The Mistress of Tall Acre: A Novel

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1

We mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Sacred honor.

THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

On this day, 8 August, 1778, a child was safely delivered . . .

Nay, not safely. Anything but safely.

. . . to Anne Howard Ogilvy and Seamus Michael Ogilvy of Tall Acre, Roan County, Virginia.

Dropping his quill pen, Seamus ran callused hands through hair bereft of a queue ribbon and watched a stray droplet of ink soak into the scarred desktop. Steadying his breathing, he picked up the pen and pressed on as if time was against him.

The infant’s name is . . .

The heavy scratch of the nib against the family Bible’s fragile page was halted by a knock on his study door. A servant to tell him he could finally see his firstborn? Or that his wife was dead? Or the both of them?

He called out with a shaky voice, but it was Dr. Spurlock who appeared, shutting the door soundly behind him. A word with you, General Ogilvy, if I may. At Seamus’s taut expression, Spurlock gave him a slight smile. At ease, man, at ease. I’m not the undertaker.

Pulling himself to his feet, Seamus came out from behind the desk. A word and a glass of Madeira are in order, at least. He went to a near cabinet and filled two crystal goblets as a newborn’s wail rent the summer stillness, sharp and sweet as birdsong.

’Tis about Anne, Spurlock said, a careful note to his tone.

Seamus passed him a glass. The doctor looked haggard after the lengthy ordeal, silver hair standing on end, spectacles askew, to say nothing of his waistcoat. Seamus was sure he looked equally unfit, having spent the night in his study.

I don’t need to tell you what a trial this birth has been. You’ve nearly worn a trail in the floor with your pacing. Spurlock regarded him with bleary, apologetic eyes. Your wife is very weak. The baby, being so large, took a toll. Anne is a very narrow woman and continues to bleed heavily.

Blood. Wounds. Life and death. Seamus was used to such things. These were the staples of a soldier’s life. Childbirth was, in a very real sense, battle. I trust she’ll recover in time.

Spurlock frowned. Mistress Menzies, the midwife, nearly lost her at one point. If not for her presence of mind and the use of my forceps, we’d be having a very different conversation. He removed his spectacles and began cleaning them with a handkerchief. On a brighter note, your wife’s sister is coming from Williamsburg to help care for her, though I do worry about you returning to duty so soon.

Orders, Seamus said through a stitch of guilt. General Washington wants me at reveille come morning. As it was, he’d have to ride all night to reach camp by the appointed time.

I speak not only out of concern for your wife but for you, General. I can tell from looking at you that your own health has been compromised.

Seamus squared his shoulders. A malaise of war, little more.

Spoken like a true soldier. Spurlock fixed his gaze on an open window. Very well, I’ll talk plain and fast. Your wife faces a long recovery. She’s always been a bit fragile, a true gentlewoman. And though it will be hard for you to hear, I’m duty bound to tell you her very life will be in danger if there’s a second birth. Mistress Menzies concurs.

A second birth—and she’d barely withstood the first. The words spun round Seamus’s head but made no sense. Remembering his Madeira, he took a sip, listening as the doctor explained feminine things he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Things that made him itch under his uniform collar with a heat that had nothing to do with the humid Virginia afternoon.

Of course, husbands have certain needs, certain rights, if you will . . . The doctor’s words were becoming more labored, nearly lost as the babe’s cries reached a crescendo upstairs.

Say no more, Seamus replied. Spurlock’s warning was clear as a midsummer day. All marital intimacy was at an end. As it stands, I’ll be away for the duration of the war. His outward calm belied the storm breaking inside him. I won’t—I mean, there won’t be occasion to— He stared at his boots. I understand.

Spurlock nodded and downed the rest of his Madeira. I knew you’d take it like the officer and gentleman you are. Now, if you’re ready, your wife would like to present you with your firstborn.

Firstborn. Final born. And a robust daughter at that.

The bedchamber seemed strange since Seamus had been away so long. Stepping inside the elegant green and gilt room brought about unwanted, ill-timed memories—a crush of passionate encounters beginning on their wedding night. It was the eve of the war when he’d wed the belle of Williamsburg, three years later when their daughter was conceived on a hasty visit. He hardly remembered either. War had driven such sentimental things from his head, replacing them with the stench of smoke and powder instead.

To reorient himself, he latched onto the open corner cupboard where medicines were kept, the two wing chairs and tea table before the cold hearth. His gaze finally settled on the bed dressed with crewel embroidery.

