The Mistress of Tall Acre

by Laura Frantz

  Her fingers shook and fumbled as she dressed with Mistress Murdo’s help. The Ogilvy coach was waiting out front beneath a gibbous moon, the horses restless. A young groom jumped down to open the door for her as light cracked open dawn’s dark horizon.

  Mrs. Lamont met her in Tall Acre’s foyer, her usual calm decidedly stirred. “Dr. Craik’s above with the general. I’ll be here below should you need me.”

  Sophie’s spirits tumbled. Calling in Dr. Craik meant that every other means had been exhausted.

  The sturdy Scotsman stood at the bedside, obscuring Sophie’s view. ’Twas Seamus who turned her way, expression inscrutable, their emotional parting of days before hanging between them. One glance at Lily Cate and Sophie was ready to fall to pieces, but Seamus was looking at her, expecting more than panic. He was never more the general than in a crisis, but she sensed his silent anguish was as great as her own.

  Half a dozen candles flickered around the room, illuminating bloodletting equipment and vials of medicine. The reek of onions boiled in molasses and a steaming kettle of vinegar and water told of hours spent to no avail. Myrtilla had been here. These were her remedies.

  Craik moved aside as Sophie leaned over Lily Cate, his voice ragged with fatigue. “I could bleed her again.”

  “Nay, please. Let us try something else.” Neither she nor her mother had ever believed in bleeding the life from a person struggling to live. Instead she felt the need to move Lily Cate, hold her, despite her frightening pallor and rattle of breath. When she suggested it, Craik frowned.

  Undaunted, she eased onto the feather mattress. Lily Cate stirred, her eyes coming open then fluttering shut as if the simple effort stole all her strength. Sophie kissed her forehead, finding it cool, her lips a queer bluish-gray. Pneumonia . . . or quinsy?

  Panic rising, she racked her memory for some remedy. Perhaps if Lily Cate sat up, head on Sophie’s shoulder, she wouldn’t struggle so to breathe. The nightgown she wore was stained with medicine and more. Was she coughing up blood? “Help me undress her. There’s a clean shift in the cupboard.”

  She reached deep into her pocket and brought out a tin of salve, her mother’s mainstay, as Craik went below and Seamus rummaged for a shift. Together they undressed her, smearing the salve thick on her throat and chest before easing the clean shift in place, the herbal scent driving back the smell of sickness.

  Sophie eyed the rocking chair, the place of many a heartfelt evening. “I want to rock her.”

  Gently Seamus picked Lily Cate up and resettled her on Sophie’s lap, then pulled a blanket from the bed and tucked it around them both. Sophie settled in while he went below, the creak of the chair masking Lily Cate’s labored breathing.

  Tears swelled Sophie’s throat, nearly stealing the hymn she sang over the girl. Lily Cate grew more lax, her breathing shallower. “You must get well, lamb. I cannot manage without you.” She whispered the words that till now had only warmed her heart. “There’s a new baby coming. Your very own brother or sister. I’ll need your help. We must choose a name and sew clothes and prepare the nursery. There’ll be a christening with cake and punch . . .”

  A footfall on the stair hushed her. Seamus returned and took a wing chair across from them, his profile in sharp relief in the candlelight. She’d never seen him so undone. All the signs pointed to Lily Cate leaving them, yet Sophie kept rocking as if the steady motion kept death at bay.

  She wouldn’t let Lily Cate go. She had no say over Anne or the court or much else, but she loved Lily Cate like her own, and for this night, this moment, she would be her mother, even though there was no guarantee of tomorrow.

  She looked to the shuttered window. If this was as dire as her spirit told her, Anne needed to be informed. “Seamus, though it hurts me to say it—”

  “Anne has been sent for. She has not come.”

  Sophie began another hymn as if he’d never spoken, her foot pushing against the floor to keep the gentle rhythm of the rocker steady. And if Anne came? How strange it would be, the three of them in this room, in this marriage.

  Lily Cate began to cough, a great racking cough that seemed a storm let loose inside her. Tensing, Sophie held her as Seamus brought a basin. Her frantic struggle brought Sophie’s own stomach racing to her throat.

