Love's Reckoning (41 page)

Every fiber of his being pulled him to town. He merely had to head to the Black Bear Hotel and settle matters once and for all, come what may. Turning onto the main road, the Monongahela a wash of blue alongside him, he breathed another prayer, a Scripture flashing to mind.

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods
drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be condemned
.

So, Lord, what should I do?
he prayed.

In the silence of his heart he heard the answer.

Let her come to you.

 43 

Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones, as wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire.

François de La Rochefoucauld

Eden clutched Silas's handkerchief in one damp palm, the only visible sign of her disquiet, or so she hoped. All morning she'd taken pains with her appearance, the hotel bed weighted with one cast-off garment after another. The looking glass finally reflected a woman bent on a midsummer's walk. She'd settled on an ivory linen dress with lace fichu, clocked stockings, and leather slippers, an organdy cap imprisoning her curls. The midsummer sun begged for a wide-brimmed straw hat, so she chose one trimmed in rosettes and navy ribbon, anchoring it with two large hat pins.

Fortunately, at Judge O'Hara's invitation, Stephen had gone to River Hill after breakfast and was unaware of her slow walk down Penn Avenue to the Monongahela waterfront. Though she was becoming more familiar with the maze of Pittsburgh streets, she'd not ventured this far. The maid who
tidied her room had given her directions, smiling slyly as if she was privy to the latest gossip.

As soon as Eden saw the quay, she regretted asking for help. Such a place could hardly be missed.

Ballantyne Boatworks took up a good quarter mile of waterfront, every inch teeming with shipwrights and carpenters and crew busy outfitting the vessels built there. She stood for a long time in an adjoining alley and tried to gather her courage. She'd last seen Silas at the hotel reception a fortnight before, when she'd refused his offer to send a carriage round. Ever since, she'd been haunted by the certainty her denial mattered little when any number of Pittsburgh belles would leap at the chance to be with him, including the lovely Isabel. Still, she was a knot of nerves, her prayer a pathetic plea.

Be Thou not far from me, O Lord my strength.

Despite her qualms regarding what she was about to do, she felt an overwhelming impulse to settle matters between them and part on good terms. She would honor his request to talk, given their history, if she could manage to skirt the issue of David Greathouse. It seemed to be what the Lord wanted of her as well. Yet more than anything, her desire to see Silas, to be alone with him—if only for a few final moments—was irresistible, if terrifying. She was in love with him, had never stopped loving him . . . though she'd tried.

A brisk wind tugged at the ribbons of her hat, and the smells of the waterfront washed over her. She breathed in the invigorating tang of freshly sawn timber, oakum, and pitch while wanting to cover her nose at the smell of mud and silt. Cargo crowded the loading docks—saltpeter, iron, sugar, hempen yarn, and more—stamped and bound for New Orleans.

Nowhere did she see Silas—or Sebastian. Her gaze swept the pier, finally finding Jacob and Luke, both straddling barrels,
rope in their hands. Silas stood over them, sleeves rolled up, the pensive contours of his face twisting her heart even at a distance. By the time she reached them, he'd disappeared, leaving her to second-guess her coming. Might he not want to see her after all?

“Miss Lee, is that you?” Jacob jumped down from his perch and rushed toward her, Luke on his heels. “Mr. Ballantyne is teaching us to tie knots. See this?” He held up a tangle of rope, face beaming, hands spotted with pitch.

“Well done.” She smiled back at him. “What sort of knot is it?”

“A midshipman's hitch,” Jacob said. He elbowed Luke, his eyes widening in alarm. “Best get back to work. Mr. Ballantyne's a fine master, but Wallace, his head shipwright, is hard as iron.”

They scampered away, leaving her alone on the sun-scorched dock as a thick-chested, half-scowling workman made his way toward her. Wallace? Suddenly she felt at sea, but the twinkle in his eyes when he faced her and his pleasing Scottish lilt soon set her at ease.

