Love's Reckoning (42 page)

Spent, she stood under the stony eave and faced him. “I know about Judge O'Hara and Isabel, Silas.” Fresh sorrow welled in her heart as she prepared to give him up a second time. “I didn't come here today to make a way for us. You're truly free—of our betrothal, the taint of York—”

“Nae, Eden.” The tanned contours of his face grew more grieved. “I have no tie to the O'Haras. My place is with you, no matter the past. I love you as much now as I did then,
though you might not believe it. I am yours. All I have is yours. My only concern”—his eyes glittered with a telling wetness—“is if you love me still.”

Did she? Had she not thought of him night and day these eight years past, longing for such a time as this? Wedding him in her most secret thoughts? Imagining holding his wee son or daughter? The vulnerability in his expression tore at her.

“I never stopped loving you, Silas.” She reached into her bodice and withdrew the Scripture he'd penned long ago. “Nor did I blame God for our parting. He's proved Himself faithful in countless ways, but perhaps never so sweetly as returning me to you.”

He took the scrap of paper but made no move toward her. “D'ye forgive me, Eden? For leaving like I did? For being so angry that last day?”

“You're not angry now,” she said softly. “And there's been no talk of leaving.”

He simply stood silent as if locked in the wonder she herself felt. Was he hesitant to touch her again? Afraid doing so might bring back a bad memory? Nay, she was done with the past, beginning now.

Her fingertips brushed his coat sleeve, and she smiled through her tears. “I won't break, Silas Ballantyne.”

“Nae . . . you Philadelphia belles are made of sterner stuff.” His arms went round her, his voice turning husky. “Eden Lee, you're more beautiful to me now than you've ever been.”

She went weak inside, his tender words redeeming all they'd lost. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her mouth to his. His answering kiss wasn't like the Silas she remembered but the man he'd become—bold and successful and certain yet riddled with unmistakable yearning. A river of pleasure, healing and heartfelt, seemed to spill over her at their closeness.

“Tomorrow we will wed,” he said, the joy in his face chas
ing away every shadow. “Here in the chapel . . . home.” He kissed her again, turning her a bit breathless. “Where will the next few years find us?”

“Only heaven knows,” she whispered, awed and humbled by the thought. “We'll be here at New Hope, with our children, Lord willing.”

“Amen,” he said in a sort of benediction, kissing her again.

Beauty and folly are old companions.

Benjamin Franklin

As the coach rumbled into Pittsburgh, Elspeth pulled on her gloves and peered intently out the window, not wanting to miss the opportunity of finding Eden walking down some side street or shopping in the market district. 'Twas October, and the surrounding hills were aflame with vibrant color. Several weeks of travel had not dimmed her desire to come here, especially in light of all she'd learned while in Philadelphia. When she'd arrived in the city, expecting to see her sister, she'd succumbed to yellow fever instead. Gravely ill at the boardinghouse, she'd sent word to Dr. Rush. He came round quickly enough after she told him she was Eden's kin. And he brought tidings she never expected to hear . . .

Eden had at last wed Silas Ballantyne.

The announcement had stunned her and impelled her to action within a heartbeat. The least she could do was come west and offer congratulations to the happy couple.

Couldn't she?

Heartfelt thanks to The Providence Forum and Dr. Peter Lillback, renowned author, historian, and seminary president, for an unforgettable five-day walking tour of historic Philadelphia. I've never lived or breathed history so well—even in the heat of July! Hats off to Cheryl, Chris, Lori, and Steve for making
every
moment unforgettable.

Also, a million thanks to my college roommate, Heather, for being both tour guide and taxi during my stay in Pittsburgh, and for putting up with all my puttering around Fort Pitt. You are such a treasured friend!

My deepest gratitude to the staff at Revell, especially sales and marketing, for going above and beyond on my books, always. And to Cheryl Van Andel and the art team, including designer Brandon Hill, for providing the cover of my heart.

I'm so blessed to have my gifted agent, Janet Grant, and the like-minded folks at Chi Libris, from whom I learn so much.

