The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

  She pulled on a bell cord, making him glad she still had a servant at least. With a swish of her skirts she settled opposite him, tea tin in hand. Best come to the point posthaste.

  “I have little news, I’m afraid.” He spoke slowly, trying to let her down gently. “I don’t know of your brother’s whereabouts, though I wish I did. Captain Menzies was under my command until Richmond. Matters became confusing in the aftermath. Men were unaccounted for . . .”

  She looked to her lap, struggling visibly for a response. “I’ve heard many soldiers died of disease and others lay aboard prison ships.”

  “Aye, but some are on their way home again. Your brother might be one of them. If I hear anything more, you’ll be the first to know.” He eyed the parlor door and changed course. “Is it just you and your housekeeper here, Miss Menzies?”

  “I’ve a hired man, Henry.”

  A hired man? The one who looked to be a hundred years old? The housekeeper wasn’t much younger. As Seamus thought it, the door pushed open and she appeared, carrying a tea service with shaking hands, the silver slightly tarnished. Thanking her, Sophie popped open the fragrant tin.

  When the older woman left, he resumed the thread of conversation. “I remember your mother, Midwife Menzies, helped deliver my daughter.”

  “My mother, yes.” She kept her hands busy making the tea, her words surprisingly candid. “She passed away last year. The end of April.”

  Had she? He’d lost touch with all sorts of things since he’d left Tall Acre, including his neighbors. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “The doctor said it was her heart. But she was more broken in spirit than body, I think.”

  This he understood. He’d lost more men on the field to heartache and hopelessness than enemy fire and disease. Setting his jaw, he watched as Sophie readied chipped china cups. No sugar was in sight, but he liked his tea plain, even if Anne didn’t. Hadn’t. The bruising thought was cut off by the sight of Sophie’s bony, slightly reddened fingers. Not a lady’s hands by any stretch. What exactly had happened to Lord Menzies’s genteel daughter?

  “You’re no stranger to mourning yourself, General. I’m very sorry about your wife.” She kept her eyes down, her tone dulcet. “I also want to express my gratitude, my heartfelt thanks, for your service to the cro—colonies.”

  She’d nearly said crown, but it was an honest slip. They all needed time adjusting to the fact that they were no longer under British rule but a thoroughly American one.

  “I’m relieved to have escaped the noose as a traitor, aye,” he murmured, still amazed he had.

  She looked up suddenly, catching him off guard. Open admiration shone in her face, so much so that he felt a discomfort bone deep.

  A hero in the field. A failure at home. If she only knew . . .

  He filled the taut silence. “And you, Miss Menzies? Have you no desire to return home to Scotland?”

  Surprise flashed in her eyes, making him regret the quick question. “My home is here, General Ogilvy, come what may. I’m an American now, no matter my father’s loyalties.”

  He nodded. “I’m simply trying to gauge how you’re going to get along here at Three Chimneys by yourself.”

  “Till my brother returns?” She paused, tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on pouring the tea. “I may try to resume indigo production. We were quite successful before the war, till British raiders set fire to our fields and storehouses.” She spoke quietly but confidently, as if she’d given the matter much thought. “Three Chimneys also has a fine mulberry grove. I’m considering raising silkworms.”

  “Silk cultivation?” He studied her, slightly disbelieving. “Do you have any idea how labor intensive that is?”

  “I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ve heard a woman and three children can make ten pounds of raw silk for fifty dollars in five weeks’ time.”

  “Until a blight afflicts your mulberry trees and cotton surpasses silk.” At her startled look he continued wryly, “Not to mention your lack of three children.”

  She drew back. “You’re not very encouraging, sir.”

  “Nay. But I am pragmatic.” He tried a different tack. “I remember your mother saying you were a midwife in the making.”

  She shook her head, and he felt another door close. “I’m no howdy, mind you. My mother hoped I would follow in her footsteps, but I merely assisted at a few births. The truth is no one in Roan County wanted my help given my father’s Tory leanings. And in the end few wanted my mother’s either. But you needn’t worry about Three Chimneys.” She gave him a steaming cup—and a disarming smile. “We’ll get along here as we have these eight years past.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, unconvinced. He wagered she’d had a hard time getting any supplies in Roan or elsewhere given the ill feeling against them. And her telling leanness was proof.

