Lady Elisabeth Lawson has not seen her betrothed, Miles
Roth, for many months. He does not write often, but instead
sends her lavish gifts such as an ornate carriage. He is
her father's pick, but she has no feelings for him. She
hardly knows him, but as she has always done, she will follow
her father's directive. It is the eve of the celebration to
announce their upcoming wedding, given at the palace by Lady
Charlotte in her mother's absence. Fully dressed and
awaiting Mile's appearance, his cousin Noble Rynallt is
announced. He apologizes for Mile's tardiness and offers to
escort Elisabeth to the ball until Miles can arrive. He is
a handsome, well groomed man that has recently come out of
mourning from the death of his beloved sister. He is a
bachelor, owns two vast estates, is wealthy and charming.
When Miles appears he is drunk, disheveled and rude.
Elisabeth's father is aware of his appearance, but ignores
it. This engagement is a good business arrangement. A
Loyalist faithful to the king, he has sent his firebrand
wife to England as she refuses to disavow her preference for
the Patriots and continues to use her pen and quill to write
about them.
Several nights later, alone and unable to sleep, Lady
Elisabeth is awakened by glass breaking and loud voices. Her
world is shattered. Her home is
destroyed, along with the garden. Her father, and
servants have fled. No help is offered from neighbors or
friends until Miles arrives, sees the damages and breaks the
engagement. The cocoon of ignorance that she has lived in
her whole life is unraveling. No longer can she remain
neutral. Time for her to pick a side and she picks the
Patriots. It is time for her to make a new life on her own.
Noble Rynallt becomes her protector and takes her to his
beautiful estate Ty Mawr. She adores the home and befriends
the staff. Little by little she becomes closer and closer
to Noble as he is patient, caring, and always there for her.
Elisabeth, now called Liberty, becomes a spy for the
Patriots and spies on her father who is still aboard a ship
on the James River. Her missions are filled with peril and
risk.
Laura Frantz knows how to tell a sterling story of danger
with a touch of romance. It is a story about love, country,
freedom, and family. Set in 1775 in Colonial Williamsburg,
Lady Elisabeth "Liberty" Lawson becomes a strong heroine.
The hero, Noble Rynallt is a superhero. Suspense, lies,
betrayals, family, faith, and new beginnings fill the pages
in a book you will not be able to lay down. The gorgeous
cover sets the tone for an adventure that touches on
lacemaking and a slow building love that is sweet. There are
cameo
appearances by Patrick Henry and many references to George
Washington and Thomas Jefferson. Well researched, Ms.
Frantz describes an important time in history. I loved THE
LACEMAKER. Huzzah!
On the eve of her wedding, Lady Elisabeth Lawson's world
is shattered, as surely as the fine glass windows of her
colonial Williamsburg home. In a town seething with Patriots
ready for rebellion, her protection comes from an unlikely
source--now if she could only protect her heart. When
colonial Williamsburg explodes like a powder keg on the eve
of the American Revolution, Lady Elisabeth "Liberty" Lawson
is abandoned by her fiancé and suspected of being a
spy for the hated British. No one comes to her aid save the
Patriot Noble Rynallt, a man with formidable enemies of his
own. Liberty is left with a terrible choice. Will the
Virginia belle turned lacemaker side with the radical
revolutionaries, or stay true to her English roots? And at
what cost? Historical romance favorite Laura Frantz is back
with a suspenseful story of love, betrayal, and new
beginnings. With her meticulous eye for detail and her knack
for creating living, breathing characters, Frantz continues
to enchant historical fiction readers who long to feel they
are a part of the story.
Excerpt
1 May 1775 Elisabeth took a breath,
breaking an intense hour of concentration. Mindful of the
pinch of her stays, she straightened, the ache in her back
and shoulders easing. In her apron-clad lap was the round
pillow with the new lace she’d worked. Delicate as
snowflakes, the intricate design was crafted of imported
linen thread, now a good two yards of snowy white. She
preferred white to black. All skilled lacemakers knew that
working with white was kinder to the eye. Raising her gaze,
she looked out fine English glass onto a world of vivid
greens broken by colorful splashes of blossoms.
Elisabeth’s favorites, butter-yellow roses and pale
pink peonies, danced in the wind as it sighed around the
townhouse’s corners. Nearly summer at last. But not
only almost June. ’Twas nearly her wedding day.
“Oh là là! What have we here?
