Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (4 page)

“Ma has a bee in her bonnet,” Chloe warned. “You’ll be sorry you’ve come.”

She grabbed her hat from him and spun away, skirting the fallen oak and heading for the summer kitchen. There she’d pour out her angst to Sally, their Negro cook, the woman who’d been more mother to them than the tiny woman who soon stood before him. What Isabel O’Hara Turlock lacked in stature, she made up for in spirit. She raked him with a glance and motioned him inside as soon as he set foot on the porch.

“There’s more than the weather to worry about,” she murmured, the fine lines in her face deepening when she frowned.

He followed her down the hall, his gaze scouring the elaborately painted ceiling for signs of damage. Unscathed, the plump, harp-playing cherubs surrounding a bearded Father Time smiled down at him benignly, as they had a quarter of a century or better. Everything was polished, echoing, empty. Mrs. Grimm, the housekeeper, was a stickler for tidiness—and well deserving of her dour name.

Isabel’s voice wafted back to him, as clipped as the rap of her heels on the polished floor. “You look like you’ve been in another brawl.”

“I’ve been clearing the pike,” he said, reminded of his wretched clothes. Though he’d changed at Widow Meyer’s, they were now as soiled as before. “Where are Pa and Wade?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. They’re in the quarters. Four of the slaves are missing. They took advantage of the storm and fled.”

“Which four?”

“The ones fresh from Kentucky. You know the ring leader
well enough—Big Jim, so hot-tempered he could boil beans.” She rounded his father’s desk and began searching through stacks of papers, her ringed hands flashing with amethysts and diamonds, her favorite gemstones. “He’s been upset ever since your father sold his wife downriver, as if he had a choice. She was as surly as Jim. Together they made more mischief than the other fifty slaves combined.” Taking up a pen, she signed a document and thrust it toward Jack. “Here are the transfer papers for Jim’s brother, Ben. We want him off the property in case he’s tempted to run too.”

“What about Sally?”

Isabel raised a hand to sand-colored hair that didn’t hold a hint of gray, eyes hardening. “What about her?”

“You’re bound to stir up a hornets’ nest separating Sally from Ben.”

“It should have been done long ago. Sally’s indulged that boy far too long, treating him like a house slave when he belongs in the fields.”

“You can hardly blame her, as he’s her youngest grandson.”

“I need no reminding. Just take Ben with you as you go. I’m sure you have work for him at River Hill.”

“Aye, in the stables. But I’ll have a talk with Sally first.”

“That’s hardly necessary.” Her voice held a hint of hostility. “I don’t consult the slaves before making decisions and neither should you.”

Folding the paper, Jack bit back a retort, temper simmering. Weary as he was, he was in no mood for his mother’s fits and whims. Likely she’d want Ben back tomorrow. “All right, I’ll take care of it.”

“I know you will. If I ever want something done, I start with you. Wade is much too preoccupied with the distilling. As for your father . . .” She set a crystal paperweight down with a thud, her voice fading to a thread of disappointment.

Jack well knew what she was thinking but didn’t give it voice.

“There’s another matter.” She raised weary eyes to his, somewhat entreating though still hard as glass. “The social season has begun, what little there is of it in Pittsburgh. The Pressleys and Nevilles have sent invitations—”

He grimaced. “No doubt they want to recover their losses from the Panic of 1819 and are desperate enough to wed a Turlock to do it.”

“What am I to tell them? That you and Wade prefer tavern wenches?”

“That fact is well known,” he said flatly, curbing his irritation as best he could. It was a well-worn subject, always sore, and one he’d dodged repeatedly in the past. “You needn’t say anything at all.”

“You should reconsider, Jack. ’Tis not too late to think of an heir. If I could only get Wade to ponder something beyond horse racing and gambling and that infernal distilling . . . ”

Her voice trailed after him as he turned away. Leaving the ornate study, he passed through the shadowed foyer and out the back door, thankful when a ray of sun slanted down and left him wishing for his hat. He’d lost it on the way here, like Ellie had her shoe. The memory lifted his mouth in a near grin, easing the dread of what he was about to do.

The summer kitchen, cast in stone, was connected to the main house by a narrow colonnade made bright by wisteria vine. Despite the rising whine of flies and mosquitoes, the door was open, and Chloe’s excited chatter overrode the usual kitchen din. Jack filled the doorway, waiting till Sally looked up, her dark face wreathed with a near-toothless smile.

