Love's Reckoning

  This morning the housekeeper met him at the door and led him down a familiar hall to the judge’s book-lined study. Silas hoped to talk to Hugh alone first, then Isabel, and had prayed accordingly. Still, trepidation ticked inside him with every step. He’d rather face the whiskey boys than the man who’d been a friend and financier to him for so long. But since Eden’s arrival, it had all come clear. He’d deal honestly about matters from the outset. His faith required nothing less.

  “Silas, come in!” The warmth of Hugh’s greeting cut him afresh. Rising from behind a massive desk, Hugh gestured to a wing chair. “I thought you’d be at the boatyard with those two new apprentices of yours.”

  “They’re in good hands, and I’ll soon be back,” he said. “I apologize for arriving unannounced.”

  “Coffee? Brandy?”

  Silas took a chair. “Nae. Just conversation.”

  Hugh’s gaze clouded. “Not about the Turlocks, I hope. They’ve been a bit too quiet since their release from jail. It bodes ill, I fear. Or have you a business matter in mind?” His tone lightened. “The mercantile, perhaps, or the ironworks? Something to do with Isabel?”

  Silas took a measured breath. “I’m here to talk about Eden Lee.”

  “Miss Lee?” All the expectancy left Hugh’s face. “Word is she’s anxious to leave here and return to Philadelphia.”

  Was she? Even with the fever spreading? The knot of turmoil in Silas’s chest tightened. “I’ve asked to speak with her.”

  “Speak with her?” Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “Surely you’re jesting. You’ve only just met her.”

  Silas looked down at his branded thumbs, voice low. “There’s much you don’t know, much I’ve not spoken of regarding the past. Miss Lee and I were once betrothed.”

  “Once? In York County?” Hugh gave a derisive snort. “That has little bearing on the present, surely.”

  The ensuing pause was rife with tension. Clearly the judge was in a defensive posture usually reserved for the courtroom bench. Silas decided to meet it head on. “As a lawman, you well know the legalities involved. Until a pre-engagement is fairly and mutually dissolved, no future marriage is lawful. As far as I’m concerned, the betrothal still stands.”

  Hugh set his jaw. “Why did the two of you not wed?”

  “She refused me—”

  “And what if she refuses you again?”

  “She well may.” The thought was razor-sharp. “But it will not keep me from asking.”

  Hugh leaned forward in his chair, incredulity hardening his features. “My daughter is willing, yet you dally with another.”

  Silas’s voice held firm, his gaze level. “I plan to speak with Isabel, to explain.”

  Hugh gave a vehement shake of his head. “Nay, I won’t have you break her heart unnecessarily. When Miss Lee refuses you a second time and you come to your senses, Isabel will be waiting—and none the wiser.”

  Silas regarded him in surprise. Did Hugh still want him as a son-in-law? Even on such shallow terms? He could give Isabel his name, a home, mayhap children. But not his heart. “I cannot marry a woman I do not love.”

  Hugh batted the air as if dismissing the thought, then belied his distress by reaching for a decanter and pouring himself some brandy. “Men wed for all kinds of reasons, understand, the least of which is love. I married Isabel’s mother for her dowry and expect no less of you. My daughter is quite well situated, as you know. Half of Pittsburgh is yours for the taking. I doubt the reluctant Miss Lee has a shilling to her name.”

  Nae, perhaps not a shilling, but a gentle and quiet spirit, worth more than any coin. Or so Silas believed. Sadly, it was a quality Isabel lacked. But he stayed silent, letting the judge expend his anger.

  “Silas, I’m surprised by you, I must say.” Hugh took a swallow of brandy and set the glass down a bit forcefully. “You seem to forget our business dealings, which will come to an abrupt end if you should wed anyone but Isabel.” The words, quietly spoken, carried an ultimatum nevertheless.

  Silas stood, knowing there was little left to discuss. “I regret it has come to this, but my convictions stand.”

  “You’ll soon be back,” Hugh said, downing the last of the brandy. “Remember, not a word to Isabel—”

  “Come, Papa. Not a word?” The study door pushed open. “I’ve heard more than enough, truly.” Isabel stepped into the room, face flushed, hands twisting a handkerchief into an ivory knot. “Leave us, Papa, please.”

