The Lacemaker

  “This is from the Kentucke territory, a gift from George Rogers Clark. Enid thought it uncivilized, so I moved it here from Ty Mawr.”

  “Well, I like it. No fashionable turkey carpet can compare.” She stroked the fur like it was Madoc instead. “I might just stay the night in your study.”

  “Then I’ll do the same.”

  She reached for his spyglass and turned it on the James. The storm was building, the wind keening with a rare intensity. Was the Savage making its way upriver? No British vessels marred the water. In this weather, everything was against even the ablest sailor. The enemy might come by land. If so, Noble’s sword and pistols were near at hand but tucked out of sight for her sake.

  “Are you afraid, Libby?”

  The spyglass came down. “Afraid? With an officer of the Continental Army guarding me? I’ve never been less afraid in my life.”

  “Well said.”

  “I do mean that. I plan to curl up on this wild-skin rug and sleep the night away.”

  “That sounds a bit . . . dull.”

  “Dull indeed.” She tilted her head. Held his gaze. Her earnestness worked more powerfully than being coy ever could. If she’d swished a fan and lowered her lashes he couldn’t have been more undone. Her voice came soft. “What do you have in mind then? A game of chess? Cards? Hunting for Madoc?”

  “Nothing that requires light,” he said wryly.

  At this, the candle went out. Shadows draped the room as summer’s dusk crept in.

  Her voice, when it finally came, was a mere whisper, but he heard it over the force of the wind. “Count me in then.”

  He stilled. There was no longer any doubt as to her intent or his. A faint outline of light graced the study’s windows but was fast fading, the storm’s gray foremost. Despite the buffeting wind, the silence between them was breathless.

  She sat facing him, her silken skirts a blue valley between them. His heart seemed to beat out of his chest. Need made him bold. He leaned nearer for a kiss. Her lips met his, her arms encircling his neck. They drew apart, and he realized how damp he was from his long ride. Her nimble fingers began untying his stock.

  He longed to take the pins from her hair. He’d never seen it unbound, only plaited. Pearl tipped, the hairpins were easily found. Down her hair tumbled about her shoulders in gentle waves, shocking his senses.

  A woman’s hair was her glory, Scripture said. Truer words were never spoken. His Libby looked . . . radiant. This was his bride. The woman God had created for him since time began. The mother of his children, whenever they came.

  She was his, come the storm. Come the war. Come what may.

  Anwylyd.

  35

  Liberty slept curled on the lush rug, Noble’s body warming her. Occasionally, a loud bump or crash beyond Ty Bryn’s bricked walls would shake her awake. But she knew no fear. She knew only her husband. His scent. His touch. His feelings for her. In the span of a single night he had satisfied her every longing and spoken the words she so wanted to hear.

  I love you, Libby.

  She’d spoken them back to him in both English and Welsh.

  Rwy’n dy garu di.

  Never would she forget them or this night. If the war took him away, the words would remain, a gift to warm her on the longest days and coldest nights.

  Wonder kept her awake more than the wind. She turned gently so as not to awaken him and lay on her back, looking up at the frescoed ceiling and envisioning the nursery above it. Inexplicably, she knew her prayers had been answered. For a husband. A home. A family. Deep within, where soul and spirit lived, she sensed a quickening. A child. Though she knew little about such things as babies and begetting, something wondrous had just happened. She was changed, a wife in the truest sense, and soon, she sensed, to be a mother.

  As dawn came, the storm seemed to wear itself out. Birdsong lit the garden, fragile at first as if fearful the storm would reawaken, and then strengthening into what amounted to a tittering symphony.

  Beside her, Noble stirred, coming slowly awake. This close, she could make out the fine lines in his tanned features like tiny cracks in an earthenware jug.

  She gave a sleepy smile. “I now seem to know nearly everything about you but your age.”

  “Old enough at thirty.” He kissed her soundly, then focused on a leaf-spattered window. “I had meant to stay up with the storm, but . . .” Concern washed his features as something outside gave a resounding thud. Their idyll was over.

  “I pray nothing is beyond repair.”

  “’Twill be a long day riding about the estate, taking toll of any damage. I’ll send the maids up to be with you once I reach Ty Mawr.”