Seamus. Anne lay back on the bank of downy pillows, looking exhausted but triumphant. Come meet your new daughter.

Spurs scraped the heart-pine floor before he stepped onto a lush rug and took a seat on the edge of the four-poster bed as carefully as he could. In light of the doctor’s unwelcome words, the ever-delicate Anne seemed made of spun glass. If she was broken, he was to blame, at sixteen stone and over six feet.

As she settled the newborn in his arms, the catch in his throat nearly stole all speech. One tiny hand peeked from the blanket, the plump face red and round as an orchard apple. He swallowed hard. She’s . . . beautiful.

Something wistful kindled in Anne’s eyes. You were hoping for a boy, though you never said so.

He gave a slight, dismissive shrug. Soldiers always want sons.

There’ll be some, Lord willing. As soon as I’m well again . . .

Her guileless words seared his heart. Spurlock hadn’t told her then, but had left it up to him. Well, he wouldn’t do it now. Let their dream of a large family be left intact a little longer.

Her lovely face turned entreating. What shall we call her?

The pride and expectancy in her eyes brought a wave of shame. He wouldn’t confess he’d only entertained male names and had given little thought to a girl. Even his men had wagered on a boy, placing bold bets about the campfire till he’d ridden home to settle the matter himself.

A name . . . Lowering his head, he nuzzled the baby’s ear, her downy neck and fuzz of dark hair. The decision came quick. He was used to thinking on his feet. As Washington’s newly appointed major general, he could do little else. Why not Lilias Catherine?

After my mother and yours? Surprise shone in Anne’s eyes. Of course. ’Tis perfect.

He hesitated, looking into his daughter’s face as if seeking answers. She seemed too little to merit such an onerous name. We’ll call her Lily Cate.

Nodding, Anne sank back on the pillows, her face so pale he could see the path of blue veins beneath. I’m relieved. I didn’t want you riding away without knowing.

He smiled. Let me take her till you’ve slept for a few hours. Doctor Spurlock said she won’t be hungry yet, and— He took a breath, fighting the lurch of leaving. I don’t know when I’ll be back. The casual phrasing was more lie. He didn’t know if he’d be back.

Her hazel eyes held his. How is it on the field?

The question wrenched him. She rarely asked. Their brief times together were too precious to be squandered on melancholy things.

’Tis a strange war. We drill. We wait. We fight and fall back. He wouldn’t tell her the biggest battle of his life was imminent, or that American forces were weak—deprived and diseased—and no match for Clinton’s redcoats. Leaning forward, careful of the warm weight in his arms, he kissed her gently on the cheek. I’ll go below and introduce Miss Lily Cate to the household.

Yawning, eyes already half closed, Anne gave a last, lingering look at the baby. Down the wide, curving stair he went to a staff on tenterhooks since dawn. The birth had been—what had Spurlock said?—brutal. His people deserved a look, at least. The midwife was in the foyer preparing to leave, her daughter with her.

Mistress Menzies, I’ll settle up with you before you go. He glanced from her to her daughter, both of them looking far less disheveled than the doctor.

There’s no fee, General, not for a hero of the Revolution. Pulling on her gloves, Mistress Menzies smiled in her genteel, unruffled way, reminding him that she was no ordinary midwife.

I have you to thank for calling in Spurlock when the situation became . . . untenable, he told her.

You can thank my daughter for that, General. She is fleet of foot and a midwife in the making.

He took in Sophie Menzies in a glance. Dark. Plain. Clad in a fine crimson cape like her mother’s.

Then I thank you too, Miss Menzies, he said.

She smiled up at him, blue gaze fastening on the baby in his arms. Have you named her, General Ogilvy?

Aye, she’s to be called Lily Cate.

The pleasure in her expression seemed confirmation. Lovely and memorable, she said with her mother’s poise and a hint of her father’s Scots burr. I bid you and your wee daughter good day.

They withdrew out the front door while he went out the back, which was flung open to the river and leading to Tall Acre’s dependencies. At his appearance, the steamy kitchen at the end of a shaded colonnade came to a standstill.

Why, General Ogilvy, looks like you mustered up a fine baby. Ruby, his longtime cook, hastily left the hearth as the other servants looked on. She leaned near, and one ebony finger caressed a petal-soft cheek. She’s got your blue eyes and black hair, but I see the mistress in her pert nose and mouth.

