Love's Reckoning

  She stood slightly openmouthed at his audacity.

  “Make ready to go,” he told her, turning toward the tavern. “I’ll fetch the coachman. If he refuses to come, I’ll drive you to Hope Rising myself.”

  31

  Be silent and safe—silence never betrays you.

  John Boyle O’Reilly

  Though Silas sat beside her in the coach, shutters drawn against the encroaching cold, Eden was hardly aware of him. Wrapped in a blanket and his arms, she slept mile after mile as they lumbered west through spitting snow and bouts of hail, the coachman driving the team at a fever’s pitch. They changed horses once—a formidable feat given they had no coin—and she was vaguely aware, through the haze of illness, that Silas promised payment from Hope Rising.

  After that she succumbed to thirst and fever, her throat so dry she couldn’t speak no matter how much water he gave her. Her head throbbed against the upholstered seat, and every jolt and jarring of the coach seemed to rattle her very bones. If it was this hard going to civilized York, what would it be like heading west over the Allegheny Mountains? But she shut her head—and her heart—to the notion, allowing no second thoughts, no second chances. Surely Silas was having them as well, realizing how unfit she was for such a trek, plagued with headaches and near-hysteria at the tavern . . . and far worse.

  Yet he was tenderness itself every step of their journey. Through her feverish cocoon, she was aware of his gentleness as he laid cool hands on her hot brow, trusting in his reassurances that all would be well. When he carried her into the familiar cottage, Margaret wept with relief.

  “Oh, Eden. Thee have the look of Jemma about thee, God rest her soul.”

  “Jemma?” Silas’s low question pierced the fog of Eden’s grief.

  “She died the very night thee left . . . the same day as Jon.” She spoke in whispers. “She suffered so at the end. ’Twas little to be done. We buried her straightaway. Pastor McCheyne came and offered prayers. I’ve sent word to Anne and Beatrice in Philadelphia.”

  As he eased Eden onto Margaret’s feather bolster, she began removing Eden’s shoes. Tears flowed down their faces as Silas stood at the foot of the bed, misery pulsating all around them. “You’re no doubt wondering about Greathouse.”

  Margaret nodded. “Thee must have left him Atticus in exchange for the coach.”

  “Aye, something like that.” He moved to the hearth, standing tall but a bit stoop-shouldered. In the fading firelight, his profile pierced Eden’s heart. Weariness lined his person like a garment. He’d not eaten or slept for days other than dozing in the coach. His linen shirt was stiff with dirt and dried blood, his breeches torn. She longed to rake out the tangles in his hair with her fingertips, kiss the rough stubble that marked his jaw.

  He was speaking to Margaret again, his tone grim. “I’m reluctant to leave her.”

  The words brought about a searing ache. Despite everything, despite every ugly thing that had happened . . . he still wanted to stay?

  Margaret studied him thoughtfully. “Thee are in need of rest, Silas. A good meal. Clean clothes.” Her calm practicality returned, and she moved toward a clothespress. “If thee do not want to return to the Lees’, the cottage next to mine is vacant.”

  “I’ll not trouble you further,” he replied, though he did accept the clothing she pressed into his hands. Pausing at the door, he glanced toward the bed a final time. “If she worsens, promise you’ll send for me, no matter the hour.”

  “Of course. Will thee be at the Lees’, then?”

  “Aye.” The terse answer was weighted with resignation. Eden could hear it in his voice, though she couldn’t lift a hand in goodbye.

  Lord, help him escape this place, she prayed before sleep claimed her.

  “She what?” From his seat by the hearth, Liege glared at Silas with the force of a sledge hitting hot iron.

  Silas’s voice was weary but firm. “I said Eden lies ill at Margaret Hunter’s.”

  Pushing himself up from his chair, Liege puffed furiously on his pipe till the smoke formed a ragged halo above his head. “For four days we’ve done naught but wonder where she’s gone, only to find her ill and at Hope Rising! Fetch her home where she belongs—”

  “Nae.” Silas cut him off, done with his foolishness. “She stays.”

