Love's Reckoning (5 page)

“Come now, tell me. He is mine, is he not?” Expression coy, Elspeth softened her tone. “Papa has arranged it. I must know what my intended looks like.”

Eden bounced the fussing babe. “He's . . . pleasing.”

“Pleasing?” With a roll of her eyes, she leaned forward and extended both hands as if prepared to wrest the facts from her. “Is he short? Hawk-nosed? Portly? Plain?”

“He's . . . Scottish.” Indeed, his brogue had stayed with her in the night, so honey-tongued he was. “His hair is the hue of hard cider. I—I don't remember the color of his eyes. He has to duck his head to pass through a door.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread over Elspeth's face. Turning toward an icy window, Eden thought of all she couldn't say.

He has a fine rifle. His shoulders are broad. His manner is forthright. His knapsacks are heavy . . .

His thumbs are branded.

When she turned back around, Elspeth was on her feet, pulling on her petticoats. Though used to her sister's impulsiveness, this was too much. “Elspeth! What are you—”

“I cannot lie abed any longer.” She stared back in triumph as if daring Eden to deny her.

“But you're weak, bleeding—”

“I'll not be on my feet long. Just long enough to meet this
man . . .
my
future husband.” Her eyes shone with renewed purpose. “Besides, we must all play the part. I'm not the one confined to childbed. Mama is. Now help me manage my hooks.”

Laying the newborn on the bed, Eden turned to her reluctantly, dismay riffling through her. The rich red calico had to be tugged into place, straining every seam—and with it Eden's every nerve. Elspeth hardly looked the invalid they pretended her to be. A practiced eye like that of Mistress Middy would ken the truth in a heartbeat. Eden prayed the Scot wouldn't be so discerning.

Lifting her chin like a general going into battle, Elspeth sucked in her breath. “I'll not be long. Tell Mama I'd like some toast and tea.”

Eden watched her go like she had on so many occasions, to do as she pleased, without so much as a by-your-leave. Short of chaining her to the bedpost, who could restrain her? Perhaps Mama would intercept her in the hall.

Feeling drugged by sleeplessness, Eden tried to gather her wits as she soothed the babe. He was growing quieter, his eyelids heavy. Placing him in his cradle, she gave Thomas some yarn to play with, but he looked up at her with bleary blue eyes and rubbed his belly. Had Mama forgotten to feed him in all the confusion and fuss?

“I'll bring you some toast and gooseberry jam soon,” she promised.

Nearly on tiptoe, she slipped from the room to the second floor and crossed the landing to the garret's winding stair. Up, up, up she climbed, anticipation making her breathless. The twenty-one steps had never seemed so far, and the delicious anticipation she'd always felt in escaping here in spare moments had been eclipsed by the apprentice's arrival. 'Twas no longer her room but his. Till he left or wed Elspeth and moved to another room—or another house—she'd not get it back.

She knocked before she entered, though she knew he was safely below in the smithy. The ring of a hammer was blessed confirmation—not Papa's angry cadence, but something more measured and sure. Pushing open the garret door, she found the beloved space nearly as tidy as she'd left it, but when she crossed to the desk, she opened the sole drawer to emptiness. Panic seized her. Her quill and ink and journal were missing.
Nay!
In its pages she'd strayed from her list of blessings and complained mightily about the prospect of marrying a stranger—an apprentice—upon a father's whim and a rusty tradition. Nay, not only marriage—she'd also recklessly penned the details of her plan. Her escape.

Dropping to her knees, she searched beneath the bed. Naught but a few dust motes that had escaped her broom. Dare she go through his belongings? Might he have put them in his haversacks? But the twin bags hung limply from a peg on one wall. Her restless gaze touched his gun and a fiddle sitting upright in a corner. A long horsehair bow lay in the windowsill.

The leather-bound books Jemma Greathouse had lent her were also missing. She'd hidden them behind the stove, which was now cold. What if Silas Ballantyne read her scribbling, her concerns about marrying a man she didn't know? Her hopes for the future? What if he'd given the journal and books to Papa? Sitting on the foot of the neatly made bed, she wrestled with her fears and groped for reason.

She could lie, say they weren't hers. But the mere thought was distasteful. Papa and Elspeth lied—indeed, 'twas like a second language. Her mother, while not outright untruthful, was frightfully evasive. Thomas, too young to form but a mouthful of words, had yet to show his true colors. Nay, she'd not lie. But she
must
find the tender outpourings of her heart and make a new hiding place.

The garret was now his.

 5 

There are charms made only for distant admiration.

Samuel Johnson

The smithy would be warm this snowy morn, thanks to the huge hearth that was the very heart of a blacksmith's work. Silas stood by the worn, blackened anvil and took stock of the place where he'd spend the bulk of his twenty-fifth year. Going to the woodpile, he fed the fire that had been banked the previous night, coaxing the embers to life. They flamed under his experienced hand, and he began arranging his tools by the low light. Accustomed to working from daylight to dusk, he'd been surprised when Liege Lee had been absent at breakfast.