  She changed course. “On a lighter note, I’ve met your wee daughter.”

  “So she told me.” He glanced down at his injured hand, wondering if she’d noticed . . . if she’d respond in revulsion like Lily Cate. “She wants to see you again, but I don’t want her to be a nuisance.”

  “Nuisance?” Again her gaze met his, awash with protest. “She’s no nuisance!” She looked oddly hurt—and had likely crossed him off her list of admirable persons. “Is she a bother to you, General Ogilvy?”

  He looked to the cold hearth, afraid she’d read the answer in his eyes. His maimed hand clenched. He wouldn’t say Lily Cate was afraid of him. That she sometimes refused to even speak to him. “Obviously she’s a different child with you.”

  “She’s enchanting. She even curtsied. Her manners are very fine.” Her entreating tone lured him to look at her again. “I invited her to a tea party, just the two of us, only we had no tea. Till now.”

  He paused. Was she so starved for company that even a little girl would suffice? “You sent over a doll for her. She won’t part with it. Even talks to it.”

  “I should hope so, sir. That’s what little girls do.”

  Her continual if respectful use of sir seemed to drive a wedge between them, as did his near fatal misstep about his daughter. “Very well. She can come for a visit. Just send word when you want her.”

  “I shall.” She got up and crossed to a desk beneath a wide Palladian window. He followed the blue swish of her skirts longer than he should have. With her spartan leanness, she reminded him of his scrawniest soldiers. Focusing on the hearth, he was glad there was no fire lulling him with its warmth. As it was, he wanted to stay longer, spill out the problems pressing in on him from Williamsburg. Sophie Menzies seemed a sensible young woman who might help him untangle the trouble he was in.

  She returned and passed him a piece of paper with Lily Cate’s name written in an elegant hand. “Tea is at four o’clock on the morrow. Her doll is invited too.”

  “That would be Sophie.”

  She looked at him, momentarily perplexed. “The doll bears my name?”

  “According to my daughter.”

  Softness filled her face, turning her touchingly girlish. More like the Sophie Menzies he remembered. “I’m honored, truly, General.”

  They finished their tea in silence, making him glad the cups were small. She was likely still thinking of Curtis, probably ruing the lack of news. His gut twisted at not bringing her a good report. He hadn’t felt so rattled since he’d helped rout Cornwallis at Yorktown. Yet there was a strange peace in this cold, war-stripped parlor—and something else he couldn’t explain.

  He’d come here expecting the plump, pampered daughter of his nemesis, but this lass had engaged him on every level.

  Standing, he tossed aside his query of why she had no fire and made ready to leave. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Menzies.”

  “Nay, General Ogilvy. Thank you.”

  Sophie stood at the parlor window and watched Seamus Ogilvy ride away till he was no more than a black streak across the brilliant autumn ground. His rich blue unif
orm with its buff facings and yellow buttons commanded a second look and no small dose of respect. Having a seamstress’s eye, she was drawn to all the braw details. The silken sash draping his chest and the gold epaulettes spanning his shoulders with their silver stars were a heady reminder of his rank. As if she needed reminding. She’d always been partial to rebel blue.

  Despite the rigors of war, he’d somehow managed to emerge more handsome, if a bit weathered. His years away had faded the remarkable eyes she remembered to a weary yet still vibrant indigo. She’d even glimpsed silver threads in his black hair.

  There was no denying his noble cause had cost him dearly. When she’d spied his severed fingers, it had taken all her will not to gasp. If she had, she’d have only injured him further. She’d noticed how he’d self-consciously turned his wrist so that the wound was hidden beneath his coat sleeve, as if it pained him to look at it, or he rued her reaction.

  She reached for the bell cord above her mother’s favorite chair and rang for Glynnis again. Never had her gout-ridden housekeeper come round so fast, her amazement almost amusing. “Tea, ooh-la-la! Not bland bohea but fine congou!”

