by Laura Frantz
He reined his horse around with a terse, “Mayhap I’ll be back.”
But he didn’t come back. And she was bereft of both her favorite hat and Lady Charlotte’s letter.
5
Low oak beams were slung across the Raleigh Tavern’s ceiling and painted a crude cream, melding with walls decorated with hunting scenes, guns, swords, and assorted relics from the French and Indian War. Little had changed in the twelve years Noble had been coming here. He was glad for an anchor in the face of so much change, a place that was as welcoming as an old, worn coat. Tipping his hat in greeting to a few men across the room, he made for Patrick Henry’s corner table.
“About time, Rynallt. I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting.”
“You’re always on tenterhooks,” Noble returned. “Ever since April.”
“True enough. For now we’ve more than stolen gunpowder to fret about. But settle yourself and have a pint first, aye?”
Henry held on to his own ale with his right hand, the callused fingers of his left drumming mindlessly upon a piece of paper. Noble eyed it curiously. The Raleigh’s dim interior worked against closer inspection, though the personal seal of Lady Charlotte was plain enough. At once his thoughts emptied of the needed drink and fastened on Lady Elisabeth.
“How did you come by the letter?” Noble asked as Henry held it aloft like a gold guinea.
“I was on Market Square yesterday afternoon when Lord Stirling’s daughter lost it. Right about the time she nearly got run over and you rode to her rescue.”
“Do you happen to have her hat?”
Henry’s chuckle worked itself into a robust laugh. “What need have I of a mere hat when the mighty Dunmores’ plans are in hand?”
“You jest.”
“Nay, I do not.” Henry paused long enough to take a sip of ale.
“Now that you’ve confiscated the letter, do you intend to return it to Lord Stirling’s daughter?”
“Nay, I do not.” Henry looked offended that Noble would ask. He set the paper squarely between them. “It seems Lady Charlotte is quite fond of Lady Elisabeth, enough to spill a few choice details.” His shrewd gaze weighed Noble’s reaction. “I promise I won’t see it printed, if that appeases you.”
A commotion at the door gave them pause. Noble glanced up at the tavern’s entrance, heartened by the arrival of a few more Patriots. All looking grave. Unsmiling. Men of quiet deliberation to temper Henry’s fire. Noble needed no letter to tell him something was afoot.
Soon Peyton Randolph and George Mason were at their table, Henry still tapping his fingers atop his prize. More ale was ordered and small talk was made till the requested tankards were in hand.
Henry passed the letter to his left. Randolph unfolded it, his stoicism shifting to disbelief. “Surely it cannot be this easy. The Dunmores are to flee? In the night?”
“Aye, tomorrow after the stroke of midnight.” Henry had never looked so pleased.
Noble waited his turn, tamping down his impatience with another sip of ale.
“Let them flee Williamsburg then. Leave all Virginia,” Mason said, his Scots color deepening. “But let them go without a fight. And make certain they take no powder or munitions with them.”
Noble finally held the fine paper, Lady Charlotte’s lovely penmanship lost to him as he hurried past her sentimental address of Lady Elisabeth to the particulars.
I fear for your safety should you remain. Meet us in the dark of 8 June when the church tower strikes midnight. We shall be at the very end of North England Street. Bring nothing but a bundle of necessities, as we are traveling light.
Noble shot a glance out a near window in the direction of Lady Elisabeth’s townhouse, the glass framing a spectacular sunset. The planned rendezvous was tomorrow night. So her ladyship would leave with the Dunmores? He passed the letter and took another sip from his tankard, more at odds with how he felt about it than the facts. Something akin to Enid’s loss chipped away inside him. A smaller loss with Lady Elisabeth, aye, as he barely knew her. Yet still a telling emptiness. But why? ’Twas about more than her leaving, surely. ’Twas the letting go of larger things. A way of life. Beauty. Comfort. Routine. Youth.
He listened to his companions discuss the matter at hand. Talk moved from the letter to the political situation, which was now naught but a powder keg, like those Dunmore had stolen from the town’s magazine in spring. In retaliation, George Washington was named head of the thirteen colonies’ unified fighting force in case there was further trouble, be it here or Boston or New York or elsewhere.
