The Mistress of Tall Acre (12 page)

“Irregular? Not if we have a working agreement in place.” He felt defensive and a tad desperate all at once. The future of Tall Acre was at stake. Three Chimneys was at stake. Lily Cate’s happiness was at stake. He needed Sophie’s fields. He needed
her
.

“General Ogilvy, I cannot be beholden to you.”

“Why in heaven’s name not?” He let go of his temper and regretted it immediately.

“Because—” She raised her spirited gaze to his as they hovered on dangerous ground. “Because I feel—” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Like a
kept
woman.”

A kept woman? His mistress? He almost smiled. “Then I am getting a very poor return in the bargain, Miss Menzies.”

Her pinched expression told him he had gone too far. He felt a cold, flooding remorse for such a callous comment.

Lily Cate snapped to attention and scooted closer to Sophie, her eyes wide and accusing. They both stared at him as if he were to blame for everything.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it.

Sophie nodded but didn’t look at him again.

9

B
ible open to the Psalms, Sophie felt her heart somewhat assuaged. She’d written down her prayer requests on a scrap of paper, wishing there weren’t so many. At the top she’d penned Lily Cate’s name just below Curtis’s homecoming. Beneath these she’d written
land taxes
and
Three Chimneys.
She supposed she’d better pray more earnestly for the master of Tall Acre too.

Taking up a quill, she used the last of her ink to draw a heart with an arrow through it. She wouldn’t write Seamus Ogilvy’s name. The childish symbol would suffice. Impulsively she scribbled the word
bride
beside the heart and arrow. She would pray for his bride. Only then, when he was wed, would this sudden, surprising infatuation for him end. It had begun with his gift of tea, then sugar, his hasty note, his handsome looks. And that infernal rebel blue uniform he wore so well.

The more she tried to distance herself from him and drive a wedge between them like she had in the tavern yesterday, the closer he came.

Pushing away from her desk, she went to the dressing table. Her bedchamber was the only room that had remained untouched during the British occupation. Throughout those two tense months she’d locked her door each night, and Glynnis had taken to sleeping on a cot at the foot of her bed, murmuring dire predictions about her threatened virtue. Thankfully both her room and her virtue remained intact.

She stared at herself in the looking glass, wishing for another face, another reflection. Though she’d changed remarkably since finishing school, her nightly ritual remained the same. One hundred brushstrokes of her hair. Peppermint tooth polish. A splash of rosewater. Though Glynnis protested, Sophie insisted on a bath every other day but went downstairs to the kitchen so no hot water would need hauling upstairs. At last she sank to her knees on the cold, hard floor. Tonight her heart was so full she nearly couldn’t speak.

Was anyone saying prayers with Lily Cate?

She’d wondered during the long Sabbath service when Lily Cate and the general had sat in front of her, proving such a distraction Sophie could hardly mumble amen. Though Seamus sat stone still, she’d sensed his thoughts were far afield. On taxes and leases, perhaps. Or the recent wedding he’d attended.

She bent her head, blocking the image of hard shoulders and midnight hair and the flash of exasperation in his gaze when she’d aired her stance on slavery. The mettle in his tone when he’d countered her every word had only made him more appealing. So she’d dug in her heels and defied him.

She needed to distance herself from him, from Lily Cate, before their closeness was brought to an abrupt end. She couldn’t stand another loss, another heartache. Not after her mother. Three Chimneys. A lost way of life.

Reaching out, she snuffed the candle and climbed into the four-poster bed. The feather tick cradled her as it had done for years but tonight seemed lacking. She envied Lily Cate her nighttime comforting. No doubt if she were in Lily Cate’s place, in Seamus Ogilvy’s arms, she’d quit crying too.

At dusk the tranquility of Tall Acre was profound. Seamus walked through the lavender twilight on his nightly rounds, a large iron ring with myriad skeleton keys dangling from his good hand. Now, as then, he checked each dependency, the icehouse and smokehouse, the spinning house and summer kitchen and half a dozen other outbuildings. Years before, his father had prayed a blessing on each. Protection. Peace. When he was a lad, those prayers had etched themselves indelibly on his conscience. His soul.

But had it done any good?

The wide veranda wrapping round the main house was bare, swept clean of all but a few brittle autumn leaves. A few lights shone from favorite rooms—study, foyer, Lily Cate’s upstairs bedchamber. He allowed her a light at bedtime, but his fear of fire kept one of the staff hovering till he came upstairs and snuffed it out himself.

He exhaled, breath pluming white in the night’s chill. Everything was moon-washed, nearly perfect. A few slaves sang softly in the quarters. Their presence, their hushed, haunting melodies, disturbed him in fresh ways. They were his father’s slaves. He could honestly say he’d not had a hand in their past. But he knew he had a hand in their future.

Leaning against the smokehouse door, he tilted his head back and looked skyward as one low hymn ended and another began. A soft, determined rebuke threaded throughout, convicting him anew.

I don’t understand you Patriots, fighting for liberty yet denying it to the very people who need it most.

