by Laura Frantz
So he traipsed, did he? She sighed at Florie’s latest indiscretion. “Probably because the snow is a foot deep and he cannot.”
“I don’t suppose you noticed his favoring one lady over another?”
Sophie bit her lip. All she’d noticed was the attention the ladies had paid him. “General Ogilvy is difficult to read.”
“No doubt the ball was a great success.” Taking a chair by the kitchen hearth, Glynnis eyed a pot of porridge. “Did he dance with you?”
“He danced with everyone, even old Mrs. Melbourne who is nearly at death’s door.” The kind act had touched her. “And a fine dancer he is.” Despite his protests to the contrary, he was surprisingly agile, even graceful. She wouldn’t confide that he’d bucked custom, partnering with the least socially prominent woman in the room instead of the most for the opening minuet. “I expect we shall dance at his wedding soon.”
Glynnis heaved a sigh. “I daresay his future’s a bit brighter than ours at present. Florie said—”
“Glynnis!” Sophie sat down hard on a stool, edging her cold feet nearer the fire. “I fear Florie says too much.”
“Well, tittle-tattle seems acceptable if it’s about us.” Glynnis gave a stir to the porridge with a long wooden spoon. “Apparently one of the general’s guests has some claim on Three Chimneys, according to a Miss Randolph.” She looked at Sophie squarely. “You’d do well to tell me these things. This has been my home ever since your mother’s day.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. Miss Randolph has a cousin, an officer, who might be awarded Three Chimneys.” Sophie still felt prickly. “Given Father’s sentiments, it’s considered enemy property and may pass into other hands.”
“Well, I’ve had a letter from my widowed sister in Annapolis, the one who takes in mending.” Glynnis sneezed and started to sputter. She could hardly manage a word without that chilling, bone-deep wheezing. “She has a spare room should we want it.”
The sister who was so old she could hardly see her stitches? And so poor she couldn’t rub two pence together? “’Tis very kind, Glynnis, but I won’t be making any plans just yet.” The quiet answer belied the maelstrom inside her. “For the moment we’re warm, well fed, and have a roof over our heads. Curtis might still come home. All will be well.”
“So say the fairy tales,” Glynnis muttered, resuming her pot watching.
Three days before Christmas another note came. Sophie grew warm all over when she recognized Seamus’s familiar scrawl. She, Glynnis, and Henry had been invited to Christmas dinner. Her heart raced. She’d only just left. Was she now invited back? She wouldn’t, couldn’t, court heartache. Though she hated to disappoint Lily Cate, she dashed off her regrets. And then she burned the invitation lest Glynnis push her out the door.
Quietly they sat down to their Christmas ham and an abundance of dishes reminiscent of better days. Creamed celery with pecans, acorn squash, lima beans, mince pie sweetened with a gill of molasses. Even her old favorite, spoonbread, crowned the table, its golden top rising and nearly touching the oven ceiling when baking. She tried not to dwell on how Henry had come by the costly pecans.
Her mind wandered to the winter frolic she and Lily Cate had enjoyed the morning after the ball, making angel imprints in their heavy coats and boots and mixing snow with Tall Acre’s honey for a tasty treat. Seamus had watched them from an upstairs window for a few moments, leaving her to wonder what went on inside his handsome head. Yet deep down, she knew. He was missing his wife, perhaps wishing she was Anne instead, romping with their daughter in the snow, though Sophie doubted the discontented Anne had ever romped.
Nearby was the Ogilvy graveyard, hemmed in by a stone fence. Had Seamus not been able to grieve during the war? Was that why he wore a path to Anne’s resting place?
The week after Christmas yet another note came from Tall Acre.
Miss Sophie,
Thank you for the pretty gifts.
With love,
Lily Cate
Obviously Seamus had helped Lily Cate write such. In light of the elaborate dollhouse he’d given her, Sophie’s gift seemed too simple, just knitting needles fit for a child’s hands, along with some yarn and simple instructions. They’d been her needles, given to her by a grandmother when she was wee as Lily Cate. As for Seamus, she’d knitted him a scarf, a Highland plaid in her mother’s family colors—purple the hue of wild heather, gray like a Scottish sky. Her heart was in every stitch, and then her courage had failed and she’d hidden it away instead, feeling the gift too familiar.
