Love's Reckoning

  He picked up a few more stakes and marked the boundaries of the dependencies he had in mind—smokehouse, springhouse, stable. But his enthusiasm was soon spent. Tossing the mallet into the grass, he ruffled Sebastian’s burr-flecked coat, evidence he’d been neglecting him.

  “You should still be tending sheep at Hope Rising,” he muttered, “instead of keeping company with a conflummixt Scot.”

  How the dog had followed him west in the midst of a howling snowstorm years before was still a mystery, but he thanked God every day for such a faithful companion. “Come along now,” he called, unhobbling his horse. “We’ll arrive on time for supper just this once and give Mamie and Jean Marie something to talk about.”

  Besides bricks and brides.

  The ride into Pittsburgh was but five miles, and Silas made it before sundown. His gaze traveled to the point of land that had once sustained Fort Pitt, that vast tract looking like an arrowhead trained west. There the three rivers intertwined in a silvery knot before slipping toward the horizon. Sometimes the sunsets were so spectacular, the view from Grant’s Hill so mesmerizing, he was able to forget for a few minutes all that weighed on his heart and mind. But tonight the clouds stole away any beauty and he dismissed the familiar scene, bent on supper instead.

  After stabling his horse, he entered through the back door of the boardinghouse to a noisy dining room and took his usual place, thankful when Mamie served him promptly. Talk of the latest fire and the Turlocks’ culpability commandeered the conversation as forks clanked against pewter plates and mugs were raised. Silas said little but listened hard, drawing his own conclusions. The Turlocks were trouble, whiskey-laden or no. He doubted the county jail would hold them. Leaning back in his chair at meal’s end, he found Jean Marie at his elbow.

  “You’ve not touched Mamie’s fine tart. Are you feeling dwiny?” The Scots word on her French tongue nearly made him smile. “Perhaps you simply need more coffee, no?”

  “Nae. Sleep.” Excusing himself, he started for the stairs, but she followed him into the foyer, silk skirts rustling.

  “Don’t forget these.” She passed him what looked to be the post.

  Taking the letters, he felt the familiar tug of hope, only to have it extinguished by a strand of sadness. Tonight, tired as he was, it seemed keener—and lingered longer. He simply held an announcement for the opening of the new Presbyterian Church. Two dinner invitations. A letter from a business acquaintance in Boston. Once, years before, he’d written to Eden but had received no answer.

  “On second thought, I’m going to the boatyard.” He looked at Jean Marie, and understanding passed between them. “If I’m not back in an hour . . .”

  “Take Sebastian,” she cautioned, eyes dark with worry.

  He returned in half the time after going to both jail and wharf and speaking with the warden and night watch. Standing in the doorway to the parlor, Jean Marie drew a relieved breath when he reappeared.

  “You can rest easy now, as can I. Most of the Turlocks are in custody.” With that, he took the stairs to his room and removed his boots, barely parting with his shirt and breeches before sleep claimed him.

  Fire!

  The heat singed his hands, the smoke his senses. With a cry he shot upright. He was in Scotland—nae, York. In the stairwell. With Eden. Over the years she’d become no more substantial than river mist, but there she lingered, the light of affection in her eyes. Mercifully, the vision vanished as fast as it had come.

  He came awake to a still, smokeless room, moonlight edging the windowpane. Still, his heartbeat pulsed in his ears and sent a tremor through his body. ’Twas the burning of Teague’s Tavern that plagued him, surely. Leaning back against the bed’s knobby headboard, he drew an uneasy breath.

  Only at night, when his head and hands were idle, did he look back. Unwillingly. Often. He hated the night. Everything was so clear then, his missteps plain. ’Twas as fresh as yesterday, their parting. Hundreds of miles and too many years had done nothing to erase it. Though, God help him, he’d tried.

  Eden’s face still haunted him as it had been at the last. She’d been so distraught that day, and he’d gone over the edge with his anger. Over time, once his temper had cooled and he’d reviewed the events with a more dispassionate eye, her frantic rejection still made no sense. Why hadn’t he simply stayed on a bit longer and tried to win her again? Because his pride had been wounded by her refusal? Because he sensed it was David Greathouse she wanted instead?

