Love's Reckoning (14 page)

Hers—and his own.

It was nearly nine o'clock when Eden made her way to the barn, rags and liniment in one hand, lantern in the other. She needn't have bothered with a light, the moon was so luminous. Stopping by the smokehouse, she set the lantern atop a barrel. Curing hams dangled overhead from thick rafters, and the pungent tang of saltpeter, pepper, and sugar was nearly smothering. As she snitched bacon from a barrel, she felt as duplicitous as Elspeth.

Her breathing quickened at the muted strains of a fiddle. Was Silas in the barn? Keeping a wary eye on the barn's cracks, seeking his tall outline, she prayed he was at the far end and she could slip in and out unnoticed. They hadn't spoken since yesterday when she'd met him and Elspeth in the lane. She'd not thought to find him here now. His lovely music nearly made her forget her mission. But for the injured dog awaiting her, she'd have turned back.

She'd placed the pup behind the haymow in one far corner, well out of harm's way. For a moment she felt a flash of exasperation at having so tender a heart. “Let the dog die,” Papa had said when she'd found the gangly pup shivering and bleeding in the pasture a week before, the victim of a wolf or worse. But its queer eyes—one brown, one gray—had seemed pleading, a test of her newfound faith.

The Quaker saying she'd stitched on a sampler and hidden in her dower chest propelled her forward.
I expect to pass through this world but once. Therefore any good work, kindness, or service I can render to any person or animal, let me do it now, for I will not pass this way again.
Though not Scripture, it seemed an echo of the same.

The barn door opened with a groan, but the fiddle music masked it. Silas was down with the horses, well away from the dog's piteous moans, yet each time the fiddle trilled higher, the pup would raise its head and howl. Eden clapped a hand
over her mouth in amusement and dropped to her knees in the hay. The pup paused long enough to lick her hand, tail thumping wildly, before resuming his lament.

“There's naught wrong with your wagging,” she said in hushed tones, relinquishing the bacon, “or your howling.”

Unwrapping his foreleg, she applied the liniment to the deep gash, the herbal scent supplanting the strong smell of hay. Working by the low glow of lantern light, she realized too late the fiddling had ceased. Only the usual barn sounds surrounded her—a pigeon's nesting, a rooster's crowing, the creaking of old rafters in the wind.

Slowly she turned. Silas leaned against the stall, bow and fiddle in hand.

“You needn't stop your fiddling,” she said, getting up as gracefully as she could. “I like a fine jig.”

“So your father lets you dance.”

She nodded. Strangely, he did, though it had been the ruination of him. “I've never heard such playing as yours.”

He grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the dimness. “Screechy and scratchity, you mean.”

“On the contrary.” Awe edged her voice. “One would think you were fiddler to the duke and not your father.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “On occasion.”

“Might you be . . .” She bit her lip, remembering their confrontation in the lane. “Practicing? For Hope Rising?”

He gave a terse nod, and she had the distinct feeling he was no more pleased with the mention than he had been at first. Disappointment sank like a stone inside her. She'd wanted him to have something to look forward to—to break the monotony of his days. There was so little joy in their lives, and so much work. She'd hoped they might share a dance. The admission brought a queer stitch to her stomach as a deeper
realization dawned. Might his playing bring back memories of Scotland—all he'd lost?

He looked at her and then his fiddle. “I ken little of what you colonials dance to—the music, the steps.”

Was this the trouble then? Moved by the stark vulnerability in his eyes, she blurted, “I could show you.”

But even as she offered she felt a paralyzing shyness. He was studying her in that earnest way he had, as if daring her to do so. She wouldn't go to church, his intensity seemed to say. Would she dance then?

She gathered up the rags and liniment and prepared to leave, but he caught her wrist as she turned away. “Nae, Eden. Stay.”

His tender insistence, the touch of his fingers, was like a lure. He set his fiddle and bow down and took the things from her hands.

“'Tis mostly simple country dances,” she began, but the whispered words died in her throat.