  Spent, Lily Cate slumped against her, and Seamus set aside the basin to lay hands on his daughter. Was he praying? Or simply touching her before the last of life flowed out of her? The helplessness she felt, the hopelessness, was strangling. She couldn’t help Lily Cate. She couldn’t help Seamus. She had no power to undo this complicated knot with Anne. But God had promised to bring good out of all of it, even if it broke her heart and sent her to Edinburgh. Even if Lily Cate died. Even if Anne became mistress of Tall Acre.

  All she had left was faith. Belief. God Himself.

  Seamus splashed water into a basin as dawn lit the windows outside his and Sophie’s bedchamber. He felt battle-weary, so torn in spirit he couldn’t speak. Dr. Craik had left on another urgent call, declaring with his Scots candor that there was nothing more to be done. Sophie remained upstairs with Lily Cate, but he fully expected to see her at his door telling him it was all over.

  Only it wasn’t.

  He’d bury his child and quietly prepare to face a court that seemed set against him. Virginia law, as it stood, would not allow a former slave’s oral testimony against that of her former mistress. His legal counsel’s attempts to wrest the truth from their British contacts regarding Anne’s whereabouts and circumstances there were slow in coming, having to cross an ocean and back before bearing fruit. He’d forgiven Anne for whatever it was she’d done, but he could not resume a life with her.

  “You could, General, bring the second Mrs. Ogilvy into the courtroom, to gain sympathy with the judges, even if she, being a lady, is unwilling,” Stokes had urged in the hushed confines of his Richmond office. “Though the marriage rite is in question, she did promise to obey and serve you as your wife.”

  “And I vowed to love her, comfort her, and honor her,” he replied. “Not force her to appear in a demeaning scandal that would make her public fodder and besmirch her own reputation.”

  That had shut Stokes up, but it hadn’t helped the situation. With Virginia law being more firmly English and Anglican than any of the other new states, the case was hindered from the start. Not even citing more liberal laws in New England would likely sway these tradition-bound judges. Nor could a word from General Washington aid him. He was at the mercy of the court and Almighty God.

  Bending over, he splashed water onto his unshaven face, then dried it with a linen towel embroidered with his and Sophie’s initials. The reminder of how intimately they were tied sent him outside.

  He passed through the west door into a morning so beautiful it seemed to magnify his grief. A whip-poor-will sang out overhead as he walked uphill to the cemetery. He sent his gaze into the overhanging oaks’ deep shadows, finally fastening on his parents’ gravestones.

  Aye, there was room enough to bury a child. Room enough to lie down himself. Years of trying to stay alive in combat seemed to mock him. What he’d give to rest beside his father and mother and end the pain and darkness of the present, the prospect of a life without his daughter.

  The prospect of a life without Sophie, his wife.

  Stiff from sitting, Sophie kept watch over Lily Cate as one day bled into the next. When she could stay awake no longer she dozed, unaware of whether Seamus was in the room or out, ever terrified of waking to Lily Cate’s limp, lifeless body in her arms. And then . . .

  “Mama, I’m thirsty.”

  Raspy and weak though they were, the stunning words were the sweetest Sophie had ever heard. Joy dawned as she looked into Lily Cate’s lucid face. With trembling hands, Sophie fumbled with cup and pitcher on a near table, hardly believing it as Lily Cate downed the water and asked for more. When she began to cough, Sophie tensed, but it no longer held the threat of before.

  Holding her
close, careful not to upset the cup, Sophie kissed her hair and cheeks and chin till Lily Cate’s giggle erupted into another spate of coughing. When she finally quieted she whispered, “When is our baby coming?”

  So she’d heard the hushed secret, after all. A tear fell. For a moment Sophie couldn’t speak.

  Lily Cate touched her damp cheek. “You told me last night when I was sick. I saved it in my heart till I could ask you this morning.”

  “’Tis our secret. I haven’t told your papa . . . not yet.” Telling him too soon would only add to his burden. Saving the news till the proper time would be best, if . . .

  Pressing a finger to her lips, Lily Cate looked to the door where Mrs. Lamont stood in joyous disbelief. “Well, praise be! Our little miss is up and talking!”

  “Indeed!” Sophie eased, releasing the worry that Lily Cate might somehow worsen. “Please ask Cook for some broth and bread. Tea.”

  “Straightaway,” she answered, disappearing.

