The Mistress of Tall Acre (49 page)

But being a general, even a hero, no longer mattered. The judges were looking at him, weighing him, as Anne’s counsel charged him with neglect, even cruelty, for his lengthy absences. Each charge was dismissed by Stokes immediately, who cited the war and Anne’s medical condition after childbirth. Yet the damage was done. He had been cast in the role of a negligent husband, no matter the Revolution or Anne’s precarious health.

He sat still, stoic, as Anne’s failings were brought to light. The humiliation of it made him want to sink beneath the bench he sat upon. Cutting across his conscience was the problem with the missing marriage certificate. Missing . . . or mishandled? Mayhap maliciously?

The drone of voices stopped. Three days of testimony and deliberation were at an end. The judges convened in a small chamber as tense minutes ticked by. On their return, the lead judge stood. Seamus heard the verdict as through a fog.

“By the power invested by the state of Virginia, we the council hereby declare the marriage between Seamus Michael Ogilvy and Anne Howard Ogilvy to be upheld according to colonial law—”

Seamus shot to his feet, slamming his maimed hand on the table in front of him. “Do you think I will not fight? Appeal? Do you think your ruling can undo years of absence and betrayal and unfaithfulness?” Every eye was on him, every face taut. “Am I to be bound by archaic colonial law—
English law
—that I gave eight years of my life to upend? Nay!”

There was a stunned silence as he spun on his heel and left the courtroom.

“She’s gone, sir.” Mistress Murdo stood before Seamus in the glare of a summer’s afternoon. “I came home from market late yesterday to find this note waiting. I would have gotten it to you sooner, but you were in Richmond.”

At that, she left him alone in Three Chimneys’ foyer to read the note privately. Apprehension, thick and potent, overtook him at the first line.

Dear Seamus,

I must go. By the time you return from Richmond and read this, I will have sailed to Scotland. Please forgive me. You must remember, no matter where I am, my heart will always belong to you and Lily Cate.

Sophie

Shaking, he turned the paper over, wanting more. More words. More time. More chances. A soaring ache, unlike any he’d ever known, took hold of him. He’d been betrayed. Twice. Only he’d never believed Sophie capable of such. She had gone behind his back. She had given up. She had . . . left.

The vacant foyer, the unceasing ticking of the longcase clock, echoed the emptiness inside him. He crumpled the paper, his gaze fixed on the elegant clock’s maker.
John Scott, Edinburgh.

Sophie, what have you done to me?

She’d put an ocean between them. He could not get to her. He did not know exactly where she’d gone. How would he find words enough to tell Lily Cate?

In one severe thrust, the clock’s sparkling front gave way beneath his fisted hand. So anguished within, he barely felt the cutting and bleeding without. The jarring shatter of glass brought Mistress Murdo running.

Rage vented, but no easier of mind, he turned and left Three Chimneys without apology, the words sticking in his throat . . .

Seamus awoke, drenched with sweat, the bedsheet in a fierce tangle. The nightmare fled. For a few disorienting seconds he couldn’t grab hold of where he was. And then the stench of burnt meat and stale spirits from the taproom below stormed his senses. ’Twas an overwarm summer’s morn in a comfortless Alexandria tavern. On the day of his appeal.

The dream faded but the panic remained.

37

S
unlight drenched Sophie’s shoulders as she sat by the open parlor window. Silver thimble on one finger, she planted tiny stitches in the blue flannel with her best needle. Every so often she would pause, turn toward the glass, and search for some sign of Seamus in the green landscape. Four days it had been since he’d left for Richmond. Four days with no word.

Did the delay spell a denial? An end to their life together? Her every nerve stood on end, her hopes nearly spent. She almost wished theirs had stayed a marriage of convenience. There’d be no severing of hearts and souls and bodies. No baby.

Dropping needle and cloth to her lap, she pressed her hands to her middle. This was her one comfort, her sole joy. God had given her a child even if she had no home and no husband. No secure future.

