Papa, it’s time to return to Kentucky.
Instead she said carefully, “Where are our violins?”
“In the music room,” he replied, his gaze never leaving the window.
She passed into the foyer, sure one sip of tea would sicken her. All the rooms on the first floor were open, the twin parlors overflowing with wedding gifts. Charlotte’s chair was pulled out from the desk as if awaiting her, the thank-you notes in a tidy stack.
Woodenly, Wren’s steps led her to the closed door in back of the stairs. Turning the porcelain knob, she stepped into the room she’d only heard about but never seen. A rich Delft blue and cream, it exuded elegance. When Papa had left New Hope years before and Aunt Ellie had taken her harp to River Hill, this beautiful room was all but abandoned, a maid said.
In the faint light sneaking past heavy shutters, the Cremona violins lay on a long table. A harpsichord was hidden by a dustcover, mahogany music stands huddled in one corner. Here there was sanctuary. Peace.
Home, her heart said.
Early the next morning, Papa called her into the parlor and told her the news. Molly was to return to Kentucky on the very boat meant for Bennett and his bride. Charlotte’s maid was to replace her. Wren read the panic in Molly’s eyes, felt the grip of her bony fingers. Slightly superstitious, Molly looked like she might come apart. The Belle of Pittsburgh was nothing but a ghost ship.
“You’ll be all right, Molly,” Wren reassured her, sinking lower with every word. “The trip isn’t far. You’ll soon be home. Besides, Papa promised your kin he wouldn’t keep you here long, and Jonas is surely missing you.” At the mention of her little nephew, Molly dried her eyes but still looked mournful. Though she couldn’t speak, Wren knew her heart.
I wish you could go with me.
When Molly disappeared to pack her things, Charlotte’s maid began to go about the bedchamber, straightening and tidying as she went. “My name’s Mariam, Miss Rowena. But you can call me Mim.” Coming to the large wardrobe, she opened it wide. “Yer aunt Andra has sent your Louisville dresses to the orphanage. The wedding trousseau is to take their place.”
Wren stared at the empty wardrobe, shed of all her Louisville clothes. The sight set her heart to pounding. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—don anything of Charlotte’s. Though she wasn’t superstitious, she was chary of some things, and wearing a grave-bound woman’s dresses was one of them.
A look of apology engulfed Mim’s face. “Miss Charlotte never wore them, if it’s any comfort. ’Twould be a frightful loss if they were to go to waste. The Ashburtons dinna want them. They’ve just left for Boston.”
Wren sat in the nearest chair, her wide skirts brushing a small table and sending a figurine to the carpeted floor. Fighting tears, she murmured a Gaelic epithet beneath her breath.
Mim spun round, astonishment on her ruddy face. “Ye have the Gaelic?”
“I do.”
At that, Mim abandoned English altogether. “I’m sorry, Miss Rowena. I don’t dare cross Miss Andra. She’s in such a stew about what’s happened.”
“Please, call me Wren.” Unsure of Mim or her loyalty to Andra, she felt her way cautiously. “I know you’re simply doing as you’re told. Trying to make the best of it.”
Mim heaved a sigh. “Och, the best of it. It will take time, ye ken. The servants are all abuzz with the dire news. Then there are the papers, sure to announce it like a trumpet blast come morn. Mr. Bennett will be bound in black for six months or better. And the Ballantynes are such fine folk too. Yer dear granny brought me to New Hope years ago when my kin died and I came to be at the Orphan Home.”
Wren stared at the glib little maid, sorting through her torrent of Gaelic. She could hardly keep up with her. “The Orphan Home?”
“It’s in Pittsburgh and chock-full of bairns. Yer granny goes as often as she can. But yer Aunt Andra . . .” She screwed up her face. “Nivver!”
“But I thought you came with Char—” Wren stumbled over the name, changing course. “I thought you were from Boston.”
“Nae, I’ve never been to Boston. Miss Andra gave me over to Miss Charlotte when she arrived. Her own maid died on the way here. From fever.”
The whole affair had been ill-fated from the beginning. Saying no more, Wren excused herself and went in search of Molly, unwilling to part with her just yet.
And still smoldering over the matter of Charlotte’s dresses.
