The Mistress of Tall Acre (13 page)

Yet wasn’t that what she wanted? A safe distance? Exasperation shot through her. From Seamus, truly, not Lily Cate. But she couldn’t have one without the other. Could she?

“Well, ball or no ball, we still have a fine Christmas ham, thanks to Tall Acre. A far cry from last Christmas. The only thing we’re lacking is your brother’s presence.”

“I’m still praying about that,” Sophie murmured. Tucked in the pages of her Bible were the letters he’d sent, the ink faded and hard to decipher. With them was the letter from Richmond announcing that Three Chimneys was now lost. Glynnis was unaware of that.

Turning away, Glynnis began to cough, hiding her face in her apron.

“You should be abed.” She schooled the sympathy in her tone. Glynnis didn’t like to be coddled. “You’ve still not recovered from that cold.” She reached for a cup and poured tea. “Have you been drinking that water from the chestnuts we boiled? ’Tis beneficial for chest complaints, Mama always said. Perhaps I should send for the doctor—”

“You’ll do no such thing. There’s naught to be done for a cold except get over it. I’ll mend.” She started out of the kitchen, gnarled hands untying her apron as she went. “I’m off to the attic to see about a proper ball gown.”

Sophie watched her go, words of refusal lodging in her throat.

The invitation arrived at dusk. Standing alone in the foyer after a servant from Tall Acre delivered it, Sophie ran a finger over the heavy masculine scrawl that comprised her name. Half a dozen excuses allowing her a graceful exit leapt to mind. Glynnis was unwell. She was expecting company . . . though Curtis’s homecoming hardly counted. With a swipe of a finger she broke the Ogilvy seal, devouring the contents like a piece of gingerbread.

Dear Miss Menzies,

Our hope is that you will honor us with your presence as our house guest from Wednesday to Saturday next culminating in a holiday ball on the 20th.

Sincerely,
Seamus Ogilvy

Beneath his bold signature was Lily Cate’s own, loping and unpracticed and hesitant, melting every shred of her resistance. She could say no to the general, but she couldn’t disappoint Lily Cate.

Leaving the invitation open on an entry table, she took the wide stairs slowly, fighting her conflicted feelings every step. The truth was she was starved for a little life, a little company. What could it hurt? The general would be surrounded by friends and she would be on the fringe, more a companion to Lily Cate.

As expected, three gowns hung about Sophie’s bedchamber awaiting her perusal. All were wrinkled, one yellowed with age, another torn. One glance decided the question. A pale lemon lustring with an overlay of French lace stole her breath. It had been Mama’s favorite, though the immodest bodice was missing a fichu.

Still, she had no proper shoes. No jewels to go about her throat. Any remaining finery had been bartered for food last winter. The thought of a house filled to the brim with genteel men and women made Sophie cringe. These were the general’s personal friends. She didn’t want to embarrass him by appearing ill-dressed, even if she had been invited out of courtesy.

She could hear Glynnis approach, her slow tread on the stairs giving a warning. Her bent frame filled the doorway, invitation fluttering from her hand.

I told you so
, her expression seemed to say.

“Not only a ball but a merry four days’ stay!” Stepping into the room, she watched Sophie examine the lustring. “I thought you’d pick that one, though we’ll have to alter the other two for you to wear while you’re there.”

“Is there time?”

“Perhaps, if we get to work at once.”

“We’d best begin,” Sophie said, eyeing the clock.

And pray I get the influenza instead.

10

S
ophie could only remember two visits to Tall Acre, once when the general married and they paid a call to his bride, and then at Lily Cate’s birth. Oddly, the memory of the lovely Anne Ogilvy was no longer fixed in her head as firmly as a framed miniature in oils. She only remembered the feel of her. The former mistress of Tall Acre seemed kind but condescending. Soft-spoken yet sharp-eyed. Sophie and her mother had not returned nor been invited back.

Sophie recalled it now as the new Ogilvy coach came round to collect her, giving her a taste of the refinements to come. Lined with green Morocco leather and boasting diamond-cut plate glass, the vehicle was Philadelphia made. Sophie was glad the coachman took his time on the rutted road so she could compose herself, but no amount of prayer or preparation could quiet her heart as the hundred-year-old house came into view. Three Chimneys was lovely in its own tired, genteel way, but Tall Acre was magnificent with its sweeping porches and three-storied brick facade.

She wasn’t the first to arrive, but Lily Cate was waiting for her, a servant by her side. Through the coach window Sophie could see her hopping on one foot and waving wildly, finally jumping down from the front veranda and dashing toward the mounting block. Her wordless hug told Sophie everything. Both of them had been counting down the days till they were together again.

“Papa said that I could show you to your room—’tis next to mine—and sit by you at supper.” Taking Sophie’s hand, she led her into a gleaming, beeswax-scented foyer with a wide staircase soaring upward, weaponry and paintings covering the paneled walls. Masculine voices and laughter seeped beneath a stalwart mahogany door to their right. “He’s in his study with his army men.”

Sophie hid a smile. Her prayers had been answered. She’d been spared an awkward entry and was in the company of the one who mattered most. “We’ll not disturb them, then.”

They climbed the central staircase, then headed down a long hall toward a door opened wide as if in welcome.

“I asked Papa to give you the room next to mine. ’Twas Mama’s, Florie said.”

Surprised, Sophie followed as a servant set her valise near an open, empty wardrobe. “Do you remember your mama, Lily Cate?” She regretted the question as sorrow crowded the girl’s little face.

“I only remember Aunt Charlotte.”

