In the shadows of the linen closet, she drew in a quivering breath and tried to shake the sick feeling that followed. The day had gone wrong from the start. Her brothers had been an unmanageable handful since dawn. Her maid had scorched her favorite gown. Cook had dropped the dessert she’d promised. And James had been far too preoccupied . . .
Feeling her way through the familiar closet, she latched on to what she sought, thoughts settling on Uncle Ansel. Long ago, Mama had lost her first baby from the shock of his leaving. Would she lose this babe at his reappearing? Or worse?
“Izannah!”
Her father’s voice thundered through the second floor like cannon fire. Hugging the linens to her chest, she ran toward the sound, tripping in her haste.
Lord, help us, please . . .
8
Old age is not a matter for sorrow. It is matter for thanks if we have left our work done behind us.
THOMAS CARLYLE
James leaned back in his chair, senses filled with the newness of the latest Ballantyne enterprise. The recently finished offices along Water Street fronted the levee, the large bank of windows offering a panorama of ceaseless activity. Ballantyne steamships lay in tiers three deep as the mist rose off the river and the strengthening sun vied with black ash and coal dust in a furious play of light and shadow.
Around an immense refectory table made of oak, shareholders gathered alongside a fleet of company attorneys, head shipwrights, apprentices, and more. Silas Ballantyne didn’t exclude anyone who had a hand in the business, be it the boatyard or ironworks or glassworks. Every employee owned stock and prospered—or stood to lose everything—depending on the Ballantynes’ rise or fall.
To his left, the judge’s place was conspicuously empty. Jack Turlock was at River Hill, about to become a father again. James had hoped Ellie’s travail would be over when he awoke, but no babe’s cry had rent the morning stillness when he’d left for Pittsburgh. He’d gone down the long drive, a hollow feeling in his gut, unsure of what awaited on his return.
Silas stood at the far end of the table, diverting James’s thoughts. As usual, the founder of the Ballantyne fortune didn’t mince words but took matters by the tail. “I’ve called this morning’s meeting to announce two matters of importance—the return of my son Ansel to Pittsburgh and the possibility of a Ballantyne-Cameron alliance.”
A murmur of approval—and surprise—rippled through the room. James fixed his eyes on Peyton, the ailing heir, and Bennett, second in line. He knew how father and son felt about both matters. They were spitting nails over Ansel’s return—and could hardly contain their glee over partnering with the powerful Cameron clan.
“In the weeks to come, Ansel will assume leadership of Ballantyne Ironworks while the management of our other interests will remain unchanged.” Turning toward the wall with a surety that belied his age, Silas unveiled a large map showing railroad routes crisscrossing the eastern United States in bold black lines.
“As you know, the Baltimore and Ohio is nearing completion in Wheeling, West Virginia, and will soon be a part of the Pennsylvania Railroad. The Camerons and I have nearly formalized a partnership comprised of seven Ballantyne steamers that will operate in conjunction with the line at its end point . . .”
Though his own spirits lifted at the inclusion of Ansel and a possible Cameron tie, James couldn’t keep his mind on talk of tracks and land west of the meridian and competing railroad routes. Couldn’t even entertain a sliver of envy that his old friend Malachi Cameron had finally come into his own. Couldn’t feel any awe as Silas spoke of the Camerons’ grand plan to link the East and the West with a transcontinental railroad.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sackett. Seems like the heat went to my head.”
Raising a hand, James gave a discreet tug to his cravat. Though the room was cool, it seemed he was still standing in the heat of the garden, bewitched by what he’d never have—a Ballantyne bride—wading in the water. In his breast pocket was the rose she’d given him, dried now. Its faint fragrance reminded him of her.
As if he needed a reminder . . .
The morning inched ahead, the meeting ending on a congratulatory note as Silas turned toward Bennett. “Best wishes to my grandson and his bride-to-be, Miss Charlotte Ashburton, on the occasion of their Saturday nuptials.”
Handshakes and applause returned Bennett to the center of attention. Quietly James left his seat to stand near the door, preparing to take his leave. Perhaps it no longer mattered that Bennett’s longtime rival was making such strides. Malachi Cameron had yet to take a wife, and Bennett was about to marry a shipping heiress.
