Love's Fortune

  He knew it well—the very mountain. The same winsome twist in the river. He felt a sudden urge to tell her about the privileges of the pilothouse, particularly the hallowed four o’clock watch, the most favored time of all.

  Or order her to go below.

  She turned to him, a beguiling light in her eyes. Sea foam, just as he’d suspected. Her ungloved hand came to rest lightly on his sleeve. “Might I stay here with you till morning?”

  The gentle question rocked him much like the river current far beneath his feet. He looked at her longer than he should have. Speechless. “Miss Ballantyne, I—”

  A sudden shadow snatched his words away. Captain Dean cleared his throat and filled the pilothouse doorway. For once James hadn’t observed his approach. “Sackett, a word with you, please.”

  His solemn tone, cordial with an undercurrent of authority, sent Rowena Ballantyne scurrying to the waiting arm of the clerk.

  And then she vanished from sight like the wood nymph she was.

  4

  Pittsburgh entered the core of my heart when I was a boy and cannot be torn out.

  ANDREW CARNEGIE

  Long before the Ohio melted into the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers and ushered them into the city, Wren took in the pall of Pittsburgh. Immense. Dark. Industrious. Enormous smokestacks belched black clouds, overshadowing the distant spire of a church steeple. Soot and grime lay over a crush of brick and timber buildings that rarely saw the sun and seemed to sag in protest. She shuddered. If this was what Papa had run from years ago, she need never wonder why again. Kentucky seemed a sort of paradise.

  In the feeble morning light, the steamer was alive with activity, shattering the dawn’s calm. The captain stood at the wheel, preparing to nose the Rowena into port. Wren heard his gruff call to open the fire doors and cool down the steam. James Sackett was nowhere in sight. Had she caused him trouble by invading his midnight watch? The mere thought flipped her still-queasy stomach, the furious churning of the paddle wheel rivaling the unrest inside her. Last night Pilot Sackett had struck her as gentlemanly if a mite high-minded. As if she was a fly that bedeviled him and wouldn’t settle.

  This morning Molly had made her look presentable in linen and lace, her upswept hair crowned by a matching bonnet, her hands gloved. The smudges of sleeplessness about her eyes she could do little about. In such fancy dress, she felt like an imposter, sorely missing her varnish-soiled calicoes and aprons. But she read approval in Papa’s eyes when she joined him at the railing, much like at supper the night before.

  High above the whistle blew, sounding like a long yawn punctuated by two gasps. Boats—packets, Papa called them—lay three and four deep along the levee. On the wide, muddy shore, cargo was stacked higher than a man’s head, and a great many wagons and drays rushed about. Everything was a swirling, perspiring melee as the Rowena entered Pittsburgh. Wren took it all in, gaze snagging on a boardwalk closest to the water. Amid stevedores standing ready with mooring lines and stage planks stood a tall figure in a top hat.

  “Papa, who is that man?”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “My father.”

  Silas Ballantyne.

  The rush of emotion coursing through her made no sense. Her grandfather was a stranger to her, little more, though Papa was clearly overcome by the sight of the old man waiting. Something told her he’d been waiting a very long time.

  “How does he know it’s us?”

  “He knows the sound of each boat’s whistle. They’re tuned to be distinguished from each other.”

  She scanned the levee. “Where is Granny?”

  “Your grandmother is a lady, Wren. Ladies do not appear in indelicate places like levees and other unsavory situations if they can help it.”

  The Rowena was nosing into port now, all hands on deck, James Sackett among them. By day he looked entirely different than in the moon-washed pilothouse. Sun-worn. More serious. His hair wasn’t tobacco-brown as she’d first thought but black as cast iron. He was flanked by fellow officers and crew, the pecking order quickly apparent.

  If he was high-minded, he’d come by it honestly.

  A silver pin denoting the Ballantyne line winked at her from his lapel, a replica of the one never worn in her father’s wardrobe. His shoulders were squared, his hands clasped behind his back, his coattails flapping in the morning wind. He looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed on some point she couldn’t fathom. She turned back toward Pittsburgh reluctantly, wondering if she’d ever see him again.

