The Mistress of Tall Acre (38 page)

Jenny shook her head. “Just Lily Cate. She said he was watchin’ us across the fence when we played in the garden, and then he was gone.”

Sophie put her arms around Jenny’s bent shoulders and hugged her, suddenly aware of how different she was than Lily Cate. Bony and tall and smelling of wood smoke. Not soft and lavender-scented and small. “Thank you for telling me. ’Tis important.”

Jenny leaned against her, her words a whisper. “Granny Bea says God knows where Lily Cate is, even if we don’t.”

Sophie nodded, needing the reminder in light of their helplessness.

“Come along now,” Myrtilla said in her no-nonsense way. “I need to return to my spinnin’.” Her face was a dark mask again as they left the folly.

Sophie fetched a vase from the stillroom, went to the well, and drew water for the pussy willows. Tall Acre’s back door was ajar, the maids busy beating rugs in the open air. She was used to seeing Seamus striding about. He needed to know what Jenny had told her, flimsy as it was. Though it might not help locate Lily Cate, Sophie felt sure this unknown man played a role in her disappearance. It couldn’t be coincidence. Wishing for something more substantial, she went to Seamus’s study to pen the news to Williamsburg.

28

S
ophie stood with Mrs. Lamont in the Palladian room turned studio. The smell of oil paint was strong, the large canvas facing the riverfront windows for the best light. Brushes and jars abounded, but Mr. Peale was taking a walk in the garden. Sophie focused on the bare place above the mantel where the new portrait would hang when done. What had become of Anne’s portrait, Sophie did not know. Not even Florie had told her.

“Well, I must say, Mr. Peale has remarkable talent.” Beside her, Mrs. Lamont stared at the work in progress, her expression already pronouncing it a success. “Certainly a fine feat for a saddle maker turned artist.”

Sophie stared absently at the canvas without comment. Would she always associate this portrait with heartache and loss?

“I forgot Peale was coming.”

Seamus’s low voice spun Sophie around. He studied the painting, his expression unreadable. He’d been gone a fortnight, the longest two weeks of her life. And now he’d returned but had no answers. She could tell just by looking at him. His unshaven jaw, the weary lines about his eyes, and his rumpled clothing and muddy boots bespoke sleepless nights and hours in the saddle.

Mrs. Lamont excused herself, leaving them alone.

Seamus looked at her, but his blue gaze seemed washed out, without focus. “We know little more than we did. She vanished sometime the night of the second. The servants deny any wrongdoing. Nothing was disturbed in the house. The Fitzhughs state the doors were locked and they don’t know what happened, but since they’re the prime suspects, they’re still being questioned.”

“And the man Jenny told us about, the one here and in Williamsburg?”

“We have little to go on, I’m afraid. Lily Cate is the only one who’s seen him.”

“And so we . . . wait?” For days, months, years. She saw the futility in his eyes, and it shook her to her soul.

“I’ve posted a substantial reward. The sheriff and constables are doing all they can. They even questioned me.”

“You?”

He gave a weary nod. “Has anyone threatened me or my family? Just a trespasser. Is there anyone who bears me a grudge? Aye, the whole British army. Do I get along with Anne’s relations? Nay. Did I harm my daughter?”

“Oh Seamus . . . they didn’t.”

“I keep thinking of her hungry. Cold. Bewildered.” His voice wavered. “Wondering why I don’t come.”

She pressed trembling fingers to her lips. Such torment, all this wondering. Where was God amidst such anguish? Would it drive Seamus away from Him? Or bring him closer? His fierce reserve left her more undone. He seemed so strong. Unbending. Or had war so hardened him that he was able to stay standing while inwardly he was coming apart?

His low voice was raked with exhaustion. “I have known pain. But I have never known pain like this.”

“Mistress Ogilvy, there’s a matter that needs discussing.” Riggs stood before her, hat in hand, gaze on the stillroom floor.

Surprised, Sophie took him in, seeing echoes of Jenny in his pockmarked face though his daughter mostly resembled Myrtilla. Sophie’s hands stilled on the mortar and pestle she was using to blend herbs for another needed tonic. “Of course, Riggs. Speak freely, please.”

“It’s the general, ma’am. Says he saw another light late last night at Early Hall.” He looked up at her, stark worry in his eyes. “Trouble is, nobody else saw that light.” He swallowed, clearly ill at ease. “I’m not nay-saying him. I just know the master’s a mite touchy about his first wife. I thought maybe it would help to do away with the riding chair. He mentioned it once but never gave me the order to be rid of it himself.”

She hadn’t forgotten finding Seamus’s note about it. Did he know the history behind that chair? She’d hoped to have it painted. Use it for outings with Lily Cate. But now in light of Riggs’s words she saw how unwise a wish that was. “I’ve seen it in the coach house.”

“Aye. With your permission I could have it moved to Three Chimneys.”

Locked away, like Anne’s diary? Riggs was clever and clearly wanted to help Seamus.

He continued. “The general is meeting with his tenants this morn. Now might be a good time.”

