Free The Mistress of Tall Acre by Laura Frantz

the point of giving Seamus indigestion. He looked down at his mauled right hand, a knot of badly healed flesh and bone.
    He should have worn his uniform. In his worn blue wool and spurs, he felt more at ease. Bereft of them, he hardly knew who he was. Raising his gaze from his boots, he caught a soft, lingering look pass between Colin and Sally. Had Anne looked at him in such an all-consuming way? As if no one else existed? Or mattered?
    If she had, wouldn’t he remember?
    He shut his eyes as the reverend called for a kiss. He remembered his own bumbling when he’d first kissed Anne. She’d turned so shy, making him shy in return. But Colin and Sally were no mere boy and girl. They’d been loving and trysting for years, wresting from the war what it would deny them, meeting whenever and wherever they could.
    The morning blurred and found him at the wedding breakfast, surrounded by too many unwed women amidst the fine napery of the dining room. Chicken, spiced ham, baked shad, and a host of other dishes lined the immense sideboard and table as if in outright defiance of war’s end and Britain’s penny-pinching rule. Seamus stayed quiet, self-contained even as they tried to draw him out. He could only guess the gist of their thoughts.
    Wounded war hero. Grieving widower. Absentee father.
    “General Ogilvy, are you staying long at Bracken Hall?” To his left, Clementine Randolph asked the question that had been broached half a dozen times already.
    “Nay,” he said. “I leave at first light.”
    “How is it returning home to Tall Acre after so long away with so much to be done?”
    “Like battle,” he replied with a small smile. “I’m glad to have the winter to plan for a spring offensive—planting and the like.” He couldn’t say the repairs needed in his absence were appalling and his former creditors in London had yet to be paid . . . and here sat the unmarried Miss Randolph whose dowry would answer for any expense he incurred.
    “I’ve heard Tall Acre is a lovely place. I believe it’s situated near the Three Chimneys estate just down from you on the Roan River?”
    He raised his silver goblet. “You’re familiar with Three Chimneys?”
    Miss Randolph’s smile was smug. In the warmth of so many candles, her wax makeup had begun to wane, though her hair with its plentiful pomade held tight. “My cousin Major John Franklin has just been awarded that confiscated property.”
    Seamus nearly spilled his punch.
    “I believe it formerly belonged to the Tory Lord Menzies,” she finished, making a disagreeable face.
    He felt a sinking to his boots. “It did, aye, but is now occupied by his daughter . . . until her brother who served under my command returns home to claim it.”
    She dabbed at her lips with a serviette. “I’d also heard her brother has gone missing or is a casualty of war, and that the taxes on Three Chimneys haven’t been paid in ages.”
    Emily Lee leaned in on his other side. “I believe what Miss Randolph is telling you, General, is that she’d be happy to renew your acquaintance by coming to Tall Acre once her cousin takes up residence at Three Chimneys.”
    They tittered conspiratorially and left him brooding. Sophie Menzies had said nothing to him of losing Three Chimneys. What else was she hiding?
    Down the table General Washington was recounting news of their absent fellow officers in his quiet, self-effacing way. Several of those missing had assumed political office, others taking up residence on Tory estates seized as a reward for their wartime service. But Seamus was no longer listening.
    It was now late November. The treaty ending the war had been signed in October. Congress was obviously wasting no time dealing with Tory holdings. A sad state of affairs, especially when Three Chimneys had been Sophie’s mother’s to begin with. Though he didn’t know Sophie Menzies well, he knew her well enough to discern her loyalty to her home. And losing Three Chimneys would