Love's Fortune

  “I play mostly by ear, though I’ve brought sheet music for the children.” Anxious to start, Wren unclasped her case while Addie went to fetch a stand.

  “I hesitate to ask . . .” Mrs. Sheffield looked apologetic. “But I’ve been so concerned about your grandfather.”

  Straightening, Wren rested the Nightingale in her lap. “He’s still very ill. We’re . . . waiting.”

  “Of course. Our prayers are with him—all your family. I’ll bring the children in so you can begin.”

  The afternoon flew, Wren nearly forgetting all that awaited her at New Hope. Andra had given her one afternoon not crowded with fittings and etiquette, at least. Just yesterday the dancing master had been dismissed at Miss Criss’s recommendation, as there was no more need of his services. James had come instead, surprising her, leading her about New Hope’s third-floor ballroom till their shared steps were nearly faultless and she had little breath left.

  “I never misdoubted you could dance,” she told him. “But I never thought you’d do it as well as you pilot.”

  “Careful with your praise, Miss Ballantyne. It might well go to my head.”

  They slowed to a stop, a mere handbreadth apart. Close enough for her to notice the steady rhythm of his chest as it rose and fell beneath layers of linen and silken waistcoat.

  “I had some trouble with that last turn,” he murmured.

  Did he? He never seemed to misstep, not in word or dance or deed.

  “We could try again,” she ventured, aware of Miss Criss and Andra watching from a settee.

  The fiddler struck a waltz and Wren gave herself up to the music, to James’s clean, masculine scent and hard arms, his firm, faultless leading. Round and round they went till she grew so winded and dizzy she was little more than a puddle of pleasure.

  He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “You remind me of your mother. She danced like she made music. You look like her too.”

  “You remember Mama?” Somehow the fact he did made her loss less bittersweet.

  “I remember my time in England like it was yesterday. I watched your father’s courtship with her play out before my eyes.”

  “I wondered where you learned the violin.” Simply recalling their duet at River Hill turned her joyful. “Playing by ear is no small matter. You have a heart for the music. I can hear it.”

  “I’ve never given it much thought. Not till you came.”

  The waltz faded and he brought her to a gentle halt. The fiddler took his leave, bowing to them and going out, Miss Criss and Andra trailing after him.

  Surprised, Wren looked back at James with wry amusement. “I seem to remember some rule about not being alone with a man, Mr. Sackett.”

  A half smile threatened his solemnity. “Your escort has liberties no other man has, Miss Ballantyne.”

  “Oh? You should call me Wren, then.” He had, hadn’t he? At last meeting?

  He hesitated, his gaze holding hers for a beat too long. She half feared he would remind her of her manners. “Only if you call me Jamie.”

  Jamie. Not James.

  Her heart gave a little leap. That she could do.

  Recalling their surprising exchange now, she packed up her violin, pausing a moment to let her gaze wander the orphanage’s austere walls. She still struggled with the fact he’d grown up in this very place. Did he remember his parents or even know who they were? Her heart craved answers. Happy endings. A man like James Sackett should have a home. With Izannah if need be. But that was none of her concern either. Cousin or no, she wouldn’t be accused of meddling.

  She left the orphanage, the success of the first lesson forgotten as thoughts of the coming season pressed in. Unwilling to return to New Hope, unable to bear the grief and tension at River Hill, she had her driver take her about the city.

  Pittsburgh wasn’t so strange to her now. It bore an ugly familiarity with its pall and bustle and matched her unsettled mood. Remembering it was nearing Papa’s birthday, she stopped at the tobacconist and the confectioner in the market square, testing her newfound freedom. Though she carried a beaded reticule, no money changed hands. She simply told them who she was and what she wanted, and the desired item was bundled up and given over with a smile and sound thanks.

  Money was never to be mentioned, Andra said. Even bankruptcy—something that happened to other people—was referred to as embarrassment. A Ballantyne never carried cash in town. There was simply no need when one owned the bank. Wren recalled it tongue in cheek, struck by her aunt’s high-minded notions.