The maids and housekeeper gathered round next on the rear veranda, cooing and sighing like the dovecote’s doves. Next he went to the stables, a fatherly pride swelling his chest. By the time he returned to his study, his daughter had slept through a brief meeting with his estate manager and a first look at a prize foal. Completely smitten, he crossed to a wing chair in his study, reluctant to let her go.

You’re only a few hours old and already you’ve worked your way into my heart. His voice was a ragged whisper. But there are some things you need to know. I don’t want to leave you. I’m willing to die for you . . . and if I don’t come back, I want you to forgive me.

The choked words staunched none of the pain. His daughter opened wide indigo eyes and stared up at him, as if she understood every syllable. He pressed his damp, unshaven cheek to hers, savoring the feathering of her warm breath on his face. Her flawlessness turned him inside out.

Till we meet again, Lily Cate Ogilvy of Tall Acre. Never forget your loving father’s words.

2

OCTOBER 1783

Thank you, Lord, for an abundance of chestnuts.

The spiny treasures were strewn over the brittle October ground, thick as autumn leaves and hers for the taking. Light-headed from hunger, Sophie Menzies dropped to her knees, adding to her burgeoning basket. Her stomach growled in anticipation, gnawing from her navel to her backbone where fraying stays cinched tight. The burrs she gathered had just burst open, tickling her palm and begging for roasting.

Her only rival was a chattering, scolding squirrel.

Making a face at him, she succumbed to visions of chestnut pudding and steaming pots of tea. Not the weak, flavorless bohea tea of the Revolution but the forbidden Hyson she favored. Nary a drop had crossed her lips these eight years past. Would it ever? Tea seemed a luxury never to be had again.

When she looked up again, the sun was setting in back of Tall Acre, burnishing the brick a warm honey-gold. Sitting proudly at the end of its alley of Black Heart cherry trees, the old house looked more alive than it had in years, puffing gray smoke into clear autumn skies, its scrolled iron gates open wide.

Had General Ogilvy come home?

The snap of a twig snuffed her wondering. Scrambling to her feet, Sophie spun around. A tiny girl in a linen dress stood looking at her, fingers clutching the edges of a fine cambric apron.

Sophie smiled, trying to place her. Good day.

Good day, the child echoed. Is this your woods or mine?

Smile fading, Sophie surveyed the sagging fence that kept trespassers from Ogilvy land. I believe the creek over there—she pointed to a rutted ribbon of dust and rock, bone dry in late fall—marks the boundary line between Three Chimneys and Tall Acre.

The girl looked down. Nested in her lovely apron were more nuts. She came forward and added them to Sophie’s basket. Up close, Sophie felt a stirring of recognition.

Could this be the general’s daughter? The one she’d helped her mother deliver years ago? The past reached out and yanked her back to anguished moans and the genteel woman who’d nearly died giving birth. Sophie studied the child’s comely features, longing for a name though none was needed. The girl had her father stamped all over her. Thank you, Miss . . . ?

Lilias Catherine Ogilvy. The child dropped a curtsey, her eyes huge beneath her ruffled cap. But everyone calls me Lily Cate. I’m not yet six years old.

Sophie smiled. How could she have forgotten so bonny a name? Well, Miss Lily Cate who is not yet six, you’re very kind, but I have so many chestnuts. You’re welcome to as many as you like.

Oh, I just like to hunt them. But you—you look like you need them.

Biting her lip, Sophie hid a rueful smile. If her wants were obvious even to a child . . . I’m glad you’ve come back to Tall Acre. ’Tis good to have neighbors again.

Lily Cate stayed solemn. The general tells me to mind my manners. He’ll want to know who I met in the woods today.

Joy sang through her—and then a qualm that she’d overlooked introductions. Then tell him you met up with Sophie Menzies from Three Chimneys.

Three Chimneys? Do you live there with your mother and father? Are you— Worry raced through her eyes. I’m sorry. The general says I chatter on so.

Sophie studied her, wanting to reach out and smooth a dark curl that fell free of her cap. I like your chatter. ’Tis too quiet at Three Chimneys. My father is in Scotland, you see. She hesitated, still sore. And my mother is in heaven.

Sorrow marred Lily Cate’s pale face. So is mine.

Sophie shifted her basket to her other arm. Mistress Ogilvy . . . dead? The last she knew, Anne Ogilvy was in Williamsburg, living with relatives.

Do you think they’re friends in heaven—my mama and yours?

The tender question was nearly her undoing. Sophie’s fingers closed around a chestnut till its spiny hull pierced her palm. The best of friends.

Perhaps . . . Lily Cate seemed older than her five years. Perhaps we can be friends too.

