The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  “Come now, Cousin. Even you wagered once upon a time.”

  Noble remained silent.

  “How much can you contribute to the purse? We’re hoping one hundred pounds for the winner, a handsome saddle or bridle for second place, and a whip for third.”

  “Not to mention substantial side betting, aye?” Noble started for the door. “And glutting the local courts with cases of unpaid debts?”

  Miles frowned and followed him out. “You’re no doubt thinking of my being held in gaol on account of all that.”

  “I was, aye.”

  “You can’t deny you’ve enjoyed a bit of betting—”

  “I was never hauled to gaol. Or court.”

  “Well, nay, but you have lost several pounds playing the ponies.”

  They entered the stables, the sudden shade and scent of leather and horseflesh welcome.

  Miles kicked at a tuft of hay. “What say you, Cousin?”

  “I’m sorry to dent your enthusiasm,” Noble told him, “but Article 8 of the Continental Association seeks to ‘discourage every species of extravagance and dissipation, especially all horse-racing, and all kinds of gaming, cock-fighting, and other expensive diversions and entertainments.’”

  “Bah!” Miles spat as they reached the stall of the quarter horse in question. “Burgesses and barristers have no sense of sport.”

  “Delegates now,” Noble said, extending a hand. “And here stands the pride of Ty Mawr. Romulus is said to be the finest bloodstock in all Virginia, if not the entire thirteen colonies.”

  Miles gaped. The stallion stamped. Two grooms slowed to admire the horse.

  “How’s his temper?” Miles asked.

  “Like yours. Fractious. Unpredictable.”

  “Thank you,” Miles returned drily. “Sounds as if you still haven’t forgiven me for breaking my betrothal to Lord Stirling’s daughter.”

  “Forgiven you?” Noble checked a smile. “’Tis the wisest thing you’ve ever done.”

  “Well, fancy that.” Surprise washed Miles’s face. “A compliment from you at long last.” He ran a hand down the horse’s sleek side. “There’s been no sign of her since the folly burned down in Williamsburg. I’d heard she was living there, working as a lacemaker. Quite a comedown for the daughter of Lord Stirling. Perhaps she’s rejoined her father.”

  Noble turned toward the other end of the stable, where a groom waited with Miles’s own mount. “Give my regards to your cronies in town.” It was tantamount to a dismissal, but he wanted to be with Libby. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve other business.”

  He tarried long enough to watch Miles ride off before turning up the hill toward Ty Bryn. He was late for dinner, but his bride, bless her, was not one to mind.

  He envisioned Libby waiting at the door when he dismounted, holding out a hand to him, eyes shining. He prayed she’d be as favorably disposed to the news he had to tell her. But he’d wait till they’d eaten before he shared Washington’s summons.

  30

  The storm of hooves on the drive told Liberty her new husband was well aware he was late. Feeling she’d swallowed a swarm of butterflies, she rushed to her bedchamber window to make sure it was him before taking a last look in the mirror.

  Pale. Blue-veined. Slim as a riding whip. The lace ribbon woven in her upswept hair and her filmy fichu did little to soften her sharp edges. Gaunt she was. What man would find her appealing? Is that why Noble kept her at arm’s length?

  She took the stairs two at a time. Nell was in the kitchen and the other servants were occupied, so she met her new groom at the door, her warm welcome lost in his.

  He tossed his hat onto the foyer chair. “I’ve not kept you waiting, I hope.”

  He looked so contrite, her heart squeezed. “The master of the house need not apologize, surely.”

  “Only to the mistress, mayhap,” he said with a wink.

  They went into the dining room where he seated her at a table, and they made small talk as Nell swept in and out, replenishing glasses and removing empty plates.

  Liberty ate two of everything, raising Noble’s curiosity. There was teasing in his tone and query. “The country life agrees with you.”

  “Well, I . . .” Feeling gluttonous, she looked down at her empty plate. “I’ve decided I’m too . . .”

  The sudden silence turned awkward.

  “Too what, Libby?”

  “Boyish.”

  She raised her gaze to see humor cross his face. “You, boyish?” He shook his head and forked a last bite of fish. “Mayhap Doctor Hessel should be sent for.”

