The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  Liberty felt revulsion. “Miss Shaw?”

  “She likely be back,” Thalia replied darkly, returning to her gardening.

  And so she was.

  The next afternoon Liberty watched Cressida alight from her chaise, a basket in hand. Cressida never rose early, she remembered. She liked to stay up late reading novels when she wasn’t out and about, devouring Tristam Shandy and Pamela like the finest treacle. Watching her approach, Liberty saw her in a harsher light. Cossetted. Fickle. Vain. As she herself once was . . . perhaps was still.

  “My dear Lizzy!” Cressida embraced her, the glint of tears in her eyes unsettling.

  Who was the finer actress of the two? Liberty squashed a spasm of guilt. Perhaps the both of them belonged on stage.

  “My dear friend, how long it has been.” Adjusting to her mask, her new identity, Liberty feigned pleasure. “Please, come in, have a seat.” She gestured to the only other chair in the folly, a crude, cane-seated one with a short leg. Cressida’s dismay was Liberty’s delight.

  Though she looked askance at it, Cressida finally sat, passing Liberty the basket. “Mama thought you might have need of some sweetmeats.”

  Liberty settled the offering on her lap, looking to the corner where the empty hamper from Ty Mawr rested. “Please thank her for me.” This was heartfelt, at least. Thalia would enjoy them if she couldn’t.

  “Doctor Hessel told me you were here, and then I met up with Reverend Bracken.” Opening a fan, Cressida waved it at a mosquito, taking the folly in at a glance. “Since you’ve not been to church I feared you would be fined.”

  Church. In the tumult of the last month, Liberty had given it little thought except when the bells pealed. And no one had leveled a fine at her either.

  “No doubt the reverend came to tell you there’s a call for fasting, humiliation, and prayer in response to all the turmoil.”

  “How fitting.” Once glib, Liberty fell into a strained silence. But how could it be otherwise when everything she said might be used against her?

  “Tell me, Lizzy. How are you doing all alone here?”

  “I’m hardly alone.” Liberty worked to keep the chill from her tone. “The Raleigh sets a brisk pace. I have my lacemaking besides.”

  “But your father is aboard ship, and your dear mother . . .” Cressida reached into her purse and withdrew a pamphlet. “Your family has all the makings of a scandalous novel.”

  Liberty took the paper, on tenterhooks. A call of men to arms? No—Mama was in print again. And using her pen to pound Parliament and the king. She was even making bold use of her title to boot. Lady Stirling was sure to enrage the estranged earl of Stirling.

  Liberty read the article hastily, nearly wincing at Mama’s heaping scorn on all Loyalists. She lingered on the last melodramatic lines hailing the American Patriots.

  Glory and victory and lasting fame

  Will crown their arms and bless each hero’s name.

  Liberty handed back the paper. “’Tis old news—she and my father are at odds and have ever been.”

  “And you, Lizzy? Are you trapped between your Loyalist father and rebel mother?”

  Liberty set the basket aside and returned her lace pillow to her lap, adjusting the bobbins. She had little time for idle talk. “I pray for peace.” That much was true. “And you? Will you take sides?”

  Cressida lifted her chin, her gaze sweeping the folly a final time. “I try not to think about it. My aim is simply to go on with life as we know it. In time I hope to marry and have a family.”

  “Oh?” Liberty worked her thread unwaveringly. “And your suitor?”

  “Don’t you recall?” Cressida’s fan fluttered more rapidly. “Noble Rynallt of Ty Mawr most intrigues me.”

  “An Independence Man? Shouldn’t you choose a fence-sitter? A Lukewarm like yourself?”

  Cressida drew back. “Like your Miles Roth, you mean?”

  “Mister Roth is not mine, not any longer. He is yours for the taking.”

  “Ha!” Cressida made a disagreeable face. “Word is he’s in debt to his ears and in danger of losing Roth Hall.”

  “Then perhaps your family’s newfound money can save him.”

  Snapping her fan shut, Cressida stood, the slur to the Shaws’ middling merchant roots finding purchase. “Better that than your illustrious family’s complete and utter collapse on this side of the Atlantic.” She moved toward the door amid a whisper of striped polonaise taffeta and the unmistakable scent of lavender water.

