The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

  She opened the door, hands clammy. A young woman lay on a corner bed, her dark face beaded with sweat despite the chill, a cry catching in her throat at the sight of Sophie. Her first baby, likely.

  A burly, homespun-clad man—Shay?—turned round, his pained expression spelling out his own anguish. “Miss Menzies, you come just in time. Kaye’s nearly wore out.”

  “Not too much longer now, perhaps.” Taking a deep breath, she hung her cloak from a peg, rolled up her sleeves, and washed her hands.

  Her mother had been a stickler for cleanliness. She’d heard General Washington had insisted on sanitary measures in the field hospitals despite the upheaval all around him too. Even Seamus was as clean as he was commanding.

  She glanced at the dwindling fire and then at Shay with a practiced smile. “Is there another woman who can assist? Or can you fetch more wood, bring hot water and clean linens?”

  With a nod he passed outside. Sophie rummaged in her satchel and took out a heavy apron, a knife for the cord cutting, and a flannel cover for the baby’s tender belly. Opium tincture and a dropper came next. Sophie studied the bottle, her mother’s voice in her ear. Five drops to ease the pain—but slowly. We don’t want them coming up again. Try a little water after. She dispensed the drops, praying for her mother’s composure.

  The next hour became a blur of muffled crying and supervising, the sun sinking lower. Sophie had forgotten the pain, how much time a baby took, as she sponged Kaye with cool water and gauged her progress with the feel of gentle hands. Her throat grew dry from soothing words, her fingers nearly raw from wringing out cold cloths.

  Glad for the shadows at so vulnerable a time, Sophie worked with Shay to keep Kaye calm and the baby’s progress unimpeded. Despite the uncertainty and risk, there was a palpable excitement. Shay hoped for a boy but would be glad of a girl.

  “Nearly there,” Sophie reassured Kaye as the baby’s head crowned.

  With a prolonged push, Kaye bore down a final time. Sophie felt a warm rush and then a slippery filling of her outstretched hands. For a moment awe held her captive. She wiped the newborn clean with linen, bundled him up, and handed him to his exhausted mother, gladdened by their joy and her own small part in the process.

  For a few bewildering seconds her thoughts veered to Seamus. Would she be summoned here to help deliver his son in time? Turn to him with a tiny bundle and lay a baby in his arms?

  Nay, I cannot. I’ll see Scotland first.

  She lost herself in the necessity of changing bed linens and fetching a supper tray, glad the baby was blessedly quiet if wide-eyed. A few women from the quarters came in to tend Kaye as Sophie made ready to leave, their shared laughter and talk like a comforting quilt. She envied them their warm camaraderie.

  Washing up at the basin, she gave a few last instructions to Shay before passing out the door into a windy night, the moon full and round as a copper shilling. Mindful of the icy walkway, Sophie rounded a garden wall and nearly collided with the general. He was wearing his blue cloak and the scarf she’d made him. She could make out its pattern in the moonlight, a pleasing palette of purple and gray, and felt as warm as if its snug folds graced her own throat.

  He was clearly glad to see her. “How goes it with Kaye?”

  “A braw son.” Her voice was buoyant but threaded with weariness. “All is well.”

  “If so, I have you to thank.”

  “I can take little credit. God has a way of birthing babies with or without our help.”

  “You remember Lily Cate’s birth.”

  “Every detail.” But mostly she remembered the wanting. The wanting to be married. The wanting to be mistress of Tall Acre. The wish that her mother was attending her instead. A slow, startling awareness took hold. Had she been smitten with Seamus even then?

  “That seems a lifetime ago.”

  She sensed the sad drift of his thoughts and changed course. “I’m surprised to find you out on so bitter a night.”

  “I always make the rounds to be sure nothing is amiss.”

  “No more trouble, I hope.”

  “None, nay.” Taking her arm, he began steering her toward the house. “Come into my study and get warm.”

  She almost smiled. Yet another order, this one welcome. In moments he’d summoned a maid and set her satchel by the door. Her gaze strayed to the paneled walls and then the hearth where his rifle rested as she rearranged things in her mind. She’d draw back the heavy curtains. Work a new fire screen. Put away so many of the weapons that gave the room a melancholy feel. But this was his domain, after all. Despite its overbearing masculinity, the room held an intoxicating warmth and richness—or was it simply Seamus’s presence?

