He held her, smoothing her damp hair back from her face, whispering things she’d never thought to hear. And then, in silent agony, she watched as he went back into the rain and rounded up their horses. They’d ride out into the storm because it was no longer safe for them to stay here alone and in each other’s arms.
He helped her into the saddle, and she was conscious that there was no more thunder or lightning, just a warm, streaming rain. “I’ll ride with you home and then be on my way again.”
Numb, she tied her bonnet tighter and followed him out of the trees. They were riding fast, but her heart rebelled at every step. She was dully aware of the clean scent of rain giving way to something thick and hazy, but it wasn’t till they crested the hill by the church that she realized its significance. The meadow and the pond were shrouded with smoke, the smell stinging her senses and filling her mouth when she opened it to breathe.
The barn, the smithy . . . on fire?
Frantic figures ran to and from the well like people possessed. Mama? Papa? Behind the barn’s thick timbers, the cries of trapped animals rent her heart. With a little cry, she started down the hill, but Silas gave a rough tug to her bridle.
“Nae, Eden—go for help at Hope Rising!”
They parted, horses bolting in opposite directions. For the first time in her life, her heart pulled her toward home instead.
By the time Silas rode in, the Lee barn was near collapse. Some brave soul had dashed inside and let the animals out, and he breathed a heartfelt bethankit, mindful of Eden. Cows, horses, goats, and pigs milled about in a sort of smoke-poisoned stupor, mired in mud, their distress adding to the confusion all around them. He dismounted, grabbed some empty burlap bags by the woodshed, and ran for the house.
Flames were licking the arbor connecting the kitchen to the smithy, and he smothered them, senses burning, the fabric blackening beneath his hands. Memories began to pelt him like hail, and he struggled to stay atop them. He was here . . . then Scotland . . . then back in York, his dire surroundings a reminder. Mrs. Lee and Elspeth were drawing water at the well while Liege made use of a rain barrel to replenish his bucket. His gout acted like a shackle, slowing him, hastening the fire eating away at the smithy wall nearest the barn. Though the rain was again drenching them, the barn’s fire, stoked to an inferno by the haymow within, was beyond saving. At least the house, solid stone, would be spared.
“The forge!” Liege shouted.
Silas was doing all he could, though the smithy’s rear wall was now a seething red, the corner posts charred to matchsticks. Smoke clogged his senses, and his muscles burned from heaving water. He was vaguely aware of a few neighbors—farmers—appearing in the smoke and heat, and then Mrs. Lee standing beside him.
“Where is she? My Eden?” Her soot-streaked face was wet from the rain, but he saw only her tears. “I thought you’d taken her with you. And then the fire started and I feared she was trapped in the barn.”
“Trapped?”
“The doors were barred from the inside—Liege had to take an ax to break in and let the animals out. I thought—”
“I sent her to Hope Rising for help.” The dark implications of what she said began to cloud his mind. He’d assumed—hoped—it was but a stray spark from the forge that had ignited the blaze. “Where are Thomas and Jon?”
“In the springhouse.”
She moved away, disappearing through the smoke, as he worked to save a place he loathed and was well on his way to leaving but a few hours before. Is this Your will then, Lord? Am I to stay? His spirit rebelled, though he felt a staggering relief he’d not leave Eden.
Lord, help us through the next hours, whate’er they may bring.
Shadow-quiet, Eden paused outside the rear wall of the ash-laden smithy the next morning. She’d not meant to eavesdrop, but the sight before her begged pause. There was her father, seated, head bent, the burnt remains of his livelihood all around him. He made a pitiful sight, one she never thought she’d witness, and it tethered her to the spot.
Silas stood before him, straight-backed and solemn, his gaze never wavering. “I’ll stay under one condition. The new contract will be per my terms.”
Her father looked away, shoulders slumped. For a moment Eden feared Silas would temper his stance, and then, as if remembering all that was at stake, his resolve seemed to harden. “Nothing less.”
Papa gave a curt nod, gray eyes flinty. “You know what they’re saying round the county? That the fire is just punishment for my sins . . . for breaking the Sabbath and forsaking my Quaker roots.”