  “The general simply wanted to soften the news about Curtis.”

  Glynnis’s smile vanished. “What news?”

  “No news really.” The hurt of it was hard to mask. “General Ogilvy doesn’t know where Curtis is. Not since the debacle with Benedict Arnold in Richmond.”

  Clucking her displeasure, Glynnis gathered up the tea tray and led the way to the kitchen. The sweet, nutty fragrance of roasting chestnuts invited them in, banishing any melancholy. “I’ve scored all the nuts and they’re cooking over the coals.” She sniffed. “Mercy, but they’re done in a hurry!”

  “Here, have a wee sit,” Sophie told her. “The chestnuts are better peeled when warm. I’ll manage that while you enjoy your tea.”

  As Glynnis took a stool, Sophie poured her a cup of congou, her practiced poise dissolving with another thought of Curtis. Tepid liquid splashed into the saucer, and Glynnis sipped with relish. “Remember when the general used to pasture sheep in the chestnut grove and they’d crack open the burrs with their hooves?”

  “Oh aye,” Sophie replied, thinking of better days. “Perhaps he’ll bring sheep back to Tall Acre now that he’s home.”

  “I overheard you telling him you’d be fine here with just me and Henry, even if it was more a fib. I didn’t expect you to say we nigh starved last winter and have no hopes of putting in a crop come spring.”

  “We can get by on the apples we’ve harvested and the root vegetables in the cellar,” Sophie murmured as she emptied the pot of steaming chestnuts onto a cloth atop the kitchen table. “Though someone stole our milk cow, we still have a few chickens. Once Curtis comes home, all will be well again.”

  “Perhaps.” Glynnis’s hands shook as she lifted her cup, the rattling cough she’d gotten from a summer cold still astir in her chest. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I did hear you say something more about a tea party.”

  “Tea for three on the morrow. Just me, Lily Cate, and her doll.” Sophie felt a catch in her chest. “Mama always did that, remember?”

  “I’ll not forget.” For a rare moment Glynnis turned wistful. “’Twas always in spring when she’d spread her first tea in the garden beneath the rose arbor, a signal that it was warm enough for you and Curtis to go barefoot. And then again in autumn right before the weather turned. She always seemed to know somehow when things were about to change.”

  The arbor was overgrown now, the roses mostly lost to disease. Perhaps with a little care, she could coax them back to life come spring. Sophie plunged ahead, away from the past. “I’ve set a little molasses by, enough to sweeten our biscuits. I’ll even lay a fine linen tablecloth, some of Mama’s Wedgwood china—”

  “What little the redcoats didn’t destroy, you mean.”

  “Surely there’s something left. I even spied a few late-blooming roses for a bouquet.”

  Glynnis made a face. “Perhaps it won’t be such a flop after all. Henry’s just brought round a crock of cream.”

  “Oh?” The mention made Sophie frown. Henry’s habit of collecting things was uncanny. Though she’d never say so, she feared he was meirleach. A fine thief.

  Glynnis seemed to read her thoughts. “He traded it for some pheasant he shot, he said, though I wonder.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “His eyesight is so poor and he’s deaf as a post . . .”

  “Well, neither of you have drawn wages since the war began, so anything you’re inclined to do is welcome.”

  But stolen or otherwise?

  Lord, forgive us.

  “Well, this is our home nearly as much as yours. Three Chimneys has kept us fed and a roof o’er our heads, even if it’s a leaky one.” Eyeing the nearly empty porcelain teapot, Glynnis muttered, “I wonder how the general came by such fine tea?”

  “Really, Glynnis. Given he’s just conquered England, I’m not surprised.”

  “Ha!” Glynnis sputtered. “You make it sound like he won the war single-handedly!”

  Sophie’s skin crawled with warmth. Was her admiration so obvious—and ridiculous? “All I’m saying is that he has connections. And now that the war’s over, trading can resume.”

  “I must say ’tis good to have a young man about again, especially with rocks being hurled through parlor windows.”

  “Young?” Sophie began fanning the chestnuts with her apron. Seamus Ogilvy was nigh on thirty, at least. “I wouldn’t call the general young.”

