Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (19 page)

“I saw another black man here, and a boy.”

“The old man, Solomon, was my grandfather’s valet years ago. But he’s now free. The boy belongs to someone downriver.” Warmth crept into his face. He was reluctant to say it was his own family who owned Ben, shame gaining the upper hand. “Care to tell me your name?”

The man’s gaze fell to his bare feet. “My name—my master in Maryland, he called me Jarm.”

“Well, Jarm. You’re safe for the moment. But we have to think about getting you moved.”

He nodded obligingly, eyes returning to the woman on the bed. “We didn’t mean to come here. We be searchin’ for another place. Heard about a true-hearted man by the name of Ballantyne.”

Jack felt buffeted by yet another confirmation that Ellie’s family was so deeply involved. “The Ballantynes are farther downriver.” The words came slowly as he struggled to remember all that the doctor had told him about the transfer. “When you’re able, Dr. Brunot wants you to travel north in a market wagon some fifteen miles or so to a Quaker settlement like your friends did. It’s safer there.”

Though he spoke calmly, Jack felt his own heart trip at the task. For a lone man on the run, the prospect of freedom was daunting. To flee with a wife and child in tow was madness—or a sort of harrowing heroism the likes of which Jack had never seen. These people, he realized with fresh angst, had little but the rags on their backs.

“I’ll do what I can to help you and . . .” Jack cast a look at the bed.

“Cherry’s my wife. We ain’t decided what to call the baby yet.”

Jack hoped the overwhelming futility he felt didn’t show on his face. Concern for others, risk for their welfare, took his thoughts places he didn’t want to go.

“I’m obliged to you, Mister . . .”

“Jack.”

He tried to think of something reassuring to say, but expressing sympathy was like a foreign language to him. He’d been raised with slaves, had thought little of their plight. Most of the white men he rubbed shoulders with had prejudices as deep as his family’s own. There were those who appeared sympathetic to slaves but were anti-abolitionists in disguise, and they crawled all over Pittsburgh like river rats.

“Why—” Jack swallowed, seeing an upraised scar along Jarm’s thin neck just below the jawline. “What made you leave Maryland?”

The woman on the bed turned over, and the baby gave a little cry. Jarm’s eyes grew damp. “The master—he was going to sell Cherry.”

Sell a woman. Sell a soul.

Jarm’s grief was palpable. It wasn’t his own mistreatment that had made him run, but hers. Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Who had told him slaves couldn’t think? Couldn’t feel?

His father.

The silence turned thick with undisguised misery. Jack looked at his own boots and drew in a lungful of hot, sweat-stained air. When Jarm was about to lose what he’d cared about most, he’d run. Jack couldn’t fathom it till his mind filled with Ellie. It was the only comparison he could muster. He’d been livid when she’d been accosted along the road. He’d wanted to kill the man who’d simply bruised her chin.

What if he never again caught sight of Ellie, head bent over a book? Never felt the warmth of her smile? Never resolved the unspoken questions in her eyes, that half-hopeful, half-wistful way she always seemed to regard him?

“I understand,” Jack said, pulling himself to his feet and going out.

Dr. Brunot came again at dusk. Though only a few days had passed since the runaways’ arrival, Jack was becoming increasingly uneasy with Jarm and Cherry’s presence. Chloe and Ben looked continually toward River Row, clearly intrigued, though Jarm was careful to come out of the cottage only at night. Luckily, Mrs. Malarkey seemed to forget all about them, though Sol had raided the kitchen oft enough to bring the fugitives food and drink and raise her suspicions.

Jack had warned Chloe and Ben more than once to say nothing, yet his sister had always been glib as a spring freshet. He could hardly wait to extricate himself from the whole affair and quietly return to his crops and ledgers. Always near at hand, Sol had readied a wagon for the fugitives’ departure, the bed filled with grain sacks. All that remained was for Brunot to provide the details.

Finally, in the humid, firefly-ridden twilight, plans were laid for Jarm and Cherry’s leave-taking. Seated inside the cottage, Jarm sat hunch-shouldered between Jack and the doctor around a crude table, all alert to the slightest sound. The baying of hounds. The nickering of horses. Any sudden commotion.

Brunot’s aging features held a wariness and weariness that troubled Jack, though the doctor smoked his pipe nonchalantly as he examined the map spread before them, the rich-smelling smoke spiraling round their bent heads. “You’ll leave
before first light along the old Warrior’s Trace.” He spoke slowly, as if careful not to overwhelm the understandably skittish Jarm. “It’s best to take a market wagon, as Cherry is still too weak to walk the distance. If you’re stopped, produce the pass I gave you and say as little as possible. You’re simply moving grain to the Quakers at Harmony Grove.”