“Och!” With one swift look, Mim took in the overstuffed valise and fiddle case Wren clutched in the heated August foyer. “Yer doing what?”
“I’m going into Pittsburgh to see Molly off.” Wren’s whisper fell flat as she uttered the half-truth. Could Mim see through her pretense? The maid seemed as canny as she was glib.
“Yer not thinking about running off like Miss Charlotte?” When Wren stayed silent, Mim’s eyes grew wide. “Losh! Ye are! I ken just from the look o’ ye.”
Reaching into her poke, Wren pulled out a coin, enclosing it in Mim’s hand, though the money held the taint of a bribe. “To thank you.”
“I’d rather have ye than a sovereign any day o’ the week.” Mim’s eyes were glinting again. “What will yer poor da say when he finds ye gone?”
But Wren was already heading for the front door where a carriage waited to take Molly to the levee, haste in her step. If she had any qualms about leaving the lushness of rural Allegheny County, or that she’d simply left a note for her father and grandparents, all regret faded as they descended into the smoke and soot of Pittsburgh. Hot as Hades and just as crowded, the levee resembled a carnival gone wild. Looking on, Molly withered like a sun-parched leaf.
Perspiration beaded Wren’s brow as the sun slanted below the brim of her straw bonnet. She wore the sole Louisville dress Andra had overlooked and Mim had rescued, a blessedly cool sprigged muslin with a background of tiny blue flowers. But its newness almost chafed her skin, and Charlotte’s impractical leather slippers were a trifle tight.
“I’m coming with you, Molly, but I have to see about passage first.”
Bolstered by Molly’s smile, Wren crossed the expanse of mud and boardwalk, intent on any packet bound for Louisville. Freight and chalkboards were at every turn, guarded by cigar-smoking men who sang out ever-changing rates of cargo. Wren breathed in the stench of river water and livestock pens alongside more fragrant hogsheads of tobacco and molasses and coffee.
Lord, help us get home.
At the water’s edge near the stage planks, a deckhand stood guard, shouting orders and epithets with practiced ease. Flanked by the imposing Belle of Pittsburgh and the Aleck Scott, Wren’s namesake appeared almost dainty despite the tonnage being loaded.
Desperate for a deckhand’s attention, she realized it wasn’t the notice she wanted. A gust of wind lifted her hem, and a dozen men turned her way. She struggled to keep her composure and modesty intact, her skirts down as she spoke to the nearest roustabout. “I need passage to Louisville with my maid.”
He spat into the levee mud and scowled. “Do I look like a ticket taker?”
“I don’t know anything about a ticket.” Her shout rose above the din. “Last time I simply walked aboard. I’m Silas Ballantyne’s granddaughter—”
“Well, why didn’t ye say so?” He whisked a battered cap off his head and refrained from spitting again. “Ye’ll have to talk to Sackett. He’s in that office yonder.”
Her spirits sank. Following his pointed finger, she saw a battered building fronting the levee, windows and door open wide. Taking Molly’s arm, she started up the muddy incline to the office, avoiding sweating, cursing rivermen all the way. A small ramp ushered them above the melee to the entrance, where a weathered sign proclaiming Ballantyne Boatworks swung wildly in the wind.
Molly stepped beneath a shaded eave with their belongings while Wren went inside, still clutching her fiddle case. The interior was as still and silent as the levee was chaotic. James Sackett sat behind an old, scarred desk, head bent. A clock on th
e wall ticked a tense four times. Departure was within an hour. She felt a wide relief. Almost home.
“Mr. Sackett . . .”
He looked up and met her tentative gaze with his own, green and solid.
“I want to return to Kentucky.”
Stoic, he stood and looked down at her, making her feel no bigger than the mosquito buzzing round her head. “I don’t remember seeing your name on the passenger list, Miss Ballantyne.”
Squaring her shoulders, she drew herself to her full height, all five feet of it. “Molly’s a mite fearful. She shouldn’t be traveling alone.”
He looked past her as if spying Molly waiting just outside. “Your maid will be in the company of other passengers. She’s been assigned a single cabin.”
Had she? Such a generous arrangement was unheard of for free blacks like Molly. Most were kept to the lower decks along with the cargo. “There’s bound to be room for me too.”
