They’d been talking in low tones but ceased when she entered. Though Elspeth paid her scant attention, she saw Silas glance her way as she retreated to the kitchen. In and out of the dining room she went, hardly aware of setting the steaming dishes on the table. The aroma of noonday dinner turned a stomach already too full of Margaret’s tea cakes nearly nauseous. ’Twas as if her sister had ground her heart beneath her heel.
Slowly she removed her apron and hung it from a peg by the hearth. “Mama, I’m not feeling well. I’d best lie down.”
“Are you ill, Eden?” Mama studied her, pale eyes touched by concern.
“I don’t know what I am,” Eden answered as honestly as she dared.
Just heartsick. Over a foolish dress . . . and a clean-shaven man in a linen shirt.
“Well, be so good as to take a peek at Thomas and the babe on your way,” she replied as Eden moved toward the door. “They’re napping in our bedchamber, or should be.”
Leaving out the door that led from the kitchen to the hall, Eden did as she bid. Little Jon, swaddled and snug in his cradle, slept while Thomas tossed fitfully atop his trundle bed. Thinking him cold, she covered him with a quilt before climbing the stairs to her and Elspeth’s room, her spirits slowly lightening. Perhaps she should shun meals more often. By declining dinner she realized she’d moved straight to dessert—a coveted piece of privacy.
The thought quickened her steps and soon had her planted in the narrow window seat between their beds, Silas’s book in hand. Though he’d slipped it to her in the stairwell a week ago, she’d only had time to peruse the title: Travels and Adventures in Western Pennsylvania and the Indian Territories by Alexander Henry. This time there were no mysterious words on the flyleaf to distract her or fill her head with romantic notions. She plunged into the dog-eared pages as if they could ease her raw feelings, alert to Elspeth’s step. It came far sooner than expected.
Quickly Eden wedged the book between the feather bolster and rope springs of her narrow bed, then lay down and pretended to sleep. But the forceful shutting of the door signaled her sister’s displeasure, and she opened an eye to see Elspeth tugging at the buttery silk, preparing to leave it in a careless puddle on the floor like she always did her things.
“Sister, we must talk.” Clearly exasperated, she leaned over Eden. “And you simply must help me out of this dress!”
Getting up, Eden helped wrestle the too-snug silk off her, waiting for Elspeth to fill the silence. Eden sensed her frustration—and felt a bite of warning—before she’d uttered a single word.
“Is there something the matter with Silas Ballantyne’s eyesight? Have you seen spectacles on his person?”
“No . . . why?” Eden ventured warily.
“He seems not to notice the things most men take notice of.” Pursing her lips in contemplation, her fingers plucked at her new stays. “Have you noticed that particularity about him?”
“He does seem . . . different,” Eden said carefully. “I cannot account for it.”
“Perhaps . . .” Elspeth looked wildly about the room as if searching for answers. “Perhaps he has a sweetheart. Has he mentioned such to you?”
The question turned Eden queasy. A sweetheart? Not once had she considered this. “I’ve . . . hardly spoken with him.” Oh, Lord, forgive the lie! “He’s made no mention of such.”
“There must be someone else. I want you to find out.”
“Me? But—”
“You know how important this is to Papa, to have a second man at the forge. Business would double and we’d all benefit—have finer things.” Elspeth paused and took a breath. “Besides, ’tis time for me to marry. Past time. Silas is to my liking and I’ve told Papa so. I want you to find out why he seems so reluctant—if he loves another.”
Eden sat down on the edge of her bed, taken aback. Though used to her sister’s edicts, this was too much. “How can I do such a thing?”
Elspeth’s sky-blue eyes hardened as they took Eden in. “I don’t give a cat’s meow how you do it—just do it! Look through his belongings, ask him outright.”
“What?”
“He might have a letter—some private papers—in his room. You’ll think of something—but you must find out.”
So Elspeth was demanding she trespass? Search the garret? Eden quailed at the thought. “’Tis Papa’s place to delve into such matters.”
“I’ve already spoken with Papa. He doesn’t want to seem too forceful. He believes things should develop naturally between us.”
Naturally? Through their scheming? And when had their father shied away from forcefulness? A sliver of insight pierced Eden’s disgust. She stared at her sister without focus, a new thought dawning.
Papa is unsure of Silas.
He’d run roughshod over his former apprentices, yet since Silas’s coming he’d been far more restrained. True, Silas had been with them only briefly, but Papa’s harshness and irascibility had been muted in that time. Perhaps this was simply due to his gout. This last attack had been particularly painful, responding to no remedies and requiring more spirits than usual. Sometimes the more Papa drank, the mellower he became. Lately he seemed almost . . . bearable.
