The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Here lieth the body of Enid Rynallt, beloved daughter of Kennard and Catrin Rynallt, who departed this life in the twenty-ninth year of age . . .

  Eyes smarting, he looked west, where the churchyard gave way to pastoral fields that reminded him of Wales. Times like these he contemplated returning to his homeland. But as a second son who’d made his stake in the colonies, he’d left his elder brother to go it alone years before. Enid had soon followed. On this side of the Atlantic, once at home, he now felt adrift save for a few distant relatives. Enid had been an anchor, the heartbeat of Ty Mawr. She had never married, not for lack of offers but because she loved Ty Mawr too much.

  The momentary stillness of the graveyard was cut off by a trilling laugh near the entrance. He turned to see the Shaw family arrive. Cressida descended from the carriage onto the mounting block near the church steps in a flurry of lavender silk and lace. Their eyes met briefly across the ground, and it seemed her face assumed a rosy hue even at a distance.

  Later, at the wedding reception, if there was no way out of it he’d claim her for a minuet or reel before excusing himself. If he could master his dislike of society. Make polite small talk. The weight of his responsibilities pressed in on him, and he rued being at a wedding when he had better things to do. Today he needed to be in a great many places all at once. The tobacco warehouse in Port Royal. Assessing the militia companies encamped in Williamsburg about the capital and magazine. Or better yet, taking stock of his new stallion gotten from Maryland to sire a brood mare.

  Running a finger around the ivory folds of his stock, he loosened the clip at the nape of his neck. Strangle-tight it was in the summer heat.

  The subtle tug he always felt to be home was checked by the emptiness he encountered without his sister there. He turned toward the church, his melancholy tempered at the sight of the bride arriving in a chaise. Expression joyous, she waved a gloved hand at him, her attention diverted as her groom rushed out of the church to meet her. Noble felt as if he were on the outside, a handsbreadth beyond all that joy. He turned away, his resolve to attend the ceremony for Lucy’s sake ebbing like sand through a sieve.

  Had it been two years since Enid died? As he stood at her grave, it felt fresh as yesterday. He’d come here today to deal with the sorrowful memory more than attend a wedding. Since her passing he’d shunned family occasions. Time to move on, mayhap, away from the loss, putting aside his mourning clothes along with any lasting melancholy. Best honor the ceremony then head for Christiana Campbell’s, where the reception was to be held. He’d congratulate the happy couple, shuffle through an obligatory dance or two, and hope for brighter days.

  There were but two places on earth entrenched in Elisabeth Lawson’s head and heart. One was her chintz bedchamber, and the other was the Palace gardens where James, the aging gardener, held sway. There everything was fresh and delightful and so artfully arranged it stole one’s breath. Everywhere she looked was color and light and beauty. There was the little bagnio, or bathhouse, with its charming hexagonal lines, bed upon bed of riotous flowers, and the boxwood parterres that gave way to gently sloping terraces ending at the enormous fish pond below. It seemed the embodiment of green pastures and still waters.

  A breeze gusted, turning her dress a swirl of buttery linen around her. For a few moments she was able to forget the ache of her mother’s absence and her father’s latest outburst.

  The familiar sight of Lady Charlotte’s maid, hurrying down the garden walk toward her made her pause. And then, like colorful butterflies released from a cage, Lord Dunmore’s daughters swarmed Elisabeth, fluttering past the maid on a warm wind in matching silken dresses.

  “Lizzy, Mama has need of you,” Lady Augusta called, her fair features turning a deep pink as if she realized she misspoke.

  “’Tis Lady Elisabeth to you,” the exacting maid reminded, ever attempting to curb their exuberance.

  “You’ll find Mama in the wisteria arbor,” Lady Catherine said as she slowed, lifting a skirt hem to view a wayward slipper. “Drat! I’ve turned my ankle and lost half my shoe!”

  “You shouldn’t be galloping about like wild horses,” the maid scolded, snatching up the offending heel before shooing the girls away. “Miss Galli is ready to resume your lessons.”

