The Mistress of Tall Acre (24 page)

“I can hear my voice come back to me.” She raised damp eyes to the plasterwork ceiling with its fine flourishes and medallions that seemed high as the heavens.

“Mayhap we should start eating elsewhere,” he said.

“Miss Sophie and I eat in the small parlor when she comes.”

He nodded, and she returned her attention to her plate. As he cut his meat, he saw that she struggled to cut hers. Her knife slipped, and the mutton went sliding onto the linen tablecloth, creating a muddy puddle. Shamefaced, she let go of her knife and fork altogether and hung her head.

A pang of pity shot through him, and he got out of his chair. It seemed a long walk around the immense table to reach her, but once there he took her small hands in his and rescued the meat, returning it to her plate and showing her how to cut it. “From here on we’ll eat side by side in the small parlor.”

She took a bite, chewing pensively. He was thankful her appetite had returned. She’d taken the grippe recently, and he’d been up with her nights. She’d wanted Sophie, but he’d done the best he could.

“Are you sorry Miss Townsend is gone, Papa?”

He took his seat as a servant brought in dessert. “Sorry, nay.”
Furious, aye.
“I don’t want her to stay if she doesn’t want to.”

“Did I do something to send her away?”

“You had nothing to do with it.” He’d put that thought to rest once and for all. “She is not meant to be a governess, I think.”

More spy.

Since coming back from his morning ride about the estate, he’d learned Miss Townsend had fled without so much as a note. Pieces of the strange puzzle had begun to fall into place—his unease with her, her objections to Sophie, Lily Cate’s subtle struggle with lessons—all turning his thoughts once again to Williamsburg. He may have won the war against England, but he was losing the one at home.

“Are you going to get another?”

He looked at Lily Cate through the haze of candlelight. “A governess?” At her nod, he softened. “What do you want me to do?”

Her eyes shone with such hope he realized his error immediately. “Can Miss Sophie be my governess?” At his hesitation, she hurried on. “Do you think she’s going to stay away forever?”

He weighed the possibility. “I imagine her former housekeeper has worsened and needs her.”

Worry marred her face. “Would you ask her, Papa?”

“To be your governess?” Her longing for Sophie to be here, beneath their roof, was acute. His own feelings about her, muddled as they were, were acute. “Why don’t we think more about it first?”

“Will you pray, Papa?”

Pray? She was looking at him entreatingly, her eager face framed by tangled curls in need of combing. His heart felt swollen, too big for his chest. Her request, small as it was, was beyond him. He was at sea, borne on a tide of guilt and regret. He opened his mouth to refuse—

“Please, Papa?” Her eyes were stars, glistening amidst his darkness.

He bent his head. For several tense seconds the emotional words lodged inside him without release. Would God hear the plea of a little girl, if not her father?

“Lord, we deserve nothing from Thee, but we are in need of much. We ask Thee to provide us with—we ask that Miss Menzies be willing to act as governess or whatever would be best for her . . . for us. Thy will be done. Amen.”

“Amen,” his daughter echoed, her tears retreating.

He pushed his plate aside and took a breath. “There’s another matter.” He was reluctant to bring it up, but she needed to know. “Come morning I have to go away again. Myrtilla will be with you as usual, and I’ll be back by week’s end. Mayhap by then we’ll have an answer to our prayer.”

For once she said nothing, just gave a slight nod as she scraped her plate clean. He wouldn’t tell her where he was going. Why. The coming confrontation left him cold. But it was past time to mount a counteroffensive.

He’d leave with both a day and a night watch in place. They were mere grooms, most of them, but excellent marksmen and hunters. He’d told them to shoot any trespasser on sight. By law he was within his rights. But he’d had enough of struggle after so long a war. He was sick to death of conflict.

Lily Cate looked over at him and excused herself from the table. He wanted so much for her. Wanted to make everything better for her. Suddenly he felt powerless. Ineffective.

And desperate to protect his daughter.

18

O
n this, the first of March, Seamus crossed the sodden Williamsburg street, mud oozing beneath his boots, intent on a meal at the Raleigh Tavern before going upstairs to his regular lodging.

The proprietor met him at the door. “Good afternoon, General. A pint and a pipe?”

“Aye,” he answered. ’Twas what he always ordered but usually enjoyed in company. He knew a great many people in town. But today the Windsor chair opposite sat all too empty, unable to provide a distraction or a buffer against the ordeal to come. Taking a list from his pocket, he unfolded it, fingers stiff from the cold, and spread it out atop the scarred table. As soon as he returned to Tall Acre, he’d be busy making another. Getting the estate running full bore took every moment and speck of specie he had.

Fifty pounds spermaceti candles. One hundred pounds grass seed. Four pair riding gloves. One fire screen. Black satin queue ribbon. One dozen packs playing cards. One mahogany stool with place for chamber pot. Langley’s
New Principles of Gardening
.

The tankard came, steam redolent of nutmeg and rum, returning him to Three Chimneys’ kitchen. Sophie had ruined him on toddies. Somehow any others paled next to the ones she’d made. He sipped it gratefully all the same, languorous warmth stealing through him.

