by Laura Frantz
Sophie spoke, a smile in her voice. “Jenny will be with you.”
“Jenny?” She looked up, still bewildered. “How many days?”
Sophie held up seven fingers. “Once you return, we’ll start school. Won’t that be a delight? All those books you’ve been wanting to read . . .”
Seamus didn’t miss the emotion in Sophie’s words. He shouldn’t have confessed his dread of Lily Cate leaving. In the hours since, his turmoil had quickened, overtaking him like an enemy he couldn’t shake off. Could Sophie sense that?
Lily Cate yawned, and Sophie held out a hand. “For now ’tis time for a bedtime story.”
Turning toward him again, she reached up, cradling his chin in her fingers. “Goodnight, Papa.”
The brush of her lips was warm. Heartrending. He fought the urge to hold her too long, too possessively. He released her reluctantly, watching as Sophie led her away in what had become a touching nighttime ritual. He tried not to dwell on another separation, both tonight and in the days to come.
Sophie stood in the Fitzhughs’ grand parlor, biting her lip lest she blurt out something she’d regret and add to the bitter feeling filling the room. Charlotte was making a scene about Jenny, demanding she return with them to Tall Acre. Standing behind the sofa on which Charlotte sat was Fitzhugh, looking bored and saying little, staying beyond the fray.
“I tell you, she is an unfit companion for Lily Cate.” Charlotte addressed Sophie as if she were to blame. “Nor is she welcome in my home. I—”
“Then we’ll take our leave, the four of us.” Seamus’s calm overrode her complaining. He took Sophie by the elbow and turned to go out when Charlotte erupted all over again.
“But the court order—”
“The girl—Jenny—will stay.” Fitzhugh spoke at last, taking a snuffbox from his pocket. “Next time we shall insist on Lily Cate coming alone.”
“There will be no next time if this visit is less than I hope.” Seamus’s grip on Sophie’s arm never lessened, but he continued in his low, measured tone. “We’ll return a week from today at first light.”
“First light?” Charlotte brought a silver vinaigrette to her nose, rife with the heady scent of cloves. Her sulky frown left Sophie wondering if Anne had been half as petulant.
“First light,” Seamus stated again.
They went out without another word, having already said their goodbyes to Lily Cate and Jenny, who were now playing in the garden under a servant’s watchful eye.
Once in the coach they said little, the unwelcome separation heavy, the sour encounter uppermost. Sophie leaned back against the leather seat, shoulder to shoulder with Seamus. The Fitzhughs wouldn’t mistreat Jenny, surely. The thought turned her sick inside. Myrtilla had been good about her going. Did Charlotte somehow know about Myrtilla and Anne’s bitter past? Could that account for her resistance about Jenny? Or was it simply because they still considered Jenny a slave?
Through the coach’s open window, she lost sight of the Fitzhughs’ townhouse when they turned onto Francis Street. Seamus was quiet. Too quiet. Knowing she could say little in the way of comfort, she leaned her head against the leather seat and shut her eyes, counting days instead of sheep. In only a week they’d be a family again.
Once they were home, the silence echoed. As the evening sunset flamed scarlet-pink, Seamus came in from a visit to a tenant, no more hungry than she. He soon excused himself again, going to the dovecote to oversee the renovations.
Alone in her room, Sophie contented herself with a bath instead of supper, sinking deep into the copper tub, her skin slick from fragrant French-milled soap. Florie helped wash her hair, pouring pitcher upon pitcher of fresh water till every strand came clean. A finely embroidered nightgown lay across the settee, a wedding gift from Cosima.
So clad, she sat by the fire and dried her hair, listening for Seamus’s step, her heart in her throat. Once Florie left, she cracked open both doors, the one in back of the stairs and the one leading to the hall and small parlor. The subtle invitation—or was it brazen?—brought the blood rushing to her cheeks.
’Twas nine o’clock, the time she’d always thought of as hers and Lily Cate’s. Aesop’s Fables lay on a near table. She couldn’t imagine Charlotte reading fairy tales. She didn’t seem the type to pay children much attention. And Fitzhugh? She shivered. With his stiff pomp and polish, he reminded her of her father. Thoughts of Curtis crowded in, magnifying her angst. Still stung by his betrayal, she shoved down her longing to see him again.
