The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Overhead, Noble heard the scraping of a chair. Muted voices. Tense minutes ticked past. Another stab at conversation was made. For the moment everyone was listening with rapt attention to a recital of all the flora in Tidewater Virginia.

  Except him.

  “I’ve never seen Turk’s cap lily in Williamsburg proper.” Professor Dinwiddie looked quite perplexed. “What say ye, Noble?”

  He directed his attention back to the company at hand. “’Twas in the governor’s garden,” he replied, hoping to end further comment.

  Spoken in the past tense like it no longer existed. When he’d been at the empty Palace with a few of his fellow delegates, they’d not gone into the gardens. Were they largely intact, or had they been destroyed like Elisabeth’s? He lifted his eyes to the second floor, where the good doctor had her cornered—and the voluble Isabeau, or so he hoped.

  “Are you certain the Turk’s cap resides there?” Mistress Prescott questioned. “Thomas Jefferson himself has lately written about the lack of it.”

  Reaching for his pipe, Noble swallowed down a biting retort. Flora and fauna seemed of small consequence given the state of affairs in Virginia Colony.

  And Ty Mawr.

  As if sensing his aggravation, Mistress Dinwiddie changed course. “I fancy our host would rather talk horses. You have a fine new thoroughbred in your stables, so I’ve heard.”

  “Aye,” Noble said. “A Narragansett pacer, recommended by Paul Revere.”

  “The silversmith?” Mistress Dinwiddie looked shocked. “The one said to ride about Massachusetts Colony alarming individuals of British activity?”

  “The very same.”

  “Oh my.” Mistress Prescott swished her fan in agitation. “I’m hopelessly ignorant of all things equine, I’m afraid. And not much better with politics. I’d rather talk botanicals.”

  To his relief, Colonel Prescott came to the rescue. “Professor, I’ve been meaning to ask you about a particular species of andromeda, if you don’t mind a brief walk in the garden. There by the door is a parasol should you need it.”

  The rain was falling harder, making a gentle slurring sound as the June dust was dampened down. Soon all his guests had left the parlor and he was alone, wanting to take the stairs by twos.

  A match could not be made between a middling doctor and the top tier of Virginia society. Could it? If so, it would certainly solve the quandary Lady Elisabeth found herself in. The social complexities that usually amused him tonight simply grated. He fixed his eye on the open French doors, the garden and guests beyond now cast in a sudden ray of light. The clouds were clearing, but his thoughts remained muddled.

  Soon the Dinwiddies shuffled in again, and a game of whist was struck. Noble was acutely aware of the precise moment Elisabeth and the doctor ended their lengthy conversation. Above, a door clicked shut, and the steady tread of someone coming down the stairs trained Noble’s gaze on the open doorway leading to the foyer.

  He felt sharp relief when Hessel came into view. Donning his hat, the doctor left without ceremony. At the sound of his horse clipping down the drive, Noble excused himself and took a back stair. Isabeau stood on the third-floor landing, talking in low tones with Mistress Tremayne. His housekeeper looked at him a final time before excusing herself, clearly concerned. Was she thinking he’d gotten in over his head this time? Perhaps he had.

  He pondered his next move, at sea in his own house. The one woman he wanted to see was missing. Had she gone with Hessel? Nay, he’d seen him leave alone. Relief peppered him, and his attention fixed on her maid. “Where is Lady Elisabeth?”

  “In her rooms, monsieur,” Isabeau whispered. “Penning another letter.”

  He weighed the wisdom of that. Would she write to all of Virginia Colony?

  With a quiet knock, he waited for her voice before stepping into the sitting room and leaving the door open behind him, nearly bumping his head on the low eave. Elisabeth looked up, her pen midair, her expression a question. Hessel said she was fragile. Given to illness. Noble detected a slight tremor in her hand as she held the quill aloft, as if all her agitation had settled in her fingers.

  He took a settee by the window, his back to the pane. The moment he stilled she sprang into action. Setting down her quill, she stood and began pacing as if she found his sudden presence unsettling. Or mayhap the doctor was to blame.

