Stopping to wash in a corner of the kitchen, he noticed Eden taking bread from a beehive oven to the right of the hearth. She worked quietly and efficiently, never looking up—basketing the bread, stirring the soup, layering meat and cheese on a platter—all with a bandaged hand. Concern riffled through him. Though he’d been here but a few days, it was long enough to know she was the girl of all work. But with a mother newly delivered and an ill sister, why would it be any different?
Thomas played quietly by an open cupboard, studying Silas with somber eyes as he passed through the kitchen, while the bairn slept in his cradle near the hearth. Mrs. Lee and Elspeth were already seated in the dining room. He took his place at one end of the table, waiting for Liege to occupy the other, and tried to quell his discontent. At least he had warm lodgings here—and more food than he’d ever dreamed of.
Fixing a thankful eye on the pewter and redware in front of him, he heard the kitchen door squeak open. Eden came in, ladling broth into bowls and placing all else on the table. When she sat to the left of him, she bowed her head briefly and he felt a sting of surprise. Other than this, there was no grace said at the Lee table. The practice—or lack of it—was so strange the meal always seemed to be wanting, as if missing seasoning or salt.
How did a girl—a young woman—like Eden warm to Christ in a cold household?
“She has Quaker leanings,” Greathouse had said.
How had that happened? Silas wondered.
His eyes roamed the mustard-colored walls, the simple furnishings, and the gaping rock fireplace. Without Liege, the room was missing its usual tension, and he found himself wishing the master would stay away and they could enjoy one meal in peace. But Elspeth was to his right, and peace, he was finding, had little to do with her presence.
“So, Mr. Ballantyne, what do your people partake of in Scotland?”
Her pert question hung in the air, shattering the rule of silence. Silas shot a glance at Mrs. Lee, who was frowning at her eldest daughter. Eyes down, Eden began to spoon her soup with her bandaged hand as if nothing had been said.
“Since Papa isn’t here, I’m not going to pretend he is.” Elspeth looked pointedly in her mother’s direction, rebellion in her gaze, before glancing at the empty doorway, her voice dropping a notch. “Besides, I know so little about Scotland. ’Tis a shame I’ve been no further than the outskirts of York County, not even to Philadelphia.”
Swallowing some cider, Silas kept his tone low. “We Scots eat a great many things, like neeps and tatties, but prefer Cabbie claw and haggis.”
“Ha-haggis?” Elspeth echoed, taking up her spoon.
“Sheep’s pluck—heart, liver, lungs.”
At this, Elspeth nearly choked on her soup. Eden’s mild expression turned amused. Beside her, Mrs. Lee looked slightly aghast, as well she should, Silas thought.
“Well!” Elspeth recovered her composure. “’Tis glad I am we’re in America, then.”
He nearly smiled. “You have no Scots in your family line?”
Mrs. Lee brushed her lips with a napkin. “My people, the Gallatins, are from France—gunsmiths, all. The Lees—weavers and blacksmiths—hail from middle England.”
“Well to the south of the barbarous Highlands,” he muttered, taking some bread.
Mrs. Lee cast a skittish glance at him as if attempting to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “May I ask your father’s occupation?”
“Fiddler,” he said.
Her eyebrows rose ever so slightly. Fiddler . . . drunkard . . . no-good vagabond. Silas well knew what she was thinking.
“To the duke of Atholl,” he added quietly.
There was a surprised pause, spoons suspended in midair.
“My, you have noble associations.” Elspeth fixed her blue gaze on him. “How is it that you came to be here, among us common folk?”
How, indeed. The question seemed edged in glass. He avoided her probing and reached for the butter. “’Tis a long story best told away from table.”
Though he sensed Mrs. Lee’s relief, he knew Elspeth’s curiosity was kindled. He saw it in her eyes, sensed she would be on his heels till every detail was spilled. For now she was looking at his hands—his branded thumbs—and he suspected she might ask about them outright.