“What is going on in that red head of yours?” Elspeth demanded, studying her with renewed suspicion.
“I’m simply tired,” Eden replied truthfully, yet even as she spoke she was pulling herself to her feet and smoothing the counterpane, thinking of Mama alone in the kitchen. Below, the babe had resumed his crying, but Elspeth seemed not to notice—or care—and was already curling up on her own bed.
Swallowing down a rebuke, Eden turned and hurried downstairs, finding Thomas wailing louder than Jon. Gathering up both of them, she sank onto the rag rug before the bedchamber hearth and tried to shush them. Remembering the tea cake in her pocket, she fished it out for Thomas, who immediately crammed the crumbling remains into his mouth. He was simply hungry, she guessed, as was Jon.
Nestling Jon nearer, she drank in his flawless features. Oh, but he was a beautiful child—pale and plump, his alert blue eyes catching at her heart. Well-fed he was, if not wanted. To think that she, Eden Lee, might soon be in a place surrounded by such foundlings . . .
The thought wrung her heart. Babies left on doorsteps or in dark alleys. Unwanted. Unloved. Without father or mother. The stories the Greathouse sisters told her about the foundling hospital haunted, invading her dreams at night and shadowing her by day.
Oh, Lord, hasten me to Philadelphia.
Lying on his bed in the inky darkness at the end of another long week, Silas willed his thoughts to stay quiet. But they were as unsettled as dust devils, stirred into a tempest by a great many things. Elspeth’s flirting. Liege’s gruffness. A forge that needed ten men, not two. A household in silent turmoil for reasons he couldn’t account for . . .
Eden’s absence.
“Where is she?” Liege had demanded prior to noonday dinner, staring at her empty chair as if he could conjure her up and place her there.
“She’s out visiting,” Mrs. Lee murmured, taking a seat.
“I suppose she’s consorting with that Quaker widow again.” Liege glared at Mrs. Lee, countenance livid. “Let me guess, the Greathouses are gone and she’s taken it upon herself to go comforting the tenants in their stead.”
“She had a basket to deliver to Widow Baker. Some buns for the McAfee children—”
“Baskets and buns, indeed.” Elspeth looked up from arranging her napkin in her lap, a smug smile twisting her lips. “She’s been skulking about so lately, I suspect she has a lover out there somewh—”
“Elspeth Ann!”
It was the first time Silas had ever heard Mrs. Lee speak above a whisper. The table stilled, all eyes fixed on Elspeth, who didn’t so much as flinch or blush, though she did lower her voice a tad. “’Tis the truth, Mama. Best keep an eye on Eden. These mercy missions of hers are occurring far too often. I wouldn’t be surprised if she does have a suitor among Hop
e Rising’s tenants.”
Silas swallowed down a retort in Eden’s defense. At the far end of the table, Liege said nothing and simply surveyed the overflowing dishes before yanking his chair out to sit down. An awkward moment passed as Silas waited for the prayer that wouldn’t be uttered. The master was simply letting the rule of silence descend before reaching for the nearest serving dish.
Now, turning toward the flickering Franklin stove, Silas shifted on the feather tick, eyes closing then roaming the beams overhead restlessly. Though he’d once thought Eden meek, his opinion of her was altering. In her own quiet way she was defiant, risking her father’s ire in an effort to be of service, with little sympathy from the rest of the household, just accusations and insinuations . . .
Losh! He might have been lying atop a bed of nails he was so aflocht.
Below he heard the gentle opening and closing of a door. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he waited. Would she come to him now? In the stairwell? Wanting to read Scripture with him? Extricating himself from the blankets, he swung his feet to the frigid floor and grabbed his breeches. The wool felt rough to his calloused hand, reminding him he needed a new pair. But the shirt she’d made him was downy soft and held her unmistakable fragrance—a subtle smirr of lavender. It set his senses afire for all the wrong reasons.
The garret door opened without protest—he’d oiled the hinges to ensure it would. But the stairwell was black as iron and held no hint of a welcoming candle. He expelled his breath, yet his chest clenched harder. Elspeth’s words at table returned and nearly made him groan.
She’s been skulking about so lately, I suspect she has a lover out there somewhere.
Did she? Nae.
But Elspeth, with her flindriken ways? Aye.
9
Ask no questions and hear no lies.
English proverb
“Come now, daughters! ’Tis nearly time for the weaver and there’s much to be done!” Mama’s voice rang out with unusual vigor, her arms full of skeins of thread spun on Eden’s beloved wheel, her careworn face alive with the anticipation of a skillfully wrought coverlet or tablecloth. Of all the chores and tasks they tended to, none was as welcome as the weaver’s coming, at least to Louise Lee.
