He passed a hand over his eyes, the stinging saltiness grounding him. “Last fall at Lake Lanark, Malachi asked who I thought was worthy of pursuing. He said he’d returned to Pittsburgh for a bride. I told him you’d make a worthy wife, that he need not look any further.” He confessed what he hadn’t meant to share and watched a surprised awareness flood her eyes. “I hoped he would forego the season and call on you instead.”
“Oh, James . . .”
“I never imagined he’d consider Wren for the very reasons you mentioned. But things went awry.”
She leaned into the nearest chair, her hands splayed along its embroidered back. “Forget about my prospects. What about yours? This has to do with Georgiana, doesn’t it? Are you going to let her death haunt you the rest of your life?”
“Georgiana’s death has little to do with it. She never truly cared for me. She broke our engagement after Bennett told her about my past, remember. He went to Georgiana shortly before her death with the intent of turning her against me.”
“That doesn’t have any bearing on the present, surely.”
“Have you forgotten, Izannah?” He swallowed, resurrecting details he’d tried to forget. “Your grandmother found me in the gutter behind Teague’s Tavern when my mother died. She was said to be the most notorious prostitute in Pittsburgh. No one seems to remember how old I was. They simply recall that Wade Turlock was my father, if an unwilling one.”
“I haven’t forgotten. But it doesn’t matter. Not to me. Not to Wren—”
“It mattered to Georgiana, enough that she decided to break our engagement. It matters to the Ballantynes.”
“Listen to me, James.” She was her father’s daughter now, his mettle in her straightened shoulders, the solid timbre of her voice. “We’re talking about Wren. She’s not a woman rule-bound like Aunt Andra, letting society dictate her every action or etiquette her very existence. Nor is she like Bennett, bent on ruining anyone who gets in his way. If you’d given Wren any ground, any indication of your feelings—”
“I’m meant to be alone, Izannah. I’m reconciled to that. Even you can’t deny I’m in over my head as an abolitionist.” He looked to the closed door, needing distance. Pittsburgh seemed almost a refuge in light of the present moment. “I’m leaving for the city.”
“What? Not Pittsburgh, surely. You need to go east, go abroad—”
“I’ll not hide, Izannah. Let Madder and his ilk do what they want with me. I’ll not bow to their threats or cower in a corner.”
“Then you’re as good as dead, James!” She caught his coat sleeve as he passed, but he kept walking. “Take heed for our sake if not your own!”
He went out, so weary in body and spirit it felt more midnight than morning. She didn’t follow. But he heard the sound of her weeping as he pushed past the front door.
The relief Wren had expected to feel upon accepting Malachi’s proposal turned to dust at the Gazette’s bold headline.
BALLANTYNE-CAMERON MERGER.
Was that all their union was? Something to be acquired and trumpeted? Some trophy? She didn’t bother to read the effusive column. Farther down the page was another grisly account of the New Orleans murder with a detailed sketch of the levee. Investigators were combing the city and every river town along the lower Mississippi for the criminals, offering a substantial bounty funded by the Ballantynes.
Pulse rising, she turned the Gazette over. She couldn’t stop wondering where James was, if he’d heard of the engagement. The news had broken at New Hope that morning with the arrival of the papers. Someone had made free in the night with what Wren longed to keep quiet. She’d wanted to send a note to James first, let him know his duties as her escort were done. She needed time to get used to her and Malachi’s new tie. Time to get her breath. But it was not to be.
The gushing Andra had done at breakfast violated every rule of etiquette invented as she inspected the Cameron ring. Crusted with diamonds and sapphires, it sat heavy on Wren’s hand and bore the Cameron crest. Grandfather and Grandmother’s enthusiasm was heartfelt but more subdued, and then came Bennett, who rode over at noon to congratulate her.
He was cordial if cold, his harsh treatment of her in the music room seemingly forgotten. “And when will the nuptials be?”
Numb, she tried to smile, to act the bride. So like Charlotte. “Malachi wants to wed as soon as possible—once Papa returns.”
