The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Adjusting the brim of her hat to deflect the afternoon sun, Elisabeth tried to push aside thoughts of weddings and trips abroad as the open chaise glided down Botetourt Street. Colonial Williamsburg seemed to pulse with the beat of dissent. This very morn the local militia was mustering at the new courthouse, and men were flocking to Charlton’s coffeehouse to discuss the latest news from England. Women weren’t allowed inside Charlton’s, but she took a long look at its wooden façade, her mouth watering at the fragrant Caribbean chocolate carrying on a teasing breeze.

  Her beloved Williamsburg was no longer entirely a Tory town, all citizens loyal subjects of King George III. ’Twas fast becoming a den of rabid radicals, Papa said. Could it be that the tension beneath their roof was linked more to the revolutionary activity all around them than the more personal conflict between her parents?

  “Front or back, m’lady?” The coachman turned his head as they neared the Shaw residence.

  “Back, please.”

  Cressida lived on the street just beyond. Like usual, she was waiting inside the delicate tracery of wrought-iron fencing in the rear garden, her face alive with impatience. Set back from the street, the Shaw residence was sprawling and genteel as befitting a leading merchant. Elisabeth particularly liked the bricked walk to the house shaded by linden trees. But today she hardly noticed, readying herself for the volley of questions Cressida was sure to ask.

  They’d scarcely spoken at the ball. Cressida, like Elisabeth, was endowed with a bountiful dowry and had been set upon by widowers and bachelors alike. Unlike Elisabeth, Cressida showed no ill effects from too much dancing and too little sleep.

  The coal-colored hair and sloe eyes Cressida had inherited from her West Indies mother, coupled with the fiery Scottish pedigree of her father, made Elisabeth seem colorless in comparison. If Elisabeth Lawson was Williamsburg’s bride, Cressida Shaw was Williamsburg’s belle.

  “London, drive the long way,” her friend said, pressing a sixpence into the coachman’s gloved hand. “Slow as molasses, if you please.”

  He nodded, helping her into the chaise before shutting the door.

  As she sat beside Elisabeth on the upholstered seat, their gowns clashed in a profusion of sea green and raspberry taffeta.

  “Where is Isabeau?” Cressida asked.

  “Sick with a headache,” Elisabeth answered.

  “How fortunate. I’ve given Molly leave for the afternoon,” Cressida said of her own maid. “We’ve much to discuss, you and I.” At Elisabeth’s silence, Cressida turned and looked her full in the face. “Why, Lizzy, you’re dark as a thundercloud! You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “About?”

  “Your wedding!”

  Second thoughts? Not once in her life had she been allowed them. Her father had dictated her every move from the cradle. And she’d never questioned it till Cressida came into her world. Dear Cress, whose father let her do whatever she willed.

  “I’d hoped Mama would accompany us today,” Elisabeth said, careful to keep her emotions in check. “But she has yet to arrive.”

  “It must be hard having an invalid in the house, needing relief from Virginia’s heat. But I do wonder if chilly Bath is of any more benefit, not to mention the long sea voyage.” Raising her fan, Cressida gave a languid wave to a passing carriage as they turned onto the rutted lane leading to the outskirts of town. “But we’ve no time to waste talking of mothers and maids. Not with Noble Rynallt just come out of mourning.”

  The unexpected words returned Elisabeth to the matter at hand. So Cressida had noticed him? Thinking of his rapid departure from the ballroom, she said, “He was hardly there. He didn’t even stay for the midnight supper.”

  “He prefers the Raleigh Tavern, probably because of his politics,” Cressida murmured. “’Tis no secret he and Lord Dunmore don’t see eye to eye. ’Twas gallant of him to escort you. Quite brave, actually, given the Palace’s stance concerning Patriots. And I’m quite sure it offended your father’s sensibilities also.”

  Elisabeth didn’t like the reminder. She’d not seen her father since the ball, as he’d kept to the Palace. But soon he’d take her to task.

  “Hmm.” Cressida continued her speculating. “Perhaps something nefarious is at play.”

  Nefarious? Cressida had always been a tad dramatic. “Mister Rynallt was simply doing Miles a favor. They’re cousins, remember. Neighbors.”

