The Mistress of Tall Acre (22 page)

Tall Acre’s infirmary was tucked behind the boxwood hedge near the servants’ quarters, a medley of low-slung, brick buildings with crushed-shell walkways between. Sophie smelled the tang of wood smoke and heard a burst of masculine laughter from the stables as her boots made quick work of the shallow drifts, her cloak trailing like a scarlet wave behind her.

“This way, Miss Menzies,” the groom said.

Following, Sophie felt an odd connectedness with the past. Her mother had trod this same path alongside Seamus’s mother years before. Confidence bloomed and then dissolved at the sound of Shay’s wife crying through a thick brick wall. Had her ordeal just begun? The anguish returned her to Anne birthing Lily Cate while the general had nearly worn a hole in the floor with his pacing. All the little details came flooding back, intimate and unwanted. The heat of the August day. Her mother’s studied patience with Anne’s wailing.
The dreaded ordeal
, Anne had called childbirth. Sophie thought of it now with latent exasperation.

She opened the door, hands clammy. A young woman lay on a corner bed, her dark face beaded with sweat despite the chill, a cry catching in her throat at the sight of Sophie. Her first baby, likely.

A burly, homespun-clad man—Shay?—turned round, his pained expression spelling out his own anguish. “Miss Menzies, you come just in time. Kaye’s nearly wore out.”

“Not too much longer now, perhaps.” Taking a deep breath, she hung her cloak from a peg, rolled up her sleeves, and washed her hands.

Her mother had been a stickler for cleanliness. She’d heard General Washington had insisted on sanitary measures in the field hospitals despite the upheaval all around him too. Even Seamus was as clean as he was commanding.

She glanced at the dwindling fire and then at Shay with a practiced smile. “Is there another woman who can assist? Or can you fetch more wood, bring hot water and clean linens?”

With a nod he passed outside. Sophie rummaged in her satchel and took out a heavy apron, a knife for the cord cutting, and a flannel cover for the baby’s tender belly. Opium tincture and a dropper came next. Sophie studied the bottle, her mother’s voice in her ear.
Five drops to ease the pain—but slowly. We don’t want
them coming up again. Try a little water after.
She dispensed the drops, praying for her mother’s composure.

The next hour became a blur of muffled crying and supervising, the sun sinking lower. Sophie had forgotten the pain, how much time a baby took, as she sponged Kaye with cool water and gauged her progress with the feel of gentle hands. Her throat grew dry from soothing words, her fingers nearly raw from wringing out cold cloths.

Glad for the shadows at so vulnerable a time, Sophie worked with Shay to keep Kaye calm and the baby’s progress unimpeded. Despite the uncertainty and risk, there was a palpable excitement. Shay hoped for a boy but would be glad of a girl.

“Nearly there,” Sophie reassured Kaye as the baby’s head crowned.

With a prolonged push, Kaye bore down a final time. Sophie felt a warm rush and then a slippery filling of her outstretched hands. For a moment awe held her captive. She wiped the newborn clean with linen, bundled him up, and handed him to his exhausted mother, gladdened by their joy and her own small part in the process.

For a few bewildering seconds her thoughts veered to Seamus. Would she be summoned here to help deliver his son in time? Turn to him with a tiny bundle and lay a baby in his arms?

Nay, I cannot. I’ll see Scotland first.

She lost herself in the necessity of changing bed linens and fetching a supper tray, glad the baby was blessedly quiet if wide-eyed. A few women from the quarters came in to tend Kaye as Sophie made ready to leave, their shared laughter and talk like a comforting quilt. She envied them their warm camaraderie.

Washing up at the basin, she gave a few last instructions to Shay before passing out the door into a windy night, the moon full and round as a copper shilling. Mindful of the icy walkway, Sophie rounded a garden wall and nearly collided with the general. He was wearing his blue cloak and the scarf she’d made him. She could make out its pattern in the moonlight, a pleasing palette of purple and gray, and felt as warm as if its snug folds graced her own throat.

