The Mistress of Tall Acre (4 page)

“I do.” She refused to let go of the hope, however small. The general had had a special fondness for Curtis, hadn’t he? Her brother had been an avowed Patriot, no matter their father’s rabid Tory sentiments.

Returning to the parlor with Glynnis’s bulky form between her and the shattered glass, Sophie bent and picked up the doll and her scattered sewing, trying to stave off that old, insidious fear that had begun with the Revolution.

There had been other rocks, other damage. Ugly words and jeers. Why had she thought that the peace treaty General Washington had signed would restore peace to her own tattered world?

The war might be won for America, but it still raged on in Roan, Virginia.

3

G
lynnis stood in the bedchamber doorway the next afternoon, looking nearly as disbelieving as when Sophie had told her the war was won. “He’s come.”

Sophie turned back to her dressing table, a cameo and ribbon in hand, and bit her lip to keep from saying, “I know.”

She’d heard the clip of hooves and rustle of leaves through her open casement window. Spied the sleek black stallion tied to the hitching post below. Felt that peculiar tightness in her chest and the dampness of her palms the general always wrought, whether in newsprint or in person. Now here he was on her very door, the hero of Brandywine and Germantown and Monmouth and who knew what else.

Heroics be hanged.

’Twas her own reputation she was worried about. Would he shun her as they did in Roan? Turning back to the looking glass, Sophie fiddled with the cameo about her throat.

“Do I look presentable?” she asked, startling slightly when Glynnis came closer and pulled viciously at a stray thread on her skirt.

“You’re in your best gown, though ’tis hardly in fashion. Your shoes look fit for the dung heap. And your hair is in need of covering. Other than that, you’ll do.” Turning, Glynnis plucked some pins from the dressing table and secured a lace cap atop Sophie’s hastily upswept hair. “Mercy, but you’re pale as dust. But since this isn’t a social call, it hardly matters.”

Sophie tried not to frown at the mirror, finding her reflection far from pleasing. “Where is the general? Not in Father’s study, I hope.”

“Ha! I’ve better sense than that. No need to remind him of your father’s Tory sins. I put him in the front parlor as the rear parlor window is boarded up.”

Mumbling thanks, Sophie started down the curving staircase, feeling like she’d swallowed a swarm of butterflies.

Like the shunned woman she was.

Three Chimneys had seen better days. But then, so had he. Seamus’s gaze roamed the once-grand room, now shabby and frayed as a militiaman’s coat. The milk paint was peeling in places, the Wilton carpet thin, the damask drapes a tired silver-blue. Sophie Menzies’s beautiful home had been used to quarter British soldiers, their angry spur marks cutting across the heart-pine floor beneath his boots. More than a few rooms had been ransacked, or so he’d heard, while Tall Acre sat untouched to the west, a locked treasure chest amidst sheltering trees.

He tunneled a hand through unruly hair, cocked hat tucked under one arm, and wished for a little warmth. The big house was cold and no fire had been laid, nor had there been in recent days. Swept clean without a speck of ash, the tiled hearth looked neat enough to crawl into and nap. He appreciated a good fire and would have lit one himself had there been some wood. In his tenure in the army, the poverty of continual cold outweighed an empty belly every time. Since his return, every chimney at Tall Acre was belching smoke as he vowed he’d never be cold again.

“General Ogilvy, welcome back.”

The gentle voice spun him around. He gave a slight bow, the gallant gesture a bit stiff after so long unpracticed. Should he kiss her hand? But they were caught behind her back, denying him the privilege.

Sophie Menzies was hardly the lass he remembered.

Tall. Slim as a riding whip. Beneath a creamy cap, her hair was caught back, a few sooty strands escaping, framing a milk-glass complexion and a bone structure far too fragile. She was smiling at him, but that seemed fragile too, as if she expected he had come to wipe any fine feeling from the room with dire news.

He reached into his pocket and extracted a small tin of tea. “In honor of war’s end, Miss Menzies. And a reminder of how the whole miserable mess began.”

She took the offering, delight filling in the lean lines of her face. “Thank you.” Bringing the gift to her chest, she held it as if it were worth its weight in gold—which it nearly was. “I’ve had no real tea since ’76.”

Nay? He wagered she’d had no guests since then either. If memory served, Roan folks reviled her father. But he was gone and gone for good, nearly tarred and feathered upon his exit. Perhaps the ill feeling against the Menzies family would follow.

“Would you like refreshments?” Gesturing to twin wing chairs, she invited him to sit. But she was looking at him as if hospitality was the last thing on her mind—and his.

“Nay,” he said abruptly as if communicating to one of his men. She drew back a bit, the play of hope and dismay in her face tugging at him. “Tea then,” he amended reluctantly. Virginia hospitality guaranteed a lengthy visit.

She pulled on a bell cord, making him glad she still had a servant at least. With a swish of her skirts she settled opposite him, tea tin in hand. Best come to the point posthaste.

“I have little news, I’m afraid.” He spoke slowly, trying to let her down gently. “I don’t know of your brother’s whereabouts, though I wish I did. Captain Menzies was under my command until Richmond. Matters became confusing in the aftermath. Men were unaccounted for . . .”

She looked to her lap, struggling visibly for a response. “I’ve heard many soldiers died of disease and others lay aboard prison ships.”

“Aye, but some are on their way home again. Your brother might be one of them. If I hear anything more, you’ll be the first to know.” He eyed the parlor door and changed course. “Is it just you and your housekeeper here, Miss Menzies?”