  Giggling, the girls turned and saw the governess’s shadow near the Palace. The gardener had slipped away, and Elisabeth was left to trail the lady’s maid to where Lady Charlotte waited beneath the arbor freshly painted for summer, a weathervane bearing the English coat of arms atop it. This was the place of many happy hours, of talks and tea and shared laughter, and Elisabeth was only too glad to obey the summons to come.

  Ever since Lord Dunmore’s family had arrived from England three years prior, Elisabeth had been a frequent guest at the Palace, acquainting them with the moods and rhythms of Williamsburg. Though her husband’s popularity was in question, Lady Charlotte’s graciousness and beauty had won the heart of nearly everyone she met. But Williamsburg wasn’t England, and the years had done little to ease her homesickness. Always Elisabeth sensed a sadness about her, and today was no different.

  “Ah, Lady Elisabeth, the sight of you does me good.” Reaching across the wrought-iron table, Lady Charlotte squeezed her hand. “’Tis uncommonly warm for June, is it not? I can scarcely bear another summer like the last one.”

  “Mama said the same before she left for Bath,” Elisabeth remembered, settling in the chair opposite. The sight of Lady Charlotte’s mottled complexion reminded Elisabeth what a trial it was for her and every European she knew. Despite the heaviness of the mosquito-laden air, she felt at home in its heat, as she’d never known any different.

  “Your father tells me she’ll go at once to Berkeley Springs.”

  Elisabeth shifted her gaze from the flawlessly powdered, bewigged woman before her to the gardener as he tamed a yew hedge across the way. “Mama has been overly tired since her last attack of the ague. Papa is zealous for her return to health.”

  “If I can do anything . . . if you should need any help with the wedding . . .”

  Elisabeth smiled. “The lovely ball you gave was gift enough.”

  Lady Charlotte nodded. “We shall miss you sorely once you leave Williamsburg. The girls are moping about already. Roth Hall seems so far, yet you must be anxious to be its mistress.”

  Elisabeth paused, the estate’s hazy lines and angles unfolding in her mind. She’d visited but twice since she and Miles had first met, and it failed to make a lasting impression. “Miles says the new wing overlooking the deer park is nearly complete.” But he has yet to let me see it, she didn’t add. On the other hand, might he be saving it as a delightful surprise? “You and the girls are always welcome.”

  “I well remember what ’tis like to be a bride,” Lady Charlotte said, studying Elisabeth with thoughtful azure eyes. “I was so besotted with John I would have wed him had he been a chimney sweep.”

  Truly? The very thought of “Dandy Dunmore,” as he was called, covered in soot and clutching brushes almost made Elisabeth laugh. But her amusement faded when Lady Charlotte added, “I’d hoped your liaison with Miles Roth would be a love match.”

  Was it so obvious, then, that it was all business? Elisabeth’s spirits sagged. “I’m fond of him.” The admission grieved her, and the sympathetic light in Lady Charlotte’s eyes made her feel somewhat cheated. “Love. What is it, truly? I don’t love Miles Roth and he doesn’t love me. But my father has use of him, and he of us.”

  There. She had confessed it—as bluntly as her father might have done. But it didn’t expunge her longing or change her circumstances.

  Lady Charlotte shifted in her chair, and tiny flakes of powder sifted from her wig onto the shoulders of her periwinkle gown. “Marital affection, one hopes, grows in time. And then, when the children come, one’s heart is full.”

  Elisabeth sat completely still, letting the gracious words seep into her and temper her strange yearning. Since she’d been in
leading strings, besotted with her dolls, that desire had flowered into a longing for a happy home. A family of her own unlike the one she’d known.

  “I say such things because you’ve become a daughter to me. When I consider your many kindnesses and the infinite help you’ve shown since we first came here, friendless and ignorant of colonial customs and society, how you’ve continued to stand by us when so many have fallen away . . .” Lady Charlotte’s eyes shimmered and Elisabeth sensed her deep struggle, her longing for England. “I simply want the very best for you—your future happiness.”

  This impassioned speech, so unusual for the genteel, polished woman Elisabeth had come to know, began to chip away at the edges of her own composure till she felt adrift and near tears herself.

