The Lacemaker

  Her maid wasn’t weathering the change as well, at least outwardly. Or mayhap she suffered from travel sickness. Or the less than genteel contraption offended her humble sensibilities. The aged coach lurched along, draining her florid French complexion by degrees. Lightning and thunder continued a merry dance, and he was concerned that Seren was tethered like a lightning rod behind the coach.

  Thunder boomed again, and the conveyance gave a tremendous lurch as it hit a rut, nearly sending them colliding into each other.

  “La!” the maid shrieked, gripping the seat with frantic hands.

  Noble’s gaze shot to her mistress, who had not so much as winced. What was going on inside that fair head of hers?

  Another couple of leagues and the gates would greet them. He wanted to tell them the journey was near an end if only to ease the tension that sat between them as solidly as a fourth party. Despite the tap of rain atop the roof, the silence within was funereal.

  At least he’d sent word ahead to warn of their coming. He hadn’t said who and now, but traveling down Ty Mawr’s shaded avenue, he tried to imagine his housekeeper’s reaction. They’d not had company in almost two years of mourning. Of all his staff, Mistress Tremayne seemed to miss Enid the most and was the most anxious for him to bring home a bride. The confusion that was bound to ensue made him wish he’d explained himself better in the note. She’d think him courting, at least.

  His longtime housekeeper was in the open doorway crowned with its pineapple motif, waiting expectantly for that very thing, or so it seemed. She wore both a smile and that giant mobcap he found ridiculous, a creaseless cambric apron about her doughy waist.

  A groom stood by, waiting to help his guests down from the coach. Noble was hardly mindful of the torrential rain, eyes on a stable hand who unhitched Seren from behind and led him away as thunder cracked a final time and sent them all scurrying inside.

  A dozen different images struck Elisabeth as hard as the storm when she alighted from the coach. A servant in simple homespun, not the usual British-styled livery. Wet flagstones underfoot. Moss-covered bricks. Immense Palladian windows. A front door open wide in welcome, leading to a high-ceilinged foyer. Oil paintings gracing the walls in ornate frames, most of castles and horses and weather-beaten coastlines. If their host had told her they were in Wales, she would have believed him.

  And then Noble Rynallt’s voice sounded like a rumble of thunder in the rising storm as he made introductions. First in Welsh, then English.

  When her rounded eyes finally rested on the rotund woman she guessed was his housekeeper, Elisabeth realized she’d already been assessed inch by inch. Amid the flurry and confusion of gloves and hats being removed and introductions made, she became aware of something amiss.

  “Isabeau, are you all right?” she asked.

  Isabeau swayed and put a hand on a paneled wall. “The coach driver, he is violent.”

  “Well, he is now gone and we’re on firmer ground. Perhaps ginger tea would help. I shall ask Mistress Tremayne for some.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Noble and his housekeeper step to the side, then came her surprised whisper, “Lady Elisabeth, is it? Lord Stirling’s daughter?”

  “Aye, Miles Roth’s soon-to-be bride.”

  Not mine, his intensity seemed to say. With that, he turned into a room on the right.

  The housekeeper’s keen gray eyes met Elisabeth’s right then. A cloud of questions gathered there, and Elisabeth felt a sudden twinge. Was the housekeeper hopeful of a new mistress?

  Stepping forward, she clasped the older woman’s hands warmly in her own. “Thank you for welcoming us. We shan’t impose on your hospitality for long.”

  Pleasure seemed to eclipse Mistress Tremayne’s disappointment, and she squeezed Elisabeth’s hands in return, recovering her smile. “Well, just long enough to savor some of Ty Mawr’s pleasures, surely. There’s a fine pot of English tea at hand.”

  “Oh?” Amusement took hold. Tea in the house of an Independence Man seemed odd indeed.

  “’Tis rebellious, aye?” Mistress Tremayne smiled wryly. “But you look in need of a generous cup. If you lean real close and take a whiff, you’ll smell that ’tis the finest hyson too. But we’d best not tell Master Rynallt. He thinks there’s naught but nonimportation tea in the cupboards.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” Elisabeth said. “Might you have some ginger tea? For my Isabeau? She’s feeling indisposed.”