But for the note in James’s pocket.
Though it wasn’t signed, he’d been assured of its origin—Bennett’s bride. One of New Hope’s maids had sent it over yesterday. The help were always going between River Hill and New Hope, and he’d thought little of it till a stable hand slipped the note to him at dusk.
Mr. Sackett,
Have heard you are trustworthy. Am anxious to return to Boston. Servants say you have connections. Please advise.
Without a doubt a scandal was in the making, and he wanted no part of it. Common sense told him to pass the matter to Silas—but something stopped him.
“Ready to depart for New Orleans, James?” Silas was at his elbow, leaning on a gold-plated cane.
“A Saturday sailing, aye.”
Their eyes met, communicating a great deal more than piloting and wedding journeys and the coming twelve-hundred-mile trip. Silas’s keen gaze was a never-fading jade, his handshake firm. There was no sign of the man who had collapsed two weeks prior, leaving James on tenterhooks since.
“If you have need of anything . . .” Silas began.
“A prayer or two,” James replied.
Silas’s voice was low and measured. “Just remember to stay clear of Island 37. And take care to dock in Louisville on the midnight watch.”
James gave a nod, barely registering the details, the bride’s plea weighting him.
It was the perfect opportunity to show Silas the note. Excuse himself from any trouble. But he couldn’t shift the burden to an ailing man. Miss Ashburton’s heartfelt note was for him and no one else. Despite the scandal about to ensue, James felt an undeniable swell of sympathy for Bennett’s bride. And a certainty he had to help her.
In the privacy of the dressing room, Charlotte’s strained whisper turned urgent. “I must tell Bennett today.”
Darting a look at the door Aunt Andra had just passed through, Wren dared a single word. “Today?”
Charlotte’s eyes, a deep lavender-blue, darkened. “Another letter came from Christian yesterday. Bennett intercepted it and confronted me. He was so angry I thought he might strike me.”
Wren stared at her, mind spinning. Bennett . . . angry? He looked so gentlemanly in his tailored clothes, so polite and refined, like he’d never lift a hand to anyone. Yet here Charlotte was pouring out her heart to the contrary.
“Bennett has planned an outing on the lake today at Ballantyne Hall. He says we’ve hardly had a moment alone together. He wants to show me his new skiff. I dread it yet feel this may be the opportunity to end things. Last night I sent a note to James Sackett through my maid—”
A stirring outside the door quashed their whispering. Aunt Andra was approaching, her brisk step unmistakable. “The bride-to-be is in here, ready for a final fitting.” She showed the dressmaker in, two assistants trailing. “I trust you’ve also brought a suitable gown for Rowena.” She glanced at Wren, her smile thin. “I took the liberty of asking Mistress Endicott to improve on your Louisville dresses and find a more fitting garment.”
“And improve we did.” The aging seamstress’s face held satisfaction as both gowns were brought in.
The bridal ensemble was unveiled first in all its creamy splendor. Speechless, Wren pondered how Charlotte would last through the ceremony in such heavy silk when she already looked wilted in camisole and petticoats. On a near dressi
ng table, the wedding bonnet with its mock orange flowers and matching lace veil awaited to complete her misery.
Mistress Endicott stood with hands on her ample hips. “If you’ll undress to your undergarments, Rowena, we’ll fit your new dress.”
The rustle of tissue drew every eye. Something satiny emerged, the mint shade with its rose trim pleasing. Wren hadn’t seen anything so splendid on their hurried Louisville shopping trip. Of a lighter fabric than Charlotte’s silk, the dress slid over her shoulders, the frothy lace hem settling to the floor.
Wren ran a light hand over the gathered skirt. “Reminds me of spring . . . wild roses.”
Andra stood back, teeth catching on her bottom lip in contemplation. “The shade seems a trifle pale. Is there nothing else?”
Mistress Endicott moved toward a muslin-wrapped bundle, clearly anxious to do Andra’s bidding. “We’ve brought another in chrome-yellow.”
The gown emerged, a glaring gold, its full skirts edged with large blue bows. Tawdry was the word that leapt to mind. Even Charlotte looked aghast. There was a strained pause before a knock sounded at the door, prolonging the decision.