“Mr. Lee is feeling the effects of the snow this day,” Mrs. Lee had said as she served him eggs and bacon, thick slices of toasted bread, and gunpowder tea. “'Tis his gout, I'm afraid.”

Silas listened without comment, marveling that she was on her feet so soon after a birth while her husband let a little gout keep him from his work. The night before Liege Lee had struck Silas as indomitable, surly, and immune to such frailties. Now, standing alone in the timbered smithy,
he savored the stillness. For months he'd felt there wasn't a peaceful place in his soul.

Being sequestered in a large Philadelphia shop with a dozen or more men—many of whom would rather fight than work—had taken a toll. Before that had been Williamsburg and a British prison camp. But he'd not begin afresh by recalling this. Laying aside his hammer, he tried to do the same with the pain of his past. A frayed, leather-bound book was within easy reach, providing a blessed distraction. He glanced at the title, tongue in cheek.

A Present for an Apprentice.

He knew the contents well enough as it was considered holy writ among tradesmen, stressing a master's authority. He turned the battered tome facedown in silent protest, then took half an hour to familiarize himself with everything in the shop, wagering there'd be little business transacted on such a day. After filling a water bucket with snow—for he'd never find the well in such weather—he straightened and turned toward the creak of a door. The shadows were dispelling slowly, and he could barely make out the well-rounded form. That it was a woman there could be no doubt.

Eden Lee?

Nae, this woman was taller, fuller of figure. When she stepped into the hearth's light, all thoughts of Eden vanished. The elder daughter? The one who was dwiny—ill—and confined to the house? He shook off his surprise.

She was so unlike her younger sister he suspected they weren't truly related. Her flaxen hair was pinned and plaited, forming a sort of halo about her head. Bold eyes—a Scottish cornflower blue—assessed him much as her father had done the night before. She had a classic roses-and-cream, English-type beauty. The kind that made men wage duels and pen poetry and lose all good reason.

Her soft voice cut across the room. “Are you the apprentice?”

“Aye,” he answered, clasping his hands behind his back and facing her.

“I'm Elspeth Lee.” She hesitated, looking again at the door she'd just entered. “Since my father isn't here, I'll show you round myself.”

There's no need
, he nearly said, but she'd already turned away as if expecting him to follow. He bit his lip to keep any amusement from telling on his face. The image of the timorous Eden doing the same made a puzzling picture. Liege Lee had two daughters, but they were as different as night and day. This one might well be the spitfire he'd mistaken her sister for.

After a few minutes he forgot his reserve, impressed by the breadth of her knowledge as she spoke of ironwork that needed making, discussing details and design. Though he said little, she kept up a running conversation well enough without him.

“Since my father has but two small sons, it has been left to me as the eldest daughter to learn the trade. A blacksmith cannot operate alone, as you know. Papa has had apprentices—two runaways—but I help him as best I can and keep the ledgers. Would you like to see them?”

“Nae, I trust they're in good order.”

She gave a curt nod, fingering some tongs absently, her features a bit strained. She was unwell, he remembered, mindful of her malady. Without warning, she sank down upon a near bench, her full skirts ballooning in a swell of red cloth, and looked entreatingly at him.

“Tell me of yourself, Silas Ballantyne.”

He swallowed down a smile at her boldness and ran a hand over his bearded jaw, deciding to deal in generalities. “I've just come eighty miles from Philadelphia on a half-lame horse and ferried across the Susquehanna. Somewhere along
the way I lost my razor. At five and twenty I'll wager I'm the oldest apprentice in America.”

At this, she laughed, but the merry sound was snatched away as the door behind them opened and Liege limped in, incredulity etched across every hard line of his face.

“Your mother is looking for you, Daughter. She's in need of your help today, and quickly.”

The dismissal was met with Elspeth's hasty retreat, and then Liege turned the full force of his gaze upon Silas. “Pray you never have such a daughter. That one should be in breeches, though she looks well enough in a skirt.”

“She has a keen knowledge of the trade.”

He gave a curt nod and reached for his battered leather apron. “And well she should, being at my side for fifteen years or better. The apprentices I've had can't hold a candle to her. We'll see if you fare any better.”

By midmorning, Eden felt as scattered as garden seed. Between helping her mother enforce Elspeth's lying-in and assuming all her chores, she was worn to a thread. But it was her missing journal that most wrenched her. She tried to push aside her flustered feelings as they worked together keeping the babe quiet while mending and making cheese and preparing noonday dinner.

“He's to be named Jon, after your grandfather,” Mama said in low tones, settling in her rocking chair to nurse, though she could ill afford the time.

