The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

It took a few minutes for Liberty to pour forth the true story. Margaret grew more aghast. “You cannot mean to labor? Granted, your handwork is exceptional even by my exacting standards. But a tavern wench—”

  “Not that. Simply a lacemaker and seamstress. I shan’t be in the public rooms but out of sight, doing my stitching, my lacemaking.”

  Margaret took a stool in back of the counter, resignation in her lined face. “All this rebellion business is simply too much. You might as well know I’m considering closing shop and moving to my father’s in Charles Town. Business has dropped off considerably here with the latest trouble.” She cast a doleful eye at once stuffed shelves that were now half empty. “Truth be told, your family’s generosity has kept me afloat till now. Whatever his politics, your father spared no expense on your and your mother’s wardrobes. My going would certainly help in your endeavor to find work.”

  “But Williamsburg needs a mantua maker. I’m hardly that.”

  “There’s another mantua maker and milliner setting up shop down the street. No one is irreplaceable, it seems.”

  No one. Not Liberty’s father. Not Lord Dunmore. Not even King George. The delegates were meeting now, changing positions and titles. No longer did Virginia have a House of Burgesses but rather Delegates. The terms were strange if memorable. In time they’d be commonplace, she realized, their colonial past like another country’s.

  “I’d best be going,” Liberty told her, taking up her basket again. Though no longer hungry, she felt weighted with trepidation. She wanted nothing more than to turn back time and simply be the highborn girl just arrived for a fitting. She’d even welcome Margaret’s scolding about her appetite necessitating her gowns be taken in. Anything but the prospect of near begging before her.

  Margaret was looking at her with tears in her eyes. “God be with you, m’lady.”

  Little else could be said. Afraid she’d break down if she tarried, Liberty let herself out and took the alley to Christiana Campbell’s.

  The afternoon wore on, one tavern keeper replacing another till they blurred in her mind. Did some suspect she was a Tory—a spy? She read the suspicion in their words and faces, and it cut her. Noble had been right. Yet she had prayed and felt this was her answer. If the Lord nudged her forward, she wouldn’t give up till the last ordinary had turned her away.

  Who are ye? all asked.

  Simply Liberty.

  15

  The Raleigh was her last hope.

  Oh, why had she not heeded Jane Vobe’s advice and come here first?

  As the sun skimmed the rooftops of the Governor’s Palace and Bruton Parish Church in its westward slant, Liberty was utterly spent, mouth dry as cotton, bodice stained with sweat from the dwindling summer’s day. Though she was Williamsburg born and bred, she’d never walked the length and breadth of it till now, taking in every humble nook and cranny. A new wariness shadowed her every step. Being of the middling sort, if that, was tiresome. She kept her eye on the streets nearest the capitol on her way back to this unwelcome place, knowing the General Assembly might adjourn at any moment.

  Entering the ordinary by a side door, she felt a spark of excitement flare. ’Twas the first time she’d been inside. The paneled hall, painted a pleasing melon, was rife with cool shadows. A great many cocked hats and walking sticks hung from a long rack. Supper was well under way. Though she didn’t know exactly where the kitchen was, she appreciated its beckoning aromas. Despite having been stuffed by Jane Vobe, her stomach rumbled and she laid a hand there as if to quell it, bumping into a girl rounding a corner.

  “Watch where you’re goin’, miss.” Black brows flared over indignant blue eyes. “D’ye have need of direction?”

  Pinched with embarrassment, Liberty managed, “I’m here to see the proprietor, Mister Southall.”

  The girl glanced questioningly at Liberty’s basket and motioned her forward. “You’d best be quick about it. ’Tis nearly the supper hour and we’re expecting a pack o’ Patriots.”

  Liberty nearly sighed. Her poor timing would earn her no favors. She’d be lucky if the innkeeper agreed to see her. Still, she held on to Jane’s words tightly, praying Southall was indeed a Christian gentleman. Meanwhile, the saucy girl—for Liberty could think of no better word to describe her—led her down yet another hall, where she knocked on an imposing door behind a stairwell.