  “But of course. I’ll see to it straightaway, m’lady.” Pulling on a bell cord near a painting, Mistress Tremayne rang for a maid and requested refreshments.

  Elisabeth lifted her eyes to take in a freestanding circular staircase just behind the housekeeper’s bulk. It climbed two floors as if on wings with nary a support she could see. Elegant. Airy. Even mysterious. Where did it lead?

  Had their host gone into his study? She could see him through a near doorway, his rugged profile a silhouette of solemnity as he looked down at a desk. Sober as a barrister he was. The black armband he once wore and the dark cockade atop his hat lay on a chair, telling reminders of his loss. On the darkly paneled walls hung Indian artifacts of every shape and description. Bows and arrows. A headdress. Antler rattles. Myriad things she couldn’t name. From the frontier?

  The foyer was empty, absent of all servants save Mistress Tremayne. The coachman simply deposited their baggage in an alcove while the housekeeper took her and Isabeau up the winding stairway. The hall seemed endless, most doors closed, and they were led to a room on the third floor, a gabled haven that smelled faintly of dust and milk paint. As a smiling servant shouldered Elisabeth’s trunk across a colorful carpet, she felt overwhelmed with their ready hospitality.

  “Just tug on the bell cord should you have need of me,” Mistress Tremayne told her. “Supper is served at eight. I shall bring a tray to your room if you like. Mister Rynallt is expecting company, though they’ve been delayed.”

  More company? “Thank you,” Elisabeth answered.

  Isabeau came to stand beside her, both of them gaping at the speech-stealing view from the riverfront windows. Together they took in mint-green paint and delicate white plasterwork on the ceiling and walls before Elisabeth returned to her maid’s wan face. In minutes, both ginger tea and hyson turned their surroundings into the equivalent of an aromatic tea shop.

  Elisabeth gestured to the silver service. “Let’s freshen up and have some civility, shall we?” She moved to a washstand and poured tepid water into a porcelain bowl. After cleaning her face and hands, she sat in a delicately turned chair by an open window and waited for Isabeau to collect herself.

  So lost was she in the lovely river view, she nearly failed to notice Isabeau’s continued disquiet. “Mistress, what will become of us? We are . . .” She struggled as she often did for the proper English word. “Beggars!”

  “Beggars? Nay.” Elisabeth reached for a teapot, the fragrance telling her it held ginger. “Beggars seldom grace so lovely a room with so fine a host.” She poured the tea with a steady hand. “I don’t know what will happen to us beyond this present moment, truly, as we cannot impose on Ty Mawr’s hospitality for long. But we shan’t be beggars, ever.”

  “But Tories, oui? Mister Rynallt is a Patriot, and you—your father is most decidedly Tory!” Isabeau looked like she might wail. “Should we not go to Norfolk, which is full of Loyalists?”

  “We are all British subjects still.” Elisabeth held her cup beneath her nose, finding the rare tea’s fragrance almost like perfume. “My prayer is that Lord Dunmore will compromise and make peace with the Patriots. And that the king and Parliament will see reason and stop taxing us to death.”

  “Then you are a praying woman indeed,” Isabeau murmured, taking in hand her own cup.

  Elisabeth took a steadying sip. For Isabeau’s sake, she would be optimistic, but privately she feared colonial politics were long past compromise. In Boston, soldiers and citizens had taken up arms against each other, and in
creasing numbers of colonists were obsessed with the notion of liberty. Her mother had long watched its workings, and Elisabeth was not ignorant of the Patriot-infused passion behind her pen.

  “There is still your dowry.” At this, Isabeau looked triumphant, a bit of color filling her wan face. “And ’tis the most agreeable dowry that ever graced Virginia Colony, Tory or no.”

  “Now who is being silly?” Elisabeth returned. “Just where would this dowry be? My trunk?”

  Isabeau’s gaze slid to the one piece of baggage they’d managed to come away with. “You are still betrothed, are you not?”

  Elisabeth said nothing. And that in itself spoke volumes.

  7

  For the first time in her entire life aside from being indisposed, Elisabeth did not dress for supper. She tried to relish the freedom of it, the loosening of her stays, the delicious privacy. Clad in a dressing gown, she waited for any sound that foretold Mistress Tremayne. As the ceramic clock on the mantel struck eight, a light knock sounded on the closed door.