“Are you ever homesick for Scotland?” Eden was at his elbow, leaning toward him ever so slightly, her voice so soft he thought only he had heard. Till now she’d never said more than a mouthful of words to him, and he found her voice like all the rest of her—winsome and amiable and maddeningly hesitant. But before he could answer, Elspeth trounced on her question like a cat upon cream.
“Good heavens, Eden. If Mr. Ballantyne longed for home, would he be here?” Elspeth all but rolled her eyes as she reached for the butter. “I think not.”
Silas leaned back in his chair. “Aye, betimes I miss Scotlain.” He addressed Eden as quietly as she’d addressed him, aware that Elspeth strained to catch their every word. “But the longer I am here, the less I think of home.”
Elspeth wedged her way into the conversation once again. “How long have you been in the colon—I mean, these United States?”
“Since ’75—the eve of the Revolution.” Even as he said it, he could hardly believe the war was won. Or that he could return to his homeland if he wanted, though there was little to return to. As it was, his overriding passion to go west reduced that desire to ashes. Even now his eyes drifted past Eden’s russet head to the west window and the bleak, snow-laden landscape beyond.
Elspeth’s strident voice drew him back to the table. “Do you find this part of Pennsylvania to your liking?”
“I hardly know it,” he returned.
“Oh, ’tis quite fine once the weather warms,” she said. “Papa will no doubt need your help with the plowing and planting come spring—”
The words were snatched away when Liege appeared, giving them all a sound drubbing in a glance. “What is this? You not only sup without me but talk furiously at table?” Taking hold of his chair, he jerked it backwards and sat down heavily, favoring his gout-ridden leg.
Eden leapt up to pour him some cider while Silas looked askance at his plate, falling into a sore silence with the rest of them. The master’s mood shifted like a compass point, he was learning, unsettling everyone around him. So different from his father’s table, where an abundance of talk and laughter made up for the meager fare.
His appetite gone, Silas excused himself and returned to the smithy, trying to summon thanks for such a tenuous situation. ’Twas just as well he’d not fallen into the lap of a warm, loving family or an exemplary master. He might be tempted to stay. As it was, his every instinct warned him to flee. Which he would do, Lord willing, come autumn and the fulfillment of his contract.
If he could last that long.
7
To speak kindly does not hurt the tongue.
English proverb
’Twas First Day, as Margaret Hunter called the Sabbath, the most favored day by far. Papa wouldn’t let Eden go to church, but he had fewer qualms about her going to Hope Rising, though he complained mightily when she did. This January morn, the snow was spitting again and Eden debated whether to walk or ride Sparrow, her mare. ’Twas important she return the books Jemma Greathouse had lent her and check on the tenants.
All morning she’d flown through her necessary chores, thankfully kept to a minimum on this day of rest. As she hurried down the lane, conspicuous as a cardinal in the felted wool cape Jemma had given her, she tossed a look back at the garret, thinking she heard the twang of a fiddle. Her imagination, surely. Silas wouldn’t play with Papa and the new babe in the house. He’d been reading but an hour before when she’d trudged up to the garret with a bundle of wood.
He’d met her on the landing, book in hand, surprising her just as he had when he’d forgotten his haversack. This time he took the wood, a rebuke in his jade eyes. “From now on I’ll fetch my own wood.”
“But—”
br />
“I ken where the woodpile is.”
“Papa—”
“I’ll deal with your father. Besides, I’m handier than you with an ax.”
Heat rushed to her face, and she looked down at her hurt hand. The cut from the ax was not deep but had bled profusely and was still tender. Slipping it behind her back, she tried not to wince as he watched her. Light from the open garret door spilled down and dispelled the early morning dimness, highlighting the handsome, lean lines of his bearded face. She read impatience there . . . and something else. A distinct wariness.
“Good Sabbath, Miss Lee.”
The words were clipped, like the closing of a door. She sensed he wanted to be rid of her, that the wood was but a ruse. She took a step back, disappointment quenching the small hope in her heart that they might be friends. She wasn’t even sure he was what she hoped him to be—a believer—though he bowed his head at meals, same as she.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, “to trouble you.”
