated. “True enough.”

  “You’ve obviously put thought behind this room.” His fingers curled over the back of a rocking chair. “No doubt you’ve considered a name or two.”

  She was beside him now, Madoc in her arms. Shoulder to shoulder they surveyed the workings of her head and heart. “A Welsh name should do.”

  “Spoken like an obliging wife.”

  “Yet you’re pleased,” she said, smiling up at him. “I can see that you are.”

  “What you see is a man in need of breakfast.” He ran a hand through unkempt hair. “Coffee, at least.”

  “Did you spend the night in your study?”

  “Foolishly so.”

  “I—I waited up for you . . .”

  Had she? She looked from him to the cradle. What he’d give to read her thoughts. A wealth of emotion lay behind her blue gaze.

  She set Madoc down. Neither of them made any move to take his offer of breakfast. Slowly he turned toward her. Ever since their wedding day he’d regretted he’d not kissed her. He’d merely lifted her veil before letting it fall back around her shoulders in lacy folds. There was no veil between them now. No gardenful of guests. No cake to eat or toast to be drunk. No awkwardness. If love was palpable it was here, in this quiet room that held so many hopes—his and hers. Theirs.

  Encircling her waist with his hands, he felt the warmth and fullness of her. Without her usual stays and underpinnings, the sultana she wore seemed an invitation. Tilting his head, he brushed his lips against the pale slope of her neck before moving to her ear, where a pale tendril had slipped free of her braid. If spring had a scent, it was her. This close, she seemed the piece that had been missing from Ty Bryn, created to fit against him and fill every empty place.

  Her hands stole about his shoulders, fingers lacing together where his stock buckle sat at the back of his neck. He was having trouble catching his breath, the race of his pulse at full gallop. He bent his head and kissed her parted lips, once, twice, her response as ardent as his own. Time . . . the room . . . spun away.

  And then Libby let go of him, hands sliding down the length of his weskit. She half turned toward the nursery door at the sound of a footfall in the hall. The clink of Mistress Tremayne’s chatelaine was unmistakable. Arms full of linens, the housekeeper passed the nursery’s open door on her way to the linen closet at the end of the hall.

  “Will you join me?” He offered Libby his arm in what he hoped was a gallant gesture.

  Flushed, eyes alight, she simply slipped her hand in his, returning his thoughts to the empty nursery and what it would take to fill it.

  “Some independence tea and bara brith, perhaps?” She recovered her composure and shut the nursery door behind them. “Though a strong cup of coffee with cream and sugar will do. After that, I’ll return to my handwork.”

  “Your last lace orders?”

  She nodded. “Though my time is better spent imitating those Daughters of Liberty my mother wrote me about. She’s busy supervising mass spinning bees and boycotting tea. She says the colonies must become a coffee-drinking nation.”

  “You’ll write her that we’ve wed?”

  “Now that Gosport is behind us, I shall. She’ll no doubt crow the news from Philadelphia’s rooftops.”

  “She’s welcome here.”

  “Should I return to Ty Mawr as its true mistress first?”

  “Nay.” He said it so forcefully her eyes widened. “Ty Mawr has been targeted by the British. I don’t know what will come of it, but for now you’re safer out of sight at Ty Bryn, especially when I’ll be away—”

  “Away?”

  “Tomorrow we muster in Williamsburg.” Even as he said it he was planning another occurrence of what had just passed between them. “And Patrick Henry has called for a meeting at the Raleigh this afternoon.”

  She looked as crestfallen as he felt. “’Tis our goodbye breakfast then.”

  “Of sorts.” It had the feel of the Last Supper. Grim. Final.

  “I’ve nearly finished your uniform.”

  Good news, that, yet why did he feel weighted with rocks?

  They went into the breakfast room, bypassing Nell, who hastened to the kitchen. A silver pitcher of flowers graced the table, their perfume reminding him the gardener and overseer needed meeting with before he left. Libby leaned in and breathed the flowers’ heady fragrance, eyes closed, and he thanked God for his efficient staff. His wife would not want in his absence.

  “Coffee, please,” she said with a smile when Nell served them.

  He took his black and watched as she added sugar and cream. Their plates overflowed with sunny eggs, fat sausages, and thick slices of toasted bread slathered with butter and honey from Ty Mawr’s creamery and hives. To his surprise, Libby said little while Madoc watched them from the doorway.