  Isabeau was in the next room, putting away her own few belongings, so it was Elisabeth who answered. The burgeoning tray separating her and Ty Mawr’s housekeeper nearly made her gasp. Welsh fare? Did they mean to make a hogshead of her?

  “A small supper,” the housekeeper said, hastening to the table situated between two windows. She set down the tray with a heaving bosom and a slight clatter. “Climbing fifty-six steps is not for the faint of heart.”

  “You needn’t wear yourself out on my account,” Elisabeth said gently. Surely there was a younger, more agile servant? Or was the ploy to keep them hidden away on high? Known to as few of the other servants and guests as possible?

  With a flourish of her hand, the housekeeper removed a cover from a chafing dish. “Cawl, a stew of lamb and leeks, served with caws pobi—baked cheese—and bara brith, what you might call speckled bread.”

  The Welsh words rolled over her, winsome sounding if strange. Elisabeth staunched a sigh. There was enough fare for her and Isabeau and several attic guests. Her stomach growled in a most unladylike manner. “I could feast on bara brith and little else.”

  It was the right thing to say. Mistress Tremayne’s satisfied smile resurfaced. “If you should need anything more . . .”

  Probably not for a fortnight. Elisabeth snuck a pinch of bread. “Thank you. ’Tis a feast.”

  As if deciding not to bore her or she had run out of breath, Mistress Tremayne simply uncovered the other half-dozen dishes without naming them and poured cider from an ironstone pitcher. “I leave you to your supper, m’lady.”

  Isabeau reappeared once the door was shut. “What I wouldn’t give for some French fare—beignets and bouillabaisse.”

  Their eyes met, communicating a wordless question about the whereabouts of Pape, the French chef who had dominated the Lawsons’ townhouse kitchen. Elisabeth had a soft spot for Pape, who’d snuck her rhubarb tarts, even ice cream, before dinner on countless occasions since she was small.

  “God bless Pape.” Elisabeth sat without ceremony, for there was no servant to pull out her chair and drape a serviette across her lap. “Shall we?”

  “Are we to dine together at supper too?” Isabeau took the chair opposite. “A strange position, this!”

  “You are fine company. But first a prayer,” Elisabeth said, bowing her head. “Lord, we beseech Thee for all our needs and thank Thee for this, our daily bread.” Raising her spoon, she sampled the Welsh stew, aware of Isabeau’s scrutiny. “Delicious.”

  Her maid tasted. Made a face. “If there is petit lamb in my dish, I cannot eat it.”

  “Try the cheese then. Caws pobi, I think Mistress Tremayne said.”

  This was met with more approval. Isabeau finished her portion and had seconds. “How long are we to be here?”

  “We shall soon find out,” Elisabeth told her, turning back to the window. “For now, I like our secret bower on high.”

  The sunset was an astonishing pink, the very hue of her favorite roses in the Palace gardens. Savoring it, wanting to seal it on her memory, she fought a strange wistfulness. The blooms brought to mind a world lost, a girlhood gone. Just as the sun was now setting on the James, she knew the sun had also set on a way of life. And she herself had come into something new and multihued when once her existence had been more black and white.

  Oh Lord, thank You for such beauty. New possibilities. Blessed memories of old. Protect us. Lead us. Please.

  Winded, Noble slowed Seren into a lazy canter down Ty Mawr’s lengthy drive. In the saddle since dawn, he’d covered all his acreage in the forenoon, even checking the new gristmill at Roundtree Farm before remembering the hour. While there he’d been detained, as the workings weren’t operating properly. Shucking off his frock coat, he’d set his shoulder to the giant stone in front of half a dozen tenants, soon restoring it to working order. And now, looking like a field hand, he returned to find Miles Roth waiting for him, no doubt impeccably if foppishly attired, having brandy for breakfast in his study. Or so Mistress Tremayne told him.

  “And Lady Elisabeth?” Noble asked her, glancing upstairs to rooms he couldn’t see. “All is well?”

  “Snug as a songbird beneath the eave,” his housekeeper replied in contented tones. “I’m about to bring up luncheon.”