Yet all he could think about was Elisabeth Lawson.
The letter lay open at the table’s center, candlelight flickering over the purple seal. So the plan to flee Williamsburg was in place, the Dunmores exchanging the largely Patriot capital for the Loyalist-laden Yorktown a short distance away.
Only Lady Elisabeth had never read the letter. She’d lost it. But might she have told that to Lady Charlotte? Or learned of the plan another way?
What did it matter? She was Miles Roth’s responsibility. For all he knew, Miles was running too.
Noble would wash his hands of the lovely Elisabeth.
’Twas nearly midnight. Looking at the small clock by her bed, Elisabeth wanted to groan. Would sleep never come? Her wedding was several days hence, the reception to follow. And she was, at best, a very skittish bride. Across the room, hanging from a peg, the voluminous silken gown stood in stark contrast to the shadows, provoking her to think of all that awaited her once she said “I do.”
Till now the weeks leading up to the wedding had eclipsed any serious pondering, preoccupied as she was with largely frivolous pursuits, feeding the strutting peacocks, counting julep cups for the reception, deciding which dresses and underpinnings went into honeymoon trunks, overseeing the wedding menu in her mother’s absence. She usually fell into bed exhausted. But tonight sleep would not come.
When sleepless, she usually took refuge in the music room, playing her harp. She had Mama to thank for that. Mama, who had a pedal harp shipped secretly from France for her daughter’s sixth birthday. Georges Joubert, a French harpist living in the Colonies, had given her lessons. By the time she was ten, she was playing for guests at the Governor’s Palace and musical soirees about Williamsburg. Whatever she left behind as a bride, it must not be her harp.
Did Miles like music? Shouldn’t she already know the answer to that?
Though tempted to return to the music room tonight, she shut her eyes and tried not to think of anything beyond her bedchamber walls. To no avail. Lady Charlotte’s lost letter haunted far more than her missing hat. Noble Rynallt had likely gone back to hunt for both and had found neither. If he returned with them, it would save her returning to the Palace and confessing what had happened. She wasn’t usually so careless.
The clock struck midnight. She finally slept. Hazy hours later, she turned over, the sheer lawn of her nightgown clinging to her. Through the open windows, the sultry stillness of the night seemed to echo with every sound. A barking dog. A crying baby. The clip-clop of a cart. Muted voices. Ribald laughter.
Breaking glass.
Her senses sharpened and she came awake. In seconds her whole world shifted. Her first fear—the fear of all Williamsburg—was fire. But she didn’t smell smoke. She sensed danger. For the first time in her sheltered, cosseted life, she felt it hovering like a dark presence.
Clawing at the mosquito netting around her bed, she broke free and pressed bare feet to the floorboards before rushing to an open window. Below, in the garden, a host of uninvited guests were capering, the light of pine-knot torches illuminating their mischief. A rush of images assailed her—feathers, war paint, fringed buckskins. Indians? Was it the tea debacle in Boston all over again? White men dressed as savages, singing songs of liberty?
Patriots.
She heard their laughter, saw them raiding her father’s wine cellar, watched as they trod upon the prized peony beds and tore down trelli
s upon trellis of climbing roses.
Where was the gardener? The boy of all work? Where were the other servants? Father? He seemed to reside at the Palace of late. She began to shake. Her unsteady hand yanked on the nearest bell cord, but no one came. The raucous party in the garden heightened. More laughter and drunken voices. More breaking glass.
“Father!” She choked on the word in her panic as she ran down the dark hallway to his bedchamber. Empty. Next she backtracked to the top of the stairs. Shadows darted about in the foyer below. Mamie was there, shouting, holding an iron fireplace poker as if it was a musket. The shadows continued to dart from room to room, all unfamiliar, as if playing some macabre game.
Stark fear give way to a churning nausea. Elisabeth took the stairs, shoulder pressed to the curving wall, unmindful of her state of undress.
Mamie looked up at her, poker waving, voice cracking with alarm. “Nay, chil’, it ain’t safe. Go on back upstairs and lock yo’self in.”