To faithful readers everywhere who've embraced the stories of Lael, Morrow, Roxanna, and now Eden. You bless me more than I can say.

And lastly, I'm forever thankful to the Shepherd of my stories, who provides green pastures and still waters and the passion behind every book I write.

The Ballantyne Legacy
, book 2, by Laura Frantz

Available Fall 2013

Beauty and folly are old companions.

Benjamin Franklin

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
October 1793

“You've a visitor, sir. Just wanted to warn ye.” The young apprentice at the office door stood in the glare of autumn sunlight, the brilliant blue Monongahela waterfront behind him.

Silas Ballantyne thanked him and looked out the door he'd left open to see a woman stepping carefully around cordage . . . and seeming to court the stares of every boatman in her wake. What was it about Elspeth Lee that made even a lad of twelve take notice and feel a bite of warning? Silas could hardly believe it was she. He'd not seen her in years. And now the shadows of the past came rushing back with a vengeance, stirring up unwelcome emotions.

She stepped into his office without invitation and looked about with appraising blue eyes, her beauty undimmed by the passage of time. He gave no greeting. The tension swirled as thick as the sawdust in the boatyard beyond the open door.

“Well, Silas,” she finally said, lifting her chin and meeting his grudging gaze. “I've come to see my sister and wish her well.”

Wish her well?

He felt a sweeping relief that he'd not wed this woman. The sweetness he'd had with Eden couldn't be measured. Those sultry days following their July wedding had been the happiest he'd ever known. He'd not even gone to the boatyard at first. They'd kept to the bridal suite at the Black Bear Hotel as if to make up for all the time they'd been apart, emerging only for meals or to ride out to New Hope. Their house was half-finished now and would be done by the time Eden delivered their first child in April. But he wouldn't tell Elspeth that.

“Eden is indisposed.” The words were clipped, curtailing conversation.

Her eyes flared. “Indisposed?”

He didn't mean ill, he meant unwilling—yet she seized on the former. “My, Silas, you're hard on a wife. 'Tis glad I am I didn't become Mistress Ballantyne.” She looked about as if getting her bearings. “I suppose I shall bide my time here in Pittsburgh till she recovers and can have visitors—”

“Nae. You'll be on your way.”

She assumed a surprised petulance, eyes sliding back to him. “That's hardly the welcome I expected from my new brother-in-law.”

“You'll get no greeting from me now or in future. But I'll gladly pay your return passage back to York.” He took a slow breath. “And if there's any harm done to Eden between now and then, any loss to my property or business, I won't
bother bringing you before the Allegheny Court. You'll answer to me.”

The words held a telling edge, sharp as the dirk that lined his boot. He had enemies aplenty in Pittsburgh, namely the Turlock clan. He wouldn't be adding to their numbers with this woman. But his most pressing concern was Eden, already aglow with the babe inside her, the harm done her in York a fading memory.

He continued with a calm he was far from feeling. “I'll have my head shipwright escort you off the premises, and I'll make sure I'm present to see you leave Pittsburgh on the first stage tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Back stiff, she stood on his threshold, malice hardening her fair features. “I'll be back, Silas Ballantyne. You can't keep me away from Eden—or Pittsburgh—perpetually.”

Their eyes locked, but hers were the first to falter when he said, “Say what you will. I'll not welcome you. Ever.”

 1 

The city of Philadelphia is perhaps one of the wonders of the world.

Lord Adam Gordon

Allegheny County, Pennsylvania
April 1822

Elinor Louise Ballantyne is an agreeable young lady with a fortune upwards of twenty thousand pounds
 . . .

Nearly wincing at the words, Ellie fisted the latest bulletin from the Matrimonial Society of Philadelphia and hid the paper beneath the generous folds of her spencer. The gray kerseymere fabric was too warm for an April day that had begun in an overstuffed coach and was now stalled on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Pittsburgh, but she'd chosen the nondescript garment for a purpose.

She
was
an agreeable young lady.

She
was
traveling alone.

And she
was
indeed worth a fortune.

