by Laura Frantz
Bypassing the coach house, she paused briefly to look down the wide corridor that sheltered the Ogilvy conveyances. Anne’s riding chair was now at Three Chimneys. Out of sight if not out of mind.
She flinched as pewter clouds released a cold, stinging rain. The work on the roof had come to an abrupt halt as men scrambled down ladders and gathered up tools. Hugging her basket tighter, she hastened back to the house as a west wind began an uneasy rising.
Mrs. Lamont met her in the foyer. “The general has left for Williamsburg.”
Williamsburg. Again.
29
The gentle knock on his study door could be none other than Sophie.
Seamus did not answer. He was in no mood for company or questions after another fruitless week in Williamsburg. Sophie’s very presence drove home a great many things he wanted to forget. Lily Cate’s absence. His destruction at Early Hall. His rude treatment of her. He owed her an apology, but he felt bankrupt, nearly soulless, consumed by stark, embittered fury and a deep, never-ending need for his daughter. He turned his back on the door and focused on the storm beyond the windows.
“Seamus?” Her soft call was nearly lost beneath the patter of rain. She came in unasked, further fraying his loose ends.
He faced her, noting the strain in her features, the sleepless nights and weeping he wasn’t privy to. Her careful entreaty tore at his forced composure. “Is there any news?”
His own throat ached. “Nay.” Tears glazed her eyes, turning him more on edge. With an effort, he took control. “What is it, Sophie?”
Her voice was nearly lost beneath the rumble of thunder. “I’d like to reopen Tall Acre’s schoolhouse. Teach Jenny and whoever else wants to learn to read and write.”
He listened grudgingly. She was trying to bury her hurt beneath a blur of work. He couldn’t fault her. Was he not doing the same—losing himself, or trying to, shutting their circumstances out? “Don’t you have enough to do?”
Was it his imagination, or did she almost wince at his harsh tone? “I—’tis important to keep busy, to not think . . .” She paused, hands coming together over her heart in a gesture that only wrenched him further. “The schoolhouse might give me some measure of peace.”
He looked away, glad of her request if only because it made room for his own. “Now seems a good time to tell you I’m considering taking part in the Virginia Assembly.”
“The Assembly?”
“Aye, there’s much that needs to be done. I’ll be away in the capital much of the time when I’m not in Williamsburg.” He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He rarely drank this early, but lately it seemed the only thing he could stomach. “The states are bickering for power, and Congress is considering a new constitution. Meanwhile Britain is laughing at us as we conquer ourselves with petty rivalries and jealousies.” He took a fiery swallow. “All this leaves me wondering what we fought for in the first place.”
“Do you have political ambitions then?” There was an odd edge to her voice he’d not heard before. He welcomed it. Anger was far preferable to tears. “Is your being general not enough, Seamus?”
He shrugged, a cold callousness taking over. “Away from Tall Acre, I might forget for a time, be of benefit elsewhere. You just said as much yourself.”
“What will be next? Attorney general? Governor of Virginia?”
He lit a second taper as thunder rolled and the room grew darker. “Why are you so opposed?”
“My father’s politics were our undoing. I hardly see you now. I would be a political widow then.”
His hand shook as he moved the taper nearer. “So you want more of me, Sophie?” The once tender question, now phrased bitterly, brought a crimson stain to her cheeks.
He sensed she was thinking of the man she loved. He certainly was. He’d racked his brain for a name, a neighbor, someone who might be the one. Like a splinter, the wondering lodged inside him, painful and distracting, compounding the hurt of losing Lily Cate. Making him feel an unfit husband as well as father.
“You have free rein to hold your school if you want to,” he said evenly. “I’ll be in Richmond and Williamsburg for the most part. Riggs will oversee things in my absence just as he did during the war.” He set the empty glass down. “I suppose the matter is settled.”
Only it wasn’t settled. He read the questions in her eyes, even though she’d retreated into a tear-stained silence. Have you given up on Lily Cate? Is that why you’re leaving, Seamus? Will you make a life without her? Without Tall Acre? Can you really outrun the pain? In truth, Richmond and the Virginia Assembly were the farthest things from his mind.
