Love's Reckoning (20 page)

She leaned into the wall, her fingers plucking at her fraying braid. “'Tis not just the letter. 'Tis Papa's insistence—his forcing you—” She faltered then met his eyes again. “To leave here or wed.”

The heat of anger pooled in his chest—not at the theft but at the hurt Liege had caused her. Her chin quivered with emotion and he felt another wrench—for all the wrong reasons.

“So he told you?”

She nodded and looked away, and a great heaviness settled in his chest. Was the thought of wedding him so painful, then? Was this her way of telling him she wanted no part of it?

He tried to keep the ache he felt from telling on his face. “The thought of leaving causes me no pain, Eden. I've had many partings. God has all in hand.” He spoke with a confidence he was far from feeling, and she nodded in turn, dejection sketched across her every feature.

“When the time comes, I can outfit you for your journey—with food, at least. You'll need a great deal of provisions for so long a trek.” There was stark wonder in her eyes. “Oh, Silas . . . why? Why must you go so far?”

“Have you ne'er had a vision, Eden?”

She flushed and looked down at her hands, as if keeping secrets. He remembered the letter she'd lost in the lane, recalled the cryptic words . . .

The position you seek is delayed till spring.

He'd nearly forgotten the letter, had misplaced it though he'd meant to return it to her. He retrieved the post from his haversack. “You dropped this coming home from Hope Rising. I should have returned it to you long ago.”

She pocketed it and found her voice again, though she didn't meet his eyes. “Sometimes I have a vision to leave this place, but not to go west. The wilderness is for soldiers and Indians . . . trappers and traders.”

“The West will not always be wilderness. Villages—future cities—are being settled as we speak. Tradesmen and artisans are in short supply.”

She was toying with her braid again, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, as if she expected him to press her about her own plans. “But if you leave here you'll break your contract.”

“I doubt the authorities at Fort Pitt care about such things, so long as I can do the work.”

“But what of the land grant promised you? Four hundred acres or so, Papa says.”

He ran a hand over his jaw and nearly sighed. Aye, Liege not only wanted a son-in-law, he wanted more land as well. Silas had long suspected it, but Eden was just realizing the unpleasant truth.

Alarm skittered across her face like storm clouds gathering. “Oh, Silas, why not just return to Philadelphia? 'Tis known to you—you can open a smithy there.”

“Why?” Frustration tugged at him. “Because there were such great men before me, I saw no chance of being anything in that city. The Ballantyne name ends—or begins—with me.”

She seemed to be trying to grasp it—the West, his ambitions, his need to leave—only to look away in confusion.
He longed to see the light of understanding in her eyes, her approval and affirmation instead.

Her voice trembled. “My father—his treatment of you—”

“Enough, Eden.” He brought her chin up with the edge of his hand. “Not all his dealings are unsavory. He did promise me . . .”

You.

He bit the word back but saw she understood his meaning. He felt a bit aflocht himself as his fingers brushed her skin and fell away. No man had ever touched her, he wagered. Pure as lamb's wool, she was. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a scrap of paper, and passed her another Scripture he'd penned, bringing an end to their futile conversation.

Slowly she began backing down the stairs, clutching the paper he'd given her, quiet as a cat.

God, protect her
, he prayed,
both now and when I'm gone.

 19 

One sickly sheep infects the flock,

And poisons all the rest.

Isaac Watts

As the days crept toward Silas's departure, Eden tried to do her work but accomplished little. She burnt the bread. Curdled the milk. Spilled her sewing basket all over the floor, the fine Philadelphia needles from Jemma falling through the cracked floorboards into nothingness. Frantic for firm footing, she memorized the Scripture Silas had penned for her and turned her thoughts repeatedly to spring. Not his leaving. Not Elspeth's persistent flirting or Papa's conniving or Mama's melancholy.

Just outside the parlor's window, in the stillness of twilight, she could hear the birds' chorus and feel warmth in the wind. Joy gained the upper hand but for a moment as another worry ensnared her. Atop her lap Jon fretted, pulling at her bodice laces as if demanding she do something. He'd been peckish of late on account of his first tooth. Eden could feel its sharp point beneath his gum and rubbed a bit of clove oil there to ease him.