  “Doctor Hessel? Why?”

  “You’re obviously in need of spectacles.”

  “My eyesight is in question, you mean.”

  “Aye. Boyish is not how I would define you.”

  “Oh?” The playful cadence to her voice was an open door inviting him in. “How would you define me?”

  “Delicate. Feminine.” He took a drink of ratafia. “Lovely. Alluring.”

  “Perhaps you are the one in need of spectacles.”

  “Nay.” He frowned. “The attention you’re sure to garner in Gosport is a worry to me.”

  Gosport again. She nearly sighed. But he was not finished.

  “The British Navy is a debauched lot for the most part, and Andrew Sprowle’s wine cellar is deep and wide. Add a highborn geneth, a lass like yourself . . .”

  She picked up her dessert spoon as her former anxiety took hold. Was she walking into a trap? Should she abandon her plan?

  She forged ahead. “No man would dare behave unseemly with my father present.” Taking a bite of dessert, she fixed her attention on the fluted glass. “I shall leave at the first sign of trouble. Promise.”

  “One more meeting,” he said quietly, his eyes unyielding. “And then you’re done.”

  “Well and good. I’m ready to move on. Settle into married life.” Should she tell him about the nursery? She’d sworn Nell and Isabeau to secrecy. Till the time was right she’d keep the door closed and decorate and rearrange to her heart’s content.

  He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve news to share that may be as hard for you as Gosport is for me.”

  She looked up as Nell brought coffee. Their dessert dishes were whisked away, steaming cups in their wake.

  As the door closed, Noble took a post from his pocket. “I’ve been commissioned as major of the 2nd Virginia Regiment.”

  Her first swallow of coffee went awry. Sputtering, she said, “Major Rynallt?”

  “Aye, at General Washington’s request. Originally I’d been considered captain of his Life Guard, but . . .”

  “One of Washington’s personal bodyguards?” She’d heard talk of such things while at the folly but never dreamed he’d be among the chosen few.

  “Washington is recruiting men for their sobriety, honesty, and good behavior. Men of some property. None but native-born Americans.” He gave her a wry, regretful smile. “I am not native born. And there is one other difficulty. I am too tall.”

  “What?”

  “Candidates are to be between five feet eight and five feet ten inches, ‘handsomely and well made.’”

  “Well, you satisfy on that score, though I’m guessing you’re a tad over six feet.”

  “Aye, so I’m a mere major. The Committee of Safety is raising an army in Virginia’s defense. Come September, recruits from every county will encamp behind the college of William and Mary, and there we’ll drill.”

  She set her cup down, trying to come to terms with all the implications. An absent husband. Perhaps an absent father, if she conceived. Was this why there’d be no honeymoon? Would it not be best to remain childless during war?

  “I’m not surprised at your commission. You’re well respected and esteemed. I’m proud of you. Honored for you.” She meant every word. “Men like you are needed, never more than now. I’d best start sewing soldiers’ shirts. Knitting stockings like you said.”

  “Aye.
For now I need a good rifle, tomahawk, bayonet, cartouche box, and three charges of powder.”

  The harsh-sounding words seemed out of place in their small yet elegant dining room. She thought of all the weapons in the foyer of the Governor’s Palace in Williamsburg. Were they still there? September was not far. Soon he’d be gone. First to muster in Williamsburg, then on to face the British if the worst was realized. All the more reason to go to Gosport and learn what she could of Dunmore’s plans.

  He set the post on the table, his coffee untouched. The day was too warm for coffee, but she craved another bracing cup. She sought to fill the silence.

  “Perhaps one day when all is said and done there’ll be a Noblesburg or Noblesborough.” Her attempt at levity fell flat. She knew he didn’t care about such things, nor did she.

  “All I want is to return to Ty Mawr and Ty Bryn.” He looked more earnest than she’d ever seen him. “And you.”

  Their eyes met again. She was in need of her fan, warm more from his words than the coffee and summer’s heat. “I’ll be waiting.”

  He looked away, toward the windows and the James. “Pray for me. I have much to learn. I know books and law. I’m not a military man.”

