Love's Reckoning

  “’Tis Jon—I went to his cradle—I’d made him some porridge—he was sleeping overlong—” The image of him smiling and chewing on her bodice laces that very morning shredded her composure to ribbons. “H-he wouldn’t wake . . .”

  “What do you mean? Is he . . . gone?” When she began to cry harder, he went silent then said quietly, “Eden, I’m sorry. I know how attached you were to the babe.”

  With that he thumped on the upholstered ceiling with a tight fist. The coach began a slow roll forward, but Eden hardly noticed for her weeping. She was vaguely aware of the bergamot-laden handkerchief he pressed into her palm and the sudden shift as he left his seat to sit beside her. “When did this happen?”

  “I—I just found him . . .”

  “Was Jon ill, then? Did he have a fever like Jemma?”

  She couldn’t answer, shaken by the shock mirrored on his solemn face. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—suggest Elspeth might have hurt Jon . . .

  “Were your parents at home? Your sister?”

  “Mama and Papa had gone to York. I—I don’t know about Elspeth.”

  He swore under his breath. “First the fire . . . and now this?”

  She nodded. ’Twas hard to even speak, as her thoughts swung from home to Hope Rising and then back again.

  Depositing his hat on the seat, David heaved a sigh. “Jemma took ill yesterday. Margaret fears it may be a virulent fever.”

  The dire words failed to penetrate Eden’s grief. She sat, fisting the hanky, feeling her heart shatter over and over. First Jon . . . and now Jemma?

  “This requires Dr. Rush’s expertise. I don’t trust these York physicians. They’re fine for livestock, perhaps, not human beings.” He studied her, eyes dark with concern. “You look in need of more headache powders.”

  She said nothing, craving fresh air. Turning her face to the window, she felt a start of alarm. They were well down the main road, moving at a brisk pace past low stone fences and unfamiliar meadows strewn with autumn leaves. She’d thought he was taking her home.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he waved aside her concerns. “You’re in no condition to go back, Eden. Who’s to say there won’t be more trouble waiting? You shall be safer with me.”

  “But no one knows where I am.” She made a sudden move toward the door handle, but he intervened, sliding the lock into place.

  “I’ll send word to your father at the inn ahead.” Drawing the coach window closed, he returned her to her seat with a brusque look. “With Jemma so ill, you can’t remain at Hope Rising. You’ll stay with Bea and Anne at the townhouse in Philadelphia till things settle down. I’m going to ask the county magistrate for an investigation into Jon’s death. The fire I could do little about. I may fare better with the babe.”

  She shut her eyes as a fierce longing skewered her insides. It wasn’t Philadelphia or more headache powders she needed, but Silas.

  Her betrothed.

  29

  The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.

  Horace Walpole

  Silas heard the chilling cry the moment he rounded the barn on Horatio. The sound sent the hair at the back of his neck bristling. Away an afternoon in York settling accounts, he’d expected to return to the sameness of forge and farmhouse, but the twilight eve held a strange tension. The keening cry came again—a woman’s, not a bairn’s—full of anguish and warning. Dismounting, he hobbled Horatio in front of the smithy, noting the doors were shut. The foreboding he felt doubled.

  Merciful God . . . not Eden.

  He strode into the kitchen, the burnt odor of a kettle left too long at the hearth overwhelming. In the winter parlor opposite, shadows danced on the firelit walls. Mrs. Lee paced before the hearth, Jon in her arms. One look told him more than he wanted to know. Across the room Liege stood silently with Giles, while Elspeth, pale as flax, sat woodenly in a chair, Thomas at her feet. His heart gave a lurch. The one who mattered most was missing.

  “At last!” Liege said, his tone suggesting Silas was somehow to blame. “Have you seen Eden?”

  “Not since breakfast,” Silas returned uneasily. “What has happened?”

  “She’s missing,” he said brashly. “And the babe’s dead.”

  The bruising fact hardly needed stating. Mrs. Lee let out another strangled cry, and Silas looked away, throat tight, while the bairn’s own mother remained dry-eyed across the room. He felt a searing anger when Thomas began to wail along with Mrs. Lee, and Elspeth did not so much as lift a finger in comfort.