“Yer no doubt here to see the master, Miss Lee.”

Surprise peppered her, though she tried to keep it from telling on her face. First the maid, and now this? Stephen had told her she was the talk of Pittsburgh, but she'd thought him joking. “Yes, please, Mr. . . . ?”

“Michael Wallace, at your service.” He whisked a faded cap off his head and pointed toward a timbered building set back from the dock, the door ajar. “A lady like yerself needn't be too long in the sun—or in the presence of so many tradesmen.”

A lull seemed to have seized the boatyard as one too many eyes turned her way. 'Twas a bold move to be seen in such a place, lady or no. She guessed she'd earned their scrutiny.
Lowering her head, she followed him past scaffolding and spars and massive coils of cordage to that open door. Rather than announce her, Mr. Wallace simply gave a nod and disappeared, leaving her alone on the threshold.

The office was small, well lit, and redolent of aromatic hemp. Wide windows afforded a view in all directions, surely a necessity for managing so busy a place. Unaware of her, Silas sat behind a large desk, head bent, penning something in a ledger. He looked tired, she thought, worry tugging at her. Even at the forge he'd done the work of two men. Here he wasn't simply a shipwright but a master, a juror, a landowner, and more. She'd heard about the ongoing trouble between the tax collectors and whiskey distillers, and it needled her now, deepening her concern.

“I'd rather wear out than rust out,” he'd once said years before, echoing the words of the evangelist George Whitefield. She guessed he hadn't changed in that respect.

She took a silent, unsteady step, then another. The knot in her throat rivaled that of Jacob's rope. The bench to her left begged her to sit, but somehow she managed to cross to the desk, placing the freshly laundered handkerchief in front of him.

Silas looked up at Eden, blinked, and glanced at the neatly folded linen. Was she here to return the handkerchief . . . tell him she was leaving? Misery overrode the surprise that churned inside him. Forgetting to stand, he simply braced himself and leaned back in his chair, wary.

She glanced round the office. “So this is your domain.”

A far cry from the forge.
Or so her tone seemed to say. Silas looked around at the swirls of dust and less-than-spotless panes of glass and wished they were elsewhere. Somewhere pristine and private. Like his land downriver . . .

Pulling himself to his feet, he met her eyes and found them a lovely if red-rimmed blue. His awkwardness soared. He no longer knew what to say, to call her. Miss Lee? Eden?

Beloved.

“I met your master shipwright, a fellow Scotsman.” She turned back to him with a tentative smile. “Mr. Elliot told me you paid passage to America for some of your workmen in exchange for their services.”

He nodded, throat tight. “Most are indentured from five to seven years. Time enough to establish the boatyard, build a better life for themselves.” He picked up a watch resting on a ledger, then returned it to his pocket, aware of his wrinkled shirt and rolled-up sleeves. He was, he thought ruefully, as unkempt as his office.

“'Tis an ambitious venture.” She was studying him now as if trying to reconcile the man she'd once known with the one standing before her. “How—” She broke off and looked away, a splash of color pinking her cheeks.

“How do I afford such an arrangement?” he finished for her, wanting to reach out and tip her chin up with his hand so she'd look at him again. Did she think Hugh O'Hara . . . ?

“I—I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry. You've done so very well. You should be proud.” Turning her back to him, she crossed to the largest window and looked out, clearly awed.

He found himself a bit weak-kneed, more at a loss for words than ever. The delicate contours of her profile, the alluring tilt of her hat, the fetching way she had her hands clasped behind her back . . . She wasn't the girl he'd once known. Time and experience had only deepened her appeal. She was so incredibly lovely his heart ached.

“Eden . . .” He came to stand beside her at the glass, wishing he'd not said her name, wondering if she minded. “When I first came here, I worked as a blacksmith at Fort Pitt. It
didn't take long to realize I'd not get very far on such wages. I arrived with the coin I'd earned in York and was awarded a tract of land per the terms of my contract. It did not suit me, so I sold it. The land I wanted was too costly, so I took my father's violin . . .”