  She eyed his muddy boots, which he’d momentarily forgotten. He backtracked to the boot scrape beyond the riverfront door and wiped the soles as clean as he could while she went on her way.

  Weary, in no mood for company, he exchanged the freshly mopped foyer for the room that was the most broken in. Everything was as he’d left it the night before. The journal he kept lay open on his desk. His violin rested atop a low, glassed-in bookcase. He couldn’t play as well as Thomas Jefferson or John Randolph, but he did try. The air was redolent of spirits and tobacco, lemon oil and beeswax candles. Miles Roth was the only discordant feature in it.

  “You’re late,” Noble said. He’d sent Miles a note as soon as Lady Elisabeth was beneath his roof.

  “I beg your pardon. I came as soon as I could,” Miles returned, looking at his cousin’s begrimed clothes over the rim of his glass. “As I’ve said before, you take this plantation business far too seriously.”

  “Mayhap you don’t take it seriously enough,” Noble mused, shutting the dark walnut door. “Seems like we could find a middle ground.”

  They stood facing each other as if sizing the other up and preparing for a wrestling match like in days of old. Even as a boy Miles Roth had a wayward bent. And Noble, older by two years, had felt an inexplicable concern for him, and an unbending affection. Miles was the younger brother he’d never had, who had run and ridden with him over every inch of Ty Mawr’s acreage.

  They’d been kings of their own little principalities back then, till they’d been packed up and sent to William and Mary with their manservants. Noble had been ten, Miles eight. With Miles’s parents recently lost at sea, Noble’s father had held his estate in trust till he turned twenty-one. Seven years had passed since then, much of it spent in London. Though Miles had long since returned from England, the effects of its dissipations still lingered. Roth Hall was in dire need of a mistress, and so an alliance was formed with Elisabeth’s powerful father for her hand.

  At first Noble had been surprised, even impressed by the match. Perhaps Miles had some good sense after all. It was rumored around Williamsburg that Elisabeth was as intelligent and engaging as her father was ironfisted and arrogant. A good wife might help reform Miles, even if one had to deal with so intimidating a father-in-law, not to mention a mother-in-law with a literary bent. And then the whole scheme unraveled.

  God be praised. The thought came unbidden but was heartfelt. Elisabeth Lawson had escaped disaster. But Noble wasn’t going to let Miles off the hook without a chance to shame him for reprehensible conduct before severing their tie completely.

  Miles’s bloodshot eyes regarded Noble warily as he rounded his desk, its congested
bulk between them. Stacks of daybooks and ledgers crowded the surface alongside inkwells and quills of every feather. Though it looked cluttered and disorganized, Noble knew where everything was instantly, even if it took patience to unearth.

  “I don’t have much time,” Miles told him. “There’s a game set to begin at Chownings.”

  “A game?” Noble echoed, shutting his journal. “As our mutual friend Landon Carter once said, no African is so great a slave as a man obsessed with gambling.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge, Cousin. I’ve other business in Williamsburg besides.”

  “Have you considered living in town?” Noble asked, sitting down behind his desk. “There’s a house on England Street available, or so I’ve heard.”

  “The Lawsons’, you mean.” Miles looked toward the door as if contemplating his exit. “Unfortunate, that.”

  “Aye.” He inked a quill. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Miles shrugged narrow shoulders. “Distance myself from the Tory cause as quickly and completely as I can.”

  “What are you going to do about your betrothed?” Noble looked up from the document he’d just signed. “Lady Elisabeth?”

  The terse question fell flat in the suddenly still room. All conviviality left Miles’s face. “What does it matter to you?”

  “It matters because she’s here beneath my roof.”

  “Here? Why?”

  “No one would take her in. Not even the rector of Bruton Parish Church.”

  “Do you blame them? She’s Lord Stirling’s daughter. A Tory. Tories get tarred and feathered. Best take her to the Fowey and her father and be done with it.”

  “You have an agreement. Rather, an obligation.”

  Miles raised a hand to his ruffled stock as if he found it too tight. “We had an agreement.”

  “You and Lieutenant Governor Lawson signed a contract in my very presence.”

  “A contract that is no longer binding—”