” Around the bedchamber’s corner came a high,
musical voice. “Surely a bride does not sew her own
laces!” “Nay, Isabeau. I’ve not patience
enough for that.” “Not for an entire wedding
gown, merci.” The maid rounded the four-
poster bed as fast as her girth would allow, holding a pair
of clocked stockings. “You have been busy all the
forenoon and likely forgot ’tis nearly teatime with
the countess. Lady Charlotte surely wants to discuss your
betrothal ball. ’Tis rumored Lord and Lady Amberly
will be there.” Elisabeth nearly smiled at her
maid’s flaunting of titles. A humble Huguenot, Isabeau
was still as bedazzled by the gentry as the day she’d
first landed on Virginia’s shores. Elisabeth set aside
her lace pillow and watched her maid pull two tea gowns from
a large armoire. “Are you in a blue mood or a yellow
one?” “Yellow,” she said. Yellow was Lady
Charlotte’s favorite color, and Elisabeth sought to
cheer her all she could. In turn, the Governor’s
Palace served up a lavish tea table that surely rivaled the
British king’s. Glancing at the tiny watch pinned to
her bodice, Elisabeth left her chair so that Isabeau could
undress and redress her. “’Tis such a lovely
day, likely the countess wants a turn in the garden. Do you
think her girls will be about?” “I should hope
so. Fresh air and exercise are good for them, though their
father oft keeps them inside of late.” Isabeau darted
her a fretful look. “On account of the trouble, you
mean.” Elisabeth tried not to think of that.
“The sun might spoil their complexion, Lady Charlotte
says. And she’s right, you know. Look at me!”
Though faint, the freckles across the bridge of her nose and
the top of her cheekbones gave her skin a slightly tarnished
look that even ample powder couldn’t cover. Her fault
for slipping outside with her handwork in the private corner
of the garden she was so fond of, forever hatless.
“You are tres belle, even speckled,”
Isabeau said, lacing her stays a bit tighter. “And
you’ve won the most dashing suitor in all Virginia
Colony, no?” “One of them.” Elisabeth
swallowed hard to keep from saying more on that score too.
Her fiancé, Miles Cullen Roth, was many things, but
he was not cut of the same cloth as fellow Virginians
William Drew and George Rogers Clark and Edmund Randolph.
Isabeau’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Though I
do wonder about love.” Elisabeth shot a glance at the
cracked bedchamber door. Papa always said she gave the
servants too much room to talk, but the truth was she
preferred plain speaking to the prissy airs of the drawing
room. “’Tis a business matter, marriage.”
“So says your father.” Isabeau frowned her
displeasure. “I am a romantic. One must marry for
love, no?” “Is that the way of it in France?
” “Oui, oui!” her maid
answered. Though she was an indentured servant, Isabeau did
not have a father who orchestrated her every move. Given
that, Elisabeth could only guess the gist of Isabeau’s
thoughts. I am free. Free to come and go outside of
work. Free to marry whom I please. And she? Who was
Elisabeth Anne Lawson? The reflection in the looking glass
told her little. When the history books were printed and
gathered dust, what would be said of her? That she had the
fortune—or misfortune—to be the only child of
the lieutenant governor of Virginia Colony, the earl of
Stirling? Daughter of a firebrand mother who used ink and
quill like a weapon? Possessor of a pedigree and dowry the
envy of any colonial belle? Friend and confidante of Lady
Dunmore? Wife of Miles Cullen Roth? Mistress of Roth Hall?
End of story. The scarlet seal on the letter was as
unmistakable as the writing hand. Noble Rynallt took it from
his housekeeper and retreated to the quiet of Ty
Mawr’s paneled study. Sitting down in a leather chair,
he propped his dusty boots up on the wide windowsill
overlooking the James River before breaking the
letter’s seal. Time is of the essence. We must take
account of our true allies as well as our enemies. You must
finagle a way to attend Lord Dunmore’s ball 2 June,
1775, at the Palace. ’Tis on behalf of your cousin,
after all. Gather any intelligence you can that will aid our
cause. Patrick Henry ’Twas the last of May. Noble had
little time to finagle. His cousin was soon to wed
Williamsburg’s belle, Lady Elisabeth Lawson.
He’d given it little thought, had no desire to attend
any function at the Governor’s Palace, especially one
in honor of his nemesis’s daughter. Lord Stirling was
onto him, onto all the Independence Men, and none of them
had received an invitation. But ’twas as Henry said,
Noble’s cousin was the groom. Surely an invitation was
forthcoming or had been overlooked. Noble frowned, thinking
of the stir he’d raise appearing. Lord Stirling was
likely to have an apoplectic fit. But if that happened, at
least one of the major players barring Virginia
Colony’s fight for independence would be removed. And
his own attendance at the ball would announce he’d
finally come out of second mourning. The unwrinkled copy of
the Virginia Gazette, smelling of fresh ink and
Dutch bond paper, seemed to shout the matrimonial news.