She hugged her arms to her chest as if chilled. “When will you be leaving?”
“Tomorrow morn.” He sat back down at his desk, bringing an end to the conversation. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
The next morning Sophie kept to her bedchamber, determined to avoid Seamus’s leaving lest she come apart completely. A quick look out the window told her what she had no wish to know. Through the shimmer of the rising sun, she saw his silhouette as he turned in the family graveyard beneath the oak grove. He went more often of late, though he never stayed long. There was simply too much to do at Tall Acre.
Her emotions were so worn, so sore, she simply sat amidst the pungent company of dried herbs and flowers, wishing for something to ease her heart. His heart. The distance between them had never been greater. Had she only dreamed those tender words and Sabbath kisses, half-stolen bits of heaven, before everything came crashing down?
His leaving, this sudden political bent, seemed an outright rejection of her. Yet despite the heartache of Lily Cate, he was still her husband. Her hero. The man she loved. How would she find her way back to him?
The following days loomed long and lonesome. In Seamus’s absence, she began meeting with Riggs and Mrs. Lamont, but it was no substitute for the master of Tall Acre. Questions that only he could answer were put to her, and she found herself growing wearier. Not even prayer seemed to sustain her.
“You must eat, Mistress Ogilvy,” Mrs. Lamont urged at nearly every meal.
But Sophie had no heart for anything with a husband and child both missing.
“We’ve searched for weeks, sir, and have exhausted all leads.”
Seamus stared at the sheriff, thinking how no amount of money or begging would sway him. The case was no longer paramount. Other, more pressing matters awaited. Seamus didn’t blame him. But he couldn’t rest.
“Then I’ll hire another search party. Go over the ground we’ve covered once more. Take out further notices in the papers.”
The sheriff nodded. “I understand, sir. ’Tis not easy to move on with a child missing. We’ve done all we can and questioned the Fitzhughs repeatedly. They maintain their innocence, and oddly enough, I believe them. Till something more is uncovered, there’s little to be done.”
Truly, there was little left to do but return home once he’d finished in Richmond. He rode south without any sense of direction or purpose, letting Vulcan take the lead. When Tall Acre came into view, he felt nothing, the pride and pleasure it had once wrought now a memory. Thirsty and winded, he took a side alley to the stables, glad the staff were at supper. The familiarity of hay-strewn stalls, the tack on the walls, and the nickering of his favorite horses were hollow, holding none of the welcome of before.
No sooner had he dismounted than his stable manager emerged from a back room. “Evenin’, General.”
“Evening, Abel.” He forced the amiable words past the leadenness. “How goes it since I’ve been away?”
A slight pause. “I’m loath to be the bearer of bad tidings, sir. But the morning after you left, I found this here note tacked to the back of the new mare’s stall. Mistress Ogilvy’s mount, ye ken.”
Seamus’s hands stilled on the bridle. “A note?”
Abel passed him a battered paper, the ink heavy and nearly illegible. Bracing himself, Seamus read the words thrice,
his stoicism slipping.
The lady who rides this mare, take care. The mistress of Tall Acre shall be no more.
Seamus’s gaze shot to the house, to the open river door. His next words were choked as he folded the note and put it in his waistcoat pocket. “How is Mistress Ogilvy?”
“None the worse for it. We didn’t want to worry her so said nothing. She’s not been riding, busy as she is.”
“Wise to keep the matter quiet. I don’t want her alarmed. Any idea who might have made the threat?”
“None, sir.”
“I’ll double the guard. Make sure you bring any more mischief to me straightaway.”
Removing his saddlebags from the lathered stallion, he released Vulcan to Abel’s care and made for the house, the weight of Williamsburg returning with a vengeance. By the time he reached the river door, he’d broken into such a sweat he felt light-headed, almost feverish. Dropping his load on the steps, he hurried into the foyer, nearly colliding with Mrs. Lamont.