  “Is it safe to venture outside? There were a great many noises in the night.”

  “I’ll take a look around first.” His lazy smile told her he was in no hurry. “You make it amazingly difficult for a man to resume his duties.”

  He dressed and went outside. Soon the maids came cautiously up the hill, Ninian leading. Liberty dressed and ate, but nothing seemed the same, neither outwardly nor inwardly. Could she be wrong about this night? A child? She went about the house in a bit of a heavenly daze.

  As the morning stretched to noon, Liberty stood in Ty Bryn’s garden with Nell and Isabeau. If ever there was cause for hand-wringing, ’twas the storm’s aftermath.

  “Will you look at that . . .” Awe laced Nell’s tone. All eyes followed her pointed finger to the riverfront.

  Beyond the trammeled garden, half of Ty Mawr’s wharf had been torn away on the frothy James. A capsized schooner was washed ashore, no sign of life aboard.

  Both land and water were ravaged, the shock of it nearly unseating the beloved memories she and Noble had just made. Liberty held on to their fragile beginnings, the bliss of their honeymoon night, though needs cried out everywhere she turned.

  She went about the battered garden, righting this or that, Isabeau scolding and trying to shoo her inside. Their lovely world was badly shaken, but both houses and the dependencies had stayed strong.

  She wished for a little sunshine. A hint of blue sky. But the heavens stayed a sullen gray.

  For once politics faded into the background as the Virgina Gazette and Norfolk Intelligencer nearly ran short of ink reporting storm damage.

  The James River postboy had been washed off his horse into a swamp. At the last he grabbed hold of a tree, saved by a passerby who had a rope. Trees were torn up by the roots and littered roads. The damage to port towns such as Norfolk was inexpressible. Nearly forty ships were lost or damaged. During the storm, Lord Dunmore’s sloop tender that had been used to patrol the bay was grounded near Hampton and immediately burned by the citizenry.

  Was her father safe? How had they fared in the hurricane?

  More tragic reports reached them. Hundreds of sailors drowned. Livestock lost and fields flooded. No one asked who or what was Patriot or Tory. Suddenly such divisions ceased to matter.

  She watched for Noble from Ty Bryn’s wide windows as Nell cleaned the glass and Isabeau fretted about Ninian, who had gone out with Dougray in search of a few stray horses. When the sun poked a few pointed rays beyond the clouds, they all felt like cheering.

  “God be praised!” Nell said, finishing her window washing.

  Smoke soon puffed from the summer kitchen, and Liberty watched it spiral toward hard-won blue sky. Would Noble be home for supper? With the servants about, they’d not spend another night on the buffalo rug in his study. Unless he banished them to Ty Mawr again.

  Cook butchered a chicken, that much Liberty knew. A savory mingling of broth and thyme and rosemary spilled out of her brick domain, along with the aroma of baking bread. Nothing, however, would ever be as satisfying as their stormy picnic.

  “What shall you wear this evening, mistress?” Isabeau began rummaging through her wardrobe. All of Enid’s new gowns had been brought up from Ty Mawr. Somehow in wearing them Liberty felt closer to Noble’s sister.

  ?
??The blue chintz.” Blue was his favorite color. ’Twas her eyes that first drew his notice, he’d told her in the night. She’d been strolling down Palace Green with Lady Charlotte and her girls years ago when he’d come out of a legislative session and they’d nearly collided. She had no memory of it, but he’d not forgotten.

  Aye, ’twas your eyes. Blue as Llyn Llydaw, a lake in Snowdonia.

  “And how do you want your hair?” Isabeau was saying. “Curled with the tongs and pinned up, no?”

  “Leave it undressed, simply tied back with silk ribbon.”

  “Is that not risqué?” Isabeau’s face scrunched in dismay. “Might you just as well appear in your underpinnings?”

  “Ty Bryn is informal. For now let there be little fuss.”

  Isabeau began brushing Liberty’s hair with vigor as if making up for lost time. “I have heard beauty spots and patch boxes are going out of fashion. Imagine! Next men will no longer wear wigs. Ladies will abandon their stays—”

  “Nonsense,” Liberty chided gently. “I prefer my stays. But I do abhor wigs. Noble doesn’t own one.”