  Liege moved toward the hearth, pacing on the worn floorboards. “Mrs. Lee and I returned home to a kitchen full of smoke, Thomas untended, the babe dead in his cradle, Eden gone.”

  Silas looked toward Giles. “And you?”

  Giles bristled. “I was at the forge—too busy to see to household matters. If Eden had come to me, I might have helped, but she did not.”

  “What of you?” Silas’s gaze pinned Elspeth.

  “Elspeth was with me in the smithy,” Giles said. “We—”

  “I did not ask you.” Silas’s eyes remained on Elspeth. “Did you see Eden?”

  She met his gaze, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I am not my sister’s keeper. She was supposed to be tending things in the house while I was at the ledgers.” The reply was so sullen, so sanctimonious, Silas was glad he was across the room lest he be tempted to strike her.

  “So a child dies and everyone seems to be deaf and dumb?” His heated questions were met with silence. “None of you knows where she’s gone—just that she’s gone without a by-your-leave to anyone?”

  He turned and left them, moving upstairs to the garret room, his tread heavy, his patience thin. Here the air was dusty and sweet, the narrow stairwell full of tender memories. The weaving room and Eden’s bedchamber were bare as well, as were all the rooms save the parlor where they’d gathered.

  Returning to the cool twilight, he searched the barn and all the outbuildings, every nook and cranny, before using the last bit of day to comb the surrounding woods. The fading light seemed to leach all the hope from his heart.

  Lord, please . . . Eden.

  Reluctantly he returned and looked toward the distant lights of Hope Rising. The possibility that she’d sought safe haven there doubled his angst.

  Silas had never been inside the great house before. His work confined him to the dependencies and sheep pens. Standing on its front stoop, he made use of the huge brass knocker to summon a servant, unable to stop ill-scrappit comparisons from flooding his mind in the warm twilight. Hope Rising was little more than an outbuilding in light of Blair Castle’s grandeur, yet it had a simple charm the duke’s ancestral home lacked. The servant who answered was clad in plain woolens, not livery, his manner deferential.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ballantyne.”

  “I’ve come looking for Eden Lee,” he said brusquely, feeling time was against him.

  He nodded. “Miss Lee isn’t here, but I’ll summon Margaret Hunter if you like.”

  Leading Silas to a room redolent of old books and beeswax, he excused himself, footsteps echoing down the candlelit foyer. The minutes unwound so torturously slow that Silas felt he’d been placed on a rack. His restless gaze landed on a portrait above the cold hearth. Though cast in shadows, the man’s mien and hair color were nonetheless striking. Eben Greathouse? Privateer, slaver, benefactor?

  “Silas.” The quiet address was surprisingly straightforward. Friends shunned honorifics, he remembered, even a simple “mister.” Margaret Hunter stood behind him. “I apologize for the delay. Jemma is ill.”

  Desperation turned him blunt. “I need to find Eden.”

  “Eden? I saw her from a window this afternoon. She was in the courtyard with David—he was on his way to Philadelphia. She got into the carriage.” A frown marred her mouth. “I thought he’d return her home. She seemed upset, perhaps on account of Jemma.”

  “When was this?”

  “A quarter
past three. I well remember, as it was time for Jemma’s medicine.”

  Hours ago. The facts left him hollow, a bit breathless. None of them made sense. “Why is the master going to Philadelphia?”

  “To fetch a doctor. I fear Jemma may have a malignant fever.” She raised a hand to graying hair that was usually faultless and tucked a stray strand beneath her cap. “May I ask if there’s been trouble at the Lees’?”

  “Aye.” Silas still felt pummeled by disbelief. “The babe—Jon—is dead.”

  Shock lit her eyes. “From fever?”

  “Nae.” The denial gave way to a host of sordid things. He could sense her unasked questions, though he had no ready answers.

  Brow furrowed, she moved to shut the door as if on the verge of some confidence. “Do thee know about the babe? His parentage, I mean?”

  Silas simply looked at her, well aware of where she was leading.

  “There’s been talk that the babe is Elspeth’s and . . .” She hesitated, tears glittering in her eyes. “David’s.”