With that she began backing down the steps. It took an eternity to reach bottom—would he not shut the door on her humiliation? Being rebuffed was not new. Papa and Elspeth were masters at it. Why would this be any different? Yet somehow, without her consent, Silas Ballantyne mattered. And when he did shut the door—soundly—her eyes filled with tears.
Silas began crossing out the days on the crude calendar he’d made in his journal. Meticulous by nature, he made note of the hours he kept, the iron he worked, even the vagaries of weather.
14 January, Friday—Snow. Thirteen and a half hours labor. Wagon and carriage hardware for York.
15 January, Saturday—Weather clear and cold. Twelve and a quarter hours labor. Seven wagon rims. Two cranes. One lock.
16 January, Sabbath—Fasted. Prayed. Spent the forenoon reading Scripture.
Rebuffed Eden Lee.
He hadn’t penned the last three words—there was no need. The hurt in her eyes was engraved in his head and heart more indelibly than ink. He’d merely meant to save her a task or two by refusing the wood. Nae, that was a lie—he’d meant to erect a wall. He wanted nothing from the Lees but a fulfilled contract, an end to a too-long apprenticeship. Best establish the boundaries from the first. Still, he regretted his rudeness—and the haunting feeling that Eden Lee was in need of an ally and ’twas Elspeth he should be chary of instead.
The next day, as if to make up for his behavior, he began to split all the wood for the household, making sure she never lacked. ’Twas quite a turnaround. Since his arrival the month before, he’d hardly looked up from his work and paid so little attention to his surroundings he nearly failed to make note of the weather. He came when called for meals, spoke only when spoken to, and spent Sabbaths alone in his room. Yet the time dragged on. His temper grew as jagged as the blade that lined his boot. He felt lifeless, joyless, weary. Who’d have thought it was his beard that would make him go begging?
’Twas Eden’s habit to split and stack wood following the noonday meal, just as it was her task to feed the house fires. When her ax and wedge went missing, she felt a flicker of alarm, only to find Silas in the woodshed behind the kitchen, his breath pluming in the raw cold, his chopping meting out a steady rhythm. Though she hovered between thanking him and avoiding him, the latter won out. She tarried beneath an eave, waiting for his return to the forge, but he showed no signs of stopping. Would he stack the wood to the very rafters? Needing to return to the kitchen, she gave him nary a glance to and from the well till he stepped directly in her path.
“I need no wood from you,” he said, eyes grave. “But I do need your help with a razor.”
“A razor?” she said, surprised. “There are razors enough in York.”
“Aye,” he said, looking contrite. “But I’ve no time to go there.”
“I thought . . .” She hesitated, trying to picture him without the heavy shadow across his cheeks and chin. “I thought you always wore it so.”
“Nae, I lost my shaving kit coming here.”
“And you want me to go to York?”
“Mayhap. I’ve coin enough.” His eyes sharpened as he studied her. “Surely there’s some task you can attend to there. You look in need of a brush, some hairpins yourself.”
She nearly squirmed at his blunt assessment. Putting a hand to her wayward mane, she touched a loose spiral as it fell to her waist. Somehow, in the midst of milking and tending the animals that morning, she’d lost her hair ribbon. She began to back up, forgetting her wood, feeling hot as the fire she would soon stoke.
Amusement rode his features. “I’ve ne’er seen a lass so aflocht.”
Aflocht? Her brow furrowed. Flustered? Excited? Harried? That was certainly how she felt in his presence. “I’m going to fetch you a razor,” she whispered. “But first I must tend to my hair.”
His solemn mouth quirked in a half-smile. He was teasing, then. She felt a swelling relief.
“Mind your wood,” he told her gruffly, settling a load of oak in her arms before returning to the smithy.
She watched him go, fascination gnawing a hole inside her. One moment he was friendly, the next aloof. There were two Silas Ballantynes, and she never knew which she’d encounter—though she knew which she liked best.