  Where was the evidence of the Ballantynes’ humble beginnings? When Grandfather had come from Scotland with scarcely twopence in his pocket? She herself was merely Wren from Cane Run and always would be. Yet she was beginning to draw notice as she went about Pittsburgh.

  Perhaps it was the Ballantyne coach, as fine if not finer than any she passed on the street, or the fact she had no maid. A sudden qualm beset her. Should Mim have come? She’d only meant to go to the Orphan Home, not the market.

  Clad in a ruby cape, she scurried about like a windblown leaf, her matching bonnet just as eye-catching. One man, then two, gave a slight bow as she passed. Though Andra wasn’t with her, her strident voice intruded.

  A lady never seeks to attract attention or form an acquaintance on the street.

  Oh, why hadn’t she brought Mim?

  Clutching her packages, she hastened her step to the curb where the carriage waited, bringing an end to town.

  If only she could do the same with the coming season.

  21

  High rank and soft manners may not always belong to a true heart.

  ANTHONY TROLLOPE

  Wren entered the morning room, finding Andra stirring sugar into her tea so vigorously the china cup rattled. She looked up from the Gazette, expression pinched. “The weather has taken a turn and looks to be dismal the night of the Mellons’ ball. We’ll have to make sure you’re properly cloaked and don’t mar your new slippers.”

  Sitting opposite, Wren bit her lip before she could mumble any thanks as a lone egg was set before her. Later Mim would slip her a biscuit, but with her new French corset so tightly laced, she feared any food she swallowed would reappear.

  Andra glanced at the mantel clock. “Miss Criss is expected any minute.”

  Oh? Hungry as Wren was, she’d had her fill of Miss Criss. The conversation she’d overheard yesterday beat in her brain relentlessly, stealing what little confidence she’d mustered.

  “If we can keep Rowena dancing and playing her violin, then perhaps no one will care if she uses the wrong utensil or wears her feelings on her sleeve.” Miss Criss’s strident voice drifted to her from the dressing room, adding yet another layer of dread and dismay to the web of the season.

  “Her dowry is sufficient enough to hush the staunchest critics.” Andra’s usual irritableness held a note of triumph. “There’s not a debutante from here to Philadelphia who is her equal in that.”

  Wren pondered their words. Was Papa responsible for her dowry? Whoever it was, she was now weighted with a name and a fortune, which might somehow make up for her rusticity, her backwoods beginnings. If some man was willing.

  Reaching toward a silver salver, Andra returned Wren to the present as she passed her the post. “A letter’s come this morning from your father. It seems business is keeping him in Boston.”

  Wren broke the wax seal, ignoring the meager breakfast in front of her.

  Dear Daughter,

  I am writing to you from Boston, which is becoming more familiar to me than I had hoped. I trust you are well and will forgive my long absence.

  Yesterday I received a letter from Mina Cameron telling me you are to have a season with James Sackett as your escort. If not for his steady presence, I would be more concerned than I am.

  Still, I question if this is wise. A debut invariably means marriage, and I must urge you to tread cautiously in this respect. Society is not what it seems. If you find a yo
ung man to your liking, do nothing till I return.

  It was hardly the letter she’d expected. Had Papa not received hers? She looked up at Andra. “Does Papa know Grandfather has worsened?”

  Andra set her napkin aside. “We’ve sent another telegram but haven’t received a reply.”

  I’ve been given a fair price for two of the Cremona violins and have hopes this may help in the recovery of the lost Guarneri. Meanwhile, Ballantyne business takes most of my time.

  My continued love and prayers are with you.

  Papa

  What, she wondered, did he write to Mina Cameron?

  Setting the post aside, she bent her head and tried to summon thanks, but before she’d finished her egg, Andra started in, unveiling a stack of etiquette books on a near table. “Once Miss Criss and the seamstresses are here, we’ll have the final fitting for the gown you’ll be wearing to the upcoming musical soiree.”

  First the ball, then the soiree. Wren said nothing, mulling over Papa’s letter till Mim appeared, something in hand.

  Pleasure overrode Andra’s moodiness of moments before. “I’d nearly forgotten your visiting cards, fresh from the printers. You’re to keep them in this case.”

