Love's Reckoning (32 page)

“Silas, please . . .” She spoke to the floor, not him. “Don't . . . touch me.”

His hand fell away. Dread lined his insides. “Eden, what has happened here?”

She hung her head. “You shouldn't have come.”

“I'm here to take you home.”

Fear flashed across her face. “Home?” Her voice held a frantic lilt. “I can't go back. I have no home—not with Jon gone—”

“You'll go with me.” He placed a careful hand on her shoulder. “Like we've planned.”

“Where?”

“West to Fort Pitt—straightaway.”

“Nay!” she cried, backing up a step. Crossing her arms over her bodice simply drew attention to what she tried to hide. One of her laces, crisscrossed over an embroidered stomacher, was broken, dangling limply to her waist. She looked, he
thought ruefully, unkempt as a tavern wench. “I—I cannot go with you—cannot wed you—”

His throat constricted. “We'll not speak of that now. You're weary—frightened and grieving.” Taking a step up, he kept his voice low. “You've ne'er been so far from home.”

Tears welled in her eyes, cutting him afresh, and then a swell of anger smothered any tender feeling. She was obviously ill and in need of comfort, mayhap a physician, while Greathouse likely lounged below amidst the din of the gaming room.

Though he was loath to leave her, he must. “Stay here, Eden.”

Silas had no recollection of coming down the stairs or crossing the muddy foyer or striding into the smoky room where David Greathouse sat, dice cup in hand, pewter tankard at his elbow. Surrounded by a table of gaming men, Greathouse simply leaned back in his chair, gaze narrowing at Silas's approach. Five pairs of eyes fastened on him, clearly unhappy at the interruption.

“So, Ballantyne, what brings you to the Traveler's Rest?”

“You,” Silas uttered, rounding the table. “Step outside.”

“Outside? In this cold?” Greathouse reached for his tankard, steam curling around the rim. “I hardly think—”

“Aye—
now
.” With a sudden move Silas knocked the drink from Greathouse's hand, sending a frothy spray around the scarred table. Grim-faced, his companions shrank back, dice cups still.

Taking hold of his fine linen cravat, Silas yanked upward. Built like a bull, Greathouse was far from graceful in his exit, the chair sprawling backwards into the wall with a clatter.

Outside in the tavern yard, the two men faced each other,
their rapid breathing expelling in white plumes. Silas clenched his fists at his sides. 'Twas all he could do to keep from pulling his knife from his boot. “What is happening here?”

Greathouse's mouth formed a hard line. “We've been delayed. Eden is unwell. We traveled but ten miles today because she has a headache—”

“
She?
” His voice was thick with rage. “You traveled but ten miles because
you
lay abed till noon, too drunk to rise sooner.”

Greathouse smoothed his cravat, surprise lining his features. “Aye, so I did. What concern is it of yours?”

“It became my concern the moment she stepped into your coach.”

“
She
stepped, Ballantyne. I didn't coerce her.”

“Nae? Margaret Hunter said otherwise. Eden was upset—in need of protection, direction. You took every advantage—”

Greathouse was walking away from him now, heading toward the stables at the rear of the tavern. Atticus was tied to a hitch rail there, a bit wild-eyed and lathered. Greathouse's tone turned incredulous as he rounded a corner. “What the devil are you doing with my horse?”

“Your
horse
?” Silas followed him, facing him across the stallion's sleek back. “We're talking about Eden, not an animal.”

“Horse stealing is a crime, Ballantyne. I'll have you hanged—”

“Hanged?” Lunging at him, Silas grabbed for his collar over the curved lip of the saddle. “You've no time for it—I'll finish you off first.”

Greathouse pulled free and backed away, nearly tripping in his haste. “You'll swing for murder, then.”

“So be it. Then the world will be rid of vermin like you who debau—” The hateful word hung in Silas's throat. He
couldn't spit it out his pain was so great. Stepping around Atticus, he shoved the laird of Hope Rising into the stable wall. But the satisfactory crack of skull against frozen timber was poor recompense. His anger demanded more—he wanted answers. He wanted Eden back, unhurt, the light of joy in her eyes . . .

Greathouse straightened, eyes narrowing into slits, a ruddy flush contorting his face. “You're simply jealous because she came to me first.”

Had she? Silas felt a tug of alarm, then his anger flared at the man's smug expression. 'Twas Jamie Murray he saw, insolent and unremorseful, able to do as he pleased with nary a repercussion.

“Jealous?” he shouted. “Nae, just sick of a man who makes free with a lass while his infant son lies dead and his cousin may be dying.”

