Love's Fortune

  SEASON OPENS WITH SURPRISES.

  Aye, pearls and cigars. He read on.

  BALLANTYNE BELLE SURE TO STEAL HEARTS.

  Beneath this, the name of every debutante was listed in a long column, Rowena Ballantyne leading. He felt a swell of satisfaction that she was first. She had a lovely name. So very Scottish.

  “You needn’t read any further.” Mina drained her cup and leaned back in her chair. “Every other word is about the mysterious Miss Ballantyne—what she wore, how she danced, who her escort was, the state of her fortune. They go on and on about James too. What a lovely pairing they made and all that. They even make mention of Silas.”

  “They have no shame, drawing attention to a dying man.” He turned to the business section all too eagerly.

  “It makes for riveting reading nonetheless,” she said stubbornly.

  Before he could argue, a brimming breakfast plate was set before him. He murmured his thanks, withdrawing the expensive cigar from his pocket. “Give this to Mrs. McFee and tell her I don’t expect her to smoke it.”

  With a nod the maid disappeared, and he heard a hoot of satisfaction coming from the kitchen.

  “You spoil your cook,” Mina told him, setting her napkin aside.

  “I’ll spoil her all I like. I had a devil of a time convincing her to leave Edinburgh and come here, if only for the winter.” Breakfast nearly forgotten, he turned back to the society page, focusing on one telling line.

  Miss Ballantyne performed with such grace in the ballroom she drew every eye. Indeed, her dance card was insufficient to hold all the names of her admirers.

  Reading it, he felt his pulse rise. Like he’d been thrust into the middle of some feverish contest, the competition fierce, the prize unattainable. He was used to winning, to getting what he wanted. Had his father felt the same challenge in his pursuit of Elinor Ballantyne, Izannah’s mother? Before he’d been turned aside for a Turlock?

  Gently Mina tugged the paper from his hand. “Your breakfast is getting cold. I’ll be glad to tell you the highlights.”

  He returned to his plate, thoughts suspended between Wren and James.

  “Simply put, Rowena Ballantyne is the debutante of the season, an honor which will no doubt continue at the musical soiree given by the Alexanders on Wednesday next.”

  He forked a bite of egg, counting the days. Dreading them. The Alexanders were nearly as pretentious as the Mellons.

  Mina filled the silence. “She’s something of a violin virtuoso.”

  “Yes, that she is,” he replied, remembering their memorable carriage ride.

  “Oh?” Mina leaned forward, curiosity catching fire. “How would you know? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  He cleared his throat. “A great many things.”

  “Really, Malachi, I wish you’d be more forthcoming.”

  “No need. You said you’d tell me the highlights.”

  She sighed. “Rowena Ballantyne is simply a dear, bewildered young woman deprived of her mother and home, thrust into a wealthy world she cares little about.”

  The words softened him. Made him put down his fork. He’d sensed something sad about her along the dusty road that day, fiddle and baggage in hand. The lament she’d played in the carriage came from a place soul-deep and grieving. He knew that all too well.

  “What are her father’s plans?” he asked. “Is Ansel here to stay?”

  “I hope so. At the moment he’s away on Ballantyne business, which is why James is acting as her escort. Since assuming charge of the ironworks, Ansel hasn’t much time for anything else.”

  The complaint buried in her words caught his notice. “Did Ansel give approval for his daughter to have a season?”

  “I don’t think so.” She reached for the sugar as a maid refilled her teacup. “But I believe he’d be delighted by her success, the way she’s charmed society.”

  “For one night, anyway.” He fought back the sarcasm in his tone. Society was as fickle as the rise and fall of railroad stock.

  “Don’t be so dour, Malachi. I trust you danced with her.”

  “Twice,” he said. “In a row.”

  “Back to back?” she sputtered. “But that’s simply not done!”

  “No one said a word.”

  Her smug smile returned. “Because you’re a Cameron and might run them over with a train.”

  Grinning, relishing the thought, he returned to his breakfast. “Speaking of trains, I’m expecting word of a possible merger involving the Baltimore and Ohio. Society is the farthest thing from my mind.”