  Did he doubt his call then? “You have all the makings of a fine soldier. In fact, long ago when I first saw you . . .” The girlish remembrance sharpened. “I thought you were an officer, you stood so straight and true.”

  He smiled. “And you, anwylyd, are a charmer through and through.”

  “’Tis the truth.” She laced her hands together in her lap. “I’ve always thought uniformed men dashing. What will yours be like?”

  “Rebel blue.” There was truth in his teasing tone. “General Washington has recently appointed a clothier general.”

  “I can tailor it if you like.”

  “You’ll put Prosser and Nicholson out of business.”

  “I’m no table monkey,” she returned, remembering the lowest rung of the tailoring trade. “More a cutter and finisher. We’ll need to purchase cloth.”

  “Henry sent a bolt.” He rolled his eyes skyward. “The man is already at war.”

  “I’ll need to learn the cut of your uniform. How about sherryvallies?” she mused, thinking of overbreeches. “I’ll take your measurements now, if you like.”

  They went into the parlor, and she took her measuring tape from her sewing basket, then stood to one side while he shrugged off his frock coat.

  “All this makes me think of poor George Bosomworth, who barely eked out a living tailoring in town. He died with a sad estate of twelve pounds not long ago.” She stretched the tape across his shoulders, noting the width with satisfaction. “You saved me from all that, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Poverty. Want.”

  “Would you make me some knight in shining armor, Libby?”

  “More a noble soldier,” she returned. He held still while she ran the tape from shoulder to wrist. “I suppose I should call you ‘Major Rynallt’ in company.”

  “Since you rarely call me by my given name, I wouldn’t worry with ‘Major.’”

  She noted the subtle sorrow in his words, then shook off her pleasure for practicality. Circling his middle with the tape, she pinched it off between his weskit and trousers. His measurements were easily remembered—nay, treasured—now that time was short. She would write them in her commonplace book. ’Twould be simple enough to cut a pattern from an old coat. “You said Mister Henry sent cloth.”

  “Colonel Henry now.”

  She expelled a breath. “The whole world’s turned upside down when misters become majors and firebrands become colonels.”

  His chuckle cut into the tenseness. “My commanding officer is Colonel William Woodford from Caroline County.”

  “I’ve not heard of him till now.”

  “You will henceforth.”

  She finished her taping, a bit lost in the pleasure of it.

  He was looking down at her, thoughtful. “So you think you’re boyish . . .” He took the tape from her hands and circled her middle. “Just how small is your waist?”

  All his detailed measurements flew out of her head. He stood so near, nearer than he’d ever been, even the mornings he’d sat by her bedside. Even closer than when they’d wed. So near now that he was perfectly positioned to . . . kiss her. She’d never been kissed. But she’d oft wondered what it might be like. All she wanted was for him to put down the tape and take her in his arms and end all speculation.

  “Eighteen inches.” Hanging the tape about his neck like a true tailor, he placed his hands about her waist, nearly encircling it. “Easily spanned by my hands.”

  She sighed. “And that, sir, is the trouble.”

  “Trouble? Nay,” he said with a wink as his hands fell away. “A bit more bara brith should do the trick.”

  She focused on a buttonhole of his shirt, thoughts full of far more than gussets and seams. “I’ll get to work right away. Do be so kind as to send the cloth up when you return down the hill. And your violin.”

  His face lit with interest. “Are you in the mood for music, Libby?”

  “Have you never heard the harp paired with the violin? ’Tis sublime.” She stepped back, watching him put on his frock coat again. Their eyes met, held. It seemed he touched her in glances, sending a little shiver through her each time.

  “Give word to Ninian should you need me. I’ll be in my study at Ty Mawr till supper.”

  “That seems rather . . . far.” The words were out before she’d given them thought.

  He studied her, looking surprised. “Would you rather I be here? Occupy a study no bigger than the necessary out back?”

  “Aye, aye, Major.” She entwined her hands, feeling coy. “Necessary or no, you are necessary to me.”

