The Mistress of Tall Acre (31 page)

“Seamus, there’s something I need to tell you about the stranger Lily Cate has seen. It may be of little consequence, but last night she told me he has a beard. A black beard.”

His eyes were sharp. “She’s not seen him of late.” It wasn’t a question, rather a dare to say otherwise.

“She says not.”

“Anything else?”

She shook her head, and he grew quiet, making her fear she’d tainted the peace of the morning with such talk. They rode west, skirting the weathered fence line that hemmed in crops and livestock, sunlight warming their backs. The bearded stranger faded to nothingness, swallowed up by the ever-changing landscape.

“Spring has always been my favorite season, in war and out,” he told her.

“Oh aye,” she agreed. Finally, winter was loosening its grip, and summer’s heat with its oppressive swarm of insects had yet to set in. Awed by the hills and valleys stretching without end, she said, “I didn’t realize Tall Acre was so vast.”

“Five thousand acres is a bit ambitious for one man to manage even with the best of help.”

She frowned. A great deal needed to be done to reverse the years of absence if Tall Acre was to turn profitable again. But with so many slaves freed . . .

“I know what you’re thinking, Sophie. I can see it in your face. The work will get done with or without them. Half the freedmen are staying on, and new indentures are coming. There are tenants aplenty.”

Indeed, cottage after cottage met her eye as they cantered past. Tall Acre lay like a brown quilt, pieced together in patches, tenants farming sections and paying rent to the estate. Minutes bled into one hour, then two. They finally stopped at a far-flung gate, where he dismounted and took tools from his saddlebag to mend it.

She looked east, thinking of her own tumbled fences. “Three Chimneys could always be sold.”

“You would do that?”

“’Tis yours, Seamus, remember.”

“’Tis ours, Sophie.” The way he said it, the lingering look he gave her, sent her stomach somersaulting again.

Slipping free of the saddle, she gave an affectionate stroke down her mare’s muzzle and watched Seamus at work. A neat row of nails and a repaired latch soon held the once sagging gate in place and the roaming sheep in. “You’re a carpenter as much as a soldier, I see.”

“Aye, and a planter too. We’ll be sowing winter wheat by week’s end, Lord willing.” He returned the tools to his saddlebag. “The Almanack calls for an early spring.”

He sounded so sure, so confident. “I, on the other hand, hardly know where to start.”

With a wink, he handed her a canteen. “I have no trouble giving orders.”

She took a long drink. “Let’s hope I have no trouble following them.”

“’Tis no trouble, surely. You simply need to oversee the staff and dependencies from dawn till dusk, quell any riots or runaways, and hand me regular reports about the state of each.”

Amused, she pressed a hand to her lips to hold her mouthful of water in.

“The dairy and spinning house are your foremost concerns,” he said, all levity gone.

Mention of the spinning house left her half sick. She wanted to scrub Anne’s caustic references to it from her mind.

“Tend to Lily Cate like you’re doing. That’s most important of all.”

“I wonder if I can be what she needs. The mother she needs.”

“You might not have the makings of a midwife,” he said without hesitation. “But you’re a born mother if there ever was one.”

Then let me give you a son.

She nearly shut her eyes as the thought stained her conscience. A wanton wish, perhaps. Yet Seamus’s own words leapt to mind, mingling with her own longings to create a small storm.

She knew I wanted a son . . .

Ever since he’d shared the intimacy about Anne, Sophie’s imagination had taken untold liberties. She wanted to give him the son he wanted, the son she wanted. She’d long dreamed of a houseful of children. Lily Cate was only the start.

He squinted at the sky. “I need to return to the landing, and you need to meet the rest of the staff. Mrs. Lamont will introduce you properly when you’re ready.” Bending, he locked his fingers, giving her boot firm footing so she could remount. “If you ever have trouble with anyone, come to me first.”

There was a subtle warning in the words easily taken to heart. Anne had had trouble. With Riggs. Myrtilla. Perhaps others. Sophie prayed she’d win the staff over from the start.

So this was Myrtilla.

Sophie knew at first glance why she’d been troublesome for Anne. Myrtilla locked eyes with her the moment she set foot in the spinning house, erasing every hope Sophie had of her being a docile servant. Her expression was stony, but she was a handsome woman, younger than Sophie had imagined, with a proud, almost regal bearing. At sight of Sophie, she all but turned her back.

All Sophie knew of Myrtilla was what she’d gleaned from the diary and Evelyn Menzies’s unfortunate role in her stillborn baby’s birth. After she’d lost her own child, Myrtilla had been Lily Cate’s wet nurse. She’d continued to care for Lily Cate because Anne could not or would not. She was devoted to Tall Acre, to Seamus. It was he who had saved her and her brother from an abusive slave trader before the war.

Sophie stood by Mrs. Lamont and took in the activity in the busy room. Half a dozen spinning wheels were in motion, their gentle whirr creating a slight draft. A hefty loom claimed one corner, operated by a thickset weaver. Hanging from racks were finished linens, a tablecloth, and assorted garments ready for dyeing.

“Spinning and weaving go on here from sunup to sundown,” Mrs. Lamont told her. “The women are allowed regular breaks and a generous dinner hour. General Ogilvy doesn’t like the girls to be too young when they start.”

“Does the spun cloth provide for all of Tall Acre’s needs?”

“Yes, nearly everything is made right here on the estate. There’s little need to order from Philadelphia or elsewhere.” With a keen eye, Mrs. Lamont examined a coverlet. “Spinning is something of a coveted spot, far preferable to field work.”

Sophie could well understand why. The heat and horseflies alone made outdoor work grueling. With its wide windows and lofty ceilings, the spinning house provided a cooler workplace in the summer and a snug one in the winter.

