The Lacemaker

by Laura Frantz

  “I prayed for cooler weather,” Noble said as calmly as if he was discussing a legal document.

  “Cooler weather we have,” Liberty replied. She glanced at Ty Bryn’s open front door. The clatter of the black coach on the drive was impossible to ignore, looking much like the hearse she’d so often seen about Williamsburg, the somber warners handing out death cakes in passing.

  Could he sense her ripening dread? Her desire to flee out the back door to the shade and comfort of the portico? Despite his prayers and the slight ease in temperature, the ride would still be sweltering from Ty Bryn to Gosport.

  He took one of her gloved hands. She’d rather he take her in his arms and quell her churning stomach instead. The scent of rosewater, a generous dousing by Isabeau, wafted between them.

  “I’ve prayed for safe travel,” he said. “That the gathering be civil. Orderly.”

  She knew what he was thinking. No excess of spirits. No moral lapses. That officers and officials be gentlemen.

  “Your prayers have no end,” she breathed as his fingers tightened around her own. “They’re so needed. And appreciated.”

  He looked down at her, a telltale wariness behind his stoicism. “Two doors down from Sprowle’s mansion is a warehouse bearing a blue sign labeled ‘Merrick’s.’ Remember, if the night turns troublesome and you need to go there, the door will be unlocked. I’ll not be far, nor will Dougray.”

  “A blue sign,” she echoed. “Merrick’s.”

  “For now, you need praying for, anwylyd.”

  At her nod he rested his hands on top of her head, lightly enough not to disturb Isabeau’s artful coiffure but almost symbolic as if covering her. Eyes closed, he spoke in Welsh. Quiet words full of power and poignancy. The meaning was lost to her, but the emotion of the moment was not. ’Twas a husband’s prayer for his wife. For protection and blessing, surely. A holy moment.

  “Amen,” he said, finally taking her in his arms.

  She laid her head upon his shoulder, hearing the rustle of leaves outside the open windows as summer hinted of autumn. Since childhood, she’d always imagined the wind sounding like the rush of angels’ wing. Once again the nursery came to mind, and the charming angels on the fireplace insert. What if the room remained empty? Nay, that she could not bear. Best empty her mind of the worry and savor Noble’s nearness. For long moments he held her as if he wanted to mark the memory. Leave nothing undone. For now she felt safe, at home in the haven of his hard arms.

  His breath was warm against her ear. “I’ll ride ahead of you some distance. Once in Gosport I’ll go about my business till you’re done at Sprowle’s.”

  It came to her again that her husband, traveling to a Tory stronghold, was in more danger than she.

  31

  In Gosport the odor of brine and pitch was stronger, the sea wind hotter. His majesty’s sloops glutted the water, but there were no British warships. Not yet. Once they came the spirit of sedition and rebellion would be crushed. A lone sloop was patrolling the bay, its white wake like fluted lace on the calm Elizabeth River.

  Sprowle’s mansion faced the water, its neighbors naught but stone warehouses some five stories high. It bespoke industry and Scots fortitude. Liberty spied Merrick’s and anchored it to memory. Dunmore’s troops were quartered at a near shipyard warehouse. Their presence and their bright uniforms were plain enough.

  Liberty alighted from the coach a block or more away, stripped of all ties to Ty Mawr. The door to the Sprowle mansion was open wide, a butler at the entrance. He announced her arrival over the din of a hundred or more cultured voices, her father’s foremost. Lord Stirling stood with his host, Andrew Sprowle, at one end of the ballroom while she was met by Sprowle’s wife, whose smile of greeting did not reach her eyes.

  “Ah, Lord Stirling’s lovely daughter,” she murmured, drawing Liberty into an alcove brimming with ferns. “I believe we’ve met before, at a garden party given by Lady Dunmore.”

  “I remember, fondly.” But the mention was melancholy, at least for Liberty. She faced her hostess warily. Kate Sprowle had a feisty reputation, her high color in keeping with what Liberty recollected. Yet there was an edge to her tonight that had been missing in the Palace gardens. “Are you . . . all right, Mistress Sprowle? Is the current company too much?”