“The Belle of Pittsburgh is heavily laden this trip.”
Heavily laden? When the Rowena had been all but empty when they’d come upriver? She glanced at the wall clock again, aware time was against her.
His face held an intensity she didn’t like. “Does your father know you’re here?”
She stared at him. Did he think she was still a child, under Papa’s thumb? “I’m a woman grown, Mr. Sackett, and hardly need my father’s permission—or yours.” She kept her voice calm, not wanting to rile him . . . as if she could. “As Silas Ballantyne’s kin, it stands to reason I should have passage on any boat that bears his name.”
“All that aside, I seem to remember you wanting off the packet more than you wanted on it, Miss Ballantyne.”
“You don’t understand.” She swallowed, her temper rising along with his obvious reluctance. “I can’t stay here any longer. Pittsburgh is so dark. It’s nigh impossible to see, to get a clear breath. New Hope’s little better. There are servants everywhere—watching, whispering. I can’t touch things lest I break them or say a word lest I misspeak.”
He studied her, his expression guaranteeing she’d get no farther than the dock, no matter what reasons she pelted him with. “I can’t sanction your going downriver. But I can arrange for a rig to return you to New Hope.”
“Mr. Sackett, please . . .” She raised a hand to her brow, wishing she could shed her hot bonnet. Her desperation doubled at the sound of a boat’s whistle. “Would you give me no more help than you gave”—her voice cracked—“poor Charlotte?”
Something raced through his eyes, but he stayed steadfast. “We’re talking about you, Miss Ballantyne. Not Miss Ashburton.” Coming out from behind the desk, he shrank the distance between them, making her want to take a step back. “Say I let you aboard, and within five minutes of leaving the landing—when most accidents occur—you lose your life? That happened just yesterday to the City of Pittsburgh’s pilot and crew. What would your father and grandfather say to me then?”
She looked away, stung. She’d not heard of the City of Pittsburgh. All she could think of was Charlotte.
“I wish I had better news for you, Miss Ballantyne. I wish traveling by packet was safe. Or that you liked Pittsburgh and didn’t have to come here nearly begging—”
It was the most roundabout refusal she’d ever heard. Whirling, she clutched her violin case and made for the open door, stumbling as her toe caught on the raised sill. Out she went into coal dust and foul air, only to find Molly making her way to the loading platform, escorted by a clerk. The Belle of Pittsburgh’s huge smokestacks were already pluming, the huge steamer shuddering along the levee, ready to embark.
Behind her James Sackett’s tall shadow darkened the doorframe. “Wren . . .”
She plunged into the crowd, baggage in hand, numb and disbelieving. He hadn’t called her Miss Ballantyne or Rowena. He’d called her Wren. But it in no way lessened the sting of his refusal. Or the fact she had no money and no means to return her to New Hope.
Tugging his hat lower, Malachi Cameron fixed his gaze on the winding road ahead. He’d nearly made it. Though his Edinburgh-tailored suit was wrinkled from a long railway journey piggybacked by the stage, he blinked sleep-deprived eyes and looked homeward, expectant. Cameron House was a few miles more, tucked in the bend between New Hope and Broad Oak. Impatience set in as his driver suddenly slowed his pace, the new barouche kicking up less dust as it rolled cautiously over ruts and rocks.
To the right of the road was a woman. Small of stature. Luggage in hand. Her hair was spilling down like gold ribbon beneath her straw bonnet. Clad in a summery dress dotted with blue flowers, she was all curves and bends, her full skirts swaying gently as she walked. Nearly derailing him.
This was a reminder of why he’d come back to Pittsburgh. How long had it been since he’d exchanged words with anyone but a railroad hand? He’d nearly given up on polite conversation, feminine company. Courtesy demanded he stop. Speak.
Ho there.
No, that would never do. He’d do well to remember his city manners.
She kept on just a few steps ahead of him, never looking back. Coaxing him into a game of cat and mouse. From the slump of her shoulders, she seemed as weary as he.
Pardon me, miss . . .
