The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

The snap of a twig snuffed her wondering. Scrambling to her feet, Sophie spun around. A tiny girl in a linen dress stood looking at her, fingers clutching the edges of a fine cambric apron.

  Sophie smiled, trying to place her. “Good day.”

  “Good day,” the child echoed. “Is this your woods or mine?”

  Smile fading, Sophie surveyed the sagging fence that kept trespassers from Ogilvy land. “I believe the creek over there”—she pointed to a rutted ribbon of dust and rock, bone dry in late fall—“marks the boundary line between Three Chimneys and Tall Acre.”

  The girl looked down. Nested in her lovely apron were more nuts. She came forward and added them to Sophie’s basket. Up close, Sophie felt a stirring of recognition.

  Could this be the general’s daughter? The one she’d helped her mother deliver years ago? The past reached out and yanked her back to anguished moans and the genteel woman who’d nearly died giving birth. Sophie studied the child’s comely features, longing for a name though none was needed. The girl had her father stamped all over her. “Thank you, Miss . . . ?”

  “Lilias Catherine Ogilvy.” The child dropped a curtsey, her eyes huge beneath her ruffled cap. “But everyone calls me Lily Cate. I’m not yet six years old.”

  Sophie smiled. How could she have forgotten so bonny a name? “Well, Miss Lily Cate who is not yet six, you’re very kind, but I have so many chestnuts. You’re welcome to as many as you like.”

  “Oh, I just like to hunt them. But you—you look like you need them.”

  Biting her lip, Sophie hid a rueful smile. If her wants were obvious even to a child . . . “I’m glad you’ve come back to Tall Acre. ’Tis good to have neighbors again.”

  Lily Cate stayed solemn. “The general tells me to mind my manners. He’ll want to know who I met in the woods today.”

  Joy sang through her—and then a qualm that she’d overlooked introductions. “Then tell him you met up with Sophie Menzies from Three Chimneys.”

  “Three Chimneys? Do you live there with your mother and father? Are you—” Worry raced through her eyes. “I’m sorry. The general says I chatter on so.”

  Sophie studied her, wanting to reach out and smooth a dark curl that fell free of her cap. “I like your chatter. ’Tis too quiet at Three Chimneys. My father is in Scotland, you see.” She hesitated, still sore. “And my mother is in heaven.”

  Sorrow marred Lily Cate’s pale face. “So is mine.”

  Sophie shifted her basket to her other arm. Mistress Ogilvy . . . dead? The last she knew, Anne Ogilvy was in Williamsburg, living with relatives.

  “Do you think they’re friends in heaven—my mama and yours?”

  The tender question was nearly her undoing. Sophie’s fingers closed around a chestnut till its spiny hull pierced her palm. “The best of friends.”

  “Perhaps . . .” Lily Cate seemed older than her five years. “Perhaps we can be friends too.”

  “Of course.” As cozy as a woman of eight and twenty and a child of not yet six could be. Lily Cate was obviously lonesome. Missing her mother. Somewhat bewildered by this man she called the general. “Why don’t we have a tea party? If you’ll bring your doll . . .”

  At this the child wilted. “My doll is in Williamsburg. The general came to collect me in the night, and there was only room for me atop his horse. Everything got left behind.” She cast a look back at Tall Acre, so much astir in her little face that Sophie’s heart squeezed.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie murmured. A tea party seemed suddenly silly.

  “I’d best go. He doesn’t like to go looking for me.” Lily Cate turned without saying goodbye, her fine slippers kicking up autumn leaves as the wind sent more swirling down around them.

  Sophie ran all the way home, feeling no older than Lily Cate. The back lane to Three Chimneys wasn’t long but seemed endless this memorable day. The hedgerow, splashed red with Virginia creeper and bittersweet, went unnoticed, as did the showy oaks and sugar maples in all their autumn glory. Glynnis stood in their pilfered vegetable garden in back of the summer kitchen, a turnip in one gnarled hand, dismay in her expression.

  Sophie burst through the open gate, nearly spilling her chestnut basket. “General Ogilvy. He’s back!”

  The housekeeper’s gaze slanted east, as if fearful Sophie could be heard clear to Tall Acre. “The fighting’s over then.” Glynnis looked dazed, as if doubting the eight-year war would have an end. “Since we’ve had no Gazette . . .”

