“Non! You jest. The Nightingale?”
The silver clasps of the leather case gave way beneath her practiced hands. As she lifted the lid, her whole world shifted. She gasped, the pride and pleasure her instrument always brought a dim memory. Within the case’s velvet lining was an imposter, a common Mirecourt, inferior in every sense. She stood mute, mind spinning.
Bennett.
Deep in her spirit she knew. Somehow he’d tricked her, robbed her of her sole joy and comfort. The Nightingale was no longer hers but someone else’s. Though she didn’t know whose or how, she knew why.
“Not the Nightingale, non? Yet an instrument still worth appraising.” Taking the violin from her trembling hands, Du Breon began to inspect every detail, spectacles hiding his intent squint. “I have a buyer here in the city who may happily pay what this Mirecourt is worth. But I advise you to return to your hotel till I have time to contact him and arrange for a potential sale on the morrow.”
Fighting tears, she returned the instrument to its case, unable to hide her distress. Worn down by weariness and the cold hard fact that the Nightingale was missing and the Guarneri was far beyond her reach, she turned away, thanking him but making no promises about tomorrow.
The violin shop was not easy to find, tucked in a tight corner at the end of a dingy alley, raising James’s suspicions before he’d even stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the air at his entry, and his nerves were raked by the frantic jingling of a bell above the door. He stood quietly for a moment, adjusting to the shadows, willing the paralyzing wariness inside him to ease.
Violins of various shapes and sizes lined the walls, but the shop smelled old, neglected. Not the place one would find a rare violin or even inquire about one.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” An aged man emerged from a back room, a bow in hand. “Are you in need of a violin? Some sheet music, perhaps?”
“Neither.” Still suspicious of some deception, James took a last look about the shabby room. “I’m looking for a young woman by the name of Rowena Ballantyne, who is in search of a rare Guarneri violin.”
A slow awareness spread over the shopkeeper’s face. “I am Pierre Du Breon, and I know the very one you speak of. She came here yesterday asking about the same.”
“And?”
“I have no knowledge about the violin she hunts for.” He raised his palms entreatingly. “I sent no letter to Pittsburgh.”
He’d expected as much. A ruse and little more. The men who meant him harm had lured Wren here . . . him here. James shot a look at the front door, tension tightening inside him. Cane Run and its remoteness had never sounded as appealing as now.
In the stilted silence, Du Breon’s cordial mood shifted. “Do you mean trouble, monsieur?”
“I simply mean to find her. And I’ll reward you handsomely for your help.” Taking out his wallet, James removed a few bills and set them on the worn counter.
“You mean her no harm? She is such a charming young woman . . .”
“No harm, I assure you.”
Coming nearer, Du Breon set aside the bow and pocketed the money. “Merci.” Turning toward the back room, he spoke in rapid French. A shop boy appeared in a stained apron, smelling of varnish. “Take this man, Mr. . . . ?” His gaze returned to James.
“Sackett.”
“Take Mr. Sackett to the hotel where Miss Ballantyne is staying. They have business.”
“Oui.” The boy exchanged his apron for a cap and led James out into the misty Cincinnati morning.
Sunrise found Wren eating breakfast in a secluded alcove of the hotel’s dining room, the only guest up so early. Despite the heaviness in her head from lack of sleep and the blistering ache in her heart, she was thankful for one matter. Away from Pittsburgh, the memory of James had lost some of its sharp edges. Bennett filled her thoughts instead, bringing a different kind of anguish.
Why hadn’t she known he’d retaliate in some way for her broken engagement? Having denied him what he most wanted, he’d taken something from her. She should have hidden the Nightingale, should have sent a note to Malachi by Mim instead of someone from the stable. Though she couldn’t be sure, she felt a servant had betrayed her.
Beyond the wide dining room window, a boy sped past, driving a tiny cart down the busy thoroughfare, a costumed monkey on his shoulder. Street vendors were already peddling their wares in a swirl of competing fog and sunlight. Musicians commandeered corners, sending sleepy notes into the morning air. A multitude of people were passing. Women in fancy dress and plain cotton shifts, men in caps and top hats . . .