11
In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Fiddle case in one hand, valise in the other, Wren walked out the Allegheny Road toward New Hope. She heard the Belle of Pittsburgh’s distinct whistle at her back as it took Molly downriver, all her hopes along with it. She wouldn’t turn round and watch it depart. Overcome with humiliation and homesickness, she stirred the dust with her steps, her tumbled thoughts circling round her aching head.
He’d called her Wren.
She couldn’t call him James. Nor did she want to. That was Izannah’s privilege.
She hadn’t even had the sense to say she was sorry for the loss of the City of Pittsburgh, even when he was clearly reeling from it. How would it be to climb to the pilothouse knowing a fellow pilot had gone to his death doing the same? Still, it was Charlotte who stayed uppermost in her mind, her desperate predicament unheeded. She had only to think of that to dismiss James Sackett.
She walked on till her fingers ached from her stubborn hold on her baggage and her dress hem was a grungy brown. A lone wagon lumbered past but no refined rig. She gave silent thanks. If Andra or any of her Ballantyne kin were to see her, she’d be undone . . .
The sun sank beyond the treetops, throwing a golden blanket across the burnt, late-summer grass. Stopping, she knelt and drank from a trickle of creek beneath an old bridge, her parched throat aching from an emotional lump of loss and fury. She couldn’t remember how far New Hope was. Couldn’t think beyond the next step. Sweat trickled down her back, turning her corset itchy.
When the jingle of a harness met her ears, she stepped aside, keeping her back to the swirling dust, her eyes fixed on a far road marker.
“Pardon me, miss. You look in need of a ride.”
Slowly she turned, took in a black-hatted man in a fancy carriage, and kept walking. It wasn’t like her to be so standoffish, but weariness had worn a hole in what few good manners she possessed.
“At least tell me where you’re headed.”
The concern in his tone touched her. A bit winded from going uphill, she managed a terse, “New Hope.”
“The Ballantyne estate?” He sounded slightly perplexed. “New Hope’s a few miles more . . . but the gloaming will soon overtake you.”
The gloaming. A Scots word. Her feet slowed. If not for the blister rubbing her heel raw, she’d have held fast to her stubbornness.
With an agile leap, he jumped down from the carriage and swept his hat from his head. A tumble of curls gave way, as arresting as the beard that marked his jaw. The rich ginger of his hair was the exact shade of the varnish in their violin shop, as if she’d taken a camel-hair brush and applied it. But it was
the kindness in his hazel eyes that struck her.
“The Ballantynes are close friends of mine. I live down the road from them.” He held out a hand and, when she made no protest, relieved her of her bag, turning his broad back to her to secure it with his own luggage. “I doubt you want to part with your fiddle.”
Taking her by the elbow, he helped her into the open carriage. When her backside connected with the leather seat, she nearly sighed aloud in relief, willing her wide skirts to settle. Sitting opposite, he returned his hat to his head, and the vehicle rolled forward.
She was glad he hadn’t asked her name. Glad too that he knew a fiddle graced her case.
His smile was weary but warm. “I’m a patron of the arts myself and appreciate a good bow hand when time warrants.”
“Do you play?”
“Nary a note.” His expression was so glum she almost felt sorry for him.
“Are you of a mind to learn?”
He chuckled. “If the teacher wasn’t some bewhiskered, grumpy old coot, but you, I would.”
She smiled back at him.
“You’re not from here. Your speech is singularly Southern.”
“I’m from Kentucky.”
“A good many accomplished fiddlers down there.” He eyed her case. “Mind if I have a look?”
The expectant question would have cracked open the hardest heart. Setting the case in her lap, she unclasped it and took out the Nightingale. In the fading sunlight she read stark appreciation in his eyes. It warmed her like the sun itself. Papa’s hard work securing it—all the years spent hunting it—seemed worth it right then.
Placing the violin on her shoulder, she shrugged aside any shyness, silently consecrating her music to her Maker as she always did. With a tap of her foot she struck the first note. Never had the Nightingale sounded so lively and high-spirited, resounding in the open air with an infectious rhythm, chasing away her homesickness and the dust of the road. She moved on to a serene piece next, partial to the haunting laments. Closing her eyes, she nearly forgot the subtle movement of the carriage and her dread at seeing Aunt Andra again.