“Well, we’ve got Christmas over,” Glynnis was saying from the open parlor doorway, eyebrows nearly touching her silver hairline in surprise. “And now we have a different sort of present standing in the parlor.”
For a moment Sophie forgot to breathe. Curtis? Would her heart always leap in anticipation?
As if realizing the hopes she’d raised, Glynnis said hastily, “A Captain McClintock is here to see you.”
For a moment Sophie didn’t move, Lily Cate’s letter slack in her hands. Captain McClintock, one of the general’s officer friends? Of the two men who’d paid her any attention at Tall Acre, he’d been the most persistent.
“I don’t suppose you neglected to tell me anything?” Glynnis studied her with guarded expectation. “Like he might fancy you and has come to tell you so?”
Setting aside the letter, Sophie said quietly, “I haven’t any idea why he’s come.”
“Well, you’ll soon be finding out.”
Thankfully the parlor fire had been lit, though they were still woefully short on wood. Captain McClintock stood looking at the bare mantel where a portrait of her father in the dress of his Highland regiment had hung. She’d spent the last few weeks taking down any reminders of him, and the spot begged for another painting.
“Captain, welcome to Three Chimneys.” She kept her voice cordial, though she was as surprised as her housekeeper to see him.
He twined her fingers in his, bringing them to his lips. His gloved hands were cold, prodding her to offer him a toddy.
“A real Scottish toddy? With whiskey enough to warm the blood?”
“Indeed,” she said with a smile, pulling the bell cord for Glynnis. She motioned to the two chairs fronting the fire where she’d sat with Seamus. Had he sent the captain her way?
“How was your Christmas?” she ventured cautiously, hoping Glynnis would hurry.
“Quiet. Too quiet. And yours?”
“The same.” She smiled self-consciously. “I mean, I like the quiet. Country life is very . . . tranquil.”
He looked at her, a question in his eyes. “I thought you might spend the holiday at Tall Acre. You seem quite attached to the general’s daughter.”
“Ah yes. Miss Lily Cate is fine company.” She reached for a poker and prodded the lazy fire, which added little warmth to the room and had nothing to do with the color filling her face. “I stayed home as my housekeeper has been ill.”
“I trust she’s better.”
Before she could answer, Glynnis came in with the toddy, looking hard at the captain as if still trying to unravel the riddle of his arrival. But she contained her coughing till she’d left the room, at least.
“Are you familiar with Ramsay, Miss Menzies? My estate on Occoquan Bay?”
“I’ve heard of it. A lovely place, I’m told.”
“Aye, ’twas my father’s before me.” He took a long drink as if gathering courage. A strand of thinning hair fell forward over his high forehead. He wore the new style, cut below the collar, giving him the look of a shorn sheep. She’d always preferred a traditional queue like Seamus’s own. A riot of black, it was always neatly tied with dark ribbon.
“Now that it’s the new year, I’m taking the liberty of asking you if you’d like to accompany the Ogilvys to Ramsay when they come visit.”
She masked her surprise, unsure of his meaning. As a companion to Lily Cate . . . or more?
Reaching out, he made him
self clear by taking her left hand in his. No ring rested there, posy or otherwise, no doubt spurring him on. “I’d like to become better acquainted and show you my home . . . commence a courtship if you’re willing.”
She went cold. Under Seamus and Lily Cate’s very eyes? Did the general know of the captain’s intentions?
“I’m flattered, Captain. But I must tell you . . .” She groped for finesse. This painful formality, all their fine-stepping around feelings, was excruciating. “My affections lie elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere.” The disappointment in his face cut her.
She withdrew her hand. “Forgive me, but I must be candid.” For once she was glad of her silly infatuation. Only she’d go to her grave before revealing that it involved his commanding officer.
“I’m sorry too, Miss Menzies.” He downed his remaining toddy in a single gulp. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on a prior arrangement.”