Miles Cullen Roth’s future bride, Lady Elisabeth
Lawson, an agreeable young Lady of Fortune, will preside at
the Governor’s ball the 2nd of June, 1775 . . . The
flowery column included details of the much anticipated
event right down to her dowry, naming minutiae even
Elisabeth was unaware of. As she turned the paper facedown
atop the dressing table, her smile faded. A ticklish
business, indeed. Isabeau, quick to catch her
mistress’s every mood, murmured, “The beggars!
I’d rather it be said you have a sunny disposition and
Christian character. Or that you are a smidgen over five
feet tall, flaxen haired, and have all your teeth save one.
And that one, Dieu merci, is a jaw tooth!”
“I am Williamsburg’s bride,”
Elisabeth said as her maid pinned her gown together with
practiced hands. “The locals feel they can print what
they want about me. After all, I was born and bred in this
very spot and have been catered to ever since.”
“You don’t begrudge them their bragging?”
Isabeau studied her. “Having the particulars of
one’s dowry devoured by the masses seems shabby
somehow.” “It does seem silly. Everyone knows
what everyone else is worth in Williamsburg. There’s
no need to spell it out.” “Tell that to your
dear papa,” Isabeau answered with furrowed brow.
“He had a footman pass out multiple copies of the
Gazette this morning like bonbons on Market
Square.” Unsurprised, Elisabeth fell silent. Turning,
silk skirts swishing, she extended an arm for Isabeau to
arrange the beribboned sleeve. Below came the muted sound of
horse hooves atop cobblestones. “Your intended? On
time? And in such stormy weather?” Isabeau looked up
at her mistress with surprised jade eyes. Turning toward an
open window, Elisabeth listened but now only heard the slur
of rain. “Mister Roth promised he’d come.
’Tis all that matters. He didn’t say
when.” “How long has it been since you’ve
seen him?” “April,” Elisabeth admitted
reluctantly, wondering why Isabeau even asked. Her maid well
knew, being by her side night and day. Isabeau’s
pinched expression was a reminder that Miles was not a
favorite, no matter his standing in Williamsburg. Elisabeth
dug for another excuse. “He’s been busy getting
Roth Hall ready for us, his letters said.” She felt a
twinge at her own words, for his letters had been but two
over six months. He sent unnecessary, extravagant gifts
instead. Gold earrings in the shape of horseshoes. A bottle-
green riding dress. Pineapples, lemons, and limes from his
estate’s orangery. A London-built carriage. So many
presents she soon lost track of them. And not a one had
swayed Isabeau’s low opinion of him. Despite his
generosity, Elisabeth felt a sense of foreboding for the
future. She did not want his gifts. She wanted his presence.
If he was like her oft absent father . . . ’Twas
difficult to see clear to what she really hoped for. A happy
home. A whole family. “Your coiffure is
magnifique, no?” The words were uttered with
satisfaction as Isabeau produced a hand mirror for her to
better see the lovely twisting of curls falling to her
shoulders, the wig dusted a costly powdered pink. Twin
ostrich feathers, dyed a deeper rose, plumed near her right
ear. “I don’t know.” Reaching up,
Elisabeth slid free the pins holding the wig in place,
displacing the artfully arranged feathers. “Powder is
going out of fashion like patch boxes. Tonight I will move
forward with fashion.” Her maid’s brows arched,
but she took the wig and put it on a near stand, where it
looked forlorn and deflated. Catching a glimpse of herself
in the mirror, Isabeau smoothed a silvered strand of her own
charcoal hair into place beneath her cap. At middle age, she
was still an attractive woman, as dark as Elisabeth was
fair. “We must make haste, no? But first . . .”
Isabeau retrieved the ostrich feathers and refastened them
in Elisabeth’s hair while her mistress glanced again
at the watch lying faceup on her dressing table. Late.
Miles was nothing if not perpetually late, while she
happened to be an on-time sort of person. Fighting
frustration, she set down the hand mirror. “I wonder
what Mama is doing tonight.” Isabeau looked up, a
telling sympathy in her eyes. “Your mere will
rejoin you when all this talk of tea and taxes blows over,
no?” Elisabeth had no answer. Mama had sailed to
England—Bath—months ago. All this talk of tea
and taxes had no end. A soft knock sounded on the door,
followed by another maid’s muffled voice. “A
gentleman to see you, m’lady, in the drawing
room.” A gentleman? Not her intended? She smiled
wryly. Likely the servants didn’t remember Miles. She
went hot, then cold. Miles’s visits were so few and
far between, he seemed a stranger each time she saw him.