Startled, she looked up at him. “Welcome home, General. Is something the matter?”
“Where is the mistress?”
“On a walk as of a quarter of an hour ago. I don’t have any idea where.”
He went out again, eyes everywhere at once. Garden. Stillroom. Schoolhouse. River. He felt pulled in every direction. His pulse thrashed in his ears as his worst fear stared him in the face. Sophie hurt . . . Sophie dead.
Lord, am I to lose everything? My hand . . . my daughter . . . my wife?
Anguish, ever near, became sheer physical pain.
God, please. Sophie.
Was time ever felt as keenly as in a graveyard? Sophie stopped just shy of the surrounding stone fence. Overhead a stand of oak trees convulsed in a sudden wind, making her miss her shawl. Slipping inside the enclosure, she rubbed the goose bumps from her bare arms and glanced back to make sure no one followed. She wanted to be alone when visiting Anne’s resting place. She wasn’t sure how Seamus would feel about her coming.
The two largest stones belonged to Seamus’s parents, side by side in death as they’d been in life. Each marble slab bore a fuzz of pale green moss. As Sophie stood before Lilias Ogilvy’s grave, a lump formed in her throat at the chiseled inscription.
Once she was all that cheers and sweetens life. The tender mother, daughter, friend, and wife. Once she was all that makes mankind adore, now view this marble and be vain no more.
The words blurred. Despite everything that had happened, was she not called to cheer and sweeten life, be a tender mother, a tender wife? Was she wrong in wanting to carve her name on Seamus Ogilvy’s heart, not just on some cold slab of stone?
Two small markers rested behind his parents’ imposing ones. Babies? Seamus and Cosima’s siblings? Her gaze swung wide, searching, but all that met her eye was untrammeled grass and thick blackberry vine reaching a thorny arm through the crumbling fence.
Bewilderment pummeled her. Where was Anne?
“Sophie.”
She spun round, eyes wide as Seamus came toward her. Stripped of his coat, he wore shirtsleeves and breeches, his mud-spattered boots indicative of a long ride. He’d returned home without warning.
His voice was low. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m—” Why had she come? “I’m looking for Anne’s grave.”
“Anne’s?” He looked startled. “Why?”
“Because you keep coming here, and I—” Her voice caught and nearly broke. “I thought if I came too, it might not haunt me so.”
He looked to the ground, struggling visibly for a response. “I come here to think, Sophie. To remember what my parents had. Not try to hold on to something—or someone.” His next words came low, nearly inaudible. “Anne died in Williamsburg and is buried at Bruton Parish Church. She had no wish to be here even in death. She hated Tall Acre.”
She blinked, a tear falling free. He’d rarely acknowledged Anne’s unhappiness. “Seamus, I’m . . . sorry.” Sorry for a failed marriage. For the irreparable stain of war and torn loyalties and a too long separation. Catching up her apron, she dried her eyes.
“Come back to the house, Sophie.” He grasped her fingers, surprising her. Turning her on end. “We have some things to discuss.”
Hand in hand they left the graveyard. Her gaze roamed, taking in Tall Acre, the surrounding hills and fields. The chill racing over her had nothing to do with the wind’s sudden stirring. Even with the tall, stalwart soldier beside her, she felt strangely vulnerable. On the verge of some further calamity. And very much afraid.
30
Sophie sought the haven of her bedchamber, thoughts crowded with Seamus’s unexpected return and his perplexing words. We have some things to discuss. Disquiet gained a stranglehold as the supper hour neared. Had he come to tell her he was going to Kentucky? Might he leave her as her father left her mother? Their marriage, distant and unconsummated, seemed flimsy at best. ’Twas Lily Cate who had brought them together. In her absence, little remained to keep them from coming apart.
She stared in dismay at the hat boxes and parcels littering the room. Her trousseau had arrived from Roan earlier that day, something she’d forgotten about completely. Though she’d once anticipated it with pleasure, the very thought of its expense now taunted her. Seamus had spent an untold sum on her new wardrobe and was no doubt regretting every shilling.
