Love's Reckoning (17 page)

Margaret greeted her with a warm if weary smile, adding spices to the kettle. “Our prayers for wintry weather have been answered this day.” As Eden stuck out her tongue to taste the flakes from behind a gloved hand, Margaret chuckled. “Thee are as excited about the snow as a little girl. Have thee brought thy skates?”

In answer, Eden held up the ones Silas had made her, anxious to be on the ice, and smiled at Margaret's appreciation.

David was at the pond's center, marking a pattern across the glistening surface to show where the work should begin. Silas was coming toward him with a long crosscut saw, expression stoic. Her gaze swung like a pendulum between the two men.

Silas wasn't as steady on his feet as David, at least on the ice, though his skates glinted new like her own, fashioned for the work to come. He'd had little time for skating as a lad in Scotland, he'd said, with blacksmithing and sheepherding to be done, and an abundance of music to be made at the duke's beck and call.

It seemed every man had a different tool—saws, axes, sledgehammers, and the all-important pikes to pull the ice blocks free and load them onto the sleds. 'Twas bruising work, requiring a great deal of strength. Though there were a few graying heads, she saw mostly young men, the pride of York County, many who'd helped with the harvest since they were small.

Donning her skates, she kept to the outskirts of the pond, watching Silas as he stood with the saw, his dark profile in stark relief against the brilliant backdrop of white. She lingered on him as she would never do at home, for he was seemingly unaware of her, intent on the matter at hand. With so many men in her line of sight, she might have been looking at any one of them or simply watching the work. No one would know.

His shorn hair curled against his coat collar, and she marveled anew that he'd cut it. Melting snowflakes gave it the sheen of rich Chinese silk. The shadow of his beard turned him a bit roguish, heightening the intensity of his eyes, straight nose, and unsmiling mouth. All so very pleasing. No wonder Elspeth was smitten.

Beside him, David seemed a bit too short. A bear in his bearskin coat. There seemed an edge to both men today, a tension barely reined in. She sensed a multitude of emotions at play beneath their handsome exteriors and wondered the cause. David's mood, she'd learned long ago, could alter as quick as mercury, and like many a Scotsman, Silas no doubt had a temper. That he'd not lost it with her father seemed a miracle.

The morning passed with few mishaps, the first sled lined with sawdust and loaded with huge blocks of ice. Eden stood with Margaret, passing out cups of hot cider to the laborers as women and children began to gather—to flirt or skate or
watch the work—along the edges of the pond. Though she saw no sign of Elspeth, she braced herself for her coming.

“Eden.”

The voice, a bit hoarse with cold, raked the edges of her composure. Silas stood behind her, awaiting a steaming cup, which she delivered with an unsteady hand.

Margaret's amber gaze took him in. “Is this thy apprentice, Eden?”

The wording brought about a near-crushing embarrassment. “Y-yes, this is Silas Ballantyne.” She fastened her eyes on his greatcoat, finding refuge but forgetting introductions.

“Welcome, friend Silas.” Margaret's tone was as cordial and deferential as if greeting General Washington himself. “I'm Margaret Hunter, Hope Rising's housekeeper.”

He gave a slight nod. “Eden has made mention of you.”

“Eden is like a daughter to me. Faithful. Industrious. Kind. I don't know what I'd do without her.”

At such high praise, Eden turned away, hoping to dispense more cider, but Silas was the last in line.

Margaret seemed determined to stay him. “And how do thee find York County?”

He hesitated—a bit too long, Eden feared. He didn't like it here, she sensed, but was reluctant to say so. “'Tis not Scotland, nor Philadelphia,” he said. “But it has its charms.”

His eyes met Eden's, and she saw a spark of amusement there. A sly warmth. And then it vanished so quickly she thought she'd imagined it.

“I'd thought to see Elspeth,” Margaret said, looking about. “She's tardy this day.”

“She's busy,” Silas replied, “preparing for the ball.”

Eden detected wry humor in his words and felt a flicker of guilt that she'd fled to Hope Rising so readily. Their dear mother would get little assistance this day—and a mountain
of tasks would await Eden once she went home on the Sabbath.

A sudden cry went up to return to the ice, and Silas finished his cider and thanked her, his gloved hands brushing her own. Flustered, she nearly dropped his empty cup as he walked away. Could Margaret see her high color? She felt nearly on fire with it and ached to remove her bonnet. The snow was shaking down with such abandon she could scarcely make out David at the heart of it all.

Margaret was studying her now, sipping her own cider. “Thy apprentice has fine manners, Eden.”

Too fine for a tradesman
, Eden thought. “I imagine he's picked up a few social graces being acquainted with the duke of Atholl.”

“I've heard he plays a fine fiddle, like his father before him.”

“Oh?”

“David has made inquiries.”

Inquiries. In Philadelphia? The Greathouses had so many connections. Why should she be surprised?

“I must say I'm looking forward to the ball,” Margaret told her, though she sighed when she said it. “I've always enjoyed a bit of entertainment . . . if all goes well.”