Her eyes went wide with anguish.

“To a collector in Philadelphia.” He swallowed, struggling to frame what seemed reprehensible in hindsight. “I couldn't keep it, understand. It reminded me too much of the past . . . my father . . . you. The fiddle was appraised and fetched a handsome price. I was able to buy waterfront land and build the boatyard.”

A tear spotted her cheek. He stepped back to retrieve the handkerchief she'd brought him and pressed it into her palm. He didn't dare dry her tears himself, though he wanted to. Badly.

She grew quiet, and regret riddled him afresh. Till now he hadn't let the weight of what he'd done take hold. In a sense he'd sold his birthright, his history, his Scots heritage. Or so her silence seemed to say. Or was she remembering all the music, their shared barn dance long ago? The many nights he'd played at taverns and frolics, for her? For their future?

His voice was low yet laden with emotion. “I may have given up the instrument, but not the memories. Nor thoughts of us.” His voice fell away as an unwelcome presence filled the doorway. A sudden knocking was as jarring as a thunderclap.

She looked startled, confused. “I must go . . .”

He felt a sinking to his boots. Was this goodbye, then? She passed him back the handkerchief, but he shook his head.
I do not want it back
, he longed to say.
I only want
 . . .
you.

The knock came again. He answered it and sent a carpenter scurrying, then shut the door.

Her eyes held his all too briefly. “Please—send a carriage round, if you like.”

He hesitated, surprised. A thread of hope, however tenuous, strengthened. “Later today—five o'clock?”

Her face held regret. “Mr. Elliot and I are having supper with the Brackenridges tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Aye,” he answered, tamping down his disappointment. Tomorrow was far better than the refusal he'd been handed a fortnight before.

 44 

For my heart is true as steel.

William Shakespeare

'Twas a carriage, Silas mused, fit for a bride. The Boston-made chaise was handsomely gilded and lined with crimson cloth, its leather top new and unweathered. The two horses harnessed to its genteel frame were a bit shabby, but the livery stable was busy today and he'd not complain. His only concern was that Eden be waiting. He seemed to traverse the short distance to the Black Bear Hotel in a sort of haze, half believing she'd change her mind at the last, just as she'd done years ago. He steeled himself against a fresh onslaught of pain and prayed.

Since she'd left the boatyard the day before, he'd felt a strange calm he couldn't explain. He'd lain awake in the heat of his room half the night, unaware of the whine of insects or the growl of thunder that threatened to mar the coming day. His only thought was of her. He'd told her he wanted to talk. She'd graciously agreed. And now he felt as dry as a well for words. Nigh speechless. Once he had her alone, what would he say?

Lord, please give me the words.

She was waiting not in the foyer but on the porch, slightly pale beneath her straw hat, her vibrant hair spiraling down, reminding him of the girl she'd once been. When he helped her into the carriage, he sensed her uneasiness—mayhap her reluctance—and dread sank like lead in his belly. He snapped the reins and the team shot forward in a swirl of dust, obscuring them from the stares of onlookers who tarried in the street or gawked out windows.

“Where are we going?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Home,” he replied.

Home.

When he said it—firmly yet gently—Eden's fingers unclenched from her fan. He didn't mean Jean Marie's boardinghouse, surely. He was well beyond the outskirts of Pittsburgh now, going the opposite direction. Palms damp with anxiety beneath her snug gloves, she turned her eyes to the low clouds riding the horizon, gray with rain. Wooed by his nearness and the beauty unfolding all around them, she wished their destination was as far away as Philadelphia.

The Allegheny glided by on their left for several silent miles, faithful as a chaperone, its blue eye unblinking. When they turned away from it, the carriage slowed, flattening waist-high grasses and wildflowers before rolling to a gentle stop. From her perch on the edge of her seat, Eden spied a vast clearing and then a mountain of bricks. Several enormous shade trees were standing among a great many stumps, and she took in the timbered beginnings of a sizeable house.