  The case was made of silver, the lid a pearly ivory depicting a turreted manor house among trees. Wren could think of half a dozen uses for the fancy case, none of which pertained to visiting. Yet visit she must.

  “This is an etching of the Ballantynes’ estate in Scotland,” Andra told her.

  Grandfather’s Highland refuge? At the moment it sounded like the most pleasant place on earth.

  With a flick of the lid, Andra revealed engraved cards made of choice white paper, the lettering a rich black. Removing one, she propped it against a crystal saltcellar.

  Miss Rowena Ballantyne

  “Once the season is under way, visiting shall begin in earnest. A tray is in the entry hall to collect cards, the most distinguished names on top. No one would ever think of seeing another person at home without leaving his or her visiting card first.”

  Wren passed a finger over the fancy engraving, bemused. Who invented all these rules and then cast them in iron? Pittsburgh lagged a bit behind sophisticated Philadelphia, Miss Criss said. What on earth was the season like there?

  Miss Criss arrived, energized by one too many cups of tea and the lemon drops she consumed in rapid succession. As usual, she lost no time in getting to business. “Let’s review what you’ve learned, Rowena, and make a game of round-robin out of it. Perhaps that way our lesson won’t be so dull.”

  Wren bit her lip. Not even round-robin could enliven the humorless Miss Criss or the etiquette she dispensed. But she nodded obligingly nevertheless.

  “I’ll begin.” Taking a seat across from her, Pittsburgh’s social maven launched into a timeworn refrain. “One must avoid extremes of shyness or boldness.”

  Andra set down her teacup. “Absolutely no mention of religion or politics.”

  Wren folded her hands in her lap, her head throbbing like the Edinburgh-made clock in the foyer. Beneath the table she plucked the little bird Addie had given her from her pocket. It was smoothed to a satiny finish by her worried fingers, and she felt like a child with a comforting toy. “Don’t drum your fingers or hum a tune.”

  Miss Criss gave a stiff nod. “Never laugh out loud.”

  Be seated with ease.

  Never finger your face.

  Discipline your eyes.

  Eat with delicacy.

  Scatter no crumbs.

  Weariness pressed down on her like a heavy blanket. So many rules . . . The whole lot of them were running together in her head like ants at a Sunday picnic.

  For a moment all etiquette seemed to have slipped from her grasp. Next she knew she was in bed, having “cast up accounts”—thrown up all her supper—or what little there was of it.

  Mim hovered over her, candelabra in hand, stark worry in her eyes. “Ye’ve got a fever, ye do. Plain as day! I’ll go wake yer aunt—”

  “No!” Mouth like cotton, Wren shook her head, wishing Papa was near. Or Molly. And Mama, always. When she was fevered, Mama would lay cold cloths upon her heated skin and sing a hymn and pray. “Not a word, Mim . . . please.”

  “But what if it’s something dire? There’s talk of typhoid going round Pittsburgh again, and ye spent all day yesterday in town—”

  “Just let me be till morning.”

  “Till morning? Ye might nae be here come morning.” Mim’s cool hand fluttered against her fiery cheek. “I’ll nae let ye slip away from me like Miss Charlotte. Oh, aye, nae for a minute, if I can help it.”

  Alone in River Hill’s breakfast room, a smaller chamber painted azure blue and dwarfed by an enormous sideboard, James pushed aside his half-eaten breakfast. A maid whisked his tray away, then opened the drapes on a wet world. He wanted to inquire about matters upstairs yet sensed nothing had changed. Silas was, no doubt, still holding on, the pneumonia in his lungs crowding out the last bit of life and air while ordinary life unfolded all around him.

  Behind him the fire crackled noisily in the grate, replenished by yet another servant, the only sound in the huge house. Moments earlier the judge had left for another day in court. James missed the noise of the boys. Normalcy.

  “The house is too quiet,” he said more to himself than Izannah when she appeared and shut the door.

  “I agree.” Weariness lined her brow. He missed her winsome smile. Lately her expression stayed careworn. “With Grandfather so ill, the boys are still at Broad Oak.”

