The Mistress of Tall Acre (27 page)

Setting the poker aside, he turned toward her. “If you’ll have me, I promise to be faithful to you. I gladly give you my name, my house, all my worldly goods.” Voice low, he seemed to be saying a vow. “You’ll never be in want so long as I live. If you can abide a man with a bad hand, I’ll do my best to make you content.”

His humility, the earnestness in his expression, stirred her deeply. He was willing to be her husband, yet she was still drowning in the shock of it, uncertain if this was the Lord’s will or her own—or merely that of a man determined to keep his daughter.

His mouth tilted into a smile. “And if we wed, it would probably be wise to leave Miss Menzies and General Ogilvy behind and use our Christian names instead.”

Flushing, she looked down at her knotted hands. She’d nearly come undone when he’d spoken her name in the emotional maelstrom of her parlor. She hadn’t recovered yet.

“Sophie . . . look at me.”

Her chin came up. His eyes were a glittering blue, full of promise and hope and apology.

Was he wanting her to respond in kind? “Seamus . . .” His name tasted strange. Throat tight, she simply reached for his wounded hand, hoping that relayed her answer.

Relief washed his face—and embarrassment. As if he was still struggling with his maimed hand, wanting to offer the whole one in its place. The vulnerability in his expression wrenched her. She longed to tell him his injury mattered not at all, that she’d take him no matter how maimed or unworthy he felt. If he loved her, she would. If this was a proper proposal, she would.

She let go of his hand. “When shall we wed?”

“As soon as you’re willing.”

“But the banns must be read, a fortnight to follow . . .”

“Reverend Hopkins has agreed to waive the banns in the wake of the war and Anglican upheaval.”

Had he? “Tomorrow morning, then.” She felt another qualm. Was a day’s notice time enough to prepare the staff? Time enough to come to her senses, change her mind? Flee to Edinburgh after all? She hurried on as if to outrun the thought. “I have a small request, if you would.” She felt a touch shy. “Might you wear your uniform?” The surprise in his eyes begged explanation, but she couldn’t say she’d thought of him as her hero. It sounded foolish. Silly. And would certainly relay her hidden feelings.

“Aye, I will. We’ll honeymoon at Warm Springs in western Virginia. You, me, and Lily Cate.”

The three of them? Gratitude rushed in. To be alone as man and wife was a wilderness she wasn’t prepared to walk into. Not yet. “I’ve never been to the hot springs.”

“Neither has Lily Cate. Despite the bad roads, it should be well worth the trip.”

“Everything sounds . . .” Sudden. Frightening. Irreversible. “Lovely.”

He smiled, this time more easily. “I’ll have your belongings brought to Tall Acre this afternoon, whatever you want moved.”

“Fine, I’ll be ready.” That was an overstatement. Her head began to pound along with her heart. “But I—I don’t want Anne’s room, understand.”

His eyes flashed surprise again. “My parents’ bedchamber is on the ground floor if you’d rather. It’s across from the small parlor and even has a second door to the back stair.”

Sophie nodded her agreement. Her mother had occupied the first-floor bedchamber at Three Chimneys. Sophie tucked the memory away. How she missed her mother, especially on this most heartfelt of days.

He touched her sleeve. “Do you want to tell Lily Cate the glad news, or shall I?”

“Let’s do so together.”

He started for the door, drawing her eye. He’d soon become so familiar to her—his every expression, every mood. He was like marzipan to her hungry heart. Would he always be? Or would a dulling regularity smother all fine feeling in time?

“Lily Cate?” His voice rang out in the foyer, rising to the rafters.

The hum of little feet down the staircase was his answer. Lily Cate rushed into the study, hair ribbons clutched in one hand.

“We have some news for you.” He turned toward Sophie. “I’ll let Miss Menzies tell you about it.”

Sophie sat down in a chair, drawing Lily Cate into the circle of her arms. “Starting tomorrow I’m going to come live here at Tall Acre. Your father and I are going to be married.”

Her mouth formed a little
O
. “You won’t go back to Three Chimneys?”

“No, promise.” When would the truth of it sink in, the shock wear off?

“Will you be my new mama?”

“Always.”

Her sigh of contentment robbed Sophie of all the composure she’d mustered. Lily Cate reached up a quick hand, brushing Sophie’s tears away. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I’m happy you’re happy.” Taking the ribbons, Sophie began tying back her hair, all too aware of Seamus looking on.

“Will you bring all your playthings from the morning room too?”

“Everything, yes.”

Seamus took a set of keys from his pocket. “Why don’t you show Sophie the bedchamber across from the small parlor? See if it’s to her liking.”

Taking the keys, she clasped Sophie’s hand. “I will, Papa. Don’t you worry, I think she’ll like it very much.”

Seamus smiled down at her, then looked at Sophie again. His gaze held so much. She longed to read his every thought.

She was thankful he couldn’t read hers.

21

W
hat had she done?

Shocked the servants. Overturned Anglican law. Caused Mistress Murdo to stay up all night finishing what was now a wedding gown. Excited Lily Cate to the point that she’d thrown up all her breakfast. Sophie was half sick herself thinking of what was to come. Only Seamus seemed calm. But he was a soldier and officer, capable of handling life-altering events, even a sudden marital maneuver.

Servants from Tall Acre came to move her belongings—a beloved chair and dressing table, her mother’s rocker, bed linens and a dimity counterpane, a trunk of clothes, her needlework and books, her writing desk and papers. Anne’s diary was still buried in the bottom of her valise, almost forgotten.