  “Ah, neighbors, indeed, as much as thousands of acres will allow. Roth Hall pales in light of Ty Mawr being on the river. Have you not seen it?” At the shake of Elisabeth’s head, Cressida made a sorry face. “A shame. Every marriageable female from here to Boston should. Ty Mawr is in sore need of a mistress.”

  “Since Mister Rynallt’s sister passed, you mean.” She’d hardly known Enid Rynallt. Enid was older. A spinster. A woman who preferred Ty Mawr to Williamsburg. “I’ve not seen the Rynallt estate, but you do tempt me.”

  “Dearest Lizzy.” Leaning back on the seat, Cressida looked vastly satisfied. “How glad I am that you have bypassed the most eligible bachelor in all Virginia.”

  Elisabeth studied her, understanding dawning. “Are you smitten with the master—or Ty Mawr?”

  “Perhaps both.” Cressida’s eyes narrowed. “You can well imagine my dismay when you entered on his arm. And then I remembered that he is Miles’s kin and will soon be your cousin-in-law.”

  “But what of Mister Bennett?”

  “Poor Mister Bennett.” She gave a sigh worthy of the recent comic opera they’d seen at the theater erected on Palace Green. “A lowly tradesman, is all. Father thinks I need to reconsider our . . . arrangement.”

  Seeing her friend so dismissive left Elisabeth feeling slightly sick. Had she no memory that her own father was a tradesman? He’d been middling at best before rising to the heights of Virginia’s gentry as far as an ambitious Tory merchant could.

  “The Bennetts are a fine family,” Elisabeth said. “And devout believers.”

  Cressida had the grace to turn a slightly sheepish pink. “Fine for someone else. Think of it, Lizzy. With you at Roth Hall and myself mistress of Ty Mawr, we’ll be neighbors.”

  “There is the small matter of your groom, mind you—and his politics.”

  Cressida gave her a sly smile. “I’m sure I can manage on both counts. What of you? Can you manage the roguish Mr. Roth?”

  The probing question was so bruising Elisabeth nearly winced. “In time, perhaps.” Did that sound as flat as she felt? “But Papa has made the match and I must honor it.”

  “I say let your father marry him,” Cressida replied irreverently.

  Ignoring this, Elisabeth continued on. “It helps, of course, to think of Miles’s good qualities.”

  “Has he any?” A look of outright humor shone on Cressida’s face. “Besides his inheritance?”

  Embarrassment flooded Elisabeth. For Miles. For herself. Her mind emptied then righted itself. The words of Philippians wove through her head like a song.

  Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.

  “He’s generous,” Elisabeth said at last.

  “Extravagant, you mean,” Cressida returned.

  “I’m sure, after we’re wed, more of his good qualities will make themselves known to me.”

  Cressida looked doubtful. “Noble Rynallt of Ty Mawr has so many exceptional traits it would take me from here to Charles Town to enumerate them all.”

  “Thankfully, we’re only going to the mantua maker’s, so you won’t have to,” Elisabeth said with a bit of bite as the sign for Margaret Hunter’s came into view. She glanced at her watch, feeling the need to hurry home.

  What if today was the day Mama finally docked?

  Straight pins sticking at odd angles between her thin lips, Margaret
Hunter examined the wedding gown from every angle, a dent of concern in her brow. Elisabeth sensed the mantua maker’s disapproval. Cressida roamed the once richly appointed shop, perusing the silk masks and remaining fans with an assistant, far enough away to miss the mantua maker’s strained whisper.

  “Lady Elisabeth, ’tis the third time I’ve taken in this gown. Are you not eating?”

  Elisabeth hesitated, remembering how none of the delicacies at the Governor’s Palace had tempted her and she’d managed but half a scone and some nonimportation tea this morning. Silence was the best answer, she guessed.

  Turning before a full-length mirror, Elisabeth was easily lost in the luxury of the gown, ill-fitting or no. Since the boycott of British goods, Williamsburg’s seamstresses had been hard-pressed to stock their shelves. Elisabeth’s wedding dress had been made from a quantity of silk Margaret Hunter had tucked away and forgotten. Likely Providence had prompted the notoriously meticulous Margaret to remember an item she should never have overlooked in the first place.

  Who could forget Spitalfields silk?