James.
Her fork dropped with a clatter. Here? Why? As her mind raced and fumbled to explain his appearing, she reached for her reticule, suppressing a wild desire to wave at him through the window. When she looked up again, he was gone. Had she only imagined him, then?
A sudden commotion in the foyer—the opening and closing of a door—confirmed she hadn’t. He’d found her after several hundred miles and a blur of days. Why?
“Good morning, sir. Are you inquiring after a room?”
James’s low, measured reply sent a tremor through her. “I’m looking for a young woman by the name of Rowena Ballantyne.”
“We’re not in the habit of giving out confidential information about guests—”
“In this case you need to make an exception or I’ll have to involve the police.”
A slight pause. “I understand, sir.”
From her vantage point in back of the dining room door, Wren watched the clerk examine the hotel roster. “There is a Rowena, sir, but it doesn’t appear to be the lady in question. Only a Miss Nancarrow . . .”
Wren didn’t wait to hear more, already moving toward a back exit. She’d told no one where she was staying except the shopkeeper, Du Breon. An unwise confidence. Obviously he’d told James she was here.
Bent on escape, she nearly collided with two men at the door who brushed past rather rudely, obviously intent on some pressing business. One grunted what sounded like an apology, casting a brief glance at her violin case. Why was she still carrying it? For its familiar feel? Cold comfort. There was little of value within.
With that thought she stepped into the street. The hustle of the city, so like Pittsburgh, so unlike the calm of Cane Run, overwhelmed her. She wanted to shrink from the noise and the dirt, wincing at the abrupt sound of popping behind her. Loud and insistent, it ceased as quickly as it began.
Hurrying down a back alley, she tossed aside the desire to retrace her steps and throw herself in James’s arms, erasing every mile and ugly memory, every speck of lonesomeness that lay between them.
Papa had sent him—or Bennett and Andra. Perhaps even Malachi. Well, he’d come in vain. She wasn’t going to be found. She’d made up her mind, and James Sackett had no part in her plan.
“A Miss Nancarrow?” James repeated, staring at Wren’s signature in the hotel register. Elation and frustration pulled at him. Perhaps she was less naïve than he’d thought.
The hotel clerk inclined his head toward the dining room. “Miss Whoever-she-is was eating breakfast a few minutes ago.”
Wren—within reach? James swung toward the dining room, barely aware of a commotion in the hall.
“Ah, Mr. Sackett . . . at long last.” The voice, a rough grumble, held unmistakable challenge.
Chilled, James turned toward the sound, instinctively feeling for his pistol. Two darkly dressed men stood at both exits, derringers drawn.
All the air left his lungs. Lord, help. Was his life to end here, now? Like this?
All thoughts of Wren dissolved in the ensuing noise and smoke. The ceiling and wall behind him took a pounding of bullets, plaster and paint shaking down around him.
He fired back once, twice, and heard someone shout. Then a swift crack to his skull and he blacked out.
Wren’s walk to the levee was more of a run, and she clutched her valise and violin case till her grip grew stiff about the leather handles. Ov
ercome by the landing’s carnival-like atmosphere, she sidestepped horse droppings while trying to stay clear of cargo and wagons. The next outbound southern steamer was at ten o’clock, or so a passenger schedule told her.
The fog that had greeted her when she’d arrived two days before was rushing in again, wrapping her in its misty embrace. Disguising her. Or so she hoped. She prayed the police weren’t out looking for her. Feet swollen in her too-tight boots, cape soiled from the grime of travel, she looked anything but a Ballantyne, even a Nancarrow. Her bonnet hid her well with its broad silk brim, but her fiddle case looked a bit out of place, like a huge finger pointing her way.
She waited in line for a ticket, eyeing the churlish Ohio, its surface marred with bobbing driftwood and the glint of ice. The sight of so many packets drove home the reality of James’s predicament. He’d followed her here and he was in danger. Never had she imagined he’d come so far. Risk so much. She scanned the wooden pathways crisscrossing the muddy landing, expecting him to appear.