Of course. As cozy as a woman of eight and twenty and a child of not yet six could be. Lily Cate was obviously lonesome. Missing her mother. Somewhat bewildered by this man she called the general. Why don’t we have a tea party? If you’ll bring your doll . . .

At this the child wilted. My doll is in Williamsburg. The general came to collect me in the night, and there was only room for me atop his horse. Everything got left behind. She cast a look back at Tall Acre, so much astir in her little face that Sophie’s heart squeezed.

I’m sorry, Sophie murmured. A tea party seemed suddenly silly.

I’d best go. He doesn’t like to go looking for me. Lily Cate turned without saying goodbye, her fine slippers kicking up autumn leaves as the wind sent more swirling down around them.

Sophie ran all the way home, feeling no older than Lily Cate. The back lane to Three Chimneys wasn’t long but seemed endless this memorable day. The hedgerow, splashed red with Virginia creeper and bittersweet, went unnoticed, as did the showy oaks and sugar maples in all their autumn glory. Glynnis stood in their pilfered vegetable garden in back of the summer kitchen, a turnip in one gnarled hand, dismay in her expression.

Sophie burst through the open gate, nearly spilling her chestnut basket. General Ogilvy. He’s back!

The housekeeper’s gaze slanted east, as if fearful Sophie could be heard clear to Tall Acre. The fighting’s over then. Glynnis looked dazed, as if doubting the eight-year war would have an end. "Since we’ve had no Gazette . . ."

"Cornwallis’s surrender to General Washington must be true." For once Sophie wished for a newspaper to prove it. They hadn’t been able to afford the small expense, though they had heard rumors each market day when Glynnis went to Roan.

Cornwallis and Washington, indeed! Glynnis’s mouth twisted into a more hopeful smile. What’s all this about General Ogilvy?

Sophie expelled a breath. I met his wee daughter in the woods. They’ve recently come from Williamsburg. Delight filled her to the brim again despite the sad news about Tall Acre’s mistress. There’s no other reason he’d be home. He’s not been back in years.

The elderly woman studied her, looking doubtful. You think he’ll stop here?

I should hope so, given he’s Curtis’s commanding officer. Perhaps he’ll bring some word—even a letter.

Glynnis’s glum look reminded her the last letter they’d received was two very long years ago. Her brother, bless him, wasn’t even aware their mother was dead. A melancholy silence returned the housekeeper to the kitchen, Sophie trailing after her.

If he doesn’t call soon, I’ll ride to Tall Acre, Sophie told her. A bit forward, perhaps. Yet mightn’t General Ogilvy allay their fears with a few well-timed words? I’ve invited his daughter to a party.

A party? Mercy! Glynnis nearly threw up her hands. And what will you be serving? Air? There’s no tea to speak of either.

Well, we should celebrate the war’s end in some meaningful way. Sinking down atop a stool, Sophie looked to the barren larder, imagining it full again. Flour can be ground from these chestnuts. Enough for a few biscuits, at least. We can pretend about the tea. She tried to stem Glynnis’s displeasure by drawing attention to her burgeoning basket. Lily Cate was kind enough to help me gather these today.

Lily Cate, is it? Glynnis’s face softened. Is she as lovely as her name?

Lovelier . . . perhaps a tad befuddled at being back.

Glynnis nodded. She was just a babe when she was whisked away to Williamsburg. Her mood soured. I suppose her high-minded mother is with her.

Sophie expelled a breath. I’m afraid Mistress Ogilvy has passed away.

Has she now? Glynnis’s wrinkled brow creased in consternation. I never figured the general would come home a widower with a little daughter.

Perhaps he’ll bring us glad news.

Glynnis went to a window. I’ll be on the lookout then. Some glad news would be most welcome.

By the light of a costly parlor candle Sophie worked, the slow drip of the wax reminding her of the pence she didn’t have to replace it. The case clock chimed midnight in the chill, silent foyer. She needed to be abed—her fingers were stiff from the cold, and protesting—but the mere memory of Lily Cate’s entreating face kept her at her task.

Earlier, a search in the attic and a prayer had turned up her old wax doll in a dusty trunk. Yellowed with age, the velvet dress worn in places, the doll had once been the height of French fashion. Snipping a length of lace from one of her mother’s old gowns, Sophie began embellishing the barest places. A few brushstrokes of paint had revived the doll’s dull face, her smile in place. Sophie sighed. Was she glaikit to feel such excitement over a well-loved doll, or making sure a little girl had one again?

