Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (13 page)

“You’ve not looked since?”

“I’ve no time for it. Ballantyne interests are always expanding. You’ve heard about the new ironworks, I suppose.”

“Yes, Peyton talks of little else, but I’d rather hear about your music. When I left for finishing school years ago, you’d begun making a violin in the workshop above the stables.”

“Child’s play.” He struck a string and winced. “I should have apprenticed with one of the master luthiers in Europe by now.”

Sensing his frustration, she fell silent, turning back to her harp. They began a piece by Handel before moving to a Scots strathspey. Discordantly. Full of starts and stops. When Peyton came in unexpectedly, his expression a grimace, they stopped altogether, though Peyton, for all his accomplishments, couldn’t play a note.

He took the chair nearest Ellie and began loosening his cravat. “Don’t stop on account of me. From the sounds of it, you two need plenty more practice.” Ellie stuck her tongue out playfully and he smirked. “Though truthfully, I prefer the harp to the violin and always have.”

Ansel shot him a knifelike look, and the tension in the room raised a notch. Ellie moved on to a piece by Haydn, sensing a confrontation coming that had little to do with the music.

Over her soft playing, Peyton said to Ansel, “You’re needed at the boatyard. Something about copper sheathing on that schooner to protect it from shipworms in southern waters.”

Ansel’s bowing stopped. “I left the head shipwright specific directions about the hull. Why did he come to you?”

“Because you were here when you should have been there, and he had other questions.” The censure in Peyton’s tone made Ellie cringe.

“There’s more to my being home than making music.”

“That’s not what it looks like.”

“Dr. Brunot’s due any minute.”

Ellie plucked a wrong note and recovered, directing her gaze to Ansel.

He continued in an undertone. “If you’d seen all the signs along Rogue Creek . . .”

“Slave catchers, you mean,” Peyton murmured.

Her hands stilled and both brothers looked at her.

“On second thought,” Peyton said, all animosity gone, “rotting schooners can wait.”

He got up and went out, leaving the door to the music room ajar. Ellie heard the gun case beneath the stair open and close. In moments he’d returned with a pearl-handled pistol. “Our little sister is in need of some shooting practice.”

Ansel gave a nod while Ellie’s eyes widened. “Today—right now?”

“Why not? It won’t be a long lesson if you prove a fair shot. Andra certainly is.”

Ellie didn’t doubt it. Andra seemed to master anything she put her mind to—except matrimony.

The pistol felt cool and heavy in her hand despite its diminutive size. Yet rather than allay her fears, the weapon stoked them. And Peyton’s intensity only fanned them further.

“This is Mother’s gun. Andra took hers to York.” He led her outside, onto the back veranda, showing her his own pistol tucked inside his greatcoat. “We’ll use some old bottles from the glassworks as targets,” he told her, “though I’d prefer a Turlock or two.”

 13 

Though she be but little, she is fierce!

W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

“Jack, I do believe you’re avoiding me!”

The scolding in Chloe’s voice made Jack smile. In tone she sounded like their mother, but in her exasperation she was still a child. He didn’t so much as glance toward the stable door, where his sister stood in cross-armed defiance. He simply continued examining saddles and harness, muttering a Latin phrase beneath his breath:
“Qui se excusat, se accusat.”
He accuses himself who excuses himself.

It wasn’t Chloe he was avoiding but Ellie. And he supposed his actions betrayed him. But there was no sidestepping Chloe. She circled round till she stood in front of him, looking like she might snatch a near horsewhip and lash him. “I don’t know a lick of Latin, Jack, so stop your mumbling. Miss Ellie is teaching me French. And I’ve learned enough from her to know a gentleman doesn’t keep a lady waiting—and she’s waiting for you in your study!
Dépêchez-vous!
”

Hurry up?

Letting go of the leather trappings, he started after her,
albeit reluctantly, following the blue swish of her skirt as she left the stable. A new dress? Recently she and Ellie had been shopping in Pittsburgh. After an afternoon at the milliner’s and dressmaker’s—and untold damage to his bank account—Chloe appeared to have left childhood far behind.

She turned back to him, blatant disapproval in her eyes. “Really, Jack, you look like you’ve been jumping in the hay mow!” As they climbed the steps to the house, she plucked some straw from his shirtsleeve. “And you reek of horses!” Nose wrinkling, she dug in her pocket and thrust a small vial toward him. He looked askance at the offering.

