Love's Reckoning

  A fortnight before, she’d forgotten to bolt the smokehouse door and he’d given her a lashing—just a few flicks of a horsewhip on the backs of her legs, but they’d yet to heal. Trepidation ticked inside her as she set her ash bucket aside and followed him down the hall into the cold summer parlor. He’d been drinking—heavily—for his gait was more a shuffle and the stench of spirits wafted back to her in his wake.

  A candelabra burned on a table, but the room was a ghostly black. Dusk had fallen two hours before, snuffing what little remained of winter daylight. Eden looked longingly at a window and the secretary that hid her journal. Since secreting it there she’d not had a chance to return, carrying Silas’s book with her instead. The little tome on western exploits and Indians had fit neatly into her pocket and kept her well occupied in spare moments.

  Taking a wing chair, Papa motioned for her to retrieve his pipe on the mantel. Her fingers shook as she kindled it by candlelight, as there was no fire. Long, excruciating moments passed as he drew on the stem, smoke pluming, while she sat latching and unlatching her fingers in her lap in miserable anticipation. Flip made him mellow; rum surly. She couldn’t tell which he’d had and nearly flinched when he studied her with bleary eyes.

  “Daughter, you grieve me nearly as much as your sister. What have you to say for yourself?”

  Rum, she decided. In abundance.

  “Sometimes I think the Lord has given me two troublesome daughters to repay me for forsaking my Quaker roots.”

  ’Twas a complaint she’d often heard and was all too weary of. But the sting of it never lessened. He wanted sons. Grandsons. Not an illegitimate child who cried incessantly and reminded them all of their failings. She and Elspeth had erred on that count too. They’d not given him proper sons-in-law nor the heirs he’d harped upon since they’d come of age.

  “These two years past, while your sister has gone cavorting about the county with whatever man she fancies at all hours of the night, you have looked the other way and done little to stay her.”

  Her head came up. Was he blaming her for Elspeth’s waywardness? She’d told Mama—warned her—countless times. Mama, Elspeth is missing from her bed . . . I don’t know where she’s gone or with whom . . . She’s just left . . . and left again. But Mama, with tears in her eyes and silence on her lips, hadn’t told him. And she, Eden, was to blame?

  “Papa, I—”

  “You said nothing to your mother or myself, nor rebuked your sister. Now that she’s given birth to whose child we know not, your behavior is again more hindrance than help.” Though his words were a bit slurred, they were strung together by the heat of his anger and forceful as ever. As every syllable swelled, full of censure, she feared he could be heard clear to the parlor where Silas and Isaac played chess and Mama and Elspeth sewed.

  “Finally, at long last, Elspeth has taken a liking to a worthy man and seems willing to settle down. Most importantly, York County has taken a liking to the work Ballantyne turns out. In truth, the path to my door has never been more trammeled.” He drew hard on his pipe. “You must play your part to keep him here, to help bring about your sister’s happiness. Your mother’s health and peace of mind depend on it as well.”

  This she knew to be true. She’d read the sadness, the despair, in Mama’s eyes all too often. It grieved her nearly beyond bearing. “I—I understand—”

  He leaned forward. “Speak up, Daughter! Don’t sit there cowering like a mouse!”

  “I understand.” She swallowed hard, hating her timidity, knowing it vexed him even more. “I know what is needed.”

  “I trust you do, but let me spell it out lest there be a misunderstanding.” He cleared his throat, graying eyebrows slanting down like the frown that sullied his mouth. “Act as matchmaker between your sister and Silas. Arrange occasions for them to be together. Absent yourself from their company.”

  She looked down at her lap again, certain Elspeth was behind this summons.

  “Circumstances are in our favor. David Greathouse has just returned to Hope Rising and has sent word round that he needs help with the ice harvest. There’s to be skating, a dance. All well and good for courtship and marriage. The sooner your sister is wed and settled, the better.” His tone lost some of its heat, and a thick cloud of smoke obscured his features. “And after Elspeth is settled, Daughter, I have plans for you.”

  11

  I can make a lord, but only God Almighty can make a gentleman.