No doubt Lily Cate’s Williamsburg doll was much finer. She might reject this relic out of hand. If she was as particular as her mother, preferring the fancy over the familiar, she would. There was no guarantee the child would ever return to the woods. Or that General Ogilvy would pay them a call.

Both might turn out as badly as her volatile afternoon.

Her impulsive walk to the village of Roan and back had been her undoing. But the two-mile jaunt wasn’t time enough for second thoughts. Usually she wasn’t given to such rashness. Spirits high, she’d dared to think with the war won, all would be forgiven and forgotten.

’Twas market day. Easy enough to blend in with the crowd. By mid-morning the tiny hamlet was overflowing with vendors and shoppers hawking anything from fresh fish to men’s queue ribbons. Small fires in blackened fire pits glowed like fireflies among the walkways, warming any who cared to tarry.

Hands clammy despite the cold, Sophie sent her gaze toward the milliner’s. She’d taken care to make her rare visit to the village a success, praying and packing samples of her needlework to show the Roan seamstress. But once she stood in the tidy shop, the portly woman regarded her with smug dislike.

You’re Lord Menzies’s daughter, ain’t you? The seamstress looked her over as if she was the village doxy, her refusal in her face. I’ve no work for any Tories, mind you.

I’m not a Tory, Sophie replied hastily. My loyalties lie with the Patriots. ’Tis why I remained at Three Chimneys during the war.

But you quartered British soldiers, the same ones who did damage to this shop.

Those soldiers forced their way into my home too. Sophie swallowed, trying a different direction. If you’ll allow me to show you my needlework—

There’s little need for fancy needlework in Roan.

I could take in mending then.

I’ve already hired that out.

Is there— Her heart was jumping about so the words came out half choked. Anything else you need?

I need you to take your leave, lest someone see you here and decide my loyalties are in question. The seamstress pointed to the door, voice cresting. Roan has long memories where your father is concerned.

Lowering her head, Sophie went out, a hasty retort withering. She didn’t blame the seamstress. Her father had been insufferable and arrogant, supporting British taxes that caused many in the village undue hardship. Even her mother’s fine reputation for midwifery had been tarnished because of him. And now the loathing lingered.

Face still heated from humiliation hours later, she hemmed the doll’s dress in the security of Three Chimneys’ parlor. The night boasted a brilliant harvest moon, coming up now through the east-facing windows. Glynnis had forgotten to close the shutters. Perhaps the room wouldn’t be so cold if they would remember. But Glynnis, in her old age, was increasingly forgetful. Setting her sewing aside, Sophie closed all but the one framing the moon. Tonight its beauty and light kept her company in a house all too spare and still.

Stifling a yawn, she returned to the monotony of her sewing. She nodded off, nearly piercing her finger, then shot upright at the sound of shattering glass.

Standing, she sent the doll tumbling from her lap, her stool overturning, her eyes on the flames licking at the plank floor a few paces to her right. A leather water bucket was by the door, so she doused the fire, her woolen skirts and shoes splattered in the process. She was barely aware of Glynnis in a nightdress standing in the doorway behind her.

What on earth? Her housekeeper’s cry was indignant as she surveyed a far parlor window, a sudden wind whooshing in uninvited.

Bending down, Sophie touched the pitch-covered paper that had been afire moments before. Beneath it was a heavy jagged rock, capable of breaking the best British crown glass. A soggy note was attached, penned by a heavy hand.

Yer Tory house will be burnt to Hades.

She started for the window, gleaming shards crunching underfoot, but Glynnis’s equally sharp hiss kept her away.

Don’t be inviting more trouble, mind you. Taking her by the arm, Glynnis led her into the foyer, both of them shaking. I’ll fetch Henry to board it up.

Sophie sent her gaze to the front and back entry of Three Chimneys. Are the doors locked? But what did it matter when the parlor now lay open?

Tighter than a drum. You go on up to bed, and I’ll join you. ’Twill be just like when the Lobsterbacks invaded and we were quarantined in your room.

But the war’s been won, Sophie murmured. All hostilities should cease.

Mayhap in time. Glynnis patted her hand. You should have stayed away from Roan today. Likely there’s some who took offense at the sight of a Menzies.

I only meant to earn coin enough for some sugar for the tea party. Sophie turned back at the foot of the staircase. I forgot Lily Cate’s doll—

Glynnis almost scoffed. D’ye truly think the child’s father, a high and mighty American general, will let his daughter darken your door? Or darken it himself?

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

Glynnis 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