  “Then he is indeed a rebel.”

  They laughed. A generous splash of rosewater followed, and then her simple toilette was complete. The lines of her gown settled into place as Liberty stood, extending both elbows while Isabeau pinned on lace sleeves and adjusted a frill here, a furbelow there.

  “You seem . . . different, mistress.”

  “Different?”

  Isabeau clasped a pearl choker about her neck. “Dreamy. Something has changed for you. I can sense it. No longer are you in your father’s shadow, no longer are you missing your mother. You are content being the mistress of Ty Bryn.”

  Liberty laced her fingers at her middle and tried not to smile. “You know me well.”

  “Do I? I think you have secrets you are not telling.”

  Liberty laughed. “Just who is being dreamy?”

  Leaning forward, Isabeau whispered, “My desire is to see the nursery overflowing. I think we shall be banished again tonight.” Her complaint was tempered by wistfulness. “Sent again to the big house so the master of Ty Mawr can have you to himself.”

  “Ah, so that is it.” Liberty moved toward the door, certain she heard a horse. “So long as you go with Ninian, does it matter?”

  Isabeau gave her own secretive smile, remaining behind as Liberty went below, joy singing through her.

  She opened the front door ahead of Nell, almost expecting a face full of wind but finding it dead calm. It was not Noble, nay. A smiling, uniformed stranger instead. His bodyguard, on loan from General Washington? Liberty took Captain Hodge in at a glance.

  Blue coat with white facings. White waistcoat and breeches. Black stock and black half gaiters. Round hat with a blue and white feather. Except the white parts of him were now a dingy, storm-speckled brown.

  “Please, come in,” Liberty told him, feeling her world shifting again. “My husband should return any moment.”

  He entered the foyer as Nell came down the stairs, toting a pistol. Liberty sent her a glance to put the weapon away, but she only had eyes for the young officer.

  “Please, Nell. Our guest is wearing a blue coat, not a red one.”

  Captain Hodge chuckled and swept off his cocked hat, bowing to them both. “At your service, ladies.”

  The still-staring Nell curtsied back.

  “’Tis a miracle you came through the hurricane unscathed,” Liberty remarked. To Nell she said, “Some refreshments for our guest shall do nicely.”

  “Ah yes, the storm.” His expression foretold a mishap or two. “Most roads are blocked by debris, but I came on. ’Tis of small consequence compared to the storm that is coming.”

  “I’m sure you bring news from headquarters.”

  “News aplenty, though I’ll try to reserve most of it for Major Rynallt and spare your sensibilities.”

  By the time they reached the parlor, Noble had returned. Liberty had a private moment with him in the foyer. “Your Life Guard has arrived, and Nell is setting an extra place for supper. I assume he’ll be sleeping outside your door.”

  “Our door. Nay.” He winked. “Ty Mawr has guest rooms to spare. Life Guards aren’t needed on honeymoons.”

  “No doubt ’twill be a late night nonetheless.”

  “Aye.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “But not on account of Captain Hodge.”

  She flushed like a schoolgirl. Elated, she went into the dining room where Nell was now arranging a vase of the few remaining flowers that had survived the storm. Her ginger hair had been tucked anew beneath her cap, her apron changed.

  “I’ve served the refreshments, m’lady.”

  “Thank you. I feared you’d shoot our guest first.”

  The amused words turned Nell ripe as a raspberry. “These men in uniform . . . one never knows what to expect.” She cast a glance toward the study. “I wonder how long Captain Hodge is to stay on.”

  “Perhaps you should ask him. Offer to clean the soiled whites of his uniform. Or knit him some stockings.”

  “Mercy, m’lady!”

  Cook had prepared a fine supper. Roast chicken. Gravy. Potatoes and peas. Wheaten bread. Even a berry trifle. The storm had not dented her enthusiam or her skills.

  Captain Hodge’s appreciation knew no bounds. “A vast improvement over salt beef and hardtack.” He took second helpings with relish, his manner polite and obliging. Liberty caught sight of the white of Nell’s cap as she hovered behind the service door.

  “Do you have a family, Captain Hodge?” Liberty asked over dessert. “A wife and children, perhaps?”

