Authors: Laura Frantz

The Colonel's Lady (45 page)

Epilogue

Kentucke, December 1784

Never had the stone house looked so beautiful, felt so at peace. In the gleaming foyer, elaborate swaths of pine boughs were tied with scarlet ribbon, and a hundred candles shimmered and danced each time someone came through the front door. The scent of gingerbread and plum pudding swirled in the air, and the dining room table was set for twelve. ’Twas Christmas Eve, and the house had never been busier or more filled with life. As the French chef performed culinary feats in the kitchen, the portraitist who’d come downriver at the colonel’s request held court in the parlor.

They’d only recently returned from the east, enjoying the unending gaiety over the war’s end and countless balls and receptions held in the officers’ honor. Washington and Lafayette were no longer simply names to Roxanna but real people with loved ones and lives to live now that the conflict was over. Congress had presented Cass with a generous pension for his service and more land than they knew what to do with.

Fort Endeavor was no more. Its oaken logs and pickets had been torn down and reassembled into a spring house, chicken coop, smokehouse, and too many dependencies to name. ’Twas hard to believe a fort had ever held sway. Now snowflakes descended in a wild winter’s dance, covering the sloping ground from the house to the river.

“Come here, Master Jack, and hold still so this poor man can make your picture.” Bella’s voice was lined with exasperation, though her smile stayed bright. With one sinewy arm she reached down and rescued the titian-haired boy from his fascination with the hearth’s fire.

Glancing their way, Roxanna resumed retying the bow in Abby’s curls. At ten, she wore a replica of Roxanna’s dress—a festive cranberry silk overlaid with silver lace, a small string of pearls about her neck.

“Mama, you look beautiful,” Abby whispered, stroking one of Roxanna’s sleeves.

“So do you,” Roxanna whispered back before returning her attention to the whimpering baby in her lap. “A merry heart makes one so.”

“Will Henry smile or cry for his picture?”

“Mayhap a bit of both,” Roxanna replied, glad to rest after all the fuss of preparing for the sitting. She ran her fingers over her son’s silky head—the only ebony-haired child they had—and gave her knees a little bounce to quiet him. Sticking a fat fist in his mouth, he gnawed and drooled over his first tooth.

“Where’s Papa?” Jack asked, coming alongside her chair.

“Hiding presents for us,” Abby answered with a knowing smile. “If we’re polite to Mr. Painter, we get to open one gift before Christmas morn.”

At this, Jack wrinkled his freckled nose and contemplated the graying artist across the expanse of carpet as he began mixing paints near a large canvas. “I don’t want a gift. I want a musket!”

“So you can be a soldier like yo’ papa?” Bella asked, shadowing him.

Blue eyes blazing, he looked up at her with all the bluster a three-year-old could muster. “Aye! So I can order you around and keep you from the fire and make you eat your mush!”

Bella chuckled. “You sound like yo’ papa, all right.” Her sharp eyes dismissed him and softened as they took in Roxanna. “That baby’s goin’ to spoil your Christmas dress. Let me take him, and then Master Jack and Miss Abby-gail and me will have us a little treat in the kitchen while you’re waitin’. ”

“Gingerbread!” Jack shouted, leading a charge to the sitting room door, Abby hard on his heels.

Roxanna released the baby, not caring if her fine dress was spoiled, knowing the artist could paint it as he pleased. But Bella couldn’t be long without her chicks, as she called them, and Roxanna watched them go, thankfulness—and impatience—flooding her.

Where was he?

Her answer soon materialized in the doorway, causing her heart to somersault. Cass was looking at her, adjusting the stock at his neck as if it wasn’t quite right. She hadn’t seen him in uniform for years. The buff and blue was as arresting as ever, even without cross belts and weapons. Her eyes lingered on the Purple Heart she’d sewn into the rich blue cloth, the fine lapels and braid on the fancy coat stirring to life a host of memories.