Heartsore, she rocked him, acutely aware of the man an arm's length away. Tonight Papa was in the kitchen nursing his gout, and Silas was the only solid shadow in the room. They'd all assumed their customary places, like actors in a stage play—she in the rocking chair by the cradle, Mama sitting opposite with Elspeth, sewing. Sometimes Elspeth played chess with Silas, rarely winning, her displeasure plain. Mostly Silas read or perused the
Pennsylvania Gazette
, their one frivolity. The weekly dung barge, Papa called it without apology.

Tonight the silence was broken by Silas's racking cough, so deep it made Eden wince. He'd taken a fever and cold of late, though his workload never lessened. Secretly she fretted he wouldn't be well upon leaving, that he might perish in the wilderness and none would know. She got up and made him some flip, rich with egg and cream and a few medicinal herbs. Their eyes met briefly as she handed him his mug.

She glanced down at Jon as she resumed her seat by the cradle. He gurgled a greeting and lifted fat fists in a bid for her to pick him up. Lately Elspeth made much of him in the evenings, though she'd never done so before. To try to give the impression she was good with children, Eden guessed. The deception set her further on edge. She was so weary of scheming, of secrets. She longed for peace. Green pastures and still waters, as Scripture promised. Surely the West held both.

She envied Silas his escape. No word had come for her from Philadelphia.

Would it ever?

Silas continued to spend dawn to dusk at the forge, his cough slowly mending, his only respite the Sabbath. Elspeth seemed to thrive on these weekly outings, bedecked in finery
he suspected was from Hope Rising, sitting raptly through the lengthy sermons, giving him no cause to wish it was Eden instead. And yet he found himself imagining amidst the peace of the little kirk that it was Eden who sat close beside him.

After silent Sabbath dinners, he saddled Horatio, lashed his fiddle alongside, and rode to the Golden Plough Tavern in York, the coin earned hidden at the bottom of his haversack.
God, forgive me for breaking the Sabbath
, became his echoing prayer. At least Liege, profane as he was, could not quarrel with him about that.

Though it had been three weeks since Liege had issued his ultimatum, no more had been said about wedding either daughter, but it weighed on Silas in both the busyness and the silences. With every swing of his hammer, it seemed he sent up a prayer for Eden's direction and protection along with his own. He'd posted a letter to Fort Pitt, wondering when or if he'd get a reply—or if Liege would try to intercept that too. If he left by month's end, he might well reach Fort Pitt before the oft-unreliable post.

'Twas a promising season to travel, if a bit mud-mired, far preferable than the snow that had brought him here. Spring was firmly fixed everywhere his gaze landed, and deep in his spirit he knew it was lambing time. He missed the sudden Highland storms, the earthy mustiness of the sheep pens, the fretful bleating and jockeying of the flock, the smell and feel of wool. Here there was just a wee smirr of rain and the gentle lowing of the cattle in the greening meadow. Despite the lush beauty all around him, something always seemed . . . lacking.

Would the West be any different—or was he himself at fault? Why could he not be content to live as a simple Scottish crofter or settle down with a daughter of a master smith? Always, always the vision pushed him forward. It was just as the midwife had predicted on the day of his birth—“This
one will wander.” To which his father had always answered, “Aye, but the Lord will go with him wherever he goes.”

He expelled a deep breath and eyed Elspeth as she worked over the ledgers in a lantern-lit corner of the smithy. Clad in a comely linen dress, her pale hair tucked beneath a lace cap, she seemed never to leave the shop. He found her presence uncomfortable, the ledgers she kept a mystery. When she finally went to the kitchen and Liege was occupied in the barn, Silas stood at the desk where she worked, scanning the accounts line by line.

It was just as he'd suspected. They were charging double—sometimes triple—for their ironwork. When he'd first come, a ladle had been a few pence; now it had doubled in price. The andirons he made with nary a seam cost as much as a fine cabinet. The list was long and endless. Though much of their business was done by barter and not coin, careful accounts were kept of this too, and seemed to be heavily in Liege's favor. Anger snarled Silas's insides and made his frustration with his predicament burn bright. He could no more stop their unscrupulous dealings than change the course of the wind.

“Why are your figures so high?” he asked quietly when Elspeth returned.

She gave him a sidelong glance and capped her inkwell. “Papa said your work is worth every shilling. And no one complains.” Snapping shut the ledger, she placed an appeasing hand on his bare arm. With his sleeves turned back to ease the smithy's heat, he felt the warmth of her fingers like the forge's fire.

An unmistakable longing shone in her eyes and she tilted her head, a tendril of gold framing her face. “'Tis almost the end of April, Silas.”

