Love's Reckoning (33 page)

After what David had done, what choice did she have but to marry Giles? Any babe that she carried would be considered his. None would suspect it was David's instead. The thought of the future, once so joyous, now turned terrifying. She was disgraced, perhaps pregnant. How would she care for a baby? How could she bring trouble to her family after what Elspeth had done? The solution—if that was what it was—smacked her in the face as hard as Elspeth's hand.

Oh, Silas, you must be well away from here. If David returns, if you discern what he has done . . .

 32 

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth

Before Eden turned down the lane toward home, Sebastian bounded toward her, a mass of fur and snapping black eyes, his irrepressible enthusiasm nearly making her smile. Dropping to her knees on the cold ground, she stroked his silky ears, thinking how lonesome he would be when Silas went away.

“You should be minding sheep,” she said through her tears, but he simply cocked his head and nudged her hand as if she were his sole concern.

Side by side they walked, Eden's gaze touching on every familiar place. Sheep dotted the meadow like windblown bits of cotton, and the beloved church on the hill sat empty and silent, awaiting the next Sabbath service. Everything looked the same—only she herself had changed. Her thoughts were muddied and unfocused. Her body was no longer her own. Her dreams forsaken. She could hear unrelenting hammering at the forge and wondered who it was. Papa? Silas? Giles?
Her senses seemed blunted. She could no longer discern the difference in tone. Before she stepped onto the front stoop on shaking legs, her mother, clad in mourning garb for Jon, threw open the front door in welcome.

“Eden! I hardly recognize you!”

Beneath Mama's scrutiny, she felt a tremor of self-consciousness, as if the stain on her person was just as apparent. But it was her dress Mama was looking at as she removed the cape Margaret had lent her. The gown was stunning with its dark lace, painstakingly dyed a deep blue-black. Slowly Mama's eyes rose from the quilted petticoat to her hair. Margaret had taken great pains to secure it at the back of her head, pearl-tipped pins scattered throughout. A few freshly washed strands escaped, framing her face. She looked older and sadder, or so Margaret's mirror told her. More maid than maiden.

Like Naomi.

Eden smoothed the faint wrinkles on the skirt with nervous hands. “'Twas Jemma's—worn for her father's . . .” She paused, overcome by the irony that Eben Greathouse had been her own father too. “Passing.”

Mama looked away and motioned her inside. Stepping into the foyer, Eden saw Elspeth standing in the kitchen. No warmth crossed her face, nor was any expected. She simply turned on her heel and disappeared.

“You've just missed noonday dinner.” Mama's voice reached out to her, a bit hesitant, leading her toward the winter parlor. “But we've some food left if you like.”

Eden realized then she'd erred in not seeking Silas out first. Was he still at table? A quick look into the dining room assured her he wasn't there. His place sat empty. The parlor, then . . .

“So, Daughter, you've come home at last.” Liege's voice
was hardly welcoming as she stepped into the room. “You have the look of Hope Rising about you.”

The cloaked rebuke brought a telling stain to her face. She swept the room in a glance, trying to get her bearings. Jon's cradle was missing and there was no sign of Thomas. Silas was also absent, but Giles rose to his feet at the sight of her. He ran a hand over his high forehead in a gesture riddled with unease, and the silence turned uncomfortably thick. This man was to be her husband. She felt a mixture of revulsion and resignation.

“Sit down.” Gesturing to a stool by the hearth, Liege surveyed her like an item at auction. “'Tis mid-October. Silas has won his freedom. Giles is here to take his place—and your hand in marriage. Mourning aside, I can think of no further impediment now that you're well.”

Impediment?
She tried to school her distress.
None but that I love one man and might be carrying another man's child!
She gave no assenting nod. Looking down at her hands folded in her lap, she bit her lip till it nearly bled.

“The coming Sabbath seems a fair wedding day. All that remains is to summon the magistrate and secure a license. For now we'll have a little toast. Mistress Lee will bring the whiskey.” His voice took on feigned warmth, suffusing the parlor with strange tension. “Elspeth, call Silas in to join us. We may as well celebrate the end of his apprenticeship to boot.”

From a corner, Elspeth moved toward the door, but Eden sprang to her feet, skirts swirling, hands clenched at her sides. “Nay. I'll see to Silas.”

With a shrug, Liege waved her away, attention fixed on Mama and the coveted whiskey bottle. The sight made Eden sick. 'Twas spirits that had made David an animal and turned her world upside down. She still bore the bruises beneath
her borrowed dress. Tears blurred her vision as she passed through the rose arbor withered with frost—straight into Silas's arms. He shut the door hard, hemming her in.

“F-Father wants you,” she stuttered.

“And you, Eden?” His gaze held steady. “What d'ye want?”

She looked away as his gaze slid to her gown, her upswept hair, the tiny silver earrings Margaret had fastened to her ears. There was little doubt he found her pleasing, even in black, only she felt stained, soiled beyond repair—she whose only thought had been to save herself for him. Her attention faltered and fell to her shoes.

“Eden, look at me.”

For a moment her resolve slipped as she succumbed to the warmth of his words. “You . . . you didn't come back to Margaret's.”

“I wanted you to come to me.”