Heart hammering with such force it seemed to shake her very rib cage, Elisabeth hurried down, her feet nearly winged as she flew past a cowering, sobbing Isabeau and into her father’s study. The room was empty of ne’er-do-wells but had been ransacked. Papers lay like leaf litter across the elegant carpet, every cupboard and desk drawer torn open. Moonlight spilled through shards of broken window glass.
Her stomach rose to her throat. Would her father’s body be beneath all the mess? The possibility thrust her backward, out of the room and into the hall where Mamie was arguing with a tall shadow.
“Give me the keys to the governor’s locked study cupboard.” The man’s Scottish brogue set her on edge, as did the dark eyes that swiveled toward her. They lingered on her for one dismissive moment before shifting to a shouting cohort. “Kill yer torch, mon. D’ye want us all tae be known and in gaol by morning?”
The torch was extinguished, but other men began filling the stairwell, surrounding them, the stench of unwashed bodies and spirits overpowering.
“I done told you I don’ know where my master’s key is.” Mamie stood her ground, poker pointing ludicrously toward the Scots giant before her. “He’s away, and the servants have fled—every last one of ’em. And if you lay a hand on Lady Elisabeth, there’ll be more than gaol for you, you hear?”
Widening his stance, he swung his claymore carelessly, missing Mamie by mere inches. “Dinna threaten me, woman. I’ve nae quarrel with ye or yer lady. ’Tis Dandy Dunmore and Lawson’s leaving we’re celebrating, and we’ll no’ settle for less.”
“Law, but you gonna get more than that,” Mamie flung at him. “When Miles Roth sees you’ve torn apart his betrothed’s house—”
“Oh, the mighty Miles is it, ye say?” A rumble of laughter filled the inky foyer. “Another dandy I’d as soon thrust my sword through. I suppose he’s run with the rest o’ them Tories.”
Restive, they began to move away just as she sensed Mamie’s resolve crumble. In moments the rabble had returned to the garden. Elisabeth could hear the peacocks protesting as she stepped to the back door left ajar by the mob’s exit. Many of the men who were making merry at their expense were in their cups. She’d seen gentlemen intoxicated in a slurringly genteel sort of way, but never the outright debauchery of this horde. She felt besmirched by their very presence. Not once had Papa permitted such a one over his threshold. To think these were among those promoting the cause for liberty made her shudder.
They huddled in a tight knot, she, Isabeau, and Mamie. Isabeau had somehow managed to light a single candlestick, which pushed back the darkness—and magnified the mess all about them.
“I keep thinkin’ we’ll wake up and it’ll be your weddin’ day and all will be well.” Mamie let go of the poker with a clatter. “And all this be naught but a bad dream.”
Unable to watch the havoc in the garden or stand on her shaking legs any longer, Elisabeth turned away. As she did, she caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror opposite, her face as white as her nightgown.
All night they kept vigil in Elisabeth’s locked bedchamber, long after the melee had faded away. Nary a neighbor came to check on them. Such indifference hurt worse than the damage. Was all of Williamsburg against them, then? The cocoon of ignorance she’d lived in for so long began to unravel.
Toward dawn the three of them ventured forth.
“La!” Isabeau’s voice held a shrillness unheard before. “Every window on the first floor broken, no?”
“’Tis a blessing ’tis summer,” Elisabeth replied, amazed that she could sound so calm. “’Twould be cold indeed in winter.”
They went from room to room, stepping over once beautiful things now broken. Elisabeth’s soul seemed to shrink at the damage. Benumbed, she couldn’t even cry. A look of desperation filled Isabeau’s face, and she grabbed Elisabeth by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake.
“Mistress! Why are you so calm? Your home, your future, is in shambles! And no one comes!”
Moving past her, Elisabeth walked woodenly through the gaping back door, Isabeau trailing. Instantly she was sorry she’d come outside. Even in the muted morning light the havoc was appalling. Entire beds of peonies and lilies had been trampled, sundial and statuary overturned, every trellis torn to pieces. The picturesque arbor where she had taken tea and tarts on countless occasions was naught but rubble. Looking over it, she felt a flash of fury.