She tore her gaze away as Silas's hands spanned her waist and lowered her to the ground, lingering. Trying to get her bearings, she put a hand to her hat as the wind threatened
to tear it free. Silas was looking down at her the way he once had, returning her to a spring day in a wet woods when he'd untied her bonnet strings and first kissed her.

Oh, Lord, to go back and regain what was lost . . .

His voice was low and sure, easing her. “I've had the land but six months. The bricks are from Fort Pitt, enough to build a house, dependencies.” They walked around the framework, and she looked up at two-story timbers backed by blue sky. “I've a fine carpenter and bricklayer who've agreed to build in exchange for a boat.”

“'Tis beautiful—all of it. The river view . . .” She left off, overcome.

“I've decided to call it New Hope.”

The name struck a chord deep inside her.
New Hope.
Not Ballantyne Hall or some Scottish title. It had special significance for him . . . for her, if only for a moment. Her hopes rose, then tumbled. There was no going back. As much as she'd like to turn the tide of years, too much had changed.

His hand was on her elbow now, leading her across a plank that spanned a trickle of creek and a tangle of water lilies. Shade soon enveloped them, and the rustle of a thousand leaves distracted her before she set eyes on the treasure half hidden in the trees.

A small chapel?

Made of stone set in clay, it was framed by oaks and elms, so new it was missing a door and windows. A squirrel stood sentinel on a sill, scampering away at their footfalls. She wanted to sigh with delight. She wanted to cry. 'Twas a perfect place to pray . . . or wed . . . or christen a baby. She let herself imagine ivy hugging the outer walls and flowers sprinkled along its foundation in glorious, heavenly hues.

When he took her inside, she found it cool, the stone and shade holding the July heat at bay. An old bench invited her
to sit, so she did, eyes roaming the empty interior as he took a seat beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, they faced forward, and she realized with a little start she'd left her fan in the carriage. Without it she felt at loose ends, as if it were an anchor in her internal storm. Entwining her fingers in her lap, she groped for something to say and came up woefully short.

“Eden, I want to know what happened after I left York.”

Her breathing thinned. Oh, why had she agreed to come? “I . . .” Tears stung her eyes. The silence turned excruciating. Nothing, she realized, was as burdensome as a secret.

“What is said here stays here, ye ken.” His voice was calm, even gentle. Yet she sensed an undercurrent of tension in his tone.

Lord, where to begin?

She swallowed past the frightful ache in her throat. He deserved some answer, at least. “After you left for Fort Pitt, I took ill again. Margaret Hunter nursed me back to health.” Her voice was flat, as unemotional as she could make it. She wouldn't tell him about the snow, the frostbite, how she'd nearly lost her life. It no longer seemed to matter. “When I was well, the Greathouse girls—Anne and Beatrice—returned to Hope Rising to mourn Jemma.” David, thankfully, had stayed in Philadelphia. She'd not seen him again. “Before you came to York as an apprentice, there had been a plan in place for me to work at the foundling hospital. Bea and Anne urged me to return to the city with them, so I did.”

He looked down at the stone floor. “What of Giles Esh?”

Giles. She'd nearly forgotten all about him. “That came to naught. I told Papa—” Nay, she'd not call him that ever again, for he was not. “I told Liege that he hadn't the authority to make me marry, as he wasn't my father.”

She sensed Silas's surprise. How she'd summoned the courage to confront Liege was a mystery, but by then she'd known
she wasn't carrying David's child and Philadelphia seemed the only option. In an eruption of volcanic proportions, he'd all but thrown her out of the smithy, calling her—and Mama—names she'd never before heard. 'Twas a memory time would not erase. Even now her skin warmed at the humiliation.

After a lengthy pause, Silas said, “So you went to Philadelphia . . .”