  Lifting a gloved hand that hid the calluses made in the violin shop, Wren tried to make peace with their arrival . . . and fought the dizzying sensation she was being pitchforked into a world she knew nothing about.

  For several long moments Papa and Grandfather stood locked in an emotional embrace. Ignoring the catch in her throat, Wren looked away, feeling like an intruder in the midst of so poignant a scene, and then Grandfather turned to her. His arms were warm and strong and steadfast. She liked that he called her Wren. He bore the same tobacco-bergamot scent that was Papa’s own. Though her father had recovered his composure and was instructing the steward about the Cremona violins laid by, emotion still choked her. Ansel Ballantyne seemed a different person here with his genteel clothes and manners, admiring the waiting vehicle along the curb. Not her beloved papa but a near stranger.

  Grandfather smiled as a groom opened the lacquered door. “You’re just in time to break in the new coach.” Trimmed in plum velvet, the rig’s leaded glass windows opened and closed via pull straps. The groom showed her how to manage them, but instead of the fresh air she craved, her senses were stormed by coal dust and the potency of the levee.

  She didn’t draw a decent breath till the coach had whisked them beyond Pittsburgh, past the last bastion of Fort Pitt and the once-grand King’s Garden and out the Allegheny Road toward New Hope. Beside her, Molly’s eyes were everywhere at once. It felt good but odd to have her riding with them as a passenger, not in the baggage wagon behind. Things were indeed different in free Pennsylvania. Kentucky was very much a slave state.

  “Pittsburgh was nothing but a small fort town when I arrived in 1785.” There was pride of place in Grandfather’s tone, a strong sense of ownership. “Now it boasts nearly fifty thousand citizens.”

  Cane Run barely boasted fifty souls. Sensing Molly’s skittishness, Wren took her hand and squeezed. Across from them Grandfather sat shoulder to shoulder with Papa. She measured their likeness, marveling that this timeworn stranger was her flesh and blood.

  “Enough of the city,” Grandfather said suddenly, his aged face creased with a hundred kindly lines. “How was your journey?”

  “Blessedly uneventful,” Papa replied. “No sinking, no explosion, no mutiny.”

  Grandfather nodded in wry satisfaction. “And you, Wren? How do you like the floating teakettle that bears your name?”

  She answered in Gaelic, clinging to its sameness when the whole world seemed to be shifting around her. “I liked the Rowena better once I stepped off her.”

  He laughed, surprisingly rich and deep. “No doubt you’ll like a wedding better.”

  Papa gave him a sideways glance. “A wedding? Mother’s letter didn’t mention . . .”

  “She likely thought I’d already told you. Bennett is to wed a Boston lass this Saturday. The first of our grandchildren to tie the knot.”

  “Boston? Not a local bride?”

  “Charlotte is a shipping heiress. Apparently Bennett likes boats. The Ashburtons arrived last week and are staying at New Hope and Ballantyne Hall.”

  “Sounds a bit crowded.” Papa turned toward a window, where the sooty Pittsburgh skyline was fading from view.

  “Since we’ve added a new wing, there’s plenty of room for all.” Grandfather steered the conversation in another direction. “As for floating teakettles, the honeymoon voyage will be aboard our newest steamer, the Belle of Pittsburgh.”

  Papa sat back, hat resting on his knees. “How many
packets are in the Ballantyne line?”

  “Twenty-four at present, though some are so old they’re hardly river worthy.”

  “I’ve heard of plans to build a floating palace, a showboat. Are you moving more toward passengers than cargo?”

  “Not if I can help it. Cargo is always the better choice and less risky when something goes awry.”

  “Mother said you’ve begun to invest heavily in the railroad . . .”

  Wren left them to their business, the gentle swaying of the coach nearly rocking her to sleep. As she leaned into a sunbeam falling through an open window, her soul lightened. No humble cabins or split-rail fences met her eye, just river and rolling hills. Soon the horses were turning, passing through open iron gates and gliding up a gently sloping hill fronting the river.

  She’d been expecting something different, something far from what she knew, yet she still felt a start of surprise at the palatial brick house straddling the river bluff like an aging king holding court. New Hope was a grand dove-gray, old but well kept, dressed with sparkling glass and sweeping porches and fluted columns. An eight-paned cupola crowned the wide gambrel roof. She caught the diamond glitter of a fountain beyond yew hedges and bricked walls. People were wandering about, some sporting top hats and parasols. The wedding party? Curiosity seeped into her, crowding out resistance.

