The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

  “She didn’t know about the doctor’s warning?”

  “I didn’t tell her. I wanted to wait till she had healed. She knew I wanted a son and would have felt a failure.” The rush of words came to a painful halt as if the past was catching up with him, forcing him to relive something better left alone. “When I returned to camp, I wrote a letter and asked my adjutant to give it to her in the event I died in battle. I explained what the doctor had said about future children. My distance.”

  She brushed back a strand of hair the wind had pulled free, meeting his eyes. “I don’t blame her for being upset, but what you did was—” A great many words whirled in her head and settled. Brave. Honorable. Even noble. “You did nothing wrong, Seamus.”

  “I wonder. In hindsight . . .”

  “If you could go back, would you not do the very same?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “As it was, Anne became so angry with my perceived neglect, she decided she wanted our daughter raised by her sister and her husband if something happened to her. She’d always been a bit frail, so her worries weren’t unfounded. She put her wish in writing and died of a fever not long after.”

  Sophie looked down at Lily Cate, wondering how much of Anne was in her features. Anne, for all her failings, seemed deserving of understanding too. She’d been lonely, fearful, isolated. Tempted. Unable to understand who or what Seamus was.

  “’Twas a terrible, trying situation,” she said softly, glad to let it go.

  “Aye, what’s done is done.” There was no rancor in his speech, just raw regret. Though Anne had hurt him deeply by withholding Lily Cate, he was a man too decent to dishonor her memory by speaking disparagingly of her even in death.

  A prayer rose in Sophie’s heart. For healing. Mending. Peace.

  They said no more, lost in their own private thoughts, as the sun dipped lower and a hawk cried out in its circling flight.

  They returned to Tall Acre in a fortnight. Coming into the foyer, Sophie startled to hear the servants call her “Mistress Ogilvy” when she still felt like Miss Menzies.

  Nothing had changed but her name.

  Would it ever?

  She went to her new bedchamber ahead of a servant shouldering her trunk, wondering if Seamus would follow. Leaving the door open, she took stock of her surroundings. A rich Prussian blue, the milk-paint walls still looked fresh, unmarred by time and use. Delicate Queen Anne furniture predominated save the manly secretary along one wall she guessed had been Seamus’s father’s. The room was made more homey and familiar by her own counterpane and desk and the embroidered fire screen she’d worked with her own hand. A rag rug of Glynnis’s making warmed the plank floor in front of the hearth, a wedding gift.

  Spacious and full of light, the bedchamber overlooked the formal garden in back of the house and the Roan River beyond. ’Twas a grown-up room compared to her girlish one at Three Chimneys. She raised her eyes to the lovely plasterwork ceiling, remembering Seamus and Lily Cate were directly overhead. This room had belonged to his parents but had been draped in dust cloths and shut up since their deaths a decade before.

  Her mother’s bedchamber was remarkably similar. From there she’d dispensed instructions to what had once been a large staff, managing Three Chimneys as best she could. Sophie’s father, rarely in residence, wasn’t a part of those memories.

  Was this beautiful room to be hers alone? The memory of their wedding kiss burned bright, but Seamus hadn’t touched her since save handing her in and out of the coach. Might he find her unappealing? Her thinness? Her newness? All the ways she wasn’t like Anne? His ring glinted on her finger. Binding. Irrevocable. And raising a hundred questions she couldn’t answer.

  “Is it to your liking, Sophie?”

  She spun around to find him standing in the doorway. Her heart lifted. “I couldn’t ask for a lovelier spot.”

  “My parents were content here. For forty years or better.”

  “I remember they passed away within a month of each other.”

  “Shortly before the war, aye.” His gaze roamed the room. “My sister, Cosima, and I were born here.”

  “I’ve always wanted a sister.”

  He chuckled. “We’ll see what you say after you’ve met her.”

  “Is she still in Virginia?”

  “Philadelphia. Though once she gets word we’ve wed, we can expect a visit.”

  So far he hadn’t crossed the threshold. She nearly invited him in but was seized with uncertainty.

