Love's Reckoning

Thankfully, mending by the fire with Mama ate up the long morning, and then Eden was free. Free of the farmhouse, if not the memory of Silas and Elspeth. Since Margaret Hunter was ill with a cold and unable to take tea, a crock of soup had to suffice, which Eden delivered to her door. Then she hurried back down the lane, skates in hand, oddly expectant.

  On the frozen meadow pond was David Greathouse—and a young woman. A sweetheart? Eden’s heart quickened. Nay, just Jemma, the two of them breaking the Sabbath in plain view of those who kept it on the hill. Jemma waved and skated her way, steel skates shining beneath bell-shaped skirts. Sitting on a low stump, Eden worked to attach her own worn blades to her boots, binding them with leather laces. Despite their decrepit condition, they felt wonderfully familiar, easing the soreness she felt over Silas and Elspeth just a bit.

  “I’ve come home!” Jemma called, her breath curling in the icy air. Bedecked in a snug pelisse and muff lined with swans’ down, she was crowned with an enormous bonnet, the conglomeration of flowers and fur adding height to her small stature. “Bea and Anne are staying at the townhouse in Philadelphia. But I didn’t dare miss the ice harvest, so I’m back in York.”

  Eden stood on wobbly legs. “No one said a word about your coming.”

  “I begged Margaret not to. I wanted to surprise you.” She helped Eden onto the ice and sighed in satisfaction. “Solid as a brick. Perfect for harvesting, if it doesn’t rain. Remember last year?” She made such a face Eden gave a rueful smile.

  “All I remember is skating on water. Everything was slush and mud and misery.”

  “This time I’m praying for snow. Wouldn’t that be romantic? We could bring out the colonial cutter and sleigh about.” Jemma began to skate away from her, circling and doing a little twirl, swans’ down glistening in the winter light. Of the three sisters, Jemma was the youngest and most animated, making merry wherever she went, her laughter as infectious as influenza. Eden felt her spirits rise as she skated after her, aware that David was coming toward them, hands behind his back, features obscured by his tall hat.

  He bowed when he reached her, giving her such a wink upon straightening that she paid scant attention to the church bells announcing an end to the service on the hill. Clasping her mittened hands, he tugged her toward the center of the pond where the ice was smoother. Perfect, he said, for dancing.

  “I cannot wait for the ball,” he told her. “We must practice here while we can.” His gray eyes were alight in a way reminiscent of their childhood, warm and inviting and slightly mischievous. At times she felt they were still eight years old. Betimes she wished they were.

  “I’m not as sure-footed as you,” Eden reminded him, listing to one side.

  “You shame me in the ballroom. At least let me have my way on the ice.” His gloved hand held hers fast. “Have you asked Ballantyne if he’ll play for us?”

  “Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “He will.” Though she’d kept to the house since their shared barn dance, certain songs seemed to carry on the still night air, tempting her to join him again. Silas’s playing took her breath away—his instrument seemed a living thing. His fiddle is on fire, she thought. She wanted to say so yet didn’t want to rob them of the joy of that discovery.

  They clasped hands, circling and spinning to the imaginary reel in their heads, forgetting about such mundane matters as harvesting ice. The pond’s surface was slick in places and she nearly fell, but David was always near, steadying her, saving her from embarrassment. Time seemed to stand still, broken only by the persistent ring of church bells.

  “Ah . . . we have an audience.” Jemma gave a cordial wave toward the south end of the pond, but the downward turn of her mouth revealed her true feelings. Eden’s own high spirits seemed to skitter to a stop.

  ’Twas Elspeth and Silas, without Horatio, as they’d walked to church this morning. Eden noted the triumphant tilt of Elspeth’s head and the possessive way she had hold of his arm, as if branding him as hers. She’d best get used to it, Eden scolded herself. Once they wedded, were living and loving beneath their very roof . . .

  The punishing thought was followed by a plaintive prayer. Lord, please hasten me to Philadelphia.

  Excusing himself, David left her and Jemma standing in a tight knot while he skated toward Elspeth and Silas at the edge of the ice.

  “So she’s captured another heart, even if she had to go to church to do it.” Jemma tucked a loose russet curl into the side of her bonnet and forced a smile. “We’d best skate over and greet them lest she accuse us of snobbery or worse.”

