Love's Reckoning

Her hand fell away and he sensed her disappointment. A dance he would give her, but nothing more.

  15

  A winter’s night, a woman’s mind, and a laird’s purpose often change.

  Scottish proverb

  Toward evening it began to snow. Standing by a damask-clad window, Eden felt a startling delight as the realization sifted through her. She’d prayed for snow. God had answered. Did He truly care about so small a matter as ice? The harvest would be a great success if the weather held.

  She could hear David’s voice ringing enthusiastically down the hall and turned in time to see him come through the drawing room door, shrugging off a greatcoat salted with flakes. He tossed it over a chair, then removed his hat and deposited it on a table, his fair features pinched with cold—and etched with surprise.

  “Eden . . . what are you doing here?”

  She gave a little shrug, unsure of her welcome. “I can disappear if you like.” In the firelight, she detected a flicker of unease on his part, followed by a show of good manners.

  “Don’t you dare. I was expecting Jemma, is all.”

  “She’s with Margaret seeing about supper.”

  “Ah, yes. We’ve a new cook.” His expression grew grim. “You’re brave to stay on.”

  She smiled, wanting to reach out and smooth his rumpled hair like she used to in the schoolroom, trying to master his impossible cowlick. “Jemma tells me she’s good at making soup.”

  “Yes, and little else.” He came to stand beside her at the window, pushing the drapes aside to better see into the twilight. The meadow lay before them, surprising her with its white beauty, the snow falling so fiercely it obscured the frozen pond. The scene was beautiful—even a touch romantic—with the crackling fire casting a golden glow about the room.

  He looked down at her. “I’ll take you to see the ballroom once supper is over. It’s a bit grand for York, but so well done even miserly Uncle Eben, God rest him, would approve. The lusters are finally hung. Never mind that everything still smells of paint. ’Tis the price you pay for building in winter.”

  “I’m sure ’tis beautiful. Much better than the third-floor ballroom.”

  “Much bigger.” His eyes glinted with anticipation. “And we’ll have no mishaps, I’ll wager, with guests on the stairs. You probably recall the brawl last year?”

  She blushed at the mere mention. Surely he remembered how she’d hidden in the broom closet, a timid mouse. The rabble of York, as Papa called them, had had too much hard cider and not enough work. The failed harvest had turned some of them mean, one of the reasons Bea and Anne had excused themselves this year. Even Jemma had been badly frightened, fearing they might tear the place to pieces.

  “This time I’ve hired help to keep order—some of the miller’s sons.”

  A wise choice, Eden thought, as they were all burly as millstones. His arm brushed hers as he loosened his cravat. Face warming at this familiarity, she wished Jemma would appear. Lately she felt a bit odd alone with David, as if their old camaraderie was slipping away and turning them in a new direction. ’Twas in a word, a look, a too-long silence . . .

  “Eden,” he began. “I—”

  A sudden commotion from behind made them pause. “Oh, there you are, David! Why didn’t you tell me you’d come in? Cook’s been waiting dinner.” Jemma’s bright smile negated her scolding. “Have you been here with Eden all along?”

  He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his tone rueful. “For a few minutes, anyway.”

  “You must be ravenous after working in this weather all day long.”

  Eden turned toward the table set for three before the ornate hearth, leaving them to their banter. The familiar French Sevres crystal and china were a blessed distraction, winking at her, making her wish she had on something other than a worn wool gown with a scorched hem.

  She lifted her eyes to the stern, somewhat disapproving countenance of Eben Greathouse, eternally set in oils in a large gilt frame above the marble mantel. How was it that she, a blacksmith’s daughter, was at the table of the heir to half of York County? The question seemed to take her by the shoulders and shake her, demanding she give answers when none were needed before.

  Pleasure faded to wonder, then confusion. She swallowed past the sudden catch in her throat. She was here because Jemma was like a sister, because the Greathouses were kind and generous neighbors, because long ago her mother used to deliver cheese and honey to Hope Rising . . .

  A chill danced up and down her spine.

  Could there be more?

  Light from the garret fell in a perfect square to the snowy ground below, ornate as a piece of Brussels lace. Elspeth studied it from the window seat of her bedchamber, far longer than she usually contemplated anything, indecision taunting her.

