“No thanks needed,” James replied, suddenly troubled by the sight of Bennett walking along the shoreline of the lake. So he’d come after all. If Bennett was present, Peyton was never far.
“Simply put, I’ve decided to make some lasting changes.” Silas spoke with deliberate care, his aged features resigned. “I’m assigning you the new Ballantyne-Cameron alliance while you’re off the river, and leaving older, less significant business to Bennett and his father. Any future enterprises will be handled by Ansel and, in my absence, overseen by him completely.” He hesitated as if weighing the wisdom of his next words. “I have the utmost faith in you and Ansel, James. I only wish I could say the same of everyone.”
James felt nearly light-headed with relief, yet a tug of sympathy remained. Rarely did Silas speak disparagingly about family, but he had become increasingly frustrated with Bennett’s disastrous business acumen and Peyton’s utter lack of vision.
“I’ll make the announcement tonight following supper when everyone is present.”
The shrewdness of the plan was not lost on James. When it was delivered to everyone at once, Peyton and Bennett would not be able to defy Silas or circumvent the process. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks, though the unprecedented changes meant Silas was letting go.
“I hope all of this will make your respite from the river more palatable.” Silas’s solemnity gave way to a familiar, sharp-eyed clarity. “I’m optimistic our new agreement with the Camerons will transition into our becoming a part of the transcontinental rail system in the future and lead to further business ventures in California.”
James felt a hitch of surprise. They’d talked about the gold rush in the past, of fortunes made and lost and the opportunities to be had there. “I’m on board,” he said with an interest and enthusiasm he hadn’t felt in months.
“Very well, then. We have much to look forward to.”
Moonrise gilded the lake silver, the surrounding stillness so hushed it felt hallowed. James sat in the shadows of the veranda, thoughts racing, the cadence of his pulse as steady as the crickets’ pulsating calls. Looking back on the lengthy dinner hour, he could barely recall what had been served or whom he’d sat beside. Once Silas had made his announcement, the room held a startled hush as everyone grappled with the sweeping changes, Peyton and Bennett foremost. They’d masked their discomfiture none too well, but the die had now been cast and there was no turning back.
“I’m afraid Pittsburgh is nearing the end of its heyday in the steamboat trade with the coming of the railroad,” Silas had told them. Resignation tinged his tone, but it was followed by a beat of optimism. “’Tis time for a new venture. We need to be looking west. I have every confidence that these changes will solidify our standing in Pittsburgh and move us into more exciting endeavors beyond its limits.”
At Silas’s announcement, James’s gaze had drifted five seats down to Malachi Cameron, who’d broached a different proposal a week prior. Delivered to the boatyard office, the telegram was as forthright as Malachi could make it.
Need freight agent for the Pennsylvania Railroad. Are you the man?
Either offer was the making of a fortune. A future. Gratitude swelled inside him. How had an orphaned boy come so far? By the grace of God. And the Ballantynes.
A creak on the stair through the clubhouse’s open door broke James’s concentration. He went completely still. The slant of the moon told him it was half past four. Likely a servant laying the breakfast fires. Sunrise came late to the autumn woods.
A shadow darkened the moonlit veranda. Barefoot, clad in shirtsleeves and trousers, russet hair on end, Malachi Cameron looked anything but the owner of the Pennsylvania Railroad.
“Morning, Malachi.”
“Morning, James. Can’t you sleep?” He rubbed a hand over his eyes as if he’d been sleepwalking and was surprised to find himself out of bed. “I’m so used to working round the clock I don’t know dawn from midnight.”
“I can make some coffee.”
“Why? So I can be up all day too?” With a lopsided grin Malachi took the nearest chair, suddenly sobering. “I’ll admit it’s not business that keeps me awake.”
James relaxed, glad of it. He needed time to sort through all the changes. Time to prayerfully consider the future. A cold gust of wind sent a shower of dry leaves off the roof and onto the porch, leaving a scarlet trail. He crossed his arms against the chill, his own bare feet like ice.
“I thought perhaps coming here would be the respite I needed. Help me forget.” Malachi steepled his fingers and looked out at the lake. The utter quiet called for confidences not to be had in a crowded dining room. “Since my father died, I can’t seem to get my bearings.”
“It’s not been a year yet,” James said, but the reassurance came too fast. Time, in this case, didn’t matter. Some wounds never healed, including his own.
“Being here in autumn brings it all back.” Malachi’s voice was low. Oddly sentimental. “There are things I wish I’d said. Done. I don’t think I told you what my father said to me at the last. That his greatest regret was to not see me married . . . know his grandchildren.”
James stayed silent. There was nothing he could say to lessen what could never be.
“I’d not given it much thought till then. But lately it’s all I think about.”
“Marrying, you mean.”
Malachi nodded. “I’ve even let my aunt Mina talk me into coming back for the winter social season.”
“That’s bound to make some Pittsburgh belles happy.”
He grimaced. “The idea of an endless round of dances and dinners and making small talk leaves me cold. I want to cut to the chase. Marry and get on with it.”
“What you need is a woman who makes you forget about work.”
“Is there such a thing?” Frustration peppered his tone. “As fond as I am of Mina and her meddling, it’s your judgment I trust, James. You have ties to everyone in the city. You know who’s worthy of courting and who’s not.”
“Are you asking me to turn matchmaker?”
“Just this once.” Malachi was watching him, expectant, ever intense. As serious as if he was talking business. “I won’t hold you responsible if the courtship is less than I’d hoped. Surely there’s some woman you can recommend.”
A dozen Pittsburgh belles danced in James’s head at the request, most of them unsuitable. He held his tongue, willing the matter to go away.
“Name one, James.”
One. James still balked. Stubborn seconds ticked by. Pushing Wren from his mind, James let go of Izannah. “You need look no further than Miss Turlock.”
“Izannah?” Malachi ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “I haven’t seen Izannah in years.”
“You’ve seen little of anyone in years, given you’ve been laying track.”
“Last I heard she didn’t finish her season.”
“True enough. Someone cut her one too many times and she refused to attend another function.”
“Someone?” Malachi’s surprise faded to a grim smirk. “I recall hearing it involved Alice Mellon. Miss Malice, Mina calls her.”
“Some of the older, moneyed families can’t get past the Turlock taint.” James worked to keep the bitterness from his tone. “Pittsburghers have long memories.”
“I seem to remember Izannah outdistancing me in the schoolroom when we shared the same tutors in years past.”
James nodded. “She’s intelligent, yes. She’s also beautiful, amiable, sensible.”
“Her father dotes on her, so I’ve heard. Won’t let her out of his sight.” He expelled a ragged breath. “I’ll admit you tempt me. If she’s anything like her mother, there may be a wealth of sons in the bargain.”
“Ten at last count.” James took his pipe from his waistcoat pocket and felt for his tobacco pouch. “You could simply court her and circumvent the social season altogether, if she’ll have you.”
Malachi took out his own pipe, igniting a match.
The lucifer flared, illuminating a wicked half smile. “You sound half in love with her yourself, Sackett.”
With a chuckle, James played along with the jest. “I’m little more than a river pilot with few prospects, remember.”
“Few prospects indeed.” Malachi raised a brow. “Rumor is Silas made you an offer tonight that may well trump mine. It’s also circulating that a certain river pilot bought a hundred thousand shares of stock before news of the Cameron-Ballantyne alliance was made public, and then when the news became print, the shares doubled and he sold them.”
Their combined laughter was a low rumble. James shrugged. “There’s no reward without risk, as Silas says.”
“Well, business aside, it’s time to settle down.” Malachi was studying him again, all seriousness, as if they’d entered into some binding agreement. “I’m approaching thirty now and getting older by the minute.”
“Then we’d best be about the business of finding you a willing bride,” James replied.
16
Music is the silence between the notes.
CLAUDE DEBUSSY
In a corner of River Hill’s heated kitchen, Izannah stood by the pastry table, eyeing her hard-won confection. Cook simply stared at the creation, delight creasing her plump face. Sugar crusted beneath their shoes—a slight spill upon mixing—but the finished product perched on its crystal cake stand, twelve layers high, brimming with icing and gingered apples like it had taken first place at the Allegheny County Fair.
“I’ve ne’er seen a stack cake.” Neva’s tone held wonder. “But it looks like you did the receipt proud.”
“One can’t go wrong with the Accomplish’d Gentlewoman’s Companion.” Izannah blew a dusting of flour from the page and closed the recipe book, satisfaction and weariness sliding through her. Though it had taken several hours to master, and an unheard-of amount of molasses and eggs, the concoction was finally done.
“Your Kentucky cousin will be pleased, I’m thinking. Stack cakes are as coveted as corn bread to Southerners. And it’s not every day a lad turns five years old—or a young miss five and twenty.” Neva uttered the number with a sigh, as if it held the stain of spinsterhood. Her pinched expression confirmed it wasn’t just Wren she was worried about either.
Undaunted, Izannah clasped her hands together. “What a happy surprise to find Tremper and Wren share a birthday. I want tonight’s celebration to be memorable for Wren, especially given her father is away.”
“How many are expected for supper?”
“I hope to have fifteen at table, provided Grandfather and James make it back from Lake Lanark.” Izannah peered out the largest window to the weeping skyline. Grandfather and James had been expected home yesterday, but a storm had blown up in the mountains, bringing rain and high wind and delaying their return. “Of course Uncle Peyton and Aunt Penelope and Bennett won’t be coming since—well, you know.”
Neva’s face darkened in understanding as she turned toward the hearth and gave a poke to a ham sizzling on a turnspit.
Izannah turned away as well, hoping to hide her high flush, which had little to do with the heat of the kitchen and everything to do with the state of her heart. Just that morning the Gazette had reported Malachi Cameron was back in Pittsburgh. Since learning it, it was all Izannah could do to keep her measuring and sifting straight. For years she’d been following him in the papers, knew every inch of track he’d laid, every business deal he’d inked, especially the much-discussed Ballantyne-Cameron alliance of late.
Untying her apron, she took a last look out the window at the late September skyline, praying James would soon come into the foyer, Grandfather safely beside him.
“Izzy!” John Henry’s jarring cry brought her romantic musings to a halt.
Leaving the fragrant kitchen, she started down the hall, ears tuned to something beyond her brothers’ scuffling—the barking of dogs, the crunch of coach wheels on gravel, the creaking open of the large front entry door.
But it was only Chloe’s cry she heard and Mama’s soft answer. For a moment she gave in to the recurring wish that Chloe was her baby and this was her house and the stack cake she’d spent the day making was for a husband instead. Foolish. Even childish, perhaps. Yet her woman’s heart craved so much more.
Lord, let Malachi come home . . . to me.
At six o’clock a commotion in the foyer turned every eye. James and Grandfather appeared just as dinner was being served, bringing the storm with them. Rain slicked James from head to toe, the damp ends of his hair curling at his coat collar, Grandfather safely beside him but just as wet. The large dining room grew hushed, and all eyes turned to their entry.
Grandfather’s lean figure filled the doorway, his voice racked with hoarseness as he sought out Tremper. “Happy birthday to my favorite grandson!”
Laughter erupted from all corners. This was always the greeting at every birthday, no matter which grandchild.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Tremper replied merrily, digging into his supper. “It’s cousin Rowena’s birthday too.”
“Och, another favorite.” Grandfather nodded to a smiling Wren as a maid whisked away his sodden coat and hat.
“My apologies for arriving late,” James said quietly when Izannah approached. “We met with some trouble along the way.”
The judge was on his feet now, insisting they go upstairs to a hot bath and dry clothes.
“All in good time, Jack,” Grandfather replied, eyes on the throng gathered around the candlelit table. “A meal should come first, aye? If you’ll excuse my muddy boots . . .”
“No matter your boots, Da.” Ellie linked arms with him, drawing him to where Grandmother and Andra waited. “You look in need of a good meal or at least some hot broth and bread. Then you’ll spend the night right here at River Hill. We’ve readied a room and laid a warm fire.”
Left alone with James in the doorway, Izannah studied him in the dim light, noting his almost roguish patch of beard, the telling shadows beneath his eyes. He looked nearly as haggard as Grandfather. “Is anything the matter?”
He glanced down at the muddy puddle in which he stood. “Better than expected, given we veered off an embankment and had to put down one of the horses.”
She winced. “Then we’re fortunate to have you both back in one piece. How was Lake Lanark?”
“Peaceful. Profitable.” He looked down at her, a beguiling light in his eyes. “Malachi Cameron sends his regards.”
Malachi . . .
The noisy party faded. Her mouth opened but no sound came. Then finally, “Oh, James, you’re not . . . jesting?”
His expression softened. “Why would I make light of something so serious?”
Joy and relief sang through her. He understood. James always understood. She dared a smile. “I’d heard he’d returned to Pittsburgh, but I had no idea he’d join you in the mountains.”
“He’ll be here for the winter.” He looked past her to the crowded dining room. “For business . . . pleasure.”
Her heart caught on the last word. He meant more than Malachi’s penchant for fox hunting, surely. Linking arms with him, she swallowed down her remaining questions and led him into dinner, where he took his place between her and John Henry.
Across from them sat Tremper, talking animatedly of his new pony. But Uncle Wade kept interrupting, teasing him mercilessly. “A five-year-old lad has no need of a pony. Why, you’re nearly a man! What say you we make a trade? Your pretty pony, Peanut, for my thoroughbred stallion, Runs Amuck . . .”
Farther down the table, Wren was watching Wade rather wide-eyed, clearly unsure of what to make of him. To her credit, no one knew what to think of Daddy’s brother. Wade Turlock was as wild as he was wealthy, full of the whiskey he distilled, saying and doing scandalous things only Aunt Elspeth would appreciate. Two birds of a feather, Mama always said.
In the background, Izannah could hear Chloe fussing upstairs, never content for long without her mother’s milk. As Mam
a left the table, Izannah’s attention kept returning to James. Would he stay on at the cottage or return to town? He seemed as in need of rest as Grandfather, yet she was anxious to know more about Malachi and Lake Lanark.
By nine o’clock they’d moved to the blue room, and Wren was asked to give an impromptu concert. Mama had returned, taking a seat at her harp, surprising them all. She’d not played during her confinement, and now the beautiful room swelled with music as they began a duet. A perfect pairing, Mama and Wren.
Izannah looked to the antique armonica in a far corner with a pang of regret. She had mastered that but little else. Reading took all her free time. She was trying hard not to think of Malachi. Folding her hands in her lap, she made eye contact with a servant to signal it was nearly time to bring in the stack cake. Around the room her gaze traveled, past all her brothers in various stages of fidgeting, to settle on Wren as she played.
Once again intuition whispered there was something between Wren and James, some fledgling attraction or denial of such. As she thought it, James’s gaze cut from Wren to the floor in front of him so that it seemed he was contemplating his wet boots. He seemed to be trying not to watch Wren, just as Izannah imagined Wren was trying not to watch him.
The lovely sonata ended, and Mama did the unthinkable. “Won’t you join us, James?”
He looked up from the shadows, fatigue fading to surprise. The barest hesitation—had he ever refused Mama?—and then he gave a nod and stood.
Izannah felt on tenterhooks. James hadn’t played since Georgiana’s passing, not to her knowledge. Was he rusty or would the music come rushing back?
Wren’s open features held a question as James took a violin from a case on a near table. Was she unaware he played the violin? Testing a string, he waited to begin. With a last inquiring look at him, Wren launched into a rousing reel. Mama’s hands fell from her harp strings as the violins matched each other note for note.