“Such as . . . ?” His tall shadow touched hers.

“‘Sir Roger de Coverly' is but one.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She felt the chill of the barn. His warm gaze.

Slowly he took up his fiddle and struck a familiar tune. She would stay, the starting note seemed to say. As she stepped into the walkway between the stalls, alarm shot through her. What if Papa, Elspeth, found them thus?

Back to him, hands on her hips, she summoned all her courage and began to step lightly, eyes shut, following the intricate pattern of a beloved country dance. The music wafted to the barn rafters, surrounding her, wooing her, nearly making her giddy.

That lassie o' yours, m' lady, has a good ear.

The words returned to her from a far-off place, spoken by the dancing master at Hope Rising years before. She'd been
but nine. Now she was nearly twenty. Back then she hadn't cared that her mother beamed at the compliment. Now it gave her confidence.

“Sir Roger de Coverly” faded and the Glasgow reel began. Her steps were sure, his timing flawless. And his playing—oh, 'twas heaven's own! She felt she had wings! When the music ended she slowed to a dizzy spin, eyes still closed, and felt his hand in hers, his other warm about her waist, as together they matched their steps over the hay-strewn space.

“You need no music, Eden. You need only me—and I you.”

She thought she must be dreaming. Is that what he said to her at the last, his breath warm against her ear? Simply thinking it sent little shimmies of pleasure coursing through her. No man had ever spoken to her in such a way.

A dream, truly.

The house was tucked into bed, but Elspeth was awake, waiting. She sat up as Eden entered their bedchamber, eyes shining in the gloom, her arms folded across her chest. All Eden could think of was finding her with the weaver but a few hours before.

“Where have you been? 'Tis late.” Elspeth's tone, ever accusing, was a wounding whisper. “I was about to fetch Father.”

“I was with Silas in the barn,” Eden answered, with a confidence born of near elation.

And Elspeth said . . . nothing.

No threats. No tears. No tantrums.

 13 

Distance lends enchantment to the view.

English proverb

Five days later the weaver left. 'Twas the Sabbath, and Elspeth went to church with Silas again. How diminutive she looked beside the strapping Scot, the pointed contrast drawing Eden to the bedchamber window. Silas was, she lamented, deliciously long of leg and wide of shoulder, as handsome from the backside as the front, just as Elspeth said. Eden watched them go, wishing it was raining torrents or on the verge of a blizzard so they'd be confined to the house. But the morning was clear, the church bells tolling beneath an endless blue sky.

Church was suddenly acceptable—permissible—for Elspeth, all in the name of courtship. “Absent yourself from their company,” Papa had said. “Arrange occasions for them to be together.” Well, that she would do, if reluctantly.

Thankfully, mending by the fire with Mama ate up the long morning, and then Eden was free. Free of the farmhouse, if not the memory of Silas and Elspeth. Since Margaret Hunter
was ill with a cold and unable to take tea, a crock of soup had to suffice, which Eden delivered to her door. Then she hurried back down the lane, skates in hand, oddly expectant.

On the frozen meadow pond was David Greathouse—and a young woman. A sweetheart? Eden's heart quickened. Nay, just Jemma, the two of them breaking the Sabbath in plain view of those who kept it on the hill. Jemma waved and skated her way, steel skates shining beneath bell-shaped skirts. Sitting on a low stump, Eden worked to attach her own worn blades to her boots, binding them with leather laces. Despite their decrepit condition, they felt wonderfully familiar, easing the soreness she felt over Silas and Elspeth just a bit.

“I've come home!” Jemma called, her breath curling in the icy air. Bedecked in a snug pelisse and muff lined with swans' down, she was crowned with an enormous bonnet, the conglomeration of flowers and fur adding height to her small stature. “Bea and Anne are staying at the townhouse in Philadelphia. But I didn't dare miss the ice harvest, so I'm back in York.”

Eden stood on wobbly legs. “No one said a word about your coming.”