Caswell Massey Number Six?

“This,” she announced, “is what a gentleman should smell like.”

Disgusted, he tucked the cologne in his pocket. “I’m no gentleman.”

Fire lit her eyes, and her voice was a poorly disguised whisper. “I’ve told you that Miss Ellie isn’t for me . . .”

She’s for you.

He stopped her right there in the hall, a stone’s throw from his study door, his voice a low hiss. “I’ve gone along with your little scheme so far, but it stops
now
. Ellie Ballantyne is here for you and you alone. Understand?”

“That’s not true, Jack! Even God agrees with me—‘It is not good for man to be alone . . . go forth and multiply,’ and all that!”

His hand clamped her shoulder. “Listen hard, Chloe—”

But she simply shook him off and headed the other direction. “I think I hear Mrs. Malarkey calling.”

He watched her go, raking a hand through hair he hadn’t bothered to comb in days, though it was clean, at least. He’d swum across the Monongahela and back at daybreak, just as he did nearly every morning save in winter. Pausing, he
retrieved the cologne from his pocket and deposited it in a liquor chest in the hall before opening the study door.

Something told him Ellie awaited to give notice, that she’d tired of playing tutor to Chloe. Or her father had returned and forbidden it. Just as well. Time the charade ended once and for all. He was becoming far too aware of her—the profound emptiness he felt in her wake, the stranglehold she had on his senses.

Her gentleness disturbed him.

He swallowed down any disappointment he felt for Chloe as he stepped into the room, but nothing could prepare him for the picture Ellie made as she waited for him. Patiently. Expectantly. And heartrendingly lovely in a pale blue dress that fluttered to her ankles in an alluring flounce. Her back was to him, the knot of curls that crowned her head cascading to the nape of her slender neck, the paisley shawl she wore slipping off her shoulders, its fringed end swaying gently as she turned round.

The smile she gave him was nothing short of glorious. Did she smile that way at everyone? So broadly a dimple appeared in her left cheek? For a moment he couldn’t even recall his own name. “I—my sister said—”

Her gaze was unblinking. “Chloe told me you wanted to see me.”

The tightness in his chest soared.

Duped again.

But Ellie was obviously none the wiser.

“Chloe says a great many things,” he muttered, unaccustomed to the heat creeping up his neck. He moved to his desk, shuffled some papers, and tried to salvage the situation. “I was simply wondering—how are the lessons going?”

“Very well. Her penmanship is improving and she’s quite fond of reading. I was hoping we might borrow a few books.”

He glanced at the bookcases. “Borrow as many as you like.”

“I was thinking of George Whitefield’s
Journals
and a Bible.”

“Whitefield, the British evangelist?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“My grandfather once heard him preach in Philadelphia.” He walked to the far side of the study, pushed aside a rolling ladder, and opened a glass-fronted case. “His
Journals
are in here.”

“Do you know where everything is so readily?”

There was teasing in her tone as they surveyed what was, at last inventory, over ten thousand tomes. “I’ve a ready explanation. The books are grouped by subject. The Bible you’re wanting is in my bedchamber.”

She took the leather-bound books from him. “I won’t trouble you about the Bible, then, especially if it’s in use.”

“Your father gave it to me . . . the last time I was in jail.”

Color pinked her cheeks, but her gaze held steadfast. “Then it must be having some effect, given you’ve not been back since.”

He nearly smiled as she looked down at the borrowed books. She was so close his every sense was heightened. Lemon . . . lavender . . . talc. Her subtle fragrance rivaled the lilacs at River Hill’s entrance. He wrestled with wanting to reach out and touch an inky curl to test its softness.

Like the rogue he was.

Turning her back to him, she began perusing the shelves while he sat down, scuffed boots up on the corner of his desk. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his mind on the words at hand.

“What are you reading?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

“The American Farm and Garden.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Speaking of gardens, I have another request. ’Tis Chloe’s, actually.”

He removed his glasses and rested his book atop his chest, not bothering to lower his boots.

“Might we have a small corner of the garden? A sunny place to plant some flowers?”

The request, so humbly and hopefully stated, tugged at him.

Just a corner? I would give you all the garden if you would ask, Ellie.

“Aye, if you like,” he said.

