Love's Fortune (26 page)

Malachi? She tucked her violin in its case, feeling backed into an impossible corner. “Please bring a hot toddy to the parlor, then. Mr. Cameron might be cold from his ride.”

The butler nodded and Bennett turned her way. “Finish it, Rowena. And finish it well.”

She hiked her chin and stepped round him like he was no more than a stick of furniture, glancing at her pale reflection in a near mirror in passing.

His cold, triumphant reflection shone back at her.

Still shaken but pinning the smile of the season in place, Wren breathed a quick prayer before she entered the parlor. Then and there, her spirit rebelling against Bennett’s deceit, she purposed to be anything but a sham. If Malachi Cameron was going to woo her, he would woo her for who she really was, not who she pretended to be. Pushing aside Bennett’s fury, she welcomed Malachi graciously, like she was in humble Kentucky, not pretentious Pittsburgh.

He captured her outstretched hands, his touch cold. Melting snow left his coat glistening and the strong lines of his face ruddy. “You’re not the same lass out of the ballroom, Miss Ballantyne.”

She looked down. He meant her dress, surely. Made of moss-colored wool, it lacked all the frills of the season. Even
her hair was arranged in a humble chignon bereft of ribbon or combs. “I’m a simple woman who takes pleasure in simple things, Mr. Cameron.”

She thanked the maid as the steaming toddy was set on a near table between them. Pleasure shot through his eyes as he looked about the lovely room. “I’ve not been to New Hope in years, but I’ve never felt more welcome.”

“This is a gladsome house with Grandfather back.”

“How is he?”

“Better every day. Still smiling.”

“Silas is a remarkable man.” He gestured to a rosewood chair and sat opposite her, taking the toddy from the tray. “You’re looking at me rather intently, I must say.”

“I was thinking of the Cameron plaid.”

“My kilt? Were you expecting me to wear it again?” At her nod, he chuckled. “In Scotland, aye. Here, nay.”

“Do you really have a house in Edinburgh?”

Her query reeled him in like a fish on a lure. “Yes, an old Georgian one with a half-blind sheepdog, a crusty old cook, and an overgrown garden.”

“Oh?” She thought it sounded heavenly despite his woeful tone. “What more could you possibly want?”

A bride.

Their eyes met. There was no mistaking the answer. Her teeth caught on her bottom lip as his ruddy color rose. When he reached into his waistcoat pocket, her breathing stilled. Was he . . . did he mean to . . .

The flutter inside her subsided when he simply withdrew two tickets. “You’ve no doubt heard of the Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind.”

“Of course,” she replied, her smile resurfacing. “Papa has told me about her.”

“She’ll soon be taking the train from Philadelphia to perform here in Pittsburgh at the opera house come January. If you’ll agree to go with me, I’ll arrange for a private box.”

“I’ve never been in a . . . box.”

He chuckled again. His ready smile reminded her of Mina’s. “It’s nice as boxes go. Just you, me, your maid.”

Mim. Not James. James wouldn’t be needed if she took this next step. His duties were done. She hesitated, half sick as Malachi’s intentions came clear. Even James’s reassuring praise failed to ease her.

There’s
not another man in the room more worthy of a
bride.

“So you’ll accompany me?” he prodded, a beguiling light in his eye.

“I—well . . . yes,” she answered. She darted a look at the closed parlor door. Had Bennett ridden away or was he listening in the foyer?

“I’ve been wondering . . .” He looked to his toddy, his voice steely yet refined and becoming all too familiar. “Is there another suitor besides myself?”

Her gaze fell to her lap. “Just you, Mr. Cameron.”

Her faint reply seemed a sort of promise, bringing her one step nearer his embrace. If they’d been sitting closer, she thought he might have kissed her.

The door to her future had cracked open.

And felt so bittersweet.

29

The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one’s own.

W
ILLA
C
ATHER

“What frock will ye be wearing to the opera house? Yer aunt and Miss Criss are set on the silver brocade for the holiday ball.” Mim’s hands were on her hips, her gaze ricocheting from Wren to the immense, open wardrobe. “If ye dinna mind my saying so, I’d pick the smoke-blue velvet trimmed in swansdown to see Miss Lind perform. Perfect for a winter’s night. Ye have the look of an angel in it, ye do. And ye’ve nae yet worn it once yet.”