  He felt a sickening dismay. His Eden . . . with a rogue. The admission of Jon’s origins cost Margaret dearly, Silas knew. A servant rarely betrayed a master, yet her Quaker convictions bound her to the truth no matter the consequences. He looked down, his worn boots decidedly out of place atop the lush carpet. He’d not considered this. Did Eden know? Likely not. She was so naïve, always thinking the best of others, especially those at Hope Rising.

  “I fear David . . . and Eden . . .”

  The coupling of their names made his blood run cold. “What about them?”

  “David has long been besotted with Eden.”

  He held his breath, bracing for another bitter secret. Lord, nae . . .

  Her gaze cleared. “But Eden is in love with thee.”

  His own eyes grew damp, reducing the grand room to a rich watercolor, though his voice held firm. “Aye, Eden is betrothed to me.”

  She nodded and looked toward a window. “There is another matter thee must know, Silas, though I’m loath to tell thee . . .”

  The lantern-lit stable was missing a groom, but Silas had no need of one. Hoisting a saddle from a near rack onto one shoulder, he made his way past countless stalls till he came to Atticus, Hope Rising’s prize racehorse. The thoroughbred, recently brought from Virginia, whinnied in welcome. He ran a hand down the sleek, buff-colored back and thought of Horatio. Aging as he was, Horatio hadn’t the stamina or speed of this stallion. And he needed both—desperately.

  He swung himself into the costly, unfamiliar saddle, a prayer for Eden on his lips, all that he’d just learned making him breathless and afraid. Moving into the cool of early evening beneath a rising moon, he kept hoping Eden would simply step from the twilight into his arms.

  God, grant me speed, safety, and wisdom.

  Exhausted, Eden dozed, lulled by the motion of the coach, only to come awake to lantern light outside her window. Such rocking made Jemma nauseous. But Jemma wasn’t here, she remembered—she was at home and gravely ill. Other painful realities crowded in and jarred her awake. Jon was gone. She’d left Thomas alone. Shutting her eyes tight, she battled a bruising anguish.

  When they rolled to a stop before a two-story tavern, she watched David alight and make arrangements for them to lodge. The pain of her predicament washed over her like an icy wave, and she surveyed the inn’s shingle through tear-filled eyes. The Black Swan. Aside from spending an occasional night at Hope Rising, she’d never been beyond the confines of her feather bolster.

  The sudden lilt of a fiddle carrying on the crisp autumn air twisted her heart—yet renewed her courage. Perhaps when David was preoccupied, turned his back for a few moments, she could get away. The overwhelming desire to return to Silas made her bold, yet David had assumed a hawk-like vigilance that was more unnerving at every turn.

  “Come, Eden, supper awaits.”

  He helped her down, his hand on her elbow all the way up the pebble walk as the coachman sought the stables. Behind the front door, the tavern seemed to be bursting with a hundred strangers, all eyes inclined their way. They sought refuge at a corner table near the kitchen door, which opened and closed with a perpetual whine.

  Pulled from her stupor for a few self-conscious moments, Eden realized what an odd pairing they made. David looked every inch the heir to Hope Rising in beaver hat and fine broadcloth, while she in her humble flowered muslin and wrinkled lace kerchief was naught but a tradesman’s daughter.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you,” he told her, “though I’m sure the fare isn’t as palatable as your own.”

  She nodded but didn’t know how she’d eat one bite. Grief had stolen her appetite and now filled her to the brim with a profound numbness. Even the aroma of freshly baked bread left her slightly sick. Her eyes drifted in the same direction as David’s, through an archway to a second room clouded with tobacco smoke and reverberating with the rattle of dice. She’d heard of such places and could smell spirits, but her perusal ended when an enormous pewter plate was plunked down in front of her by a pink-cheeked serving girl.

  She bowed her head briefly, then found David’s eyes on her when she whispered “amen.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  Touched by his concern, she tried to smile, eyes falling to the buttered beets and charred fowl before her. But she gave no answer.

  “You’re in need of some rum punch or flip to bring your color back.” He took a sip from his own tankard. “It works wonders for whatever ails you. I recall returning from church in the winter months as a lad after crying in the meeting from the cold. Uncle would serve us flip to warm us.”