Glynnis ushered him out, then rushed back in as retreating hoofbeats resounded in the crisp winter air. “Heaven help me, but I listened through the keyhole and prayed I’d not cough once. Who on earth has stolen your heart?”
Sophie hesitated. Sometimes the boundaries between them blurred. Glynnis was more doting aunt than servant. Secrets were seldom kept at Three Chimneys.
“I do care for someone, but he doesn’t care for me.” Sophie spoke carefully as a deeper curiosity washed Glynnis’s face.
“From your Williamsburg days, I’d wager.” Her bosom heaved with a sigh. “Well, ’tis a crying shame to see you stuck here with no prospects and no promise there’ll be any.”
“Being a spinster isn’t all that unsavory.” Hadn’t she finally convinced herself of that? “’Tis better than marrying a man I don’t love.”
“Well,” Glynnis said amidst a bout of coughing, “you’re a bonny, faithful lass. The man who does not return your affections is a fool.”
Aye, Sophie almost said with a smile. A high-ranking, handsome fool.
13
Stoic, Seamus sat at his desk and stared at his maimed hand. He could finally look at it without recalling the nightmare of it happening, that stunning, irreversible moment when his world became a fog of pain and fury, three fingers severed in the blink of an eye. Making a fist, he could still feel them. If he shut his eyes they seemed not maimed at all. Only they ached. Phantom pain, the field surgeon called it.
Bad as it was and had been, the trial of physical pain was nothing compared to the stain of guilt he felt. A Hessian soldier had died because of his hand. A mere boy. Seamus wanted to take the moment back. No one should lose his life over a few missing fingers. Not even the enemy.
He’d stopped praying after that. He couldn’t quiet the uneasy notion that God wouldn’t hear his prayers, wouldn’t answer. He’d felt unworthy and nearly soulless since.
His quill quivered and fell. Ink spattered the sheet of foolscap in front of him. He stared at what he’d written, illegible as it was.
Dear Miss Menzies . . .
“Sir, how do you make an S?” Lily Cate’s voice reached out to him across the expanse of desk.
S . . . for Sophie?
She studied him, face solemn. Since Sophie’s leaving as their houseguest, Lily Cate had begun a slow retreat into a shell he couldn’t penetrate. Each day brought a bit more distance. She’d even stopped calling him Papa.
He took out a fresh sheet of foolscap and began to write out the whole alphabet for her with his injured right hand. Slowly. Waveringly. With a confidence he was far from feeling. It didn’t help that she’d taken a step back. The sight of his injury always frightened her, and he understood.
“I can’t remember all the letters Miss Sophie taught me,” she confessed.
“No matter. We’ll soon have a governess for you. I was just writing Miss Menzies about it.”
It was New Year’s Day. With any luck someone would be seeking a position. Someone who had reams of time and far more patience. Aye, patience. His daughter reminded him of a butterfly, flitting place to place, never landing for long. No doubt when she’d made her S, she’d fly away again.
He glanced at her, ricocheting between relief and regret. Relief when Lily Cate dropped her reserve and wanted to be around him. Regret when she’d had enough of his company and fled. Sometimes he felt relief at her going and regret that he did. A good father wouldn’t feel that way. Would he?
For now she kept looking up at him and then down at the paper he was inking, open wonder in her eyes. “How is it having so many things in your head?”
He paused. “Letters and such?”
She nodded. “Is it very crowded?”
“Aye.”
“Is there room for me?”
In answer, he took her fingers in his good hand and helped her shape a big S. “There’s always room enough for you even when it looks like I’m too busy.”
“General . . .” Mrs. Lamont stood on the study’s threshold, smiling pleasantly. “Captain McClintock is here to see you.”
Seamus thanked her, thinking he’d misheard. McClintock rarely came upriver. Was he back? “Send him in.”
“Do you want me to disappear?” Lily Cate asked.
He stared at her, thoughtful. Nay, I want McClintock to disappear.
As he thought it, his junior officer walked in, tricorn in hand, skittering his plans to finish up accounts.
“Welcome back, Will,” he said, trying to be hospitable despite the demands of the day. “I thought you were back home at Ramsay.”