  All afternoon she measured and cut and pinned, pausing long enough to read the post Noble had left on the dinner table. Congress had originally adopted brown as the official color for uniforms, but there was a scarcity of brown cloth and thus the chosen color was blue. What Henry had sent was a hardy wool of good quality, gotten from some unknown merchant. She would make Noble a blue coat with blue facing laced with white around the buttonholes till she knew more.

  Uniforms would instill pride in the company or regiment, Washington wrote, even if only officers wore them. ’Twas certainly her desire that Major Rynallt of the 2nd Virginia Regiment have one.

  A little before teatime, she climbed the stairs to the nursery. Now completely furnished from the attic, it was charming, even cozy with its corner fireplace. ’Twas hard to imagine the heat of a fire in the dog days of summer, but winter was coming. The fireplace insert was of iron, embossed with angels that only small children could see at eye level, adding a touch of whimsy.

  She went about the room, feeling a tad silly as she rearranged a pillow here and straightened a picture there. There was no baby coming. No call for a nursery. But her mother’s heart wouldn’t stop beating.

  She moved toward the door and turned to take a last, contemplative look.

  “Mistress!” Isabeau exclaimed as she entered the nursery. “Is there something you are not telling me?”

  Liberty started, her pride and pleasure in the room hard to hide. “No secrets, nay. I simply want to make ready for when the time comes.”

  “A charming cradle, no?” Isabeau ran a hand over the polished mahogany edge, setting it to rocking slightly, and then her face clouded. “While you are busy sewing Major Rynallt’s new uniform, I am nearly finished hemming your dress for the ball. You must try it on.”

  Liberty’s happiness dimmed as they crossed the hall into the dressing room. The gown of silver tissue was draped across a chair, a feast of silk woven with silver gilt threads. Though sumptuous, the alterations near perfect, it left Liberty cold.

  Isabeau was fawning over Enid’s jewelry. “These sapphires set in silver are a perfect pairing, are they not?” She lifted the glittering necklace from the velvet case,
noting the looped ends for the silk ribbon to tie around one’s throat.

  Liberty said nothing, trying to remember the details. Noble would ride ahead of them to Gosport. Dougray was to drive the coach. They would meet at a certain spot if there was trouble . . .

  Once in the gown, Liberty turned in a slow circle as Isabeau’s practiced eye examined the dress for loose threads or any flaw.

  “Enchante!” Her expression shifted from approval to near panic. “You resemble cake in so fine a gown . . . and all those hungry soldiers!”

  “Mais no!” In a tone that would stand her in good stead as a mother, Liberty said, “Speaking of cake, is it not time for some bara brith?”

  “Mistress! How can you eat at such a time?” Isabeau was tottering toward hysteria the longer they dwelt on Gosport, her voice slightly shrill. “All I can think of is your papa. Now that he has gone away, I can tell you how he frightened me with his black moods. Like a funnel cloud he was! What if he should keep you aboard ship? Force you to wed a sailor?”

  “I am already married, remember.” Checking the tiny watch pinned to her bodice, Liberty brought her maid’s moodiness to an end. “I’ll ring for Nell. Please have a seat and we’ll refresh ourselves.”

  “Refreshments—and then?” Isabeau sat with a disgruntled sigh, looking as if she was facing the guillotine, as Liberty gave a gentle tug on the bellpull.

  Soon Nell bustled in with Ty Mawr’s tea set, and Libby presided in silver tissue. The bara brith was delightful, the china exquisite, a gentle reminder of more serene times.

  Below, the foyer clock chimed, ticking unceasingly toward Gosport.

  The appointed time was at hand. They stood in Ty Bryn’s small study adjoining the first-floor parlor. The octagonal walls were lined with bookshelves, Noble’s desk in the room’s center. From where Liberty stood she could make out a few unsettling titles atop her husband’s desk.

  A Treatise of Military Discipline. An Essay on the Art of War. The Military Guide for Young Officers.

  His half-finished uniform coat lay across her sewing basket. She longed to complete it. Longed to shed this elaborate gown and simply savor his presence now that he’d moved his study to Ty Bryn, small as it was. Even his violin brought up from Ty Mawr begged playing. But for now, more pressing matters stole their time and attention.