Once aboard the Natchez Pearl, she cast a last look at the landing, pushing down the stubborn notion that James should be beside her. She’d grown so used to him during the season—to his voice, his steady, reassuring presence, the uncanny way she had only to glance at him and he would cover her blunders.
“Careful, miss. Mind your step.” An aging steward stood before her, passenger list in hand. “And you would be?”
“Rowena Nancarrow.”
He glanced at her through crooked spectacles. “Bound for Louisville with intermediate ports between?”
She nodded, unsure what intermediate ports meant but afraid it spelled a delay. “How long will it be till we get there?”
“Late this afternoon, barring any mishaps or foul weather.”
The prospect of a boiler explosion or sinking nearly froze her to the stage planks.
“Stay clear of all deck passengers,” he told her. “There’s talk of cholera going round. Best keep to the ladies’ salon.”
She wouldn’t tell him she had a slight fever. The burning behind her eyes was unrelenting, making her woozy and thirsty by turns. As she stepped onto the slippery deck, she looked up at the pilothouse, pelted with bittersweet memories of that first voyage aboard the Rowena.
Making her way to the salon, she felt she was taking yet another irreversible step. She’d come so far, yet the memories she’d hoped to move away from remained. Despite the hurt of the past, the sweetness of James’s arms stayed steadfast.
Would it always?
37
Where thou art, that is home.
EMILY DICKINSON
The signpost at the crooked gate read “Selkirk Macken, Luthier.” Ice coated the rough-hewn letters, and a cardinal perched on the rowan branch above, the only spot of color in the barren Kentucky landscape. Half frozen to the saddle, James reached into his greatcoat and pulled out his watch, a gift from Silas at Christmas. The Edinburgh timepiece was slow, no doubt due to his falling into a frigid ditch along a slippery stretch of road the day before.
The bitterness of twilight seeped into his bones, the light at the end of the lane failing to lift his spirits. After a miserable, emotional journey, he’d pinned all his hopes on finding Wren here. Safe. Sound. Glad to see him. His pulse sped at the thought of her in his arms and Izannah’s parting words.
When you find her, don’t let her go.
That he would do, if she would have him. He wasn’t sure she would. He’d hurt her deeply. Perhaps irreparably. She’d left his world without warning, though he was just entering hers.
Ahead the stone house—her old home—stood amid stalwart oaks. He tied his mount to the hitch rail and climbed slick stone steps toward the front door. His knock brought a barking dog bounding from the surrounding woods that simply wagged its tail on sight of him.
“I’m James Sackett,” he said to the tall young man who answered. “A friend of Ansel’s. A pilot of the Ballantyne line.”
“Selkirk Macken,” he replied, extending a hand. “This is my wife Rebecca.”
Mrs. Macken’s face creased in a smile. With a motion of her hand she waved him into a circle of warmth and light, the smell of bread and coffee inviting. Her soft, melodic speech was yet another reminder of Wren. “If you care to sit, I’ll serve you supper.”
He sat, too tired and cold to remove his coat, but he did place his sodden hat and gloves nearer the fire. Though his breathing had settled into a regular rhythm, his ribs seemed to scream from miles in the saddle and his tussle with the thugs at the Park Hotel.
Selkirk took a chair opposite, his own plate scraped clean. “Obviously you’re not here on a social call.”
“I’m looking for Wren.”
Selkirk shook his head. “I haven’t seen Wren since she and her father went upriver last August.”
“I was certain she’d be here.” Though he tried to remain stoic, dismay poked a hole in his surface calm. “My plan is to overtake her at some point.”
Unfazed, Selkirk studied him. “Obviously she’s decided Pittsburgh isn’t to her liking.”
“That’s not the half of it,” James replied, still stunned by all that had happened. “She left eleven days ago, bound for Cincinnati, posing as Rowena Nancarrow. She’s alone, unused to travel. I was sure she’d come here.” He’d never felt so flummoxed, so foolish. Somehow she’d managed to stay one step ahead of him the whole bewildering way.
Selkirk refilled his empty coffee cup. “She might have gone back to Pittsburgh.”
