The Mistress of Tall Acre (16 page)

“Goodnight, Miss Menzies,” he finally said.

12

S
now decorated Three Chimneys like icing on white cake, requiring warmer fires and bed pans of smoldering coals. The water in Sophie’s washstand threatened to freeze, and despite numerous blankets piled atop her bed, she never felt warm enough, unlike Tall Acre where every corner seemed cozy.

“You’ve no padding to warm you,” Glynnis scolded when she returned that morning. “We need to fatten you up like a Christmas goose.”

“You should have seen me at Tall Acre. I ate like a field hand!” Sophie ran her hands down the sides of her bodice, sure she was a bit thicker than when she’d left. “General Ogilvy has a new French cook. He laid the best table and turned out a delicious orange cake.”

Glynnis coughed into her handkerchief. “I’m far keener on learning who the next mistress of Tall Acre will be. Florie came by to chat and said there were quite a few fine, unmarried ladies present. The general’s even stopped traipsing to the mistress’s grave.”

So he traipsed, did he? She sighed at Florie’s latest indiscretion. “Probably because the snow is a foot deep and he cannot.”

“I don’t suppose you noticed his favoring one lady over another?”

Sophie bit her lip. All she’d noticed was the attention the ladies had paid him. “General Ogilvy is difficult to read.”

“No doubt the ball was a great success.” Taking a chair by the kitchen hearth, Glynnis eyed a pot of porridge. “Did he dance with you?”

“He danced with everyone, even old Mrs. Melbourne who is nearly at death’s door.” The kind act had touched her. “And a fine dancer he is.” Despite his protests to the contrary, he was surprisingly agile, even graceful. She wouldn’t confide that he’d bucked custom, partnering with the least socially prominent woman in the room instead of the most for the opening minuet. “I expect we shall dance at his wedding soon.”

Glynnis heaved a sigh. “I daresay his future’s a bit brighter than ours at present. Florie said—”

“Glynnis!” Sophie sat down hard on a stool, edging her cold feet nearer the fire. “I fear Florie says too much.”

“Well, tittle-tattle seems acceptable if it’s about us.” Glynnis gave a stir to the porridge with a long wooden spoon. “Apparently one of the general’s guests has some claim on Three Chimneys, according to a Miss Randolph.” She looked at Sophie squarely. “You’d do well to tell me these things. This has been my home ever since your mother’s day.”

“I didn’t want to worry you. Miss Randolph has a cousin, an officer, who might be awarded Three Chimneys.” Sophie still felt prickly. “Given Father’s sentiments, it’s considered enemy property and may pass into other hands.”

“Well, I’ve had a letter from my widowed sister in Annapolis, the one who takes in mending.” Glynnis sneezed and started to sputter. She could hardly manage a word without that chilling, bone-deep wheezing. “She has a spare room should we want it.”

The sister who was so old she could hardly see her stitches? And so poor she couldn’t rub two pence together? “’Tis very kind, Glynnis, but I won’t be making any plans just yet.” The quiet answer belied the maelstrom inside her. “For the moment we’re warm, well fed, and have a roof over our heads. Curtis might still come home. All will be well.”

“So say the fairy tales,” Glynnis muttered, resuming her pot watching.

Three days before Christmas another note came. Sophie grew warm all over when she recognized Seamus’s familiar scrawl. She, Glynnis, and Henry had been invited to Christmas dinner. Her heart raced. She’d only just left. Was she now invited back? She wouldn’t, couldn’t, court heartache. Though she hated to disappoint Lily Cate, she dashed off her regrets. And then she burned the invitation lest Glynnis push her out the door.

Quietly they sat down to their Christmas ham and an abundance of dishes reminiscent of better days. Creamed celery with pecans, acorn squash, lima beans, mince pie sweetened with a gill of molasses. Even her old favorite, spoonbread, crowned the table, its golden top rising and nearly touching the oven ceiling when baking. She tried not to dwell on how Henry had come by the costly pecans.

Her mind wandered to the winter frolic she and Lily Cate had enjoyed the morning after the ball, making angel imprints in their heavy coats and boots and mixing snow with Tall Acre’s honey for a tasty treat. Seamus had watched them from an upstairs window for a few moments, leaving her to wonder what went on inside his handsome head. Yet deep down, she knew. He was missing his wife, perhaps wishing she was Anne instead, romping with their daughter in the snow, though Sophie doubted the discontented Anne had ever romped.

Nearby was the Ogilvy graveyard, hemmed in by a stone fence. Had Seamus not been able to grieve during the war? Was that why he wore a path to Anne’s resting place?

The week after Christmas yet another note came from Tall Acre.

Miss Sophie,

Thank you for the pretty gifts.

With love,
Lily Cate

Obviously Seamus had helped Lily Cate write such. In light of the elaborate dollhouse he’d given her, Sophie’s gift seemed too simple, just knitting needles fit for a child’s hands, along with some yarn and simple instructions. They’d been her needles, given to her by a grandmother when she was wee as Lily Cate. As for Seamus, she’d knitted him a scarf, a Highland plaid in her mother’s family colors—purple the hue of wild heather, gray like a Scottish sky. Her heart was in every stitch, and then her courage had failed and she’d hidden it away instead, feeling the gift too familiar.

“Well, we’ve got Christmas over,” Glynnis was saying from the open parlor doorway, eyebrows nearly touching her silver hairline in surprise. “And now we have a different sort of present standing in the parlor.”

For a moment Sophie forgot to breathe. Curtis? Would her heart always leap in anticipation?

