The Mistress of Tall Acre (7 page)

Moonstruck?
Sophie pushed a wayward strand of hair from her eye, avoiding Glynnis’s probing gaze. “I’m glad you know better.”

I only wish I did.

5

S
eamus was willing to try it once, if only to tell his meddlesome neighbor it didn’t work. After tugging off his boots, he stripped down to his linen shirt and stocking feet. The door to his bedchamber stood open despite the chill, the bed curtains parted. He’d done the same with Lily Cate’s room, afraid he’d sleep through her tears. He wanted to get to her before she’d thrown up her supper as she sometimes did, crying so hard she made herself sick. Her reaction seemed extreme, and he had to continually rein himself in lest he tell her to pull herself together like he had some of his men.

She’s only five . . . She’s missing Williamsburg . . . I’m
a strange man missing fingers . . . This house is strange too
 
. . .

The candlelight danced across his untidy desk beneath a shuttered window, reminding him to finish the letter he’d started at dawn. He was writing a friend in Richmond to help secure a governess or nursemaid. Once Lily Cate started school, he hoped she’d find an escape in books. Till then, he’d bought her a pony and was teaching her to ride—or trying to—but she seemed as afraid of her horse as she was him so he’d nearly given up.

Finished with the letter, he lay down atop the bed, trying to chase the image of Sophie Menzies from his mind. She’d sat so serenely in her Windsor chair, her lovely skirts in a swell of silken embroidery around her, her cheek resting against Lily Cate’s dark hair as she held her. As if it was something she did every day like breathing or walking or smiling. Easily. Freely. Willingly. Even joyously.

He felt none of those things with his daughter.

Sophie Menzies should have had children of her own by now. He nearly winced at the memory of slighting her unmarried state. Likely she was as touchy about spinsterhood as he was at being an inept father. She’d spoken of losses. Her brother, certainly. A fiancé, mayhap. Someone who’d died fighting? Now she was caught in a waiting game of hoping and praying Curtis would return. He hadn’t the heart to tell her he’d received an unconfirmed report about Curtis and his whereabouts. He hardly believed the news himself.

Turning his head, he squinted at the mantel timepiece, making out ten o’clock through the shadows. Like clockwork he heard a little cry resembling a kitten’s mewl or a lamb’s bleating. His daughter had a soldier’s punctuality. She never fussed when the maid first put her to bed. She only cried when she woke at ten o’clock and then all through the night after.

He was on his feet, that strange heart-pumping rush working in his chest like it always did before battle. He wished Sophie Menzies was here. Nay, ’twas Anne he wanted. Lily Cate was her child—their child—after all.

A nightlight was burning on a bedside table, the kind that made catching fire impossible with its snug globe and holder. Lily Cate was cocooned in the bedcovers, her loosened hair like spilled ink across the linen pillow.

Hiding his bad hand behind his back, he went to her, swallowing the tender words he wanted to say for fear he’d scare her, his voice too big and unfamiliar for the dark room. He sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress and stroked her brow, her loosened hair catching like silk thread against his callused palm. She quieted then began thrashing like a wounded creature, making him want to back out of the room and close the door and let her be.

Taking her in your arms might help . . . Hold her close and chase the shadows away.

She cried harder, her distress carving a deeper hole inside him, every sob more heartrending than the last. Not yet six years old, yet so weighted with misery and grief it weighted him too. He was to blame, came the familiar taunting voice.

“Lily Cate, ’tis your father.”

“Papa?” Her voice warbled with the unfamiliar word. She reached out a small, searching hand.

He scooped her up, enfolding her trembling body in his hard arms, tucking her bent head beneath his bristled jaw. She tried to push away from him, but it was a sleepy, feeble protest soon spent. Holding firm, he did not let her go till all the fight had drained out of her. Till she was like she’d been as a newborn, when he’d held her briefly on that long ago summer’s day before their whole world turned on end.

He’d forgotten to close the door. Forgotten to close the bed curtains. Forgotten what it was like to have a warm body beside him. Since Anne, there had been no one else. It seemed only right that it be their daughter.

He owed Sophie Menzies an apology.

The butterfly flitting about the harvested garden brought a touch of color and whimsy to the fading November landscape. Bound in orange and amber, its arched wings were so sheer that cold sunlight filtered through. Circling Sophie’s head, the creature alighted on a squat pumpkin needing to be made into pie or carved into thick rings and dried.

The basket at her feet bore the last of the turnips and carrots, a few potatoes and onions tossed in. She’d long since harvested the lavender, loving the fresh, pungent scent on her hands as she sewed it into their linens. Only the sage and thyme remained to season soups and stews, and some frost-tipped greens.

Leaning back, she rested against a cistern and looked toward Tall Acre. At five thousand acres it spread wide and proud, making Three Chimneys’ mere thousand almost forgettable.