He nodded, looking relieved. “Out of respect for the Ashburtons, I’d urge a quick, quiet affair. Nothing as grand as the one we’d planned.”
“I beg to differ,” Andra retorted. “Pittsburgh expects a lavish function. Indeed, the city deserves it with all the sordid news of late. I’ll let the dressmakers know right away. And we simply must start on the guest list.”
“No need.” Wren stepped back from them both. “I’d like to be married in the chapel, wearing one of Granny’s gowns, with only family present.” She met her aunt’s eyes with renewed determination, wanting to settle one matter beyond revisiting. “And I want it known far and wide that my season has ended.”
Andra’s smile was tight. “As a debutante, you’re quite done. As the wife of Malachi Cameron, you’re just beginning the social whirl, be it in Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, or Edinburgh.”
In the hours to come, congratulations began pouring in, calling cards and telegrams accumulating thick as the snowflakes outside. By nightfall Wren thought it odd Izannah hadn’t come by or sent a note, then dismissed it given the weather. Malachi was readying to leave on a trip to Washington County to meet with potential investors despite the snow, first making arrangements for their shipboard honeymoon, or so he’d told her.
Mim had been less than glib at the excitement, saying little about all that had transpired other than the concert. “That Miss Lind is true to her name. She’s a nightingale every bit as much as yer fiddle.”
Wren recalled it now, long after Mim had bidden her good night. The happenings at the concert wove through her mind like a melody, every word, touch, and note all melding into a discordant lament. She tried to sleep, but the thought of sharing a bed with a man who was little more than a stranger turned her restless.
As the Edinburgh clock chimed one, she said her prayers. Uppermost was James. Papa. What would be Papa’s reaction? She prayed for his return just as she prayed for James’s refuge. Any petitions for Malachi came last, shamefully so. Finally she drifted off, sleeping in snatches. Sometime in the wee small hours she found herself dreaming of Grandfather’s worn, antique study.
“Papa?”
There at Grandfather’s desk he sat, like he’d been there all along and she’d only imagined him gone. He looked up and set his pen aside. “I arrived but an hour ago with little fanfare. I didn’t want to wake the household.”
Coming out from behind the desk, he held her tight. He felt cold to her touch, the long coach ride in the snow a bitter one. She kissed his bristled cheek, but the gesture seemed as rote as the steps of a reel. The man who stood before her had been gone too long and was out of touch with the things that truly mattered.
“What’s this?” He raised her left hand, the Cameron ring catching the light. Beautiful as it was, it looked out of place. More bit and bridle. She flushed at the thought, though the feeling of being harnessed stayed steadfast.
“I’m engaged to be married.” The words came unwillingly, his warning to delay playing in her mind. “I’m to be Mrs. Malachi Cameron.”
The surprise in his eyes held an angry tint. “He didn’t ask me for your hand.”
“How could he, Papa? You were gone.”
“He might have waited till I returned. He could have written, found out where I was, sent a telegram.”
“He’s a busy man.” She stumbled over the words, avoiding his eyes. “He wants to marry immediately.”
“And you, Wren? What do you want?”
She looked down at her fingers, twisting the ring in a worried circle.
I want James to be
safe.
I want the season to end.
I want to escape society’s expectations.
I want a home of my own. Children. Music . . .
She awoke in a tangle of bedding, sweating yet cold, dawn pressing in on her with the demands of a new day.
35
I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.
CHARLOTTE BRONTË
Surely no one would be out on such a day. Even a killer. Yet from the moment James stepped out of the levee office, that same uneasiness took hold. A fitful wind had sent a torrent of rain sideways into Pittsburgh’s coffee-dark streets, slowing hackneys and omnibuses and kindling tempers. Hours later, the bell jingling on his attorney’s door was a nagging announcement that he’d left the relative security of the busy office. He’d spent the morning finalizing his will and leaving his fortune in stocks to the orphanage. That alone gave him some peace, though he’d be far more at ease if he was whole in body. In spirit.