“I’ve come to see Charlotte and Wren.” Grandmother took a slow step into the room on the arm of her maid, smiling, ever joyful. “Ah, the final fitting. We’ve not had a bride at New Hope since Ellie wed her Jack.”
“Yes, Mother, you were just telling Charlotte that yesterday.” Andra bent and examined the garish dress closely. “This gown is far more eye-catching, don’t you agree?”
Grandmother looked to Wren, hesitancy in her every feature. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that shade of yellow. In my day Spitalfields silk was the height of fashion.”
“Times are changing,” Andra told her curtly. “Chrome-yellow it shall be.”
Wren held her tongue. She didn’t want to cross Andra or create a stir for her very fragile grandmother.
“How lovely you look, Charlotte.” The maid at Grandmother’s side helped her to a settee. “All that Honiton lace becomes you.”
Did no one notice Charlotte was as pale as her dress? The alarm Wren had fought since their garden talk now filled her to the brim. Here they were discussing gowns and weddings that might never be while Charlotte looked as if she might faint at their feet.
“I’ve not come to discuss fashion but share some glad news.” Grandmother looked triumphant. “We’ve just received word that Ellie has been safely delivered of a new babe, born this morning at River Hill.”
Wren’s spirits took wing. “Boy or girl?”
“Jack likes to tease me and never says. I was hoping you might accompany me to River Hill this afternoon. Charlotte will be at Ballantyne Hall with Bennett, so she tells me. I thought we could take her there on our way. There’s room enough in the carriage for you too, Andra.”
Andra ceased fussing with Charlotte’s hem, brow as creased as the fabric in her hands. “Really, Mother, I can’t possibly spare an afternoon, not with more gifts to catalogue and music to see about for the reception.” She sighed. “Elinor’s lying-in couldn’t come at a worse time!”
The nettlesome remark hung in the air, causing hurt, or so Wren feared. Laying a hand on Grandmother’s shoulder, she gave a gentle squeeze. “I’ll gladly go. There’s nothing better than a baby, surely.”
Andra gave them a disparaging glance and the room stilled. “I think a visit could wait till after the wedding. All those Turlock boys tire you so, Mother.”
“Tire me?” Grandmother gave a little chuckle. “Old as I am, everything tires me. Those boys are life itself.”
“You may give Elinor my best wishes if you like.”
Wren studied her aunt, Tremper’s words resounding. Sour Aunt Andra. Out of the mouths of babes . . . A chill settled over the room that not even the warmth of Grandmother’s presence could thaw.
Undaunted, Grandmother smiled up at Wren. “We’ll leave for River Hill after luncheon then.”
Wren stole a glance at Charlotte. Still pale. Still at war within. And obviously full of dread at the coming afternoon.
Izannah stood at the window of the bedchamber, feeling like a wrung-out rag. The cloud of dust on the long drive roused her, and she pressed her forehead against the glass pane. Grandmother? A second figure sat beside her in the handsome barouche. Not Aunt Andra. Andra rarely came. Mama was always a bit sad at her absence—and Papa sullen. Yet little could dim Izannah’s joy that the endless night had passed.
Across the room Mama lay sleeping, the babe bundled in her arm, the maids going about on tiptoe as they tidied the bedchamber. In the adjoining dressing room, the tardy midwife dozed in a rocking chair, snoring softly. Thankfully one of the tutors had taken the boys fishing, so everyone was spared their wild tumbling and talk.
Turning back to the window, Izannah watched Rowena step down from the carriage and pause to admire the roses. In that instance it seemed James stood near, his low voice in her ear.
Her eyes are like sea foam . . . her hair is the color of hemp rope . . . She barely comes to my shoulder . . . She handles a fiddle like I pilot a boat.
Izannah thought of all he hadn’t said.
She’s brown as a berry. Her hands are callused. She speaks with a backwoods drawl.
Pushing away from the pane, she smoothed her wrinkled skirts, wishing she had time to change. Mama was stirring now, and the babe gave a little cry like a kitten’s mewl, bringing Daddy round. His eyes were red-rimmed from a sleepless night, his jaw unshaven, but his relief was as potent as her own, though they both knew the danger hadn’t passed. Mama had a slight fever. And the babe was so large Izannah had gasped when the midwife had first placed the infant in her waiting arms.