  Society. But not Rowena Ballantyne.

  Standing by his office window, Ealer at work behind him, James scanned the packets lying in port, his unease rising like the rivers at flood stage. Only a few steamers were still plying the upper Mississippi this late in the season, the Rowena among them. His replacement, John Gunniston, who was committed to the lower Mississippi run with Captain Dean, wouldn’t see Pittsburgh till the spring thaw.

  James’s focus widened and took in the pewter surface of the Monongahela. Under noon skies it shimmered like a silk skirt as it slowly turned to ice. Though his time in port had just begun, he kept thinking of his quarters in the New Orleans garden district, lush with bougainvillea and bird of paradise in late fall. Already he was chafing to return to the pilothouse, where he was isolated and in control, able to change direction at will. Not lying in port like some sort of target, unable to counter any trouble.

  He hissed out a breath as the lad who’d brought him the telegram minutes before faded from sight. The message was fisted in his hand. It wasn’t the easy, informative telegram Dean usually sent that shrank the miles between them, telling of river conditions and cargo and the like. This message held fear and fury and warning.

  “P-pardon, sir. It’s about quitting t-time and I w-wanted to ask about the M-Mellons’ ball.”

  Turning toward him, James tried to hide his disquiet, but Ealer was looking at him—looking at the crumpled telegram—like he suspected. “The evening was uneventful.” The words fell flat in the silence. “Except for expensive cigars and pearls in oysters.”

  “D-did you d-dance, sir?” At James’s nod, he asked, “And M-Miss Ballantyne—d-did she fare well?”

  “It would seem so.”

  Ealer returned to counting passenger receipts, leaving James to dwell on Wren. When she’d come into New Hope’s parlor in her beautiful gown, so wanting to please, to do the Ballantynes proud, he’d felt wildly and unaccountably possessive of her. He was doubly undone when he realized she seemed to be seeking his approval. As if it mattered to her what he thought, hope shining in her eyes. He wanted to tell her she’d already won him over long ago, the moment she stepped into the pilothouse. He wanted to guard her tender heart and untried emotions.

  He wanted to take Bennett by the throat.

  Only the shock of the telegram had driven her from his mind. And now, despite Dean’s dire words, she’d snuck in again, returning him to the night of the ball, where no fewer than a dozen men had vied for her attention. Even Malachi had done the unthinkable and claimed two dances. But Wren was too naïve to make much of the gaffe, and society too enamored with the Camerons to make a fuss.

  Malachi . . . and Wren. He’d been willing to wager they’d meet and give each other little more than a passing glance. But somehow she and Malachi had already met. Just when that happened James didn’t know, leaving him to a wilderness of wondering.

  “Are you c-coming to the M-Monongahela House for s-supper?” Ealer was at the back door, ready to depart.

  “No,” he said, glancing again at the telegram. “I’ll be at River Hill.”

  26

  If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

  JANE AUSTEN

  Izannah met him at the door, joy filling her face. “Oh, James! You’ve come in time! It’s Grandfather—he’s back. Since yesterday he’s been steadily improving. The doctors can scarce believ
e it!”

  The sudden news was the last he’d expected to hear. In a heartbeat James swung like a pendulum between hope and fear. Not bothering to remove his hat or coat, he went up the stairs on Izannah’s heels. The bedchamber door that had been closed, barring them entry, was open wide. Was Silas truly back? Or only rallying before death took him? Ellie’s laughter and Eden’s joyous voice reassured him.

  In the shadowed room, the big bed was empty. Silas sat by the window in a dressing gown, looking older and thinner but upright. James half believed not even the shadow of death daunted Silas Ballantyne.

  “Well, Da,” Ellie exclaimed as she and Eden left the room, “we’ve monopolized you long enough. James is here. Perhaps you’re in need of some masculine company.”

  Silas turned. Smiled. “How goes it, James?” His voice was a bit hoarse, more an echo of its former strength. But the easy companionship they’d shared in years past snuck in again, banishing awkwardness. “I’ve been remiss, the doctors tell me, lying abed for a month.”