Charlotte. Anne’s sister. They seldom spoke of Lily Cate’s life in Williamsburg, though Sophie remembered the Fitzhughs. They’d been friends of her father’s. Pockmarked and gaunt, Fitzhugh was every bit as cold and calculating. In the back of her mind lay hazy allegations. Of dishonesty. Darker deeds.

“Miss Sophie, look!” Lily Cate showed her a tester bed, an elegant dressing table with a mirrored back, and the bank of south-facing windows overlooking the front lawn where myriad shade trees grew. All personal effects had been removed. She’d have thought it any other room but for the connecting door to Lily Cate’s bedchamber.

There was another door on the opposite wall. She could only guess where that led. Her lingering gaze gave her away.

“That’s Papa’s room,” Lily Cate told her.

Locked, most likely. Somehow being sandwiched between them made Sophie feel unsettled and secure all at once. She was a restless sleeper since British soldiers had occupied her home. Sometimes she had nightmares. The thought of waking either Lily Cate or her father was enough to keep her sleepless all week.

The crunch of wheels on the drive returned them to the windows. A line of coaches was delivering more guests, not officers but refined ladies, their capes and bonnets adding a bit of color to the dreary landscape. Would Tall Acre hold them all?

Lily Cate’s face was alive with excitement. “I’m supposed to let you rest till supper, but I’d rather play.” Pushing open the connecting door, she all but skipped into her bedchamber, a charming room made bright with floral wallpaper and a quilted yellow counterpane. “Papa gave me a dollhouse like yours from Richmond.”

Her joy was so contagious Sophie felt her own spirits take wing. Dropping down beside her on the thick carpet, she lost herself in a tour of rooms, charmed when Lily Cate introduced the master of the house, a small wooden soldier in blue uniform.

“Where are
you
?” Sophie asked.

Peering into a miniature parlor, Lily Cate pointed to a dark-haired girl in a yellow silk dress. At her feet was a cat curled on a braided rug. What? No mistress? Grieving widower that Seamus was, Sophie almost expected to see a miniature version of Anne presiding.

As dusk darkened the windowpanes, the rich aroma of bread and roasting meat told them supper was near at hand. A maid delivered towels and hot water, replenishing the fire and helping Sophie dress. All thumbs, or all nerves, Sophie dropped her mother’s cameo and sent the maid scrambling to retrieve it. Finally trussed in stays and a remade gown of apple-green brocade, she stared back at a stranger in the looking glass. The maid had done wonders with her hair, arranging it high at the back of her head with curls spiraling to her bare shoulders. Unpowdered, it held the patina of black silk, turning her skin to frost. Again that sense of dissatisfaction crept in. She was too pale. Too thin. More shadow.

Lily Cate had been fussed over with her own head of curls and rose taffeta dress. They stood gawking at each other in mutual admiration before Lily Cate took her hand and led her downstairs, the open dining room door looming large. Second thoughts rushed in, slowing Sophie’s steps.

Whatever had possessed her to come?

She could hear the lilt of feminine voices mingling with the rumbling tenor of the men’s. Her name, her family, made her feel small. Once her lineage was proudly bandied about; now she was ashamed of being a Menzies, daughter of a turncoat, in a roomful of Patriots.

Glad for the pressure of Lily Cate’s small, warm hand, she stepped cautiously over the threshold. Across the sea of Wilton carpet, the general looked their way as if he’d been waiting. Sophie’s gaze dropped to the place cards set about the immense table, wondering where they’d sit. For now Lily Cate was intent on leading her to her father standing with a few fellow officers.

“Miss Menzies.” His eyes held hers. Warm. Kind. As if their last exchange hadn’t been a heated one in a busy tavern. “Welcome to Tall Acre.”

“Good evening, General Ogilvy.” ’Twas all she could manage. Her smile felt pasted in place.

With a gesture to a servant to commence supper, Seamus pulled out a chair, seating her and then Lily Cate, as the other guests found their places. An older couple sat beside them. Had Seamus kept her separate out of courtesy because he knew she’d feel uncomfortable? They were at the end of the table, well away from the vivacious Clementine Randolph and the ladies intermingled with the officers. Relief swept aside her unease. Years before, Clementine had attended Mrs. Hallam’s school briefly, but the other women were unknown to her.

As myriad dishes were served, Sophie took in glazed green woodwork and Turkey red carpet, drawn to the white damask tablecloth and Wedgwood dinner service. Without liveried servants, Tall Acre seemed less formal than other great houses, though plenty of spirits and silver abounded.

Lily Cate ate everything set before her, particularly the sweetmeats, making Sophie worry about a stomachache. But she’d be near at hand if Lily Cate had a bad night. She ate little herself, stomach rebelling, every dish rich if perfectly seasoned. She was used to bland fare or none at all.

As glasses were emptied and refilled and hot dishes replaced cold ones, all brought up or whisked away by a pair of ingenious dumbwaiters framing the fireplace, Sophie kept time by the tall case clock in the corner. Half past nine.

The women were full of gossip, the men discussing politics and the government’s efforts to unify the new states for the first congress in the spring. Through the dazzle of candlelight, Sophie stole a look at the general at the head of the table. Heart-tuggingly handsome. The perfect host. The ladies obviously found him fascinating, one or two noticeably so. There was none of the intensity about him tonight that marked their personal exchanges. He seemed relaxed, more at ease. At meal’s end the gentlemen remained behind in the dining room while the women passed into a room made rich with countless Palladian windows, the pier glass and striped taffeta elegant.