  She finished every bite. “How long will you be away?”

  “A fortnight, likely. We’ll encamp behind the college, Henry’s orders.” William and Mary’s buildings made a fine base. But Williamsburg wasn’t home. And it was too many miles from Libby. “All this makes me wish I had a townhouse there—and you in it.”

  “A good soldier shouldn’t be distracted by a needy wife.”

  “True enough, though I’d hardly call you needy. Not after the hat pin incident.” He forked a last bite as she refilled his coffee. “Send word to me at any time should the need arise. I’ll have my head buried in military books when I’m not drilling.” He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want to tie you to the house, but I must, at least for now. Have your last lace orders delivered by the servants, aye?”

  “Of course.” She set down her cup. “Ty Bryn will miss you. I’ll miss you.”

  Their eyes locked. He had half a mind to dismiss all orders and stay home, Patrick Henry be hanged. “Hopefully the separation will be short and all will come to naught.”

  But he didn’t believe it, and the look in her lovely eyes confirmed she didn’t either.

  33

  Dear Mama,

  By now you must be wondering about my lack of letters. Since I last wrote, the folly in which I lived and made lace burned to the ground, and I have been in contact with Father, who is entrenched with Lord Dunmore in Gosport. Unbeknownst to many, I have wed Noble Rynallt and hereby declare my allegiance to our cause. What will come of all this talk of liberty and rebellion I do not know. So many lives and fortunes are in jeopardy.

  I am safely settled on the James River at my new husband’s estate. We covet your company when time and circumstances permit. My prayer is that you are well and Philadelphia is as much to your liking as my new home is to me.

  Your affectionate daughter

  The ink glistened as Liberty sprinkled it with pounce before folding and sealing the letter, still feeling the pleasure her new name wrought. Her mother would be relieved and pleased. Her father, once he found out, would be neither. And he would find out. Virginia was not vast and spies were everywhere. Daily she prayed he’d sail away for good.

  Noble had been gone a week in Williamsburg. Finished with her lace orders and his uniform, she began to knit stockings for the militia, spurred on by reports that ninety-two members of the Daughters of Liberty in Massachusetts had brought their spi
nning wheels to meeting and together spun 170 skeins of yarn. She would do her small part.

  Madoc stayed close, playing with stray yarn and jumping into her lap when her needles stilled. “You are good company,” she told him, stroking his silvery ears. “’Tis a shame I can’t set you to knitting. Together we might make happy a great many more soldiers.”

  Always she wondered how Noble fared. When the sun was blistering and no wind ruffled the James, she fretted inland Williamsburg would be hot as a bake oven. When word of another summer fever reached her, she worried that he might have succumbed yet not sent word to her.

  At last a post came.

  Dearest Anwylyd,

  I found your note in my uniform pocket, and that is where I left it so that I shan’t have to part with it. It does me good to hear that my image is imprinted on your heart. I hope your concern that your letters might miscarry and fall into the wrong hands does not deter you from writing, especially if we are to endure longer separations. Forgive me if these scribblings are illegible and all too brief. They are contrary to my all-consuming thoughts of you.

  For now, I enjoy good health. God be praised our company is hardy despite the heat. The military manuals I have read are standing me in good stead.

  I subscribe myself your loving husband

  ’Twas her first letter from him, and though necessarily brief, she found it to be like the sweetest dessert. Besotted, she went to bed, tucking it beneath her pillow. She would write to him upon awakening, savoring the anticipation of that too. But every expectation seemed fraught with uncertainty.

  Sometime in the night Isabeau woke her from a sound sleep. “Mistress, come away! Quickly! Something is burning. There is talk that the British fleet is setting fire to rebel plantations.”

  Sleep fell away. Liberty reached for her sultana before rushing to the window where Isabeau stood pointing. On the horizon was a fiery smudge of orange and crimson that seemed to expand before their eyes.

  “I fear ’tis Carter’s Grove,” Liberty said. The great house was of brick like Ty Mawr and Ty Bryn, its interior boasting some of the finest woodwork in the colonies. By the time help came, would more proud plantations be rubble? All of Virginia’s forces were marshaled in Williamsburg.