  “Indeed, m’lady.” Kate looked hard at her as if deciding whether to vent her angst. “The current company is indeed too much. Lord Dunmore and his retinue have descended on my house and my provisions and are rioting in them.”

  Liberty had only to look at the throng in the ballroom to imagine what went on behind the scenes. Was her father a chief troublemaker?

  Kate continued with an agitated flutter of her fan. “His lordship refers to my husband as Gosport’s new lieutenant governor, which only incenses Lord Stirling.”

  This Liberty could well imagine. Her father’s pride had always been in play. “So his lordship feels Gosport is now the new capital, not Williamsburg.”

  “Precisely,” Kate replied. “And here his entire entourage behaves like the worst of heathens, treating my household effects and my servants in the most uncivilized ways.”

  “Surely that will end soon with the arrival of British warships.”

  “God send them then,” she murmured, turning toward an alcove window. “His lordship and your father watch daily for their coming.”

  Liberty scanned the horizon, fixing on the outer harbor and mouth of the river. “Tonight may well be the night.”

  And if they came? What did that spell for the likes of Washington and Henry? Noble and other Independence Men? She knew the outcome of treason. Death. This crisis had taken a personal turn. Once these politics had been little more than newsprint. Gossip. Hearsay. But now?

  “And what of your eminent guest my father and Lord Dunmore spoke of entertaining here?” Liberty pressed in genuine interest.

  Kate shrugged silk-clad shoulders. “I’ve seen nothing on that score.”

  “Daughter?” Her father stood behind them.

  She and Kate turned away from the window. “Greetings, Father.” Liberty’s smile was false. Had she ever been glad to see him? It was as Isabeau said. Like a funnel cloud he was, full of bluster and fury. Even now she sensed his irritation with her, his impatience for whatever news she had brought.

  “Let us dispense with formalities and adjourn to the study.” He took Liberty by the sleeve, his firm hand more pinch. “Excuse us, Mistress Sprowle.”

  ’Twas nothing short of a curt dismissal. Liberty felt a qualm for Kate, who bristled visibly. Taking a last look about the crowded ballroom brought no ease. Lord Dunmore was at the far end with his paramour, Kitty. Thank heaven Lady Charlotte had sailed. Liberty had yet to see her father’s favorite, the ginger-haired Phila.

  She followed him to a private room made stale by spirits and smoke, its paneled walls ponderously heavy with books. Though the study was as dark as it was strange, she was glad to be away from the crush of Tories. A shuttered window gave little light, just enough to showcase a dark silhouette.

  Doctor Hessel?

  He turned. “Lady Elisabeth.” Dressed in his impeccable best, he came forward and kissed her hand.

  A dozen questions begged answers. Had Hessel chosen sides? Aligned himself with her father? Tonight he was formality itself, as starched as the Raleigh wash, hardly the easy, affable physic. For her father’s sake, likely.

  The door closed. “Tell me what you know,” her father said.

  And so she did, mixing in as much truth as untruth lest she be called a liar. They listened intently, betimes questioning her about the newly formed Virginia Regiment, slaves fleeing and crippling plantations, the Virginia Gazette’s continued printing of inflammatory articles.

  When she finished, her father said nothing for a long, tense minute as if digesting all she had told him. And then, “The time has come, Daughter, when you are of more use to me here than there.”

  “Here, as in Gosport?” She
reached for the back of the chair she stood beside, its ornate rococo back hard beneath her gloved hand. “You mean I’m to stay on?”

  “Indeed. You’ll occupy a second-floor bedchamber in this very house and be present at all social functions.”

  “But I—I have business. Lace orders to honor—”

  “That ruse is done.” His voice held the finality of a locked door. “Doctor Hessel tells me the place you were living has been burned to the ground. You’ll not hear any more Patriot secrets at the Raleigh.” He paused a moment and looked directly at her. “You’ve been found out.”

  They were both looking at her, expecting her to elaborate. Ice lined her spine. Did they suspect she was with Noble? Living at Ty Bryn? She scrambled for an answer. “But this house—’tis teeming with people—”

  “Your tenure here will likely be brief. Once the warships arrive we’ll move further up the Chesapeake and raise a defense there.”