Wren nodded absently. Talk of clothes and outings had become dull as old paint.

“We’ve a skating party to ready for come January. The seamstresses are nearly done with yer costume for that.” Examining a pair of gloves, Mim lapsed into Gaelic as she always did when talk took a personal turn. “Yer getting quite
cozy with Mr. Malachi. Is it true he’s coming for Christmas dinner?”

“He and his kin,” Wren said, thinking of all Grandmother had told her.

“And James?” Mim’s tone was hopeful. She’d become so fond of James since the season began, Wren sometimes thought she was secretly smitten with him.

“He’s sent his regrets.” Even saying it came hard. Wren felt oddly hurt, if only for Izannah’s sake.

“His regrets?” Mim’s face darkened. “What’s a man like James Sackett to do with nae kith nor kin at Christmas—and Captain Dean downriver? Hole up at the Monongahela House?”

Wren lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe he means to have a little rest all by his lonesome.”

Mim shut the wardrobe doors with a sigh. “Yer in need of a rest yerself, though yer holding up well despite Miss Malice’s snubs and slights. I fear there’s more trouble ahead with her, to be sure. She made Miss Izannah miserable till she quit her season. I ken ye’ll nae quit, but ye can always end it and wed.” Mim studied her with fresh wonder. “Now wouldn’t that be grand? Mr. Malachi proposing at Christmastide!”

Wren turned ice-cold at the thought.

The rolling Pennsylvania landscape, locked in winter, had a crystalline beauty as barren as Wren’s heart. How could one’s life be so full and yet so empty? So cluttered with things that didn’t satisfy? Seated sidesaddle atop her gentle mare, she wrestled with the future. Unbidden, a simple prayer her mother had often prayed kept coming to mind, a balm for
her brooding. The earnest words floated out on a cloud of frozen breath into the icy air.

“For all that Thy love has yet in store for me, O God, I give Thee gracious thanks.”

Atop a gentle hill in back of New Hope’s farthest boundary line, she paused. Before her lay Cameron House, its stony presence dominating the heart of the valley, so new and grand the old outbuildings around it appeared flimsy as hatboxes. The scrolled iron gates and stone gatehouse, the long snaking drive to its wide front steps, reminded her of the painting of her mother’s family home in England, Nancarrow Hall.

She’d never seen so many chimneys in all her life. She lost count at twelve. Only one was puffing smoke. There was some trouble with the fireplaces, Mim said, delaying the house’s completion. Though beautiful, the place looked cold. Without heart.

Nae wonder he wants a bride, knocking around in
such a big house all by hisself.

Drawing the hood of her cape closer, she pondered Mim’s words. Malachi needed children, a family. Hadn’t that been
her
heart’s cry since she was small? To have a family of her own, a quiverful like Aunt Ellie? Somehow, in the darkness since Mama’s passing, that desire had gotten lost. Wren sensed Izannah hoped for the same, though she never said so. Sometimes she seemed as tightly locked as James.

Reaching into the pocket of her cape, Wren touched the little wren, Papa’s letters folded beside it, now split at the seams they were so perused.

Papa had urged caution about the season. But Papa wasn’t here. And in his absence, she sensed Malachi wanted to cut to the chase and settle matters between them. Christmas was
coming, and with it the proposal Mim had mentioned as sure as all the gifts and wassail and mistletoe of the season.

As she pondered it, a lone figure came out of the gatehouse and looked uphill, as intent on her as she was on him. Around his legs swarmed a melee of sniffing, barking dogs. English hounds.

Malachi.

With a quick burst, she reined her horse around and disappeared over the hill. She rode hard toward New Hope, one thought trailing.

Surely there was a music room in that big house of his.

Or a promise there’d be one.

James waited in the lushly paneled foyer of the French mansion, unable to shake the feeling of being followed. The streets of Pittsburgh were mostly empty on a cold winter’s eve of all but stray dogs and beggars. Usually he shared a few coins as he passed, but tonight he kept the coach windows tightly shuttered as he’d hurried down Race Street to the French residence.

At the corner of 8th and Cherry, a second rig had appeared, matching their pace and following their every turn. He’d told his driver to take a circuitous route, hoping the vehicle trailing them was pure happenstance. But when the vehicle gained on them and seemed more their shadow before fading from sight at the mansion’s gates, James knew. He needed no telegram to convince him of a threat. He’d witnessed it firsthand.