Silas drew back a fist and punched him in the stomach. Groaning, Greathouse fell, then grabbed at Silas's legs, nearly catching him off balance. With a swift kick, Silas planted a boot square in his groin, rendering him speechless, all smugness gone. Minutes ticked by in a sort of haze, Silas consumed by rage and grief and pain. He knew better than to beat a man who was down, but injustice stirred like a demon inside him, spurring him on.

While Greathouse struggled to rally, Silas was hardly winded. Years of working iron was no match for a life of leisure or a recent spirit-sated night. Soon the master of Hope Rising was bloodied, bruised, and begging for mercy.

A small crowd was gathering despite the cold, and someone yelled “Lovers' quarrel” from an upstairs window. It was then Silas turned and saw that Eden had come outside. In the harsh afternoon light, he could discern purplish bruises on the slender stem of her neck and the skin above her embroidered
bodice. Why this was so clawed at him, but he was too raw to see reason. He knew but one thing.

He wanted to kill David Greathouse.

“Silas,
please
.”

He turned toward Eden slowly, lower lip bleeding, chest heaving. His ragged dark locks hanging past the collar of his soiled shirt gave him a slightly rakish look. With a sudden move, he jerked Greathouse to his feet and thrust him toward the tavern, out of their sight. Casting a disgusted glance at the onlookers, Silas motioned her into the stable. There they stood speechless in the hay-strewn space, emotions running rampant. He drew a shirt sleeve across his bloody mouth, leaving a scarlet trail.

“I—I was afraid you'd kill him. I overheard you talking—shouting.” Fear pulsed inside her, overriding her grief. All she knew was that she must end this, distract him, lest he learn what David had done. “Was Jon”—her voice caught on the name and broke—“David's son?” He gave a terse nod and she continued haltingly, “Is there more?”

“Aye, far more.” Turning, he spat into the straw behind him. “You're said to be Eben Greathouse's daughter.”

“Mr. Greathouse . . .”'Twas hard to utter the shameful words. “And Mama's?”

His eyes registered a shock nearly as great as her own. “Margaret Hunter said the trouble began years ago when Eben Greathouse wanted to wed Louise. He was growing wealthy and she was but a village girl, the daughter of a tradesman. His father was against the match, as was hers, and so she married Liege. But later, when Liege was away in Philadelphia . . .”

The words peppered Eden with the force of buckshot. She stared at him, trembling, mind reeling.

“There was a child . . . you.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. “Surely Margaret's mistaken—”

“I saw his portrait yestreen. His hair is red as an autumn oak, like yours.”

She well knew the portrait. Why hadn't she seen the likeness?

He went on quietly, eyes a stormy green. “Eben Greathouse attested to it on his deathbed in her very presence, though Margaret had long suspected. He'd always shown you special favor. He had a particularly bitter relationship with Liege.”

She stared at him without focus as long-buried images from childhood flashed to mind, zealous as a spring flood. Eben Greathouse handing her mother down from a carriage . . . sending round gifts . . . making much of little Eden.
His daughter?
Putting a hand to her stomach, she felt bile burn the back of her throat. When she looked at Silas again, she thought she saw revulsion in his gaze and her humiliation soared.

“You no doubt heard everything.” His tone was resigned, his face flinty. “Is it true, then, what Greathouse said? Did you go to him first?”

The accusation in his tone tore at her heart. As if she was somehow to blame. As if she was responsible for her family's many sins. “I—I tried to find you—I went to your room, the forge, but you weren't there.” Tears choked her voice. “You were never there. 'Twas always the work—”

“Wheest! The work?” Disbelief blazed in his eyes. “And what—who—am I working for? You, nae? Our future? Answer me that, Eden!”

She pressed shaking fingertips to her forehead as pain seared her temples.
Our future.
That dream had dissolved in David's unrelenting arms, snatched away in the span of a single night. “Future? We have no future.”

He stepped closer to catch her broken words. “I'll not listen to you, bewildered as you are. I'm taking you back to York—”

“Nay!” Her voice trilled higher, the image of Jon's cold body pressing in on her. “I'll not go back! You shouldn't have come. I beg you now—go away—”

“Enough, Eden.” His voice, ragged with pain, was nonetheless firm. “Say no more.”

She began to sob as anguish twisted her insides, nearly bringing her to her knees. If not for his hands about her shoulders, she would have dropped to the hay at their feet.

“To Margaret's, then.” He started to turn away, then swung back around, taking hold of her again. “Let me tell you this. I love you, Eden. I'll always love you. And whom I love I do not leave.” With that, he shouted to a groom at the far end of the stable to ready the Greathouse coach.

She stood slightly openmouthed at his audacity.

“Make ready to go,” he told her, turning toward the tavern. “I'll fetch the coachman. If he refuses to come, I'll drive you to Hope Rising myself.”