  He dragged himself to the window, looking down the long hill toward the boatyard. Fear baited him to keep watch lest flames erupt and take down all he’d worked to build since coming here. Arson and whiskey would be the ruination of Pittsburgh if the trouble didn’t end. He didn’t want to be caught sleeping if it turned to char and stubble. Though the Turlocks were in custody, save one, other troublemakers abounded.

  He began to dress, thrusting his knife into his boot at the last and securing a pistol to his belt. The chiming of the foyer clock proclaimed it four in the morning. Stepping quietly, he descended the staircase and found Sebastian waiting on the wide front porch, just like countless other mornings. Ignoring the aroma of coffee from Mamie’s kitchen, he started down the hill to the waterfront.

  He’d gone no further than Chancery Street when the hair on the back of his neck tingled in warning. Sebastian gave a low whine, brushing his leg in the darkness. Before he’d taken another step, someone emerged from an alley, blocking his path. Moonlight limned his fair hair a queer white-gold, turning the scar that trailed his jawline more grotesque. Though he was as young as Silas himself, Henry Turlock’s face was like a well-worn map, defined by countless lines and markings, all bespeaking vice.

  “Ye take such risks, Ballantyne.” He came nearer, his lilt thick, slurred with the whiskey he distilled, the gleam of silver calling attention to the pistol in his hand.

  Silas stood his ground, stung by a near-blinding, white-hot fury. This was the man who was at the bitter heart of the rebellion, whose genius for trouble made him feared clear to the ports of Louisville and New Orleans.

  “For a Scot to wander in the dark when trouble abounds leaves this Irishman no other choice but to—”

  With a savage growl, Sebastian lunged at the threatening figure, eliciting a string of oaths even as the pistol discharged. Nerves taut, unable to see which way the bullet had traveled, Silas wrestled the gun away in a heart-pounding rush. Stepping toward the river, he flung it into the rushing Monongahela.

  Dazed, senses stinging from gunpowder, he let Sebastian have his way with the writhing man on the ground, only numbingly aware when the sheriff hastened to his side, asking him to call off his dog. He did so reluctantly, knowing Turlock meant more than mischief.

  Henry Turlock wanted him dead.

  38

  One meets his destiny often in the road he takes to avoid it.

  Samuel Johnson

  Clara. Helen. Ruth. Annie. Abigail. Molly. It seemed Eden prayed for them every bump and jolt of the journey, through coach sickness and broken axles, girlish spats and tears. Secretly, her heart ached for her charges. Please, Lord, in Your goodness and mercy, protect them and place them well. Help their masters and mistresses to be good and kind and fair. Godly. It was a large petition, but these girls, left on the hospital steps as infants, needed so very much.

  “How much longer, Miss Lee?” ’Twas Clara this time, her chunky blonde braids and spattering of freckles making her look far younger than twelve years.

  Eden nearly smiled. The question was asked a dozen or more times each day, and she always tried to give a patient answer. “Nearer than yesterday. We’ve traveled a fortnight so far. One hundred miles more.” But she herself was growing weary. They’d run out of hand games to play with yarn, and reading aloud to them while they lumbered along left her queasy. As the weather grew hotter, thick clouds of dust prevented them from looking out the coach windows to the hilly, green country beyond.

  She wonder
ed how Stephen Elliot was faring with his six charges in a separate coach just ahead. They were making good time despite the primitive roads, but at dusk, after long, pent-up days, the boys came alive and required a firm hand. Eden had never seen such appetites. Thankfully, the taverns they stayed in were respectable, the food plentiful, and their benefactor generous, tipping the merest stable boy handsomely.

  “Are all these children yours?” one astonished innkeeper asked them.

  “How I wish,” Eden said, much to the amusement of the childless Stephen Elliot.

  He fixed her with a droll stare. “Really, Miss Lee—all twelve?”

  She smiled back at him a bit wistfully, having long ago discarded that dream. “Twelve seems rather small, given I once knew a family in York blessed with one and twenty.” A happy family they’d been too, the children like stair steps. She couldn’t help but remember it now with a little twinge.