  Cressida came up from behind, peering over Elisabeth’s shoulder into the looking glass. “I do hope you have more quality fabric stashed away. I’ve decided on painted silk for my wedding dress.”

  Plucking the pins from her mouth and returning them to the heart-shaped pincushion dangling from her waist, Margaret said, “I’ve read nothing in the Gazette of your nuptials, Miss Shaw.”

  “You soon shall,” Cressida replied. “Best begin stitching straightaway. I have my eye on a gentleman along the James River. And I don’t believe in long engagements.”

  Margaret’s voluminous skirts swished out of sight before Elisabeth hissed, “You would marry an Independence Man?”

  “Indeed. Those unpredictable rebels are far more dashing than the staid Tories.” Once again, Cressida smiled like a cat with cream. “I shall see Mister Rynallt before the week is out and must say I am counting the hours.”

  Tongue-tied with dismay, Elisabeth fell silent. Cressida always seemed one step ahead of her. A planned rendezvous, perhaps? Her friend was bubbling over with glee. Poor Mister Bennett.

  Or perhaps . . . Elisabeth allowed herself an ungracious thought.

  Perhaps poor Mister Bennett was blessed indeed.

  Sitting in the shaded arbor, Elisabeth opened the box of chestnut tarts, the flaky crusts and nutty centers oddly unappetizing. Once again the chair across from her yawned empty. Cressida had declined tea, citing another engagement. Mama had yet to materialize. Perhaps it would do Elisabeth good to pretend her mother sat there, not just air. Feeling a burst of whimsy, she shot a glance at the house’s back windows before talking to herself in low tones.

  “My gown is finished, Mama. Well ahead of the wedding.” She reached into her pocket and produced a bridesmaid’s fan, unfolding it and placing it atop the small table. “I think the design you chose for these is beautiful. Margaret Hunter agrees.”

  Pausing in her monologue, Elisabeth lingered on the fan’s artful lines. Her name was gilded directly on the leaf paper, complete with her wedding date of June 16, 1775. “We had a lovely betrothal ball at the Governor’s Palace. Several ladies asked about you and said they’ve kept you close in prayer.”

  Seeing the maid approach with a tea tray, she bent her head and said silent grace. She could almost sense her mother’s presence. Hear her beautifully modulated English voice. But it was her father who often overrode her mother’s heartfelt petitions, the prayer he said at each meal easily remembered.

  “Submit yourselves for the Lord’s sake to every human institution, whether to king as one in authority, or to governors sent by him, for such is the will of God. Honor all people, love the brotherhood, fear God, honor the king.”

  The maid poured tea beneath the fragrant, rose-covered arbor, smiling her thanks as Elisabeth snuck a pastry into her pocket.

  At that, the girl began clearing her throat—the telling signal that Father was approaching. All of Elisabeth’s delight vanished. Down the bricked path he came, stern of face and stiff of figure. Usually he clutched a pipe and freshly inked copy of Rivington’s Royal Gazette. Always he was dark as a storm cloud. Had he ever been any different?

  Today his hands were empty, his dismissal frightfully curt. “Leave us. I would speak with my daughter alone.”

  The maid gave a quick curtsy and withdrew.

  For a moment his gaze drifted over the hollyhocks and phlox Mama had cultivated with the help of Governor Dunmore’s gardener. Such beauty in the face of such sternness. The beloved statuary of a small child releasing a dove from a cage in the heart of the garden drew Elisabeth’s eye. Even as a child she’d wished to fly away like that dove whenever he was near.

  In the glare of sunlight his once-handsome face was compromised, cheeks deeply pitted from the pox. The heavy powder concealing the scars gave him a wan appearance when he was, in fact, quite robust. “Elisabeth Anne.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Their eyes met, and for the briefest second his seemed to thaw. Their silvery depths, so shrewd and assessing, took in the only child he’d ever had, and Elisabeth was again reminded that all his hopes were pinned on her marriage to Lord Dunmore’s protégé—a king’s man and, more importantly, heir to what seemed like half of Virginia.

  “You’ve recovered from the ball?”

  She hesitated. Had she?

  The shadow of Noble Rynallt seemed to fall across the tea table between them, and it was no surprise when her father said, “How is it that you arrived on the arm of one of the Independence Men?”

