The Mistress of Tall Acre (36 page)

Sophie stood in the Fitzhughs’ grand parlor, biting her lip lest she blurt out something she’d regret and add to the bitter feeling filling the room. Charlotte was making a scene about Jenny, demanding she return with them to Tall Acre. Standing behind the sofa on which Charlotte sat was Fitzhugh, looking bored and saying little, staying beyond the fray.

“I tell you, she is an unfit companion for Lily Cate.” Charlotte addressed Sophie as if she were to blame. “Nor is she welcome in my home. I—”

“Then we’ll take our leave, the four of us.” Seamus’s calm overrode her complaining. He took Sophie by the elbow and turned to go out when Charlotte erupted all over again.

“But the court order—”

“The girl—Jenny—will stay.” Fitzhugh spoke at last, taking a snuffbox from his pocket. “Next time we shall insist on Lily Cate coming alone.”

“There will be no next time if this visit is less than I hope.” Seamus’s grip on Sophie’s arm never lessened, but he continued in his low, measured tone. “We’ll return a week from today at first light.”

“First light?” Charlotte brought a silver vinaigrette to her nose, rife with the heady scent of cloves. Her sulky frown left Sophie wondering if Anne had been half as petulant.

“First light,” Seamus stated again.

They went out without another word, having already said their goodbyes to Lily Cate and Jenny, who were now playing in the garden under a servant’s watchful eye.

Once in the coach they said little, the unwelcome separation heavy, the sour encounter uppermost. Sophie leaned back against the leather seat, shoulder to shoulder with Seamus. The Fitzhughs wouldn’t mistreat Jenny, surely. The thought turned her sick inside. Myrtilla had been good about her going. Did Charlotte somehow know about Myrtilla and Anne’s bitter past? Could that account for her resistance about Jenny? Or was it simply because they still considered Jenny a slave?

Through the coach’s open window, she lost sight of the Fitzhughs’ townhouse when they turned onto Francis Street. Seamus was quiet. Too quiet. Knowing she could say little in the way of comfort, she leaned her head against the leather seat and shut her eyes, counting days instead of sheep. In only a week they’d be a family again.

Once they were home, the silence echoed. As the evening sunset flamed scarlet-pink, Seamus came in from a visit to a tenant, no more hungry than she. He soon excused himself again, going to the dovecote to oversee the renovations.

Alone in her room, Sophie contented herself with a bath instead of supper, sinking deep into the copper tub, her skin slick from fragrant French-milled soap. Florie helped wash her hair, pouring pitcher upon pitcher of fresh water till every strand came clean. A finely embroidered nightgown lay across the settee, a wedding gift from Cosima.

So clad, she sat by the fire and dried her hair, listening for Seamus’s step, her heart in her throat. Once Florie left, she cracked open both doors, the one in back of the stairs and the one leading to the hall and small parlor. The subtle invitation—or was it brazen?—brought the blood rushing to her cheeks.

’Twas nine o’clock, the time she’d always thought of as hers and Lily Cate’s.
Aesop’s Fables
lay on a near table. She couldn’t imagine Charlotte reading fairy tales. She didn’t seem the type to pay children much attention. And Fitzhugh? She shivered. With his stiff pomp and polish, he reminded her of her father. Thoughts of Curtis crowded in, magnifying her angst. Still stung by his betrayal, she shoved down her longing to see him again.

An open door creaked, raising hope it was Seamus, but ’twas only a stray draft. If he was as unsettled as she, couldn’t they draw comfort from each other? A snatch of Scripture sprang to mind but held no solace either.

By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth; I sought him, but I
found him not.

His callused hand held fragile wildflowers. Field pansies and lilies of the valley. Standing outside the stillroom, Seamus took a breath, feeling the fool, wondering if anyone was watching. He might have gone into the formal garden and gathered far more showy ones than these, but he’d been drawn to the pasture where the wildflowers bloomed. They seemed more Sophie’s style, like the pearls.

Behind him, two maids hurried past, giggling all the way down the colonnade connecting the summer kitchen to the main house. His skin prickled with warmth beneath the linen of his cravat.

The master of Tall Acre had far more pressing matters to tend to than gathering posies, no doubt. But still he stood there, convicted.