He’d wanted to tell Sophie he’d arranged for manumission of all fifty-two of Tall Acre’s slaves in the will he’d made prior to his joining the army. But the cold truth was he needed slave labor to turn Tall Acre profitable again or he’d lose it altogether. His overarching desire was to leave a prosperous estate for his son like his father before him, for untold generations of Ogilvys, Lord willing.

Which entailed finding a bride.

In the back of his head, he heard his mother’s voice, gentle yet distinct.
You need a woman, a wife, to help tend to all this, Seamus. While you cherish your acres and
experiment with new crops, breed your horses, build your home, and enlarge your own earthly paradise, make sure you have a capable woman to stand by you.

That woman hadn’t been Anne.

Who, then, would she be?

Clementine Randolph hadn’t been shy. Nor had Sarah Carter or Emma Fairfax, each having a word alone with him before he’d ridden away from Bracken Hall that wet morning after the wedding. All had substantial dowries, were heiresses in their own right, and were anxious to wed and get on with the life that had been denied them in wartime. But he found them only mildly interesting at best. And Clementine’s near taunting about Three Chimneys turned his stomach. In their eyes, Sophie Menzies was an outsider and always would be.

Pushing away from the wall, he started down the shell path toward the quarters. A few heads poked out at his approach, mostly children lured by the music of his jingling keys as he walked.

“Evenin’, General,” an old man called out, the white of his clay pipe glowing cherry-red in the dusk.

“Evening, Thomas,” he answered as he went past.

He wasn’t a cruel man. These people were warm and well fed, had ample wood and water. A doctor was near at hand if they took ill. On the Sabbath they rested. He issued frequent passes to neighboring plantations for them to visit kin. Never would he break up a family. Never had he resorted to a whipping. He held his overseers to the strictest standards for meting out any punishment. What little dissension there was had always been dealt with straightaway. The ever-present fear of being sold to someone far less amiable kept most problems at bay.

But try explaining that to Sophie Menzies.

Indentures, she’d said. In writing.

He looked toward the house, Lily Cate never far from his thoughts, and took a left at the boxwood hedge framing the garden. As night deepened, a streak of white caught his eye, coming at him like a shooting star across the blackened lawn.

“Papa!” She flung herself against him, her arms tight around his knees, nearly knocking him backwards. The frantic rise and fall of her chest made him look back at the house in alarm. He bent down and picked her up, his arms snug about her trembling body. He held her at eye level, her nightcap askew, vulnerability etched in her heart-shaped face. Had she really called him Papa? Or had he only imagined it? His chest felt so full of both alarm and delight he couldn’t breathe.

“Papa, there’s a man—he’s looking up at me. I can see him from my window!”

“What?”

“On the front lawn, behind that big oak tree.”

“You’re sure?”

She buried her face in his shoulder in answer, as if she couldn’t bear to take another look. The sick sinking that had begun inside him the night he’d taken her by force from Williamsburg rekindled.

“I’ll go see,” he murmured, stroking her hair and cap till her breathing returned to normal and she lifted her head.

Calling for his housekeeper, he sent her and Lily Cate upstairs. The familiar pistol at his waist, worn as a precaution against prowling animals, saved him a trip inside to his gun case.

He sprinted around the west side of the house, eyes on every bush and tree. The front lawn yawned empty. Even with lanterns lit and a twelve-man search with his foxhounds, nothing turned up an hour later. The river, a chronic source of worry given someone could slip in by boat, gleamed empty in the moonlight, the water lapping gently along the leaf-littered shore.

But the rhythm of his heart stayed at a gallop, his thoughts as hard to corral.

This was a warning. From Williamsburg.

“You’ve not seen Miss Lily Cate for a fortnight.” Glynnis’s voice filled the warm kitchen like the aroma of freshly baked gingerbread.

“Just in passing at church,” Sophie said, trying to keep the lament from her tone. Their honest talk at the tavern still unsettled her. She feared she’d angered Seamus further by refusing to let him carry her to services and back in his coach since then. She preferred walking, she’d told him.

“Well, if you’re wondering what’s going on at Tall Acre, I heard on good authority from Florie that there’s to be a holiday ball. The general’s officer friends will be in attendance and a great many from Roan too.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sophie said quietly. “Tall Acre has a history of hospitality.”

“He’s hired a new cook, other staff.” Glynnis sighed, a thorn in her pleasure. “My only concern is what you’ll be wearing. You’re down to a few good dresses, though you could don something of your dear mother’s.”

“I wouldn’t count on an invitation.”

Glynnis looked up from the gingerbread she was icing. “Why not?”

Lifting her shoulders, Sophie snatched a wayward crumb. “Our relationship has become somewhat strained.”

“Whose? Yours and the general’s?”

Sophie nodded. “Whenever we’re together we have . . . words.” Turning her back on Glynnis, she took the steaming kettle from the hearth and set it on the kitchen table. “And like you said, I’ve not seen Lily Cate for a fortnight. That speaks for itself.”