Eden didn’t doubt it. York was skilled at passing judgment. And who was to say that the Lord hadn’t allowed it? She watched as Silas looked down at his boots lest Liege read the censure in his eyes.
“So you’ll stay on—rebuild?” Papa asked.
“Aye,” Silas responded, locking eyes with him again. “But I’ll have it in writing first.”
Eden could sense her father balk beneath his surface calm. But what choice did he have? Aging, gout-ridden, of poor temper and poorer reputation, he needed a younger man’s strength and savvy to rise from the rubble.
“Very well, then.” Limping to the desk, Papa fumbled for a piece of paper, quill, and ink, hands trembling as if palsied. “State your terms and be quick about it.”
This was easily managed. Ever since she and Silas had returned yesterday and battled the fire, he’d prayerfully hammered out his conditions in his head, so he’d told her, expecting her father would press him to stay.
Paper back in hand, Papa read the contract aloud. “You agree to rebuild both barn and smithy and fulfill your tenure as apprentice to conclude no later than October of this year, so long as the following terms are met.” He paused and scanned ahead, jaw tightening. “All overcharging in account books must be rectified.” At this, he nearly growled. “You’ll not be coerced into marriage, and you insist—what?—that Eden be allowed to attend church?” He shot Silas a withering look. “You’ll be the gossip of the county squiring two daughters.”
Silas shrugged. “One more matter. I’ve moved my belongings to the room in back of the smithy. I’ll not take the garret.”
Heaving a sigh, Papa dipped the quill into the ink pot and scrawled his name and the date.
“D’ye want a witness?” Silas asked him.
“Nay. I’ll not shame myself twice,” Papa muttered, passing him the paper.
Eden knew Silas had won a significant victory. Five months was ample time to rebuild the barn and smithy and finish his apprenticeship. The position at Fort Pitt would wait, or so they hoped. In the span of a tumultuous twenty-four hours, all had come clear. She felt a blessed relief.
At the sound of approaching hoofbeats she looked up, startled to find David dismounting just outside. He entered the smithy, eyes roving the blackened interior, clearly at a loss for words. Hidden in the shadows, Eden started to move away, then glanced back once more. David was asking something of Silas, some request or matter of business, as Papa looked on.
She paid no attention to the words, just the men themselves. ’Twas clear Silas was now in command. For a few, startling seconds the world as she knew it was turned on end, granting her a vision of what was to come. Men like her father and David would continue to exist, but in future they would be second to men like Silas. Her heart gave a thankful leap.
Oh, my love, you are meant for better things. Things far beyond the boundaries of York . . .
Silas caught sight of Eden as she turned away and wondered if she’d been privy to all that had transpired. He felt such elation at the new contract in hand he was barely aware of David Greathouse’s leaving, the thunder of his going a distant rumble.
“I’ve some lumber coming from York,” Liege said, getting up from a stool. His dull eyes took in the charred south wall, sunlight fanning golden fingers of light through what was left of the smithy roof. “The hardware for Grossvort’s dower house needs to be finished before we start rebuilding o
r he’ll raise a ruckus. At least the anvil and bellows and our tools were spared, though I can hardly abide the stench of it.”
For once they agreed. The smithy, ever oppressive, was now burdensome in a different way, the sour smell of wet ash and burnt wood overwhelming. Beyond the yawning front doors, the rubble of the barn still smoldered. The house, aside from minor damage, had been spared. As of yet no one was talking about who was responsible, but from their haunted looks Silas knew they were wondering.
He moved a charred beam aside with the toe of his boot. “Who d’ye ken started the fire?”
“Who?” Liege shrugged bent shoulders and looked at the ground. “I have my share of naysayers, those who wish me ill. It could be anyone from a simple village lad making mischief to a business dealing gone sour.” Turning away, he began a slow walk toward the house, pushing the smithy doors open wider and bringing an end to the speculation. “’Tis of little consequence now. What’s done is done.”