  Lady Charlotte reached into her pocket and brought out a letter bearing her personal seal, made more beautiful by her elegant penmanship. “Keep this close till you’re home and have a private moment. I’d thought to tell you these things in person, but such details are better penned. Please burn this once you’ve read it.” She passed the letter to Elisabeth and rose with a rustle of silk, chin trembling. “I’m needed at the Palace. Baby Virginia has sprouted a new tooth and is peevish. Your father is inside. Shall you wait for him?”

  Elisabeth could see his carriage near the stables. “Nay. I’m in need of a walk. Please tell him I’ve gone home.” As she turned away, she felt a check to stay, if only for a moment. Turning back around, she reached out to embrace Lady Charlotte. But she was already hurrying back to the Palace, weeping.

  Down Palace Green Elisabeth walked, grieved by Lady Charlotte’s tears and clutching the mysterious letter. Something more had been penned than wedding salutations, surely. Letters and gifts had been arriving from all over Virginia. Smoked hams. Saddles and riding gear. Peacocks for Roth Hall’s expansive lawn. The servants were busy cataloguing and displaying each item in a little-used formal parlor before boxing them up to move to Roth Hall after the wedding. The noisy peacocks were placed in the garden, their wings clipped so they wouldn’t fly away. With the wedding day almost upon them, all the little details were falling into place but one.

  Would Mama arrive in time?

  Lady Charlotte’s outburst suggested something even more pressing was afoot. But what?

  The glorious June sunlight, coupled with all of the familiar, reassuring sights and smells and noises about town, seemed to mock her suspicions. She took Nicholson Street, careful to avert her eyes from the public gaol. As it was crammed with pirates, debtors, runaway slaves, and thieves, the gaol keeper was hard-pressed to keep order. Even now she heard banging and shouting. ’Twas a relief to turn onto Duke of Gloucester Street and pass the King’s Arms Barbershop, Pasteur and Galt’s Apothecary, the printer and bookbindery, and numerous taverns.

  At the far end of the street sat Bruton Parish Church on a sunny stretch of ground, its sedate pink brickwork solacing her a bit. She’d been christened there and sat in the Lawsons’ box pew nearly every Sabbath since. Was it just yesterday it had held the nuptials she’d been forbidden to attend? Papa had thrown the invitation into the parlor fire, blacklisting Lucy Croghan’s family as Patriot sympathizers like so many others in Williamsburg.

  But Cressida had been an eager guest, sending a note round afterward to say a great many Independence Men had been in attendance and she’d even managed a dance or two with Noble Rynallt. Somehow, inexplicably, that tiny detail stung. Her Tory friend seemed to be changing allegiance before her very eyes. Or was it only Cressida’s attraction to Rynallt that swayed her loyalties?

  Frowning, she began to realize she was garnering attention. Men doffed their hats and ladies waved at her from carriages, their looks lingering. Because of no escort? Rarely did she walk the streets like this, and never without her lady’s maid. Yet the breach seemed of little consequence and gave her the freedom she craved. Though she was fond of Isabeau, her maid was a chatterbox, every outing fraught with peril.

  Your hem is getting hopelessly soiled. Beware of those horse leavings. Mind your hat, as your fair complexion shan’t recover from so much sun.

  On her right was the Raleigh Tavern, the place that never failed to intrigue her with its stalwart white lines and gabled roof and seditious reputation. Tantalizing aromas from its kitchen and bake shop were advertisement enough, and a number of fine horses were hitched to black iron posts out front. This was the favored haunt of a great many compelling men like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and that flaming radical, Patrick Henry.

  Her steps slowed, and she tried to imagine what lay beyond that handsome front porch and entry door with the lead bust of Sir Walter Raleigh above. Cressida had tried to describe it to her, as she’d attended assemblies in its Apollo Room, something Elisabeth’s own father had forbidden. Even now at midday, though the courts weren’t in session, it hummed with hospitality. Laughter and conversation spilled from its open, green-shuttered windows, a calling card to come inside.

  She sighed. Betimes she wished she was a bit saucy and could cajole and do as she pleased. If so, the first place she’d head was the Raleigh.

  She started to cross the street, but a number of conveyances slowed her. She spied some Independence Men across the way, Patrick Henry foremost. A silversmith by trade, he was silver-tongued and fiery by turns. Mourning his late wife had not put a dent in his politics. Though Elisabeth had never met him, she’d formed a lasting dislike.