“I begged Margaret not to. I wanted to surprise you.” She helped Eden onto the ice and sighed in satisfaction. “Solid as a brick. Perfect for harvesting, if it doesn't rain. Remember last year?” She made such a face Eden gave a rueful smile.

“All I remember is skating on water. Everything was slush and mud and misery.”

“This time I'm praying for snow. Wouldn't that be romantic? We could bring out the colonial cutter and sleigh about.” Jemma began to skate away from her, circling and doing a little twirl, swans' down glistening in the winter light. Of the three sisters, Jemma was the youngest and most animated, making merry wherever she went, her laughter as infectious
as influenza. Eden felt her spirits rise as she skated after her, aware that David was coming toward them, hands behind his back, features obscured by his tall hat.

He bowed when he reached her, giving her such a wink upon straightening that she paid scant attention to the church bells announcing an end to the service on the hill. Clasping her mittened hands, he tugged her toward the center of the pond where the ice was smoother. Perfect, he said, for dancing.

“I cannot wait for the ball,” he told her. “We must practice here while we can.” His gray eyes were alight in a way reminiscent of their childhood, warm and inviting and slightly mischievous. At times she felt they were still eight years old. Betimes she wished they were.

“I'm not as sure-footed as you,” Eden reminded him, listing to one side.

“You shame me in the ballroom. At least let me have my way on the ice.” His gloved hand held hers fast. “Have you asked Ballantyne if he'll play for us?”

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “He will.” Though she'd kept to the house since their shared barn dance, certain songs seemed to carry on the still night air, tempting her to join him again. Silas's playing took her breath away—his instrument seemed a living thing.
His fiddle is on fire
, she thought. She wanted to say so yet didn't want to rob them of the joy of that discovery.

They clasped hands, circling and spinning to the imaginary reel in their heads, forgetting about such mundane matters as harvesting ice. The pond's surface was slick in places and she nearly fell, but David was always near, steadying her, saving her from embarrassment. Time seemed to stand still, broken only by the persistent ring of church bells.

“Ah . . . we have an audience.” Jemma gave a cordial wave toward the south end of the pond, but the downward turn of
her mouth revealed her true feelings. Eden's own high spirits seemed to skitter to a stop.

'Twas Elspeth and Silas, without Horatio, as they'd walked to church this morning. Eden noted the triumphant tilt of Elspeth's head and the possessive way she had hold of his arm, as if branding him as hers. She'd best get used to it, Eden scolded herself. Once they wedded, were living and loving beneath their very roof . . .

The punishing thought was followed by a plaintive prayer.
Lord, please hasten me to Philadelphia.

Excusing himself, David left her and Jemma standing in a tight knot while he skated toward Elspeth and Silas at the edge of the ice.

“So she's captured another heart, even if she had to go to church to do it.” Jemma tucked a loose russet curl into the side of her bonnet and forced a smile. “We'd best skate over and greet them lest she accuse us of snobbery or worse.”

Eden wished the ice would open up and swallow her. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable around her sister and Silas, and her resulting discomfort showed in stupid ways—a dropped dish, a misplaced word, a forgotten task. Likely she'd now fall and lie sprawled on the pond for all to see.

David was carrying on a lively conversation with Silas about the coming harvest, speaking of such things as ice plows and tonnage, wagons and cleats for horses. Even from afar, the deep timbre of Silas's tone enticed her. She'd grown all too fond of his rich Scots speech. 'Twas like music to her as much as his fiddle—a haunting refrain wherever she went, if one could be smitten simply by the music of a voice . . . or a violin.

Eden skated slowly toward them, focusing on the copse of pine on the hill, her skates, Jemma's composed smile. Her legs were wobbly now, her ankles sore from being so long
off the ice. Jemma gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, as if sensing how the sight of Elspeth shook her.

Sliding to a stop, Eden stole a look at Silas. In the cold his handsome features were ruddy, his eyes an enlivened green. And his hair . . . had he cut it? No longer was it tailed and tied back with black ribbon. Its shorn ends splayed over the collar of his shirt and curled a bit. Like a gentleman's. Like David's. She made herself look away, felt the release of Jemma's fingers on her arm before becoming aware of another reality. Elspeth was looking straight at her, violence in her blue eyes.