  “Nay, but if I should find a liberty lass, who knows?”

  Talk soon moved to more somber matters. Should she excuse herself or stay on? At the pressure of Noble’s hand beneath the table, she stayed.

  “In Boston, Admiral Graves has ordered the captain of the Asia to seize and keep in safe custody any delegates to the Continental Congress and any rebel general officers or the chief radical leaders,” Hodge told them.

  “So I heard,” Noble replied, leaning back in his chair. “There aren’t enough Life Guards to prevent that.”

  “Washington feels a special concern for officers like yourself who serve without pay and are considered a prime target.”

  “Is there any truth to reports that Lord North and the British Cabinet plan to employ an army of eighteen thousand in New England and another twelve thousand to act in Virginia and the middle provinces?”

  “True, aye.” Hodge took a drink, his cheer slipping. “Meanwhile, General Washington struggles to recruit our own ranks, partly on account of the British hatching a plan to send smallpox victims to Patriot lines.”

  Their talk ended and they passed into the parlor. Wanting to give the Life Guard some entertainment for all his trouble reaching them, she sat down at her harp while Noble tuned his violin. Till now they’d only played together briefly. She looked at her new husband expectantly, the allure of music taking hold. Could they manage an unrehearsed duet?

  “I trust my wife will cover my lack of finesse,” Noble murmured with an apologetic smile as he slid his bow across the strings.

  “My harp is hardly needed,” she chided. “You manage as well as Mister Jefferson, ’tis been said.”

  They began a sonata, playing with such joie de vivre it left Hodge smiling. Another delightful hour passed. Drowsy, stifling a yawn, Liberty excused herself, seeking the stairs and her own bedchamber. Pausing at the oriole window on the landing, she took in the James, still muddy if calm. A full moon rose in skies that had been a serene robin’s-egg blue.

  Isabeau had laid out a nightgown but was absent. Helping Nell, likely, and discussing Captain Hodge. Or having a few moments alone with Ninian. Undressing was simple enough with front-lacing stays and a simple muslin gown. Liberty climbed the bedsteps, parted the mosquito netting, and fancied she smelled pipe smoke. The men were no doubt having a last peach brandy.

&nbs
p; She settled beneath the linen sheet as the clock in the foyer chimed nine. A slight commotion in the foyer was punctuated by Isabeau’s airy laugh. Throwing off the bedcovers, Liberty made for a window, delighted to find Captain Hodge and Ninian squiring both Nell and Isabeau down the hill. Dougray was no doubt still in the stables caring for Hodge’s horse.

  The house settled into an unfamilar quiet, and then Noble’s tread on the stairs sent her spinning. How tired he must be, having been out riding all day. She’d not blame him if he fell sound asleep. And yet the wonder of the night before couldn’t be denied. She craved his closeness. His strength. The sheer newness of him.

  A splash of water told her he was at the washstand. And then the door to the hall opened and he trod away, down the steps, out the riverfront door, and onto the dusk-shadowed lawn. He bypassed the garden, a towel trailing behind him. Befuddled, she looked on, and then his intent came clear. A bath?

  What was good for the gander was good for the goose, her mother used to say.

  She took the stairs by twos. How scandalized Isabeau and the servants would be, her husband nearly naked save his breeches, she in hot pursuit. Years from now, would she and Noble look back and laugh? Or would she alone hold the memory close?

  She tried to step carefully, tried to sneak up on him. The ravaged wharf had created a cove of sorts, shoving back sand as its huge timbers fell into the water at odd angles. These she stayed clear of lest they shift.

  His back to her, Noble was submerged to the waist. His pistol rested on his towel atop the sand. If she was a redcoat . . . The flicker of fear was snuffed as he swung around, his muscular frame flexing defensively.

  When he saw her, the wary lines of his face gave way to pleasure. Surprise. He opened his arms wide and she rushed toward him, the chill of the water making her gasp. Legs tangling in the damp hem of her nightgown, she tripped and fell headlong into the river. At his hearty laugh she came up sputtering, an unladylike mess, and his sturdy arms wrapped round her.

  “The James is just settling. Beware angry frogs and box turtles and mud daubers.”