  Eden wished the ice would open up and swallow her. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable around her sister and Silas, and her resulting discomfort showed in stupid ways—a dropped dish, a misplaced word, a forgotten task. Likely she’d now fall and lie sprawled on the pond for all to see.

  David was carrying on a lively conversation with Silas about the coming harvest, speaking of such things as ice plows and tonnage, wagons and cleats for horses. Even from afar, the deep timbre of Silas’s tone enticed her. She’d grown all too fond of his rich Scots speech. ’Twas like music to her as much as his fiddle—a haunting refrain wherever she went, if one could be smitten simply by the music of a voice . . . or a violin.

  Eden skated slowly toward them, focusing on the copse of pine on the hill, her skates, Jemma’s composed smile. Her legs were wobbly now, her ankles sore from being so long off the ice. Jemma gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, as if sensing how the sight of Elspeth shook her.

  Sliding to a stop, Eden stole a look at Silas. In the cold his handsome features were ruddy, his eyes an enlivened green. And his hair . . . had he cut it? No longer was it tailed and tied back with black ribbon. Its shorn ends splayed over the collar of his shirt and curled a bit. Like a gentleman’s. Like David’s. She made herself look away, felt the release of Jemma’s fingers on her arm before becoming aware of another reality. Elspeth was looking straight at her, violence in her blue eyes.

  “I’d best go,” Eden whispered, wondering if her jellied legs would hold her. The dull blades of her skates made hard work of the ice as she returned to the far side of the pond where her boots rested, Jemma in her wake.

  “You must spend the night at Hope Rising before the ball,” Jemma insisted. “We’ll help each other make ready. Margaret will be too busy to play lady’s maid, and Colette stayed behind with Bea and Anne in Philadelphia. Besides, I’ve just the gown for you.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “My only concern is what Elspeth will be wearing.”

  Eden stepped off the ice. “Your yellow silk.”

  “Oh, will she now?” Her inquisitive eyes seemed to smolder. “When I sent the dress over, it was for you, if I remember.” When Eden remained silent, she gave a slight shrug. “Well, we’ll make sure neither my gown nor yours is in that color. Yellow is passé for a winter ball, anyway.”

  Eden warmed to the vibrancy in her voice, her generosity, and noticed she was looking back at David, who still stood talking with Silas.

  Jemma said quietly, “He watched you skate away.”

  “What?”

  “The Scottish apprentice was watching you,” Jemma whispered.

  Eden’s hands stilled on her skates. “Watching for me to take a tumble, you mean.”

  “No, Eden. Watching like a man who cannot watch enough.”

  Their eyes met and held. Jemma was all seriousness now, concern clouding her fair features. “Take care, dear friend, with Elspeth.”

  Shivering, weighted by the warning, Eden began to walk across the brittle meadow toward home, skates dangling at her sides, words of leave-taking lodged in her throat. Jemma knew Elspeth’s true colors. Her warning was well-founded—and was one Eden would heed.

  “Till Friday,” Jemma called after her. “The ice harvest begins at first light. The ball is on Saturday. Pray for snow!”

  Six days. What, Eden wondered, would happen between now and then?

  Tar and feathers!

>   Elspeth chafed as the clock struck eight. Boredom had long since set in, fraying the edges of her composure as she sat and sewed linens for her dower chest.

  Sedately. Industriously. Prettily.

  There were just the four of them in the parlor—she, Silas, Eden, and Jon. Mama, most obliging, had gone to her bedchamber with Thomas half an hour before while Papa’s gout had him soaking his leg in a steaming tub in the kitchen. She could smell his pungent pipe smoke seeping beneath the closed door, mingling with the medicinal herbs from Eden’s garden.

  For half an hour or better she’d been trying to get Eden to go upstairs, but her sister was making a fool of herself with the babe before the snapping fire, cooing over him with whispers and kisses as if he were her own. The sight turned Elspeth’s already sour stomach. For once Jon wasn’t fussing. Dressed in a loose-fitting gown that had been Thomas’s, his downy head was covered with a lace-edged cap. He was beginning to be all rolls and dimples and would now smile at no one but Eden. ’Twas naught but stray dogs and needy tenants and fussing babies with her.

