The Mistress of Tall Acre (32 page)

She heard his rumbling voice, measured and distinct, as he and Riggs emerged from the study.

Then the riverfront door closed, and all her hopes along with it.

24

T
he birthday cake had been made, a special supper prepared of Seamus’s favorite dishes. Cream of peanut soup. Spiced ham. Sweet potatoes with coconut. String beans with mushrooms. Sophie recalled what Seamus’s mother had penned in the back of her housekeeping book.

Let the wife make her husband glad to come home.

But Seamus did not come.

“He’s been out foxhunting,” Mrs. Lamont told her as night closed in. “But now he’s down at the stables again as his favorite mare is foaling. I don’t expect he’ll be back anytime soon.”

Her apologetic tone fueled Sophie’s disappointment. She should have asked him about his plans for supper, given some warning, if only for Lily Cate’s sake. Their wee daughter stood waiting in the small parlor, a fresh painting of a horse in hand, eyes swimming.

“We’ll put your picture on his desk along with the cake so he can see we were thinking about him on his birthday,” Sophie said.

“Well, he isn’t thinking of us!” she exclaimed, a tear falling free.

Sophie swiped at her cheek with a handkerchief, feeling near tears herself. Being told of her husband’s birthday and whereabouts by servants didn’t set well, but what was she to do? Theirs was an odd arrangement. She’d known that before the wedding. Who was she to bemoan it after?

“Your father is a busy man, and we’d best get used to that. We have each other in the meantime.”

Lily Cate brightened. “And Sassy!”

“Sassy, yes,” Sophie echoed, smiling down at the kitten at their feet. “We have our very own list of things to do. Tomorrow we must go to Roan for new stays and pay a visit to Mistress Murdo at Three Chimneys.”

“Then we shall be as busy as Papa is.”

“We shall indeed.”

Seemingly satisfied, Lily Cate wandered about the room, looking through the
vue d’optique
on a corner table and exclaiming over the lifelike pictures while Sophie sat down at the harpsichord, a smaller version of the one in the Palladian room. The ivory keys were cool beneath her fingers. One tentative touch to them brought the room to life. No music graced the stand, but a once beloved piece by Scarlatti played in her head. Her fingers felt rusty. Dusty.
Free.
She’d nearly forgotten the joy of it.

Lily Cate was soon by her side, and they began singing a simple tune. Lily Cate had a sweet soprano, leaving Sophie to wonder about Seamus. Did he like to sing? His voice was rich and sonorous even when he was speaking. They sang on till Lily Cate did more yawning than singing and needed to be abed.

With Lily Cate asleep, the night stretched before Sophie without end. She returned to the small parlor, wishing she’d not made such a ridiculous effort to look nice for naught. She had on her wedding dress, his gift of pearls about her throat. A maid wielding curling tongs had added unnecessary ringlets parading down her back. She’d even been too liberal with her cologne, smelling like a veritable garden, thanks to Yardley of London.

Across from her, the chair that had been Seamus’s father’s was empty. Less than a month wed, had they already established a pattern of separation? The coldness of it stole over her, and she couldn’t find her way past it. Had she not lost her heart to him, it wouldn’t hurt so wide and deep. But if she complained or grew bitter, she’d simply push him farther away.

She focused on the portraits of his parents, somewhat solaced. If she couldn’t have all of him, she could have some of him. His name. His daughter. His house. His history. She was part of a family again, however fractured.

Who was she to ask for more?

By lantern light the foal emerged, bringing with it a relieved exhilaration. Sitting back on his haunches, Seamus watched as the mare nickered and nuzzled her newborn, welcoming it into the dusty confines of the stall where it would soon attempt to stand. The markings of each, whether colt or filly, were always unique. New life always renewed his sense of wonder, pushing back the punishing memories of war.

Once the foal was on its feet, Seamus left the head groom to oversee the rest. He emerged from the stables, gaze on the ground, nearly missing the moon’s alluring rise. He was struck nigh speechless by the stars. Orion’s belt had never been so bright, the North Star so chilling and sharp. Awed, he leaned into a near paddock, feeling small. Swallowed up by the vastness. Another light caught his eye, this one from a back window of Tall Acre.

Had Sophie not yet gone to bed? He’d heard music earlier, and it had drawn him much as his mother’s playing used to. He’d given little thought to the pianoforte being one of Sophie’s accomplishments. Anne had not been musical, and he gave silent thanks. Her memory couldn’t interfere with his present pleasure.

He pulled his gaze from the house. Beneath a starlit sky, it was all too easy to forget there was anything pressing in, demanding notice. No rotting roof. No piazza in need of replacing. No mulish tenants and indentures. No new wife and needy daughter. No barely quelled rebellion in Rhode Island or riots in New Hampshire. The newly formed American government was on as shaky ground as he.

He bent his head, an uneasy longing stealing over him much like the drowsy silence stealing over Tall Acre. For a few seconds he gave in to the notion of asking Sophie to go to Richmond with him next, show her about town. She might want to select some things for the house. Though he could ill afford the time, being together might curb the restlessness mounting inside him.