James nearly groaned. He forced a few forkfuls of stew, not wanting to offend, and looked about the comely room. A far cry from the parlors he was used to, it had a simple beauty, an uncluttered appeal. A startling lack of pretense. Again, like Wren.
Selkirk reached for a stack of newspapers on a stool. James watched as he unfolded one, turning it around so James could read the headline.
MURDER SOLVED FOR BALLANTYNE LINE: SUSPECTS APPREHENDED.
“I’ve been following the trouble in New Orleans that seems to be following you.” The young man’s eyes showed true concern. “The authorities say they’ve caught the men who ran you down on the streets of Pittsburgh then followed you to Cincinnati. Seems they lured Wren there with a note, something about a violin, but were hoping to waylay you instead.”
“They caught up with me—two of the clan—in the lobby of Wren’s hotel.”
Selkirk’s eyes widened. “You weren’t hurt?”
James shook his bruised head, the memory a bit muddy. “Nothing worth mentioning.” Could they sense his deep thankfulness? His awareness of prayer at work? “The desk clerk took a shot to the shoulder before police arrived and made arrests.”
From her rocking chair Mrs. Macken mumbled a relieved “Amen.”
Selkirk folded up the papers and put them away. “From what I know of the Mystic Clan and their dealings, it might be a good idea for you to stay here a few days. I doubt you’ll be troubled further in these woods. We’ve plenty of feed for your horse and can put you upstairs in Wren’s old room.”
The offer, though hospitable, gnawed a deeper place inside him. He didn’t want Wren’s room. He wanted Wren. Setting his fork down, he looked toward a side door. “I’ll stay tonight. But before I leave in the morning, I’d like to see your workshop, if you don’t mind.” He couldn’t say what compelled him to ask. He simply felt the need to see where Wren and her father had spent so much time.
“Do you play?” Selkirk queried.
“On occasion. But I’m no match for Wren.”
“Few can best a Ballantyne,” he said with a knowing smile.
They moved to a narrow hall and breezeway connected to a large workshop. Lantern held high, Selkirk thrust open a thick door, and light spilled into the airy space. Stringed instruments of all kinds adorned walls and tables, the aroma of wood and varnish thick. Immediately James felt Wren’s sweet presence. Felt her life and spirit. Felt, too, the pain of her having to leave it all behind, her shock a
t coming into Pittsburgh.
The ache inside him was widening every moment away from her. He’d had so little understanding of her or the life she’d led. She’d looked to him for guidance. Friendship. Affection. And he’d handed her judgments and rules and expectations. Not his heart.
Selkirk passed him an instrument, a gleaming maple fiddle with leaf trim. James took it and tested a string.
“Wren crafted this one herself. I’ve never had the pluck to part with it.”
The wood was warm in his cold hands. The tone sweet. He struck a low G and Selkirk looked surprised. Was he expecting a spritely reel? A jig?
Tonight all James could manage was a lament.
The fever had finally left her. Beneath Molly’s ministering hands, Wren felt almost renewed, whole in body if not in spirit. The Sabbath dawned, the sun chasing chilly shadows from field and forest. Cane Run was a sleepy echo of itself on a Sunday save for the singing coming from the newly built mercantile beside the inn. No one but Molly and her kin knew she was here. Lying abed in their tiny cabin, perched like a bird on the shoulder of a ridge, Wren had to content herself with the view from a narrow window.
She finally shed her traveling clothes, climbing into a wooden tub of warm water, the lye soap scouring her skin. A far cry from New Hope’s copper bath. Thankfully Molly had kept her old dresses. She chose one, the worn, familiar fabric soft against her skin, the mossy green a reminder of James Sackett’s eyes.
“I’m going home now, Molly.”
With a nod of understanding, Molly stood on the sagging porch and watched as Wren slipped into woods as worn and familiar as the dress she wore. The air was sharp and sweet and clear. She drank in her surroundings with a thirst she’d never known. Sure-footed, she followed the low stone fence in crumbling shades of gray, the crevices filled with moss in winter and wild violets come spring. The creek ran full as it cut across the little valley, a boisterous rush of frothy water between slippery banks. Everything was bare. Unclothed. Awaiting spring. Like a fine lady in need of a fancy dress.