“I'd best go,” Eden whispered, wondering if her jellied legs would hold her. The dull blades of her skates made hard work of the ice as she returned to the far side of the pond where her boots rested, Jemma in her wake.

“You must spend the night at Hope Rising before the ball,” Jemma insisted. “We'll help each other make ready. Margaret will be too busy to play lady's maid, and Colette stayed behind with Bea and Anne in Philadelphia. Besides, I've just the gown for you.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “My only concern is what Elspeth will be wearing.”

Eden stepped off the ice. “Your yellow silk.”

“Oh, will she now?” Her inquisitive eyes seemed to smolder. “When I sent the dress over, it was for you, if I remember.” When Eden remained silent, she gave a slight shrug. “Well, we'll make sure neither my gown nor yours is in that color. Yellow is passé for a winter ball, anyway.”

Eden warmed to the vibrancy in her voice, her generosity, and noticed she was looking back at David, who still stood talking with Silas.

Jemma said quietly, “He watched you skate away.”

“What?”

“The Scottish apprentice was watching you,” Jemma whispered.

Eden's hands stilled on her skates. “Watching for me to take a tumble, you mean.”

“No, Eden. Watching like a man who cannot watch enough.”

Their eyes met and held. Jemma was all seriousness now, concern clouding her fair features. “Take care, dear friend, with Elspeth.”

Shivering, weighted by the warning, Eden began to walk across the brittle meadow toward home, skates dangling at her sides, words of leave-taking lodged in her throat. Jemma knew Elspeth's true colors. Her warning was well-founded—and was one Eden would heed.

“Till Friday,” Jemma called after her. “The ice harvest begins at first light. The ball is on Saturday. Pray for snow!”

Six days. What, Eden wondered, would happen between now and then?

Tar and feathers!

Elspeth chafed as the clock struck eight. Boredom had long since set in, fraying the edges of her composure as she sat and sewed linens for her dower chest.

Sedately. Industriously. Prettily.

There were just the four of them in the parlor—she, Silas, Eden, and Jon. Mama, most obliging, had gone to her bedchamber with Thomas half an hour before while Papa's gout had him soaking his leg in a steaming tub in the kitchen. She could smell his pungent pipe smoke seeping beneath the closed door, mingling with the medicinal herbs from Eden's garden.

For half an hour or better she'd been trying to get Eden to go upstairs, but her sister was making a fool of herself with the babe before the snapping fire, cooing over him with whispers and kisses as if he were her own. The sight turned
Elspeth's already sour stomach. For once Jon wasn't fussing. Dressed in a loose-fitting gown that had been Thomas's, his downy head was covered with a lace-edged cap. He was beginning to be all rolls and dimples and would now smile at no one but Eden. 'Twas naught but stray dogs and needy tenants and fussing babies with her.

Jamming her needle into the soft cloth, Elspeth finished embroidering her initials with scarlet thread, itching to stitch Silas's as well. They were sitting in a triangle of sorts—Silas at one end of the cavernous hearth and Eden at the other while Elspeth occupied the Windsor chair at the heart of the room, Silas's lantern at her side. That way she could keep her eye on them, make sure nothing was afoot. Though there'd been no wayward glances or shared words, deep down she felt something was amiss, and it aggravated her so much she felt she'd fallen into a briar patch.

The Scot, she mused grudgingly, was the most challenging man she'd ever met. He seemed to live mostly inside his head, like Eden. Undistracted by normal pursuits, saying but little, rarely smiling, he put her in mind of a magistrate or preacher. He was never idle. Even now, after thirteen hours spent at the forge, he was whittling a toy for Thomas, a mound of shavings at his feet. Later he'd practice for the frolic at Hope Rising. She sometimes wondered if he slept. The garret was often lit far into the night, shining a square pattern upon the ground outside her bedchamber window.