  Throat tight, James clasped Silas’s outstretched hand. “I’d say you deserved the rest, busy as you’ve been ninety years or better.”

  Silas’s chuckle broadened to a deep cough. Tensing, James looked toward the open door, expecting Eden or Ellie to rush back in. When they didn’t, James handed him a glass of water, slightly opaque from the medicine he’d been taking.

  Sinking back in his chair, Silas took a drink and drew in a shaky breath. “Time is against me, James, and I feel the need to know some things. How is being in port for the winter?”

  “Well enough.” The telegram in his pocket made a mockery of his calm words. “You needn’t worry on that score.”

  “Business matters are all in hand, I suppose.”

  James hesitated. The new Ballantyne-Cameron alliance was the farthest thing from his mind. “Everything is proceeding smoothly, yes.”

  “How about matters downriver with Gunniston and Dean?”

  “The same.” He thought of all that Silas had missed in the month he’d lost. The news had never been so inflammatory. “The papers are full of war talk. The slavery issue must have an end.”

  “I won’t be here to see it, but I trust you will do the right thing, the honorable thing. You always have. I have a feeling you’ll enlist if it comes to that, use your piloting skills to benefit the cause.” His voice faded though his gaze stayed firm. “If you’ll humor an old man, I’ll hazard a little meddling and ask that you give serious thought to settling down.”

  Blood rushed to James’s face. Even at ninety, Silas was a very shrewd man. Though his body was failing, his mind remained unbroken. Did he sense the struggle buried within him? His growing feelings for Wren? His desire to see Izannah settled?

  “I wish the same for all my grandchildren in time. Marriage. A godly family.”

  James looked down at his hat, his fingers twisting the brim in a mindless circle. “Two nights ago Wren debuted at the Mellons’ ball. I was her escort. Any concerns you have about her future, a husband, are unfounded.” Even saying the words tore at him, but he was in so deep he might as well confess all the rest. “I’ve even spoken with Malachi Cameron about Izannah. He has little time for society and is in need of a wife.”

  Silas smiled. “Mayhap I should lie abed more often. All seems well.” The warm words came slowly, as if forced from a weary place. “And you, James? Are you content to go it alone? Is there no woman with a hold on your heart?”

  The persistent question sent him scrambling for an excuse. “I’ve little to offer, being on the river and going to war, if it comes to that.”

  “You have a great deal to offer in the interim. Life cannot be lived based on what-ifs, aye?”

  It was as near a rebuke as Silas had ever given him, and James felt the sting of it from five feet away. If he ever wanted to dig the telegram out of his pocket, it was now.

  I’m a wanted man, he nearly said, wanting to spell out the fear and confusion at war inside him. Silas thought he was protecting James by keeping him in port, never thinking that Pittsburgh had become not a safe haven but a hunting ground. The realization brought a sort of panicked breathlessness, curbed only by bedrock truth. The Almighty was near at hand, strong of hand, well aware of the danger if Silas wasn’t.

  Wasn’t He?

  “There’s another matter I need to entrust to you once Wren’s season ends.” Silas set the glass of water down, hand shaking slightly. “Before I took ill, I had plans in place to return to Scotland. I still hope to do so unless the Lord wills otherwise. But if I cannot . . .”

  “Of course. Whatever it is, I’ll see it done.”

  “For years I’ve prayed that the Guarneri violin I sold long ago would be restored to our family. Shortly before we went to Lake Lanark, I received word that a collector in Edinburgh has possession of it. It’s being kept in a vault, waiting for us to retrieve it. At a price, of course.”

  A hefty one, James was willing to wager. Yet for the moment pointed surprise was coursing through him, and gratitude that something that meant so much to a dying man had finally found its way back again.

  “I want you to go to Edinburgh and take possession of it. My nephew lives there, the son of my late sister, Naomi. He deserves most of the credit for hunting it down and will be waiting to meet you.” His eyes glittered, and he looked at his hands as if recalling the hours he’d spent playing it. “The Guarneri belongs to Wren. She’ll appreciate it for the treasure it is and not let it go missing again.”