  For one disorienting moment, Silas was cast back to York County, mired in the spitefulness now mirrored on Isabel’s face. It was Elspeth he saw, poisonous in her malice, her lovely features contorted with rage.

  The door shut behind Hugh, returning Silas to the present. Isabel was coming straight at him, steady as a sloop at full sail.

  “How dare you come here and humiliate me in such a fashion, Silas Ballantyne—you, a former tradesman!” She smacked him hard on the cheek, then brought her other hand up when he stayed stoic.

  He caught her wrist, his voice low. “Isabel, listen to reason.”

  “Reason? All I know is that you lied to me, led me to believe—”

  “I never lied to you. Misled you, mayhap, with a single embrace.” Which I heartily regret. He released her wrist. “There was no mention of marriage, ever.”

  “Your kiss was promise enough.” She was crying now, though still furious, brown eyes hard as agates. “Yet all the while you were betrothed to another, a woman who wouldn’t have you, thus breaking your bond—”

  “The bond, as you call it, was never broken, not on my part. ’Tis why I’ve remained unwed till now. No other woman has had my heart—” He left off, overcome by the futility of the moment. He should be saying such heartfelt things to Eden, not Isabel. Isabel wouldn’t accept his words till they turned in her favor. “I simply want to be honest with you and your father and state my intentions.”

  Her chin jutted in a stubborn, unforgiving line, so like Hugh’s. “If you expect me to wish you well or be waiting when Miss Lee rejects you once again, you’re sorely mistaken. I hope she laughs at your so-called intentions and all your future business prospects turn to ashes.”

  He said nothing more, relieved when she passed through the door Hugh had taken moments before. Left to see himself out, Silas trod the darkened hall to the foyer and then outside where his horse was tied to a hitch rail. He mounted and turned toward the main road, weary but resolute.

  Every fiber of his being pulled him to town. He merely had to head to the Black Bear Hotel and settle matters once and for all, come what may. Turning onto the main road, the Monongahela a wash of blue alongside him, he breathed another prayer, a Scripture flashing to mind.

  Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be condemned.

  So, Lord, what should I do? he prayed.

  In the silence of his heart he heard the answer.

  Let her come to you.

  43

  Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones, as wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire.

  François de La Rochefoucauld

  Eden clutched Silas’s handkerchief in one damp palm, the only visible sign of her disquiet, or so she hoped. All morning she’d taken pains with her appearance, the hotel bed weighted with one cast-off garment after another. The looking glass finally reflected a woman bent on a midsummer’s walk. She’d settled on an ivory linen dress with lace fichu, clocked stockings, and leather slippers, an organdy cap imprisoning her curls. The midsummer sun begged for a wide-brimmed straw hat, so she chose one trimmed in rosettes and navy ribbon, anchoring it with two large hat pins.

  Fortunately, at Judge O’Hara’s invitation, Stephen had gone to River Hill after breakfast and was unaware of her slow walk down Penn Avenue to the Monongahela waterfront. Though she was becoming more familiar with the maze of Pittsburgh streets, she’d not ventured this far. The ma
id who tidied her room had given her directions, smiling slyly as if she was privy to the latest gossip.

  As soon as Eden saw the quay, she regretted asking for help. Such a place could hardly be missed.

  Ballantyne Boatworks took up a good quarter mile of waterfront, every inch teeming with shipwrights and carpenters and crew busy outfitting the vessels built there. She stood for a long time in an adjoining alley and tried to gather her courage. She’d last seen Silas at the hotel reception a fortnight before, when she’d refused his offer to send a carriage round. Ever since, she’d been haunted by the certainty her denial mattered little when any number of Pittsburgh belles would leap at the chance to be with him, including the lovely Isabel. Still, she was a knot of nerves, her prayer a pathetic plea.

  Be Thou not far from me, O Lord my strength.

  Despite her qualms regarding what she was about to do, she felt an overwhelming impulse to settle matters between them and part on good terms. She would honor his request to talk, given their history, if she could manage to skirt the issue of David Greathouse. It seemed to be what the Lord wanted of her as well. Yet more than anything, her desire to see Silas, to be alone with him—if only for a few final moments—was irresistible, if terrifying. She was in love with him, had never stopped loving him . . . though she’d tried.