  Jamming her needle into the soft cloth, Elspeth finished embroidering her initials with scarlet thread, itching to stitch Silas’s as well. They were sitting in a triangle of sorts—Silas at one end of the cavernous hearth and Eden at the other while Elspeth occupied the Windsor chair at the heart of the room, Silas’s lantern at her side. That way she could keep her eye on them, make sure nothing was afoot. Though there’d been no wayward glances or shared words, deep down she felt something was amiss, and it aggravated her so much she felt she’d fallen into a briar patch.

  The Scot, she mused grudgingly, was the most challenging man she’d ever met. He seemed to live mostly inside his head, like Eden. Undistracted by normal pursuits, saying but little, rarely smiling, he put her in mind of a magistrate or preacher. He was never idle. Even now, after thirteen hours spent at the forge, he was whittling a toy for Thomas, a mound of shavings at his feet. Later he’d practice for the frolic at Hope Rising. She sometimes wondered if he slept. The garret was often lit far into the night, shining a square pattern upon the ground outside her bedchamber window.

  A thin smile curled her lips, and she bent nearer her sewing lest they notice.

  Perhaps that light was but an invitation.

  Eden tucked a sleeping Jon into his cradle after swaddling him, leaving her parents’ bedchamber for her own. Both Mama and Thomas were abed and she tiptoed past, though her thoughts remained in the winter parlor where Silas and Elspeth lingered. ’Twas improper for them to be unchaperoned, but her parents, wanting to hasten a match, cast all conventions aside. Nor should she pay it any mind, she told herself, fastening her thoughts on Philadelphia.

  Shivering, she sought refuge in the window seat of her room, where she could see the distant lights of Hope Rising through the threadbare trees. David had ordered a dozen three-sided lanterns from Silas and was putting them to good use. Now, at nine o’clock, the place was lit like a bonfire. The sight solaced her, reminded her that the ice harvest was but three days away. She’d been given permission to go earlier when Jemma sent a note round unexpectedly.

  “So Miss Greathouse is home and seeks your company?” Papa had tossed the summons into the forge’s fire, gray brows nearly touching in contemplation. “Will Master David be there?”

  She had nodded absently and looked about the smithy, wondering where Silas and Elspeth were, waiting for Papa’s grudging approval—or another tirade.

  “Go then. Be of service.” He waved a hand in dismissal as if she was naught but a pesky fly. “But don’t return home without something to show for it.”

  She nearly winced at his blunt wording. He meant a suitor, surely. Though most every unmarried or widowed man in the county would likely come to both harvest and ball, none had appealed to her yet. His cryptic words of a fortnight before returned and sent another chill through her.

  After Elspeth is settled, Daughter, I have plans for you.

  She prayed drinking had muddled his mind to make him utter such and he’d since forgotten the matter in the swell of sobriety. Thinking of her uncertain future, she rued the loss of Bea’s letter. Had she dropped it in the lane? Here at home? Dismay trickled through her. No one must know about Philadelphia. Not till the plan was in place and she’d gathered enough courage to go.

  Blowing out the candle, she lay down, fully dressed, wishing she had nerve enough to disobey Papa’s dictum of letting the fire die at night. This very morning she’d awakened to ice in the wash pitcher atop the washstand, a boon for the coming harvest but for little else. At least Silas was snug in the garret room. Somehow the simple thought of him deriving some comfort in this cold house gave her some comfort in return.

  She could hear Elspeth’s purposeful footfall on the stair, and in minutes her sister was in bed, her soft snores assuring Eden she was indeed asleep. What had she and Silas talked about after she’d left the parlor, if indeed they had talked? Was he becoming smitten? She tucked the hurtful thought away. Down the hall the clock struck ten. She lay still, waiting for the muted sound of Silas’s violin, the Scripture he’d penned scrolling through her thoughts.

  The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want . . .

  Her hungry heart craved a shepherd. She wanted to know why, if the Lord led her, she was often left wanting. In want of more Scripture. More solitude. A different sister. A position in Philadelphia. A fire in the hearth to stop her shivering. An end to all the turmoil within and without.