  “Cornwallis’s surrender to General Washington must be true.” For once Sophie wished for a newspaper to prove it. They hadn’t been able to afford the small expense, though they had heard rumors each market day when Glynnis went to Roan.

  “Cornwallis and Washington, indeed!” Glynnis’s mouth twisted into a more hopeful smile. “What’s all this about General Ogilvy?”

  Sophie expelled a breath. “I met his wee daughter in the woods. They’ve recently come from Williamsburg.” Delight filled her to the brim again despite the sad news about Tall Acre’s mistress. “There’s no other reason he’d be home. He’s not been back in years.”

  The elderly woman studied her, looking doubtful. “You think he’ll stop here?”

  “I should hope so, given he’s Curtis’s commanding officer. Perhaps he’ll bring some word—even a letter.”

  Glynnis’s glum look reminded her the last letter they’d received was two very long years ago. Her brother, bless him, wasn’t even aware their mother was dead. A melancholy silence returned the housekeeper to the kitchen, Sophie trailing after her.

  “If he doesn’t call soon, I’ll ride to Tall Acre,” Sophie told her. A bit forward, perhaps. Yet mightn’t General Ogilvy allay their fears with a few well-timed words? “I’ve invited his daughter to a party.”

  “A party? Mercy!” Glynnis nearly threw up her hands. “And what will you be serving? Air? There’s no tea to speak of either.”

  “Well, we should celebrate the war’s end in some meaningful way.” Sinking down atop a stool, Sophie looked to the barren larder, imagining it full again. “Flour can be ground from these chestnuts. Enough for a few biscuits, at least. We can pretend about the tea.” She tried to stem Glynnis’s displeasure by drawing attention to her burgeoning basket. “Lily Cate was kind enough to help me gather these today.”

  “Lily Cate, is it?” Glynnis’s face softened. “Is she as lovely as her name?”

  “Lovelier . . . perhaps a tad befuddled at being back.”

  Glynnis nodded. “She was just a babe when she was whisked away to Williamsburg.” Her mood soured. “I suppose her high-minded mother is with her.”

  Sophie expelled a breath. “I’m afraid Mistress Ogilvy has passed away.”

  “Has she now?” Glynnis’s wrinkled brow creased in consternation. “I never figured the general would come home a widower with a little daughter.”

  “Perhaps he’ll bring us glad news.”

  Glynnis went to a window. “I’ll be on the lookout then. Some glad news would be most welcome.”

  By the light of a costly parlor candle Sophie worked, the slow drip of the wax reminding her of the pence she didn’t have to replace it. The case clock chimed midnight in the chill, silent foyer. She needed to be abed—her fingers were stiff from the cold, and protesting—but the mere memory of Lily Cate’s entreating face kept her at her task.

  Earlier, a search in the attic and a prayer had turned up her old wax doll in a dusty trunk. Yellowed with age, the velvet dress worn in places, the doll had once been the height of French fashion. Snipping a length of lace from one of her mother’s old gowns, Sophie began embellishing the barest places. A few brushstrokes of paint had revived the doll’s dull face, her smile in place. Sophie sighed. Was she glaikit to feel such excitement over a well-loved doll, or making sure a little girl had one again?

  No doubt Lily Cate’s Williamsburg doll was much finer. She might reject this relic out of hand. If she was as particular as her mother, preferring the fancy ov
er the familiar, she would. There was no guarantee the child would ever return to the woods. Or that General Ogilvy would pay them a call.

  Both might turn out as badly as her volatile afternoon.

  Her impulsive walk to the village of Roan and back had been her undoing. But the two-mile jaunt wasn’t time enough for second thoughts. Usually she wasn’t given to such rashness. Spirits high, she’d dared to think with the war won, all would be forgiven and forgotten.

  ’Twas market day. Easy enough to blend in with the crowd. By mid-morning the tiny hamlet was overflowing with vendors and shoppers hawking anything from fresh fish to men’s queue ribbons. Small fires in blackened fire pits glowed like fireflies among the walkways, warming any who cared to tarry.

  Hands clammy despite the cold, Sophie sent her gaze toward the milliner’s. She’d taken care to make her rare visit to the village a success, praying and packing samples of her needlework to show the Roan seamstress. But once she stood in the tidy shop, the portly woman regarded her with smug dislike.