  Should she or shouldn’t she?

  ’Twas nearly midnight. She couldn’t imagine what kept Silas awake. David had sent word that every available man was needed at Hope Rising by first light. As it was, Silas would get little sleep. Papa had been working him hard of late, so much so that she’d rebuked him again when Silas was out delivering ironwork in the wagon that very morning.

  She remembered their confrontation now with renewed frustration, recalling how Papa’s hands had trembled as he tried to hammer out a slab of hot metal that would have taken Silas half a minute. He’d been drinking again. His gout drove him to it, she knew. She wondered if spirits worsened his condition, as the doctor had recently suggested. But before he could have elaborated, Papa had called him a quack and thrown both him and his Keyser’s pills out the door, forbidding him to come back.

  “Father.”

  He’d looked up, eyes bloodshot, impatience knitting his brow.

  Oh, what terrible timing on her part! But she had to seize the moment lest she lose it altogether. She threaded her fingers together and said firmly if quietly, “You’re working too hard. You’re working Silas too hard.”

  “Am I now?” The downward slant of his mouth twisted into a fiercer frown. “He doesn’t complain to my hearing—nor should you.”

  “He’s likely too tired to do so.” Fighting down her impatience, she worked to keep her voice even. “He’s too tired to do much of anything—including any courting.”

  “Oh, so it’s courting, is it? And bedamn the work?”

  She set her shoulders at his icy tone. “He’s not only slaving here from dawn till dusk but often misses supper to play at weddings and wakes all over the county.”

  “So? He’s getting paid for his trouble.”

  Aye, and none of it was going into Papa’s pocket. That was the real trouble. She quashed her growing fear that some pert miss might tempt Silas elsewhere and simply said, “Father, listen to reason. You are hampering the plan—your plan—before it comes to pass. The overdoing can come later, once we’re wed. Give him time—”

  “Give him time? You’ve been by his side nearly night and day since his coming here. If he’s not taken with you now, he likely never will be.”

  Humiliation lashed her and she struck out at him with vehemence. “Because he’s too tired! That’s why! Between you and David Greathouse pressing him for all sorts of projects, he doesn’t have an idle minute. I’m simply asking you to ease up a bit, leave Silas alone at the forge with me more often. Why don’t you make deliveries in the wagon instead of sending him all over the county? It might rest your leg and accomplish more good in the end.” She glanced about the smithy in frustration, certain a bit more privacy would achieve her ends.

  I’ve not met a man I can’t charm, many of whom darken the door of this forge, including Jon’s father.

  She pondered it now as she studied the square of light upon the snow, trying to plan her next move. There was something about Silas that made her tread lightly as no other man had. She couldn’t put her finger on it no matter how hard she tried, and she hated that it rendered her powerless. Regardless of her dress or cologne or sashaying about, Silas hardly looked at her. She mi
ght as well don breeches and boots!

  She went to the bedchamber door and opened it slowly, listening to the household settling. With Eden at Hope Rising, she had the run of the second floor. The garret stair she knew like her own name, even in the dark. Below, Jon began wailing again—a strangely welcome sound that masked any creaking she made on her climb. She was halfway to the garret when his crying ceased.

  Uncertainty pulsed through her. She hovered, eyes on the light beckoning beneath Silas’s door. And then, before she drew her next breath, he’d snuffed it out. The click of a lock and the taut stretching of bed rope assured her he’d lain down. She felt a stinging defeat, as if he’d heard her after all and avoided her coming.

  Snow was still falling. Eden awoke in the night, Jemma slumbering beside her, and slipped through the bed curtains, a brilliant backlog in the hearth lighting her way to a window. Perhaps too much snow was as bad as rain, she mused groggily. How would they clear such a load from the ice? Curling up on the window seat, she tried to see beyond the frosted pane but soon fell asleep.

  At daybreak, the shouts of men beyond the window shook her awake. She’d dozed against a bank of cushions, hardly in need of a blanket, for Jemma’s room was far warmer than her own. Dawn touched the sky—a gentle palette of pink and cream. The snow lay on the land and pond nearly a foot deep, with little sign of abating.