  They stopped at a rushing creek to let the children play in the heat of the day, the coach drivers stretching their legs and puffing on their pipes while Eden sat on a blanket beneath a shade tree, trying to stay awake but dozing. Beside her, Stephen read the Pittsburgh Gazette, his deep baritone rousing her.

  “Listen to this, Miss Lee. ‘There is not a more delightful spot under heaven to spend any of the summer months than in Pittsburgh. It may be observed that at the junction of the rivers, until eight o’clock of summer mornings, a light mist of aromatic quality and salutary nature is ever present.’”

  Eden opened one eye. “So even the fog is finer in Pittsburgh.”

  He chuckled and passed her the paper. “Better that than what an acquaintance of mine said years ago after visiting: ‘An excellent place to do penance in.’”

  Smiling, she placed the copy in her lap, the happy laughter and splashing of the children like music to her ears. Stifling a yawn, she scanned the front page before moving inside to the advertisements. For a frontier town, Pittsburgh was full of surprises. A day school for young ladies offered French, reading, and knitting. A dozen competing stores boasted European and West Indian merchandise. Multiple listings of taverns crowded the page. The Green Tree. The Sword and Crown. Eagle’s Rest.

  When she came to the business section, she went completely still.

  Six horses bought at auction by Brackenridge and Ballantyne.

  A coincidence, surely. She shifted uncomfortably and read further, lingering on the notices of property sold in execution of legal judgments.

  Six lots between Market and Water Streets acquired by S. Ballantyne.

  She blinked. She had to remember to breathe. A docket from the Allegheny County Criminal Court was listed on the next page.

  Judge Hugh O’Hara presided. Jurists: J. Wilkins, D. Duncan, P. Addison, S. Ballantyne.

  “Miss Lee, are you all right?” Stephen’s shadow fell over her.

  Her mouth turned to cotton. She put a hand to her brow. “I . . .”

  “It must be this heat,” he said. He withdrew a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, went to the water’s edge, and wet it in the rushing current. When he returned, he regarded her with fatherly concern.

  “I thought I recognized a name—in the paper,” she mumbled.

  “A name?” His tone turned searching, as if waiting for her to say more.

  She kept quiet, taking the handkerchief and cooling her flushed face while he returned to the creek and called for the children to ready themselves so they could be under way. Sighing, she stood and smoothed her skirt, folding the paper into a small, soon-to-be-forgotten square—or so she hoped.

  ’Twas a coincidence, surely. Pittsburgh was known to be a Scots stronghold. Ballantyne, though not common, was Scottish to the core. There might be any number of men by that name. As for the S before it . . .

  Disbelief and dread stirred like a whirlwind inside her. She could deny it all she wanted, but deep in her spirit she knew.

  It could be no other.

  If trading one strange bed for another in countless taverns had left her a tad sleepless, perusing the Pittsburgh Gazette left Eden wide-eyed all night. They were two days away from their destination. The realization left her bewildered and slightly sick. But she couldn’t turn back. Once she reached their lodging, perhaps she could keep to her room and plead exhaustion, hardly an exaggeration. Her fervent hope was that the place was big enough that they’d not cross paths.

  Still, her imagination ran wild. Silas was now older—three and thirty. Surely in that span of time he’d taken a wife, fathered a family. The thought, hardly new, was still shattering. That she might witness such a thing—his bride and children—was more hurtful to her than anything that had passed before.

  Father, please. Shut my eyes, my heart, to his happiness. Keep us apart. I don’t begrudge him a full life. I’m simply haunted by what might have been.

  The pillow slip was cold against her damp cheek. All around her in the humid June night, the girls slept, some fitful, some soundly. At last she dozed, but when she did her dreams were full of old fears and blighted hopes, and she awakened wearier than before.

  As she alighted from the coach in Pittsburgh, Eden realized she needn’t have worried about being recognized. Grime covered her from head to toe, and her traveling suit was no longer blue but a dusty, gritty gray. The Black Bear Hotel rose up in three-storied splendor, as much as a log structure could, its wide piazza so reminiscent of Philadelphia architecture she almost felt at home. To her surprise, a small welcoming committee awaited, but for a few frantic minutes she and Stephen were preoccupied, counting ten children instead of twelve, as two boys had snuck off to the waterfront.