  “You’re Lord Menzies’s daughter, ain’t you?” The seamstress looked her over as if she was the village doxy, her refusal in her face. “I’ve no work for any Tories, mind you.”

  “I’m not a Tory,” Sophie replied hastily. “My loyalties lie with the Patriots. ’Tis why I remained at Three Chimneys during the war.”

  “But you quartered British soldiers, the same ones who did damage to this shop.”

  “Those soldiers forced their way into my home too.” Sophie swallowed, trying a different direction. “If you’ll allow me to show you my needlework—”

  “There’s little need for fancy needlework in Roan.”

  “I could take in mending then.”

  “I’ve already hired that out.”

  “Is there—” Her heart was jumping about so the words came out half choked. “Anything else you need?”

  “I need you to take your leave, lest someone see you here and decide my loyalties are in question.” The seamstress pointed to the door, voice cresting. “Roan has long memories where your father is concerned.”

  Lowering her head, Sophie went out, a hasty retort withering. She didn’t blame the seamstress. Her father had been insufferable and arrogant, supporting British taxes that caused many in the village undue hardship. Even her mother’s fine reputation for midwifery had been tarnished because of him. And now the loathing lingered.

  Face still heated from humiliation hours later, she hemmed the doll’s dress in the security of Three Chimneys’ parlor. The night boasted a brilliant harvest moon, coming up now through the east-facing windows. Glynnis had forgotten to close the shutters. Perhaps the room wouldn’t be so cold if they would remember. But Glynnis, in her old age, was increasingly forgetful. Setting her sewing aside, Sophie closed all but the one framing the moon. Tonight its beauty and light kept her company in a house all too spare and still.

  Stifling a yawn, she returned to the monotony of her sewing. She nodded off, nearly piercing her finger, then shot upright at the sound of shattering glass.

  Standing, she sent the doll tumbling from her lap, her stool overturning, her eyes on the flames licking at the plank floor a few paces to her right. A leather water bucket was by the door, so she doused the fire, her woolen skirts and shoes splattered in the process. She was barely aware of Glynnis in a nightdress standing in the doorway behind her.

  “What on earth?” Her housekeeper’s cry was indignant as she surveyed a far parlor window, a sudden wind whooshing in uninvited.

  Bending down, Sophie touched the pitch-covered paper that had been afire moments before. Beneath it was a heavy jagged rock, capable of breaking the best British crown glass. A soggy note was attached, penned by a heavy hand.

  Yer Tory house will be burnt to Hades.

  She started for the window, gleaming shards crunching underfoot, but Glynnis’s equally sharp hiss kept her away.

  “Don’t be inviting more trouble, mind you.” Taking her by the arm, Glynnis led her into the foyer, both of them shaking. “I’ll fetch Henry to board it up.”

  Sophie sent her gaze to the front and back entry of Three Chimneys. “Are the doors locked?” But what did it matter when the parlor now lay open?

  “Tighter than a drum. You go on up to bed, and I’ll join you. ’Twill be just like when the Lobsterbacks invaded and we were quarantined in your room.”

  “But the war’s been won,” Sophie murmured. “All hostilities should cease.”

  “Mayhap in time.” Glynnis patted her hand. “You should have stayed away from Roan today. Likely there’s some who took offense at the sight of a Menzies.”

  “I only meant to earn coin enough for some sugar for the tea party.” Sophie turned back at the foot of the staircase. “I forgot Lily Cate’s doll—”

  Glynnis almost scoffed. “D’ye truly think the child’s father, a high and mighty American general, will let his daughter darken your door? Or darken it himself?”

  “I do.” She refused to let go of the hope, however small. The general had had a special fondness for Curtis, hadn’t he? Her brother had been an avowed Patriot, no matter their father’s rabid Tory sentiments.

  Returning to the parlor with Glynnis’s bulky form between her and the shattered glass, Sophie bent and picked up the doll and her scattered sewing, trying to stave off that old, insidious fear that had begun with the Revolution.

  There had been other rocks, other damage. Ugly words and jeers. Why had she thought that the peace treaty General Washington had signed would restore peace to her own tattered world?