As if realizing the hopes she’d raised, Glynnis said hastily, “A Captain McClintock is here to see you.”

For a moment Sophie didn’t move, Lily Cate’s letter slack in her hands. Captain McClintock, one of the general’s officer friends? Of the two men who’d paid her any attention at Tall Acre, he’d been the most persistent.

“I don’t suppose you neglected to tell me anything?” Glynnis studied her with guarded expectation. “Like he might fancy you and has come to tell you so?”

Setting aside the letter, Sophie said quietly, “I haven’t any idea why he’s come.”

“Well, you’ll soon be finding out.”

Thankfully the parlor fire had been lit, though they were still woefully short on wood. Captain McClintock stood looking at the bare mantel where a portrait of her father in the dress of his Highland regiment had hung. She’d spent the last few weeks taking down any reminders of him, and the spot begged for another painting.

“Captain, welcome to Three Chimneys.” She kept her voice cordial, though she was as surprised as her housekeeper to see him.

He twined her fingers in his, bringing them to his lips. His gloved hands were cold, prodding her to offer him a toddy.

“A real Scottish toddy? With whiskey enough to warm the blood?”

“Indeed,” she said with a smile, pulling the bell cord for Glynnis. She motioned to the two chairs fronting the fire where she’d sat with Seamus. Had he sent the captain her way?

“How was your Christmas?” she ventured cautiously, hoping Glynnis would hurry.

“Quiet. Too quiet. And yours?”

“The same.” She smiled self-consciously. “I mean, I like the quiet. Country life is very . . . tranquil.”

He looked at her, a question in his eyes. “I thought you might spend the holiday at Tall Acre. You seem quite attached to the general’s daughter.”

“Ah yes. Miss Lily Cate is fine company.” She reached for a poker and prodded the lazy fire, which added little warmth to the room and had nothing to do with the color filling her face. “I stayed home as my housekeeper has been ill.”

“I trust she’s better.”

Before she could answer, Glynnis came in with the toddy, looking hard at the captain as if still trying to unravel the riddle of his arrival. But she contained her coughing till she’d left the room, at least.

“Are you familiar with Ramsay, Miss Menzies? My estate on Occoquan Bay?”

“I’ve heard of it. A lovely place, I’m told.”

“Aye, ’twas my father’s before me.” He took a long drink as if gathering courage. A strand of thinning hair fell forward over his high forehead. He wore the new style, cut below the collar, giving him the look of a shorn sheep. She’d always preferred a traditional queue like Seamus’s own. A riot of black, it was always neatly tied with dark ribbon.

“Now that it’s the new year, I’m taking the liberty of asking you if you’d like to accompany the Ogilvys to Ramsay when they come visit.”

She masked her surprise, unsure of his meaning. As a companion to Lily Cate . . . or more?

Reaching out, he made himself clear by taking her left hand in his. No ring rested there, posy or otherwise, no doubt spurring him on. “I’d like to become better acquainted and show you my home . . . commence a courtship if you’re willing.”

She went cold. Under Seamus and Lily Cate’s very eyes? Did the general know of the captain’s intentions?

“I’m flattered, Captain. But I must tell you . . .” She groped for finesse. This painful formality, all their fine-stepping around feelings, was excruciating. “My affections lie elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere.” The disappointment in his face cut her.

She withdrew her hand. “Forgive me, but I must be candid.” For once she was glad of her silly infatuation. Only she’d go to her grave before revealing that it involved his commanding officer.

“I’m sorry too, Miss Menzies.” He downed his remaining toddy in a single gulp. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on a prior arrangement.”

Glynnis ushered him out, then rushed back in as retreating hoofbeats resounded in the crisp winter air. “Heaven help me, but I listened through the keyhole and prayed I’d not cough once. Who on earth has stolen your heart?”

Sophie hesitated. Sometimes the boundaries between them blurred. Glynnis was more doting aunt than servant. Secrets were seldom kept at Three Chimneys.

“I do care for someone, but he doesn’t care for me.” Sophie spoke carefully as a deeper curiosity washed Glynnis’s face.

“From your Williamsburg days, I’d wager.” Her bosom heaved with a sigh. “Well, ’tis a crying shame to see you stuck here with no prospects and no promise there’ll be any.”

“Being a spinster isn’t all that unsavory.” Hadn’t she finally convinced herself of that? “’Tis better than marrying a man I don’t love.”

“Well,” Glynnis said amidst a bout of coughing, “you’re a bonny, faithful lass. The man who does not return your affections is a fool.”

Aye
, Sophie almost said with a smile.
A high-ranking, handsome fool.

13

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toic, Seamus sat at his desk and stared at his maimed hand. He could finally look at it without recalling the nightmare of it happening, that stunning, irreversible moment when his world became a fog of pain and fury, three fingers severed in the blink of an eye. Making a fist, he could still feel them. If he shut his eyes they seemed not maimed at all. Only they ached. Phantom pain, the field surgeon called it.

Bad as it was and had been, the trial of physical pain was nothing compared to the stain of guilt he felt. A Hessian soldier had died because of his hand. A mere boy. Seamus wanted to take the moment back. No one should lose his life over a few missing fingers. Not even the enemy.

He’d stopped praying after that. He couldn’t quiet the uneasy notion that God wouldn’t hear his prayers, wouldn’t answer. He’d felt unworthy and nearly soulless since.

His quill quivered and fell. Ink spattered the sheet of foolscap in front of him. He stared at what he’d written, illegible as it was.

Dear Miss Menzies . . .

“Sir, how do you make an
S
?” Lily Cate’s voice reached out to him across the expanse of desk.