  James VI of Scotland

  Lying abed, listening to the weaver’s loud snoring across the hall, Eden tried counting sheep—anything—to keep her worries at bay, but the darkness seemed to magnify her fears and return them to her tenfold. Images of ice harvesting in years gone by, of dances at Hope Rising, of skating on the meadow pond, failed to lift her spirits. Papa’s words in the parlor the night before set her teeth on edge. Her mission was unbearably clear. She was expected to play the part of matchmaker. And then Papa had plans for her.

  Except she had her own plans.

  When, she wondered for the hundredth time, would Bea return with word from the foundling hospital? With the Greathouses as founders and benefactors, securing a position there seemed uncomplicated, or so she’d thought. ’Twas her leaving home, if she ever did, that was sticky as syrup.

  Turning over, she felt the bulge that was Silas’s book beneath her pillow. She’d finished it but half an hour ago, right before an icy draft had stolen the candlelight. Papa wouldn’t allow a second taper to be lit, just as he wouldn’t let them add a backlog to their bedchamber fire no matter how frigid. Her lips felt numb from the cold, bringing back the brutal winter of ’77, when the cider froze in the cellar and Margaret’s fine china cups cracked the moment hot tea touched them.

  Remembering, trying to count her blessings, she lay shivering in her heaviest wool dress, wondering how Silas fared in the garret above. Fast asleep he’d likely be, she guessed, warmed by the coveted Franklin stove. ’Twas a perfect time to return his borrowed book. She’d simply lay it on the top step for him to find at first light.

  The moon cast a golden crescent on the plank floor, lighting her way to the door. Holding the book close to her racing heart, she wondered why she felt so jittery. Aflocht, Silas had called it. Taking a deep breath, she paused to make sure Elspeth was still sleeping—and nearly forgot her mission.

  In repose, her sister looked almost angelic. With her honeyed hair loose about her face, the spark and intensity that marked her countenance by day was softened by night. Seeing her thus, Eden almost believed change was possible, that Elspeth might one day be different. Motherhood had made her even more beautiful, lending a pleasing roundness in all the right places. Once again Eden couldn’t push down her own dissatisfaction with herself in light of Elspeth’s loveliness. And she knew that despite any matchmaking efforts on her behalf, Silas would succumb to her sister’s physical charms in time, just like so many other York County men had.

  She was stepping lightly, Silas thought. Though he sensed it was Eden, he feared it was Elspeth. The day was coming when he’d have to put her in her place, and he preferred to do it in the privacy of a stairwell, not before her kin.

  Still dressed despite the midnight hour, he’d been reading within the warm circle of light made by the Franklin stove, ears attuned to the settling of the household. Another time he might have missed the slight noise on the stairs, but not tonight.

  Standing in his stocking feet, he opened the garret door. Firelight eclipsed the darkness, falling across Eden’s upturned face a few steps down. Their eyes locked and he saw her surprise. Putting a finger to her lips, she gestured to the book atop the highest step. Indecision gripped him. Should he simply let her go without a word? Or bid her stay?

  Stay, came the insistent echo as if from outside himself.

  Though the light was poor, he saw that she’d been crying. Her indigo eyes were red-rimmed and so troubled he knew her father was to blame. When Liege had called her from the p
arlor, Silas’s concentration had promptly dissolved and he’d lost the game of chess he’d been winning moments before. ’Twas all he could do to not grab Liege by the throat and give him a memorable thrashing.

  “I didn’t want to wake you,” she whispered. “Your book . . .”

  “I was not sleeping.” He picked the volume up. “What did you make of it? Henry’s adventures, I mean.”

  “I didn’t want it to end. I could see the mountains and rivers so clearly.” Her thoughtful expression clouded. “But it made me wonder why anyone would want to go west into the wilderness. Colonel Johnston says it is a desolate country, uninhabited by anything but wild Indians, bears, and rattlesnakes.”

  He felt a strange disappointment. “Colonel Johnston?”

  “He lives in Elkhannah and served in the French and Indian War.”

  “Did he say nothing about the beauty of the place? And all the land for the taking?” Stubbornness turned him blunt. “Which would you believe, Eden?”

  “Colonel Johnston, of course,” she whispered solemnly, “because he’s been there.”