  A brisk wind tugged at the ribbons of her hat, and the smells of the waterfront washed over her. She breathed in the invigorating tang of freshly sawn timber, oakum, and pitch while wanting to cover her nose at the smell of mud and silt. Cargo crowded the loading docks—saltpeter, iron, sugar, hempen yarn, and more—stamped and bound for New Orleans.

  Nowhere did she see Silas—or Sebastian. Her gaze swept the pier, finally finding Jacob and Luke, both straddling barrels, rope in their hands. Silas stood over them, sleeves rolled up, the pensive contours of his face twisting her heart even at a distance. By the time she reached them, he’d disappeared, leaving her to second-guess her coming. Might he not want to see her after all?

  “Miss Lee, is that you?” Jacob jumped down from his perch and rushed toward her, Luke on his heels. “Mr. Ballantyne is teaching us to tie knots. See this?” He held up a tangle of rope, face beaming, hands spotted with pitch.

  “Well done.” She smiled back at him. “What sort of knot is it?”

  “A midshipman’s hitch,” Jacob said. He elbowed Luke, his eyes widening in alarm. “Best get back to work. Mr. Ballantyne’s a fine master, but Wallace, his head shipwright, is hard as iron.”

  They scampered away, leaving her alone on the sun-scorched dock as a thick-chested, half-scowling workman made his way toward her. Wallace? Suddenly she felt at sea, but the twinkle in his eyes when he faced her and his pleasing Scottish lilt soon set her at ease.

  “Yer no doubt here to see the master, Miss Lee.”

  Surprise peppered her, though she tried to keep it from telling on her face. First the maid, and now this? Stephen had told her she was the talk of Pittsburgh, but she’d thought him joking. “Yes, please, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Michael Wallace, at your service.” He whisked a faded cap off his head and pointed toward a timbered building set back from the dock, the door ajar. “A lady like yerself needn’t be too long in the sun—or in the presence of so many tradesmen.”

  A lull seemed to have seized the boatyard as one too many eyes turned her way. ’Twas a bold move to be seen in such a place, lady or no. She guessed she’d earned their scrutiny. Lowering her head, she followed him past scaffolding and spars and massive coils of cordage to that open door. Rather than announce her, Mr. Wallace simply gave a nod and disappeared, leaving her alone on the threshold.

  The office was small, well lit, and redolent of aromatic hemp. Wide windows afforded a view in all directions, surely a necessity for managing so busy a place. Unaware of her, Silas sat behind a large desk, head bent, penning something in a ledger. He looked tired, she thought, worry tugging at her. Even at the forge he’d done the work of two men. Here he wasn’t simply a shipwright but a master, a juror, a landowner, and more. She’d heard about the ongoing trouble between the tax collectors and whiskey distillers, and it needled her now, deepening her concern.

  “I’d rather wear out than rust out,” he’d once said years before, echoing the words of the evangelist George Whitefield. She guessed he hadn’t changed in that respect.

  She took a silent, unsteady step, then another. The knot in her throat rivaled that of Jacob’s rope. The bench to her left begged her to sit, but somehow she managed to cross to the desk, placing the freshly laundered handkerchief in front of him.

  Silas looked up at Eden, blinked, and glanced at the neatly folded linen. Was she here to return the handkerchief . . . tell him she was leaving? Misery overrode the surprise that churned inside him. Forgetting to stand, he simply braced himself and leaned back in his chair, wary.

  She glanced round the office. “So this is your domain.”

  A far cry from the forge. Or so her tone seemed to say. Silas looked around at the swirls of dust and less-than-spotless panes of glass and wished they were elsewhere. Somewhere pristine and private. Like his land downriver . . .

  Pulling himself to his feet, he met her eyes and found them a lovely if red-rimmed blue. His awkwardness soared. He no longer knew what to say, to call her. Miss Lee? Eden?

  Beloved.

  “I met your master shipwright, a fellow Scotsman.” She turned back to him with a tentative smile. “Mr. Elliot told me you paid passage to America for some of your workmen in exchange for their services.”