“Why, Master Jack, you come through the storm to my kitchen?”

“Aye,” he said, smiling past his misgivings. “I need to borrow Ben.”

“Ben? Oh, he’d like that real good.”

“Well, I don’t.” Chloe swung round on her stool, a small sugar cake in hand. “Ben and I have plans to go fishing.”

“You can come to River Hill and do the same,” he reminded her as Sally brought him a cake of his own. “I need some help in the stables. Ben is the best choice, able hand that he is.”

Sally fetched him cider next, clearly pleased. He felt a wide relief. There was a right way and a wrong way to manage people. He’d witnessed the wrong way all his life. Still, he felt rather duplicitous. His mother might, in a fit of temper, tell all. Likely Sally didn’t know about the runaways just yet. His father liked to keep things hushed, as it tended to cause such unrest in the quarters.

He took a bite of cake, nodding his thanks.

“You need a cook at that lonesome house of yours?” Sally asked, studying him.

Chloe’s smile was thick with mischief. “Jack needs a wife.”

Swallowing, he shot her a wary glance. “Wives are troublesome creatures. We’re talking about Ben, remember.”

Sally chuckled as Chloe stuffed the last of the cake into her mouth, spilling crumbs down her front and reminding him of a famished Ellie at the tavern.

“I’ll be back on the morrow,” he told them. “I’ve yet to see the damage to River Hill.”

Sally followed him outside, her amber eyes taking in the downed limbs and leaves. “Law, but I thought my kitchen would blow clear to next week when that wind hit. The very breath of the Almighty come down, seems like. But I’m ready to meet Him when it’s my time.”

The words slowed Jack’s steps and he paused, wanting to ask Sally just what she meant, tell her about his near-fatal mishap in the woods. Then he changed his mind. He was
done with distractions. He needed a bath. A shave. Clean clothes.

And a means of forgetting Ellie Ballantyne.

Six hours later, as the sun spent itself in a glow of scarlet and gold beyond the study’s west window, Jack laid his quill down and tugged off the spectacles he always wore while working on accounts. Their fragile lines gave him a scholarly look, his mother said, reminding him of her father the judge. Jack raised his gaze from the jumble of numbers in the ledgers before him to the portrait of Hugh O’Hara above the oak mantel. Formidable. Determined. Respected.

Of all the rooms at River Hill, this one felt the most like the man he’d so admired. His grandfather’s tobacco-laden, bergamot scent still lingered, perhaps because nothing had been altered since he’d died six years prior. The study had a shabby, old-world grandeur Jack liked. While other people were papering their rooms with French toile and hauling in ornate Empire-style furnishings, he hadn’t so much as replaced a pewter candlestick.

Snuffing the candelabra atop his desk, he looked toward the door, glad supper was over and he could walk. He normally rode Cicero, choosing a different route each evening, but the wind had picked up and he didn’t want a skittish mount if a second storm hovered. Signs of damage were everywhere, and he passed the aging dependencies of the estate with a wary eye, most of them empty, like the old spinning room and summer kitchen. Only a few were still in continuous operation since his grandfather’s time, namely the stables and icehouse.

He made his way along River Row, which had housed his grandfather’s slaves in the previous century, each cottage’s
hollow-eyed windows staring back at him with a strange poignancy. He didn’t like the reminder of the trouble brewing at Broad Oak with the runaways, so he moved on, preoccupied and more than a tad uneasy. The river was his reward, a shimmer of fire as the sun set. Here the grass was knee-high as it hugged the riverbank, the lushness of spring begging a second look. And every inch was his, as far as the eye could see—more than a thousand acres.

His grandfather had been a shrewd man, one of Pittsburgh’s founders. As he’d had no son, River Hill had passed from daughter to grandson, and Jack was the beneficiary. Wade, the firstborn, would inherit Broad Oak, and though Jack never said so, River Hill was superior in every way.

He picked up a smooth stone and skimmed it over the Monongahela’s fiery surface, watching it ripple and disappear into the deeps. River traffic was light, for the storm had churned up a nightmare of muck beneath the now-calm surface, though a lone packet made a cautious trek downriver bearing the Ballantyne flag. He turned away, wanting no reminder of Ellie. She was, he’d be willing to wager, thinking the same of him.