  Mrs. Lee appeared in the doorway, Thomas in her arms instead of Jon. Silas felt a twist of remorse for bearing such bad news. “Jemma Greathouse is dead of a fever. Margaret Hunter fears Eden may be ill with the same.” Her sharp intake of breath made him pause. “She promises to send word if Eden worsens. I rode to York for the doctor before coming here . . .”

  He fell silent, wanting nothing more than to escape to his room. But for the moment he was looking at them with sudden insight, privy to secrets they weren’t aware he knew. Liege’s irascibility suddenly made sense. Mrs. Lee’s ceaseless activity and melancholy were born of a thousand regrets. And Thomas—was he truly Liege and Louise’s son? Elspeth was missing. And Jon . . . The cradle was empty. The room was empty. Without the grace of Eden’s presence, everything seemed a bit hollow—off-kilter. Or mayhap it was simply the echo of his own despair.

  You were never there. ’Twas always the work . . . We have no future.

  Passing a hand over his eyes, he was vaguely aware of Mrs. Lee at his elbow. “Come, Silas. There’s meat, bread. I’ll make you something to drink.”

  Slowly they moved into the sanctuary of the kitchen. Of all the rooms in the house, this was Eden’s favorite—and the most bereft of her.

  “You look,” Mrs. Lee breathed, taking him in from head to toe, “like you’ve been far.”

  “Halfway to Philadelphia and back.”

  “For Eden.”

  “Aye.”

  “How did she happen to get there?”

  “David Greathouse took her by coach.”

  The silence stretched taut. She set a plate in front of him, and he noticed her hands were shaking. “Master David, you say? All that way? Did he—”

  He pushed back from the table, appetite gone. “Nae . . . speak of anything but that.”

  Leaving by way of the arbor, he entered his room and took a chair, eyes on the cold hearth. Minutes ticked by, marked by a small clock, prodding him to take some sort of action—make a fire, lie down, return to the kitchen and still his aching, empty stomach. But the solace he sought was of a far different kind.

  Eyes on the dog irons, he tried to grapple with all that had happened, a harsh wind blowing through his soul.

  Provide Thou, O Lord, for my heart.

  Eden heard a violin, low and sweet, coming from the parlor. Was Silas playing for Margaret? Nay, Margaret was missing. He was playing for her, the songs she especially loved—strathspeys and slow airs . . . haunting, lyrical. When Margaret returned, they sat around the fire like old friends, his music substituting for conversation. Sequestered in the bedchamber, Eden could see and hear them clearly through the open doorway.

  Hers was not a virulent fever, Margaret told him in low tones. Exhaustion, perhaps. A vile headache. Some other malady, but nothing fatal. Hearing it, Eden felt a crushing disappointment. She welcomed death.

  She lay still, eyes closed, and drifted like flotsam on a pond. Fragments of her time with David at the inn threatened to plunge her into the darkest despair, and then the sound of Silas’s voice, his playing, brought her back. His presence, his prayers, were all that kept the shock and sorrow that wrapped round her like tentacles from crushing her completely.

  “You’ll be needing this, Eden.” Gently he took her hand, placing a small square of linen in her palm as he knelt by the bed. “’Tis a lock of Jon’s hair.”

  She started to open it, took one glimpse at the sunny strands within, and couldn’t. Unable to speak, she simply brought the cloth to her heart with a closed fist.

  “I buried him beneath the willow in the far pasture, the one you like so well.”

  She nodded through her tears, somewhat solac
ed.

  “I set a stone atop it. I’m going to make a cross. When you’re better I’ll take you there.”

  He left her side, and no one else came. It hurt her that her own mother stayed away. She supposed Mama’s secrets kept her at a distance—that and the fact she and Margaret hadn’t spoken in years. Without Jon and Jemma, neither home nor Hope Rising felt the same. She sensed the loss even on her bed. When she was back on her feet, the grave sites were the first place she wanted to go, as if doing so would somehow ease the sting of what her heart couldn’t bear.

  “’Tis too soon for thee to be out of doors,” Margaret cautioned one day. “The wind is harsh. I fear the winter will be ferocious.”

  Feeling old and unkempt, Eden made her way from the bed to the crackling hearth, hands gripping the chair back where Silas usually sat. He hadn’t been here in a day . . . two? Alarm rose up and turned her breathless. ’Twas now mid-October, Margaret said. Turning a face to a window limned by twilight, Eden fought down her disappointment and wrestled with new fears. Had Silas already left for Fort Pitt? Without saying goodbye?