  Her wrinkled silk skirts swirled around her, the pointed toes of her blue damask slippers making a soft impression in the carpet as she walked. Even a few feet away she was emanating some sweet scent he couldn’t name that set his every sense on fire. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and take her hands in his and still her slight trembling. Whatever had transpired had upended her, nearly cracked her composure, and it brought out every protective instinct he had.

  Then, just as suddenly as she’d begun pacing, she sat down on the settee beside him. He allowed himself the thought that she did so for no other reason than to draw strength from him. He’d become a refuge for her. Or so he hoped.

  “I have a letter.” She looked toward the desk holding a paper marred with a heavily inked hand. “From my father.”

  He swallowed, feeling he’d waded deeper into water he might well drown in. So the good doctor had brought her a letter. Was Hessel acting as emissary between Elisabeth and Lord Stirling?

  Without preamble, she reached for it and began reading aloud every wavering word.

  My dear daughter,

  By now I trust your intended has come to your aid and you are ensconced at Roth Hall as a bride, or soon will be. Given that colonial Virginia is in rebellion, I, along with Lord Dunmore and family, have taken measures to ensure our safety and are now aboard a man-of-war on the York River. Once matters resolve in our favor, we will return to Williamsburg. Your mother’s imminent return is on my mind. As your new husband has the means to sustain her, it seems most prudent to leave matters in his hands.

  Noble saw Elisabeth firm her jaw, knowing full well she couldn’t hide her distress much longer. The weight of the letter settled around them, all the repercussions and consequences. He loathed the man and his actions with a loathing that went far beyond politics. He loathed himself because he should have intervened that fateful day and hadn’t.

  “I have something to confess.” At her surprise, he let the details spill. “Remember the letter you lost from Lady Charlotte on Duke of Gloucester Street? The one you wanted me to retrieve?” He swallowed hard, detecting sudden suspicion in her eyes. “I didn’t find it, but Patrick Henry did. I had the chance to tell you before your father and the Dunmores fled but decided it was beyond my ken so left it alone. Now I wonder if you would be in these straits had I given you warning.”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have gone with my father, letter or no.”

  His conscience eased. Still . . .

  “If I was truly meant to go with the Dunmores, I never would have lost that letter.” She looked down at her hands, fingers laced together. “Patrick Henry’s finding it might well have saved me in the end.”

  Saved her? What did she mean? When she fell silent, he said, “I go to Williamsburg tomorrow. Do you want me to do anything for you while I’m there?”

  Her head came up, and he saw new questions mirrored in her eyes. “There’s the matter of my maid’s indenture. My father’s house. My dowry.”

  He simply nodded, not wanting to tell her the truth of what was coming, unwilling to smother the glimmer of hope he saw resurface in her comely face. The Revolution he’d helped bring about had dawned, and their lives would never be the same again. Neither his nor hers. A steep price was yet to be paid.

  Elisabeth Lawson was among the first casualties.

  10

  Joy cometh in the morning.

  Damask roses. Hollyhocks. Peonies. Cardinal flowers. Elisabeth stood amid the sun-soaked garden path the next day, feeling God had given her a gift. Before dawn she’d escaped her room, unable to sleep, and had found her way to T
y Mawr’s formal box hedge. Within its green folds she was hidden. The big house’s guests had departed the day before, and the garden at this hour seemed hers alone.

  She shut her eyes, wanting to hold on to the quiet, the sounds and colors. She was in the shade of a gazebo surrounded by bluebells and lily of the valley. A fountain splashed somewhere beyond the yew hedge. Birds flittered about and traded songs. And a small, stoop-shouldered man was a blur of homespun as he came toward her, toting a shovel. Her quiet interlude was about to be broken. Yet this was the gardener’s domain, after all.

  “Pardon, miss. I thought you be someone else.”

  “Please, no apologies.” She flashed him a forgiving smile. “I’m merely a guest.” Did he even know who she was? Going around the gazebo to deeper shade, she gestured to a tall-stemmed, deep purple lily. “I’ve found a flower whose name I don’t know.”

  “Queen’s trumpet,” he said straightaway. “One of Miss Enid’s favorites, God rest her. A gift from her brother. Used to try to interest Master Rynallt in gardening before she passed. Get him away from the stables some.”