“I’ve a hired man, Henry.”

A hired man? The one who looked to be a hundred years old? The housekeeper wasn’t much younger. As Seamus thought it, the door pushed open and she appeared, carrying a tea service with shaking hands, the silver slightly tarnished. Thanking her, Sophie popped open the fragrant tin.

When the older woman left, he resumed the thread of conversation. “I remember your mother, Midwife Menzies, helped deliver my daughter.”

“My mother, yes.” She kept her hands busy making the tea, her words surprisingly candid. “She passed away last year. The end of April.”

Had she? He’d lost touch with all sorts of things since he’d left Tall Acre, including his neighbors. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“The doctor said it was her heart. But she was more broken in spirit than body, I think.”

This he understood. He’d lost more men on the field to heartache and hopelessness than enemy fire and disease. Setting his jaw, he watched as Sophie readied chipped china cups. No sugar was in sight, but he liked his tea plain, even if Anne didn’t.
Hadn’t.
The bruising thought was cut off by the sight of Sophie’s bony, slightly reddened fingers. Not a lady’s hands by any stretch. What exactly had happened to Lord Menzies’s genteel daughter?

“You’re no stranger to mourning yourself, General. I’m very sorry about your wife.” She kept her eyes down, her tone dulcet. “I also want to express my gratitude, my heartfelt thanks, for your service to the cro—colonies.”

She’d nearly said
crown
, but it was an honest slip. They all needed time adjusting to the fact that they were no longer under British rule but a thoroughly American one.

“I’m relieved to have escaped the noose as a traitor, aye,” he murmured, still amazed he had.

She looked up suddenly, catching him off guard. Open admiration shone in her face, so much so that he felt a discomfort bone deep.

A hero in the field. A failure
at home. If she only knew . . .

He filled the taut silence. “And you, Miss Menzies? Have you no desire to return home to Scotland?”

Surprise flashed in her eyes, making him regret the quick question. “My home is here, General Ogilvy, come what may. I’m an American now, no matter my father’s loyalties.”

He nodded. “I’m simply trying to gauge how you’re going to get along here at Three Chimneys by yourself.”

“Till my brother returns?” She paused, tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on pouring the tea. “I may try to resume indigo production. We were quite successful before the war, till British raiders set fire to our fields and storehouses.” She spoke quietly but confidently, as if she’d given the matter much thought. “Three Chimneys also has a fine mulberry grove. I’m considering raising silkworms.”

“Silk cultivation?” He studied her, slightly disbelieving. “Do you have any idea how labor intensive that is?”

“I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ve heard a woman and three children can make ten pounds of raw silk for fifty dollars in five weeks’ time.”

“Until a blight afflicts your mulberry trees and cotton surpasses silk.” At her startled look he continued wryly, “Not to mention your lack of three children.”

She drew back. “You’re not very encouraging, sir.”

“Nay. But I am pragmatic.” He tried a different tack. “I remember your mother saying you were a midwife in the making.”

She shook her head, and he felt another door close. “I’m no howdy, mind you. My mother hoped I would follow in her footsteps, but I merely assisted at a few births. The truth is no one in Roan County wanted my help given my father’s Tory leanings. And in the end few wanted my mother’s either. But you needn’t worry about Three Chimneys.” She gave him a steaming cup—and a disarming smile. “We’ll get along here as we have these eight years past.”

“Of course,” he murmured, unconvinced. He wagered she’d had a hard time getting any supplies in Roan or elsewhere given the ill feeling against them. And her telling leanness was proof.

She changed course. “On a lighter note, I’ve met your wee daughter.”

“So she told me.” He glanced down at his injured hand, wondering if she’d noticed . . . if she’d respond in revulsion like Lily Cate. “She wants to see you again, but I don’t want her to be a nuisance.”

“Nuisance?” Again her gaze met his, awash with protest. “She’s no nuisance!” She looked oddly hurt—and had likely crossed him off her list of admirable persons. “Is she a bother to you, General Ogilvy?”

He looked to the cold hearth, afraid she’d read the answer in his eyes. His maimed hand clenched. He wouldn’t say Lily Cate was afraid of him. That she sometimes refused to even speak to him. “Obviously she’s a different child with you.”

“She’s enchanting. She even curtsied. Her manners are very fine.” Her entreating tone lured him to look at her again. “I invited her to a tea party, just the two of us, only we had no tea. Till now.”

He paused. Was she so starved for company that even a little girl would suffice? “You sent over a doll for her. She won’t part with it. Even talks to it.”

“I should hope so, sir. That’s what little girls do.”

Her continual if respectful use of
sir
seemed to drive a wedge between them, as did his near fatal misstep about his daughter. “Very well. She can come for a visit. Just send word when you want her.”

“I shall.” She got up and crossed to a desk beneath a wide Palladian window. He followed the blue swish of her skirts longer than he should have. With her spartan leanness, she reminded him of his scrawniest soldiers. Focusing on the hearth, he was glad there was no fire lulling him with its warmth. As it was, he wanted to stay longer, spill out the problems pressing in on him from Williamsburg. Sophie Menzies seemed a sensible young woman who might help him untangle the trouble he was in.

She returned and passed him a piece of paper with Lily Cate’s name written in an elegant hand. “Tea is at four o’clock on the morrow. Her doll is invited too.”

“That would be Sophie.”

She looked at him, momentarily perplexed. “The doll bears my name?”