These three things were a tempting combination on any
day, but here in the wilds of western Pennsylvania, they were potentially lethal. Hadn't she just seen a handbill warning of highwaymen at the last stage stop?

Emerging from the coach, she stood in a patch of sunlight slightly apart from the other passengers and tried to ignore the oaths emanating from beneath the vehicle as the driver dealt with a broken axle. The other passengers looked on in consternation, some muttering epithets of their own.

“Miss . . . ?” The inquiry came from a robust, heavily rouged woman to her left, her hazel eyes appraising.

“Elinor,” she replied with a hint of a smile, clutching her purse a bit tighter.

“Care to walk with us? We might well make it to Pitt ahead of the driver. It ain't but a dozen miles away, so the marker right there says.”

Relieved, Ellie glanced at a stone pillar along the roadside that confirmed the words before falling into step with the others, eyes shifting to an unshaven man bearing a silver-plated pistol. A little walk would hardly hurt, given she'd been cooped up in a coach for days on end. Her travel mates had boarded just twenty miles prior and were far fresher than she but just as anxious to see the smoky valley that was Pittsburgh, the three rivers entwining there in a silvery knot.

She'd been away far too long. The surrounding woods now seemed more stranger than friend. How different Pittsburgh must have looked to her father when he first came all those years before. Raw wilderness then, not the industrial city it was rapidly becoming. Their home, New Hope, had been merely a poor blacksmith's dream in 1785, not the jewel crowning the Allegheny bluff that now stopped river traffic midstream.

A furious honking of geese and bleating of sheep disrupted her reverie. She and her companions hurried to the side of
the road as several drovers came toward them in a whirl of dust, driving their herds eastward to market.

Sighing, she shook the dust off her skirts. The thought of sleeping atop her own feather bolster, twelve inches thick, and slaking her thirst with orange ice on the veranda made her walk a bit faster. Could anyone blame her for leaving finishing school in Philadelphia earlier than planned? If she'd written home and told them of her coming, they'd have tried to stop her—or arranged for a chaperone. As it was, she'd saved them the work and the worry. She simply wanted to surprise Papa on his birthday, an event she'd missed four years in a row, given she'd been east.

No more Madame Moreau. No tedious lessons in French or embroidery. No performing harp solos in stifling assemblies or declining dances at society balls. And most importantly . . .

No more being hounded by the Matrimonial Society of Philadelphia.

They'd walked but a mile or so when the sky cast off its blueness like a discarded dress and clad itself in shades of Quaker gray. As if conspiring, the wind began to race through the newly leafed timber on both sides of them with a fickle ferocity that slowed their progress and left them clutching their caps and bonnets.

Any moment the repaired coach would overtake them and they'd come to Widow Meyer's Tavern just ahead. Or so Ellie hoped. At the first stinging drops of rain, she quickened her steps, the thin soles of her London-made slippers padding along in dusty protest. The rising wind was making sport of her full skirts, blowing them up in an embarrassing display so that anyone who wanted could see the pantalets beneath.

“Egads!” a burly man uttered to her left, lifting his hands in alarm.

Hail, big as goose eggs, was raining down, giving rise to grunts and cries as all made for the cover of the woods. Thankful for the broad brim of her bonnet, Ellie huddled beneath a sycamore as the wind keened higher. All around, branches snapped a staccato tune, followed by eerie stillness that foretold further trouble.

Fixing her eye on the western rim of the horizon, she felt like uttering an oath herself. A funnel cloud was whirling, black as pitch, and the wind was tugging her chin ribbons and unseating her bonnet. Backing further into the forest out of the funnel's path, she slipped and nearly fell on the hail-littered ground.

Like a brightly plumed bird, her feather bonnet took wing, and for a few teeth-chattering moments she feared she might follow. The purse string snapped about her wrist and was flung away into the whirlwind, all her coin with it.

Oh, if only Rose were here!