  Through the blur of whiteness, she dismissed the men one by one, mostly Hope Rising’s tenants and its overseer, till she came to Silas. Easily distinguished by his height, he was surrounded by a dozen or more men huddled in heavy coats that would soon be shed when the cutting began. For now they were shoveling snow off the pond, creating a creamy drift around the edge. Horse-drawn sleds awaited, ready to bear their loads to the two icehouses behind the main house and summer kitchen.

  Donning worn boots and cardinal cape in the keeping room below, Eden ventured out to help Margaret, who’d left a plain trail, pushing a small cart just ahead of her. ’Twas a long trek across the meadow, where a huge kettle of cider hung over a fire, its leaping flames melting the surrounding snow.

  Margaret greeted her with a warm if weary smile, adding spices to the kettle. “Our prayers for wintry weather have been answered this day.” As Eden stuck out her tongue to taste the flakes from behind a gloved hand, Margaret chuckled. “Thee are as excited about the snow as a little girl. Have thee brought thy skates?”

  In answer, Eden held up the ones Silas had made her, anxious to be on the ice, and smiled at Margaret’s appreciation.

  David was at the pond’s center, marking a pattern across the glistening surface to show where the work should begin. Silas was coming toward him with a long crosscut saw, expression stoic. Her gaze swung like a pendulum between the two men.

  Silas wasn’t as steady on his feet as David, at least on the ice, though his skates glinted new like her own, fashioned for the work to come. He’d had little time for skating as a lad in Scotland, he’d said, with blacksmithing and sheepherding to be done, and an abundance of music to be made at the duke’s beck and call.

  It seemed every man had a different tool—saws, axes, sledgehammers, and the all-important pikes to pull the ice blocks free and load them onto the sleds. ’Twas bruising work, requiring a great deal of strength. Though there were a few graying heads, she saw mostly young men, the pride of York County, many who’d helped with the harvest since they were small.

  Donning her skates, she kept to the outskirts of the pond, watching Silas as he stood with the saw, his dark profile in stark relief against the brilliant backdrop of white. She lingered on him as she would never do at home, for he was seemingly unaware of her, intent on the matter at hand. With so many men in her line of sight, she might have been looking at any one of them or simply watching the work. No one would know.

  His shorn hair curled against his coat collar, and she marveled anew that he’d cut it. Melting snowflakes gave it the sheen of rich Chinese silk. The shadow of his beard turned him a bit roguish, heightening the intensity of his eyes, straight nose, and unsmiling mouth. All so very pleasing. No wonder Elspeth was smitten.

  Beside him, David seemed a bit too short. A bear in his bearskin coat. There seemed an edge to both men today, a tension barely reined in. She sensed a multitude of emotions at play beneath their handsome exteriors and wondered the cause. David’s mood, she’d learned long ago, could alter as quick as mercury, and like many a Scotsman, Silas no doubt had a temper. That he’d not lost it with her father seemed a miracle.

  The morning passed with few mishaps, the first sled lined with sawdust and loaded with huge blocks of ice. Eden stood with Margaret, passing out cups of hot cider to the laborers as women and children began to gather—to flirt or skate or watch the work—along the edges of the pond. Though she saw no sign of Elspeth, she braced herself for her coming.

  “Eden.”

  The voice, a bit hoarse with cold, raked the edges of her composure. Silas stood behind her, awaiting a steaming cup, which she delivered with an unsteady hand.

  Margaret’s amber gaze took him in. “Is this thy apprentice, Eden?”

  The wording brought about a near-crushing embarrassment. “Y-yes, this is Silas Ballantyne.” She fastened her eyes on his greatcoat, finding refuge but forgetting introductions.

  “Welcome, friend Silas.” Margaret’s tone was as cordial and deferential as if greeting General Washington himself. “I’m Margaret Hunter, Hope Rising’s housekeeper.”

  He gave a slight nod. “Eden has made mention of you.”

  “Eden is like a daughter to me. Faithful. Industrious. Kind. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  At such high praise, Eden turned away, hoping to dispense more cider, but Silas was the last in line.

  Margaret seemed determined to stay him. “And how do thee find York County?”