Spending an evening with the Frenches was hardly reassuring. Though they assumed a polite facade, they were known to be proslavery with deep ties to anti-abolitionists in Pittsburgh and elsewhere. Word was they suspected his own leanings.
Aware of the butler watching him, he withdrew a timepiece from his pocket. At half past eight, Wren was late.

More guests trickled in. The music started. The opening waltz—their waltz—quickly passed. His pulse beat in tempo to a rousing reel. Anxiety pulled at him and took his thoughts places he didn’t want to go. What if he wasn’t in danger but Wren was? What if, unable to get to him, his enemies sought her out? Rigid with alarm, he waited, eyes on the ornate front doors that refused to open.

When he could stand it no longer, he went back out into the night to find the curtain coach barreling up the drive. A cold wind struck him like the lash of a whip, wreaking havoc with his coattails and cravat. Ignoring the doorman, he hurried down the steps to meet Wren.

“I’m sorry,” she told him as she stepped down from the coach, as if sensing he’d been near frantic waiting. “We had some trouble along the way. Another coach nearly hit us at a crossing.”

I know
the very one
, he nearly said. “You’re not hurt? Is Mim all right?”

Her warm smile was his reassurance, as was Mim’s decisive nod. As they entered the gaily decorated foyer, Christmas greenery and bright ribbons abounding, Mim began removing Wren’s wraps, unveiling the most stunning gown he’d ever seen. The lush brocade with its silver embroidery caught the light of countless candles, matching the pearls with their silver clasp about her throat. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from telling her how lovely she was, his mind still reeling from her near mishap with the coach and all its implications.

“You always look so fine, Jamie.” Alone in the foyer, she reached up and smoothed his cravat, her fingers lingering
as she glanced up at him. “I don’t know how you manage without a valet. Seems like you need a wife.”

He felt a twinge. A sudden melting. In small unguarded moments like these, he had a taste of the intimacy between a man and a woman. Of joys to be had—or forsaken. Though she wasn’t looking at him as she smoothed his collar, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Her face was so enticingly close, so inviting, he merely had to lean down and—

Her fingers fell away. “I can hardly believe this is the last ball till the New Year. I’d like to see you at Christmas if you would come.”

Her voice was so wistful it almost made him reconsider. The butler turned their way, waiting to announce them. The foyer clock chimed endlessly. They were now very late.

He looked down at her bare wrist. “Where is your dance card?”

“I—forgot.”

Reaching into his waistcoat, he produced another.

She gave him a small smile, something sad in it. “Do you always think of everything?”

“It pays to be prepared. We’ll have an end to this ere long.”

Her smile faded. “I know you don’t want to be here, same as me.” Her face held a hundred queries. “I’ve often wondered why you are.”

“A family favor, if you will.” He frowned, trying not to be irritated with her, but everything was pressing in with such ferocity he was on edge. His fingers shook as he tied the card in place. “I want you to finish well, Wren.” He offered her his arm. “To wed the man of your choosing. To not be like Izannah.”

“Izannah?” She fastened entreating eyes on him. “Izannah loves you, Jamie.”

He stared at her as the conversation took a wrong turn. “We’re talking about you, Wren, not Izannah.”

“We’re talking about love—recognizing it, returning it—”

The music began, muffling her heartfelt words, delaying his response. Flummoxed, he felt his usual calm fade as surprise colored his face. When had she gotten it in her head that Izannah cared for him that way? Or he her? He started to correct her, then steeled himself. What if Wren knew it was only she herself he couldn’t pry from his mind?

He faced the ballroom again, unsurprised to find a line of suitors waiting to fill her dance card.

She gave him a last searching look. Avoiding her gaze, he scanned the room for Malachi as another man led Wren out for a quadrille, her last words lingering.

We’re talking about love—
recognizing it, returning it.

Vulnerability flooded his heart as the cold truth rained down on him. He could recognize love for what it was, but he couldn’t return it. His hands were tied. By his own risky circumstances. Georgiana. The Ballantynes. Malachi himself. He couldn’t forget he’d agreed to help his grieving friend find a bride. He’d just never imagined that it would be Wren.

Malachi had come in late as well, exchanging a few words with their hosts. Even as they spoke, he was intent on the ballroom floor. On Wren. With her card so full, he’d be hard-pressed to gain a dance.