  Seamus filled the doorway next, hair lank and bloodshot eyes wary. Sophie’s heart swelled when Lily Cate held out her arms to him with a husky, “Papa!”

  Looking amazed, he reached for her, tickling her and nuzzling her neck despite another wrenching round of coughing. In his arms she looked content, happier than Sophie had ever seen her.

  Thank You, Lord. Your mercies are new every morn.

  36

  You’ve a visitor.”

  A visitor?

  Mistress Murdo’s wary expression told Sophie everything as she met her in Three Chimneys’ foyer. After two nights and days at Tall Acre, Sophie had just returned through the back door, disheveled and worn but thankful beyond belief. All that mattered was that Lily Cate was well. Even Anne’s unexpected arrival couldn’t diminish that.

  “She’s waiting in the front parlor.”

  Sophie looked toward the open parlor door, forgoing changing her rumpled clothing. Seeing Anne so composed and queen-like, just as she’d been that first unforgettable day she’d returned to Tall Acre, sent Sophie reeling all over again.

  “So how is my daughter?”

  Shutting the door, Sophie faced her, fury and fatigue nearly making her lash out. Not once had she heard Anne say Lily Cate’s name. She only spoke of her in possessive terms, as if to remind Sophie that Lily Cate was not hers and never would be. “Far better than when I arrived, though her cough needs to mend.”

  Anne nodded and smoothed a lace sleeve. “I suppose Myrtilla is dancing attendance on her in your absence.” Bitterness laced the words—and blatant dislike. “At least she’s of some use, ill-natured as she is.”

  Sophie measured her response, too weary to prolong the visit with an argument. “Why are you here?”

  “Why?” Anne arched a pale brow, reminding Sophie of Charlotte. “The court proceedings begin tomorrow. Or didn’t Seamus tell you?”

  He hadn’t. Sophie felt a qualm. “I didn’t know. My presence isn’t required.”

  “Your presence is the very reason this matter is so tangled.”

  Stubbornness squared Sophie’s shoulders. “My presence—or your absence?”

  Anne waved a dismissive hand. “Such a tiresome matter. I don’t care to discuss it. Besides, that’s not why I’ve come.” Sitting down on a fraying sofa without invitation, she settled her reticule in her lap. “I feel it only fair to tell you that I spoke with your father before I left Bath. He was there taking the waters, and we had an unexpected meeting. I fear he is . . . unwell. He and your brother are anxious for you to join them in Edinburgh.”

  Sophie listened without comment. Bath had long been a favorite retreat of her father’s, but it held no temptation for her save seeing Curtis again. She longed to tell him about her marriage to his commanding officer and onetime friend, but given their separate loyalties . . .

  “Even though we are at cross purposes, Miss Menzies, I want to be of help.” Anne studied her as if she were an annoyance to be dealt with, little more than a pesky fly. “There is a ship sailing for England in two days’ time, the same one that returned me here. The Umbria has better accommodations than most, and the captain is an experienced seaman.”

  Sophie moved a hand to her bodice, to the life already beginning to swell her middle. “You expect me to flee at the first sign of trouble?”

  “Ah, Miss Menzies, how foolish you are.” Anne’s smugness was laced with pity. “My legal counsel assures me that you have little hope of returning to Tall Acre. My case is nearly foolproof. You know nothing about what I’ve been through—”

  “What you have been through? What of Seamus? Lily Cate?” Exasperation gave Sophie the fire she’d lacked upon entering the room. “I know more than I care to. I know you left Tall Acre when you were needed and should have been of benefit. I know about—” The hated diary came to bear. “Tobias Early.”

  The name was no more than a whisper, but Anne was looking at her as if she’d shouted it.

  Sophie plunged ahead, heedless. “I know why you left Tall Acre.”

  Pulling her gaze from Sophie’s, chin still high, Anne seemed unconcerned. “Myrtilla told you, I suppose.”

  “Myrtilla, nay. She said nothing to me, nor have any of the servants. ’Twas your own words that exposed you. You left Tall Acre because you were expecting Tobias Early’s child, a child I believe you must have lost because you cannot carry another babe to term—”

  “Your mother broke confidence about that, I’d wager.” Anne’s eyes were ice, the anger that always seemed to lurk beneath her flawless facade threatening. “As for all the rest, my relationship with Tobias Early, you have no proof.”