  She took a step back, toward the closed door, but Hessel circled behind her.

  “If you refuse to comply with my plan, the doctor will administer a calming drug. I shall tell everyone you launched into hysteria and had to be confined to your chamber. Given your mother was recently admitted to Publick Hospital, no one will doubt it.”

  She whirled to face Hessel and saw a glimmer of compassion on his face, but then it vanished quick as it had come.

  Her father moved to the door. “Once you compose yourself you may rejoin the dancing. Later you’ll retire upstairs.”

  He went out, shutting the door firmly behind him. Her thoughts veered to the footmen at the front entrance, no doubt armed and aware she was not to leave Sprowle’s teeming mansion. Every exit would be watched. She was trapped, plain and simple, as bound as if her hands were tied.

  Nothing had prepared her for the irreversibility of this moment. She looked on, stricken, as Hessel rummaged in his pocket and produced a vial. For once she felt as hysterical as Isabeau.

  “There is no need, Bram.” Her voice was dulcet, so at odds with her brimming panic, returning them to the familiar address of old. “If you are my trusted friend, a fellow believer, you will not obey the whim of my father, who is neither.”

  “Elisabeth . . .” He looked down at her. “Joining us here is far preferable to lacemaking, surely. Plying a trade is so far beneath you.”

  “Nay. ’Twas of my choosing and is honorable. This”—she waved a hand about the room—“is not.”

  “It is what it is. Your father and Lord Dunmore have elevated me to personal physician, and I shall do everything in my power to retain that position.”

  Since when did he care for such? She stared at him, weary of rank and social position and pecking order, all decidedly more British than American. She could offer no sincere congratulations so said with finality, “Do as you wish but leave me out of it. I must go.” Turning, she tried the doorknob. Locked.

  “Go where?”

  “Back to the ball.” Her hand stayed on the knob. She’d put on a brave face and return to dancing, if only briefly and to fool them, then make her escape.

  “Not until you’re calmer. I’ve opium here laced with brandy.”

  She spoke over her shoulder. “Then I shall be too drowsy to mind my steps.”

  “So be it. I cannot stand those navy men fawning over you. Yet I sense your father’s ambitions to parade you about in hopes of an advantageous match.”

  “Those ambitions are ill placed.” She faced him, fear giving way to fury. Should she say what was uppermost in her mind? Her heart? She could scarce believe it herself. “I am already wed.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Married?”

  “To one of the Independence Men.”

  “You—what?” Disgust rivaled his surprise. “Surely you jest.”

  “I do not.” She held tight to the details, wanting to protect Noble at all costs yet wanting to distance herself from the doctor and any romantic notions he had for her. If he knew his hopes were for naught, might he let her go? “We wed a few days ago, and quite happily at that.”

  He regarded her in stunned silence, then looked to the vial he held. “Do you know what your father will do once he learns this?”

  “I do. And if you betray me by telling him, you shall live with the consequences.”

  “Betray you? Have you not betrayed us?” His fair features grew ruddy. “Whom exactly have you wed? Not that traitor Rynallt, surely.”

  “One who has always had my well-being, my best interests, at heart.” Saying it, she nearly choked with emotion as Noble’s many kindnesses and sacrifices stood tall in her memory. Even now, at great personal risk, he was near at hand. “My husband is above locking me in and threatening me with laudanum.”

  Hessel grabbed her wrist, dropping the vial in his haste. It hit the plank floor with a clatter but did not break. “Elisabeth, who?” His grip sent a spasm of pain up her bare arm. “Tell me and perhaps some deal can be struck.”

  “Deal?” She shook him off. “How like my father you sound. Not everything has a price. Not even Lord Dunmore can untie a marital knot.”

  He bent to retrieve the vial, his jaw a hard line. He was no longer the doctor she knew. Each of them had crossed a line fraught with complications and irreversibilities.