  He came behind her, removing her cloak. “I’ll settle up with you before you go.”

  “You said the very same to my mother when Lily Cate was born.” She tucked a wayward strand of hair beneath her cap, lost in the recollection. “Do you recall her answer?”

  Looking bemused, he shed his own coat and scarf. “Aye. And you?”

  “There is no fee, she said, not for a hero of the Revolution.”

  “At least let me lodge you.”

  She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. Could he sense she had no desire to leave? “Lodging, yes.” Breaking free of his gaze, she added, “Perhaps breakfast with Lily Cate come morn.”

  “Done.” He rested one arm along the mantel. “I thought, if you came and helped with the birth, you might consider following in your mother’s footsteps.”

  Surprise pinched her. “You’re trying to make a howdy out of me.”

  “Aye, but you’re not going to oblige me, I can tell. What about a secretary then?” He gestured to his desk. “As you can see, I’m in dire need of help with paperwork.”

  Was he having trouble writing, given his maimed hand? Though cast in shadows, the chaos was apparent—and out of character. She felt a new tenderness for him. “If I could accomplish what you wish . . .”

  “I’ve no doubt you’ll do admirably.”

  “I want no payment, understand. None but your praise.”

  “That I can give you.” He shifted, the firelight glancing off the buttons of his waistcoat. “Though I’m willing to give more.”

  More? Was he trying to help her earn her keep, knowing the loss of Three Chimneys was imminent? Her pride wouldn’t allow her wages. Nay, not pride. All she wanted was his regard . . . his heart. The truth sent her gaze to her shoes.

  “We need to begin rebuilding our lives. We have to start somewhere.” He kicked at a log with his boot and sent it tumbling backwards in the grate. “We need to let go of what was and try again. Take advantage of every opportunity.”

  Did he feel she was holding on to the past, unwilling or unable to move forward? Or had he moved on . . . chosen a bride? Dread pooled in her belly. She’d known it was coming. But oh, the hurt . . .

  “There’s an empty cottage you can have here at Tall Acre. It belonged to my father’s secretary.”

  A cottage. Cozy. Secure. Closer to Lily Cate. She wrestled with her longing and took a step nearer the smoldering fire, holding out her hands to its heat. “Your offer is generous, but I cannot leave Three Chimneys until I must.” She felt that old, unwelcome sadness take hold. The longing for what was. The uncertain pull of the future. “Sometimes I—I feel caught between the present and the past. Waiting. Hoping.”

  “’Tis one of the things I admire about you, that hope.” His voice dropped a notch, luring her to look at him. “Despite everything, you never let go. Never give up.”

  He was so near she felt the sturdy, reassuring warmth of him. She drank in the bottomless blue of his eyes like cold, quenching water.

  “You’re a riddle, Sophie Menzies . . . a beautiful, bewildering riddle.”

  All the emotion of the moment rose up and clouded her vision. His callused fingers were surprisingly gentle as he caught the tear streaking her cheek. It sent her heart shattering into a thousand brittle bits.<
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  A timid if distinct knock on the door drove them apart. Seamus’s hand fell away. Sophie sank her hand into her pocket for a handkerchief as a maid entered, bearing a tray laden with a veritable midnight feast.

  Saying no more, he seated Sophie by the fire, a small table between them. She was hungrier than she realized, glad when he began speaking of mundane matters like the paperwork that begged her help. She tried not to look at him, tried to think no more of the moment than she ought. It seemed nothing poignant had passed between them.

  Finishing her meal, she brushed a bread crumb from her bodice. “I’ll gladly see to your papers once I return home from Annapolis.”

  He set down his knife and fork. “Annapolis?”

  “A letter has come from Glynnis. She’s worsening and wants to see me. I thought I’d leave on the stage once the roads clear.”

  “You’d best take my coach. One hundred fifty miles is quite a journey, and my driver knows the route.”

  She was too tired to protest. “I’m not sure when I’ll return.”

  He sat back, leaving his meal unfinished. “I’m sorry about your going, but I understand.”