  She did not say goodbye. Nor did Liberty.

  24

  At three o’clock on a Friday afternoon the Raleigh Tavern was mostly empty. A flaxen-haired lad pushed a broom, sweeping up peanut shells and bread crumbs from the midday rush. Noble chose a window side table with a clear view of the folly. The scene was far more picturesque than the ale-saturated taproom.

  Beyond the wide windowsill, red poppies and pink hollyhocks softened the fence lines as Thalia picked beans and Liberty sewed beneath the folly’s eaves. The clatter from the kitchen house was offset by birdsong and the tantalizing aroma of baking bread.

  ’Twas hot. The hottest day thus far in a roiling, rebellious summer. James Southall had just run a red Patriot flag up the flagpole, twin to the one flying on the town’s liberty pole, sure to inflame any remaining Loyalists in Williamsburg. Patrick Henry was standing beneath it, looking pleased as punch. With an affirming slap on the back, Henry left Southall and half sprinted up the walkway, late for his meeting with Noble.

  Henry hung his hat from a wall peg and straddled a chair backward. The barkeep brought him a tankard of ale without his asking.

  “So, Rynallt, what say ye?”

  “You called this meeting. What say ye?”

  Taking a swallow of ale, foam on his upper lip, Henry grunted. “I’ve a touchy matter to discuss.” Letting go of his drink, he looked about and lowered his voice. “What can you tell me about that chit, Lord Stirling’s daughter?”

  Noble’s hackles rose though he stayed stoic. Chit? “Lady Liberty, you mean.”

  “Liberty, is it? Aye. Who else? I have it on good authority she’s spying for her father. Working here and gathering information for the Loyalists while playing Patriot. ’Tis going round in common circles. My maid told me. She’s a gabby one, Becky. ’Twill be the talk of Virginia erelong.”

  Noble sent another look out the window in Libby’s direction, glad she wasn’t privy to their talk. “I was shown a note about the same from Miss Cressida Shaw. It begs belief. I confronted her ladyship about it. Showed her the accusation. She’s not guilty of spying.”

  “Well, mayhap she can be convinced. We’re in dire need of information if we’re to outfox Dunmore’s fleet and hold Virginia.”

  “Nay. ’Tis too dangerous.”

  “’Tis perfect. She’s well connected. Comely. Clever. Capable of eviscerating her father’s schemes.”

  “You would do that? Cause lasting enmity between a father and daughter?” Noble stared at him. “Place her in untold danger?”

  “I would. These are desperate times. My only question is this—can she be trusted? Are you quite sure she’s not working for her father and Dunmore? Spying on their behalf in even the mildest form?”

  “Nay.” He’d raised the question himself more times than he could count. “I’m a good judge of character. She rings true.”

  “Only because you’re in love with her.”

  Noble’s ale came down with a thud. “You don’t know that.”

  Henry chuckled scornfully. “I’m a good judge of character,” he parroted. “But beware. Love scrambles all our brains and casts a rosy glow on even the most undeserving.”

  “I say leave her alone. Time will tell.”

  “Time is against us. Meanwhile the British are besieging Boston and plotting more mischief up and down the coast. We need to know Dunmore’s plans, whether or not he’ll remain in Yorktown or move elsewhere, how supportive of him is General Gage, if there
’s any truth to the rumor he’s about to arm Virginia’s slaves and indentures.”

  “Look elsewhere for your spy then.”

  “Ha!” Henry drank down his ale and slapped a shilling atop the scarred table. “None have her credentials.” Rising, he reached for his hat. “I’ll go talk to her.”

  “Here and now?” Noble stood, his ale unfinished. “In broad daylight? Have a care, man.”

  “All right then. I’ll leave it to you to arrange a meeting.”

  Noble waited till nightfall, taking Williamsburg’s back streets to again join fellow delegates at the Governor’s Palace to see what might be made of it. Mayor’s residence? Soldiers’ barracks? Hospital? Like most everything else, the questions met with no answers, and they soon went their separate ways.

