Love's Reckoning (19 page)

 18 

But, oh! What mighty magician can assuage a woman's envy?

George Granville, Lord Lansdowne

Elspeth looked up from her sewing, eyes on Eden, who mended across the parlor, one foot absently rocking Jon's cradle. The tender sight set her teeth on edge but was less annoying without Silas there. She'd caught him looking at Eden on more than one occasion of late—or fancied he did. But tonight he'd absented himself and gone straight to the garret room after supper, thus sparing her any further suspicions.

“There's a fever going round,” Mama lamented, watching Silas depart with a worried cast to her features. “His color is a bit high.”

Threading her needle, Elspeth listened to his tread upon the stair. “Last night he came in well past midnight from playing at another frolic. 'Tis a wonder he can swing a hammer like he does.”

Still, she sensed his absence was another matter entirely. Papa had forced the issue of marriage, and Silas had balked.
It could be nothing else. Though she'd sensed a confrontation coming, she'd feared Silas's response. She sensed his resistance in the stubborn set of his shoulders, the unyielding line of his jaw. The way he wouldn't look at her.

Papa, you might well have gambled and lost.

Never had she met a man who'd not given in to her. Therefore the fault couldn't be hers but his. Silas was as cold as stone. Granted, winning him had merely been a game at first. She'd simply wanted him to take notice, to look at her with the light of wanting in his eyes, and then it was she who'd succumbed. The long, hard-muscled length of him, the beguiling glint in his green eyes, the uncanny way he mastered every task, had turned him tempting as lemon tart to her hungry eyes.

Now, her gaze drifting to Eden, a shattering thought accosted her. Might he desire Eden instead? Lately the two of them seemed thrust together at every turn. She'd spied them at the edge of the garden, in the barn, by the woodpile. Having curried the Greathouses' favor, would Eden now steal Silas too?

Mama's voice sounded from a corner of the room. “Elspeth, let me examine your stitching.”

Elspeth tried to smile and be obliging lest Mama sense her sour mood. But Mama rarely rebuked her. Even when she'd disgraced them all by bearing an illegitimate child, Mama had stayed silent. Elspeth glanced at the door, wishing Silas back, praying Papa would stay in the smithy with the ledgers. 'Twas just she, Mama, and Eden tonight. The children were abed.

Getting up, she took the pillowslip she'd been working on to her mother, who clucked in approval at the tedious embroidery. “Your dower chest is nearly full.”

Aye, overflowing. Lately she'd snuck a few of Eden's linens
to add to her own. The embroidered
E
in scarlet thread was easily exchanged, and Eden, weak-willed as she was, wouldn't attempt to take them back even if she discovered the theft. Still, a sliver of guilt pricked her. Hadn't the last Sabbath sermon been clear enough?

Thou shalt not steal.

Well, lightning hadn't struck her for her sins thus far, and she'd done much worse.

The next morning Papa summoned them to the winter parlor. Silas was at the forge—Eden could hear the reassuring ring of his hammer beyond thickly timbered walls. The sound steadied her a bit, though her porridge churned uneasily in her stomach. As Mama cleared the breakfast dishes away in the dining room, Papa stood by the fire, a black sternness on his narrow face. His gaze shifted from her to Elspeth as they stood before him shoulder to shoulder, heads down like two schoolgirls about to get a scolding.

Though Elspeth was rarely skittish, Eden sensed a telling nervousness about her sister that fueled her own angst. Had this meeting to do with Silas? Since they'd last spoken at the edge of the garden three days past and he'd been so troubled, Eden felt on tenterhooks. And now Papa's close perusal left her a bit breathless.

“Things have taken a turn with Silas,” he said in low tones. “Be ready to wed by month's end.”

Slowly Eden looked up. His hard eyes fastened on her and didn't let go. He spoke not to Elspeth, who wanted to wed . . . but
her
. A cold hand clutched her heart. She groped for words, but no sound came.

“Why do you address Eden, Papa? What is this ‘month's end' you speak of?” Elspeth's tone turned a bit shrill, her chin
quivering with suppressed emotion. “I beg to know what has happened with Silas—”

“Silence!” Papa clamped his pipe stem between discolored teeth, his words compressed but nonetheless forceful. “I've told Silas he's to wed one of you by month's end or he'll be turned out, his contract terminated.”

“
One
of us?” Elspeth looked desperate, disbelieving. “You mean Eden, don't you? You're looking straight at her! Papa, how could you? I've told you for months now 'tis I who wish to wed him—” With a stamp of her foot, she burst into tears, turning Eden numb with embarrassment as she felt for a handkerchief.