  Did he? Glynnis needed her. It might be the last time they’d be together. In this realm, at least.

  “Do you have funds for travel?”

  “Funds enough.” She wouldn’t take money from him. His seemingly unending generosity must have an end.

  “You wouldn’t . . . stay on?” The quiet question was asked offhandedly, but a strange heat pulsed beneath. “In Annapolis, I mean.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  He frowned. “I don’t mean to give you any ideas. I was merely thinking of Lily Cate. Selfishly so.” He started to say more, then got up abruptly and retreated behind the bulk of his desk.

  She stood and retrieved her satchel, weariness pressing down on her like a blanket. “Thank you for supper. I’d best get to sleep.”

  “I’ll be here if you need me.” He lit a second candelabra and moved it nearer some ledgers. From the look of things, he’d be up till dawn.

  “Do you spend the night in your study?” she queried.

  “On occasion.”

  She almost chided him, but it wasn’t her place. Only she was no longer sure what her place was. She simply knew she needed to be free of this room before her feelings ensnared her further. She needed distance, a diversion. She was glad of Annapolis, but it seemed as far away as the Orient.

  Her wayward heart was already counting the hours till she’d be back.

  17

  Sophie awakened to utter darkness, roused by a baby’s cry in the quarters. Kaye and Shay’s? She got up and checked on Lily Cate. Sound asleep, the girl looked more angel in the glow of firelight, an echo of Seamus in her face. Returning to her room, Sophie lit a beeswax candle. Tall Acre had a great many candles, a luxury unknown to Three Chimneys. Still, she felt parsimonious. Old habits were hard to break. And not only old habits. New, insidious ones too.

  Anne’s diary was soon in hand, marked by a silk ribbon. She felt like a trespasser, a thief. Why did she keep reading? Did she hope to uncover some flaw in Seamus? Something that would lessen his hold on her heart?

  8 August, 1779

  Today our daughter is one year old. Seamus has likely forgotten. The Revolution rages on and I am supposed to celebrate a birthday? When all I can think of is his dying? Being hung as a traitor? I will be a widow with a fatherless child. A woman with an estate I despise.

  Myrtilla makes it worse. She refuses to wean Lily Cate, probably on account of her own lost babe. Riggs blames me, saying I am keeping her from her work. I am torn. If Myrtilla returns to the spinning house, I must return to being a mother. And I have no strength. I am wasting away in this isolated place. My husband’s fate torments me night and day.

  27 September

  A lovely start to autumn. Cooler weather becomes me. Lily Cate has learned to walk. She holds on to my hand and we go about the garden. She is especially fond of the baby ducks. I worry about her fascination with water. The river is so close.

  She thinks everything is a delight. A butterfly landed on her shoulder, and she laughed and tried to catch it with her chubby hands before it flew away. She looks more and more like her father, which is bittersweet to me.

  3 November

  Much sickness in the quarters. I have brought Myrtilla into the house, which incenses Riggs, but I need the help. I cannot tend an active child. The spinning house, I told him, can go to blazes!

  At night when all is calm, I beg the housekeeper for the key, go to the cupboard in Seamus’s study, and make use of the Green Fairy. It soothes me as nothing else can. He would be angry with me if he knew, but what am I to do? He is gone, and there is no companionship or comfort in this forsaken place. Not even a letter from him of late—and no visit in over a year. Of course I do not write to him. How can I when I do not even know where he is?

  Still, I am teaching Lily Cate to say “Papa.” That, at least, I can do. Only she doesn’t know what it means and might never have the good fortune to use it.

  Rubbing her forehead with cold fingers, Sophie listened for Seamus below. He’d not yet come to his room. What would he think of her sitting here, Anne’s diary open in her lap? She took it up again. One blank page, then two. No more entries had been made till spring.

  19 March, 1780

  Along the alley the cherry trees are budding. I long to smell the honeysuckle Seamus planted in honor of our wedding day.

  Lily Cate is running now. I cannot catch her. Myrtilla is good with her, which eases my conscience and leaves me to my leisure.

  3 May

  I have met a man . . .