Her heart quickened as he took her face in his hands. Tenderly. Carefully. And then she stiffened, thinking of how David had touched her amidst the noise and filth of the tavern.

“Tomorrow we leave, ye ken.”

“Tomorrow?” She swallowed hard, a bit breathless. “Nay, 'tis impossible. I cannot.” The ugly words seemed to poison the air between them. He drew back a bit as she rushed on, “I—I told you—at the tavern—things have changed—”

“Aye, changed.” His intensity heightened. “Jon is gone, as is Jemma. You got into the Greathouse coach and ended up halfway to Philadelphia. None of that alters my love for you or the plan we have in place.”

“Y-you don't understand.” The room began to spin. She'd been too long on her feet. Every hurtful word seemed to exact what little strength she had left. “I cannot go west. I—I never wanted to. 'Tis better I remain. You have your freedom. You're going where you want, far from here—a new start—”

“Enough, Eden.” He took her none too gently by the shoulders. “Let there be no more talk about your fears of leaving here or your own fickle affections.”

“But my feelings for you—” She stumbled over each word, fighting for calm when she felt none. “I don't care for you the way a wife should. I—I thought I loved you once—”

“Once?” He gave her a sudden shake, his gaze grieved. “Say what you will, Eden, but
do not
lie to me!”

“Silas, please!” She pulled away. “You've won your freedom. You don't want a weak wife. A taint—” Lord save her, she'd nearly said the words!
A tainted wife. Another man's child.
“You deserve better—better than York. God has His hand on you—”

“Not only me, Eden.
Us.
God brought me here not simply for an apprenticeship but for you. You're to be my bride and no other.”

Desperate, she tried to shield her heart from his passionate words and turn away. But he stepped around her and blocked her path. “Tell me you do not love me, Eden. Tell me that.”

“I—” She choked back a sob. The lie hovered on her tongue. She nearly mentioned Giles Esh but couldn't bear to see the hurt it would bring him. “I care enough to let you go—to wish better things for you—”

“For me? What about you? Am I to believe you're to throw your life away on a place you loathe? And people like Elspeth, who despises you? Who wishes you harm? Who might well have hurt her own child? Wheest, Eden! Speak sense!”

She covered her face with her hands, tears wetting her fingers, fearful Elspeth or Papa would overhear. “I belong here—my place is at home, at Hope Rising.”

“At Hope Rising?” The words were so barbed it seemed he spat them at her. “Did Greathouse sway you into staying? Is that it? And for what? His spinning operation? Or is
there more?” Anguish wet his eyes. “Am I to believe you're as false as your mother and sister? You make me think 'tis Greathouse you love, that you got into that carriage with the hope of being his mistress if not his wife—”

“Nay!” The word rang out with the force of a gunshot, echoing to the far corners of the smithy. Catching up her skirts, she fled, the door banging in her wake. Down the lane she ran, seeking asylum at Margaret's, painfully aware Silas would think she was fleeing to Hope Rising, giving credence to all he'd just said.

Eden awoke against her will, buried in the feathery warmth of Margaret's bolster, the bed curtains drawn against the cold. Snow lined the windowpane, and everything beyond was a glittering, blinding world of white. Today marked Silas's leaving, their hoped-for wedding day. Instead she was to marry another, not knowing for another month or more if she was to be a mother, and if so, just whose child she carried.

David's . . . or Giles's?

The thought of being with a man so soon after being used by David left her shaking and sick. She felt feverish again, a swell of misery expanding inside her with every tick of the clock. When she'd dressed, Margaret, also clad in deep black for Jemma, made her a cup of chamomile tea, but she couldn't swallow a sip.

“Eden, thee are clearly not thyself. And I confess I do not understand thy situation. A man awaits thee—one thee do not love—while the man who clearly loves thee is leaving today, never to return.” Margaret looked into her eyes with heightened candor. “Once you asked what I thought of Silas Ballantyne. I'll tell thee this. One finds such a man once in a lifetime if thee are truly blessed.”

The words, though weighted with warning and far more vehement than Margaret's usual utterances, failed to dent Eden's resolve. She steeled herself against the truth of them and heard herself say, “Silas is an uncommon man. I've no doubt he'll make his mark wherever he goes. He deserves far better than York.” Turning her back so Margaret couldn't see her intense struggle, she began putting on her cape. “I need some air. 'Tis time I see Jemma's grave—and Jon's.”

“But 'tis snowing—and growing colder.” Margaret started to rise. “Let me go with thee.”

“Nay—please—I'll not be long.” She raised her hood over her head and pulled on her mittens. The simple act elicited a strange hurt. Did Silas have gloves? 'Twas so cold and he would go so far . . .

“Take care to return soon.” Margaret was hovering now, already adding wood to the fire. “I'll keep thy tea warm.”

Eden stepped outside, nearly blinded by the bright beauty.

Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.

She'd been cleansed of sin by believing in her Savior. Would He not, in time, cleanse her of the sins committed against her? Or must she always feel . . . defiled? Tears froze on her face as she walked, her gaze averted from Hope Rising's brick façade, fastening instead on the church atop the rise as if it were an anchor in the swirling storm.