 31 

Be silent and safe—silence never betrays you.

John Boyle O'Reilly

Though Silas sat beside her in the coach, shutters drawn against the encroaching cold, Eden was hardly aware of him. Wrapped in a blanket and his arms, she slept mile after mile as they lumbered west through spitting snow and bouts of hail, the coachman driving the team at a fever's pitch. They changed horses once—a formidable feat given they had no coin—and she was vaguely aware, through the haze of illness, that Silas promised payment from Hope Rising.

After that she succumbed to thirst and fever, her throat so dry she couldn't speak no matter how much water he gave her. Her head throbbed against the upholstered seat, and every jolt and jarring of the coach seemed to rattle her very bones. If it was this hard going to civilized York, what would it be like heading west over the Allegheny Mountains? But she shut her head—and her heart—to the notion, allowing no second thoughts, no second chances. Surely Silas was having
them as well, realizing how unfit she was for such a trek, plagued with headaches and near-hysteria at the tavern . . . and far worse.

Yet he was tenderness itself every step of their journey. Through her feverish cocoon, she was aware of his gentleness as he laid cool hands on her hot brow, trusting in his reassurances that all would be well. When he carried her into the familiar cottage, Margaret wept with relief.

“Oh, Eden. Thee have the look of Jemma about thee, God rest her soul.”

“Jemma?” Silas's low question pierced the fog of Eden's grief.

“She died the very night thee left . . . the same day as Jon.” She spoke in whispers. “She suffered so at the end. 'Twas little to be done. We buried her straightaway. Pastor McCheyne came and offered prayers. I've sent word to Anne and Beatrice in Philadelphia.”

As he eased Eden onto Margaret's feather bolster, she began removing Eden's shoes. Tears flowed down their faces as Silas stood at the foot of the bed, misery pulsating all around them. “You're no doubt wondering about Greathouse.”

Margaret nodded. “Thee must have left him Atticus in exchange for the coach.”

“Aye, something like that.” He moved to the hearth, standing tall but a bit stoop-shouldered. In the fading firelight, his profile pierced Eden's heart. Weariness lined his person like a garment. He'd not eaten or slept for days other than dozing in the coach. His linen shirt was stiff with dirt and dried blood, his breeches torn. She longed to rake out the tangles in his hair with her fingertips, kiss the rough stubble that marked his jaw.

He was speaking to Margaret again, his tone grim. “I'm reluctant to leave her.”

The words brought about a searing ache. Despite everything, despite every ugly thing that had happened . . . he still wanted to stay?

Margaret studied him thoughtfully. “Thee are in need of rest, Silas. A good meal. Clean clothes.” Her calm practicality returned, and she moved toward a clothespress. “If thee do not want to return to the Lees', the cottage next to mine is vacant.”

“I'll not trouble you further,” he replied, though he did accept the clothing she pressed into his hands. Pausing at the door, he glanced toward the bed a final time. “If she worsens, promise you'll send for me, no matter the hour.”

“Of course. Will thee be at the Lees', then?”

“Aye.” The terse answer was weighted with resignation. Eden could hear it in his voice, though she couldn't lift a hand in goodbye.

Lord, help him escape this place
, she prayed before sleep claimed her.

“She
what
?” From his seat by the hearth, Liege glared at Silas with the force of a sledge hitting hot iron.

Silas's voice was weary but firm. “I said Eden lies ill at Margaret Hunter's.”

Pushing himself up from his chair, Liege puffed furiously on his pipe till the smoke formed a ragged halo above his head. “For four days we've done naught but wonder where she's gone, only to find her ill and at Hope Rising! Fetch her home where she belongs—”

“Nae.” Silas cut him off, done with his foolishness. “She stays.”

Mrs. Lee appeared in the doorway, Thomas in her arms instead of Jon. Silas felt a twist of remorse for bearing such
bad news. “Jemma Greathouse is dead of a fever. Margaret Hunter fears Eden may be ill with the same.” Her sharp intake of breath made him pause. “She promises to send word if Eden worsens. I rode to York for the doctor before coming here . . .”

He fell silent, wanting nothing more than to escape to his room. But for the moment he was looking at them with sudden insight, privy to secrets they weren't aware he knew. Liege's irascibility suddenly made sense. Mrs. Lee's ceaseless activity and melancholy were born of a thousand regrets. And Thomas—was he truly Liege and Louise's son? Elspeth was missing. And Jon . . . The cradle was empty. The room was empty. Without the grace of Eden's presence, everything seemed a bit hollow—off-kilter. Or mayhap it was simply the echo of his own despair.

You were never there. 'Twas always the work . . . We have no future.