Jarm nodded. “We’re to keep north, follow the North Star.”

Dr. Brunot leaned nearer the map. “You have sturdy shoes, clothes, and pocket money. Enough food to see you there. The Quaker you’re looking for is John Hogue. The miller who provided you with the grain is Abel Simons.”

“John Hogue,” Jarm repeated, his voice sounding undeniably haggard, as if the journey was fifteen hundred miles instead of fifteen. “And Abel Simons.”

Sensing his fear, Jack removed a small pistol from his belt and placed it on the table. “Hide this under the wagon seat. It’s primed and loaded.”

The gnarled, ebony hands picked up the gun hesitantly, making Jack realize Jarm had never used one. Jarm set it down as if bitten when Dr. Brunot said, “Giving a Negro a gun is a crime, Jack. You could be jailed, even executed, if found out.”

“So be it.” Jack reached for the pistol and fitted it to Jarm’s hand, showing him how to aim and pull the trigger and reload, then passed him a small bullet bag when he was able to handle the gun with more ease. “Use it only as a last resort.”

Brown eyes met gray, and for once Jarm didn’t look away.

“That’s right,” Jack reiterated firmly. “Be bold. Act free. Look people in the eye. Give them no reason to suspect you’re anything but your own man.”

“Wise advice,” Dr. Brunot murmured, leaning over to dump the ashes from his pipe into the cold hearth. “Now if you’ll
excuse me, I need to return home. After a stillbirth and a catarrh, it’s been a long day.”

There was a brief pause as Cherry rose from the bed to thank them, tears in her eyes. Jack felt his throat knot at the sight of her, rail thin, clutching her newborn, a smile on her lips though her ordeal was far from over.

Dr. Brunot motioned them all nearer. “I never part with anyone till the journey is covered in prayer.” Putting his pipe in his breast pocket, he clamped a firm hand on Jarm’s shoulder and gently took Cherry’s elbow. Never having prayed, nor been with people who did, Jack kept his eyes open, though he did lower his head as the doctor began.

“Almighty Father, you created all men equal, and for that liberty we give you heartfelt thanks. Jarm’s and Cherry’s lives—and that of their child—are in Your faithful hands. Guide them safely to Harmony Grove and on to freedom. For this we plead Your everlasting mercy.”

Their combined “Amens” assured Jack that he was the only spiritual imposter in the group. He stepped onto the porch into welcome darkness with an embarrassment he’d not felt since boyhood.

Dr. Brunot’s tone lightened as he drew the door shut. “Did you hear that, Jack? They’ve named the baby after you. It’s a boy, if you didn’t know.”

“They’d have been better off naming him after you.”

“What? Theophilus?” Brunot chuckled. “I’ve often thanked the Lord it was shortened to Theo. I still don’t know what my dear mother had in mind.”

Jack managed a smile. “It’s no shame to be named after a Roman official. Or a New Testament saint.”

Brunot’s eyebrows peaked. “Your grandfather the judge schooled you well.”

“He tried.” The pride he felt in Hugh O’Hara was
overshadowed by the memory of his paternal grandfather, who had been killed in a brawl. Though Jack had only been a boy at the time, the scandal had rocked Allegheny County, the memory still vivid. No doubt the doctor remembered it too.

“Besides,” Brunot said, unhitching his horse, “you’re Jarm and Cherry’s first taste of freedom. They’ll not soon forget it.”

Jack checked a sigh, kicking at a stone near the toe of his boot as the doctor rode off into the night. So the baby was to be called Jack. The honor brought more regret than pleasure.

What was in a name? What did it matter?

Depending on whether you were a Ballantyne or a Turlock . . . everything.

 19 

Love and a cough cannot be hid.

E
NGLISH
PROVERB

Spending days in the garden with Mama, peaceful and joyous though they were, reminded Ellie of Chloe and their shared anticipation of turning a corner of River Hill’s garden glorious again. Sadly, Ellie tucked that wish away. At her parents’ prompting, she’d written notes to her students, telling them she’d not be teaching for a fortnight. What transpired next remained to be seen, but she prayed she could continue, even if it meant being escorted everywhere, almost under guard. She’d not use the back road again. Its shady lane had assumed nightmarish proportions.

