The Mistress of Tall Acre (37 page)

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 Acre. 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.”

How could she turn him away?

For hours on end Sophie sat in her wedding gown, serene without and at war within. When she wasn’t posing for her portrait, she went up to Lily Cate’s room, where the doll dresses Sophie had sewn for her lay across a little chair, the doll beside them. The beloved toys haunted.

If Lily Cate had run away, why hadn’t she taken her doll? It went everywhere with her, even to the necessary. Sophie smoothed the silken dress worn soft by small hands, the dark hair a bit thin, the eyes lackluster.

Lord, bring Lily Cate home. I’ll not even ask for Seamus’s heart. Just return her. Restore our family. Please.

The irrational prayer made little sense, nor did the continuous fire she insisted be kept burning in the grate before her. The days were getting longer, warmer. But if she let it go out, lost hope, Lily Cate might not come back. Desperation twisted her mind and emotions. She could only imagine how Seamus must feel. He’d won a war yet lost his daughter. Could he live with the heartache if she never came home?

The sweet song of a lark rent the April air. Sophie leaned against a column of the garden folly, the whimsical little clapboard building Seamus’s father had built for his mother. Perched at the far end of the garden, it overlooked the river and courted a sultry breeze, its pagoda roof a shelter from the sun. Fragrant wisteria twined with climbing roses and decorated its exterior, smothering her in shade and scent.

She’d lost all track of time, almost forgotten the season. Though another week had passed and Seamus was still away, Sophie felt disoriented. Everything in her world revolved around Lily Cate and Seamus, and without them her world had shrunk to shadows.

Blind to the beauty, her gaze traveled across the water, past the long weathered dock and bobbing rowboat, to Early Hall. It sat silent and empty while Tall Acre was humming and thriving.

A litter of foxhound puppies had just been born, as well as the first crop of lambs. They dotted the pasture like dandelion down, scattered bits of white, their sweet bleating carrying on the wind as they followed their mothers. Watching them, Sophie felt her heart trip. This was the season she and Lily Cate had looked forward to most, making plans for picnics and rides and games out of doors. Seamus was even going to teach Lily Cate to swim.

“Mistress Ogilvy . . .”

She turned away from the river when Myrtilla’s voice reached out to her, unmistakably kind. “We thought you might like these.” Jenny stood behind her mother, her face marked with sadness, holding out some pussy willows.

Sophie took the offering, her cold fingers touching the velvety nubs that had burst into bloom. Numb as she was, the gesture was not lost on her. Whatever Myrtilla’s feelings about Anne or even Sophie herself, there was no doubt she cared for Lily Cate.

Myrtilla came nearer. “Jenny has somethin’ to tell you. Somethin’ she remembers.”

The folly came sharply into focus. Sophie looked at Jenny, hopeful yet afraid.

“I ’member Lily Cate saw that man again in Williamsburg.” Jenny swiped the wetness from her eyes with a linsey sleeve. “The bearded man who used to come here.”

Sophie’s heart seemed to stop. “And you? Did you see him too?”