  He was making a valiant effort to distract her, she guessed, though she was in no mood for conversation. Still, she managed, “There was no church stove then?”

  “No. Is there now?”

  She nodded and picked up her fork, trying not to think of Silas or church or the Bible she so sorely needed hidden in the garret.

  “Fortunately, there’s a good hearth here,” he said, buttering some bread. “I’m not sure about the rooms above stairs. You’re welcome to sleep in my cloak.”

  The very thought returned a rush of color to her cheeks. He glanced toward a window, his mouth twisting in a wry line. “The weather has taken a turn. Some are forecasting snow. Can you imagine? Snow in October.”

  She bit down on a beet, so reminiscent of her own garden it brought about a crushing homesickness. Swallowing hard, she opened her mouth to beg him to take her back, then remembered Jemma. Poor Jemma, in dire need of a physician. Beset by new worries, she ate a few halfhearted mouthfuls, noticing his attention returning to the gaming room.

  “The inn is overfull this chilly eve, I’m sorry to say, though the thought of sleeping six to a bed might well warm us.” Finishing his meal, he asked for another tankard, looking askance at her nearly untouched plate. “I’ll see you to your room so you can rest.”

  She followed him reluctantly after he set his cape about her shoulders, her hands clutching the fine fabric in her fists to keep it off the dirty floor. Doors were appearing on all sides of them, unfriendly in their austereness, but he showed a familiarity with their surroundings, leading her to a room at the top of the back stair.

  He set a candlestick on a shelf just inside, and they surveyed the lodging together. A bed hardly big enough for two people was pushed against a far wall, a fireplace at its foot. A beleaguered table and chair rested atop a faded rag rug. Eden spied a chamber pot beneath a tottering washstand—and a tiny rat darting into a corner hole.

  “’Twill do for one night,” he said, looking down at her. “No doubt you’ll find the Philadelphia townhouse more to your liking, though that’s another forty miles or so.”

  “’Tis fine,” she said awkwardly. “Think no more of it.”

  “I’m going below to play cards.” He hesitated as if debating the wisdom of leaving her. “If you need me . . .”

  At the shake of her head
, he shut the door. She heard the jingle of keys followed by a click. Heart pounding, she rushed to the door and grabbed hold of the handle, her near elation snuffed when it held steadfast. He’d locked her in. But why? To protect her from other tavern patrons? Or did he mean to keep her . . . captive? The thought sent her scurrying to the sole window. But the drop from there was too high, the pitch of the roof too steep. She’d likely break her neck.

  Shivering, she moved to the comfort of the hearth, cold hands outstretched to the feeble flames, seeking more than comfort. She was in desperate need of the Comforter.

  Lord, be in this strange place . . . please.

  Suddenly the high note of a fiddle pierced the air. She nearly flinched at its uneven tone, so unlike Silas’s. A ribald ballad was struck, so loud she spun toward a dark corner, expecting to find the fiddler in her very room. But the merriment was directly below, seeping through worn floorboards, promising a sleepless night. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, she lifted the hem of her quilted petticoat, tore at a seam, and extracted a bit of wool to fill her ears. If only she could do the same to fill the hole in her heart . . .

  The image of Jon’s round face rose up, and she shut her eyes as if to block it, putting a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Coupled with her concern for Jemma, grief had her hovering on the brink of near hysteria in this strange place. The night loomed long.

  Her hopes plummeted. She’d forgotten to make sure David had sent word of where she was. Silas would wonder.

  Nay . . . Silas would be wild with worry.

  30

  I wish, I wish, I wish in vain

  I wish I was a maid again.

  Traditional folk song

  His ill luck had returned. Haste and panic were poor traveling companions, and this trip he’d reaped the consequences in spades. No coin. No canteen. No saddlebags. All he possessed was a keen sense of direction and a burning conviction to keep going. Within five miles of his journey, Atticus had cast a shoe, requiring him to stop and beg repair from a fellow blacksmith at a sleepy village. Foolishly he’d thought to overtake Eden on the road or at some wayside tavern. Then he recalled the Greathouse coach. Imported from London before the war and painted a fashionable green, its German steel springs and new wheels would fly over the rutted thoroughfare to Philadelphia as if winged.