The Mistress of Tall Acre (20 page)

Sleep was slow in coming when it came at all. She drifted off, then wrenched awake. The clock struck three far below, and through its ponderous chime she heard a noise. Seamus . . . was he home? Someone was at the door below.

On her feet before the cobwebs left her head, Sophie made it to the empty foyer below. To her right was the hall with its door leading to the west lawn. The violent turning of the knob sent her backing up a step. The trespasser Lily Cate had spoken of? The broad mahogany door heaved and shuddered but held fast, at least for the moment.

Turning, she fled down the hall. The blackened staircase seemed endless as she felt her way upstairs. Lily Cate—was she safe? Asleep? Trembling so hard she could barely bolt the door, she locked Lily Cate’s bedchamber. How had Seamus kept down his fear in battle? She felt nigh smothered by it.

The intruder had not let up. Did no one else hear? She remembered the housekeeper lived in a cottage on the grounds. The servants were in the quarters. Only she and Amity and Lily Cate occupied the house. Mrs. Lamont usually checked to make sure the house was locked. Had she forgotten any one of the doors?

Lord, help us. Protect us.

If something happened to Lily Cate . . . She pressed shaking hands together in a sort of prayer. Seamus would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself.

Crawling into bed, Sophie sought Lily Cate’s reassuring warmth. The bedchamber door was bolted. Surely an intruder wouldn’t break a window. The night watch—was he not making the rounds? Desperate for daylight, all thought of sleep chased from the night, she wanted Seamus back. His calm, steadying presence was the only anecdote.

At daybreak Sophie heard Mrs. Lamont come in. She returned to her bedchamber and dressed, still shaky from fright and lack of sleep. Amity met her on the stairs, intent on breakfast.

“How was your first night?” Sophie asked hesitantly.

“I slept so soundly I didn’t wake till dawn.” With that Amity went in to breakfast, ready to begin lessons with Lily Cate.

Sophie stepped outside the riverfront door to find Tall Acre already astir. The ring of a blacksmith’s hammer and a rooster’s crowing ushered in a flawless dawn. As she neared the kennel Lily Cate had shown her, Seamus’s foxhounds began barking. Taking liberty, she bent and rubbed the largest dog’s bristled face before turning him loose. If he could chase a fox, could he outfox an intruder?

She followed at a distance while the hound made for the side entrance to the house, nose to the ground. Only in broad daylight and a dog’s steady presence did she have the nerve to take in the side entrance. The west door stood stalwart, as if she’d only imagined the noise in the night, only had a bad dream.

“Miss Menzies, somethin’ the matter?” The gardener was regarding her solemnly, shovel in hand.

“Someone—” Her voice warbled shamefully. She was glad Seamus couldn’t see her so undone. “Someone tried to break in last night.”

His eyes darkened as his knobby fingers traced the line of a fresh scar in the wood. “Mebbe the same man who was trespassing before Christmas?”

“I don’t know. Whoever it was, I feared he’d break the door down.”

“Miss Lily Cate safe and sound?” When she nodded, he said, “The general returns soon. He’ll set everything to rights.”

Oh, what faith they had in Seamus. She was an outsider yet sensed their ongoing regard for him. But she wasn’t sure this was a battle he would win.

Seamus had always preferred Alexandria to Williamsburg. Alexandria held no haunting memories, no bitter family scenes and secrets. The little town was vibrant and thriving where Williamsburg was faded and wanting. Turning onto Oronoco Street, he made his way down the frozen, tree-lined avenue toward the home of Richard Ratcliffe, tax commissioner and land speculator.

A surly wind pushed against him, tearing at the scarf Sophie had carefully wound round his neck. He reached up a leather glove and tugged the scarf upward over his nose and jaw, his grim expression frozen into place. The nap of the fine wool was soft as a woman’s skin. He fancied it carried her rose scent. At the thought he shoved his boots farther into his stirrups and shifted in the saddle. Dwelling on her was agony, but he’d nearly come undone when she’d given him the scarf.

Standing alone with her in the solitude of the stables, he’d hungered to reach out and touch her, clasp her wrists, and pull her close. But deep down he knew that was the wrong kind of wanting. He was simply craving companionship. Closeness. A distraction from outside pressures. Trying to blot out Anne’s memory with Sophie was a terrible mistake.

Still, the wanting gnawed at him, made him wish halfheartedly that the man who spurned her would change his mind. If Sophie married, her future would be secure. It wouldn’t matter so much if Curtis returned or not. And it would end the way Seamus had begun to think of her.

He blew out a frustrated breath. Best get his desires unmuddled before returning to Tall Acre lest he do something rash, something stupid. He couldn’t risk driving Sophie from Lily Cate’s life, not when his daughter needed her most.