  She expelled her breath in a soft rush. “’Tis somewhat a mystery.” She wouldn’t speak ill of him, or Miles, though Miles’s liquored breath had told her volumes. “Mister Rynallt simply said he was doing his cousin a favor. I believe he is acting as best man.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You should know there’s a plan afoot to take Lord Dunmore’s life. And ’tis originating with the Liberty Boys, the Independence Men.”

  She felt her jaw go slack. Noble Rynallt seemed a gentleman to the core, as did all the other Patriots she knew of. “The Independence Men aren’t lunatics and murderers, are they?”

  “Ever since the gunpowder incident, they’re murmuring about taking up arms against the king. Noble Rynallt is one of the chief dissenters. Desperate times drive men to desperate measures.”

  Elisabeth took a sip of lukewarm tea. Desperate times, indeed, though Lord Dunmore had never been popular, even among the top tier of Virginia society. Yet she was able to say in truth, “Lord Dunmore and Lady Charlotte have always been exceedingly kind to me. I’d hate to see any harm come to them. Or their children.”

  He looked at the uneaten tarts, and his expression shifted from tense to sullen. “Your mother’s arrival is imminent. I fear her health has taken another bad turn. I’m considering sending her to Berkeley Springs to recuperate.”

  Imminent? How did he know? As for the springs—they were so far.

  “If she returns in the same mental state, I may have Doctor Hessel admit her to Publick Hospital.”

  For a moment she sat speechless, the teacup in hand suspended in midair. “Papa—nay!” The outburst was uttered before she could school her emotions. He would punish her mother for her politics? “But the wedding—”

  His reproving look assured her she’d overstepped her bounds. “Would you have her at the wedding on a cot—or in a strait dress?”

  “Papa, please.”

  “When are you going to accept the fact that she’s of fragile constitution and unsound mind?”

  The flagrant lie nearly made her flinch. She caught sight of Mamie at an upstairs window looking down at them. Mamie knew the truth. Dear, guileless Mamie, who’d tended her mother since she was first wed. In an especially cruel twist, her father had denied her accompanying Mama to Bath, sending a maid of his own choosing instead.

  Elisabeth recalled Mamie’s words.

  “Yer mama may be
frail, but she’s of sounder mind than yer papa. ’Tis just her politics he hates. What sort o’ man names his wife a lunatic and threatens her with a strait dress lessen she change her views?”

  “She’s no more distressed than anyone else with all this talk of tea and taxes,” Elisabeth began, mounting a pitiful defense of a woman who wasn’t present to defend herself. “I’m sure Bath was a blessed respite from colonial politics.”

  “For a score of years or better she’s been unsound. Before she sailed she had the gall to speak in defense of the Independence Men. Such talk smacks of treason. There are times when I suspect you are following in her footsteps. Your arrival at the ball with Rynallt gives me pause.”

  So he would blame her for that too? “’Twas Miles Roth’s doing, not mine,” she replied with rare fire. “He simply sent his cousin to escort me, as he was belated. I had nothing to do with it—”

  “Indeed. That’s how it begins, you know, all this rebellion. A sharp departure from the truth.”

  Oh? Just who was dealing in unreality? Setting her jaw, she looked down at her tea, the Lowestoft cup and saucer a watercolor of blue and gold.

  Reaching out, he snapped a rose from its stem to tuck in his lapel. “Tell Mamie to ready your mother’s bedchamber for her return.”

  4

  Noble Rynallt stood by the hitch rails beneath the gnarled oaks outside Bruton Parish Church in a haze of dust and filtered sunlight. Guests were gathering for a morning wedding that should have been under way a quarter of an hour ago. The bride was missing, someone said. ’Twas his distant cousin, Lucy Croghan, but as she was so besotted with her bridegroom, no one seemed to think anything of it, he least of all.

  The stray thought returned his attention to another cousin, another wedding in the offing, mere days away. Miles had asked him to act as best man. He would, though the thought aggravated him like a burr.

  Moving out of sight of the late arrivals, he went into the fenced graveyard. Enid was buried at the back beneath the shade of a stately oak. He bypassed other graves with their urns and willows, cherubs and drapery, to his sister’s box tomb with its simple engraved hourglass noting the flight of time.