  He walked through the abandoned Palace gardens, the yew hedge scraggly, weeds encroaching on the once pristine walkways. A thick melancholy pervaded the place. Twilight Williamsburg, the stately Palace Green, and all the raucous laughter from the town’s many taverns did little to dispel the darkness around him or inside him.

  God help him, but he cared enough for Libby that if something happened, if she was harmed or hanged or even spirited away on a ship to England, he’d have no peace the rest of his days. He feared what his fellow Patriots might do. Henry, though brilliant and as fearless a leader as Washington, could be rash, even callous. Libby was dispensable to him, a casualty of war if it came to that. And it would come, aye.

  The folly was lit by a single candlestick. Libby could ill afford more light. The soft notes of the serinette threaded through the darkness. Did she miss her harp? Mistress Tremayne had told him she’d asked to see it before she left Ty Mawr.

  He tipped his hat to an old acquaintance and pushed the back gate open, his chest tight with anticipation. A full moon shone ten o’clock. She’d likely be abed soon, as the workday started long before first light.

  He wished for something to give her, to see a smile warm her face. He had no desire to do what he was about to do. It would only alarm her. Or give her a ruinous connection. Or both.

  “Lady Elisabeth.” He felt a twinge at the formality. The old address died hard. She’d come to be Libby to him, and he seldom thought of her otherwise.

  “Mister Rynallt?”

  So she in turn bypassed Noble. “Aye, your humble servant,” he said. He looked toward the bustling Raleigh. “Blow the taper out.”

  A pause, then the requested darkness. “Are you courting scandal, sir?”

  “Nay, just honest conversation.” He sat down on the doorstep, back to her. The scrape of her chair told him she was near. “Beware of Patrick Henry.”

  “Mister Henry?” Amusement lifted her voice. “Has he gone over to the Loyalists?”

  “When Hades freezes over. He means to make a spy of you.”

  “That won’t require much doing. ’Tis already decided.”

  He felt sick to his boots. “Nay, Libby.”

  “My father is expecting me, Noble.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “You well know the answer. He’s expecting me to play the meek and obliging daughter. Ferreting out information on you Independence Men.” Leaning nearer, she pressed something into his hand. “This is an invitation to a ball aboard the Otter. My father has left the Fowey and is now at anchor in Norfolk.”

  “A ball?” The words were torn with disbelief. At such a time as this?

  “Their fleet has a great many devoted subjects there, more than Yorktown. I received the summons day before yesterday.”

  He pocketed the note. Yorktown was nearer Ty Mawr than Norfolk. She was moving away from him, well beyond his protective reach. His mind raced with implications. The shortage of women. The debauched Royal Navy. Too many eligible naval officers. A hasty departure to England or the West Indies, never to return.

  “I only ask that Isabeau help me dress at Ty Mawr, provided I can find a suitable gown.”

  He almost swore as Henry’s wish came to fulfillment. “Nay.”

  “I must.” Her lovely voice was the firmest he’d ever heard it. She would go, whether he helped her or no.

  “If you insist, Isabeau will accompany you. Dougray will drive you there.”

  “Not in a Rynallt coach,” she chided.

  He grimaced in the dark. His feelings were overriding his reason. “I’ll hire a coach from Yorktown.”

  “Then I’ll ride Southall’s mare to Ty Mawr and we’ll meet there. At first light.”

  “Leave a clean trail. Tell no one your plan. Not even Southall. How obliging is he of your coming and going?”

  “’Tis the Sabbath, my day of rest. So long as I get my work done by noon Saturday, he is uncaring. It helps that I am a free woman, not an indenture or slave.”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  She answered with the sweet notes of her serinette.

  Daughter,

  Your attendance is required at a ball aboard the Otter. Eight o’clock, 29 July.

  Norfolk harbor. Bring news.

  The note was unsigned but bore Lord Stirling’s heavy hand. Holding the paper to a candle flame, Noble watched it blacken and curl to ash.

  He had ridden back to Ty Mawr at midnight, leaving Liberty on the doorstep. Once home he couldn’t sleep, just lay on his back listening to the whine of insects entangled in the mosquito netting about his bed.

  The foyer clock ticked in time to his taut thoughts as he rehearsed their plans for any holes. Patrick Henry would shout with glee at the turn of events. The ball promised a well of information, lips loosened by spirits, a sure way to take the pulse of the British, at least in tumultuous Virginia. But could Libby pull it off?