Isabeau’s gasp spun her around. A few feet away the once lovely fountain at the very heart of the garden no longer bore sparkling water but a mass of hardened tar and feathers. Her own heart—so at home here in this garden, the place among her happiest memories—twisted till she thought it would break. And then cold reason rushed in.
At least Mama was away—safe.
It was there Miles found her. Isabeau had gone inside while Mamie went about the garden, trying to right what she could. Suddenly Elisabeth’s intended was behind her. A look of patent disbelief marred his features as he took everything in. Had he come all the way from Roth Hall? Or had he stayed the night at one of the taverns in town?
“When did this happen?” he asked.
Her thoughts tripped backward to the sound of breaking glass. “After midnight.”
“Who did this?” Eyes that had always looked at her with languid interest now seemed to interrogate. To blame.
“I-I don’t know. ’Twas dark. They were all besmeared with paint and powder—”
“Did they harm you, your maid?” His terse question seemed absurd.
“Nay.” But she felt she lied. They—whoever they were—had destroyed her home, her hopes.
“The sheriff is on his way.” He began to pace, leather boots crushing the few flowers that remained bent and broken along the garden walk. Spinning around, the tails of his frock coat flapping in a sudden wind, he said, “The gaol keeper—Peter Pelham—he did not come?”
“Nay.” The strangeness of it swept over her. No one had come. Not the rector of Bruton Parish Church who was to wed them. Not Doctor Hessel. Not a single neighbor. No one. Perhaps because no one thought she remained. That she had fled with her father. Or because their house sat at the end of a private street on the outskirts of Williamsburg. Yes, that was it.
“Do you know where your father is?” He stood near her now, hands on her shoulders. At her hesitation his fingers dug into her skin. “Are you hiding anything from me?”
“Hiding? I—nay.” Her bewilderment seemed only to aggravate him. “I have no inkling where my father is. I feared finding him amid all the rubble.”
“I’ll have the broken windows boarded up and a guard posted. You and your maid should stay upstairs till I speak with the sheriff and think matters through.”
She felt more benumbed. She stared at him in disbelief. He strode away from her, fury stiffening his stride. He didn’t look back. And she felt her future turn to crumbled stone like the garden bench beside her.
From Port Royal the heavily traveled Tobacco Road took Noble to Williamsburg. Just
outside of town he drew up short at the wrenching sight of nearly naked slaves, necks yoked with rusty chains, being brought in for auction on market day. The brands on their sweating, emaciated thighs were plain in the harsh summer sunlight. He looked away till the clink of metal and the dust settled before reining his horse right onto Botetourt Street.
A bit lamed, Seren was. Noble dismounted and led his stallion on a slow walk down Francis Street, thoughts full of the previous day spent hashing out tobacco prices in Port Royal ahead of the coming harvest. ’Twas Friday, and the town, usually a maelstrom of activity, appeared somewhat subdued. Even the Raleigh Tavern seemed to be humming a quieter tune. Yet the sunlit familiarity of it all was pleasing, a reminder he was almost home.
Taking his horse round back to the alley, he was met by a small boy, barefoot and in dusty breeches, shirttails flapping.
“Mornin’, Master Rynallt.”
“Morning, Billy.” He reached into his frock coat, flipped the boy a guinea, and noted his look of delight. “Seren looks to be a bit lamed.”
The napped head bobbed up and down. “Sure enough, sir. Don’t give it another thought. Just go on inside and have yourself a fine stay.”
“I’ll do that.” Noble unfastened his saddlebags, swung them over his shoulder, and moved toward the ordinary’s back entrance. Before he’d set foot on the door stone, the proprietor stepped into view to greet him.
“You’re likely naught but sweat and dust in this heat,” James Southall said, clapping him on the back.
With a smile, Noble ducked beneath the eave and felt the cool shade embrace him. “You’ll soon set that to rights, I’ll wager.”
“Aye, and what’s yer pleasure today.”
“Ale. And one of Purdie’s papers.”