“Aye,” he said coolly.

“Papa is anxious to hear your decision . . . as am I.” Her
fingers inched up his arm and toyed with the fraying patch on his sleeve. “I fear you're leaving. I usually don't speak of such things, but I beg you to consider. Mama is whispering of the wasting disease. Papa is unwell—'tis more than his gout that is troubling him. I fear he'll soon leave us to fend for ourselves—two helpless babes and three women. Don't you see your place here? This could all be yours—ours. What more could a man want?”

He stepped back and reached for an iron bar, but she blocked his way, catching him off guard. Next he knew she'd thrown herself in his arms the very moment Liege limped in. Pulling away, pulse ricocheting wildly, Silas reached for his sledge. Thankfully, Liege turned his attention to a sudden commotion outside as a stranger's voice sounded beyond the smithy door.

When he passed outside, Elspeth moved nearer again. “Silas, you must stay on—take a wife. 'Tis tradition.” Tears turned her eyes a brilliant blue. “I know this trade nearly as well as you. We'd work together. If you wed me, all this will be yours—”

“You forget yourself.” Though low, his voice held a stern rebuke. “'Tis the man who does the asking—or begging—if there's any to be done.”

Her chin lifted. “I need no reminding—I'm simply offering you a sensible solution to Papa's proposal. Any man in York County would be glad for my hand, and yet you—a stubborn Scot—refuse me. Am I not comely enough? Not religious enough to your liking? Is there someone else? Right here under our own roof, perhaps? Are your sights set on Eden?”

He shot her a warning glance. “I've no wish to wed.”

“You lie!” Fury painted her face an uncomely scarlet. “I've seen the way you look at her. Oh, don't glare at me and pretend you haven't! I've keen eyes in my head and know a man's
ways. But you'd best wake up! You'll have no future with her by your side. Though she seems to be pious and good, she does wicked things—”

“Oh? And when does she find time to do these wicked things you speak of? Between spinning, tending livestock and bairns, gathering wood, and slaving in a hot kitchen?”

Fists at her sides, Elspeth looked over her shoulder to the open smithy doors. “I doubt she'd have you, anyway. My sister has her mind set on grander things.”

At this, she caught up the ledgers and fled out the side door. The relief Silas felt was short-lived. Before he could raise his hammer, David Greathouse appeared, filling the main entrance of the smithy, eyes shifting from the forge's fire to Silas. A riding whip was clutched in one hand, and his clothes were fine, if mud-spattered. He looked, through no fault of his own, like the duke of Atholl's son. Solidly built and fair of feature, with thin, straw-colored hair, he lacked only Jamie Murray's insolent grin. Resistance rose up and turned Silas more tense.

God, forgive me for making ill-scrappit comparisons.

Laying aside his tools, he walked toward Hope Rising's laird. The man who'd done him no wrong. Who'd once bought him a meal. Who'd praised his fiddling. Whose only fault was his resemblance to Jamie Murray.

Silas thrust out a hand, which Greathouse shook with vigor. “Hello, Ballantyne. The forge is a tad warm today. I'm thinking you might be in need of a diversion—perhaps some greener pastures.”

“I hear you've some sheep.”

He gave a nod. “Word travels fast around York.” Inclining his head toward the door, away from the forge's fire, he led Silas toward sunlight and fresh air, standing just beneath the crumbling eave.

“I've imported a small flock of Blackface based on your recommendation—around a hundred or so. Since I'm ignorant of the breed, I thought you might help.”

“What d'ye want to know?”

“Their habits, preferences. Bloat and breeding and all the rest.”

“You have pens, shelter?” Silas asked.

“Some, but I don't know if they're sufficient. What little I've learned is from books and sheep manuals. I was hoping you'd come to Hope Rising and take a look around . . . if the master allows.”

If.
That was the question. Silas's gaze trailed to Liege, who stood in the yard talking with a farmer. The master was less than obliging of late, and now with animosity simmering between them . . . “How about a good herd dog?”

“A dog? Nay.”

“The shelties work well enough, but there's none better than a briard.” Silas reached down to pet Eden's mongrel. “Get a young male if you can.”

“I take it the duke of Atholl had that breed? How large was his flock?”

“Five thousand.”

Greathouse looked chagrined. “I've a ways to go.”

Silas gave a wry half-smile, his own mishaps firmly in mind. “'Tis better to start small and learn from your mistakes. Sheep are fickle creatures.”