  He’d observed her from afar at social functions as she’d come of age, mistaking her for one of Lady Charlotte’s daughters on occasion. Utterly poised, she did her father proud, though it was to her lovely mother’s credit she had any social graces. Lord Stirling had the appeal of cold stone.

  “Mister Rynallt, her ladyship is here.”

  His heart jumped at Mistress Tremayne’s hasty announcement and exit. He left his study, crossing the foyer to the circular parlor where they’d meet. She adorned it, Libby did. She was the heart of what his home was missing. She had the ability to light up a room.

  “Good morning to you, sir.”

  He shut the door with a rueful grin. “Sir makes me feel like your father, Libby. Mayhap use my given name as you recently did, at least in private.”

  “Noble, then.” She smiled up at him in that easy, amiable way he was coming to know. “’Tis a handsome name, however ’tis said.”

  “A hard one to live up to.”

  The lament in her gaze was not lost on him. “So is Liberty.”

  They faced each other, an arm’s breadth apart. On precarious ground they were. He trying to be noble and not take her in his arms. Propose marriage. Anything to keep her from going to Norfolk, the Loyalist nest. And she trying to live out her name, free herself from her father’s reputation and her family’s British roots.

  She touched his arm. “I want to tell you something before I go upstairs and ready for the ball.”

  He waited on tenterhooks, not liking the plan any more than when it was first hatched. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve prayed about my course of action—” She paused, so entreating it seemed she was silently asking for his consent. “I feel ’tis right, this risk. Going to Norfolk again. I’ve asked the Lord to cover me as only He can. But if something goes awry . . .”

  His heart seemed to stop.

  “If something should happen—my father is so unpredictable—I don’t want you to feel responsible in any way. ’Tis my doing, all of it.”

  He wanted to lock the door, having thought of all the ways she was hurtling into danger. He spoke with far more calm than he was feeling. “Our aim is to minimize all risks. Dougray will drive you to Norfolk, where Isabeau will lodge at a Patriot-owned inn. You’ll alight from the coach a few street
s from the harbor. Dougray will stay in sight of the Otter and wait for you. I expect the dancing will go on till dawn.”

  “And I intend to stay till the last reel is stepped.”

  “Don’t be too charming.” He tamped down other unspoken concerns. Lord Dunmore himself had a reputation for drunken violence. And Noble wouldn’t even start on the Royal Navy.

  She touched his coat sleeve again. “My one regret is that you won’t be there too.”

  He softened. Her gaze held his then lowered, denying him the lovely hue of her eyes. He already felt bereft.

  She brightened at the last. “Don’t look so troubled, Noble. God goes with me. There’s no better escort.”

  “Mistress Tremayne said you are to have carte blanche with the late mademoiselle’s gowns,” Isabeau whispered. “An order was placed for dresses and underpinnings before Miss Enid passed and was delivered after she was laid to rest. These garments have never been worn.”

  Together Liberty and Isabeau stood before the wardrobe, taking in a rainbow’s array of silks and satins and brocades, though the predominant color was blue. “Magnifique, no?” Isabeau said.

  “Indeed.” Enid’s taste in fashion had rivaled her taste in furnishings. Liberty fingered a lush sapphire brocade. “I recall Enid being taller than I.”

  “A little hemming, no?” Isabeau cocked her head. “She was slender as you.”

  “Most women are till marriage and babies,” Liberty mused, admiring a cinnamon silk. “These have the look of a Philadelphia seamstress, not Margaret Hunter. Look at this painted chintz.”

  “Too dark, no?” Isabeau reached for an ivory gown with a profusion of finely worked lace.

  Sighing, Liberty shook her head. “I’ll look like a confection from the bake shop.”

  “Is that not the idea?”

  “Perhaps this one.” Liberty reached for something behind the bolder dresses. Crafted from silk taffeta the color of sea foam, it reminded her of the wallpaper in Lady Charlotte’s boudoir at the Palace.

  “Oh, la!” Isabeau clucked her tongue. “Let’s try it on and see, mistress. Then we shall start on your hair.”