“By all means, move it immediately. Three Chimneys’ coach house is empty.”

Thanking her, he left, leaving her to ponder his words.

The master’s a mite touchy about his first wife.

Just how much did Seamus know about Tobias Early?

At sunrise, Sophie was awakened from a fitful sleep by the slamming of the riverfront door. Seamus? Rattled by the sound and what it meant, she flew to the window and caught his agitated stride before he disappeared behind the boxwood hedge.

When she lost sight of him, inexplicable panic set in. She tore off her nightgown and began dressing, her frantic fingers working the hooks of her gown. There was no time for stays or stockings or minding her hair. Stuffing her feet into the nearest pair of slippers, she left her bedchamber and went out into a day so soft and hushed it only magnified her turmoil.

Was he at the stables? One of the dependencies? He’d been home but two days. He was barely sleeping or eating. He was always armed—never a worry till now. Sometimes shock, grief, drove people to extremes. Something urged her to action, but she hardly knew where to begin.

Half sick with alarm, she finally found him at the river’s edge, untethering a rowboat. “Where are you going?”

He turned, his bloodshot eyes like a blow. “Across the river.”

To Early Hall? She looked toward the shuttered house. Had he seen another light? “I’ll come with you.”

“Nay, Sophie.” His back to her, he shoved the boat into the current and jumped in with an ease that belied his exhaustion, leaving her little choice but to wade in after him.

Clutching her skirts, she held them high as the current tugged at her and wet sand engulfed her slippers. Heedless of his disapproval, she climbed into the bow unaided, rocking the boat as he took up the oars.

Their glide across the river was silent save the splash of the water, a few dragonflies darting about, their incandescent wings the bright blue of the river. Seamus ignored her, his angry paddle strokes bringing them swiftly to the opposite shore. Gripping the sides of the boat, she steadied herself as he ran aground. In a gesture more angry than gallant, he picked her up and planted her on the grassy bank as if she were little more than a hogshead of tobacco.

Shaken, she smoothed her rumpled clothes as they started up the hill, her skirts dragging in the dew-damp grass. Seamus’s face darkened the nearer they came. Together they took in the crumbling brick outbuildings before fastening on the abandoned house. Ivy wove a thick web across a multitude of doors and windows. Early Hall looked unwelcoming and forbidding even in broad daylight, making Sophie want to tug on his sleeve and retreat.

When they reached the edge of the garden, once carefully laid out in elegant parterres, she felt a sadness she couldn’t explain. It was a ruin of weeds and vines, impassable. They skirted it, Seamus leading. Every door was locked save a side entrance with a broken latch.

His tone was terse. “Stay here while I go in.”

Uneasiness rising, she waited a few seconds then followed. Inside, the house was still as a crypt. Pale with dust, the spacious, well-appointed rooms held once-treasured ceramics from Europe and the Orient and fine oil paintings on peeling walls. Dust covers draped a crush of furnishings. Mice and bats had had a heyday and were still. She walked about slowly, touching nothing but perusing everything.

Had Seamus gone upstairs?

The startling sound of breaking glass was her answer. Spinning round, she took the grand staircase by twos, slipping in her haste and skinning her knees on the landing. “Seamus!”

Her cry was smothered by more violence coming from a distant room. Chest heaving, she ran toward the sound till she found him, a sea of shattered glass between them. Every window in the once-lovely chamber had been destroyed. A humid wind buffeted moth-eaten drapes, brushing her flushed face.

Seamus stood looking at her, stance wide and hands fisted at his sides. Face ravaged with a consuming misery, he seemed one step away from madness.

Her voice broke. “Seamus . . . please.”

She started forward across the wreckage, barely aware of the sharpness beneath her thin soles. In back of him was a marble hearth, an abundance of ashes within. A recent fire? Perhaps the explanation of the strange light? Some passing vagabond or gypsy, likely. Many were homeless and wandering with the war won. She tore her gaze away, searching for some tenderness, some familiarity, within the face she loved so well.

His eyes were on her, his own chest heaving, staring at her as if she were little more than the enemy, the wife no longer wanted, no longer needed. The truth of it didn’t have to be spoken. It resounded in the glittering chasm between them as if he’d shouted it. Without Lily Cate, what purpose did she serve? She was naught but a burden, a reminder of his loss, his heartache.

With three quick steps, he closed the distance between them, glass crunching beneath the hard soles of his boots. Still taut with fury, he picked her up and carried her out of the battered room and down dirty stairs into a day so brilliant she squinted beneath its fierce glare.

Again he set her down roughly. “I told you not to come, Sophie.”

He said nothing more as he rowed them across, the fine linen of his shirt torn and stained, knuckles bleeding. When they touched the southern shore, he sat listless at the oars, head bent, his unkempt hair a tangle of neglect. She shut her eyes, her heart empty of all but the simplest plea.

Lord . . . help us.

Once they started up the hill to Tall Acre, Seamus ahead of her, a servant met him about some matter needing immediate attention. Seamus walked away from her without looking back.