The prayers he’d said, the stubborn refusal to entertain any thought of Wren, had been as difficult as trying not to breathe. She was his first thought on waking, his last thought before sleep claimed him. Even then she ransacked his dreams. The announcement of her engagement, miserable as it made him, was now the talk of Pittsburgh. Unable to stem the thought of her, he gave in to one comfortless notion. She had been his, if only for a tick in time Christmas night, though Malachi might possess all the rest of her.
He quickened his stride along Market Street, his hat brim no better than a water spout, and spied a familiar figure amid the mud and rain. Stepping under the awning of a tailor’s shop, James squinted into the wind as the nattily attired man crossed the street, top hat in hand.
Captain Dean.
With nary a greeting, Dean motioned him toward the tobacconist shop two doors down where a painted wooden Indian stood guard. The place was nearly as familiar as the Monongahela House, the site of many an abolitionist meeting and a hiding place for runaways. A portly clerk greeted them and unlocked a back room, drawing the door shut again after lighting a lantern.
Cedar shelves lined one wall, full of glass jars and snuff boxes, countless earthenware crocks beneath. The cold air was redolent of the rappee blend of tobacco James shunned and the refined maccaboy he favored.
Dean plucked a Havana cigar from an open box and lit it at the corner stove. “I barely recognized you, bearded as you are.” He turned round in a huff. “What the devil are you doing in the city?” The question burst from his lips in a plume of smoke, demanding answers.
Taking a rickety chair, James studied his muddy boots. “I’ll not hide.”
“By heaven, you’d better.” Dean sat, chest heaving. “If you’d seen what they did to Gunniston, not just shooting him but brutalizing him—”
“I know the details. They don’t need repeating.”
“Listen to me, James. You have friends everywhere—you could go anywhere. Why are you still here?” His pointed look brought no reply. “You’re not still squiring Rowena Ballantyne about town, are you?”
“The season just ended, at least where she’s concerned.” James flexed his cold hands and held them nearer the stove. “Her engagement was announced yesterday.”
“Engagement?” Dean stared at him through the smoke. “To whom?”
“Malachi Cameron.”
Dean swore, a rare occurrence, setting James further on edge. “And that’s not enough to send you out of town? Packing?”
James held his temper. “Why would it?”
“Because you’re gone—as gone as yesterday over her, that’s why. From the moment I found her with you in the pilothouse last summer, I knew there was something between you.”
“Not on her part.” The lie came all too easily, as did the memory of her in his arms. “She’s a Ballantyne, remember, nearly a Cameron. That’s as great a distance as Pittsburgh from New Orleans, all of it unnavigable.”
“Does she have anything to do with your death wish?”
This time James nearly swore. Dean had an uncanny ability to see things as they were and turn confrontational. “If she does, it’s none of your concern. My death wish, as you call it, began before she came on the scene. I started slave running for the Ballantyne line years ago, knowing there was little to lose. I’ve long been a target. Does that sound like the sort of husband a woman would want? Would I put my bride in that sort of danger?” He took a breath, uttering the obvious in an attempt to end the matter. “Malachi Cameron wins. He’s by far the better man.”
“Cameron be hanged,” Dean countered, his voice losing none of its heat. “You’re the one in need of that Scottish honeymoon.”
“Don’t tempt me with impossibilities.” Taking out his pipe, James packed it full of tobacco, ignoring the slight tremor in his hand. He was as overwrought as he’d ever been, far more from Wren than Madder’s threats. Discussing it openly was like firing a packet’s engine with pitch on an impossibly stormy night—certain to bring destruction.
“So when are they to wed?”
James could only guess. “As soon as her father returns, knowing Malachi. He has business in Philadelphia and Europe and can’t delay.”
“Is he in love with her?”
James glared at him. “Again, that’s none of your affair—or mine.”