  Sophie’s breathing thinned. Though she had never been courted, had never been kissed, and was untried as to the ways of a man with a woman, she sensed what Anne’s next words would be.

  There came a footfall on the stair. Seamus? She shut the book, forgetting to mark her place. The silk ribbon slipped to the floor and she bent to retrieve it, heart jumping. After going to her satchel, she hid the diary in the bottom beneath her belongings. She would take it to Three Chimneys, out of harm’s way. There she would dispose of it if it continued to haunt her.

  She had no heart to read on, if only for Seamus’s sake.

  “More snow is falling, Papa.”

  Lily Cate stood in his bedchamber doorway, still clad in her nightgown, her hair hanging down in fat ringlets like sausages. It was dawn, frosty light edging the windowpanes. The house was still bitterly cold despite the near constant fires.

  She was regarding him with a sort of thoughtful awe, as if he had control of the weather and could make the sun shine instead. He finished buttoning his breeches and went to her, not wanting to waste the moment. With his shirt untucked and his feet bare, he took a chair nearest the fire and set her on his knee. “What are you really telling me?”

  “I want to see Miss Sophie.” She looked up, her fingers plucking at the smooth seam of his linen shirt as she waited for his answer. “Can we go to Three Chimneys now?”

  “At six o’clock in the morning?”

  She nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid the snow will soon be so deep we cannot.”

  He looked to a window where the sky was leaden gray. The slight ache of his joints, his bad hand, told him they’d be snowbound for days. “She’s likely still abed.” The stray thought was so pleasant it sent the heat crawling up his neck. “A lady needs her rest.”

  “I suppose I should have my lessons first.” Her chin quivered. “I would ask Miss Townsend to go with me, but you told me not to talk so much of Miss Sophie, remember?”

  “All I said was that you need to attend to your schooling and be less glib.”

  She studied him. “What does glib mean?”

  “Glib means ‘gabby’—talking too much. You don’t usually have a problem with this, but ’tis better to be quiet at lessons.”

  “I promise to be quiet if you take me to see
Miss Sophie.” Reaching up, she took his unshaven jaw in her little hands and kissed his chin. Overcome, he shut his eyes. She’d never kissed him before. Not once. And it didn’t matter that it was merely a means to an end. At that moment he would have taken her to England to see the king. “Please, Papa.”

  He nearly couldn’t speak. “You don’t have to travel to Three Chimneys. Miss Menzies is right here.”

  “Here?” She looked about. “Where?”

  He gestured toward the adjoining door. Scrambling off his lap, she started away, but he caught her hand. “She was up rather late, and I don’t want her disturbed—”

  The door in question cracked open and silenced him. Sophie’s voice crept out. “Are you decent, General?”

  “Aye.” Seamus looked down at his state of undress, unwilling to refuse her entry. “Decent enough.”

  Lily Cate rushed toward the barely open door, the joy on her face immeasurable. He watched as Sophie peeked round the door frame, suspended in a moment he wanted to hold close forever.

  And then the thought of Annapolis cut in.

  Without a word, he finished dressing and went below to his study. Already his mind was taking him places he had no wish to go. What if Sophie found the city to her liking? Or Glynnis convinced her to stay on as nurse? What if she didn’t come back?

  What did it matter?

  But somehow it did.

  The only one happy with the arrangement would be Miss Townsend.

  Clad in her warmest cape and bonnet, Sophie left for Annapolis in the Ogilvy coach two days later, her purse holding what little money she’d gotten from the sale of her father’s remaining belongings in Roan. A small marble bust of King George had brought nothing but sneers, though his collection of history books and fine thistle pipes had put a few pounds in her pocket. But would they ever get there?

  The coachman shouted down at the first change of horses. “Worse weather on the way—I can feel it in my bones!”

  Unconcerned, Sophie settled in, a foot warmer of hot coals beneath her feet, glad for the change of scenery. Studying the white landscape through the coach window, she found herself clinging to all the landmarks she knew by heart. The Roan River sluiced through the valley like a satin ribbon, partially frozen, the hills around it gentle and familiar. She didn’t look back. Tried to ignore the urge to dwell on her midnight supper with Seamus. Yet his low words to her wouldn’t let her go.