  He nodded absently, sensing she had no wish to discuss such matters but had come seeking something else entirely. The Buik. He stepped back inside his room and retrieved his Bible, then handed it to Eden. Surprise skittered across her face, and she sank down atop the steps in a swirl of wool skirts, caressing the worn cover as if lost in holy wonder. He thought of the many times he’d tossed the tome carelessly into his saddlebags and felt a sliver of guilt. Had she never held a Bible, God’s living Word?

  “Go ahead,” he urged. “Open it.”

  She did this ever so carefully, while he brought out a candle and sat on the step above her, watching her slender fingers move over the unfamiliar text. “I . . . I hardly know where to begin.”

  “You’re in the Psalms. ’Tis a good place to be.” He thumbed a few pages forward. “D’ye want me to read it to you, Eden?”

  She simply nodded yes, eyes on the page. Looking over her shoulder, he kept his voice low, the reading short, but his Scots was so thick he wondered if she heard it properly. “The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want. He makes me down to lie in pastures green: He leadeth me the quiet waters by . . .”

  When he’d finished, she said in a whisper, “Read it again. Please. In your Gaelic.”

  Surprised, he obliged, quoting it from memory, and she looked away, her profile so lovely he felt his senses spin. His mind was no longer on Scripture but the gentle curve of her cheek . . . the profusion of lashes that lay like gold fringe upon high cheekbones . . . the elegant slant of her nose. His gut gave a wrench of warning.

  He returned to the garret and brought out quill and paper, crowding the twenty-third Psalm onto a scrap of rag linen. “Take it to heart,” he said quietly, “then you’ll have no need of a Gaelic Bible—or sneaking about in a stairwell.”

  Nodding, she took the paper and folded it till it was no bigger than an acorn. Tucking it in her bodice, she got up and started down the steps before turning back, a new light in her eyes.

  “Bethankit, Silas Ballantyne.”

  On the Sabbath, just as he’d promised, Silas went to church. Before he rode away on Horatio, he paused beneath Eden’s bedchamber window, an unclouded invitation in his eyes. What, she wondered, was it like to do as one pleased? Go where one wanted without asking, without fear of reprisal? She followed him up the hill with her eyes if not her feet, an intense longing building in her breast. Ever since he’d asked her—nay, challenged her to go with him that day in the smithy—the image of them sitting side by side in the little church had haunted, taunting her timidity.

  Years before, she’d peeked in a narrow window when no one was about. There were benches, a crude pulpit, a stove. All was clean and spare, like a field gleaned after harvest. She felt a plummeting disappointment. What had she expected? Stained glass and angels’ wings?

  As soon as Silas left, Papa began thundering about rebellious Presbyterians and stubborn Scotsmen and the sins of the Anglican Church. Elspeth, coming in with her sewing basket, slammed the bedchamber door shut with her shoe. Seeing Eden at the window, she crossed over to stand beside her, their father’s shouting undiminished below.

  “You’d think Silas was a Quaker the way Papa carries on so! I’ll take a rebel Presbyterian any day.” Elspeth’s vexed expression grew amused as she looked beyond the cold windowpane. “Notice Papa saved his ranting till Silas was well out of earshot.”

  Yes, Eden thought with a small surge of triumph. Papa is unsure of Silas.

  Together they watched him clear the meadow fence at a near gallop and traverse the pasture with its sinkholes and stones. How like him, Eden thought, to choose a different way. She would have taken the sure route—the road.

  “My, but he cuts a fine figure on that horse of his.” Dropping her sewing basket into a chair, Elspeth gave a mock curtsy, chin lifting in determination. “I believe I might have need of church. The day is fair if cold. May I borrow your bonnet?”

  Eden simply stared at her. Was she daft? Somehow Elspeth’s asking was far more disconcerting than her habit of simply taking what she wanted. Without waiting for an answer, Elspeth flung open the clothespress and helped herself to the said bonnet, and a cloak too.

  “You shall be late,” Eden warned, thinking of the long walk up the hill. “People will stare—talk.”

  “Exactly.” Elspeth smiled her brightest smile. “’Tis time I show my face again after so long indoors. People mustn’t think I’m an invalid. And I shall have a ride home on Silas’s horse.”