  A deep voice bade her enter. With a dismissive glance, the girl disappeared, leaving Liberty to make her own introductions. Pushing open the door, she found no one inside. Puzzled, she took stock of finely crafted bookcases from floor to ceiling, an elaborate desk buried beneath reams of open account books and ledgers, several chairs, and a settee covered in green brocade.

  It had the air of a country gentleman’s study, refined yet comfortably worn in like an old shoe, the colors reminiscent of Ty Mawr. The comparison bruised her. She needed no reminders.

  All fortitude fled. With a swift turn she reached for the door handle to flee and heard a near growl. Mister Southall?

  Previously hidden behind a bookcase, a man stepped into view. At the sight of her, he dropped the paper he’d been holding and it fluttered to the floor. Bending low to retrieve it, he promptly lost his wig, which collapsed on the rug in a chestnut heap. Uttering an oath, he snatched the hairpiece up and flung it into the cold hearth before facing her. To his credit, he looked unruffled. His face was cast in craggy lines, his eyes a piercing blue. Slender and bald, he was nevertheless striking, or perhaps it was his air of authority. She remembered hearing he’d served in the French and Indian War under Lord Dunmore himself.

  “Lady Elisabeth, I presume.”

  “Mister Southall,” she returned with some surprise. “’Tis simply Liberty now.”

  “Well, Miss Liberty. Welcome to the Raleigh.”

  “Thank you.” She took a breath. “I’m seeking work.” Her voice was tired, her petition flat. Setting the basket on the edge of the desk, she did what she’d done too many times before. But he wasn’t perusing her needlework. Just her.

  His voice was kind. “Margaret Hunter has explained your situation to me. I’ve been awaiting you all afternoon.”

  His melodious Virginia drawl seemed to drag out the last two words interminably. While pride and stubbornness had kept her away, he’d been waiting. All afternoon. A bad beginning, this. She bit her tongue to stay her mortification.

  “Please have a seat and I’ll explain my terms.” He waited till she perched on the edge of the settee before he began, arms folded across his chest. “You’ll be given room and board in exchange for your services. For every shirt sewn and mended you’ll receive your fair share. Embroidery and lacework will garner more. During Publick Times when the courts are in session, you may well do more sewing than sleeping. Other times not so much. What say ye?”

  She felt a rush of affection for Margaret Hunter for pleading her case, yet she sensed that, able businessman that he was, Mister Southall was truly in need of her.

  “When do I begin?” she asked.

  “On the morrow. Nay, ’tis the Sabbath. The day after that. You can lodge here starting tonight if needs be. I’ll send supper to your room if you like.” He paused and looked almost apologetic. “’Twill be quite a comedown from what you’re used to, but I have a dependency—a folly—vacant at present. Maeve can take you out back and show you.”

  Maeve? The impudent one? She felt an immediate resistance but simply said, “Fine. The folly sounds . . . suitable.”

  Despite the awkwardness of the moment, he looked like he wanted to say more. She certainly did. But how to school all her angst into a few succinct words? She took a deep breath. “I—if possible, I’d like to keep to myself. Be discreet.”

  The flash of sympathy in his face told her he’d try to respect her wishes. “I’m sorry for the circumstances that brought you here.”

  Encouraged, she dropped her gaze to her basket. “And I thank you for dealing fairly with me under the circumstances.” Despi
te his gracious offer, she wasn’t yet ready to spend the night at the Raleigh. Not when she might be under Noble Rynallt’s very nose. She started for the door, relieved her ordeal was almost over.

  Or was it only beginning?

  Noble listened to the reading of Virginia’s preliminary Declaration of Rights with hands fisted on the table before him. He had reviewed and helped revise the words, and they were knit to his soul in myriad ways. Now, hearing them proclaimed aloud by the Speaker of the House in the echoing chamber of the capitol building previously inhabited by the king’s men, he felt hot and cold by turns. Chilled by the beauty and solemnity of the words one minute, he found himself perspiring at their sheer audacity the next.

  He was one of the foremost revolutionaries. His signature was slashed across every page. The Crown now had sufficient reason to strip him of his position. Confiscate Ty Mawr. Claim his indentured servants. Ruin his relatives. Hang him.