  “Tomorrow I thought we’d go riding. I need to show you around Tall Acre, have you meet the staff. I tend to rise early, but you may not.”

  She moved toward the windows and opened the shutters. “I do rise early. It seems a frightful waste of the day otherwise. And I’m always ready to ride, rain or shine.”

  He was regarding her in that unsettling way he had, as if she’d done or said something that pleased him. “Till tomorrow then.”

  “You’re not going to . . . retire now, are you?”

  “Nay. I have business in Roan.”

  She nearly asked why, but he stole away before she could. Maddening, that. He’d been known for his stealth during the war, slipping in and out and surprising enemy troops. She’d best get used to it here. Only she wasn’t the enemy. She was his wife.

  Yet she simply felt like his friend.

  “Where is Papa?”

  The plaintive question brought Sophie’s head up. “In Roan,” she answered, forking another bite of chicken pie. Though the words were softly spoken, her voice still resounded to the far corners. The immense dining room, though lovely, was cold and inhospitable for two people. If it was to be just her and Lily Cate, she’d rather resume eating in the small parlor opposite her bedchamber. “He should return soon.”

  Lily Cate sighed. “I miss him.”

  Oh? If so, great progress had been made. Since they’d been together night and day on the honeymoon trip till now, his sudden absence was certainly felt.

  “Papa seems different when he’s with you,” Lily Cate said. “He seems . . .” She scrunched up her face in contemplation. “Merry.”

  “’Tis a nice thought. We should always strive to bring a little cheer.”

  “Does he make you merry?”

  Sophie smiled over the rim of her teacup. More glaikit. Woozy. Upside down. “Yes, indeed.”

  “I fear he will make you so busy you shall have no more time to play.”

  Ah, so that was the gist of it. “I shan’t be too busy for that.”

  Lily Cate returned to her meal, still pensive. “I suppose I’m to have a new governess.”

  Had she overheard them talking? They’d thought her asleep riding home in the coach. “I’ll be your teacher till we find just the right one.”

  “Then I hope we never find one.”

  “Let’s pray we find the right one. The dancing master is coming, by the way.”

  “Who is that?”

  “A gentleman who teaches reels and country dances and such. I think you’ll adore dancing.”

  Brightening, Lily Cate sat upright in her chair. “Like Papa danced with me at the ball?”

  “Yes.” Setting their supper trays aside, Sophie reached for a book on a near table. “What shall it be tonight? Cendrillon? Or La Barbe Bleue?”

  “Not Bluebeard,” Lily Cate whispered with a glance at the shuttered windows. “It reminds me of the man who was watching me. He had a beard—a black beard.”

  A rush of dismay nearly made Sophie drop the book. She’d almost forgotten the troublesome trespasser. “Cendrillon it is.” Settling Lily Cate on her lap, she forced a calm she was far from feeling. “You needn’t think of that man anymore. He’s gone away.”

  No more was said as Sophie read aloud till Lily Cate grew sleepy. She hastened upstairs and tucked the girl into bed after prayers were said, making sure the windows were locked and shutters in place and the fire would last through the night.

  She’d feel better when Seamus
was home. ’Twas her first night alone in a strange bed, and even if he didn’t join her, she’d rest better knowing he was near.

  She returned to her room downstairs and took out the diary she’d bought at Warm Springs. The leather cover was the deep delft blue of a Continental coat, the pages pristine.

  After dipping her quill into a bottle of fresh ink, she penned with disbelief,

  18 March, 1784

  I am the mistress of Tall Acre.

  23

  Morning came, filtering through shutters and curtains and bringing a cold awareness. Though Sophie hadn’t heard Seamus return from Roan, she did see him at breakfast.

  He greeted her, rising from the dining room table. “You’re just in time for our staff meeting.”

  Staff meeting?

  She noticed he never said servants. Staff was a military term and seemed a more respectful one. They soon sat around the large desk in his study like officers convening. Though out of uniform, Seamus was fully functioning as a general in demeanor and tone. But Riggs and Mrs. Lamont seemed not to mind. Did these meetings occur regularly? Sophie hoped not.