Silas begged to differ but stayed silent. He tied on his leather apron and set to work as best he could, completing the order Liege had requested before noon and composing what he would say to Eden when he next saw her. That morning she’d been at the paddock, brow furrowed in concentration as she proceeded to lead a curious assortment of tethered animals down the lane. Greathouse had offered Hope Rising’s stables as shelter, and Liege had charged Eden with the task of caring for them there. Silas had watched, wishing he could go with her.
Midmorning she returned, stepping into the smithy’s fiery confines, surprising him. She rarely ventured into his domain, but she was here now and had chosen her time carefully. Liege and Elspeth had gone into York to dicker over lumber, and Mrs. Lee was busy with the children inside. Laying aside his work, he faced her.
“You’re going to stay on—till October.” Her words were breathless—a bit disbelieving. The poignancy of her expression made his chest tighten. “And then . . . ?”
“You tell me, Eden.”
She took a step nearer. “I overheard your terms. You’ve moved out of the garret. I’m to go to church.”
“If you want to.”
“If?” Her smile was like a sunrise. “I’ve wanted to go since I first heard the steeple bell sixteen years ago. But . . .”
“But?” he echoed.
But Elspeth. Elspeth wouldn’t like it, they both knew. And that is why they must tread cautiously. He brushed the soft contour of her cheek with a sooty finger. “We’ll proceed carefully. We want no trouble—no repeat of what happened on the stair.”
She nodded, the ugly bruises she bore a telling reminder. “I understand. With all that has happened, we’ll both be busy . . .”
Too busy for courting, her pensive expression seemed to say.
Tears lined her lashes, cutting him to the quick. She needed wooing—and wooing well. The Scripture he’d nearly given her his last night in the garret was tucked in his fiddle case, forgotten. Wiping his hands on his apron, he moved toward the back room. She waited while he retrieved it, her expression holding such an expectant eagerness he wished he had something more tangible. A handful of flowers . . . a string of pearls.
Tucking the paper in her hand, he bent and whispered the Scripture penned there in both Gaelic and English, his breath stirring the fiery tendrils near her ear. Oh my dove . . . She listened, head down, visibly moved. He cast a glance at the door, aching to run his fingers through her hair . . . to still her trembling mouth with his own . . . to make her his. As the unholy thoughts took hold, he pushed them away successfully one minute, only to take her in his arms the next. She came to him with a willingness that erased all his fears for their future, today and henceforth.
Lord help him, there was no going back, only forward. Once he’d tasted her sweetness, there would be no returning to staid glances and prim stairwell meetings.
23
Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Eden left the privacy of the smithy the second her ears met with the sound of the wagon signaling Papa and Elspeth’s return from York. She and Silas had been alone but a few, fleeting minutes, and her heart was sore, sensing she’d have naught but the memory to warm her for days . . . weeks.
“Back from Hope Rising so soon?” Her mother turned from cleaning ashes from the hearth as she came into the kitchen. “I feared Jemma would detain you.”
“Not today,” she said simply, tying on an apron and recalling her hurried morning.
The truth was she made her apologies to Jemma as soon as the horses were stabled and the rest of the animals led to pasture, as she had no wish to be away from Silas. Fortunately, David had arranged for help, hiring a new stable hand to assist her. But her thoughts were far from such mundane matters this morning. She was as aflocht as she’d ever been in her life, every raw emotion written on her flushed face, and the compassion in her mother’s eyes confirmed it.
Touching her overwarm cheek, Mama whispered, “Oh, Daughter, take care.”
The warning was woefully brief, but Eden understood completely. Her mother well knew her feelings. She felt a sliver of sorrow she hadn’t confided in her before now. “Mama, I—”
Mama put a finger of warning to her lips. A sudden commotion gave them pause when Elspeth entered the kitchen, arms full of packages. Depositing them atop the kitchen table, she glanced at Eden, a strange glint in her eyes. “Since you’re to go to church, Papa had me select some cloth for a new Sabbath dress.”
Eden didn’t know whether to grin or grimace. Her sister’s preferences were not her own, and Papa’s generosity was downright shocking. The silence grew stilted as Elspeth began yanking at paper and string, untying their purchases.