  The war might be won for America, but it still raged on in Roan, Virginia.

  3

  Glynnis stood in the bedchamber doorway the next afternoon, looking nearly as disbelieving as when Sophie had told her the war was won. “He’s come.”

  Sophie turned back to her dressing table, a cameo and ribbon in hand, and bit her lip to keep from saying, “I know.”

  She’d heard the clip of hooves and rustle of leaves through her open casement window. Spied the sleek black stallion tied to the hitching post below. Felt that peculiar tightness in her chest and the dampness of her palms the general always wrought, whether in newsprint or in person. Now here he was on her very door, the hero of Brandywine and Germantown and Monmouth and who knew what else.

  Heroics be hanged.

  ’Twas her own reputation she was worried about. Would he shun her as they did in Roan? Turning back to the looking glass, Sophie fiddled with the cameo about her throat.

  “Do I look presentable?” she asked, startling slightly when Glynnis came closer and pulled viciously at a stray thread on her skirt.

  “You’re in your best gown, though ’tis hardly in fashion. Your shoes look fit for the dung heap. And your hair is in need of covering. Other than that, you’ll do.” Turning, Glynnis plucked some pins from the dressing table and secured a lace cap atop Sophie’s hastily upswept hair. “Mercy, but you’re pale as dust. But since this isn’t a social call, it hardly matters.”

  Sophie tried not to frown at the mirror, finding her reflection far from pleasing. “Where is the general? Not in Father’s study, I hope.”

  “Ha! I’ve better sense than that. No need to remind him of your father’s Tory sins. I put him in the front parlor as the rear parlor window is boarded up.”

  Mumbling thanks, Sophie started down the curving staircase, feeling like she’d swallowed a swarm of butterflies.

  Like the shunned woman she was.

  Three Chimneys had seen better days. But then, so had he. Seamus’s gaze roamed the once-grand room, now shabby and frayed as a militiaman’s coat. The milk paint was peeling in places, the Wilton carpet thin, the damask drapes a tired silver-blue. Sophie Menzies’s beautiful home had been used to quarter British soldiers, their angry spur marks cutting across the heart-pine floor beneath his boots. More than a few rooms had been ransacked, or so he’d heard, while Tall Acre sat untouched to the west, a locked treasure c
hest amidst sheltering trees.

  He tunneled a hand through unruly hair, cocked hat tucked under one arm, and wished for a little warmth. The big house was cold and no fire had been laid, nor had there been in recent days. Swept clean without a speck of ash, the tiled hearth looked neat enough to crawl into and nap. He appreciated a good fire and would have lit one himself had there been some wood. In his tenure in the army, the poverty of continual cold outweighed an empty belly every time. Since his return, every chimney at Tall Acre was belching smoke as he vowed he’d never be cold again.

  “General Ogilvy, welcome back.”

  The gentle voice spun him around. He gave a slight bow, the gallant gesture a bit stiff after so long unpracticed. Should he kiss her hand? But they were caught behind her back, denying him the privilege.

  Sophie Menzies was hardly the lass he remembered.

  Tall. Slim as a riding whip. Beneath a creamy cap, her hair was caught back, a few sooty strands escaping, framing a milk-glass complexion and a bone structure far too fragile. She was smiling at him, but that seemed fragile too, as if she expected he had come to wipe any fine feeling from the room with dire news.

  He reached into his pocket and extracted a small tin of tea. “In honor of war’s end, Miss Menzies. And a reminder of how the whole miserable mess began.”

  She took the offering, delight filling in the lean lines of her face. “Thank you.” Bringing the gift to her chest, she held it as if it were worth its weight in gold—which it nearly was. “I’ve had no real tea since ’76.”

  Nay? He wagered she’d had no guests since then either. If memory served, Roan folks reviled her father. But he was gone and gone for good, nearly tarred and feathered upon his exit. Perhaps the ill feeling against the Menzies family would follow.

  “Would you like refreshments?” Gesturing to twin wing chairs, she invited him to sit. But she was looking at him as if hospitality was the last thing on her mind—and his.

  “Nay,” he said abruptly as if communicating to one of his men. She drew back a bit, the play of hope and dismay in her face tugging at him. “Tea then,” he amended reluctantly. Virginia hospitality guaranteed a lengthy visit.