“I was.” McClintock’s vexed expression gave a warning. “But then I decided to make another trip upriver and call on Miss Menzies.”
Lily Cate snapped to attention sooner than Seamus at the mention, but McClintock was staring at Lily Cate as if unwilling to say more. In the onslaught of the captain’s unwelcome words, Seamus had all but forgotten her. “Go upstairs while our guest and I speak privately.”
With a dutiful nod she was off, shutting the door behind her.
“Would you like a drink?” Seamus offered, wanting to cut to the chase instead.
“Nay, I had a toddy at Three Chimneys,” he said, tossing his hat onto a chair, “which helped me get over the sting of her refusal.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re over it, but what exactly are we talking about?”
“I asked Miss Menzies permission to call on her. Court her.”
Court her? A strange heat settled in his belly. Seamus sat on the edge of his desk, swinging a booted leg, feeling like they were back in camp and McClintock had countermanded an order. But it was Sophie’s response that left him hanging. “And?”
McClintock stepped toward a table and uncorked a brandy decanter, obviously still suffering the humiliation. Amber liquid splashed into a glass. He took a sip of the drink he’d just declined, clearly rattled. “She said her affections lie elsewhere.”
Seamus stayed stoic while his mind whirled.
“She said quite plainly that she has another suitor, though she didn’t name him.” He shot Seamus a black look. “You might have warned me.”
“Warned you? I had no idea.” Seamus stared at the rug. Who on earth could it be? A neighbor? Someone in Roan? The guard he’d posted? Mayhap there was more to Sophie Menzies than he’d first thought.
“I even asked her to accompany you and your daughter on your visit to Ramsay for foxhunting in future, hoping she’d come round.”
You what? Seamus wanted to spit. Sophie likely thought he’d sanctioned McClintock’s pursuit, his unexpected proposal. “That wasn’t wise.”
“I realize it now. I should have consulted you first. But the truth is I was so sure she’d agree to everything, I forged ahead.” McClintock cleared his throat. “I never thought to be turned away by a penniless spinster with a property soon to be confiscated, but there you have it.”
“Was it Miss Menzies you wanted or Three Chimneys?”
McClintock had the grace to color slightly. “Both are a draw.”
F
or all his bumbling, McClintock was honest. And lonely. His fiancée had died of fever during the war, and he had little family to call his own.
“There were a number of other women here in December,” Seamus reminded him. “Any one of them would be glad of your suit.”
“Yes, but none of them are Miss Menzies,” he answered thoughtfully. “There’s something about her . . .”
Something, aye. Seamus didn’t like the reminder.
The next day Henry stood at the kitchen door on behalf of Glynnis, who was behind the house chasing down a chicken. “There’s a visitor to see you, Miss Menzies.”
“Another?” Sophie nearly laughed as she settled a pan of biscuits in the bake oven. Three Chimneys seemed like a toll station lately. “And who have we today?”
“General Ogilvy, miss.”
Her levity vanished. “Is his wee daughter with him?”
“Nay, he’s come alone. And he looks all business.”
“Then I’d best not keep him waiting.” Tearing her apron free, Sophie took a last look about the kitchen, wanting to dart up a back stair and mind her hair at least. A quick glance at a hanging copper pot reflected a dusting of flour on her chin. She supposed the general could wait.
A few minutes later she retraced her steps to the parlor, her favorite fichu about her shoulders, her hair repinned, her heart somersaulting along with her stomach. Why General Ogilvy so early in the morning? Half past nine wasn’t exactly the break of day, but his sudden arrival had certainly shaken her awake.
The parlor door was ajar, but no fire was burning. They were trying to conserve wood, and the room felt like a cave. Seamus was standing by the cold hearth in a fulled-wool cloak and cocked hat. Perhaps their meeting would be blessedly brief.
“I’m sorry there’s no fire. Would you like something warm to drink?” She wanted to eat the words as soon as she’d said them.
“Nay.” He looked straight at her, aggravation in his gaze.
Shaking free of that look, she bit her lip. Protocol be hanged! She would have to invite him into the kitchen lest they be frostbitten . . . or her biscuits burn. “Please come with me.”