He was clearly glad to see her. “How goes it with Kaye?”

“A braw son.” Her voice was buoyant but threaded with weariness. “All is well.”

“If so, I have you to thank.”

“I can take little credit. God has a way of birthing babies with or without our help.”

“You remember Lily Cate’s birth.”

“Every detail.” But mostly she remembered the wanting. The wanting to be married. The wanting to be mistress of Tall Acre. The wish that her mother was attending her instead. A slow, startling awareness took hold. Had she been smitten with Seamus even then?

“That seems a lifetime ago.”

She sensed the sad drift of his thoughts and changed course. “I’m surprised to find you out on so bitter a night.”

“I always make the rounds to be sure nothing is amiss.”

“No more trouble, I hope.”

“None, nay.” Taking her arm, he began steering her toward the house. “Come into my study and get warm.”

She almost smiled. Yet another order, this one welcome. In moments he’d summoned a maid and set her satchel by the door. Her gaze strayed to the paneled walls and then the hearth where his rifle rested as she rearranged things in her mind. She’d draw back the heavy curtains. Work a new fire screen. Put away so many of the weapons that gave the room a melancholy feel. But this was his domain, after all. Despite its overbearing masculinity, the room held an intoxicating warmth and richness—or was it simply Seamus’s presence?

He came behind her, removing her cloak. “I’ll settle up with you before you go.”

“You said the very same to my mother when Lily Cate was born.” She tucked a wayward strand of hair beneath her cap, lost in the recollection. “Do you recall her answer?”

Looking bemused, he shed his own coat and scarf. “Aye. And you?”

“There is no fee, she said, not for a hero of the Revolution.”

“At least let me lodge you.”

She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. Could he sense she had no desire to leave? “Lodging, yes.” Breaking free of his gaze, she added, “Perhaps breakfast with Lily Cate come morn.”

“Done.” He rested one arm along the mantel. “I thought, if you came and helped with the birth, you might consider following in your mother’s footsteps.”

Surprise pinched her. “You’re trying to make a howdy out of me.”

“Aye, but you’re not going to oblige me, I can tell. What about a secretary then?” He gestured to his desk. “As you can see, I’m in dire need of help with paperwork.”

Was he having trouble writing, given his maimed hand? Though cast in shadows, the chaos was apparent—and out of character. She felt a new tenderness for him. “If I could accomplish what you wish . . .”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll do admirably.”

“I want no payment, understand. None but your praise.”

“That I can give you.” He shifted, the firelight glancing off the buttons of his waistcoat. “Though I’m willing to give more.”

More? Was he trying to help her earn her keep, knowing the loss of Three Chimneys was imminent? Her pride wouldn’t allow her wages. Nay, not pride. All she wanted was his regard . . . his heart. The truth sent her gaze to her shoes.

“We need to begin rebuilding our lives. We have to start somewhere.” He kicked at a log with his boot and sent it tumbling backwards in the grate. “We need to let go of what was and try again. Take advantage of every opportunity.”

Did he feel she was holding on to the past, unwilling or unable to move forward? Or had
he
moved on . . . chosen a bride? Dread pooled in her belly. She’d known it was coming. But oh, the hurt . . .

“There’s an empty cottage you can have here at Tall Acre. It belonged to my father’s secretary.”

A cottage. Cozy. Secure. Closer to Lily Cate. She wrestled with her longing and took a step nearer the smoldering fire, holding out her hands to its heat. “Your offer is generous, but I cannot leave Three Chimneys until I must.” She felt that old, unwelcome sadness take hold. The longing for what was. The uncertain pull of the future. “Sometimes I—I feel caught between the present and the past. Waiting. Hoping.”

“’Tis one of the things I admire about you, that hope.” His voice dropped a notch, luring her to look at him. “Despite everything, you never let go. Never give up.”

He was so near she felt the sturdy, reassuring warmth of him. She drank in the bottomless blue of his eyes like cold, quenching water.