  “Young or no, he’ll have his hands full returning Tall Acre to its former glory, and no mistress to boot, just a motherless child.”

  Sophie held her peace and poured the remaining tea, breathing in its intoxicating fragrance and wishing for a little loaf sugar.

  A question rose in Glynnis’s eyes even as a smile hovered. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have designs on the general by way of his little daughter?”

  Sophie set the kettle down so hard the table rattled. “Glynnis! You make the situation sound so—conniving!” A sick feeling swirled in her belly. Is that what Seamus Ogilvy thought? She prayed not. “The truth is I’m lonely. I’ve always loved children. We’ve had no merriment at Three Chimneys for ages, even if it is a humble tea party.” Other than Reverend Hopkins and his wife, they’d had no visitors at all save a beggar or two they’d fed in the kitchen. “Don’t you dare think I’m glaikit enough to set my sights so high. There are plenty of wealthy widows from the war, not to mention wealthy spinsters. Even if I did have designs on him, he’d never consider the penniless daughter of a Tory.”

  “Tories aside, there are no wealthy widows or spinsters on hand who show an interest in his daughter. And he hardly needs a rich wife. Young and virile as he is, any warm, willing one will do—”

  “Glynnis, please.” Though Sophie set her jaw, the storm inside her threatened to break.

  “Call me a matchmaker if you will, but I’ve always had your matrimonial interests at heart. And I’ll forever begrudge heaven for allowing a war to steal away your best prospects. You were the belle of Williamsburg once.”

  “’Twas long ago. What’s done is done.” Sophie moved beyond herself and her stack of regrets, recalling the general’s ravaged hand. “We’ve all made sacrifices, every one.”

  They fell silent, each locked in thoughts too personal to share. Canny Englishwoman that she was, did Glynnis really believe Sophie was smitten? If so, she’d attempt to dispel that notion all she could.

  Thinking it left her feeling steamy as the tea.

  The sun was in back of Three Chimneys, setting fire to its mulberry grove as it blazed from sight. Turning her dreams of silk production to ashes in light of Seamus Ogilvy’s dismissive words. From her bedchamber window, Sophie had a heartrending view of the tumbled-down dependencies and untilled fields that had once been proud and thriving. What had the general thought of the change when he’d ridden over? That this was merely a consequence
of war? Just recompense for her father’s fleeing Virginia?

  “Glynnis, who is that strange man by the arbor?” She put a hand to her throat, fighting the near breathless fear that outsiders always wrought.

  Glynnis’s chuckle set her at ease as she put away clean linens in the clothespress. “He’s a guard. General’s orders.”

  “What?”

  Her housekeeper all but crowed in satisfaction. “The general asked Henry about the broken parlor window. Seems like Seamus Ogilvy does not miss much. And Henry was only too happy to tell him.”

  “But a guard?”

  “The general means to send a message to Roan and whoever else that Three Chimneys is not to be disturbed or they’ll have him to tangle with. He’ll lodge with Henry in the shed.” At Sophie’s slack-jawed silence, Glynnis burst into cackling laughter. “I mean the guard, not the general!”

  Sophie stood, taking it in. The general had done that? For her? Nay, for them all. He’d obviously seen they were little more than prisoners of war at Three Chimneys and sought to do something about it. Or . . . had this guard been placed to keep an eye on her? To ferret out any suspected Tory activity? Did the general regard her as the enemy, much like Roan did?

  “How long is he to stay on?” she asked indifferently, turning away from the window.

  “The guard?” Glynnis lifted her shoulders in a shrug and shut the clothespress. “Best ask General Ogilvy that, Miss Sophie.”

  Ask? Ask she would. At the first opportunity.

  4

  The day of the party dawned clear, but by mid-afternoon the weather was a shambles. Rain fell so hard Sophie was forced to put a ceramic chamber pot beneath the front parlor’s most incessant leak. When the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes, she was tempted to cancel the party altogether. A little girl might catch her death going out on such a day. Torn, she summoned Henry to deliver a note, excusing Lily Cate till the weather turned in their favor.