He’d thought all he had to do was marry and the matter with Lily Cate would be settled. He hadn’t anticipated a new set of obstacles. Separate schedules. Separate rooms. Sidestepping around each other. Whenever he said goodnight and retired upstairs, he felt in violation of the biblical commands regarding marriage. Yet hadn’t he asked her to wed him on the most practical terms, as a mother to his daughter?

What in heaven’s name had he been thinking?

Aye, it was owing to his botched handling of Sophie Menzies Ogilvy that accounted for his feeling lurched.

The big house was hushed. At almost midnight, the staff were abed. Though Mrs. Lamont had left a light burning on a sideboard in the foyer, it took Seamus a moment to get his bearings. To his right, the door to the small parlor stood ajar. Weary as he was, he almost overlooked it, intent on the sweep of staircase leading to his room. Usually closed, the door held an invitation. He stood on the threshold of what Sophie called the family parlor—somewhat ironic in light of their present circumstances—and looked within.

A fire still burned, as did a lone candle. The Windsor chairs fronting the hearth faced away from him, but he caught the shimmer of silk in the flickering light. A hint of cologne, an intoxicating blend of citrus and flowers, charged the air.

He ran a hand over his unkempt hair now missing a queue ribbon. He’d washed up in the laundry before coming in, though he still smelled of sweat and horseflesh. Mindful of his boots, he stepped into the parlor carefully. Was she sleeping?

A creak in the floorboards brought her upright. He hadn’t meant to wake her, but neither could he leave her in her chair. But what would he have done? Carried her to her room?

His voice cut into the quiet. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Looking surprised, she stood and faced him. Her hand went to her hair, as disheveled as his own and coming free of its pins. He was cast back to their honeymoon when she’d come to bed with it unbound and falling to her hips. In her lovely gown with its snug bodice and lace sleeves, she looked different than on their wedding day. Fuller of figure. Not so fragile. Or mayhap he was seeing her with new eyes.

She smiled a sleepy smile. “You’ve been out foxhunting, Mrs. Lamont said.”

“Aye, but caught nothing after a five-hour run.” He rued the leisure time but had needed to curb his mounting restlessness.

“How is your new foal?”

“On its feet,” he replied, stifling a yawn. Did she want to talk? At this hour? “And you? How goes it with the staff?” When she delayed answering, he said, “A woman’s work is never done, aye?”

Her eyes held his. “I wasn’t the one late for supper, Seamus.”

He chuckled. A sense of fullness stole through him at her teasing. And then there was that chafing again, the certainty that she’d rather be standing here with someone else.

“At the end of my rounds I spent time in the nursery today,” she was saying. “Lily Cate seemed glad to be there. I think she could benefit from Jenny coming up to the house. They seem to be about the same age.”

“Jenny . . .” After he’d been so long away, some of the people, as his father had called them, were as new to him as they were to her. “That would be Riggs’s daughter.”

“Riggs, your estate manager?” She looked at him, a slow awareness dawning. “But . . .”

“A great many things went on in my absence that I’m not proud of.” He left it at that. “So you think Lily Cate needs company.”

“She shouldn’t be raised in isolation like I was.” Compassion warmed her eyes. “Until Williamsburg, I had few if any friends. The neighboring plantations were too far, and my father forbade any play with the servants.”

He wasn’t surprised. Lord Menzies had been rigidly class conscious, yet here sat his daughter aiming for the opposite. “Jenny’s too young yet to work at anything but the simplest chores. I don’t see how spending time at the house could hurt.”

“I’ve also written about a Scots tutor but wanted you to look the letter over before I post it.”

“A tutor, aye.” He’d already forgotten, but Sophie seemed to have a head for the details he didn’t, especially where Lily Cate was concerned. “Leave it on my desk then. If that sounds like an order, it isn’t.”

She gave him a half smile as he came nearer the fire, suddenly chilled. They stood an arm’s length apart in the flickering amber light, her silhouette soft—and uncommonly dressy. “Did I miss something?” He felt a bit foolish, out of step. “You’re in your lovely gown . . .”

“’Tis your birthday, Seamus.”

So she’d dressed up . . . for him? Astonishment rushed in as the mantel clock struck midnight. “It
was
my birthday, aye.” Such things meant little to him, but they obviously meant something to her.

Her eyes turned searching. “I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Older than you, I’ll wager, at one and thirty.”

“Only by a wee bit.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Suddenly he felt the need to know.

“Why should I?” She was regarding him in that warmly candid way she had. “Ladies don’t usually reveal their age.”

“But . . .” He held her blue gaze. “You’re my bride.”

Her expression changed. Softened. She liked that he’d called her his. He could sense it, feel it, in the very air between them. What’s more, he liked saying it. Yet the words held an untested intimacy that made him want to retreat. “As your husband I would know your age, Sophie.”

She sat back down, skirts rustling faintly. “Eight and twenty.”

He took the chair opposite. “I would have a good deal more.” At her inquiring look he continued, “We’ve only touched the surface.”