  Give me liberty or give me death.

  He was part and parcel of the trouble with her mother. When Papa saw Mama’s last incendiary poem written under her pen name alongside Henry’s rousing, equally inflammatory speech, he had sent her to England. But Elisabeth doubted her mother had forsaken pen and ink on the other side of the Atlantic.

  She walked on, toward Market Square. The intersection of streets was a blur of busyness, carts and wagons and carriages abounding, the usual ankle-deep springtime mud slowly becoming summer’s powdery dust. It settled on her skirts and straw hat as she fanned Lady Charlotte’s letter about her face to keep the grit away, suddenly aware of a black roan making straight for her.

  Merciful days!

  Caught between a racing cart and the spirited horses, she felt a flicker of panic. The pounding of hooves, a woman’s scream, and then the sickening shatter of splintering wood. She was trapped in the center of the busy thoroughfare, hemmed in on every side—

  A hand shot out, grasping her none too gently by the forearm and half dragging her up atop a strange horse, its pommel bruising her thigh as she collided with the saddle. Stunned, she sat sideways, crushed by the rider’s hard arms but out of harm’s way. He maneuvered his mount away from the worst of the congestion and then, when the traffic cleared, shot across the road toward Queen Street—and home.

  Before she even twisted her head around to look at his face she identified the unmistakable scent of him—a distillation of new broadcloth and sandalwood worn like a brand.

  “We should make a new law that genteel, nearly married ladies be barred from city streets on market days,” he said in stern tones near her ear.

  She took a breath, feeling anything but genteel atop the unfamiliar horse. “Make such a law then. You’re a burgess, are you not?”

  “Nay, now a delegate. And mayhap I will.” His voice, though firm, was warm, even amused. “Lady Elisabeth Lawson, soon to be mistress of Roth Hall.”

  “You left out my middle name.”

  “You have one? Most do not.”

  “’Tis Anne, after our beloved queen.”

  “I’ve heard tell your mother calls you something else entirely.”

  How did he know? Miles? But Miles had rarely been around her mother. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Mama calls me Liberty.”

  “Not Bess or Betsy or even Lizzy?” He sounded approving. “I much prefer Liberty. In all its forms.”

  “I suppose you do. My mother named me that in keeping with her ideals, despite my father’s displeasure. He refused to
honor such, so he calls me Elisabeth Anne.” Talk of her father always turned her glum. With effort she struck a more cheerful chord. “I suppose I should thank you. Twice now you’ve come to my rescue.”

  He said nothing to this, and she realized he might find her coquettish. Not a pleasing trait for his cousin’s bride-to-be. She quieted, missing their banter, more uncomfortable with his closeness than needs be.

  Beneath the shade of oaks and elms they cantered down Williamsburg’s back streets, away from probing eyes and wagging tongues. When he dismounted in back of their townhouse garden on North England Street and helped her down, she met his eyes and found them odd, a shimmering gilt-brown beneath the sooty strands of his hairline, reminding her of the millpond at the edge of town. He turned away from her to adjust the saddle’s girth, and she was startled by the length of his queue. Long as a horse’s tail it was, and unfashionably so, falling to midback and bound with a dark ribbon tie. At the ball it had been looped under.

  Had he not cut his hair all the time he’d spent mourning?

  She caught herself blinking in a haze of brilliant sunlight and realized with a bumbling embarrassment that she’d lost some belongings. “Oh my.”

  He swung back around to look at her.

  Putting a hand to her bare head, fingertips touching the remaining pearl-tipped pins, she stared back at him entreatingly. “I’ve lost my straw hat—and a paper.”

  His eyes pinned her. “And you want me to retrieve them.”

  His tone was obliging despite his fierce expression that told her he had no time for unnecessary errands. Swinging back into the saddle, he looked like he wanted to curse.

  Her spirits plummeted. She didn’t know why she felt so undone. She was home, unhurt, yet desperately missing her mother. About to be wed. And this man, soon to be a relation by marriage, was everything her groom was not. A remarkable contrast to Miles’s sour port and snuff. Would she resign herself to smelling sour port and snuff the rest of her life when what she really preferred was broadcloth and sandalwood?