With that, she moved toward the house to replenish the cider, her skirt hem trailing in the snow. Eden brushed off the brim of her own bonnet, wishing Jemma would join her, wanting Elspeth to stay away. There was no telling what the ball would bring with her sister in attendance. David had spoken of last year's near riot. Being a gentleman, he hadn't mentioned Elspeth's antics.

Oh my . . .
Her face burned brighter in recollection.

 16 

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Hope Rising's new ballroom was uncommonly elegant. David had told her its dimensions, a touch of pride in his tone. Ninety-two feet long, forty-two feet wide, and thirty-six feet high. Tall Palladian windows pulled the outdoors in, each pane sparkling with the light of a dozen crystal lusters. Eden felt entranced as she waited in one polished corner, half hidden by a potted palm from the greenhouse. Surely there was no finer ballroom in Philadelphia. Guests were beginning to gather in all manner of dress, from costly satins and brocades to more homely wools, depending on their station.

At Eden's side, behind the privacy of her lace-tipped fan, Jemma was providing a running social commentary of all who entered. “Ah, doesn't Miss Phoebe look grand in blue luster? I'd not thought to see her on the arm of Johnny so soon after
being jilted. And look at Fanny Crockett there by the punch bowl! She has two suitors dangling, or so I'm told . . .”

Though Jemma had been away in the city, she didn't lack for local gossip. Eden was concerned only with Elspeth, but for the moment Silas was taking her attention. Gone were the shabby greatcoat and work clothes that marked him day in and day out. Someone—Margaret?—had supplied him a finely tailored shirt, among other things.

Eden took in all its gentlemanly lines, lingering on the creamy cravat tied in perfect symmetry about his neck and anchored at the back with a silver buckle. It flashed in the candlelight when he turned, drawing her eye. She couldn't see the rest of him for the surrounding musicians. Dismay burrowed deep inside her when she spied Elspeth lingering near the circular platform on which he stood, clutching a fan of her own.

For once, she failed to feel the sting of her sister wearing the yellow silk, perhaps because Jemma had spared no pains with Eden's appearance. All afternoon she'd been scented, groomed, and coiffed. Now, fully gowned, she flexed her fingers in the elaborate gloves Jemma had insisted on—snowy kid leather with a trio of mother-of-pearl buttons at the wrist. Infused with a rose-carnation fragrance, they were the rage among city belles.

Moments before, to her astonishment, someone had asked if she was one of Jemma's Philadelphia friends. She'd hardly recognized herself when she'd stood before the looking glass, nor could she blame Elspeth for staring at her from across the room. Even at a distance, she read blatant envy in her sister's eyes. Slipping behind the nearby potted palm brought little relief from her sister's ongoing scrutiny.

“Here's your fan,” Jemma said, handing her one of painted silk. “You look . . . overcome, Eden. Are you too tightly laced?”

Truly, she was. Margaret had even broken a bodkin when binding her in Jemma's French stays. “I . . .” she began, extending the fan to cool her flushed face. “People are staring—”

“
Elspeth
is staring, you mean. Well, let her. It's her fault you're so lovely in lilac. She stole your yellow silk.” Jemma's fan fluttered with unbridled enthusiasm. “David and I will lead the first dance, but he's told me you're to be his second. Which would you like? A reel? An allemande? Something a bit more sedate like the minuet?”

“'Tis been so long since I've danced, I'm unsure.” The half truth nearly made her wince. She'd danced with Silas in the barn but a fortnight before . . .

Jemma snapped her fan shut, eyes on Elspeth. “I'll go ask Mr. Ballantyne which he prefers. 'Tis his music we'll be dancing to, after all.”

Silas began tuning his instrument, occasionally looking up to keep apace of the growing crowd. Across the gleaming parquet floor, David Greathouse was stationed at the ballroom's double doors, greeting his tenants and other York folk while his cousin sliced through the throng in Silas's direction. Wearing sapphire silk, Jemma was hard to miss, and her arrival at the small stage upon which Silas stood was creating a stir. It served as a cue that the dancing would soon begin. Guests slowly began to clear the ballroom floor, though their excited chatter never lessened.

“Good evening, Mr. Ballantyne.” Jemma's forthright manner had endeared her to Silas in the short time he'd known her. She smiled up at him and seemed to ease the social chasm that separated them. “My cousin and I would like to lead out with ‘Sir Roger de Coverly.' Is that familiar to you?”

He felt a striking relief. “Aye,” he answered. It was the tune
most preferred by the Americans, much like a Scots reel, and he knew it well enough.

She toyed with her fan as it dangled from her wrist, her round face luminous in the light of the lusters. “David will partner with Eden Lee after that. Have you a second tune in mind?”

Turning, he conferred with the other musicians, a ragtag lot of York men in their modest best. “The minuet,” he told her, “in three-quarter time.”

“Very well,” Jemma said, looking pleased. “After that you may play whatever you wish—or take requests.”