“Your students will understand, Ellie,” Mama reassured her. “We’ve just returned from a long trip. There are things to be done . . . planned.”

The last word was not lost on Ellie. She contemplated her mother, who was busy snipping dozens of tiny rosebuds with small pruners and filling a willow basket dangling from one arm. In years past they’d spent countless hours together in just this way, making sachet and rose soap and lavender water for the household.

“Your birthday will soon be here.” Looking over her shoulder, Mama regarded Ellie with a mix of wonder and affection. “I well recall the day you were born, every detail. Your father planted this climbing rose that very morning, sure you’d be a girl. It’s hard to believe both you and these blossoms are of age.”

Ellie smiled, looking over voluminous beds of hollyhocks and peonies. “Do we have enough flowers for sachet?”

“We’re in need of lavender next.” Starting down a bricked path, Ellie trailing, Mama surveyed the fragrant purple spikes. “The French variety is preferable to the English, as it holds its fragrance and color far longer. I thought you might take some sachet to your girls in the day school . . . Chloe in particular.”

The mention seemed to invite conversation, but Ellie’s mouth went dry. So Da had told her of the Turlock connection. Did Mama know about the incident on the back road too?

“The girls could line their petticoats with lavender like I used to.” Mama knelt by a vigorous patch of English munstead. “I had a modest garden growing up in York.”
Snip. Snip.
The purple spires waved and fell. “And I lived near an estate with a lovely formal garden called Hope Rising.”

“Hope Rising?” Ellie’s curiosity peaked. “’Tis an unusual name.”

Mama sat back on her heels, her full skirts in a swirl about her. “I can’t remember why it was called that. I only remember the people there.” Her flushed features, so lightly lined, took on a rare wistfulness. “’Twas long ago—like a dream, really.”

“It seems strange to think of Andra in York.”

“I wonder if I shouldn’t be there too. But your father is against it, and he’s far wiser than I. My every emotion often clouds matters.” Her smile resurfaced. “Besides, I’d much rather deal with what’s before me.” She set her clippers aside
and tugged off her gloves. “And the birthday ball that begs planning for my daughter.”

“A ball?”

“Yes, we’ll need to make up the guest list, send invitations, decide on a menu for the midnight supper. ’Tis not every day a girl turns one and twenty.”

A birthday ball? Though a delightful prospect, the event had ominous overtones.

Rather the ball-to-wed-me-off.

Ellie tried to summon some excitement as Mama shared the details. “There’s a new French seamstress on Market Street, fresh from Paris. She’s gifted with a needle and privy to the very latest fashions. I’m sure the three of us can come up with something suitable. Beautiful.”

This sparked some interest. Ellie dearly loved a new gown. Mama had made most of her clothes till she turned twelve, and a few favorites still lingered in old chests. Her current wardrobe was a bit stale, if sufficient. “Whom all shall we invite?”

“Whomever you like—and then some,” Mama replied, meaning the obligatory crowd. “You’ll have at least one willing partner, or so Mina tells me.”

“Oh?” Ellie mused, looking up from the lavender basket.

“I daresay I don’t have to name him.” With a fleeting smile, Mama turned toward a bed of woolly betony, leaving Ellie to her conflicted feelings.

Oh, Daniel, it’s been so long. Will I even recognize you when you return?

Madame de Rocher’s shop was on Market Street, by far the busiest thoroughfare in Pittsburgh, and was directly across from her competitor, Miss Rachel Endicott. The latter,
bedecked in a Turkey Red gown that could hardly be missed, was standing in her open doorway as the Ballantyne coach pulled along the curb, something that didn’t escape Ellie’s—or Mama’s—notice.

“We’ll order your gown from Madame de Rocher and then meet with Miss Endicott for all your accessories,” Mama told her as a groom helped them down.

Ellie felt a rush of thankfulness. It was no secret the two dressmakers didn’t get along. While some Pittsburghers enjoyed the drama of their rivalry as they sought to outdo the other in the quality of goods or window dressing, Mama, ever the peacemaker, sought to build a bridge in her own small way.

Ellie’s gaze rose to the large bay window of the newly refurbished shop, excitement rising. The day was sultry, sharpening her appreciation for the East Indian chintz gowns on display, all in brilliant, polished hues. There would be no Spitalfields silk for a July ball, though it was what Andra preferred for her December birthday, straight from Bond Street in London. She found Pittsburgh dressmakers too rustic, she said, and Da allowed her the extravagance.