  A difficult endeavor, perhaps. They continued down fragrant paths, the gardener pointing out statuaries and particularly unusual species as they walked. She felt a tug of recognition at the placement of the flowers, the design of the beds.

  “Aye, there’s a Williamsburg gardener to thank for all this. Before he was employed by Lord Dunmore, he was here. You might have heard of him, from the Palace.”

  “Indeed I have. Mister James.” As though he was an artist working on canvas, she could see his creativity everywhere she looked. It bore his characteristic mark. Where was the head gardener now? With her father and the Dunmores? “You tend it beautifully.”

  “I simply caretake what the master gardener put into place. ’Tis yours to enjoy, miss. I’ll not hinder you.”

  Unwilling to go in and miss a stirring sunrise, she walked on toward the river on a path of crushed shells. The wind settled, and she breathed in the strong scent of the shifting tide and heard the cry of a gull. The sweeping bird flew overhead as she stopped just short of the dock. A number of vessels were tied up, including a rowboat and skiff, all straining at their moorings in the current.

  She removed her slippers and wandered down the sandy shoreline. She spied a large piece of driftwood and sat down, her back to Ty Mawr, hoping no one was awake enough to notice her, or if they did, they would not inquire who she was. The mostly Welsh staff was a clannish bunch who spoke in unintelligible whispers as they moved about on light feet. Mistress Tremayne was clearly in charge, and the servants seemed to have a healthy respect for her oversight. Especially the valet whom Isabeau seemed fond of.

  “Lady Elisabeth?” A voice carried from the above bank. “I awoke and could not find you. What are you doing out here at break of day?”

  Ignoring the rebuke in Isabeau’s tone, Elisabeth gestured to the sunrise. “Isn’t it a wonder?”

  Shadowing her, Isabeau ignored the beauty. “Is it not odd that the sun rises and sets without fail while we have no set course, no compass?”

  “Empty your mind of such,” Elisabeth chided, patting the place beside her. “At least for the glorious present.”

  Isabeau scrambled down the bank, her shoes sinking into the sand. Reaching her mistress, she blew out an exasperated breath. “M’lady, such dishabille! Your hair is loosely bound. You are in your plainest gown. Aidez moi!” She gawked at Elisabeth’s shoeless feet. “What if he should see you?”

  “He has gone to Williamsburg to try to set some things right for us.” Elisabeth focused on the sunrise, trying to tease out its many colors. Oyster pink, the very hue of her gown for her betrothal ball. “When he returns, we shall have answers, and then I will determine what to do.”

  “You should not be in full view.” Isabeau cast a look back at the stirring house. “You must keep to your rooms.”

  “I shan’t be cooped up like a chicken. Not even by you.”

  “Ah, mistress! I fear some of our host’s talk of independence has infected you. What would your papa say?”

  Elisabeth lifted her shoulders. “Father has no say any longer. Besides, what harm can come to me in so peaceful a spot? I’ve only the birds and flowers . . . and a cantankerous maid.”

  “Come.” Isabeau rose and began backtracking to the house. “The sun has nearly risen. It shall soon be so hot you’ll need a hat. Besides, I requested breakfast at seven o’clock. Tea and toast.”

  “Not bara brith?” At Isabeau’s scowl, Elisabeth said, “When in a Welsh household, you must do as the Welsh do.”

  “But I am Français!”

  “Oui, oui. I doubt tea will be served but rather coffee. This is a Patriot household, after all.”

  “Do not remind me.” Isabeau put a hand to her furrowed brow. “I abhor coffee and the speckled bread. I feel a headache coming on.”

  Lacing her arm through her maid’s, Elisabeth helped her navigate the bank. “Then I shall give you some of Doctor Hessel’s headache powders and all will be well.”

  Ty Mawr rose up in front of them, the bricked back and portico burnished a pleasing rose gold in the sunrise. She would miss this house. This place. No matter Noble Rynallt’s politics.

  ’Twas the Sabbath, and the town, a seething maelstrom of activity on any other day, seemed asleep. Much of Williamsburg would be at church this morning, its members required by law to attend at least once a month or be fined. As a new Presbyterian, Noble was no longer bound by the Church of England, though he continued paying taxes to Bruton Parish Church. He himself was usually in the pew of the far humbler stone church near Ty Mawr, which was pastored by a tenant.