She turned away, leaving him to draw his bow across each string, judging the sweetness of the tone. The black dress coat Margaret had lent him lay across the back of his chair, mayhap one of the master's own. It was too confining for fiddling, and though the room was cold, he'd soon grow warm in his shirtsleeves. A trickle of perspiration brought on by apprehension coursed down his back, reminding him he had no wish to be here among these people, as musician or tradesman or otherwise.

He watched Jemma walk past Elspeth with nary a nod as she stood to one side of the stage. Noticed, too, the tightening of Elspeth's features at the snub. Observing it, Silas felt a swell of sympathy for her. What, he wondered, made one daughter desirable and the other an outcast? That the residents of Hope Rising favored Eden was apparent. He didn't blame them. Her simplicity, her generous spirit, tugged at his own head and heart when he let it.

At the center of the ballroom, Greathouse was making a toast to the workers and to a successful ice harvest. Though they'd not gotten the coveted three tons, the icehouses were full and there was plenty of cold punch and the requisite syllabub to be had—a necessity for the long night ahead. 'Twas
but eight o'clock. The laird wanted the dancing to go on till dawn. There'd be a few brief breaks spanning those hours and a light supper at midnight. Though a far cry from the duke of Atholl's assemblies, the gathering was impressive for York County. Americans had big ambitions, Silas mused. Now that the war was won, he guessed there was little to stop them.

Just below, Elspeth was looking at him, and he gave her a slight smile. He hadn't seen Eden but felt responsible for them both, as Liege had made it abundantly clear he was. Come the wee hours, he'd have to escort them home. A glance at a door opening to a balcony told him snow was still tumbling down. It would be a cold, bright walk and they'd need no lantern light.

Positioning his violin, he nodded at his fellow fiddlers and started the count before he struck the reel's opening chord. The rhythm was so infectious he could see a hundred heads nodding and feet tapping about the large room. Every strained muscle, every bit of weariness from the day-long harvest, began to recede as he played.

A great many couples joined David and Jemma for the long, rousing reel, their fancy dress a brilliant kaleidoscope of color. Though Silas was more intent on the music than the dancers, he looked up the precise moment Eden took the floor. A freshet of heat that had nothing to do with his exuberant fiddling shot through him.

Greathouse was gazing down at her, making her seem as small as a doll in a dress that was more flower than garment. Silk buttons held her skirts aloft for the dancing, revealing a richly quilted petticoat and kid slippers. Pearl combs were set like a crown atop her head, sweeping back her fiery hair in faultless curls rather than sending it plummeting unfashionably down her back. Out of drab wool, she was transformed. Not a blacksmith's daughter. Nor a girl-of-all-work. A rare beauty.

As he looked on, a stitch of concern lanced him.
Is that your intent, lass? To make the laird fall in love with you?

His bow seemed unsteady. He forced himself to look away, to pay attention to the intricacies of the minuet and naught else. Pages of music were spread on the ornate mahogany stand before him—Corelli, Handel, Haydn, the Earl of Kelly—but he couldn't read a note. Her image seemed burned in his brain, and he doubted even Scots whiskey could dislodge it. 'Twas a relief to move on to the English country dances and quadrilles. When he looked up again, she was lost in the crowd, but he had little time to lament the fact. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elspeth leaving out a side door.

He finished the set and excused himself, exchanging his fiddle for his coat. It seemed an age before he'd navigated the crowd and gained the door Elspeth had just exited. The veranda outside was slick; he had to cross with care to where she was standing. Snowflakes lay on her hair and shoulders like a gossamer scarf, and her back was to the ballroom in rigid defiance.

He draped the coat over her shivering shoulders and worked to keep his tone even. “Why are you not dancing?”

“Why?” She looked up at him, tearstains frozen on her face. “Because no one asks.”

“How can they when you're standing out here in the cold?”

“It doesn't matter if I'm here or there, not when Eden is the favored one.”

There was a petulant tone to her words he didn't like, though he understood her hurt. “I ken what it's like to play second fiddle to someone. To be overlooked. Ignored.”

“You?” Her expression was disbelieving.

“I'm naught but a poor apprentice who was but a poor fiddler's son before that.”

“But your father was in the duke of Atholl's employ—”

“For a few shillings per engagement. Not enough to feed a family or keep his land, what little there was of it.” He paused, feeling the weight of those lean years roll over him, wanting to move past them rather than resurrect them. “There will always be servants and masters, the favored and unfavored. Hold your head up and rise above it.”

“'Tis hard to do with a sister who is always flaunting her favors.” She faced him, the fire of jealousy in her eyes. “Did you see the dress she has on?”

Aye, to his everlasting regret. “'Tis not my concern, nor yours. Come back into the ballroom.”

“But—”

“I have to return to playing.”

She stiffened, tugging his coat closer about her shoulders. “You promised me a dance.”

Impatience needled him. Och, but she was a handful and a half. “Aye, I did, but I'll not do so on a frozen porch and risk our necks.”

Turning away, he went back into the ballroom. She followed none too meekly, though she did return his coat to the stage. Only ten o'clock. The night would be long indeed. Withholding a groan, he reached for his fiddle. At least where he was going there'd be none of this foolishness. He had to endure but a few more months of the Lees.