Because of it they spent the better part of an hour becoming
reacquainted at each meeting. Tonight would be no different.
Perhaps they’d recover the time lost to them in the
coach. Isabeau steered her to the stool of her dressing
table. With deft hands, she clasped a strand of pearls about
Elisabeth’s neck. The routine was reassuring.
Familiar. Selecting a glass bottle, Elisabeth uncapped it,
overwhelmed by the scent of the latest cologne from London.
Rose geranium. Again Elisabeth peered at her reflection in
the looking glass with a sense of growing unease. Everything
seemed new tonight. Her scent. Her shoes. Her stays. Her
gown. She’d never worn such a gown, nor felt so
exposed. Despite the creamy lace spilling in profusion about
her bare shoulders, the décolletage was decidedly
daring. Made of oyster-pink silk, the gown shimmered and
called out her every curve. The mantua maker had outdone
herself this time. Fit for Queen Charlotte, it was. Moving
to the door, she grasped about for a glimmer of
anticipation. “I’d best not keep company
waiting.” At this, Isabeau rolled her eyes. “I
should like to hear Mister Roth say such!” Isabeau
followed her out, and they passed down a dimly lit hall to a
landing graced with an oriole window and upholstered seat.
The velvety blackness beyond the shining glass was splashed
with rain, not pierced with stars, and the warm air was
soaked. This was her prayer place. Isabeau paused for a
moment as Elisabeth bent her head briefly before going
further. Then down, down, down the circular steps they went,
Isabeau pulling at a stray thread or straightening a fold in
the polonaise skirt before reaching the open door of the
sitting room, its gaudy gold and scarlet overpowering and
oppressive even by candlelight. The colors reminded
Elisabeth of red-coated British soldiers. She stepped inside
as Isabeau retreated. Her eyes shot to the marble hearth
where she expected Miles Roth to be. “Lady
Elisabeth.” She swung round, her skirts sashaying, her
head spinning as well. Mercy, her stays were tight.
She’d eaten little at tea. Behind her stood a man, the
shadows hiding his features. She put out a hand to steady
herself, missing the needed chair back by a good two inches
and finding a coat sleeve instead. The gentleman looked down
at her and she looked up, finding his dark head just shy of
the wispy clouds skittering in blue oils across the ceiling.
Whoever he was, he wasn’t Miles. Miles was but two
inches taller than she. “Mister . . .”
“Rynallt. Noble Rynallt of Ty Mawr.” What? A
recollection returned to her in a rush. Noble Rynallt was a
distant cousin of Miles. So distant she had no further
inkling of their tie. Quickly she calculated what little she
knew of him. Welsh to the bone. Master of a large James
River estate. Recently bereft of a sister. A lawyer turned
burgess. The Rynallts were known for their horses, were they
not? Horse racing? The finest horseflesh in Virginia, if not
all the colonies. She was certain of only one thing. Noble
Rynallt was here because Miles was not. Surprise mellowed to
resignation. She gave a small curtsy. “Mister Rynallt,
what an unexpected pleasure.” “Mayhap more
surprise.” She hesitated. He was honest, at least.
“Is Mister Roth . . .” “Delayed.” He
managed to look bemused. And apologetic. She tried not to
stare as rich impressions crowded her senses. A great deal
of muscle and broadcloth and sandalwood. The cut of his suit
was exceptionally fine, dark but for the deep blue waistcoat
embroidered with the bare minimum of silver thread, a creamy
stock about his neck. The color of his eyes eluded her, the
remainder of his features failing to take root as she dwelt
on the word delayed. Dismayed, she anchored herself
to the chair at last. “He asked me to act as your
escort till he arrives.” He struck a conciliatory
tone. “If you’ll have me.” He had the
grace to sound a bit embarrassed, as well he should. This
was, after all, her betrothal ball given by Lord Dunmore at
the Governor’s Palace, with the cream of all
Williamsburg in attendance. And she was coming not with her
intended but with a . . . stranger. Nay, worse. Far worse.
Yet good breeding wouldn’t allow a breach of manners.
She forced a small smile. “I thank you for the
kindness. Will my intended’s delay be long?”
“As brief as possible, I should hope,” he
replied, extending an arm. No matter who Noble Rynallt was,
his polite manner communicated that he had all in hand. Yet
it failed to give her the slightest ease. “As I rode
in I noticed your coach waiting,” he remarked as he
led her down the front steps, past the butler to the
mounting block. “I’ll ride alongside on my
horse.” Behind them the foyer’s grandfather
clock tolled one too many times. The ball had begun. Lord
Dunmore hated latecomers. They’d be fashionably tardy,
at best.
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