  But this Sabbath was like no other. At least where Lady Elisabeth was concerned. He rode slowly down Duke of Gloucester Street, past rustling leaves and filtered sunlight, wishing he could right circumstances, at least for his houseguest.

  For some reason the Raleigh seemed less like home to Noble today, and he felt disinclined to stay for even a pint. Outwardly everything was the same, but inwardly he felt an inexplicable shift.

  He’d not arrived first. Several mounts of fellow Patriots were in evidence. Standing by George Wythe on the tavern’s shaded front porch, Patrick Henry raised a hand and motioned him over. Though Lord Dunmore had been aboard the Fowey but a few days, talk was already circling about naming Henry as his successor. Despite his fiery reputation, Henry had a keen intellect and was a close ally. Noble couldn’t think of a better man for the job except George Washington, but Wash’s talents ran more toward soldiering.

  “What say ye?” Henry greeted him, lifting his felt hat to swipe at his damp hairline.

  Noble staunched the sweat from his upper lip with a dusty sleeve. “Well. And you?”

  No one answered. John Laurens was studying him, examining his person without comment, and Noble well knew why. He’d finally cast off all the trappings of mourning, even shorn his hair. His cocked hat and coat, minus their usual black band and cockade, looked a bit less forlorn.

  “So you’ve come back to the land of the living at last,” Laurens said not unkindly, a telling glint in his eye. Having lost his wife a few months prior, he’d remarried a distant cousin rather swiftly. Marriage had many pains, he’d said, but celibacy few pleasures.

  Noble simply nodded, trying to keep his mind on the matter at hand, not the one at home. But Elisabeth Lawson had a way of storming his thoughts without warning and stealing his attention.

  Henry passed him a sheaf of papers tied with string. “I need you to look over these documents. Jeff and Wash have perused them and only have a quibble with two clauses. Barring that, we need a final copy before printing.”

  “When do you want them?”

  “As soon as possible. They’re to be introduced at the next convention. Perhaps you could lodge here tonight and have them ready by morning.”

  “Nay,” Noble replied with uncharacteristic haste. “I’m needed at Ty Mawr.”

/>   “Ty Mawr? Why?” Henry’s thick brows arched. “You’ve been more at home here in Williamsburg since your sister’s passing.”

  George Wythe flashed a yellow-toothed smile. “You’d be saying nay too, if you had his houseguest.”

  Confusion filled Henry’s face, and then it cleared. His eyes glinted with wry humor as they fixed on Noble. “So ’tis you who rescued Lord Stirling’s lovely daughter. I heard the gossip but could scarce believe it. Careful lest ye be accused of Tory leanings.”

  “I’d gladly do it again,” Noble said, eyeing the papers in hand.

  “You always did have a hospitable bent,” Laurens muttered. “Though her ladyship’s presence is more complicated than the usual vagabond or beggar.”

  “Lord Stirling’s daughter is complicated indeed,” Wythe mused, running a hand through thinning hair, his aristocratic voice a touch dire. “’Tis a risk, to be sure. We have enemies, remember, who’d like to make much of that.”

  “Then let them,” Noble replied quietly, meeting his gaze.

  Henry waved a fly away. “All right, gentlemen. Back to the business at hand. Nature abhors a vacuum, ’tis said, and never more so than a political one. We have to act quickly or time and opportunity will be lost to us. Shall we?”

  They began a slow but purposeful walk down the street toward the Governor’s Palace, looking much as it did in former days save the telling emptiness. Passing the elaborate iron gates with its heraldic beasts and crowns, they went single file through the forecourt to the double front doors. Taking out a ponderous chain, Henry riffled through the keys to one in particular. The front door was unlocked and left open as the men filled the foyer.

  Noble’s gaze rose from the marble floor to the walnut-paneled walls. He’d always thought the entrance less than welcoming, but now, stripped of its many weapons, it seemed less forbidding. Over a hundred muskets had once been mounted amid a great many swords and other weapons. The red damask chairs looked untouched, as did the hall and artwork beyond. Clearly it was weapons the mob was after. Noble rued the loss of munitions.