With his free hand he pushed open the stillroom door to . . . emptiness.

Disappointment knifed him. And then Mrs. Lamont’s voice broke over him from the rear, abject apology in her tone. “Mistress Ogilvy has gone to Roan, sir. To see about something for Miss Lily Cate.”

With that she swept away, her yellow skirts swirling as she walked. Flustered, he stepped into the stillroom’s shadows, an avalanche of memories overtaking him. Then, as now, bunches of dried lavender and herbs perfumed the close space. His mother’s housekeeping book lay open on a table. He could almost see her beloved head bent in concentration, hear the scratch of her pen against paper. In the margins, Sophie’s own handwriting abounded. His new wife took her duties very seriously.

If he had quill and ink, he’d leave her a note. But what would he say? His mother’s gentle whisper came.

Let your actions speak louder than your words.

The flowers already seemed to be fading, choked by his damp grip. Should he get a jar to put them in? Fetch water from the well? Leave them for her? Beset by second thoughts, he placed them atop the book. When he started back outside, he nearly bumped into Riggs, who was waiting impatiently.

“Sir, you’re needed immediately at the mill. The new tumbling dam’s given way in the recent rain and is jamming the watercourse.”

Setting his jaw to curb his frustration, Seamus started for the stables, all thoughts of courting relegated to the far reaches.

At dusk, Sophie came into the stillroom. All was as she’d left it when she’d ridden to Roan with her groom. Or was it not? The door was slightly ajar. Her stool was out of place. A bouquet of wilted blooms lay on the wide trestle table.

Seamus?

Did he have a particular fondness for wildflowers? Even with acres of garden at his back door? Bending, she breathed in their fading fragrance, the sweetness rivaling his gallant gesture. Likely he had no knowledge of their meaning. Lilies signified a return of happiness; pansies bespoke loyalty.

Oh, that she had been here to take them from his willing hands. Give him a few words of thanks, a tiny piece of her heart, in return. The luxury of being alone with him seemed an extravagance she would never know. She’d missed his presence today by mere minutes, perhaps, all in a silly quest for underpinnings.

The next few days swept past with scarcely a glimpse of him, but she had little room to ponder it or show her thanks. Tall Acre seemed determined to wrest from them every waking moment and ounce of strength they possessed. And more.

27

O
n the Sabbath, Sophie sat side by side with Seamus in the Ogilvy pew for the first time since they’d married. Her gaze drifted from the kirk’s old English organ to a wide window framed in sunlight. A lamb looked down at her, its stained-glass shepherd leading. Again she was reminded of Lily Cate, who had a special fondness for lambs. She’d soon be home for all the fullness of spring.

The benediction was said, and before they’d turned out of their row, the questions flew. Church members who’d turned aside without a word now greeted her openly. Marrying Seamus had given her a measure of respectability, a new presence.

“General Ogilvy and Mistress Ogilvy, where is your little daughter?”

Sophie smiled at the once unfriendly seamstress as Seamus answered. “In Williamsburg visiting relatives. She returns home on the morrow.”

“Such a charming child. You’ve been missing her, no doubt.”

“Very much,” Sophie said. “Counting the hours, even.”

They moved outside into a misting rain where the coach awaited. A number of parishioners were missing, the churchyard oddly empty. A smallpox outbreak on a neighboring plantation had Seamus intent on inoculating them all. They returned home, and the house nearly yawned without Lily Cate, most of the staff absent on the Sabbath. They entered the small parlor where a quiet meal awaited, with hardly a word between them.

Suddenly tongue-tied at being alone with this husband of hers, so near she could almost hear him breathing, Sophie hardly recognized her answered prayers for what they were. She and Seamus were entirely alone. The day was theirs to do with as they wished. And she was naught but . . . numptie.

He’d removed his coat, for it was a warm day despite the damp. In turn she’d not worn a shawl. They sat in their respective chairs, so close his leg brushed the edge of her gown. Finished with his own simple meal, he reached for
The Gentleman Farmer
, and she remembered she hadn’t thanked him for the lilies and pansies he’d left for her.

Her voice came soft in the stillness. “How did you know lilies of the valley are my favorite flower?”