“I beg to differ—”
Standing so abruptly he overturned his chair, James pocketed his pipe and made for the door. “I’ll be at the levee if you need me. But you can leave all talk of Wren Ballantyne behind.”
Malachi broke the wax seal and studied the creamy paper in the glow of gaslight, blinking at the finely scripted words like they were composed in Greek. He’d arrived home at nearly midnight from business in Washington County and discovered the letter atop his desk, his name penned beautifully across the top. He’d thought to grow used to Rowena’s handwriting in time, to come to know her in far more intimate ways. And now this . . .
He read it through once . . . thrice, his head pounding along with his heart. What would he say? How would he explain it when the news went public? He’d not suspected anything amiss during the course of their brief courtship. Nor was he used to being thwarted. Folding the paper, he tucked it in his pocket and reached for his cape.
James would know what to do.
George Ealer stood by the window at daybreak, arms crossed as if standing guard. Behind him, pistol hidden beneath a stack of papers, James scratched at a ledger on his desk, determined to let his mind stray no further than the business at hand.
“You e-expecting Mr. C-Cameron, sir?”
“No.” James looked up, surprised. Malachi rarely came to the levee unless he was taking a trip. With the rivers locked in ice, all traffic had long since ground to a halt.
“He l-looks g-grim as a r-reaper. Think I’ll r-run that errand you want d-done a b-bit early.” Grabbing for his hat, he slipped out the rear door as James capped his ink and set aside his pen.
Ever since the papers had announced news of the engagement, the city had been still abuzz, anticipating the wedding date. Malachi had likely come to ask him to serve as best man. The prospect tore at him, made him want to slip out the back like Ealer had done. Till now he’d tried to barricade himself from all wedding talk, keeping mostly to the Monongahela House or the levee, avoiding both River Hill and New Hope. He hadn’t considered he might have to stand up at the ceremony.
Excuses swept through him as he formed a reply, only one credible.
I’m going abroad on Ballantyne business.
True enough. The waiting Guarneri violin, nearly forgotten in the tumult of circumstances, rose to the forefront of his mind and begged resolving. He owed Silas that. Sailing for Scotland might even throw Madder off his trail. Yet something perverse and illogical held him fast. What was death? Not a thing to be feared or dreaded. Simply a solution for the regret that was sure to riddle him for years to come. An honest way to end the pain.
/> Where was God in the midst of all this?
Though he’d lately gotten on his knees, he saw no shift in circumstances, felt no affirming presence. The Lord seemed to answer the prayers of men like Silas Ballantyne, not orphans, or worse.
Passing a hand over his face, he stood as the door swung open. Malachi came in, not bothering to wipe his boots. Leaving a muddy trail, he took the chair across the desk and removed a folded paper from his breast pocket.
James took it reluctantly, struck by Malachi’s pained silence before he set eyes on what looked like a letter. He’d never seen Wren’s writing hand, but a mere glance at it turned him inside out. Every lovely, arcing flourish was so like her, rendering the words within more poignant.
Dear Malachi,
After much thought and prayer, I am unable to be your wife. You are a fine man worthy of far more than I can give you. My heart is wholly taken. I am deeply sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
Your ring is enclosed.
Please forgive me.
Rowena
Malachi’s eyes were on him, gauging his reaction. Waiting for an explanation or some comforting word. Only James had none to give.
He swallowed, never lifting his gaze from the paper. “Have you seen her, talked to her?”
“I rode to New Hope before coming here, but she wasn’t there. She’s not at River Hill either. No one seems to know where she is, and everyone is frantic with alarm.”
James’s eyes lingered on one telling line.
My heart is wholly taken.
Malachi was staring at him as if he knew. As if he was to blame. Which he was.
“Do you love her, James?”
It was the last question he expected to hear, but it was one that needed settling. Malachi’s eyes, tinged with sorrow and regret, bore into him. James could no longer deny the truth. “Yes.”
A dozen excuses gathered inside him, begging release. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I never thought it would come to this. I tried to turn her away. I never wanted to love her.