An open door creaked, raising hope it was Seamus, but ’twas only a stray draft. If he was as unsettled as she, couldn’t they draw comfort from each other? A snatch of Scripture sprang to mind but held no solace either.
By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth; I sought him, but I found him not.
His callused hand held fragile wildflowers. Field pansies and lilies of the valley. Standing outside the stillroom, Seamus took a breath, feeling the fool, wondering if anyone was watching. He might have gone into the formal garden and gathered far more showy ones than these, but he’d been drawn to the pasture where the wildflowers bloomed. They seemed more Sophie’s style, like the pearls.
Behind him, two maids hurried past, giggling all the way down the colonnade connecting the summer kitchen to the main house. His skin prickled with warmth beneath the linen of his cravat.
The master of Tall Acre had far more pressing matters to tend to than gathering posies, no doubt. But still he stood there, convicted.
With his free hand he pushed open the stillroom door to . . . emptiness.
Disappointment knifed him. And then Mrs. Lamont’s voice broke over him from the rear, abject apology in her tone. “Mistress Ogilvy has gone to Roan, sir. To see about something for Miss Lily Cate.”
With that she swept away, her yellow skirts swirling as she walked. Flustered, he stepped into the stillroom’s shadows, an avalanche of memories overtaking him. Then, as now, bunches of dried lavender and herbs perfumed the close space. His mother’s housekeeping book lay open on a table. He could almost see her beloved head bent in concentration, hear the scratch of her pen against paper. In the margins, Sophie’s own handwriting abounded. His new wife took her duties very seriously.
If he had quill and ink, he’d leave her a note. But what would he say? His mother’s gentle whisper came.
Let your actions speak louder than your words.
The flowers already seemed to be fading, choked by his damp grip. Should he get a jar to put them in? Fetch water from the well? Leave them for her? Beset by second thoughts, he placed them atop the book. When he started back outside, he nearly bumped into Riggs, who was waiting impatiently.
“Sir, you’re needed immediately at the mill. The new tumbling dam’s given way in the recent rain and is jamming the watercourse.”
Setting his jaw to curb his frustration, Seamus started for the stables, all thoughts of courting relegated to the far reaches.
At dusk, Sophie came into the stillroom. All was as she’d left it when she’d ridden to Roan with her groom. Or was it not? The door was slightly ajar. Her stool was out of place. A bouquet of wilted blooms lay on the wide trestle table.
Seamus?
Did he have a particular fondness for wildflowers? Even with acres of garden at his back door? Bending, she breathed in their fading fragrance, the sweetness rivaling his gallant gesture. Likely he had no knowledge of their meaning. Lilies signified a return of happiness; pansies bespoke loyalty.
Oh, that she had been here to take them from his willing hands. Give him a few words of thanks, a tiny piece of her heart, in return. The luxury of being alone with him seemed an extravagance she would never know. She’d missed his presence today by mere minutes, perhaps, all in a silly quest for underpinnings.
The next few days swept past with scarcely a glimpse of him, but she had little room to ponder it or show her thanks. Tall Acre seemed determined to wrest from them every waking moment and ounce
of strength they possessed. And more.
27
On the Sabbath, Sophie sat side by side with Seamus in the Ogilvy pew for the first time since they’d married. Her gaze drifted from the kirk’s old English organ to a wide window framed in sunlight. A lamb looked down at her, its stained-glass shepherd leading. Again she was reminded of Lily Cate, who had a special fondness for lambs. She’d soon be home for all the fullness of spring.
The benediction was said, and before they’d turned out of their row, the questions flew. Church members who’d turned aside without a word now greeted her openly. Marrying Seamus had given her a measure of respectability, a new presence.
“General Ogilvy and Mistress Ogilvy, where is your little daughter?”
Sophie smiled at the once unfriendly seamstress as Seamus answered. “In Williamsburg visiting relatives. She returns home on the morrow.”
“Such a charming child. You’ve been missing her, no doubt.”