A bell jingled as they entered the shop, bringing Madame from behind the counter, hands full of the latest fashion plates in
Magasin des Modes
. Clearly she was expecting them.
“Accueillex, les belles dames!”

When Mama hesitated, Ellie answered with a smile, “
Bonjour
, we are indeed glad to be here.”

Clearly delighted, Madame seated them at a small corner table, chatting in a charming mix of French and English as she spread the fashion plates before them. Ellie took a last look about, breathing in the heady scent of honeysuckle and lily of the valley that perfumed an enormous collection of soaps displayed in a glass case nearby. A far cry from the foul odors of the tanyards and levee.

Two shop girls waited on other customers, displaying lengths of lace and delicate handkerchiefs, ever accommodating. Ellie had a hard time keeping her mind on matters at hand with so tempting an array of luxury goods surrounding them, far more enticing than the more practical merchandise sold at the Ballantyne mercantile.

“We must, of course, take your measurements,” Madame was saying, eyeing Ellie discreetly.

“I have in mind a modest gown.” Mama held up some embroidered gauze to the light. “Nothing so sheer that you can see right through . . .”

Perusing the fashion plates, Ellie wondered if Chloe was wearing her town-made clothes or had resumed going barefoot in breeches. A week had passed since she’d left River Hill. Why did it seem far longer? She’d heard her father and Ansel discussing the battered chaise and wondered when they’d bring it home.

Madame held up a colorful plate. “Here is a fashion-forward gown with a diaphanous overskirt, perfect for certain dance moves such as the
pas d’été
.”

Ellie studied the design, smiling absently, her mind on the guest list instead. Just that morning she’d returned over one hundred names to Mama . . .

After putting Chloe and Jack at the very top.

Her next breath came up short as she realized her blunder. Mama now had the list and was going to discuss it with her father. Though Mama might not see it for what it was, Da missed nothing. At least where Ellie was concerned.

“Ellie, how does this sound?” Mama’s dulcet voice returned her to the present. “A fitted bodice and wide waistband with a full skirt and overskirt of net, in a soft mint or this delicate shade of coral.”

“Coral,” Ellie said without thought, fingering the proffered fabric.

Madame beamed as if she’d chosen correctly and summoned a shop girl. In moments the fashion plates disappeared and the table was beautifully laid out for tea. Ellie sat in pained silence, wishing back the guest list, ruing her foolishness. But the image of Jack and Chloe’s names in bold black ink was scrawled across her thoughts as plainly as the chocolate bonbons nested in ruffled paper now being placed upon the linen tablecloth. Why hadn’t she tucked their names in the middle of the list or saved them till the last?

But she’d done nothing wrong, truly. She’d simply behaved foolishly. And revealed the state of her heart with the stroke of a pen.

In the days following, Ellie stayed busy helping Mama as needed, playing her harp and plying her needle in a particularly frustrating attempt at whitework embroidery in spare moments. She found herself missing Adam and Ulie and the baby, praying for their safety. Chloe and the day school seemed distant as a dream. Life slowly resumed its regular rhythms. Feathers stopped his plucking and resumed his singing. They even received a disappointingly terse letter from Andra.

Arrived safely in York.

Mama sighed but said nothing when she read the post, then promptly turned her attention to other matters. The coming ball was scheduled for the last of July, to be crowned with a midnight celebratory supper and dancing till dawn. Even now the rooms were being readied and extra help hired, Mari and Gwyn nearly taking up residence in the formal dining room and third-floor ballroom.

The invitations were being engraved at the printers, and
not one word had been said about the names crowning the guest list. Thinking of it left Ellie slightly sick. Would they be stricken, written off? Or sent with the hope of being refused? If Andra was home and had her way, they would be. No Turlock, to her knowledge, had ever set foot inside New Hope save Chloe when she’d come begging to be taught. Jack, she remembered all too vividly, had stopped just shy of the veranda on that stormy April day when he’d returned her home. Andra had seen to that.

A fortnight had passed, and nothing more was said about resuming her teaching. Impatience frayed her every nerve, as did the summer’s mounting heat. Despite the feverish temperatures, she ventured beyond the coolness of the house, intent on a walk. Leaving out the back door, she donned a straw hat and meandered down the bricked path to the coach house. There the stable hands gave nods of greeting and resumed their work. All manner of vehicles met her eyes as she passed through—phaeton, cutter, coach—but the chaise stall remained empty.