“When Mistress Ogilvy—the first Mistress Ogilvy, mind you—was alive, she would visit each dependency, treat any sickness . . . Of course, you may do as you wish.” Mrs. Lamont led her back outside.

Sophie was relieved when they parted. All their walking to and fro, the memory required for names and places, was daunting. She’d created a mental map of sorts, but in truth all the dependencies looked alike and there was a veritable maze of them. Her heart pulled her to the quiet orderliness of the stillroom situated by the summer kitchen. Once Seamus’s mother’s domain, the stillroom was low-ceilinged and suggested usefulness, an odor of withered herbs and flowers clinging to the air. It seemed to be waiting for her to claim it, though it was the infirmary, smelling of camphor and holding four tiny patients that needed her now.

As she checked each child for fever and administered the tonic on hand, she prayed for wisdom. One boy in particular was very ill, his mother at his side. The doctor had been sent for, but there’d been a delay.

Heartsore, she returned to the house to find Lily Cate waiting on the rear veranda in cape and bonnet. “Mrs. Lamont said I should take you to the nursery as she forgot.”

The nursery? Yet another dependency? Hand in hand they traversed the shell path to another building newly painted white. Inside, two women tended a roomful of young children. Sophie was thankful to find it clean, even cozy, the upraised brick hearth burning brightly and encased with a protective screen lest the children come too close.

Lily Cate introduced her and then began playing, her delighted expression making Sophie realize how much she needed to be with other children. Once the weather warmed and they could be out of doors, she wanted Lily Cate to be the child she was, barefoot and carefree.

“Afternoon, Mistress Ogilvy.” Shay’s wife, Kaye, returned Sophie’s greeting as she nursed her son near the hearth.

There were other newborns present, making Sophie’s arms nearly ache.

“You fond o’ squallin’ babies, Mistress Ogilvy?” A plump, apron-clad woman gave her a near-toothless grin. “Sounds like a bunch o’ calves bawlin’ in a hailstorm to me.”

Chuckling, Sophie sat down in an empty chair. “Reminds me of my mother’s days as midwife.”

“I remember too, God bless her.” The woman gave a bounce to the fretting child in her lap. “My name’s Granny Bea. This here’s my grandbaby, Bristol.”

The tiny boy looked up at Sophie, and his crying hushed. He reached out a plump hand and touched the chatelaine pinned to her bodice when Sophie took him on her lap. “Can you tell me the names of the others? I won’t remember them all, but I’ll try.”

A bony finger pointed round the room. “There’s Opey, Kitty, Doll, Paris, Truman, Cleve, Carter, Jenny, and Miss Lily Cate.”

Lily Cate was kneeling now, wide-eyed over a spinning top. A girl her own size stood beside her, her ebony hair a mass of velvety ringlets. Myrtilla’s daughter Jenny? Half-caste, she stood out noticeably among her darker playmates.

Despite the spilled milk and soiled clout odor, there was peace and a sense of purpose here. A vibrant heartbeat of a place. Sophie dandled the baby on her knee, speaking quietly with Bea and watching the children play. Her sense of wonder grew. She finally had a purpose. A plan. ’Twas overwhelming but . . . good.

God had given her so much. Those long, bleak years of hunger and isolation at Three Chimneys made her present circumstances seem like nothing short of a miracle.

Even without a husband’s affection.

“Papa said we’re to eat in the small parlor instead of the dining room, but he’s not here,” Lily Cate told her that night at supper. “And tomorrow is his birthday.”

“Birthday?” Sophie felt a start. Yet another detail she didn’t know. “Are you sure?”

With a solemn nod, Lily Cate nibbled on a biscuit. “Florie said so.”

So Florie knew . . . while the mistress of Tall Acre didn’t have a clue. “Then we must plan a little party for him. A surprise.”

Lily Cate’s brow furrowed. “What if he doesn’t come?”

“Well, last night required he ride to Roan, and tonight . . .” Sophie overheard voices coming from the study. Tonight he was meeting with Riggs. Again. If Riggs wore a petticoat, she’d be green with envy.

“His supper will get cold,” Lily Cate pointed out with a frown.

“No matter.” Sophie tweaked her nose gently and she laughed. “Cook is keeping it warm in the kitchen. Perhaps ’tis providential he’s not here. All the better for birthday surprises. Do you know what he likes best to eat? Should we have a celebratory sweet?”

“Best ask Florie.”

Oh? She’d met the glib Florie and decided she was simply smitten with the master, a common happenstance in large households. An indentured housemaid, Florie had a mother in the dairy, a father in the fields, and a brother in the stables. Sophie was sorely tempted to move her to the spinning house.

As Lily Cate finished her pudding, Sophie roamed the room, leaving her own dessert half eaten. Like her bedchamber across the hall, the small parlor reminded Sophie of spring with its pale mint walls and floral wainscoting. Though it was seldom used, Seamus had left his mark here. A pair of field glasses and a chess set rested on a near table. Above the fireplace was a portrait of his parents, both bearing a marked resemblance to Seamus. Was it any wonder she missed him when everywhere she turned bore some reminder?

Seeking a distraction, she returned to her sewing basket. Lily Cate soon sidled up to her, asking for her sampler.

“Twelve stitches to the inch,” Sophie reminded gently, her silver thimble glinting on her finger much as her wedding ring glinted on her hand.

As she plied the soft fabric of a petticoat, a noise sounded in the hall. Her heart jumped. Would Seamus join them? On their honeymoon she’d grown used to his slow smile and measured way of speaking, his studied patience with his little daughter, and even his occasional bumbling.