  He shifted in his seat, and the movement caught Patrick Henry’s eye. As Noble was normally so still during proceedings, his fellow delegates liked to joke that someone erected a statue in his stead. But the last two hours found him fidgety as a schoolboy. Passing a hand over his face now bristled by a day’s growth, he met Henry’s gaze and detected a telling amusement there as the Speaker wound down.

  Just behind Henry, light spilled from a transom window, but it was fading fast. Two days they’d been in this chamber, and Noble chafed at the time. He’d not spend another night at the Raleigh. He needed to return to Ty Mawr. Leaning back in his chair till it gave a traitorous groan, he folded his arms across his chest and fought another fierce battle with what could only be called desire. It didn’t help that every other word served as a reminder of her.

  Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness . . . Every man should be the possessor of liberty . . . Give me liberty or give me death . . .

  He nearly smiled at the wry truth of it, then stifled a yawn. Unable to sleep the night before, he’d felt a strange peace about the rash politics before him. While he wished he could be wholly present for the momentous proceedings of the moment, his heart felt cleaved in two.

  What had happened with Liberty aboard the Fowey? He’d prayed nearly without ceasing since she’d ridden off in the coach. Now he wished the words back, rethinking the advice he’d given her. Mayhap she was walking into a sort of trap—

  “What say ye, Rynallt?” Suddenly Wythe and Henry were at his side, slapping him on the back in celebration and returning him to the matter at hand.

  “Lookee there.” Wythe jabbed a finger toward a window. “’Tis a mob all right, but an altogether agreeable one.”

  “Won’t ye stay for the firing of the cannon and musketry?” Henry asked with a jab to the ribs. “I’m to parade my regimens of Continentals.”

  “Nay, I’m needed elsewhere,” Noble replied, putting on his hat. The admission ushered in a keen pleasure, warm as Liberty Lawson’s presence. He’d often wondered if he’d ever be necessary to someone again. Entwined. At least that was what he’d begun to feel about her.

  “Needed? At home, mayhap? Ye have the look of an eager bridegroom,” Wythe joked.

  “I’m still hearing rumors about a Tory guest,” Henry murmured. “Though there are those who may suspect your loyalty to this Revolution, I am not one of them.”

  “Let this be proof that I am with you,” Noble replied, gesturing to the copy of the latest documents in Henry’s hand.

  He turned away, exited the double doors of the chamber, and rounded the turret to where his horse was tied. There was indeed a crowd, but a very merry, festive one. They waved small Virginia flags and cheered and tossed up their cocked hats when he rode past, causing his pulse to quicken all the more. With a dismissive wave of his hand he turned Seren south and was at a near gallop before he’d cleared Palace Green.

  Home to Ty Mawr. Estate business. Personal pleasures.

  Libby.

  Isabeau was beside herself. Not even the competent Dougray knew what to do with a distraught female. The battered hat he twisted in his hands was now misshapen. He eyed Liberty’s maid and Noble by anxious turns as he shared the latest news.

  Noble cleared his throat, trying to stay atop his dismay. “Her ladyship’s gone then. Where?”

  “To see her father first, as you well know—which came to no good end.” The words were more growl. “I canna tell you what happened as I’m no’ privy to that, but from the look o’ her, it wasn’t profitable. From the Fowey we made haste to Williamsburg, to her sacked townhouse. Lady Elisabeth bade me leave and said to thank ye for yer kindness.”

  “Anything else?”

  A shake of Dougray’s shaggy head shot down all Noble’s hopes. “I rode off and lay in wait to see what she might do next, but there was only the good doctor who stopped me as I left town.”

  “Hessel?”

  “Aye.” Dougray looked as disgruntled as Noble felt. “He asked about her. Wanted to know her whereabouts.”

  Would Hessel come to her rescue? Would she let him? Mayhap no rescuing was needed. Despite Libby’s genteel roots, she often seemed as grounded as her British-born mother.

  “Oh là là!” Isabeau looked stricken. “I knew something was amiss in my very marrow when she went away yesterday without so much as adieu. I thought she would return. But no! And she has taken her trunk!”

  Noble fixed her with a stony stare that did little to curb the maid’s angst. But in the closeted sphere of lady’s maids, mayhap a missing trunk was dire indeed.