Yet how was she to raise this child? On what funds? If the courts ruled against them, she could still sail for Scotland and plead her father’s mercy. There she’d raise their baby, holding on to a part of Seamus if she could not have all of him. But by law the child was his, not hers. If they had a son, he would be heir to Tall Acre, perhaps taken away from her and raised by . . .

Nay.
She lowered her head as if to deflect the piercing thought. Better to flee to Scotland and face her father’s wrath. The truth was she bore Anne no ill will. She’d even begun to pray for her. Yet they were not prayers for reconciliation but repentance and restoration. God could bring blessing out of anything, but He would not rewrite the past. Betrayal and absence exacted a high price. Anne’s actions had cast a long shadow and carried lasting consequences.

Swallowing down a bout of nausea, she uttered another silent prayer. For Seamus. For the court’s wisdom. For truth. But in fact she was already moving away from him. Forced to think of a life without him. Without Lily Cate.

What choice did she have?

He had appealed. And now he returned home to Tall Acre to wait. No sooner had he come in than a dozen matters needed settling. Riggs was waiting, as was Mrs. Lamont. But he put all else aside till he could see his little daughter.

Lily Cate was awake despite the late hour, driving every pressing need from his head.

“Papa, have you been to Three Chimneys to see Mama?” Her face held joy and wonder as she sat on his lap and fingered his bewhiskered jaw. “Did she tell you our secret?”

“Secret?”

“Our baby is coming. She told me so when I was sick. She said I must get well to help her . . .”

She rambled on while his breathing slowed and his mouth went dry. Sophie. Expecting. She’d been ill while he’d been . . . preoccupied . . . blind. Or was it just the hope of a sister or brother?

“Are you sure?”

She nodded so hard her curls bounced. “’Tis time for Mama to come home.” She nestled into him again with a little sigh, sounding more grown-up than her years. “Our baby should be born here at Tall Acre.”

“She’s out walking, sir,” Mistress Murdo told him in Three Chimneys’ foyer, her ready smile banishing his previous bad dream. “I’m not sure which direction she went today.”

Thanking her, he went out into brilliant July sunlight. As he walked toward the river, he thought of all he had to tell her, all she’d missed—all he’d missed—being away. The threshing floor of the new barn was newly laid. A second litter of hound pups had been born. The folly had been damaged by lightning, and rain had flooded the lucerne field. Schoolmaster McCann was making strides in the schoolhouse despite falling prey to ague, a common malady of newly arrived immigrants. He was even following Sophie’s lead and continuing to teach Jenny and Myrtilla and others.

Tall Acre’s demands never lessened. Sometimes he felt pressed against a millstone, ground and crushed by responsibilities. Never had he missed Sophie more than now. In the brief time they’d been married, she’d stood beside him, sharing the burden, lightening it in myriad ways. He craved her steady, sunny spirit. Her honesty and industry. Her gentleness.

A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband: but she that maketh ashamed is as rottenness in his bones.

Squinting in the glare, he cleared a copse of trees and saw her at the river’s edge, sitting in the grass. Head bent, she was unaware of him, making a daisy chain from those tiny yellow flowers he’d always considered more weed. Other than acting as his secretary, she was forced to be idle when a world of need awaited at Tall Acre.

A fragrant wind tousled her upswept hair and carried her voice to him. She was humming a lullaby, low and sweet. He allowed himself the tender moment, taking her in unawares, and then all sentiment fled. She was no longer his. Might never be again. She was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, yet he might have to spend the rest of his life without her.

If he were a lesser man, a rebellious believer, he’d take Sophie and Lily Cate and go west. Flee to the Kentucky territory and the lawless frontier where men made their own rules and courts held no sway. But he was a redeemed man and seasoned soldier and would stay.

Come what may.

Sophie sensed him before she saw him. She looked up from her lap, aware the guard was missing, and saw Seamus instead. Flowers forgotten, she stood and began a slow walk toward him. The sudden wooziness inside her had nothing to do with the baby. The slanting sunlight seemed a barrier between them. She couldn’t get a fix on his features to gauge whether he brought good news or ill. And then she knew. A closer look told her everything. Richmond had gone hard on him.