“Her name is Chloe,” Daddy had said at the sight of his second daughter.
“Chloe,” Izannah echoed, moved by the sudden glimmer in his and Mama’s eyes. Once Papa had had a sister named Chloe, dear to him and Mama both. Izannah struggled to hide her dismay, wishing for a less melancholy name. But Chloe it was.
Now, hours later, she supposed all that mattered was that Mama be well again. She sent up a quick prayer, preparing for a visit. “Grandmother and Rowena are here. Shall I ring for tea?”
Mama brightened. “Yes, of course. Bring the chairs nearer the bed. And the tea table, if you please.” She put a hand to her plaited hair. “You’ve taken care of everything, Izannah, even my favorite bed jacket.”
“You look beautiful, Mama.”
“Yes, she does, though I can hardly believe it after she’s been up all night.” Great-Aunt Elspeth stood at the doorway to the bedchamber, lips pursed as the judge went past. “Please tell me it’s not another boy. A girl would be a fitting finish to all this endless procreation.”
The maid leaned in and whispered something, but Elspeth simply chortled and moved into the room’s center, her cane leading. “Martha reminds me I must behave or your father has threatened to send for my nurse . . . and a straitjacket.”
“Would you like to hold Chloe?” Izannah gestured to a chair, knowing the answer before she asked.
“Ah, a girl! No baby holding, thank you. But I would like some tea.” Despite her advanced age, Elspeth was dressed and pressed to perfection, showing little sign of the onerous malady that plagued her. One didn’t discuss the French pox in polite company.
Grandmother and Rowena soon joined them, gathering round and making such a fuss over the new arrival that introductions were nearly forgotten.
Eventually Elspeth’s inquisitive gaze settled on Wren in the chair opposite, her eyes alive with interest. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Wren Ballantyne, Ansel’s daughter.”
“Ansel’s daughter?” Her eyes rounded. “So the prodigal has returned. Oh my . . .”
Izannah noted the slight lift of Wren’s brows. “There are no prodigals in this family, Aunt Elspeth. Not even you.” She picked up a plate of tea sandwiches and passed them round the table. “Rowena and her father have just arrived in
time for the wedding.”
“Ah, the wedding. I don’t suppose I received an invitation.” Elspeth looked to her maid, who shook her head in confirmation. “Well, I’ll stay here with Ellie and the baby, then.”
“You’ve been invited to the reception, which will be at the Monongahela House,” Grandmother told her. “The bride is a beautiful girl from Boston—”
“Boston!”
“Yes, Boston. Charlotte met Bennett while he was studying at Harvard.”
“But I don’t believe in Pittsburghers marrying foreigners.”
“Charlotte shan’t be a foreigner come Saturday,” Grandmother replied. “She’ll be a Ballantyne.”
“Sister, do you always have an answer for everything?” Elspeth returned her attention to Wren. “I suppose you’ll be next—a debut ball, a groom. Izannah hasn’t had much luck with either.”
Izannah bit her lip, feeling a familiar bristling. Oh, that the wedding on Saturday was my own, and a babe to follow. Lifting Chloe out of her mother’s arms, Izannah handed her to Grandmother, praying for a turn in conversation.
“She has your blue eyes, Ellie, and Jack’s fair hair. And there’s no mistaking the Ballantyne nose.” Grandmother’s pleasure knew no bounds. “Such a big baby! I do hope you’ll consider a wet nurse till you regain your strength.”
“The midwife said the same, but I’m not sure.” Fever glazed Mama’s eyes, stealing Izannah’s joy.
“Why don’t you let me stay here with you a few days?” Grandmother’s gracious offer only fueled Izannah’s worries. “I’ve not forgotten all the years I spent at the foundling hospital in Philadelphia. Babies have always been second nature to me.”
“But what about the wedding and all those guests, Mama?”
“Andra and the staff have all in hand. Wren has been a blessing as well. I daresay I won’t be missed.”
With a loud harrumph, Elspeth got to her feet, cane in hand. “All this family harmony gives me indigestion. I must go and see what might be suitable to wear to the reception, other than the straitjacket Jack keeps talking about.”