Hearing it brought about a tender pang. Grandpa Gallatin? Though six years had passed since he'd died, the void he'd left had never lessened. It was still felt here in the house and the smithy, where he'd worked with her father day in and day out. His patience had been the perfect antidote to Papa's grousing, always keeping him in check.

Stifling a sigh, she watched as Thomas tried to climb on Mama's lap, only to be shooed away with an agitated hand.

“I'll not be tied down with the both of you. Go on now.”

Sympathy tugged at Eden as Thomas puckered his round face in protest. Abandoning her task, she took his little hand and led him away. “You're big enough for your own cup now. Here's a pewter one with an 
L
engraved on it.” She poured him some cider and heated it with the poker as she'd done the flip the night before. Her reward was a tremulous smile. Though he spilled some taking it off the table, the cup finally made it to his open mouth.

Absently she watched him, schooling her thoughts, revisiting the morning's happenings. Elspeth was finally in bed again—in the room they shared—and Eden rued the loss of privacy. Oh, that she could fly to Hope Rising and find rest, peace! She'd not been there for a fortnight or better. Her soul chafed at the farmhouse's smallness as her mind roamed the mansion's many rooms, each holding myriad hiding places for her missing journal and books.

“Come, Eden, and finish the cheese,” Mama said, bringing her back. “The men will be hungry this day with the weather so raw.”

When she began serving noonday dinner, she felt so addled she nearly spilled the fried hominy in Silas's lap. He caught her wrist as the platter tipped sideways, steadying her, his gaze traveling from her trembling hand to her face. She imagined Elspeth's eyes narrowing as she mouthed “idiot” from across the table. But Elspeth's place yawned empty, and Eden felt stark relief.

Thankfully, Papa was at the other end, so immersed in his plate they might have done a jig and he'd not notice. She felt a faint hope they might converse as they had last night, but Papa's hospitality seemed short-lived. The rule of silence, forged in
her childhood, was not to be violated twice. All that was heard was the clink of utensils and the whine and snap of the hearth's fire as if it begged for more wood, leaving her to wonder if Scotsmen liked a bit more merriment at their table.

Mama was missing, busy with Thomas and baby Jon, whom she could hear fretting mightily despite his being at the opposite end of the house with all the doors shut in between. When Eden went to fetch the apple cake from the kitchen, adding a generous dollop of cream atop it, she knew she must ask about her things—or burst. Soon Silas would return to work.

Serving her father first, she moved toward Silas, praying she'd not drop the dish. As she gave him some cake, he gestured to the empty chair beside him. Looking down, she felt a swelling relief. There, half hidden beneath the tablecloth hem, were her beloved things. Not once did Papa look up from his dish as she gathered them in her apron and returned to the kitchen.

Quickly she took inventory. All was as she'd left them—the borrowed books, the journal, and an unfamiliar volume of red leather underneath.
The Poetry of James Thomson
. Intrigued, she opened the flyleaf.

To Niel Ballantyne for services rendered, Sir John Murray, 1765.

A hundred questions sprang to mind, begging answers. Had he meant this for her? Her fingers touched one gilt-edged page after another, lips parting in surprise at the scrap of paper marking a particular poem. On it he'd written a note in a hand far finer than a man of his station should possess.

Eden, I did not mean to take your room, nor your books. Silas

Putting a hand to her trembling mouth, she tried to staunch her emotion. She was unaccustomed to such kindness. And she knew then he wouldn't mock her, nor read what wasn't his. Nay, he'd shared something of his own. Never having heard of the poet Thomson, she was intrigued. She couldn't wait to begin, but chores awaited. For now two lines would have to suffice:

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,

Just as the dew-bent rose is born . . .

Clutching the book to her heart, she sought a hideaway in the busy kitchen till her work was done. Since Elspeth would soon be up and about—indeed, had shocked them all by going to the smithy at dawn and ruining her best slippers in the snow—the kitchen was not safe. Nearly on tiptoe, Eden traded the warm room for the cold hall, peeked into her parents' bedchamber, and found Mama nursing Jon by the hearth.

The summer parlor, then. 'Twas her favorite room by far. Full of cast-offs from Hope Rising, it had a pretense of grandeur and nearly made her forget she was a prisoner of the farmhouse. The plaster walls were covered with copper-red paint, and the overall impression was charming, if a bit discordant. In winter the room was closed off, as the family preferred the smaller parlor with its mammoth hearth adjoining the dining room.

Closing the door, Eden shivered. The icy floorboards seemed to penetrate the soles of her shoes. Everything smelled of dust, disuse, and beeswax. Pondering the furnishings, she chose a seldom-used secretary, its heavy lines forbidding. Surely no one would bother looking here. She hid her things and then left hurriedly, making her way to the weaving room, when a sudden hiss stopped her cold.