Her petition was so small. Couldn’t she sense he’d give her anything? Anything at all?

All but his heart. That he kept locked. Behind bars.

“I have some seeds from Hope Rising—perennials mostly. Gardening holds some good lessons, and your garden was once so beautiful. The talk of Pittsburgh, Mama said. I heard it rivaled the King’s Garden outside Fort Pitt.”

“That was before my time or yours.” He regretted his abruptness but wanted to bring a close to the conversation. He needed to talk to Chloe—reiterate what he’d said in the hall. Absent himself. “You’re leaving now, I’d wager.”

“Yes, we’re done for the day. I just need to give these books to Chloe.”

He got up and took them from her hands, feeling an insatiable desire to read them himself. “I’ll see that she gets them. And I’ll walk you to your carriage.”

Now what had made him say that?

It sounded almost . . . gentlemanly.

Jack rode Cicero hard, skirting the fringes of River Hill, hoping to outride the knot festering inside him—or at least
loosen its frayed edges. All around him, endless fields of grain bowed low in the warm night wind. His land. His bounty. Tonight they failed to bring the usual pleasure. He was weary. Hungry. Flummoxed.

When Ellie’s carriage had disappeared through River Hill’s imposing gates that afternoon, he’d found Chloe in the southeast corner of the garden, already overturning a plot of soil. He wrestled the shovel away from her, his aggravation at fever’s pitch. “Should a lady be digging like a common laborer?”

“I’m wearing gloves—see?” She held up canvas-covered hands already blackened with dirt. “Miss Ellie said you can’t call a garden your own unless you tend it, which is what I’m doing.”

“I’ll help you, then.” He thrust the rusty tool into soft soil, unearthing loamy ground, rocks, and a tangle of worms.

She stood and watched him work, expression perplexed. “I know you didn’t come out here to help me, Jack. You look mad enough to spit nails.”

“Aye, I’m here to fix your flint once and for all in regards to Ellie.” He gave her a black look before another shovel thrust. “No more double dealing, understand? No more conniving or manipulating or—”

The surprise on her face was sharp. “But that’s what you and Wade and Pa always do!”

Aye, best take a long look in the mirror, Jack.

He felt he’d been hit broadside with the shovel. Tears wet Chloe’s eyes and spilled down her dress front. She looked like a little girl again, and it didn’t help that Ben was watching, his own eyes damp and round as marbles as he peered at them over the garden wall.

She swiped at her eyes with a dainty sleeve. “I asked her here for you, Jack. You’re all alone. You need someone like
Miss Ellie.” Her words were all a-warble. “She’s pretty and kind. She even likes to fish. She’s not a strumpet!”

“Chloe Isabel . . .”

“What’s more, she seems to like me—and Ben. I-I can’t tell if she likes you yet. She never says.”

He tossed the shovel aside. “A lady like Ellie would never consider a Turlock, no matter how much conniving is done. If she comes here at all, it’s out of pity. A mercy mission. Don’t expect it to last. She’ll soon move on.”

Turning away, he left her with Ben and returned to his study, only to find that Ellie’s lingering presence drove him out again. He finally sought refuge in the stables, taking deep breaths, his pulse racing inexplicably. Cicero whinnied in welcome as he led him out into the waning sunlight, not bothering with a saddle, just sinking his fingers into the horse’s tumbled mane and riding bareback.

Stepping out of a cottage, his farm manager tried to intercept him, but he waved him away. He was in no mood for small talk or fielding trouble with tenants. His feelings were too raw, ready to spill over into a brawl. All because of Ellie Ballantyne.

He took a backwoods route to Broad Oak, arriving in record time, disgruntled when his mother met him on the porch. Her eyes narrowed as he tied Cicero to the hitching post. He rarely arrived at dusk, and she likely sensed trouble. “You’re just in time for supper.”

“I’m not hungry.” The words were flat, gruff, much like her welcome. “There’s a storm brewing and I need to hurry. I’ll not be long.”

Thunder underscored his words and sent a shiver up his back. Ever since his brush with death along the turnpike, the mere threat of rain haunted him and seemed to carry a second warning. He brushed past her and went into the
house, slowing impatiently when her voice trailed him, tethering him.

“If it’s Wade you’re looking for, he’s not here. He’s in jail . . . alongside Peyton Ballantyne.”