  He hesitated—a bit too long, Eden feared. He didn’t like it here, she sensed, but was reluctant to say so. “’Tis not Scotland, nor Philadelphia,” he said. “But it has its charms.”

  His eyes met Eden’s, and she saw a spark of amusement there. A sly warmth. And then it vanished so quickly she thought she’d imagined it.

  “I’d thought to see Elspeth,” Margaret said, looking about. “She’s tardy this day.”

  “She’s busy,” Silas replied, “preparing for the ball.”

  Eden detected wry humor in his words and felt a flicker of guilt that she’d fled to Hope Rising so readily. Their dear mother would get little assistance this day—and a mountain of tasks would await Eden once she went home on the Sabbath.

  A sudden cry went up to return to the ice, and Silas finished his cider and thanked her, his gloved hands brushing her own. Flustered, she nearly dropped his empty cup as he walked away. Could Margaret see her high color? She felt nearly on fire with it and ached to remove her bonnet. The snow was shaking down with such abandon she could scarcely make out David at the heart of it all.

  Margaret was studying her now, sipping her own cider. “Thy apprentice has fine manners, Eden.”

  Too fine for a tradesman, Eden thought. “I imagine he’s picked up a few social graces being acquainted with the duke of Atholl.”

  “I’ve heard he plays a fine fiddle, like his father before him.”

  “Oh?”

  “David has made inquiries.”

  Inquiries. In Philadelphia? The Greathouses had so many connections. Why should she be surprised?

  “I must say I’m looking forward to the ball,” Margaret told her, though she sighed when she said it. “I’ve always enjoyed a bit of entertainment . . . if all goes well.”

  With that, she moved toward the house to replenish the cider, her skirt hem trailing in the snow. Eden brushed off the brim of her own bonnet, wishing Jemma would join her, wanting Elspeth to stay away. There was no telling what the ball would bring with her sister in attendance. David had spoken of last year’s near riot. Being a gentleman, he hadn’t mentioned Elspeth’s antics.

/>   Oh my . . . Her face burned brighter in recollection.

  16

  There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle

  Gave signal sweet in that old hall.

  Winthrop Mackworth Praed

  Hope Rising’s new ballroom was uncommonly elegant. David had told her its dimensions, a touch of pride in his tone. Ninety-two feet long, forty-two feet wide, and thirty-six feet high. Tall Palladian windows pulled the outdoors in, each pane sparkling with the light of a dozen crystal lusters. Eden felt entranced as she waited in one polished corner, half hidden by a potted palm from the greenhouse. Surely there was no finer ballroom in Philadelphia. Guests were beginning to gather in all manner of dress, from costly satins and brocades to more homely wools, depending on their station.

  At Eden’s side, behind the privacy of her lace-tipped fan, Jemma was providing a running social commentary of all who entered. “Ah, doesn’t Miss Phoebe look grand in blue luster? I’d not thought to see her on the arm of Johnny so soon after being jilted. And look at Fanny Crockett there by the punch bowl! She has two suitors dangling, or so I’m told . . .”

  Though Jemma had been away in the city, she didn’t lack for local gossip. Eden was concerned only with Elspeth, but for the moment Silas was taking her attention. Gone were the shabby greatcoat and work clothes that marked him day in and day out. Someone—Margaret?—had supplied him a finely tailored shirt, among other things.

  Eden took in all its gentlemanly lines, lingering on the creamy cravat tied in perfect symmetry about his neck and anchored at the back with a silver buckle. It flashed in the candlelight when he turned, drawing her eye. She couldn’t see the rest of him for the surrounding musicians. Dismay burrowed deep inside her when she spied Elspeth lingering near the circular platform on which he stood, clutching a fan of her own.

  For once, she failed to feel the sting of her sister wearing the yellow silk, perhaps because Jemma had spared no pains with Eden’s appearance. All afternoon she’d been scented, groomed, and coiffed. Now, fully gowned, she flexed her fingers in the elaborate gloves Jemma had insisted on—snowy kid leather with a trio of mother-of-pearl buttons at the wrist. Infused with a rose-carnation fragrance, they were the rage among city belles.