  “There’s no need for Silas to come round so often now that thee are better.” Margaret began making tea, her voice matter-of-fact yet soothing. “No doubt he’s busy preparing for his journey now that his apprenticeship is at an end.”

  Sitting in his empty chair, Eden stared into the fire without focus, grappling with his leaving. Tears blurred her vision and she looked about blindly for a handkerchief, resorting to the sleeve of her nightgown.

  The tea forgotten, Margaret brought one of her own and squeezed Eden’s hand. “’Tis clear thy heart is breaking—over Jon and Jemma, to be sure. Or is there more?”

  More? Aye, far more. The loss of her purity. Her future. The only man she’d ever loved. How did one put such heartache into words? All the Scriptures she’d hidden in her heart now seemed to leave her. She couldn’t recall them, couldn’t pray. In a word, she felt forsaken.

  They sat in silence and drank the tea as daylight faded and smothered the small hope in her heart that Silas would come. Despite Margaret’s company, she felt an overwhelming, aching emptiness. Tomorrow she must return home. Every hour she tarried added to her angst. In the mayhem of the last few days, she’d nearly forgotten the ugly reality before her. Silas was leaving. Papa wanted her to marry another. Once repulsive, the plan was now palatable.

  After what David had done, what choice did she have but to marry Giles? Any babe that she carried would be considered his. None would suspect it was David’s instead. The thought of the future, once so joyous, now turned terrifying. She was disgraced, perhaps pregnant. How would she care for a baby? How could she bring trouble to her family after what Elspeth had done? The solution—if that was what it was—smacked her in the face as hard as Elspeth’s hand.

  Oh, Silas, you must be well away from here. If David returns, if you discern what he has done . . .

  32

  The music in my heart I bore,

  Long after it was heard no more.

  William Wordsworth

  Before Eden turned down the lane toward home, Sebastian bounded toward her, a mass of fur and snapping black eyes, his irrepressible enthusiasm nearly making her smile. Dropping to her knees on the cold ground, she stroked his silky ears, thinking how lonesome he would be when Silas went away.

  “You should be minding sheep,” she said through her tears, but he simply cocked his head and nudged her hand as if she were his sole concern.

  Side by side they walked, Eden’s gaze touching on every familiar place. Sheep dotted the meadow like windblown bits of cotton, and the beloved church on the hill sat empty and silent, awaiting the next Sabbath service. Everything looked the same—only she herself had changed. Her thoughts were muddied and unfocused. Her body was no longer her own. Her dreams forsaken. She could hear unrelenting hammering at the forge and wondered who it was. Papa? Silas? Giles? Her senses seemed blunted. She could no longer discern the difference in tone. Before she stepped onto the front stoop on shaking legs, her mother, clad in mourning garb for Jon, threw open the front door in welcome.

  “Eden! I hardly recognize you!”

  Beneath Mama’s scrutiny, she felt a tremor of self-consciousness, as if the stain on her person was just as apparent. But it was her dress Mama was looking at as she removed the cape Margaret had lent her. The gown was stunning with its dark lace, painstakingly dyed a deep blue-black. Slowly Mama’s eyes rose from the quilted petticoat to her hair. Margaret had taken great pains to secure it at the back of her head, pearl-tipped pins scattered throughout. A few freshly washed strands escaped, framing her face. She looked older and sadder, or so Margaret’s mirror told her. More maid than maiden.

  Like Naomi.

  Eden smoothed the faint wrinkles on the skirt with nervous hands. “’Twas Jemma’s—worn for her father’s . . .” She paused, overcome by the irony that Eben Greathouse had been her own father too. “Passing.”

  Mama looked away and motioned her inside. Stepping into the foyer, Eden saw Elspeth standing in the kitchen. No warmth crossed her face, nor was any expected. She simply turned on her heel and disappeared.

  “You’ve just missed noonday dinner.” Mama’s voice reached out to her, a bit hesitant, leading her toward the winter parlor. “But we’ve some food left if you like.”