His stallion was plodding now after so many miles, needing a warm stall as much as he needed an inn. He swung down from the saddle, tethered Vulcan to the iron rail at the front of a handsome townhouse, and stepped up to the door. A maid came straightaway, smiling at the sight of him, cheeks pinking. She was looking at him coyly from beneath her cambric cap, her dark coloring so like Sophie’s that she stormed his thoughts again.

“General Ogilvy, do come in!”

“I’m here to see Mr. Ratcliffe, if he’s available.”

“Of course, sir. He’s in the parlor. I’ll fetch a groom to stable your horse.”

Standing by a welcoming fire was the man he’d known for twenty years or better, hand outstretched, smile broad. “Seamus, what brings you to town in the dearth of winter?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned toward the maid. “Some grog and a meal for the general, if you will.”

Seamus nodded his thanks and took the proffered chair nearest the fire. “I’ve come to discuss the military land grant awarded me in Kentucky. I may have need of it in future.”

He was home. At last. Lily Cate flew down the stairs, nearly stumbling in her haste. But it was Sophie she ran toward, peering at him cautiously from the folds of Sophie’s full skirts.

“You’ve come back,” she said shyly, as if he’d been away so long he was more stranger. “And Miss Sophie must go?”

“In a little while,” he answered, trying to allay her disappointment. “I’ve brought you something—all the children, actually.” He’d felt a little foolish buying so many trinkets, but his staff had served him well while he was on the field, and there was no quicker way to their hearts than to reward their children. “The toys are in Mrs. Lamont’s keeping. She’ll go with you when you’re ready to hand them out.”

At this she began walking backwards, curiosity taking such hold that she flew away again, leaving them alone. Sophie turned back to him, her expression so wrenched with concern the joy of his homecoming was forgotten.

“I’m sorry to start off on so troubling a note, but something happened a few nights ago.” She spoke calmly, but he sensed the beat of fear beneath. “Someone tried to get into the house through the west door. Thankfully it was bolted and held fast. I stayed the night with Lily Cate, locking us in.”

“You saw no one? Heard no voices?”

“Nay.” She looked about the empty foyer. “I’ve said nothing to Lily Cate or the governess, just Mrs. Lamont and the gardener.”

He took a labored breath, all the wind knocked out of him. It was all coming back—Williamsburg, Fitzhugh’s threats, the prowler he’d thought dealt with. Without another word, he left the study and took the private hall leading to his parents’ bedchamber and the west door.

He unbolted it and pulled it open to birdsong and sunlight. The day looked anything but ominous, yet a thick sense of violation was crowding in. Sophie stood behind him, but he was barely aware of her. His attention was fixed on the door’s scar, a deep groove that a saber might have left.

“I’ll question the night watch.” He shut the door, sliding the bolt into place. “Meanwhile I’ll have my coachman take you home . . . just in case.” He tried to focus, to be at ease. “Thank you for taking fine care of my daughter.”

She hesitated a moment, then left to collect her belongings, leaving him alone and flummoxed. He went back to his study, his eyes roaming the walls with its myriad accoutrements and weaponry. He’d thought to have little use for them now. Flintlock and bayonet. Cartouche box and tomahawk. Musket. Saber. Sword. Pistols.

He was at war again.

16

S
ophie returned home to Three Chimneys, unsurprised to find Glynnis’s replacement on her heels. ’Twas a blessed, almost divine distraction.

“My name’s Mistress Murdo, Miss Menzies. From Dumfries.” Her lilt was rich and thick as Dumfries porridge. “I’m to cook and keep house to yer content.”

A fellow Scot! Sophie couldn’t contain her delight. “Welcome to Three Chimneys, Mistress Murdo. I’ll show you to your room. If you have need of anything . . .”

Seamus seemed to have orchestrated events with the precision and efficiency of the officer he was, keeping Sophie’s loneliness at bay like it was a line of warring redcoats instead. But it was an odd arrangement, the length of Mistress Murdo’s stay uncertain, her wages paid by the general. She’d return to Tall Acre in time, but for now she settled in with an apron and a smile broad as her waistline.

“I’ll get right to work in the kitchen. A hearty meal is in order.” She surveyed her new domain with a keen eye, intent on the worn copper pots and larder. “Ye’ve plenty of neeps and tatties, I hope, and oats enough for oatcakes.”

“All of the above.”

“We’ll get along well, then.” Mistress Murdo chuckled. “Though Henry’s an Englishman, I’ll not hold it against him.”

Truly, Mistress Murdo and Henry got on like a pair of turtledoves. Sophie often found him about the kitchen in the days to come as their new housekeeper and cook turned out an array of tasty dishes and sweets.

“Why, these scones are the best I’ve ever tasted.” Sophie felt a tad disloyal to Glynnis saying so but helped herself to another just the same. “And your preserves are second to none.”