  Seamus looked to Riggs, his expression offering a glimpse of his wartime intensity. “I was reviewing your reports from last year, which bear revisiting.” He took out some papers. “In one you wrote, ‘It gives me real concern that we are making nothing—all our wheat destroyed, our mills idle, and but a short crop of corn. Bad weather, this, for lambs. We have lost more than I could have wished.’” He paused, unearthing a ledger. “We can do little about the weather, but we’ll attempt to reverse the losses of past years beginning with collecting rents . . .”

  Sophie listened as a plan was laid out for all facets of life at Tall Acre, including those not present but in Seamus’s employ and Riggs’s oversight—carpenters, bricklayers, brewers and bakers, millers and stable hands. Mrs. Lamont’s duties followed and then Sophie’s own. The clock struck ten, and Seamus studied it grimly as if time were more adversary than ally.

  “Any questions or concerns?” he said at last, taking them in with a glance.

  “Some of our children are sick, among them a boy of Alice’s who I fear may die.” Mrs. Lamont gathered her shawl closer. “Worms, I believe, is the cause of his malady.”

  “Have you tried the usual remedies? Southernwood and black currant and the like?” At Mrs. Lamont’s nod, he said, “Take Mistress Ogilvy with you to see what more can be done, and then send for the doctor.”

  Listening, Sophie had to remind herself that she was the Mistress Ogilvy of whom he spoke.

  “If it’s more medicine you need, the Roan apothecary should oblige. Let me know by nightfall how the children are faring.”

  At that, Mrs. Lamont and Riggs excused themselves.

  Seamus’s eyes found hers. “I’ll be out with Riggs this morning but will meet you at the stables around noon.”

  She gave him a half smile. “Aye, aye, General.”

  Looking amused, he took a seat on the edge of his desk. “Perhaps I should have asked if you would ride with me.”

  “Dare I defy your order?”

  His answering smile was contrite. “Noon then.” His gaze fell to the book in her hands. “What is that you’re holding?”

  “Your mother’s housekeeping book.” She clutched it to her chest like it was the answer to every question she’d encounter. “I found it in a bedchamber cupboard and have a feeling I’ll be needing it.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, and she went out, stepping into her role as mistress without any inkling of how she would meet his exacting expectations.

  And feeling fresh sympathy for Anne.

  At noon Seamus met Sophie at the stables, surprising her with a new bay mare. The handsome horse nickered at her approach, tossing its silky head as if seeing if she would startle. With a groom’s help she settled into the saddle, and they wasted little time making their way down a side lane to the river, where Seamus inspected the landing.

  The wooden structure jutted out into the water on rotund pilings and looked secure, though it creaked beneath his weight as he walked the length of it. Could he swim? The Roan River was deep, but it wasn’t a far crossing to the opposite shore. Meadowsweet and wild roses would soon smother its banks, lush and fragrant. Her gaze landed reluctantly on Early Hall.

  “I’m expecting a supply of shingles to be delivered this afternoon by sloop. But we can ride till then.” He came to stand beside her, looking out across the river at the empty mansion, noting her curiosity.

  “’Tis a shame so grand a house has fallen into disrepair,” she murmured. No smoke puffed from its many chimneys. No sign of life enlivened its stony facade. Anne’s diary came to bear, tainting the peace of the morning.

  I have met a man, the erstwhile master of Early Hall, an Englishman . . .

  Seamus bent to adjust her stirrup. “You remember the Earlys?”

  “Curtis spent time there. The heir was a friend of his.” She felt a bit duplicitous saying so little. Anne’s diary had told her far more. Far too much.

  “If you recall, the owner was a former Virginia burgess. He returned to England during the war and has been heard of no more.”

  “Is it confiscated Tory property?”

  “Mayhap.” With a shrug of his shoulders, he swung himself effortlessly into the saddle. Vulcan snorted, ready to be off.

  Sophie stole a last look at the abandoned house. What had become of Anne’s riding chair, the one she’d used her last summer at Tall Acre? Was it still in the stables? Perhaps it could be of use to her and Lily Cate.