He took the wing chair beside her, just as he had the night of their first cribbage game. They’d played endless rounds since. Reaching over, she smoothed his sleeve, the wool warm beneath her hand. He kissed the back of her fingers, glancing at the artist.

“Seeing you in uniform again . . .” she said, then hesitated. It cast her back to the past, on that first Christmas Eve years before when she’d stood before him and her world had come crashing down.

“I can change, ye ken.”

“Why? You look every bit as gallant as when I first saw you. Though I do wonder,” she murmured with a hint of a smile, “if you’re missing something.” Leaning nearer, she slipped her fingers inside his waistcoat pocket, smiling when she touched something smooth and familiar. “Do you have my locket, Colonel McLinn?”

“Aye, I do.”

As she pulled out the delicate silver chain, her heart gave a little lurch. ’Twas a locket, truly, but not the marred one of old. This treasure shone of new silver and had a sprinkling of tiny diamonds across its heart-shaped face.

“Merry Christmas, Roxie.”

He’d gotten it in Williamsburg, she guessed. There was a fine silversmith there. Cupping it in her hands, she opened it slowly, lingering on the portraits within. Cass was on the left, their three children on the right, all exquisitely captured in miniature.

“Did you paint—?” she began.

“Aye, I did,” he answered. “With a little help from the portraitist, Mr. Stuart.”

Shutting it, she turned it over. Etched on the back was the beloved Scripture that had come to symbolize their life together—Ecclesiastes 4:12. Her heart was so full she couldn’t speak as he unclasped the locket and placed it around her neck.

And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to my wonderful editors, Andrea Doering and Jessica Miles, and the entire editorial team, who always go above and beyond on my books. A huge thumbs-up to Twila and Michele and all of sales and marketing for connecting with readers everywhere. To Cheryl and her inspired art team—your covers take my breath away! Special thanks to Deonne and Donna, who go the extra mile in publicity. I wish I had the names of everyone at Revell whose hands and hearts are a part of this work. Bless you all.

To my readers near and far—you know who you are—you’ve enriched my life in countless ways through snail mail, email, photos, gifts, prayers, and encouraging words.
You
are the reason I write. That the Lord brought us together is a continual blessing to me each and every day.

Many thanks to Janet Grant and Books & Such Literary Agency for your wisdom, finesse, and ongoing support of my work. When people tell me you’re the best, I know it’s true.

To Lori Benton, fellow eighteenth-century lover, who read through this manuscript and offered insight and wisdom. You are such a faithful friend—and your beautiful prose blows me away!

To my husband, Randy, and my sons, Wyatt and Paul, who, during a very busy winter of fiddling, basketball, traveling, and whatnot, created a little library for me that delights my writer’s heart! I could not do this without you three. Special thanks to my brother, Chris, for his unfailing support and wisdom, always.

To my dear author friends Lorna Seilstad, Ann Gabhart, Julie Lessman, and Kaye Dacus. You four are a huge blessing!

Also, a huge huzzah to Dr. Carrie Fancett Pagels, founder and moderator of Colonial American Christian Writers, and the history lovers therein, for endless inspiration.

I thank God for the gift of storytelling. It’s been my constant companion since childhood and continues to be an unending joy. “As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace” (1 Pet. 4:10 ESV).

Laura Frantz
credits her grandmother as being the catalyst for her fascination with Kentucky history. Laura’s ancestors followed Daniel Boone into Kentucky in the late eighteenth century and settled in Madison County, where her family still resides. She is a member of the Kentucky Historical Society and the American Christian Fiction Writers, and is the author of
The Frontiersman’s Daughter
and
Courting Morrow Little
. Laura currently lives in the misty woods of Port Angeles, Washington, with her husband and two sons. Contact her at
LauraFrantz.net
.

Books by Laura Frantz

The Frontiersman’s Daughter

Courting Morrow Little

The Colonel’s Lady