  Eden realized then she’d erred in not seeking Silas out first. Was he still at table? A quick look into the dining room assured her he wasn’t there. His place sat empty. The parlor, then . . .

  “So, Daughter, you’ve come home at last.” Liege’s voice was hardly welcoming as she stepped into the room. “You have the look of Hope Rising about you.”

  The cloaked rebuke brought a telling stain to her face. She swept the room in a glance, trying to get her bearings. Jon’s cradle was missing and there was no sign of Thomas. Silas was also absent, but Giles rose to his feet at the sight of her. He ran a hand over his high forehead in a gesture riddled with unease, and the silence turned uncomfortably thick. This man was to be her husband. She felt a mixture of revulsion and resignation.

  “Sit down.” Gesturing to a stool by the hearth, Liege surveyed her like an item at auction. “’Tis mid-October. Silas has won his freedom. Giles is here to take his place—and your hand in marriage. Mourning aside, I can think of no further impediment now that you’re well.”

  Impediment? She tried to school her distress. None but that I love one man and might be carrying another man’s child! She gave no assenting nod. Looking down at her hands folded in her lap, she bit her lip till it nearly bled.

  “The coming Sabbath seems a fair wedding day. All that remains is to summon the magistrate and secure a license. For now we’ll have a little toast. Mistress Lee will bring the whiskey.” His voice took on feigned warmth, suffusing the parlor with strange tension. “Elspeth, call Silas in to join us. We may as well celebrate the end of his apprenticeship to boot.”

  From a corner, Elspeth moved toward the door, but Eden sprang to her feet, skirts swirling, hands clenched at her sides. “Nay. I’ll see to Silas.”

  With a shrug, Liege waved her away, attention fixed on Mama and the coveted whiskey bottle. The sight made Eden sick. ’Twas spirits that had made David an animal and turned her world upside down. She still bore the bruises beneath her borrowed dress. Tears blurred her vision as she passed through the rose arbor withered with frost—straight into Silas’s arms. He shut the door hard, hemming her in.

  “F-Father wants you,” she stuttered.

  “And you, Eden?” His gaze held steady. “What d’ye want?”

  She looked away as his gaze slid to her gown, her upswept hair, the tiny silver earrings Margaret had fastened to her ears. There was little doubt he found her pleasing, even in black, only she felt stained, soiled beyond repair—she whose only thought had been to save herself for him. Her attention faltered and fell to her shoes.

  “Eden, look at me.”

  For a moment her resolv
e slipped as she succumbed to the warmth of his words. “You . . . you didn’t come back to Margaret’s.”

  “I wanted you to come to me.”

  Her heart quickened as he took her face in his hands. Tenderly. Carefully. And then she stiffened, thinking of how David had touched her amidst the noise and filth of the tavern.

  “Tomorrow we leave, ye ken.”

  “Tomorrow?” She swallowed hard, a bit breathless. “Nay, ’tis impossible. I cannot.” The ugly words seemed to poison the air between them. He drew back a bit as she rushed on, “I—I told you—at the tavern—things have changed—”

  “Aye, changed.” His intensity heightened. “Jon is gone, as is Jemma. You got into the Greathouse coach and ended up halfway to Philadelphia. None of that alters my love for you or the plan we have in place.”

  “Y-you don’t understand.” The room began to spin. She’d been too long on her feet. Every hurtful word seemed to exact what little strength she had left. “I cannot go west. I—I never wanted to. ’Tis better I remain. You have your freedom. You’re going where you want, far from here—a new start—”

  “Enough, Eden.” He took her none too gently by the shoulders. “Let there be no more talk about your fears of leaving here or your own fickle affections.”

  “But my feelings for you—” She stumbled over each word, fighting for calm when she felt none. “I don’t care for you the way a wife should. I—I thought I loved you once—”

  “Once?” He gave her a sudden shake, his gaze grieved. “Say what you will, Eden, but do not lie to me!”

  “Silas, please!” She pulled away. “You’ve won your freedom. You don’t want a weak wife. A taint—” Lord save her, she’d nearly said the words! A tainted wife. Another man’s child. “You deserve better—better than York. God has His hand on you—”

  “Not only me, Eden. Us. God brought me here not simply for an apprenticeship but for you. You’re to be my bride and no other.”