  The mention turned him more restless. His confrontation with Wade in the hall outside Silas’s bedchamber was slow to fade. But it was Bennett’s last words that bore down on him in an unwelcome rush.

  I’m not going to inherit any antislavery nonsense, is that understood? Not even a whisper of it. There’s a great deal at stake here, Rowena’s season foremost. Need I remind you that more than a few of Pittsburgh’s leading lights oppose the abolitionist cause?

  Alexander Mellon, foremost.

  A chill traveled down James’s spine at the thought of dancing and dining beneath the Mellons’ palatial roof in two days’ time. But there was little he could do about it. He fought the urge to light his pipe, then gave in to it.

  “Smoking after breakfast, James?” A small smile lifted Izannah’s heaviness as she took the chair across from him. “That isn’t like you, though I do love the scent of your tobacco. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were skittish about the coming season.”

  He studied her, thinking of Malachi. Wishing he’d make a move to see her. He half regretted mentioning him after Lake Lanark, realizing the false hopes he’d raised. “The season doesn’t worry me. I’m thinking of your grandfather.”

  She nodded. “Everything hinges on him—and always has. This tragedy with Charlotte Ashburton has taken a toll. I sometimes think that alone caused his collapse. But Bennett has always been a thorn.”

  Their eyes met, held, as a commotion in the hall signaled someone’s approach. Ellie appeared in cape, bonnet, and gloves, shutting the door behind her as a cold draft crept in.

  Izannah stood. “Mama, are you going to town?”

  “New Hope.” Her expression, usually so genial, was fraught with alarm. “A servant has brought word that Wren is ill. I’m reluctant to leave Da, but I must. With the season starting so soon . . .” Her gaze swung to James.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, already on his feet at her appearing.

  “No—please. I appreciate the offer, but you’re both needed here. Besides, my confrontation with Andra won’t be pretty and is long overdue.”

  Izannah stepped toward her. “What is the matter with Wren?”

  “She’s come down with a fever, her maid says. I pray it’s only the influenza, though that in itself is cause for worry. With her father away . . .” She kissed Izannah hurriedly and bade James farewell with a look. “I don’t know when I’ll return. Chloe has just been f
ed and is asleep.”

  “I’ll see to Chloe,” Izannah answered, following her mother out without a backward glance at him.

  James moved to a window, fighting the urge to follow, as rain splashed the pane and marred his view. A sodden coach and groom were waiting by the mounting block, and soon the vehicle lumbered away, wheels splattering mud as it shrank from sight.

  Setting his smoking pipe aside, he bowed his head. His pulse was racing in an odd pattern, making it hard to draw an easy breath.

  Wren.

  Was she overwrought about the season and had fallen ill? If so, he wasn’t surprised. He was nearly sick himself anticipating what was to come. He shut his eyes, praying Ellie would summon the doctor if Andra didn’t. Andra had a strange Scots stubbornness that sometimes overrode good sense. He feared it would take Ansel’s return to set things right in regard to Wren.

  Passing a hand over a jaw he’d not bothered shaving, he took up his pipe again but found no pleasure in it. His gaze landed on the morning’s Gazette riddled with the usual dire news, reminding him of Madder’s Mystic Conspiracy. But the predicament downriver paled next to the one he was about to begin in Pittsburgh’s drawing rooms.

  As long as he kept his feelings in check, acting simply as Wren’s escort, the season would move forward and no one would suspect he was falling in love with her. But it would cost him dearly. And he had no idea how the season would end.

  22

  Someone has gone to the bright golden shore.

  Ring the bell softly, there’s crepe on the door.

  DEXTER SMITH AND E. L. CATLIN

  Wren thrust the bedcovers back with leaden arms, amazed that a fever could steal so much strength. Carriage wheels were spinning on the drive, their muffled arrival heard through the window Mim had left open for fresh air. A sick anxiety swirled through her that it might be someone with word about Grandfather. Mim had told her the servants at New Hope, River Hill, and Ballantyne Hall were readying black crepe bands and all the trappings of mourning.