  “You are a good man. A fine physic.” She softened yet stood her ground. “Do not make an enemy of my husband or this cause. Despite the odds, these Patriots will be victorious in the end.” She did not have the gift of second sight, of predicting the future, just a sudden, unswerving confidence that the colonies would prevail because men like Noble were freedom’s foundation.

  Hessel looked shaken. Sick. He returned the vial to his weskit and took out a key. “A scattering of turncoats will not prevail against the mightiest fighting force known to man. Nor can I commit treason against the king.” He unlocked the door. “I leave you to your delusions.”

  He went out, and she heard the scrape of the key against the lock. Penned in again, she flew to the window, a closed rectangle that overlooked the river and Sprowle’s vast shipping enterprise. Painted shut it was, the glass dirty. Half a dozen red-coated soldiers talked and smoked in the near dark along the waterfront below.

  God in heaven, help me.

  Was Hessel now telling her father everything? Would Papa come in like a whirlwind and abuse her? The music in the ballroom swelled as a minuet gave way to a country dance.

  Her heart seemed to beat out of her chest. She struggled to breathe. She should have heeded Noble. Should have shunned Gosport. Oh, to be back at Ty Bryn. Her haven. This dark study was a prison, unlit and oppressive and shabby from use.

  She sat down hard on a settee, trying to replace panic with prayer and reason. Noble was not far, nor were Dougray and Isabeau. The mantel clock struck nine. Supper would likely be served at ten, followed by dancing till dawn.

  Would they leave her here all night? She got up and went to the ornate hearth, running her hands over the woodwork in search of a lever or secret spring. But this was not Ty Bryn with its secret stair or service door.

  A quarter of an hour dragged by. She paced. Prayed. Tried the door again. Only the Lord could extricate her from Gosport.

  Atop a table was a heavy vase capable of breaking glass—and attracting the attention of one too many redcoats. One seemed intent on the window. Or was she simply overwrought and imagining it?

  Her bodice grew damp, the heat of a stifling August night pressing in. The music ceased. Lightheaded, she sat down again. A sound at the door set her on her feet. Her father? Hessel? At last the door opened, and a housemaid brought in a tray of supper items being served in Sprowle’s dining room, none of them appealing.

  In back of the maid was Kate, looking no less agitated than she had at first. “Why have you been locked in my husband’s study?”

  Was Kate her ally or her enemy? “I’m held here against my will. My father insists that I stay on.” Skirting the supper tray, Liberty inched her way toward the door.
“Had I known his intent, I would not have come.”

  Kate ordered the maid out and turned to Liberty. “One more person in the mayhem of this house is one too many.”

  Could it truly be this simple? Would irascible, overburdened Kate retaliate for Dunmore’s commandeering of her house with this slight to Lord Stirling’s pride and plans?

  Kate waved a hand. “Leave now—quickly—and I’ll say nothing to your father.”

  Liberty moved past her hostess, thanks on her lips, and sought the foyer and the mansion’s front door. At Kate’s insistence the guard let her pass. Liberty descended the front steps at a near run and ran smack into Noble at the first lamppost. Joy sang through her, so at odds with their predicament.

  “Keep moving,” Noble told her as the redcoats along the waterfront turned and watched them hasten past. “I sensed you were in danger so I kept close to the mansion.”

  The darkness was a blessed disguise. She could see the outline of a coach ahead. Dougray? Isabeau would be within, the safety of home in reach. She wanted to weep with relief.

  “There was some trouble.” Her voice was wavering, as were her legs, a latent response to the turmoil of the past hours. “My father wanted to keep me at Sprowle’s.”

  Noble put an arm around her shoulders, imparting the strength she so needed. Leaning into him, she stepped around a shattered gin bottle on the cobblestones. The way was poorly lit, the street strewn with garbage.

  Almost there. Isabeau got out of the coach and held open the door, waiting for them. Perched on his box, Dougray looked like he was ready to fly.

  “Rynallt, is that you?” a voice rang out, chilling in tone. It bore as much of a challenge as did the figure springing from an alley and knocking Noble off his feet. A scuffle ensued, both men rolling in the muck atop cobblestones, startling both wharf rats and gulls.