  He nodded, throat tight. “Most are indentured from five to seven years. Time enough to establish the boatyard, build a better life for themselves.” He picked up a watch resting on a ledger, then returned it to his pocket, aware of his wrinkled shirt and rolled-up sleeves. He was, he thought ruefully, as unkempt as his office.

  “’Tis an ambitious venture.” She was studying him now as if trying to reconcile the man she’d once known with the one standing before her. “How—” She broke off and looked away, a splash of color pinking her cheeks.

  “How do I afford such an arrangement?” he finished for her, wanting to reach out and tip her chin up with his hand so she’d look at him again. Did she think Hugh O’Hara . . . ?

  “I—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. You’ve done so very well. You should be proud.” Turning her back to him, she crossed to the largest window and looked out, clearly awed.

  He found himself a bit weak-kneed, more at a loss for words than ever. The delicate contours of her profile, the alluring tilt of her hat, the fetching way she had her hands clasped behind her back . . . She wasn’t the girl he’d once known. Time and experience had only deepened her appeal. She was so incredibly lovely his heart ached.

  “Eden . . .” He came to stand beside her at the glass, wishing he’d not said her name, wondering if she minded. “When I first came here, I worked as a blacksmith at Fort Pitt. It didn’t take long to realize I’d not get very far on such wages. I arrived with the coin I’d earned in York and was awarded a tract of land per the terms of my contract. It did not suit me, so I sold it. The land I wanted was too costly, so I took my father’s violin . . .”

  Her eyes went wide with anguish.

  “To a collector in Philadelphia.” He swallowed, struggling to frame what seemed reprehensible in hindsight. “I couldn’t keep it, understand. It reminded me too much of the past . . . my father . . . you. The fiddle was appraised and fetched a handsome price. I was able to buy waterfront land and build the boatyard.”

  A tear spotted her cheek. He stepped back to retrieve the handkerchief she’d brought him and pressed it into her palm. He didn’t dare dry her tears himself, though he wanted to. Badly.

  She grew quiet, and regret riddled him afresh. Till now he hadn’t let the weight of what he’d done take hold. In a sense he’d sold his birthright, his history, his Scots heritage. Or so her silence seemed to say. Or was she remembering all the music, their shar
ed barn dance long ago? The many nights he’d played at taverns and frolics, for her? For their future?

  His voice was low yet laden with emotion. “I may have given up the instrument, but not the memories. Nor thoughts of us.” His voice fell away as an unwelcome presence filled the doorway. A sudden knocking was as jarring as a thunderclap.

  She looked startled, confused. “I must go . . .”

  He felt a sinking to his boots. Was this goodbye, then? She passed him back the handkerchief, but he shook his head. I do not want it back, he longed to say. I only want . . . you.

  The knock came again. He answered it and sent a carpenter scurrying, then shut the door.

  Her eyes held his all too briefly. “Please—send a carriage round, if you like.”

  He hesitated, surprised. A thread of hope, however tenuous, strengthened. “Later today—five o’clock?”

  Her face held regret. “Mr. Elliot and I are having supper with the Brackenridges tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Aye,” he answered, tamping down his disappointment. Tomorrow was far better than the refusal he’d been handed a fortnight before.

  44

  For my heart is true as steel.

  William Shakespeare

  ’Twas a carriage, Silas mused, fit for a bride. The Boston-made chaise was handsomely gilded and lined with crimson cloth, its leather top new and unweathered. The two horses harnessed to its genteel frame were a bit shabby, but the livery stable was busy today and he’d not complain. His only concern was that Eden be waiting. He seemed to traverse the short distance to the Black Bear Hotel in a sort of haze, half believing she’d change her mind at the last, just as she’d done years ago. He steeled himself against a fresh onslaught of pain and prayed.

  Since she’d left the boatyard the day before, he’d felt a strange calm he couldn’t explain. He’d lain awake in the heat of his room half the night, unaware of the whine of insects or the growl of thunder that threatened to mar the coming day. His only thought was of her. He’d told her he wanted to talk. She’d graciously agreed. And now he felt as dry as a well for words. Nigh speechless. Once he had her alone, what would he say?