Mistress Murdo, despite being puffy-eyed and unable to speak without yawning, was canty as could be. Even Henry danced an impromptu jig with her in the foyer.

The wedding day dawned bright, sunlight trickling through barren trees and warming everything in sight with a shy promise of spring. As Sophie crossed Tall Acre’s threshold, this time as its new mistress and not a guest, she felt like sand in an hourglass, turned upside down and poured out, her circumstances shifting in record time.

The clock inched nearer ten, the wedding hour, and she sat in her new bedchamber, eying the peach taffeta gown finished and hanging in a far clothes cupboard, her mother’s wedding veil across her lap. Slightly yellowed with age, it was still lovely, the Minonet lace a filmy cascade of vines and roses. In a small way, Evelyn Menzies seemed nearer.

Raising a hand, she stifled a yawn. During the long, sleepless night, she realized people married for all sorts of reasons, some passionate and some practical. But never had she heard of two people marrying with one of them being in love and one not. Seamus thought she was marrying him out of mutual need, both their backs to the wall. What he didn’t know is that she’d marry him for no reason at all. Marrying him was as easy as falling in love with him.

Learning to live with a man who didn’t love her scared her to death.

Lily Cate stood hopping on one foot at the door of Seamus’s bedchamber, testing his patience and his ability to tie his cravat. The creamy linen fumbled into an awkward knot beneath his nervous fingers.

“Papa, you should see her! She has on a beautiful gown but needs some flowers or herbs to hold, Florie said.”

He gave himself a mental kick. He should have remembered flowers. Every bride deserved them, even in the dead of winter. But the hothouse had fallen into neglect, only the hardiest sago palms in evidence. He
had
remembered the pearls, though. They lay in a velvet pouch on his nightstand, an heirloom of his mother’s.

When he turned, Lily Cate was studying him. She’d stopped her hopping, a new question dawning in her eyes. “May I call her Mama yet?”

He hesitated, unsure. “She’d like that, I think.”

Her smile reappeared. “Have you seen the wedding cake?”

He chuckled. “Nay, have you?”

“Oh yes. ’Tis stacked quite high and is bursting with currants. Cook is still icing it.” She started hopping again, her skirts swaying like she was dancing.

“Why don’t you see if Sophie needs anything?” He eyed the pearls, torn between having Lily Cate deliver them or giving them to Sophie himself.

She disappeared and the room grew still. A quarter till ten. Reverend Hopkins had just arrived. His jovial laugh echoed through a mostly empty house. There’d been no time to invite many guests. Second weddings were usually quiet affairs, though there’d be a wedding breakfast to follow with a few last-minute guests from neighboring plantations.

Tension wound inside him, tight as a spring. Sophie had accepted him when he thought she wouldn’t. Anne had kept him waiting a month. But she’d been younger and less sure of herself than the calm, competent Sophie. He’d never really lived with Anne. He’d simply married her and gone to war. Sophie would be the first to share his home. His life. Normalcy. As normal as two broken people could make it. Guilt nagged him that they were coming together on such odd terms. Sophie Menzies deserved far more. He was getting far more than he deserved.

His steps were measured as he took the hall and back stair to the ground floor, trying to prepare himself, glad he was in uniform. He’d missed the clank of his spurs and sword, the familiar feel of worn wool. The fact she’d asked him to wear it gave him the confidence he lacked.

As he stepped over the threshold of the large parlor, Sophie turned toward him. Heat climbed from his too-tight cravat to his clean-shaven face. Every logical thought left his head save one.
Beautiful.
She was beautiful in her lovely gown, a filmy veil cascading about her shoulders, a perfect counterpoint to her dark hair. The little Bible and handkerchief she held seemed to shake, and he found himself wanting to reach out and steady her hands.

For the moment no one else was in the room. He heard Lily Cate and Reverend Hopkins down the hall. Coming behind Sophie, he pulled the pearls from his pocket and put them around her throat, much like the scarf she’d wound round his neck that bitter day in the stables.

“These were my mother’s.”
Not Anne’s
, he almost said. Somehow he sensed pearls were Sophie’s choice.

“Thank you, Seamus.”

He looked down at her as her gaze fell to her ungloved hands. Would he ever get over the wonder of hearing her say his name? After months of
General Ogilvy
and
sir
? He was all thumbs when it came to the necklace’s tiny clasp. It would be the same if he held her. In his arms she would seem no bigger than a sparrow. Fragile as eggshell. He felt like Goliath in comparison.

The reverend was smiling at them from the doorway as if this was an everyday occurrence, which to a man of the cloth it was. “Are you both ready?”

“Aye,” Seamus said. Ready to have it over. Ready to make her mistress of Tall Acre. Ready to end the business in Williamsburg. He reached for her hands and caught something he couldn’t name in her expressive eyes. They held his for a second longer than ever before.

Lily Cate stood behind them, for once still as a statue, her small face turned up in expectation. Riggs was best man, the best maid the reverend’s wife, as good as could be had on short notice. Later he’d give a ball and celebrate with his officer friends, ask Sophie who she’d like to invite. For now the ceremony was small. Hushed and hallowed.

Though he’d wondered in the night if what they were doing was God-honoring, today it felt right. Yet he didn’t even know her full name. Didn’t know how old she was. Wasn’t privy to her dreams. Her fears and tears.

His words were firm, but he shook inside. “I, Seamus, take thee, Sophie, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth . . .”