“Well, we might be worrying needlessly. This season of yours might never come to pass. There’s Grandfather’s health to consider, and you’ll need a suitable wardrobe. Mine was months in the making. I remember Andra complaining bitterly of your Louisville dresses.”
“Some of Granny’s old gowns are to be remade. They’re still beautiful, hidden away in the attic like they’ve been. The seamstresses seemed pleased with the idea.” But not Andra. No matter how hard Wren tried, Andra would always find her lacking.
Izannah lapsed into preoccupied silence while Wren pushed her food about her plate, as she’d surely do come her debut.
Nineteen more days.
Her ordeal had just begun.
Coming home from the Monongahela House, Izannah shut herself away in her chintz bedchamber. Still a bit dazed from seeing Malachi Cameron across the busy dining room, she took out a key at her writing desk and unlocked a secret drawer. Countless clippings from Pittsburgh’s newspapers, some so old they were yellowed and faded, lay before her. Her prayers for a husband and family outnumbered them all yet seemed to go without answer. And then, when she’d all but given up, Malachi had returned, reviving hope.
She knew Malachi preferred to winter in Philadelphia or even his Edinburgh townhouse, not here in the semi-wilds of western Pennsylvania, grand new house or no. He was having the mansion built mainly for his aunt Mina’s benefit, the servants whispered. Mina wanted him to settle down and thought such a house a fine reminder.
The memory of their last meeting clung to her, and she felt almost light-headed recalling it now. Time hadn’t diminished how handsome he’d looked that day, standing on the levee in the bright spring sunlight, ready to go downriver to New Orleans. She’d happened to be in the city shopping and had picked up a little something for James in farewell. Coming by the boatyard office to give it to him, she’d run into Malachi instead.
Unused to the hustle and bustle of the waterfront, she’d nearly been upended by a dray and a heavy load of freight, the near collision sending her bumping into the man she couldn’t quite shake free of. Her maid stood by, aghast, as Malachi Cameron intervened.
“Miss Turlock? Are you hurt?” Reaching out, he took her gloved hand, looking her over as if he feared she was. His touch was sure, confident, leaving a tingling trail from her head to her toes. But his studied formality hurt her somehow, as if reinforcing the years and distance that had come between them.
“I’m fine, thank you. I’d just forgotten how hazardous the levee can be.” The rushed words were full of irony and angst. Hazardous to my heart. “Are you about to leave Pittsburgh again, Mr. . . . ?” She left off. She wouldn’t call him by his surname. He was simply Malachi and always would be.
“So it seems.” He broke their gaze to eye a waiting packet. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that you’re leaving too?”
“I’m afraid I’m tied to home.” She smiled, trying not to gaze up at him with a schoolgirl’s adoration. “But I must admit, as exciting as steamboats are, I’d rather ride on your train.”
He chuckled. “I’ll see if I can hurry that up for you. Lay some track in Pittsburgh.”
“Will you be away long?”
“Longer than I like.” He studied her, hazel eyes slightly brooding beneath the brim of his top hat. “After New Orleans I return to Philadelphia and then Edinburgh.”
So far. Simply hearing about such places set her soul on fire. She was cast back to the globes and maps of their schoolroom and endless books filled with fascinating facts. Yet she’d never set foot beyond Philadelphia or Cincinnati. Sometimes it seemed she would burst from the desire to roam.
“You’re looking at me like you want to go with me.” His honest appraisal brought heat to her cheeks.
She groped for a memorable response, wanting to make the most of this very fleeting moment. His eyes held hers, as if he was wanting more too. Or had she dreamed of him so long it was clouding her usually sound judgment?
“Perhaps one day women will travel as men do,” she murmured, unsure of him.
“Perhaps,” he replied.
“I wish you safe travels, Malachi.” On a whim she handed him what she’d bought for James. “A little something for your going away.”
He’d turned swarthy as the package passed from her gloved hands to his. Only now she couldn’t recall what she’d given him. Something from the tobacconist or confectioner’s, perhaps. Or a book shop. She supposed it didn’t matter. He probably no longer remembered it either.
Or did he?
Scarcely a ray of October light penetrated the gloom of Silas’s bedchamber. Damask drapes were drawn tight, and no lamp was lit. A low fire burned in the grate, sending an occasional spark into the shadows. James sat by the bed, head sunk in his hands. The labored rasp of Silas’s breathing ate away at what little composure he’d arrived with an hour earlier. For some reason the doctors had let him in, when they’d been guarded with visitors before. A bad sign. As if they’d given up hope and it no longer mattered. Aside from the occasional intrusion of a nurse or Ellie and Eden, James had been entirely alone with him.
Deep in his gut was the certainty that the time had come for Silas to leave them. Yet James stumbled on the mere thought. Silas had always been there for him. Like Pittsburgh. James didn’t like to think of the course his life might have taken if there’d been no Ballantynes. No Orphan Home. No apprenticeship.
He’d always given Silas and Eden credit for what became of him. But lately, as if a light was dawning, he’d begun to think it was more God at work through the choices and actions of His people. Silas was the father he’d never had. Strong. Ever present. Silas never seemed to lose his balance, walking the tightrope of finance and industry with grace and skill, never compromising his beliefs or losing sight of a deeper purpose. James longed to be like him. But his faith was so small. His unbelief great.
A door opened softly then shut. He felt a hand on his hunched shoulder. Felt the gentle, reassuring warmth of outspread fingers through the heavy broadcloth of his coat.
Izannah? He looked up, surprise edging out grief.
Wren.
She stood just behind him, eyes on the still figure atop the bed, the faint rustle of her skirts rising above Silas’s ragged breathing.
James sat back and her hand fell away. He hadn’t seen her since they’d been out riding, yet they’d soon be thrust together at every turn—if Silas lived. He shut his eyes against the thought, only to open them to the sight of her on her knees.
Skirts burnished a deep plum in the firelight, she knelt by the bed, head bent, one hand outstretched to cover Silas’s own as it lay limp atop the coverlet. James’s throat closed and his eyes burned as she breathed a heartrending prayer into the stillness. Awe washed through him. She hardly knew this grandfather of hers while he sat close as kin, so choked by emotion he felt paralyzed. He expected her to rise, but she stayed where she was for a very long time.
Humbled, James wanted to get down beside her. Wanted to feel his knees scrape the hard floor like when he’d been a boy. Often Eden Ballantyne had come round to the orphanage back then, kneeling like Wren, taking his small hands in her own when he was sick or in low spirits. He bent his head beneath the weight of the memory as Wren’s whispered prayer of moments before settled over him like a balm. He needed to get on his knees about a great many things. His grief over Bixby. Charlotte. His everlasting struggle with Bennett. The choices before him.
The figure atop the bed was all too still. Shaken, unable to keep himself in check, James went out, turning round once to linger on Silas’s profile. Peaceful. No sign of struggle. Only that agonized rattling in his chest that was a punishment to witness.
He passed into the hall, taking a seat on a settee. The doctors came and Wren emerged, sitting beside him when he’d expected her to go. Still feeling choked, he endured the pained silence, the width of her skirts like a third person between them.
“Are you . . . all right?”
she asked him.
He fixed his damp gaze on an oil painting across the hall. “No.”
She looked to her lap, silent, and then reached for his fisted hand on the settee between them. Her touch was warm. Kind. Violating every tenet of custom and etiquette he knew. His pulse quickened. Her callused fingers were like the strike of a match, lighting a fire he feared couldn’t be put out.
The familiar hum of the house went on all around them. Servants scurrying. Doors quietly closing. The ever-present kitchen smells rising to the far rafters. But all he was conscious of was the subtle pressure of her fingers against his own.
Her voice was low and melodic if grieved. “Once Grandfather passes . . . goes to glory . . . what will happen then?”
Goes to glory. The heartfelt expression tugged at him, another reminder of how differently she thought about things. Cleanly. Honestly. Almost childlike in her simplicity.
“We’ll all be in full mourning for a year or better.”
He could feel her taking it in, all the ramifications. He wasn’t sure what mourning was like in Cane Run, but her thoughtful silence told him it was handled differently than here.
“A season seems frivolous at such a time,” she said.
“It might not come to pass.” Yet his own conflicted feelings left him hoping—praying—it would. He wanted the season to move forward. He wanted her to marry well. He wanted an end to the way she went to his head like wine.
“I don’t want anything to happen to Grandfather, but neither do I want to meet Pittsburgh.” Her voice fell to an agonized whisper. “I want you to promise me . . .” Her features turned so entreating he felt he held her future in his hands. “Promise me you’ll go slowly. I’ve never before had a suitor. Never been alone with a man nor been kissed . . .”
He nearly winced as she laid the matter bare between them. He looked at her then, taking liberties he had no right to. He grew lost in the gentle curve of her cheek, her thick lashes, the way her hair escaped its pins, trailing like blonde lace to her bent shoulders.
His breathing was nearly nonexistent now. He cast about for the right words, trying to tread carefully. “I’m a gentleman, remember, who’s been charged to introduce you to the same. Since I know so many in Pittsburgh, it stands to reason you’re in good hands.”
“I know all this is happening to marry me off, make a proper match. But I’m not accomplished, other than the violin. Andra says I’m rough spun, among other things.”
His jaw clenched. He forced his gaze to his boots. While Andra and Bennett schemed and maneuvered about her future, did they have to drag her through the mud of their prejudices and criticisms too?
“I can’t help but wonder . . .” Her voice cracked with vulnerability. “What if no man wants me or finds me pleasing?”
“Wren . . .” He swallowed past the hammering tightness in his chest, his precarious use of her given name. “Falling in love with you would be easy. You are a very beautiful woman, and a very charming one.”
She sat very still, his heartfelt words falling into the stillness between them. He couldn’t take them back. He didn’t want to. He’d exposed his heart when he’d merely meant to bolster her confidence. But it was out there—every tender word—lingering like a vow between them.
He was on the edge of his emotions. Feeling too deeply. Revealing too much. Standing up so quickly he felt light-headed, he excused himself, fixing his gaze on the stairwell banister down the hall just as Izannah cleared the top step.
Her surprise at finding them together was plain. She looked to him and then Wren, features pinched with worry and fatigue. He pushed past her without a word, wondering what they would say in his wake.
Wondering if Silas would make it through another night.
19
Dresses for breakfast and dinners and balls;
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in;
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in;
Dresses in which to do nothing at all.
WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER
Ordeal by fork.
There was simply no other way to describe it. But first . . . the entrance.
“You must walk in a measured gait at all times, looking neither to the right nor the left.” Catherine Criss’s voice filled the dining room’s cold space while Andra sat in somber observation at table’s end. “Remember, haste is incompatible with grace.”
Wren entered New Hope’s dining room, fighting the breathless feeling someone was sitting on her chest, and finally made it to the appointed chair where other perils awaited.
“Take care not to disturb the furniture when you sit down, and mind your skirts so that they fall gracefully around you.” The biting censure in Miss Criss’s voice was more daunting than the obstacle course before her. “Now remove your gloves and lay them atop your lap before unfolding your napkin.”
Wren did as she bade, flushing at the next dictum. “You are to make no remark upon the food set before you, not even in praise. Nor do you acknowledge the servants with so much as a word or glance.”
This was surely a pointed rebuke to her effusiveness, as her aunt called it. Making too much of every little thing. Gushing was vulgarity itself.
Andra cleared her throat. “One misstep will mark you as a social counterfeit, Rowena, a gaffe from which you will never recover.”
Wren nodded, careful to keep her eyes down demurely. Eye contact, like a curtsey or a bow, was meted out carefully, the slightest glance indicating the degree or warmth of a relationship . . . and there was no kind feeling around this immense table.
“Depending on the dinner party, you may or may not peruse a handwritten menu prior to being served.” Taking a seat beside her, Miss Criss turned the full force of her gaze Wren’s way. “The first course usually begins with what pairing?”
“Champagne and—” Wren struggled to keep the distaste from her tone. “Raw oysters.”
“Correct. After this, waiters will offer a choice of soup and sherry to be followed by fish and Chablis.”
The menu would be endless and extravagant, mostly in French, comprising course after course that could feed a great many hungry souls in the dingy alleys of Pittsburgh. Try as she might, Wren couldn’t help feeling a sickening sense of excess even imagining it, like eating too much icing on an empty stomach. Nor could she distinguish all the silver.
“Take up your seafood fork.” The unrelenting pace of Miss Criss’s lessons the last fourteen days had worn Wren to a threepenny nail.
The seafood fork? Wren extended an unsure hand, torn between two nearly identical utensils.
“Remember, the slightest hesitation will betray you.”
She’d been betrayed.
“The seafood fork is the fourth fork to the right of the oval soup spoon,” Miss Criss interjected firmly. “Always.”
Wren looked at the maze of cutlery before her and wanted to raise a white flag of surrender. “There is also the dessert fork, the ice cream fork, the pastry fork, the strawberry fork, the salad fork, and the lobster fork. And I’ve not even begun to name all the knives and spoons—”
“Rowena!” Andra’s raised voice fell harshly around them. “There’s time enough to tell which is which. Eight days, to be exact. For now, Mistress Endicott is in the hall. I’m anxious to see what miracles she’s worked with your dresses.”
Miracles? There was thinly veiled sarcasm in Andra’s tone. Before an answering dismay leapt to Wren’s face, she reined herself in, remembering restraint ruled the day.
A mark of good breeding is the suppression of any undue emotion, any true feeling to the outside world.
Hadn’t James Sackett taught her this? With his everlasting reserve and impeccable manners?
As soon as she thought it, she felt a check. She’d seen through his stoicism but twice, when he’d first smiled at her while out riding, and then again outside Grandfather’s sickroom. In the broken, heart-shattering stillness, she’d glimpsed a part of him that stay
ed hidden. As her hand reached for his, his reserve had given way for a too-tender second and he’d nearly come undone.
He cared for Grandfather deeply. He’d cared for Georgiana and had lost her. She felt a catch in her throat, remembering, barely aware Andra and Miss Criss had left the room.
Sighing, she pressed clammy fingers to her temples as if to push the pain of her headache away. The added aggravation of an empty stomach made her light-headed. The egg she’d had upon rising and the broth she’d had at noon made little sense. She was expected to starve till the Mellons’ ball and then stuff herself during?
Bumping the table upon rising brought a near wince. The silver seemed to chime, calling out her foible, but only Mim appeared in the doorway, worry on her ruddy face. Making a beeline toward her, Mim made quick work of a napkin, revealing a warm biscuit slathered with butter and jam.
“Yer going to faint dead away—fall right into yer soup—yer first night out. I’ll nae let them starve ye to death!”
Taking the offering, Wren downed it in two bites, careful of crumbs. The scurry in the foyer was heightening as seamstresses and assistants hurried upstairs, arms full of dresses.
“As many dresses as forks,” Mim whispered in sympathy.
For now only one dress mattered—the gown for the opening ball. And from the exclamations floating down from the second floor, it was creating something of a stir.
By the time Wren reached the dressing room of her bedchamber, not a sound could be heard. Cautiously she peered round the doorframe. The women were huddled round a dress form where the altered gown was on display, blocking her view.
“I believe this is the very gown my mother was wearing when she first came to Pittsburgh and met up with my father again.” Andra’s voice was oddly sentimental. “The occasion was a River Hill ball over fifty years ago.”
Brushing a biscuit crumb from her bodice, Wren joined them, her breath catching at the sight of so much antique silk. Every buttery line and pleat and pearl embellishment was a picture of elegance.