  Amazement washed through Eden. “But Papa—”

  “But Papa what?” Elspeth paused from tying the chin ribbons of her bonnet. “You’re not worried about his forbidding us to attend church, are you? I’m merely doing a little matchmaking, something you seem quite incapable of. You might at least look happy for me. I’m finally settling down like Papa wants. He’ll have the son-in-law he wants—the smithy he wants. Grandsons.”

  Though Elspeth always seemed to choose her words carefully to inflict the most hurt, none yet had the force of these. How flippantly she spoke of bearing Silas a son! Grandsons! And she’d now pretend to have an interest in church to achieve her ends? Eden felt she’d been jabbed with a hot poker. Or was it more dismay that Elspeth had the nerve to attend church when she didn’t?

  Eden watched her go without a word, watched her hurry across the frosted grass to climb the hill. Sinking to the window seat, Eden took from her bodice the scrap of Scripture that Silas had penned for her. The paper, warm from her skin, returned their staircase meeting to her in all its secret poignancy.

  The Lord’s my shepherd . . .

  She’d already memorized the short Psalm and was hungry for more. Indeed, each word seemed woven into her soul the way the weaver wove his wares, taking the barest threads of her faith and making something beautiful and enduring as fine cloth deep inside her. Something that couldn’t be taken away like Elspeth took her yellow silk and bonnet. These were her words—holy words. And they’d surely help her in her quest to reach Philadelphia.

  As she traversed the lane to Hope Rising later that Sabbath morn to take tea with Margaret Hunter, her heart was sore over what was in store for Silas. But her soul was singing.

  Hoofbeats broke the winter stillness. Loud. Hurried. Purposeful. As Eden rounded the bend in the treed lane that brought her abreast of Hope Rising’s gate, David Greathouse appeared on a black stallion. At the sight of her he reined in, dismounted, and gave a little bow. His breath and that of his winded horse plumed in the icy air like frozen white feathers. In a gesture that was charming and a bit bumbling, he removed his beaver hat from atop his head and nearly dropped it.

  “Miss Eden, how goes the new year for you?”

  “Well and good, Master David. And you?”

  “Very well . . . at the moment.”

  He studied her till she felt heat touch her cheeks, and she in turn took him in beneath half-l
owered lashes. He’d filled out a bit more since she’d last seen him, though perhaps she’d grown used to Silas’s well-muscled leanness, which made the heir of Hope Rising seem stout. Her eyes fastened on his snowy cravat and the cape that bore the newness of the city, thinking how shabby she must look.

  Giving his hat a twirl in his hands, he smiled. “I was just coming round to ask your apprentice if he’d perform at our party.”

  She felt a rush of pleasure. “The dance, you mean? After the ice harvest?”

  “I hear he plays an exquisite fiddle.”

  Did he? Exquisite? How she loved the thought! Since his coming he’d not played a note, not that she’d heard. Her delight faded as she looked up the hill. “You’ll not find him at home but at church.”

  “Ah, church . . . the place I should be.” His expression grew rueful. “Since I’ve returned from Philadelphia I’ve been so preoccupied I’ve nearly forgotten what day it is. Will you ask him for me?”

  She nodded, glad to see him, wanting to inquire about his cousins but feeling suddenly tongue-tied.

  He flexed his gloved hands, then reached inside his pocket and withdrew a letter. “From Beatrice.”

  The unexpected sight unleashed a firestorm inside her. ’Twas her future, her pass to a new life. Or so she hoped. Taking it from him with trembling hands, trying to keep her excitement from showing, she smiled her thanks. Just how much did David know of her plans? Though Bea was his cousin, she was notoriously closed-mouthed.

  His brow raised in question. “Have I missed much being away? How fares your family?”

  She tucked the letter into her basket, eyes drifting to a bird preening on an icy branch. “Papa and Mama are well. There’s a new babe at the farm.” She swallowed hard, anxiety crowding in. Having known her for so long, did he suspect she was hiding something? “The apprentice seems to be charming the whole county with his work.”

  “So I’ve heard. And young Thomas? Your sister?”