  Pushing back the covers, she was but halfway to the door when a noise sounded above her head. Shutting her eyes, she leaned into the door frame, fisting the wool gloves she’d made him. The music was slow and low, more a lament, so far removed from anything he’d ever played that she went completely still. His fiddle weeps, she thought, yet it wooed her with its sweetness, warm as a lover’s touch.

  For long minutes she just listened, summoning the courage to open the door and ascend the garret stair in the dark. Hell, Papa said, was full of fiddlers. If so, Eden mused, surely heaven had its share. Thankfully Papa, deaf as he was getting, couldn’t hear the music. Mama wouldn’t complain if she did. Elspeth showed more irritation than interest in his playing, though Thomas often cocked his head and clapped his little hands.

  She climbed upward, the music masking her movements. As she placed his gloves on the step, the playing ceased and the door opened. Light spilled down the steps like water on a hillside, illuminating the narrow stairwell.

  “I heard your playing,” she whispered.

  “Am I keeping you awake?” Concern skimmed his features. “My fiddle does not like this cold, else I’d be in the barn.”

  Her throat constricted. How could she explain that she didn’t want him to stop . . . ever? She simply gestured to the gloves. He leaned down and gathered them up, a bit solemn, as if wondering why she bothered looking after him. He stepped back inside the garret and held something out to her. “Careful you don’t cut yourself.”

  Her eyes widened. “Skates?”

  “I saw you stumble on the pond. These should give you no trouble.”

  Warmth rushed to her cheeks—and Jemma’s flattering words melted to nothingness in her mind. The Scottish apprentice was watching you . . . watching like a man who cannot watch enough. Jemma had been wrong. He’d merely had pity on her because of her miserable skates.

  She turned the shiny blades over in her hands, disappointment softened by wonder. These were no ordinary skates. Like everything else he made, they bore his unmistakable mark. The front blades were curved upward in the shape of a swan’s head, graceful and shiny and smooth, so lovely they made her heart ache. He’d made them at the forge, right beneath her father’s watchful gaze, in spite of his penny-pinching and thundering.

  “A kindness for a kindness,” he said, fisting his gloves.

  Nay, she thought. This was more than a kindness. ’Twas daring—and a rebuke that Papa hadn’t seen to it himself. “Thank you.”

&nbs
p; She studied him, drawn to the way the light framed his sturdy shoulders and gilded his hair. Flustered, she tried to summon the real reason she sought him out. Scripture. This alone propelled her to leave her pride at the foot of the stairs and come begging under the guise of giving him gloves. For a moment she felt as deceitful as Papa and Elspeth.

  “I ken you need more than skates,” he uttered.

  She flushed at his insight, hoping the way her heart was hopping about her chest stayed hidden. “Yes.”

  Soundlessly, he brought out the Buik and sat down beside her, placing a candle on the step above. A stray draft wreaked havoc with the flame barely illuminating the Gaelic print. She marveled at his surety as he turned toward the back of the thick tome straightaway. Here was a man who knew where he wanted to go, even on the printed page. She lingered on his hands, clean yet creased faintly with coal dust. No longer did she see the scars, the branding. She saw only capability and purpose and strength.

  “The book of John,” he said quietly but with conviction. “’Tis the Lord of the universe’s love letter to you.”

  She’d never before heard a preacher but was sure he sounded like one. The richness of his English and Gaelic sent shivers running down her arms, much like his music did. Twice she interrupted him, questions clamoring. He answered her carefully, even gently, and she felt undone by his tenderness.

  “Would you write something down?” she whispered. “To take to heart?”

  Shivering, she ached to follow as he returned to the garret, wanting to curl up on the rag rug by the Franklin stove. But she had to be content with a meager look at the room that had once been her hideaway. On the opposite wall was a map rife with black markings, some books and papers beneath. Curious, she stood to get a closer look, unmindful of the candle flame licking her dress hem. The sour smell of scorched wool wrenched her back to the stairwell as a cry of alarm crept up her throat.

  Next she knew he was beside her, snuffing out the candle and her smoldering hem with his bare hands. She watched, taut with terror. More than one house had burned down in York County from such carelessness. And in the depths of winter, with nowhere to go . . .