“Keep a tame tongue in your head, Daughter! The choice is his to make, not mine. Circumstances have forced my hand. He seems intent on leaving York. I've proof.” He reached into the folds of his shirt and withdrew a letter.

The sight left Eden sick. Silas had given her that letter and a few pence to mail it a fortnight ago. Had Papa intercepted the post? She looked closer. This paper lacked Silas's bold flourish and was
to
him, not
from
him. She watched in silent misery as Elspeth took the letter from his extended hand.

“'Tis from the factor of Fort Pitt. But why?” She opened it and scanned the contents, a smirk marring her tearstained features. “They have a position for him as blacksmith, and land as incentive? So he wants to go west into the wilderness? Likely he'll be scalped by the savages first!”

She thrust the letter at Eden, who took it reluctantly, bringing it behind her back with a trembling hand. Had they noticed? Nay. They were too busy talking—plotting—their combined voices buzzing like angry bees in her ears. Thankfully, Mama came and asked for help with Thomas and Jon. Eden went gladly toward the sound of their wailing, pocketing the letter, still reeling from Papa's pronouncement.

Had Silas stated his preference for her over Elspeth after Papa forced his hand? Was that why Papa's eyes had pinned her and led to Elspeth's storm of tears?

Oh, Silas, is it your wish to wed me? After saying I was naught but a sister?

Steps quickening, she burst through the door of her parents' bedchamber, a maelstrom of emotions seething inside her. Thomas quieted as she made a beeline for the cradle and took Jon to the trundle bed. There she lay down with them both, hugging them to her grease-spackled dress.

Her heart was thumping wildly—her head seemed split in two. Though she tried to keep her thoughts in check, they leapt out of bounds repeatedly, stirring her imaginings in wild ways. What if she was to lie down not with these wee ones but with a husband . . . Silas? What if it was his breath she felt warm against her cheek? His hands entwined in her tousled hair? His child she carried?

The possibilities pierced her and made slush of her insides. Such intimate thoughts, never before pondered, were both frightening and . . . pleasing. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt hot tears trickle down her face onto the babes' heads. Jon quieted as she cried harder, while Thomas patted her cheek with a gentle hand. The intercepted letter to Silas lay crumpled in her pocket, a jumble of ink and misbegotten dreams.

'Twas nearly midnight. Silas moved the twin tapers nearer till light gilded the dun-colored paper a rich gold. But he hardly needed the illumination. He'd studied the map of the disputed western lands of Pennsylvania till they seemed engraved upon his very soul. Blessed with a keen sense of direction, he knew if the map was flawed he'd still stay the
course, even in the chilly thaw of spring, be it crossing swollen rivers or climbing greening ridges. He just hadn't planned to be on his way west so soon.

One month.

One month to wed or head into the wilderness. Leaning back in his chair till it groaned beneath his weight, he crossed his arms, eyes on the Franklin stove. Since Liege had given his ultimatum, Silas had prayed and pondered the proper course, refusing to give in to either anger or despair, knowing the Lord could handle Liege Lee if he couldn't. Till month's end he'd continue to do what he'd come here to do—work iron. And wait.

Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which He will shew to you today . . . The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.

The words from Exodus seemed to shore up his soul, his confidence, in unexpected, needful ways. On their heels, his mother's voice returned to him from a far-off place, bringing with it the memory of firelight and Scripture reading and doves cooing in the croft's farthest reaches.

Of all her children, he'd been the most gallus—rascally and full of mischief—and she'd oft reined him in with three words. “Hold thee still.” The calm admonishment would serve him well once again if he could heed it. He expelled a ragged breath, wishing the Lord's will was as plain as the map spread before him.

Absorbed by dark thoughts, he all but missed the slight noise beyond the closed garret door. Eden. Was she coming up? Or going down? Her step was light, a mere whisper. For weeks she'd stayed clear of the stairwell, though he'd continued to plant Scripture in her path. They'd only come together at meals or by chance in the barn or garden. Without moving from his chair, he reached out a hand and pulled open the door.

She stood on the steps without speaking, paper in hand. A letter? Aye, one addressed to him from Fort Pitt. He took it, grappling not with the contents and all its implications but with the sweetness of her presence.

“Papa took—stole—your letter.” Her expression was miserably apologetic.

“Aye, but I have it back again.” He meant to calm her with a word, still her shaking, but she looked up at him, making him want to take her in his arms instead.