Passing a hand over his eyes, he was vaguely aware of Mrs. Lee at his elbow. “Come, Silas. There's meat, bread. I'll make you something to drink.”

Slowly they moved into the sanctuary of the kitchen. Of all the rooms in the house, this was Eden's favorite—and the most bereft of her.

“You look,” Mrs. Lee breathed, taking him in from head to toe, “like you've been far.”

“Halfway to Philadelphia and back.”

“For Eden.”

“Aye.”

“How did she happen to get there?”

“David Greathouse took her by coach.”

The silence stretched taut. She set a plate in front of him, and he noticed her hands were shaking. “Master David, you say? All that way? Did he—”

He pushed back from the table, appetite gone. “Nae . . . speak of anything but that.”

Leaving by way of the arbor, he entered his room and took a chair, eyes on the cold hearth. Minutes ticked by, marked by a small clock, prodding him to take some sort of action—make a fire, lie down, return to the kitchen and still his aching, empty stomach. But the solace he sought was of a far different kind.

Eyes on the dog irons, he tried to grapple with all that had happened, a harsh wind blowing through his soul.

Provide Thou, O Lord, for my heart.

Eden heard a violin, low and sweet, coming from the parlor. Was Silas playing for Margaret? Nay, Margaret was missing. He was playing for her, the songs she especially loved—strathspeys and slow airs . . . haunting, lyrical. When Margaret returned, they sat around the fire like old friends, his music substituting for conversation. Sequestered in the bedchamber, Eden could see and hear them clearly through the open doorway.

Hers was not a virulent fever, Margaret told him in low tones. Exhaustion, perhaps. A vile headache. Some other malady, but nothing fatal. Hearing it, Eden felt a crushing disappointment. She welcomed death.

She lay still, eyes closed, and drifted like flotsam on a pond. Fragments of her time with David at the inn threatened to plunge her into the darkest despair, and then the sound of Silas's voice, his playing, brought her back. His presence, his prayers, were all that kept the shock and sorrow that wrapped round her like tentacles from crushing her completely.

“You'll be needing this, Eden.” Gently he took her hand, placing a small square of linen in her palm as he knelt by the bed. “'Tis a lock of Jon's hair.”

She started to open it, took one glimpse at the sunny strands within, and couldn't. Unable to speak, she simply brought the cloth to her heart with a closed fist.

“I buried him beneath the willow in the far pasture, the one you like so well.”

She nodded through her tears, somewhat solaced.

“I set a stone atop it. I'm going to make a cross. When you're better I'll take you there.”

He left her side, and no one else came. It hurt her that her own mother stayed away. She supposed Mama's secrets kept her at a distance—that and the fact she and Margaret hadn't spoken in years. Without Jon and Jemma, neither home nor Hope Rising felt the same. She sensed the loss even on her bed. When she was back on her feet, the grave sites were the first place she wanted to go, as if doing so would somehow ease the sting of what her heart couldn't bear.

“'Tis too soon for thee to be out of doors,” Margaret cautioned one day. “The wind is harsh. I fear the winter will be ferocious.”

Feeling old and unkempt, Eden made her way from the bed to the crackling hearth, hands gripping the chair back where Silas usually sat. He hadn't been here in a day . . . two? Alarm rose up and turned her breathless. 'Twas now mid-October, Margaret said. Turning a face to a window limned by twilight, Eden fought down her disappointment and wrestled with new fears. Had Silas already left for Fort Pitt? Without saying goodbye?

“There's no need for Silas to come round so often now that thee are better.” Margaret began making tea, her voice matter-of-fact yet soothing. “No doubt he's busy preparing for his journey now that his apprenticeship is at an end.”

Sitting in his empty chair, Eden stared into the fire without focus, grappling with his leaving. Tears blurred her vision
and she looked about blindly for a handkerchief, resorting to the sleeve of her nightgown.

The tea forgotten, Margaret brought one of her own and squeezed Eden's hand. “'Tis clear thy heart is breaking—over Jon and Jemma, to be sure. Or is there more?”

More? Aye, far more. The loss of her purity. Her future. The only man she'd ever loved. How did one put such heartache into words? All the Scriptures she'd hidden in her heart now seemed to leave her. She couldn't recall them, couldn't pray. In a word, she felt forsaken.

They sat in silence and drank the tea as daylight faded and smothered the small hope in her heart that Silas would come. Despite Margaret's company, she felt an overwhelming, aching emptiness. Tomorrow she must return home. Every hour she tarried added to her angst. In the mayhem of the last few days, she'd nearly forgotten the ugly reality before her. Silas was leaving. Papa wanted her to marry another. Once repulsive, the plan was now palatable.