Now, pondering their exchange of days before, she mulled his request for a razor. Likely he thought she’d forgotten. She wanted to help, but she’d not go to York. She hadn’t been to the village in two years or better. Papa was unpopular there, and Elspeth’s antics gave rise to gossip. Eden had witnessed the cold stares of the shopkeepers, felt the snubs of village women despite her best efforts to be friendly. Nay, she’d not go to York, not even for Silas, though she did feel she owed him for minding her wood.
Drawing back her hood, she let a few swirling snowflakes light on her hair and face as she walked. The gate to Hope Rising was but half a mile. No wagon or horse had passed this way for some time to turn the snow to slush and mud. All was pure. Sabbath-holy. With most of the tenants hunkered down for the winter and the Greathouses in the city, the grand old house was lonesome indeed.
She could smell the tea cakes Margaret Hunter made, their spicy scent swept along by the breath of the wind. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. A pinch of allspice. Her stomach cramped in anticipation. She was running now despite the snow-slick lane, free of her burdens for an hour, perhaps two. Margaret’s beloved quarters were by the kitchen garden and consisted of a little brick cottage with a gabled roof, much like Hope Rising, only in miniature.
When small, she and David and the Greathouse girls had had a heyday here. The surrounding woods, the ivy-drenched dovecote, the icehouse, chill and echoing, had been their playground. Mama had brought cheese and honey to Hope Rising then, taking tea with Margaret Hunter, for they were the best of friends. Strangely, Elspeth was missing from these memories. She’d been helping Papa in the smithy, Eden guessed. She rarely came then, or now.
As she knocked on the familiar door, Eden recalled her awe at the great house as a child. Over time it had shrunk in size and become what it was—a small, English-style manor, somewhat fading in its grandeur. How many years had she stood here like this, waiting for Margaret to answer? Not many more, if she had her way. Mere weeks, perhaps, till she’d see Philadelphia.
“Lord be praised! I didn’t think to see thee this Sabbath, Eden. Not with all the doings at thy place.” Squinting from the snow’s glare, spectacles perched primly on her nose, Margaret Hunter opened the door wide, gray silken skirts rustling. Eden’s eye was drawn to the chatelaine attached to her bodice, its delicate silver chains dangling with various keys, tiny scissors, and a pocket watch. Margaret was pragmatic, if nothing else.
“I smelled thy cakes clear down the lane,” Eden teased. “A blizzard couldn’t have kept me away.”
“Come in,” Margaret said with a flurry of her hand. “Shed thy boots and we’ll take our tea by the fire. I want to hear about the new babe. Thee certainly have a busy household of late.”
&
nbsp; Eden nodded, her high mood plummeting at the mention of little Jon. “The babe is named after Grandfather Gallatin. He’s a wee, sweet thing.”
“Whom does he favor? Thy mother or thy father?”
Neither.
Avoiding Margaret’s eyes, she kept her tone light. “His hair is fair, if he has hair at all, and his eyes are blue.”
“All babies have blue eyes, seems to me, though I had none of my own. And his lungs—are they strong?”
Eden withheld a yawn. “He sleeps all day and howls all night. I’m afraid none of us, including the apprentice, are getting much sleep.” Though he’d never complained, she’d noticed the weary lines in Silas’s face and feared what they meant. He needed all his wits to face her father in the smithy. Sending up a silent prayer on his behalf, she peeled off her cape and sat in her usual chair, spreading her skirts about her so her damp hem would dry.
“He’s new to the world yet,” Margaret said. “Likely he’ll adjust to life outside the womb in time.”
As she poured tea, Eden swept the plaster walls in a glance, eyeing the new window coverings she’d not noticed last time. The red checks dressed up the small parlor and gave it a summery feel, far preferable to the black window dressing that signified Margaret’s extended mourning. She’d been widowed two years.
“So thy apprentice has come.”
At her wording, Eden nearly winced. She looked down at her steaming tea, forgetting to take cream and sugar. “His name is Silas Ballantyne—and he’s Elspeth’s, not mine.”
Now what had made her say that? she wondered. And why was there a note of lament in her voice?
Kind, amber eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “So thy father is going to hold with tradition and arrange the marriage? Between thy sister and this Silas?”