 4 

Peace and rest at length have come,

All the day’s long toil is past,

And each heart is whispering, “Home,

Home at last!”

T
HOMAS
H
OOD

Early the next morning, Ellie donned a light linen dress and came down the curved staircase in muted expectation. With her parents away, New Hope seemed hollow, even lonesome. Had they been home, she would have breakfasted with them both in the small morning room, its sunny yellow walls reflecting the light that dawn cast up to the east-facing windows. Mamie’s customary ham and eggs, biscuits, and honey from New Hope’s hives would be waiting, and they’d say grace and discuss the coming day.

It had been this way for as long as Ellie could remember, and she never wanted things to change. But change, she was learning, was everywhere. Hammering and sawing and the drone of men’s voices had roused her long ago. There was a
push to repair the storm damage before the steamboat bearing her parents returned from New Orleans.

This morning Mamie seemed to have forgotten about her and no breakfast graced the sideboard, perhaps because Ellie was so seldom home, but most likely because Andra had the cook busy elsewhere. Restless, Ellie felt like a ball as she bounced from door to door across the empty, gleaming foyer, just as she’d done as a child, searching for her parents.

Parlor. Music room. Dining room. Study. At last she stepped into her father’s domain, taking stock of his personal effects, if not him. A massive desk dominated the room, and the surrounding bookcases rose to the ceiling, requiring a rolling ladder to reach the utmost heights. When younger, she and Ansel would jump from the highest rung and land atop the lush bearskin rug spread before the hearth, avoiding the ornate andirons fashioned by their father’s own hands. That he’d once been a poor blacksmith she couldn’t quite fathom. If not for his branded thumbs, indicative of another life, she’d not have believed such. By the time she was born, it seemed Silas Ballantyne owned half of Allegheny County.

Her fingers trailed across the dustless mahogany desk, up and down mountains of paperwork and ledgers and legal documents, to a crystal inkwell and a box of pens alongside sealing wax. An old Gaelic Bible lay to one side, heavily marked in the margins, open to the twenty-third Psalm. Since she couldn’t read Gaelic, she didn’t tarry long.

Across the royal blue Axminster carpet was Mama’s bower with its small French writing table embraced by three curved windows, something of a novelty when the house was built. A faded jumble of rose petal potpourri, still faintly fragrant, filled crystal bowls here and there. Ellie sank down atop an upholstered chair, eyeing the stack of letters attesting to Mama’s voluminous correspondence with friends in Philadelphia.

Opening the drawer, she extracted a crisp sheet of paper, shook a bottle of verdigris ink, and pondered the idea that had come to her in the night. This was surely the answer to Andra’s perplexity at having her home—and the remedy to the blank days that stretched before her. Inking the tip, she scrawled:

The subscriber begs leave to inform the public that she intends to open a day school for young ladies; she therefore hopes parents will be kind enough in sending their daughters. She flatters herself she shall be able to give entire satisfaction, as no care or expense on her part will be wanting. Her days for teaching are negotiable . . .

She wrinkled her nose, dripping ink onto the pristine paper. The words sounded rather formal, a tad high toned. It pained her she was skilled at dancing and little else. She’d been abominable at French. Though she loved geography, it didn’t return her affection. Arithmetic eluded her. Deportment came somewhat easily, for she’d been reared to be a lady. Ah, embroidery! She had a gift for needlework, like her mother before her.

“Elinor, where are you?” Andra’s voice, a touch heated, jarred her into action. Ellie folded the paper and pocketed it as her sister came through the door, small leather basket in hand containing keys to unlock every room and dependency at New Hope.

“Ansel told me to remain indoors,” she confessed, sensing Andra’s exasperation at finding Ellie sitting, doing little, while the rest of them labored.

Andra nodded. “That’s just as well, otherwise you’d be underfoot.”

“I’d rather help. There must be something—”

“Take out your paints or play your harp, if you like. It might well soothe our nerves.” Andra sighed and dug for a key in her basket. “Everywhere we look there’s damage to be dealt with. The smokehouse and dovecote are in splinters, the garden a shambles. Pittsburgh fared worse—and some of the finest homes along the rivers are missing roofs and chimneys . . .” She paused, a half smile easing her aggravation. “I can only hope Broad Oak and the Turlock distillery were blown to bits! ’Twould be just punishment, don’t you think? For distilling on the Sabbath—and worse!”