  James gave a nod. The thought that it was meant for Wren moved him. But it was more the humble sight of Silas’s branded thumbs that whittled away at his composure like a carving tool. He wished Silas had more time. Time enough to hold the Guarneri again. Time enough to give it to Wren himself.

  “I’ve written down instructions for you to withdraw funds from the proper accounts when the time comes, authorizing you to pay the collector upon inspection of the violin.” He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and retrieved a folded paper. “Everything should be in order once you reach Edinburgh.”

  James glanced at Silas’s heavy scrawl. The set amount was staggering. He didn’t doubt the violin was worth the price, simply because it was a missing piece of the Ballantynes’ past. “If Ansel returns soon, I can sail for Scotland before the season ends.”

  “Nay, I’ll not undo whatever is in place. I have as much trust in you regarding Wren’s future as I do the Guarneri’s.”

  “I’ll see both done.” The only question was when. He’d not anticipated an extended trip, a long ocean voyage. Was this the Lord’s provision for him, leading him away from Pittsburgh? From Wren? Scotland was indeed a safe haven, though James rebelled against the thought of going into hiding as Ansel had done.

  “Grandfather, what a change!” Bennett’s voice rang out, ending their lengthy discussion. For once James was glad of him as he strode into the room and took charge. With a last look at Silas, James bade him goodbye, wondering if and when he’d see him again.

  Wren stood in the unfamiliar music room of the Alexanders’ mansion overflowing with Pittsburgh’s elite. Fans were waving languidly, and lapel pins were winking among the two hundred or so guests gathered for the musical soiree. With the Nightingale perched on her shoulder, she rested in its beloved familiarity, though her bow hand trembled slightly as the crowd swelled. She was beginning to pin a few names to myriad faces, but most stayed a confusion of Mellons and Ewings and Schoonmakers. Buttoned so high and tight, Pittsburgh’s leading lights all looked the same.

  When Malachi Cameron entered the room, she tried to hide her startled pleasure. He took a discreet seat in the back row beside James, hardly a prime spot for viewing, but both men were so tall it didn’t matter. One quick glance and she could clearly see their bearded faces.

  Try as she might, she found it hard to adjust to James’s new look, though nearly every man in the room followed custom and sported a mustache or beard. She missed the open
, honest angles of his features, clean-shaven till now. The beard rendered him a bit more inaccessible and harder to read, if more handsome.

  A voice from behind her, clear as a bell, brought the room to attention. “Our final performance prior to intermission is by Miss Rowena Ballantyne . . .”

  Ahead of her had been harps and harpsichords, pianofortes and flutes, but nary a violin. She’d caught some of the audience napping throughout the lengthy recital, though she’d been wholly entertained. She’d not let them sleep through her piece if she could help it. “Set the heather on fire,” Mim always said. This she meant to do.

  Striking a rousing, high E, she launched into a spritely reel full of life and spirit. Élan, Papa would say. With no music or music stand before her, she was able to look about the room, noting with satisfaction those sleepy heads had come awake and side conversations had ceased. Alice Mellon sat in the front row, her closed fan clutched in gloved hands, gaze riveted to Wren. Even the servants positioned at the doors and alcoves seemed to stand at attention.

  Who could help but toe-tap to “The Reel of Tulloch” or turn teary at the heartrending “Settler’s Lament”? Days—weeks—of schooling her emotions gave way as she played. When her bow slid off the strings after a trilled finish, there was a marked, stunned silence.

  Undaunted, she grabbed hold of the next melody floating through her mind. An openly passionate piece, sure to woo—or raise brows. Closing her eyes, she cradled the Nightingale like the treasure it was. Stiff formality flew.

  At the last aching note, she gave a small curtsey to polite, stilted applause. Her high spirits started to ebb. This wasn’t Kentucky, where music was met with appreciation heartfelt and deep. This was Pittsburgh, not Cane Run, and she supposed she was wrong to expect it to be.

  Throat dry, she tucked the Nightingale away and pulled on her gloves before joining the throng moving toward a sitting room where refreshments were served. In the foyer an immense longcase clock chimed six. Would this breathless watching of the minutes never end?