“You’re a riddle, Sophie Menzies . . . a beautiful, bewildering riddle.”

All the emotion of the moment rose up and clouded her vision. His callused fingers were surprisingly gentle as he caught the tear streaking her cheek. It sent her heart shattering into a thousand brittle bits.

A timid if distinct knock on the door drove them apart. Seamus’s hand fell away. Sophie sank her hand into her pocket for a handkerchief as a maid entered, bearing a tray laden with a veritable midnight feast.

Saying no more, he seated Sophie by the fire, a small table between them. She was hungrier than she realized, glad when he began speaking of mundane matters like the paperwork that begged her help. She tried not to look at him, tried to think no more of the moment than she ought. It seemed nothing poignant had passed between them.

Finishing her meal, she brushed a bread crumb from her bodice. “I’ll gladly see to your papers once I return home from Annapolis.”

He set down his knife and fork. “Annapolis?”

“A letter has come from Glynnis. She’s worsening and wants to see me. I thought I’d leave on the stage once the roads clear.”

“You’d best take my coach. One hundred fifty miles is quite a journey, and my driver knows the route.”

She was too tired to protest. “I’m not sure when I’ll return.”

He sat back, leaving his meal unfinished. “I’m sorry about your going, but I understand.”

Did he? Glynnis needed her. It might be the last time they’d be together. In this realm, at least.

“Do you have funds for travel?”

“Funds enough.” She wouldn’t take money from him. His seemingly unending generosity must have an end.

“You wouldn’t . . . stay on?” The quiet question was asked offhandedly, but a strange heat pulsed beneath. “In Annapolis, I mean.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

He frowned. “I don’t mean to give you any ideas. I was merely thinking of Lily Cate. Selfishly so.” He started to say more, then got up abruptly and retreated behind the bulk of his desk.

She stood and retrieved her satchel, weariness pressing down on her like a blanket. “Thank you for supper. I’d best get to sleep.”

“I’ll be here if you need me.” He lit a second candelabra and moved it nearer some ledgers. From the look of things, he’d be up till dawn.

“Do you spend the night in your study?” she queried.

“On occasion.”

She almost chided him, but it wasn’t her place. Only she was no longer sure what her place was. She simply knew she needed to be free of this room before her feelings ensnared her further. She needed distance, a diversion. She was glad of Annapolis, but it seemed as far away as the Orient.

Her wayward heart was already counting the hours till she’d be back.

17

S
ophie awakened to utter darkness, roused by a baby’s cry in the quarters. Kaye and Shay’s? She got up and checked on Lily Cate. Sound asleep, the girl looked more angel in the glow of firelight, an echo of Seamus in her face. Returning to her room, Sophie lit a beeswax candle. Tall Acre had a great many candles, a luxury unknown to Three Chimneys. Still, she felt parsimonious. Old habits were hard to break. And not only old habits. New, insidious ones too.

Anne’s diary was soon in hand, marked by a silk ribbon. She felt like a trespasser, a thief. Why did she keep reading? Did she hope to uncover some flaw in Seamus? Something that would lessen his hold on her heart?

8 August, 1779

Today our daughter is one year old. Seamus has likely forgotten. The Revolution rages on and I am supposed to celebrate a birthday? When all I can think of is his dying? Being hung as a traitor? I will be a widow with a fatherless child. A woman with an estate I despise.

Myrtilla makes it worse. She refuses to wean Lily Cate, probably on account of her own lost babe. Riggs blames me, saying I am keeping her from her work. I am torn. If Myrtilla returns to the spinning house, I must return to being a mother. And I have no strength. I am wasting away in this isolated place. My husband’s fate torments me night and day.

27 September

A lovely start to autumn. Cooler weather becomes me. Lily Cate has learned to walk. She holds on to my hand and we go about the garden. She is especially fond of the baby ducks. I worry about her fascination with water. The river is so close.