“Yes. I—I couldn't stay with the Greathouses, so arrangements were made for me with the Elliots.”

She could sense Silas's mind churning along with his emotions and braced herself for the inevitable question.
Why didn't you stay with the Greathouses?
Fearing it, she plunged ahead. “I took a position at the hospital working with the infants there. Mr. Elliot is on the board—he's the hospital's most generous benefactor. My lodgings are on Fourth and Walnut Street now, near enough to walk to work . . .”

She was rambling, trying to skirt the heart—and dire hurt—of the matter, hoping he'd be satisfied and she could return to the hotel. But he reached over and took her hand, tethering her, shocking her. The feel of his fingers, roughened by years of toil yet still warm and familiar, sent a shiver clear through her.

“I sent you a letter.”

Her head came up. A letter?

Every angle of his face was thoughtful, as if he was trying to put together the missing pieces of the past. “After I came to Fort Pitt, I wanted to write, make sure you were settled. The post was addressed to Margaret Hunter, though I didn't expect a reply.”

“I received no letter.” Disappointment coursed through her. Had it been lost? Misplaced? Forgotten? Margaret was not one to be careless. “If I had, I would've written.”

“Would you have?” The doubt in his tone tore at her heart.

Their eyes met. His were tender but clouded with confusion. Anguish flooded her from head to toe. She'd loved him then—she loved him still. Yet he didn't believe her. Why should he? She'd given him no reason to think she was anything but fickle, unfaithful . . .

She glanced at a tiny bird sitting on the windowsill, daring to sing. Her eyes glazed with tears.

“Eden, you're not a woman of half measures. When you love, you love with your whole heart.” His voice fell a notch. “Something happened to make you turn from me at the last. I would know what it is.”

The chapel was too quiet. The bird had stopped its song. She could only hear the frantic rhythm of her pain-bound heart. “After Jon died, I—I didn't know my own mind. Nothing made sense—I was frightened, confused. When you found me at the inn—” Her voice broke.

“At the Traveler's Rest?”

She nodded and nearly flinched. Glimmers of that terrible time began pelting her like hailstones. David's rum-laden scent. His rough hands. How he'd laughed when she cried afterward. She couldn't chase the shame of it away, though she'd spent years trying. Nor could she speak of it now.

Lord, nay!

Tearing her hand from his, she darted across the tiny chapel on trembling legs, intent on the carriage. Rain spattered down, surprising her as she cleared the doorway. She was running, heedless, tripping over rocks and roots, the rising wind keening through the trees like a dirge. Behind her came a steady footfall, loud as thunder to her ears. Silas caught up with her and spun her around.

His hands framed her shaking shoulders. “Eden, nothing you say will make me love you any less.” The passion in his face begged her to believe him. “
Nothing.
”

She looked up at him through a haze of rain as disbelief swept through her. “I—I was not fit to be your wife then. I'm not now.” The words were more sob than speech. “That night—at the tavern—David—”

His jaw clenched. “Did he—”

“Yes.” It was a grieved whisper, no more.

Eyes dark with pain, he pulled her against him, enfolding her so tightly in his arms it seemed he'd never let go. Nestled against his chest, she wept as she'd not done since his leaving.

“I—I feared I might be with child. Like Naomi.” She tried to frame the hated words, praying he would understand. “Marrying Giles Esh seemed the only way. When I found I wouldn't be a mother, I went to Philadelphia instead.” Her voice broke anew. “All I wanted was for you to be happy, safe—to have a future like you planned. Far beyond York.”

His fingers stroked her hair. “You didn't tell me what happened because you knew I would have killed him and suffered the consequences. So you stayed silent . . .”

The words rippled over her like the rain, soft and warm. He continued to hold her, and she grew so lost in him she hardly noticed when a ferocious gust of wind stole her hat and sent it scurrying across the clearing. She felt nearly weightless when he picked her up and returned her to the chapel. There he set her down on the threshold as thunder cracked like a rifle above their heads.