  How right she was. The diary had never resurfaced, despite Sophie making careful inquiries among the staff. Misery twisted inside her. “Nay, I have no proof, but I have wondered . . .” How often she’d been preoccupied by what had happened to Anne, trying to stitch the missing pieces together like a garment that begged mending. “I believe you sailed to England with Tobias and took up life with him there. The Earlys are a prosperous, titled family. Bath would be one of their haunts. I’m guessing that somewhere along the way you and Tobias had a falling out, some sort of separation, leaving you destitute. You had little choice but to return here, though I’d dared to think it was a hope for reconciliation, a true heart’s change that brought you back—”

  “A true heart’s change? What nonsense! ’Tis I who have been wronged most of all!” Anne stood, bringing a close to the conversation. “You have little to recommend you, Miss Menzies. In light of that, I advise you to return to Scotland and honor your father’s wishes.”

  Sophie spoke to Anne’s rigid back as she made for the door. “I am, in heaven’s eyes if not the law’s, Seamus Ogilvy’s wife. Nothing can change that. Not even you, Anne.”

  With a last, contemptuous look, Anne went out.

  The chill in the courtroom matched the chill in Seamus’s soul. Hours of testimony and legal posturing had played out before him as he marked time by a wall clock. His every breath was a prayer. For peace. Protection. Truth.

  Thy will be done.

  But it was his will, his need for Sophie, that consumed him. He pictured leaving the courthouse, the dust of Richmond on his heels, and riding straight to Three Chimneys be it daylight or dark. Sophie would be waiting, the wounds of the past no longer between them. There he’d hold her as he’d not done for weeks, triumphing over circumstances that had pushed them apart, then return her home to Tall Acre, where they would live out their days in uncontested privacy.

  For now the judges sat before him in their robes and powdered wigs like relics from another century. One, Eustace Adams, had been a close friend of Sophie’s father. Seamus’s hackles rose as soon as he saw him. Years before, Adams and Lord Menzies had been involved in dishonest political dealings. Seamus doubted the war had cured him of that any more than it had whitewashed his tarnished reputation.

  Anne was sitting across the room, facing forward. He’d brushed by her in the hall outsid
e and noted the dilated pupils, the faint anise smell. She was too calm, too confident. What else but absinthe could still her shaking hands and high-strung nerves? Did she honestly believe he’d welcome her back in his home, in his bed? The attraction he’d once felt for her had withered to pity and outright revulsion. God knew he could not make a life with her. Could not trust her with their daughter. Could have no more children by her.

  “I would like to cite the state of New Jersey, in which abandonment by one spouse for three years is sufficient justification for dissolving the union . . .” Stokes’s voice filled the courtroom, raising Seamus’s hopes.

  Anne had been gone for more than four years. Stokes was presenting the most incriminating evidence so far, that she’d declared herself dead and Bruton Parish Church had a gravestone to prove it. His threat to haul the marker from Williamsburg to Richmond as evidence was met with grim laughter. Seamus didn’t crack a smile. In his world, where fidelity and honor were the code, desertion was an offense punishable by death.

  Back and forth the voices droned. One volley for Anne. Another for himself. His gaze sharpened as Reverend Hopkins was called and sworn in, driving home his and Sophie’s wedding day. An objection was made that no banns had been read prior to the ceremony. Stokes countered that this was allowable now by special license. Anne’s counsel intervened, stating the certificate Seamus and Sophie had signed and filed with the county clerk was now missing. Reverend Hopkins raised upturned hands to signify he did not know what had happened to the document, though he had delivered the certificate to the county clerk himself following the wedding.

  A murmur rippled through the room. Anne turned her head and cast a slight smile Seamus’s way. Behind him were many of his officers, some who had traveled great distances on his behalf in a show of support. He himself was in uniform. Though missing his usual accoutrements, he had dressed for battle, the wool nearly suffocating in close quarters.

  But being a general, even a hero, no longer mattered. The judges were looking at him, weighing him, as Anne’s counsel charged him with neglect, even cruelty, for his lengthy absences. Each charge was dismissed by Stokes immediately, who cited the war and Anne’s medical condition after childbirth. Yet the damage was done. He had been cast in the role of a negligent husband, no matter the Revolution or Anne’s precarious health.