One glance out the window at the melting snow left him wishing for better weather. He didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary. Already he was missing his paneled study and Lily Cate’s chatter and the glow of candlelight at day’s end.

She’d looked so troubled at his leaving—like she feared he wouldn’t come back. She was still struggling with her riding lessons and had taken a nasty spill. The bump on her forehead had swollen her right eye shut, and it hurt him to look at her, though she had no breaks or other bruises.

He realized how fragile she was right then, how he’d torn her from her familiar world in Williamsburg and handed her Tall Acre instead. With its empty rooms and unhappy memories. Its high expectations and fearsome challenges.

Stooping so that he could meet her at eye level, his heavy cloak fanning out around him, he said quietly, “Keep praying, aye?”

She bit her quivering lip as his arms went round her. He held her close, feeling the tick of her pulse, her soft hair catching on his whiskers, her small hands holding on to him like she’d never let go. His heart turned over . . . held still.

That bittersweet moment had warmed him the entire thirty-two-mile ride to Williamsburg, making him want to hurry home lest he seem a stranger to her all over again.

If he lost her . . . if he had to give her up . . .

He’d rather have died in battle.

Sophie arrived home on a blustery day with a clear head and fresh resolve, her feelings for Seamus in check. Thankfully, Glynnis was improving and they’d had a lovely visit, making Sophie realize how much she’d missed the fellowship of friends. Even in the snow, Annapolis held a blessed noise and bustle that staved off melancholy. She’d even frequented a nearby tearoom with a few of her halfpennies. The Busy Bee was as good for the soul as the stomach, its whimsical name making her smile.

She’d also sent a letter to Edinburgh to her father, asking about his health and testing the waters of welcome. Mostly she wanted to see if he’d had any word of Curtis. ’Twas now a weary wait for a reply. And if there was none, what then?

“Och!” Mistress Murdo crowed in satisfaction at the sight of her. “Annapolis must have agreed with ye. Yer not so peely-wally now.”

Sophie smoothed the bodice of the caraco jacket she’d sewn while in the city, glad to return to the size she was before the war. “You can tell I’ve had one too many Annapolis teacakes.”

“Well, I found some lovely cloth in the attic. I thought ye might be in need of a new gown.” Mistress Murdo hastened up the stairs to the dust and cobwebs and returned with a length of peach taffeta and velvet ribbon. “Between the two of us, we’ll fashion a loosome dress for some future frolic.”

Sophie held her tongue. She’d never unearthed such fine cloth and fripperies in her attic searches. Had the goods been gotten from Tall Acre on the sly? A new gown was hardly needed, especially one so fine, unless . . . Might Mistress Murdo be withholding some news? Amity’s disclosure of Seamus’s courtship was never far from her mind. A month’s absence might mean a wedding was in the offing. Though she ached to see Lily Cate and mend the distance between them, she wanted to honor her personal vow to keep Seamus at arm’s length.

She left the third floor and paused at the oriel window, a flash of red catching her eye in the noon light. An express rider was coming up the long drive, barreling through slush and mud, the world outside a windy smirr of gray.

She hurried down to the foyer, every anxious step smothering the high feeling she’d returned home with. She paid him the last of her pence and then tore open the letter. Half a dozen bills fluttered to the foyer floor like broken-winged birds, but she scarcely noticed, riveted to the page. Curtis’s writing hand was unforgettable, much like her father’s. Loping and proud and grandly elegant.

8 October, 1783

Dear Sophie,

Forgive me for this latent letter. By now you likely know where my loyalties lie.

I hope we can set our differences aside. I have returned to Scotland to take my rightful place as heir, and marry.

She stared at the post, the hurt of betrayal rushing in. All this time she’d been waiting, wondering—and he was in Scotland?

Word has come that Mother has passed and you are alone at Three Chimneys. Now that Tory properties are being seized by the new American government, Father and I agree it would be best for you to join us here in Edinburgh.

Enclosed is money enough for your traveling expenses. Rest assured you will be welcomed with open arms.

Your ever loving brother, Curtis

Ever loving brother? Nay, traitor. A British resident again. Did he care nothing about Three Chimneys?

Stooping, heart thudding beneath her stays, she began gathering up the unwanted bills, surprised by the amount. Her father was as frugal as he was Scottish. So they wanted her to return to them? Oh aye! Likely Lord Menzies had found some wealthy, doddering old suitor to foist on her in order to further his own purposes there.

Stung, she stuffed both money and letter in a desk drawer, tears blinding her. She wanted Curtis to walk in and make things right. She wanted to find her way back to the girl she’d been, full of promise and expectation. For half an hour she paced the room, her love for her brother at war with her anger and hurt. Curtis wasn’t coming. He’d never meant to, after all. While she’d been waiting, praying . . .

Spent, she curled up in a Windsor chair, her damp cheek pressed against the threadbare brocade back. Never had she felt so in need of her mother’s company. Her quiet confidence and unwavering faith. Her belief that God orchestrated all things.

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.

She’d clung to that verse for longer than she could remember. But she was no longer sure she believed it. There had simply been too much loss.