“Very much,” Sophie said. “Counting the hours, even.”
They moved outside into a misting rain where the coach awaited. A number of parishioners were missing, the churchyard oddly empty. A smallpox outbreak on a neighboring plantation had Seamus intent on inoculating them all. They returned home, and the house nearly yawned without Lily Cate, most of the staff absent on the Sabbath. They entered the small parlor where a quiet meal awaited, with hardly a word between them.
Suddenly tongue-tied at being alone with this husband of hers, so near she could almost hear him breathing, Sophie hardly recognized her answered prayers for what they were. She and Seamus were entirely alone. The day was theirs to do with as they wished. And she was naught but . . . numptie.
He’d removed his coat, for it was a warm day despite the damp. In turn she’d not worn a shawl. They sat in their respective chairs, so close his leg brushed the edge of her gown. Finished with his own simple meal, he reached for The Gentleman Farmer, and she remembered she hadn’t thanked him for the lilies and pansies he’d left for her.
Her voice came soft in the stillness. “How did you know lilies of the valley are my favorite flower?”
He smiled, gaze never leaving the book in hand. “Would you neglect the poor pansy, Sophie? Admittedly, they are no match for your lilies. But they are the hue of your eyes.”
Delight enveloped her from head to toe. Was he toying with her? She was cast back to warm, witty Williamsburg days shimmering with silk and candlelight, fluttering fans and secret flirtations.
She took a breath. “Both are exquisite.” Did he know she’d kept them, even wilted? She couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you picked them. Sometimes I think we are too busy. Too busy for the finer things . . .” Dare she say it? “For each other.”
He set the book aside, his low voice like a caress. “Would you have more of me, Sophie?”
She kept her eyes on her lap. “I would have as much of you as you are willing to give, Seamus.”
The silence lengthened as if he was sifting through her words, every nuance, every syllable. Could he sense that she was holding out her heart to him, nearly spelling out what she could not say?
Seamus, there is no other man. Only you.
He took her hand. The strength of his fingers was surprisingly gentle. Slowly he pressed his lips to her palm and then her wrist, moving up her bare arm to the lacy waterfall of her sleeve. She shut her eyes, well beyond thought. Beyond words. His kisses lingered like a trail of fire on her skin.
Was this how love began? Softly? Unexpectedly? With pangs of aching sweetness? ’Twas nothing like his careful, self-conscious wedding kiss. This was . . . bliss.
From somewhere far off came the unwelcome intrusion of hoofbeats. The shutters were open to the front lawn, but the rain made the view a hazy gray. Sophie fastened on the frail, flowering dogwood trees Seamus had planted with his own hands nearest the road. A rider was coming hard and fast down the carriageway, oblivious to the mud.
An express on the Sabbath?
This usually meant dire news . . . death.
Seamus let go of her hand. She had no recollection of leaving the parlor and hurrying to the foyer. Seamus was ahead of her, pulling open the wide front door.
He turned round, wary. “Go into the study, Sophie.”
He was the general again, stoic, giving orders. She stood rooted, defying them. Waiting to hear bad news secondhand was somehow worse. His words of days before flashed to mind and struck her like a fist.
Why do I feel such dread at her going?
She wanted to protect him, spare him whatever was coming. Mute, she looked on as he went out and down the steps into a pelting rain, the wind tugging at his coattails.
The express handed him a post before riding away. Slowly he opened the paper. For long moments she waited while he stood, oblivious to the rain beading his handsome features and turning his chestnut greatcoat black.
“Seamus . . . please.” Her heart already felt fractured with the waiting, her mind bent out of shape with half-frantic assumptions.
When he looked up, she read the worst in his eyes. “’Tis Lily Cate. She’s missing.”
The coach lurched and heaved, the coachman driving the horses over mud-mired roads to Williamsburg on the heels of the express. The post was merciless in its brevity. Sophie was beginning to think Fitzhugh had a cruel streak.
Your daughter is missing. Sheriff is combing both country and town. Come at once.
Come at once? As though they wouldn’t? Was it her imagination or a subtle taunt about the war years when Seamus hadn’t come at all?