Mrs. Lamont sent Florie in to help unpack, but there was a great deal more examining and admiring than putting away. She realized anew she needed a lady’s maid but wouldn’t burden Seamus with that. As the supper hour neared, dresses and shoes and stays were strewn about the room like confetti.
Florie came to a complete stop as she held up a dress meant for Lily Cate. The rose lustring fabric was exquisite, the lace sleeves a work of art. A matching gown for Sophie was spread across the sofa. “Do you want me to hide this one away, mistress?”
Sophie paused from layering clocked stockings in a cupboard, the simple question thorn-sharp. “Take it to her bedchamber, if you would, please.”
With a nod, Florie left up the back stair, the gown in her arms. For a moment Sophie stood amidst the disarray, spying yet another dress for Lily Cate beneath a stack of underpinnings. She held it close, burying her face in its linen folds, barely aware of Seamus in the hall. Lifting her head, she overheard his conversation with Mrs. Lamont in preparation for supper. Would they dine together again after so long?
Setting the wee dress aside, she faced the looking glass. ’Twas easy enough to pin a stray curl into place beneath her cambric cap, but there was no help for her lusterless eyes, the shadows beneath. Even though Florie had dressed her in a new gown, it did little good for her spirits—or Seamus’s. With a last distressed look in a mirror, she went across the hall to the small parlor.
He was standing by the hearth where a fire burned, his expression unreadable. “’Tis good to be back, Sophie.”
Unsure of him, she looked to the rug. So he was glad to be back? For a few hours? A few days?
“You should know straightaway that I’ve reconsidered my role in politics.” His unexpected words nearly sent her back a step. “I’ve sent my regrets to Richmond.”
Her head came up, a dozen questions clamoring. “You’re staying home?”
“I’m most needed here at Tall Acre.” He was looking at her in a way he hadn’t in weeks. As if he sensed her turmoil. Her questions. Her deep need of him. “The new government will go on with or without me.” He took something from his coat pocket, his expression so earnest, so contrite, it hurt her. “I found this for you in the capital. It comes with an apology. My behavior at Early Hall was unconscionable. I treated you rudely besides—”
“Please, Seamus, think no more on it.” Shaken by his bewildering reversal, she took the package from him and slowly unwrapped it. She expected a fan or a thimble. Some other trinket. Not a . . . busk. Busks were intimate, worn next to the skin, usually given by sweethearts. She beheld its painted design, a bit awed
. “Why, it looks like Tall Acre.”
“Mayhap it is.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.” She felt all thumbs, nearly dropping the gift on the rug at his feet. Once in the privacy of her bedchamber, she’d slip it in the front of her stays, tie it in place with a lace busk point. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”
He smiled and her eyes smarted. He’d not smiled at her since Lily Cate went missing. She’d feared he’d never smile again.
At the clamor of dishes in the hall, they took their usual seats. A maid served them, and Seamus said a halting grace. Would they never get used to being without Lily Cate’s buffering presence? She longed to be easy with him, to regain even a shadow of what they’d had . . .
“You’ve been—” He swallowed and surveyed his plate, looking no hungrier than she. “You’ve been well while I was away?”
Saying she had been was more lie. Even now she was reeling from his sudden about-face and what it foretold. “I’m relieved you’re back,” she finally murmured. “When you leave, things seem to happen.” Taking up a fork, she poked at her chicken and new potatoes and spring greens. “There’s been a rash of thieving of late.”
“So Riggs told me.” He took a drink of cider. “Someone broke into the smokehouse again, and a few sheep are unaccounted for.” He glanced at the open door leading to her chamber. “I need to change rooms with you, if you would. For a few days, mayhap, just till we catch the culprit.” At her alarmed look, he shrugged. “I’d simply feel better if you were on the second floor.”
“’Tis no trouble.” But even as she said it, she remembered her normally tidy chamber was a shambles. If there was one thing she’d learned about Seamus, it was that he liked order.