“I found a length of blue luster you might like—and one of rose brocade for me.” With the dramatic flourish of a dressmaker, Elspeth draped the wares over her arm, including new garters and clocked stockings for them both.
The sight gave Eden pause. Something was afoot . . . but what? She touched the shimmering fabric, a bit disbelieving—and decidedly chary. “’Tis lovely—I couldn’t have picked finer.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to mind our dress hems. Papa wouldn’t buy new shoes, and ours are so old they’re shocking. But I did talk him into a length of lace. I daresay it’s as fine as anything Jemma might find in Philadelphia.” She held it aloft between gloved fingers, mouth twisted in a smile.
Eden saw that it was a type of fine, French bobbin lace, fragile as tulle and far more costly. What, she wondered, had come over Papa?
“It looks to be minionet,” Mama marveled. “Perfect to trim a bonnet or handkerchief.” She frowned at the sound of Jon’s cry. “You’d best start sewing. Such fine gowns will take time to make.”
Lost in the wonder of a new dress—and Papa allowing church—Eden was barely aware of Mama leaving the kitchen. She wanted to follow, to tend to Jon instead, but Elspeth’s harsh hiss and frosty stare hemmed her in.
“I’m still trying to come to terms with you running off with Silas yesterday.”
Eden’s fingers stilled on the fabric. “I’d not thought to go with him.” True enough. The prospect of heading west still unsettled her. “He’d simply forgotten his provisions.”
Elspeth’s probing gaze roamed her face as if searching for secrets—or noting the bruises, perhaps? In the upheaval of the fire, nothing had been said or done about the incident on the stair. Now Eden could scarcely lay down to sleep at night, certain of Elspeth’s wrath at another vulnerable moment. Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, Eden went to the hearth and lifted the lid off a kettle to find stew simmering. She gave it a stir, wondering if her sister suspected all that bubbled beneath the surface of their own situation.
“I think you fancy yourself in love with him.” Elspeth’s tone turned mocking. “Why else would you go creeping up the stairwell at midnight?”
“Not all is as it seems, Sister.”
Elspeth circled the table to stan
d beside her, heightening Eden’s alarm. At least here in the kitchen there were no stairs to push her down—only the hot hearth. She took a step away from the leaping flames to stand by the relative safety of the beehive oven. But Elspeth’s malice followed her, her voice a menacing whisper. “You have the heir to Hope Rising at your beck and call. Why would you want to dally with a simple blacksmith?”
Searching for a soft answer, she replied, “Silas may be a simple blacksmith, but he will not stay a simple blacksmith.”
“Oh? And are you privy to his grand plans, then?” Elspeth rolled her eyes. “I know of none except a harebrained scheme to go west into the wilderness.”
The slur stung, but Eden resisted any further defense of him. How could she put into words the growing certainty in her heart that Silas was destined for greater things? Things well beyond a forge’s fire? But she could never share such thoughts with Elspeth—or anyone. “I lay no claim to any man’s heart.”
“So you say.” Gathering up the rose fabric, Elspeth shook her head. “I don’t understand how a simpleton like you can turn the heads of so many men. Just this morning in York the gunsmith’s son spoke to Papa about you.”
Eden faltered a moment before the name took hold. Giles Esh? She’d danced with him once at Hope Rising’s ball and then forgotten.
“Somehow you’ve managed to hoodwink him as well.”
The caustic words, though hurtful, seemed to roll off Eden like rainwater. Cocooned in the warmth of Silas’s love, she felt a strength and contentment she’d never known. A sense of pity for her contentious sister stole over her. She met Elspeth’s tear-filled eyes and felt a twist of surprise. Did her sister love Silas? Or was he simply desirable because he was unattainable? Would Elspeth, sharp as glass, ever win a man’s heart? Or more importantly, know the love of God?
“We’d best begin work on our Sabbath dresses,” Eden said, searching for some common ground, however fragile.
Elspeth pushed the lace her way, expression rigid. “You may have the minionet if you like. I daresay you’re in need of such frippery far more than I. With three men vying for your attentions, you’ll want to look your best.”