  Was Papa glad to be back? Had Mama ever longed to be here?

  Amid a small storm of dust, a groom helped her alight from the coach onto a mounting block. Near at hand was an unsmiling man in fancy dress who ushered them into the mansion. Molly followed close behind, her eyes still as wide as Wren’s own.

  The breezy foyer held a soaring staircase, a profusion of peonies in silver bowls on an immense sideboard. Servants were lined up from front door to back, their posture soldier-stiff, eyes forward, all dressed in navy and white. Wren felt a breathless bewilderment. There were as many servants as the steamboat had deckhands.

  Someone was coming down the stairs, someone who seemed a part of all the polish, her gown the deep orange of a wild lily. Andra? Wren couldn’t recall much about her save she was Papa’s older sister.

  “Rowena?” Appraising jade eyes peered out of a lightly lined face. Her figure was trim as a girl’s, her fair hair the exact shade of Wren’s own. Pearls draped her lace bodice, countless creamy rows matching the drops at her ears. “I’m your aunt Andra.”

  Wren opened her arms to embrace her and met nothing but air. Her aunt had moved on to her father with a starched, “Welcome back to New Hope, Ansel.”

  Papa returned her tight smile. “Good to see you again, Andra.”

  Grandfather gestured upstairs. “Your mother is resting, though she wanted me to rouse her as soon as you arrived.”

  The butler—was that what Andra called him?—was introducing them to servants, who curtsied or bowed at his bidding. Papa clasped hands with a few of them he’d obviously known since boyhood, their faces creasing with fleeting smiles as he called them by name.

  With a wave of her hand, Aunt Andra led her beyond the sweeping staircase toward a rear door. “If you’ll come out onto the veranda for refreshments, the servants will bring your belongings to your rooms. Of course, you must meet our guests, the Ashburtons of Boston. The wedding is but a few days away.”

  The next hour became a blur of voices and faces and first impressions.

  Uncle Peyton, Grandfather’s oldest son. Clutching an eagle-headed cane.

  His wife, Penelope. A pale ghost.

  Their son, Bennett, the Ballantyne heir. Tall. Tanned. Firm of voice.

  His fiancée, Charlotte. Pale. Slim as a willow switch. Silent.

  Charlotte’s parents were doing most of the talking, their northeastern nasal tones unsettling. Aunt Ellie and her brood were missing. She was nearing her confinement, someone whispered, and couldn’t hazard the short distance between River Hill and New Hope.

  “Mayhap we’ll see them on the morrow,” Papa said as if sensing Wren’s disappointment. “For now, feast your eyes on those old roses climbing the garden wall. They were planted in honor of your first birthday.”

  Wren was overwhelmed with buttery blooms the size of teacups and endless acres of flowers beyond. When she opened her mouth to ask if she could wander, Grandmother Eden appeared on the porch, leaning heavily on Grandfather’s arm. Little and bent, she reminded Wren of a dried rose, the first blush long faded. But her blue eyes were warm and lively, the clasp of her hand strong.

  “Rowena,” she said with a contented sigh. “Ansel’s little Wren.”

  “Morning, Granny.” Or was it afternoon? Wren’s reply sounded rusty. She’d hardly spoken all day.

  “We’ve settled you in the lavender room. ’Twas Ellie’s before she wed her Jack. You have a princely view of the garden and chapel.” She let go of Grandfather’s arm as he helped her into a wheeled wicker chair. “Your father is across from you. His bedchamber is just as he left it.”

  There was a telling poignancy to the words that touched Wren. So Grandfather wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting for them to come. Smiling self-consciously, Wren searched for some reply but failed to find it, her gaze trailing to a maid bringing round a tray of crystal glasses topped with sprigs of mint. Lemonade?

  “You must be weary from your journey.” Grandmother leaned in with a whisper. “I’ll tell you a little secret. I never got a wink of sleep on a steamboat. Sometimes it seemed I’d travel from here to New Orleans wide-eyed the whole way, my stomach at sea. Thankfully you came upriver to us with nary a mishap, in part because your grandfather arranged for James Sackett to be at the wheel.”