Beside her he sat like stone, saying nothing, eyes straight ahead, locked in a world where she wasn’t welcome. What had just passed between them was swallowed up by the blackness of disbelief and loss.
Questions that had no answer circled without end. When did Lily Cate go missing? Were they not watching her? Perhaps she’d been found by now and this race to get to Williamsburg would end in thankful tears.
Their arrival at the Fitzhugh townhouse was far different from when they’d come the week before. Men combed the grounds and passed in and out of the house, glancing at Seamus, their expressions closed, even grim. Seamus left her in the foyer and closeted himself with Fitzhugh in the study while she was shown into an adjacent parlor, the door closed between them.
A tearful, terrified Jenny was brought to Sophie straightaway. Charlotte, a maid told her, was indisposed and abed.
For a few minutes Sophie just held Jenny close. Even comforting words seemed to stick in her throat. “Can you tell me what has happened with Lily Cate?”
Jenny’s eyes welled. “Mistress Charlotte kept us apart, said we made too much noise, so I stayed out back with the servants. When I went to wake Lily Cate this morning, she was gone.”
“Had her bed been slept in?”
A brief nod. “She left her doll behind.”
Sophie said nothing, fears mounting.
Chin quivering, Jenny continued brokenly, “When we first came here, Lily Cate cried to go home and made Mistress Charlotte angry. She said Lily Cate likely run off, back to Tall Acre.”
“Did Lily Cate mention anything to you about running away?”
A firm shake of Jenny’s head removed all doubt. Sophie took out a handkerchief and dried Jenny’s tears as the men’s voices escalated in the next room. Seamus was in a fury and she didn’t blame him, but their high tempers lent to their loose ends. Could they not be reasonable?
Wanting to spare Jenny their heated talk, she sent her upstairs. “Can you bring Lily Cate’s doll to me?”
With a nod she was off. She returned just as Seamus filled the doorway, the storm in his features never lessening. “The coach will take you and Jenny to Tall Acre. I’m staying on at the Raleigh Tavern till this is resolved.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but the sheriff appeared, asking to speak with Seamus and making her reconsider. She’d received her marching orders. Tall Acr
e. With Jenny. Now. There was no arguing. But truly, she wanted to be home if somehow Lily Cate arrived there. Perhaps she was even there now and they’d just missed her . . .
“Pack your things, Jenny, and we shall go.” Sophie mumbled the words, wanting a last minute alone with Seamus. But he was deep in conversation with the sheriff, as grieved as he was angry, his back turned.
She waited, glad when the sheriff left and he faced her. “Seamus, I—” She struggled to speak, her voice giving way.
He swallowed, his own eyes awash. “There’s nothing you can say, Sophie. Just go home and wait and pray.”
His gaze fell to the doll in her arms, and his face flashed such terrible pain it sent her heart to her throat.
She stood mute as he passed through the open back door to the garden, where two men were looking into the well, raising fresh fears.
Hugging the doll to her chest, she stayed stoic till she climbed into the coach. There, waiting for Jenny, she cried as she’d not done since her mother died and Curtis had written. All the heartache that had gone before seemed a tiny drop of anguish compared to this.
Where could Lily Cate be?
Without Seamus and Lily Cate, the heartbeat of Tall Acre was missing. Two days passed, then four. Another express came, nearly choking Sophie with anxiety as she opened it, but it was only word from Seamus that nothing had turned up, even with a small army of men and dogs combing Williamsburg and beyond.
In the long silences Sophie prayed and fasted, but in truth she had no heart for eating. Only at Mrs. Lamont’s insistence did she take broth and bread. Visitors started to arrive, expressing their sorrow, the reverend and his wife staying longest. It was like a death, only it wasn’t. Few children went missing. ’Twas strange . . . unnatural.
Without warning, a portrait painter arrived from the east. In the confusion of events, either Seamus had forgotten to tell her he’d been commissioned or he’d wanted it to be a surprise.
Unaware of the turmoil he’d walked into, Mr. Peale bowed. “I’ve come to paint the new mistress of Tall Acre’s portrait, a wedding gift from the groom.”