Lily Cate was never far from her thoughts. Had it truly been a fortnight since their simple party? She’d lost sleep herself, praying the general would get some rest, find peace in the embrace of his little daughter.

Forgive her.

If she’d angered him, she hadn’t meant to. She’d only spoken out of her own need and longing, a sincere desire to see them settled. She wanted Lily Cate’s smile to be the smile of a carefree child, unbound as a spring breeze, not pent-up and fraught with adult cares. Hers was, sadly, an old soul.

“Miss Sophie?”

Glynnis stood at the garden gate, a bemused expression on her face. The sun was slanting down so brightly Sophie couldn’t see what she held in her outstretched hands. A flash of blue distracted her as the guard passed by, doffing his tricorn as he disappeared round the side of the house.

Sophie hastened down the stone path, linen skirts swirling, and took the offering in anticipation. Without another word Glynnis hurried back to the kitchen and her preserve-making, leaving Sophie alone with the package tied with twine. A gift? Or had Henry . . . ? She tore open the telltale bluish-purple paper, blinking dumbly at the plump sugar cone and charmingly crafted sugar hammer.

Lord, You know what we have need of. Sweet, indeed.

Dropping down on a near bench, she tasted a small chunk, savoring its richness on her tongue. From Tall Acre? How had the general known? Was he that in tune with their lack? The certainty nearly made her squirm. But for the moment it hardly mattered. A folded paper lay at the bottom of the bag. She slid her finger beneath the scarlet seal and drank in the bold signature, her heart stilling.

Miss Menzies,

A fortnight of sound sleep.

With deepest gratitude,
Seamus Ogilvy

Eyes wide, she reread it—devoured it—till she’d memorized every letter, finally slipping it inside her shift so that it lay warm against her skin. She longed to know more. Longed to see Lily Cate at rest in his arms. Even the thought of it made her own lonesome nights more bearable.

’Twas the first note she’d ever received from a man. And though it was only a courtesy from him, she held tight to her own small piece of enchantment.

He’d sent Sophie Menzies the gift of sugar as a sort of apology. Would she think he was trying to bribe her in returning a favor? Now at dusk the day after, he found himself on Three Chimneys’ doorstep, his tethered stallion snorting behind him. There was no sign of the housekeeper. Old as she was, had she died? ’Twas Miss Menzies herself who greeted him.

“Come in, General, please.” With a wave of her hand, she led him into a disheveled study down the hall. A dim memory resurfaced. He’d been here previously, arguing politics with Lord Menzies before the war. Sophie’s father, he recalled, had nearly taken him by the throat.

Now, like then, he came straight to the point. “I have business in Williamsburg and Richmond and must be away a week or better.” Seamus tried to hide the discomfort of asking, but Sophie Menzies was smiling at him in the sunlight of Three Chimneys’ study window, making his request somewhat easier. As if his daughter wasn’t a nuisance. As if their fervent exchange of before had never happened.

“So you’d like for me to keep Lily Cate here.”

“I’m a bit short-staffed at Tall Acre.” He wouldn’t say Lily Cate had nearly begged him to ask her. “I considered taking her with me, but traveling with a child—”

“Of course, ’tis better she remain behind.” She clasped her hands together as if especially pleased. “When will you bring her?”

“Day after tomorrow.” He regretted the apology in his tone. “I should return as planned, barring bad weather.” Could she see his relief? Though he and Lily Cate were sleeping soundly with only a few tears now and then, other problems were pressing in. He wouldn’t mention his growing fear that Anne’s Williamsburg relations might snatch her in his absence. Or that Lily Cate’s sudden fascination with the river in back of the house made him uneasy. Here at Three Chimneys she would be well watched even more than at Tall Acre, especially with the guard he’d posted.

He cleared his throat. “I’m also in search of a governess for her. If you happen to know of anyone suitable . . .”

She crossed her arms in contemplation, drawing attention to her ill-fitting dress. The well-rounded girl she’d been flashed to mind. But then she likely remembered a man with a whole hand. “I attended Mrs. Hallam’s school for girls in Williamsburg. I can write to her and inquire. I suppose you want the usual feminine fare—deportment, music, dancing, and French conversation.”

Looking down at his cocked hat, he studied its feathered cockade. “Mostly I just want my daughter to read. To grow lost in books.”

“That I understand completely.” Her voice held a smile. “I’ll make sure I read to her while she’s here. As you can see, our library is not lacking at least. I devoured nearly every book these eight years past, some of them twice. I recommend
Tristram Shandy
and
Pamela
.”

Amused, he raised his gaze. “Then you’ve not read
The Vicar of Wakefield
.” The mention brought Anne to mind, so akin to the vicar’s daughter with her blinding beauty. But ’twas Sophia, the sister, who made him think of Miss Menzies herself. What had the author said?

Sophia’s features were not so striking at first . . . they were soft, modest, and alluring.
The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated . . . Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia to
secure one.