  Isabeau’s sobs brought round Mistress Tremayne. “There, there,” his housekeeper consoled. “You’ll soon see your mistress again, no doubt. For now, let us return to our duties.” Slipping an arm around the maid’s bent shoulders, the housekeeper led her away, and Noble’s study resumed its usual calm.

  “I ken something more besides, sir.” Dougray’s jaw firmed. “The Minerva docked and Lady Stirling arrived. There was a ruckus raised and she was whisked away. Where to, I’m no’ certain.”

  “A ruckus?”

  “A great many redcoats gathered round when the countess came ashore. With the harbor patrolled so tightly, nary a ship enters or exits without Dunmore’s knowledge and approval.”

  “Did Lady Liberty know her mother was near?”

  “Nay. She was still aboard the Fowey with her father.” Dougray returned his battered hat to his head. “I thought it best to keep her from the fray.”

  “Wise, that.” Noble reached for the round paperweight on his desk, a small, gilded globe. England glared red, the colonies a serene blue, the ocean between.

  He felt at sea himself, the glad events of the day crowded out by Liberty’s absence and gnawing questions. “You did well to get to York and back without mishap. Keep an eye out for any news of Lady Elisabeth’s whereabouts. She is now going by the name of Liberty or Libby. She and I have unfinished business regarding her maid’s indenture.”

  “I’ll let you know what I hear, sir.” Dougray’s words held a promise. He was a canny lad. Scots-shrewd. Between the two of them, Libby would be found.

  16

  Leaving the townhouse once again with a few belongings in a knapsack, Liberty lifted her face to sullen Sabbath skies, sensing rain. She hardly heard the slight commotion behind her, nor her name.

  “Lady Elisabeth, ’tis you?”

  She turned to look down at a chimney sweep, his face blackened. Beneath the soot she saw it was Jem. She’d snuck him food a time or two when he’d come to the townhouse begging for bread and work. An orphan like so many. “Jem, are you well?”

  “Well enough, miss. I wasn’t sure ’twas you goin’ about on foot. Yer usually in a fancy carriage or sittin’ a horse.”

  The lack brought another pang. Where were the horses? The conveyances? “I’m on foot now.”

  “Well, I’ve got news for ye. It mightn’t be welcome, but yer mother’s ship’s come in. The countess fell into a fainting fit at the docks when she was told what’s hap
pened here. Doctor Hessel was sent for and is said to be lookin’ for ye. I fetched yer mother’s maid besides.”

  She stared at him, letting the words take hold as they would. She was nearly past hope. Past joy. “Thank you, Jem. Do you know where my mother and Doctor Hessel might be?”

  “Aye.” He looked down, spiking Liberty’s fears. “Publick Hospital, miss.” At that, he took off, clutching his blackened broom. His bare, clay-colored feet were all she saw as he raced away from her, as if the bittersweet news, once delivered, was best left alone.

  Publick Hospital.

  The place of criminals and vagrants and lunatics.

  Publick Hospital sat just south of Francis Street. A huge building looking like a brick kiln with a costly weathervane atop it, it seemed large enough to hold all of the deranged in British North America. Hesitating at the front gate in the gathering dusk, Liberty tried to think of it dispassionately. ’Twas the first public institution in the colonies devoted to those “poor, unhappy set of people who are deprived of their senses and wander about the countryside terrifying the rest of their fellow creatures.”

  That hardly described her dear mother.

  Yet her compassionate mother had helped open its doors. Sanctioned in 1773 by a former governor, the dwelling never lacked patients. She could see several wounded souls milling about the grounds now, supervised by staff. Lost, lost, their every movement seemed to say.

  She rang a bell and gained entry after a few trying minutes. A man—a night watchman?—admitted her. Lights shone from a few windows and left her wondering which room held her mother.

  “No visitors after dark,” the man told her gruffly, leading her inside nevertheless. “Ye’ll have to speak to the matron.”

  Aggravated, she fell back on her former title. “I am Lady Elisabeth Lawson, and I must speak with my mother as soon as possible.”

  He grunted an unintelligible answer. Never had she so missed Isabeau. Without her, she felt half dressed. So often she’d let Isabeau take the lead while she remained in the background, allowing her older, enterprising maid to handle things. Isabeau would have put this man in his place by now and bypassed the matron altogether, succumbing to hysterics once inside.