  “Elliot, my old friend! Is it really you?” The booming voice belonged to a lanky man in a fine top hat descending the hotel steps. Clapping Stephen on the back, he gave an appraising glance at the children and winked. “A fine group of Philadelphians you’ve brought me. We’ll turn them into Pittsburghers yet.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Stephen replied with his usual gusto. “Miss Lee, this is Hugh O’Hara, my old friend from college.” He took Eden’s elbow and made introductions, then looked toward the feminine figure in back of the judge. “This can’t be your daughter Isabel, surely?”

  The young woman nodded from her position beneath the hotel’s shady eve, obviously reluctant to step into the noon sun. Though her features were partially obscured by a wide-brimmed bonnet, Eden could see she was exquisitely dressed and very pretty.

  “The apple of my eye,” the judge responded with a smile, motioning them toward the porch.

  “So this is Pittsburgh.” Stephen guided Eden up some steps, where they turned and took in the view. “I daresay it bears no resemblance to the Fort Pitt I remember.”

  “The old fort has been dismantled, all but one bastion, and we’ve nearly the numbers to become incorporated as a town.” The pride in Judge O’Hara’s features bespoke years of personal toil and planning. “If you’ll look down Market Street toward the Monongahela, you’ll see a few public buildings and signs of industry. New structures are springing up by the day. We’ve a courthouse and jail, some fine homes . . .”

  But Eden was barely listening. La Belle Riviere stretched before her like molten silver, toward western lands she’d only dreamed of. She hadn’t expected Pittsburgh to be so breathtaking, nor so mountainous or treed. So unlike Philadelphia.

  As the children crowded round, the judge looked them over soberly. “I’m sure you’re all tired and in need of a good meal. Tomorrow, once you’re rested, we’ll welcome you with a dinner party at River Hill. Until then, the Black Bear is the finest Pittsburgh offers in accommodations.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable,” Eden reassured him with a smile.

  Though they’d only just arrived, she was already becoming more at ease with her predicament. In a place this size, it was unlikely she would encounter any people from her past. Nor would a tradesman like Silas keep company with the leading citizens of Pittsburgh, surely. For now, o
ther more pleasant matters awaited. She and the girls were in urgent need of baths.

  39

  To what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit?

  Oliver Goldsmith

  A floating walnut staircase. French wallpaper and mirrors. Creamy Wedgwood china and silver-handled cutlery. River Hill, Eden decided, was a charming blend of rusticity and gentility. The men and women filling the large parlor were wigless, unlike their Philadelphia counterparts, though their clothing was nearly as fine. Not one Quaker was in sight, nor were the foundlings, who, in their Sabbath best, had been whisked away by a housekeeper and two maids upon their arrival. They were to have a children’s party out of doors, and from their excited chatter, they seemed not to mind the separation one whit.

  “Miss Lee, I’ve never seen you looking so lovely,” Stephen said as she entered the foyer on his arm. “I think the West agrees with you.”

  She smiled and smoothed a fold of her gown a bit self-consciously. “If so, I have you and Harriet to thank for that.” Still, she wondered what her Quaker friends would think to see her in countless yards of Spitalfields silk, a double strand of pearls about her throat. A gift from Harriet before they’d departed.

  To their left, three sets of French doors were open to the riverside, and the setting sun gilded the water so beguilingly she stood transfixed. The parlor’s furnishings and window dressings were a pleasing mix of diamonds and stripes in worsted damask, and an immense case clock chimed eight along a paneled wall. The large room was filling fast, and the temperature was rising accordingly.

  Eden held her breath, then released it in relief. She didn’t know a soul. They were making the rounds with Judge O’Hara now, meeting Pittsburgh’s leading lights, and Eden was vaguely aware of Isabel standing near the parlor door, a vexed expression on her face. It brought back the past with a vengeance, reminding her of Elspeth’s moods and whims. Was the judge’s daughter a trifle spoiled?