The Mistress of Tall Acre (40 page)

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

S
ophie 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.

“You’ve noticed nothing amiss?”

She hesitated. “Nothing near at hand.” Dare she share her fears? “I’ve not quite gotten over the war years. Sometimes I still feel a bit . . . haunted. Mostly after dark.”

He looked at her, his expression grieved. “If you need me in the night, Sophie, don’t hesitate to come to me.”

His earnest words broke over her, stirring and sweet. She steeled herself against the rush of emotion sliding through her. “I’m not frightened, Seamus. Not with you here.”

He set down his fork. “I promise you this trouble will have an end.”

She looked to her mostly untouched plate, the knot in her throat expanding. Would it ever end? Would Lily Cate find her way back to them? Would they somehow find a way back to each other?

He said nothing more, just took a few more halfhearted bites of supper before setting both their trays aside. She watched as he opened his father’s Bible. Before Lily Cate had left, they’d made an attempt at family devotions, reading a Psalm aloud each evening, a blessed end to their busy days. But she was unprepared for his resuming the readings tonight.

“Except the L
ORD
build the house; they labour in vain that build it . . . Children are an heritage of the L
ORD
; and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”

His voice cracked. And then he stopped reading without explanation.

Heartsore, she waited. That terrible sadness had descended, driving out all peace, however fleeting. She got up and lay a hand on his shoulder as she passed behind. Not trusting herself to say goodnight, she left the small parlor, the dilemma of separate quarters tugging at her again.