The venom in Andra’s voice gave Ellie pause. There were many distillers among them. Did she wish them all ill? The surrounding river valleys were known for producing the finest rye and corn that made whiskey the lucrative enterprise it was in Pennsylvania, though the Turlocks had turned it into a small empire.

“I’d hoped we could all sit down together for supper tonight,” Andra said, surprising her with the turn in conversation. “But Peyton and Ansel are preoccupied in town. ’Twill just be the two of us, after all.”

Long after the lonesome supper hour, Ellie snuck into the garden, wincing at the creak of the old wrought-iron gate. Beneath a waning moon, the damage was better dealt with, its harsh effects muted. Still, her heart hurt. She was hemmed in by bushes stripped of every bud and leaf, a sundial overturned, the arbor in a shambles. Early spring flowers that had danced on slender stems were shorn and snapped. To her grieved eyes it looked like someone had turned loose the livestock.

Oh, Mama, I’m glad you’re gone.

“Miss Elinor?” A coal-oil lantern cast light in her path as New Hope’s aged gardener wandered out of the stone cottage he called home.

“I couldn’t bear to look by day,” she said, her voice cracking with vulnerability.

He nodded his shaggy head, shoulders bowed. “Some of these roses were planted the year the master married the mistress. Some of the trees too.” He waved a hand toward a prized magnolia now uprooted. “I don’t know as I can set it to rights, but I’ll try.”

“Do you need any help?”

“You been asking me that since you were knee-high, Miss Elinor. And I been telling you no. Those pretty hands of yours are made for finer things, like harps and gloves.”

He moved away, and she drew her shawl closer as a breeze lifted its lace edges, her eyes drawn to the cupola. High above, Ansel was tending the lantern atop New Hope, his lean shadow in stark relief. She’d always been amazed a single beacon could shine so bright. The large lantern was an invention of their father’s, with a mirrored back that reflected twice the light. It spilled over the shingled roof and down the sloping ground to the river and was extinguished at dawn.

Soothed by its familiar presence, she took a seat on a stone bench, glancing in the direction of the chapel. Her parents had begun their married life within its walls. The house had been built soon after, the gardens laid out. New Hope was a mirror of their hearts, their hopes and dreams.

She thought of her own home in years to come, wanting it to be much like this, safe and solid and enduring. But a home necessitated a husband, a well-thought-out betrothal beforehand. Like any Pittsburgh or Philadelphia belle, Ellie
was expected to marry and marry well. And her father, though he’d never said so, had one man in mind and one only.

Daniel Cameron.

The movement in the garden below caught Ansel’s eye. Ellie made a slight shadow in her ivory shawl, the lace embellishments shining beneath the light of moon and lantern. His heart twisted. She’d come home unaware of what New Hope had become in her absence. A haven. A refuge. Well deserving of its name. He wanted to tell her, but he didn’t want her touched by the depravity of it all. Let her wander in the moonlight like the innocent girl she was. He wouldn’t be the one to disturb her.

He’d stood in the shadowed cupola a good half hour before minding the light, adjusting to the fading of day, alert to every shadow, praying for the harried souls waiting to cross the river. Tonight he could barely see the far shore. A ghostly outline in the mist, it bore a great many bushes and trees. He and his father had secured boats there—small crafts hidden in the tangle of growth—to help them cross. To a new life. To freedom. Some never survived the journey. That was what haunted him night after night as he wondered how many would come. If they would make it.

Bowing his head, he breathed a desperate prayer. Lately he was becoming more conscious of the danger. His hands seemed to shake when they touched the wick and turned it blazing, mayhap due to a tremor of inadequacy as he thought of his father. Da never trembled, never looked back. Jaw set, Silas Ballantyne lit the lamp and looked out across the wide river, resolute.

Would that he could be his father.

With a gentle pull of the reins, Ellie turned toward Cameron Farm, thinking how the tall stone chimneys set against the clear blue sky were like bookends framing the unassuming stone house. Her mare, Dolly, loped along and shook its mane as if gleeful of their destination. Both she and the horse could find their way blindfolded. Oddly, the land looked as pristine as when she’d last seen it. Not a leaf seemed disturbed, nary a fencerow down. Some benevolent hand had spared the Cameron clan all damage. If only the same could be said of New Hope!