  “I met Mr. Sackett.” Her tongue was finally loosed. “He’s . . . right fine.” Somehow right fine seemed too humble a phrase for a handsome pilot with a silver lapel pin.

  Andra was hovering with the persistence of a hummingbird, infusing the sultry air with a noticeable chill. “You mustn’t tire yourself, Mother, with too much talk.”

  “I mustn’t tire Wren, you mean,” Grandmother returned gently.

  “Wren?” Her aunt’s voice fell below the tenor of the men as they discussed business across the veranda. “Wren might be permissible in the Kentucky woods, but here in Pennsylvania, Rowena is best.”

  “I doubt I’ll remember,” Grandmother said with a resigned chuckle. “She’s been Wren ever since her christening in the chapel—and in every letter her father wrote.”

  “Letters? Those were precious few.”

  “Perhaps. But each was special to me. I’ve saved them all.”

  Wren shrank beneath her aunt’s green gaze. Pondering their exchange, she took a sip of lemonade from the heavy, sweating glass, feeling she might choke from its sourness. One swallow and the glass slipped free of her grasp, splashing her skirts and shoes and drawing every eye. With an ungracious clunk, it rolled rudely across the porch and came to rest at Bennett Ballantyne’s feet. He flung her a half-amused, half-aggravated glance as a maid sprang forward to right the mess, a look of dismay on her florid face.

  Grandmother leaned nearer and squeezed Wren’s limp hand as the conversation swirling round them resumed. “Why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll show you your room?”

  Mumbling an apology, Wren followed on the heels of a maid, Papa and Grandmother close behind. The feminine bower that was to be hers was little more than a blur of pale purple, window curtains cast about in a wildly unsettled breeze.

  A mantel clock chimed as the door closed after them. Two in the afternoon? Wren was midnight weary. Molly was missing, unable to help her with her dress. Unmindful of her lemonade-stained skirts and the corset that pinched her with unrelenting fury, she fell facedown on the bed and went to sleep.

  5

  Never marry but for love; but see that thou lovest what is lovely.

  WILLIAM PENN

  Hours later, Wren awoke in a strange bed but had little memory of how she’d gotten there. Somehow, in the sleepy, humid hours following their arrival, Molly had div
ested Wren of her soiled dress. Now clad in a cotton nightgown, Wren roused, skin damp from the room’s sultriness. The cobwebs in her head were gone, the clumsy mishap of the afternoon forgotten. An open window nearest a corner fireplace lured her with its teasing breeze. She leaned into the deep sill, ears taut. A mockingbird’s song rent the air—and then a cry.

  She hadn’t been dreaming. Someone was weeping. She feared it was Molly. Molly couldn’t speak but she could cry. Was she missing Kentucky too?

  Slipping out the door, Wren padded down the stairs, intent on the veranda. Andra had corrected her when she’d said porch, as if the word was too plain. Shivers puckered her bare skin at the thought of meeting up with her very proper aunt, but not a soul was in sight. The big house was more kindly without her tonight.

  Beneath her feet the floorboards were smooth, the wet mess she’d made earlier set to rights. It took a few minutes to get her bearings, but once at the edge of the garden, she felt for the latch on the ornate gate. Its answering creak set her teeth on edge.

  The weeping she’d heard had given way to cricket calls and the low cooing of a dove. For several moments Wren sorted out shadows. Farther down the bricked path she spied a slim silhouette hunched over on a bench. Not Molly. Bennett’s bride-to-be? Befuddled, she couldn’t recall the woman’s name. She’d been easily overlooked in the haze of Wren’s arrival.

  Should she intrude? Speak? Wren took a careful step, and the woman snapped to attention, clearly startled.

  “Please—it’s only me. Wren.”

  The full moon shone down, bright as a lantern, calling out the alarm in the woman’s expression. “Bennett’s cousin?” Despite the heat, the bride wore an elaborate dressing gown, slippers on her feet. “I thought you were called Rowena.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m to be called.” Mindful of Andra’s dislike of a simple Wren, she trod cautiously. “You’re welcome to use either.”

  “You seem more a stranger here than a Ballantyne.”