  As they set out down a back lane, Riggs approached, concerned with yet another domestic detail that needed to be dealt with immediately.

  “I guess the moral of this story is never return from eight years of war and a fortnight’s honeymoon and expect anything but chaos,” Seamus remarked without exasperation as Riggs rode away.

  Sophie said nothing to this, holding tight to their private time at Warm Springs, unromantic as it was, amidst the sudden busyness. Turning in the saddle, she waved at Lily Cate, who watched from an upstairs window, her face pressed to the glass.

  “Seamus, there’s something I need to tell you about the stranger Lily Cate has seen. It may be of little consequence, but last night she told me he has a beard. A black beard.”

  His eyes were sharp. “She’s not seen him of late.” It wasn’t a question, rather a dare to say otherwise.

  “She says not.”

  “Anything else?”

  She shook her head, and he grew quiet, making her fear she’d tainted the peace of the morning with such talk. They rode west, skirting the weathered fence line that hemmed in crops and livestock, sunlight warming their backs. The bearded stranger faded to nothingness, swallowed up by the ever-changing landscape.

  “Spring has always been my favorite season, in war and out,” he told her.

  “Oh aye,” she agreed. Finally, winter was loosening its grip, and summer’s heat with its oppressive swarm of insects had yet to set in. Awed by the hills and valleys stretching without end, she said, “I didn’t realize Tall Acre was so vast.”

  “Five thousand acres is a bit ambitious for one man to manage even with the best of help.”

  She frowned. A great deal needed to be done to reverse the years of absence if Tall Acre was to turn profitable again. But with so many slaves freed . . .

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sophie. I can see it in your face. The work will get done with or without them. Half the freedmen are staying on, and new indentures are coming. There are tenants aplenty.”

  Indeed, cottage after cottage met her eye as they cantered past. Tall Acre lay like a brown quilt, pieced together in patches, tenants farming sections and paying rent to the estate. Minutes bled into one hour, then two. They finally stopped at a far-flung gate, where he dismounted and took tools from his saddlebag to mend it.

  She looked east, thinking of her own tumbled fences. “Three Chimneys could always be sold.�
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  “You would do that?”

  “’Tis yours, Seamus, remember.”

  “’Tis ours, Sophie.” The way he said it, the lingering look he gave her, sent her stomach somersaulting again.

  Slipping free of the saddle, she gave an affectionate stroke down her mare’s muzzle and watched Seamus at work. A neat row of nails and a repaired latch soon held the once sagging gate in place and the roaming sheep in. “You’re a carpenter as much as a soldier, I see.”

  “Aye, and a planter too. We’ll be sowing winter wheat by week’s end, Lord willing.” He returned the tools to his saddlebag. “The Almanack calls for an early spring.”

  He sounded so sure, so confident. “I, on the other hand, hardly know where to start.”

  With a wink, he handed her a canteen. “I have no trouble giving orders.”

  She took a long drink. “Let’s hope I have no trouble following them.”

  “’Tis no trouble, surely. You simply need to oversee the staff and dependencies from dawn till dusk, quell any riots or runaways, and hand me regular reports about the state of each.”

  Amused, she pressed a hand to her lips to hold her mouthful of water in.

  “The dairy and spinning house are your foremost concerns,” he said, all levity gone.

  Mention of the spinning house left her half sick. She wanted to scrub Anne’s caustic references to it from her mind.

  “Tend to Lily Cate like you’re doing. That’s most important of all.”

  “I wonder if I can be what she needs. The mother she needs.”

  “You might not have the makings of a midwife,” he said without hesitation. “But you’re a born mother if there ever was one.”

  Then let me give you a son.

  She nearly shut her eyes as the thought stained her conscience. A wanton wish, perhaps. Yet Seamus’s own words leapt to mind, mingling with her own longings to create a small storm.

  She knew I wanted a son . . .

  Ever since he’d shared the intimacy about Anne, Sophie’s imagination had taken untold liberties. She wanted to give him the son he wanted, the son she wanted. She’d long dreamed of a houseful of children. Lily Cate was only the start.