Never in all her twenty years had she witnessed anything like this! Grabbing hold of another sycamore's shaggy trunk, she anchored herself and squeezed her eyes shut against the swirling debris, cowering at the tremendous roar of the wind. Terror clawed at her as she bent her head. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The scent of damp spring earth and wind-whipped leaves was nigh on suffocating. Shaking, she hugged the rough bark and prayed the tree would hold fast like the iron anchors of her father's ships. She felt fragile as a butterfly about to be shorn of its wings, certain the tumult would tear her to pieces.

Twice the storm nearly upended her, prying her fingers free from their fierce hold. Then somehow, miraculously, the funnel cloud departed and sheets of cold rain took its place,
soaking the mass of her waist-length hair now matted with leaves and twigs. Nary a hairpin remained. But that was the least of her worries.

The road was now oozing with coffee-colored mud, hail, and downed trees. Through the haze of rain she could make out a few of her traveling companions ahead, scrambling for a light in the distance. It beckoned like a star, golden and beguiling, promising shelter and peace.

The Widow Meyer's? The last stage stop just shy of Pittsburgh?

When she stumbled toward its broad wood steps, she found the tavern yard was as littered as the road, full of stranded coaches and damaged wagons and hysterical horses, its cavernous public room just as chaotic. Night was falling fast, and she was terribly homesick and near tears.

Her purse was gone—all her coin—pickpocketed by the wind, just like her bonnet. The realization edged her nearer the hysteria rising all around her. Looking up, she noticed the western portion of the tavern roof was missing, shingles agape. Rain was pouring in like water through a sieve, drenching a far corner and sending people scurrying.

“The storm of the century!” someone shouted amid the din, raising the sodden hair on the back of her neck.

Hot and cold by turns, she unfastened the braid trim along her collar, shrugged off her spencer, and draped it over one arm, mindful that one too many men were watching. Unbidden, a memory crawled through her benumbed conscience and turned her more wary. Something had happened to her mother in a tavern long ago, the murky details never broached. What she most remembered was her father's aversion to such places and his insistence she stay clear of them.

Oh, Papa, if you could see me now . . .

Toward dawn, Jack Turlock and a collection of the most able-bodied men finished clearing a three-mile path from the tavern toward Pittsburgh. The storm had touched down slightly west of Widow Meyer's before blazing a new trail east and inflicting more damage. By lantern light they worked, thankful the rain and wind had abated as quickly as they had come, all relieved to see the sun creep over the far horizon in reassurance that the world had not ended after all.

“Now what?” asked a squat young Irishman with a thick lilt when the men had returned to the tavern yard. He and his companions looked to Jack, who simply stared back at them through sleep-deprived eyes.

Somehow during the long night, Jack had assumed a leadership position he'd not wanted. Clutching an ax, he turned toward the tavern yard. “We'd do well to examine the coaches and wagons and bring the injured out first. The women and children will follow.”

He moved slowly, the heavy canvas of his trousers mud-mired to his thigh, his boots soiled beyond repair. He'd misplaced his coat in the melee, and his dirty shirt had snuck past his waistband and now ended at his knee. Rubbing the crick in his neck, he remembered his cravat was adorning someone's broken arm as a sling. It had been a very long night.

A gentle wind was stirring all around him after a dead calm, reminding him of his near escape the night before. In the thick of the storm, a falling oak, broad as three men, had missed him by mere inches. The crashing thud of it echoed long in his thoughts, and on its heels was the voice of his former schoolmaster.

Pulvis et umbra sumus.
We are dust and shadows.

He tried to shake off the memory, but the tempest inside him lingered, of greater fury than the storm now bearing east. Ducking beneath the low lintel of the tavern's main
entrance, he sensed a hush fall over the public room at his appearance. At the mud-spattered sight of him? Or his family's reputation? Likely the latter. In the keeping room of this very tavern was cask after cask of Turlock whiskey. He could smell its distinctive tang and felt a shiver of disgust, though he needed a drink himself.

Stepping up onto the raised hearth, he faced the waiting crowd. “We've cleared the road west well enough to get a few of you through. The injured will go first, followed by the women and children—”

“Injured, aye.” A gentleman in a top hat got to his feet, a frown marring his features. “Then those of us who are well bred and have business to attend to are next, surely—”