The previous autumn Eden had finished dyeing the hanks of wool that would be woven, hanging them from the garret rafters to dry. The dyeing shed behind the barn still reeked of indigo and butternut, but within a fortnight the laborious task was done, her hands and apron no longer stained.
’Twas February, Eden recalled with a little start, the month that signaled winter’s end. Once the weaver arrived, they’d hear naught but the loud clacking of the loom, a giant beast of wood and rope that erupted endlessly when Mr. Lackey was in residence. Except Mr. Lackey, old and infirm, wasn’t coming, but was sending his son, Isaac, in his stead.
Eden saw the light in Elspeth’s eyes when Mama announced the news and told them to make ready, and her stomach gave a little flip of alarm. Her sister was bored—restless—and had recovered her feistiness. Eden feared it as she did her father’s wrath. Though Elspeth was smitten with Silas, might she use the weaver to force Silas’s hand? Stir up a bit of jealousy? She’d done such things before, pitting poor George White against one of the York men . . .
“The forge is quite busy today, and your father has no time for the animals.” Mama studied both her daughters as if weighing her options. “’Twould be best if you, Eden, minded the barn while Elspeth prepares the weaving room.”
It was a task Elspeth often usurped, knowing how Eden loved to make ready. Hiding her disappointment, Eden turned away but didn’t miss the smirk on Elspeth’s face. Though Mama was still giving her sister light duties, Eden didn’t mind. She found solace in the barn and the earthiness of every crevice and corner—the welcome nickering of the horses, the lowing of the cows, the silly antics of the half-wild cats. Let Elspeth gloat all she liked. Soon Eden would be leaving for a greater work, a more meaningful existence.
She went out the back door, shivering in the cold despite her cape and heaviest wool dress. The heavy snow of more than a month ago—the one that had ushered Silas into their lives—had melted, making a muddy mess of the normally neat farmyard. To reach the barn she had to pass by the smithy. Its front door was open wide, and several unfamiliar horses were hitched to the railing just beyond. Busy, indeed.
“Eden!” Papa’s voice rang out amidst the incessant hammering inside, hardly audible above the din that had cost him much of his hearing by middle age.
She came closer till she stood in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the smoky light within. Papa was near the bellows with several York merchants while Silas stood at the forge, heating an iron bar. Seizing it with his tongs, he swung the glowing rectangle across the chisel before cutting it neatly in half with two hammer blows. Eden flinched and felt her mouth go slack. She’d witnessed such countless times, but never had Papa made such short work of it. Yet he was, she reminded herself, aging and gout-ridden, whereas Silas was hale, hearty . . .
And so handsome it hurt.
Seemingly unaware of her, he began to hammer the hot iron into the necessary shape, his attention fixed on his task, the forge’s fire turning his hair damp at the temples. He wore an old linen shirt, not the new one she’d made him, and a leather apron hugged his waist. The look of his worn wool breeches and scuffed boots tugged at her, a reminder that all his worldly possessions had fit into two small, if heavy, haversacks. Every lean, muscular line of him drew her notice, but it was the smudge of coal dust on his cheek that rent her heart. It turned him boyish. A bit vulnerable. More a victim of Papa’s scheming.
Truly, Silas looked strangely out of place in their humble shop. Just why this was so Eden didn’t know, yet across the hay-strewn space she sensed he didn’t want to be here, that while his hands bent iron, his heart and soul were far away. And she felt a desperate need to know where his thoughts took him, for she’d so often felt the same, confined to this stifling place.
Papa, still in conversation with the men, reached out and pulled the iron ring of the bellows that fed the flames. The great brick fire pit glowed a deep burnt orange, so intense she felt its heat clear to the door. When small, she’d been terrified of the bellows. Big as an ox and fashioned from its hide, the bellows expelled air like some hungry, half-crazed beast. She fancied she felt the breath of it even now and shied from the exploding sparks.
Casting a glance her way, Papa raised his voice. “Daughter, bring Half-Penny in to shoe. Silas will meet you in the back.”
Hiding her surprise, she nodded, wishing she could run back to the house and mind her hair. She’d not even brushed it this morning, just bundled it like a shock of wheat and tied it with a blue ribbon. A riot of tangles it was, spilling to the small of her back, red as the forge’s fire. Since Silas had rebuked her, she’d been more mindful of how she looked. But today, busy as he was, he’d likely not notice.
Into the barn she went, past the plow that was Papa’s pride, breathing in the scent of the hay stacked nearly to the rafters. Conscious of her task, she hurried toward the far stall, humming a little tune to calm her nerves. Horatio and Sparrow eyed her sleepily when she passed. She stopped at a barrel and filled a nosebag with oats. Half-Penny snorted when she slipped a bridle over his head, as if he knew what she had in mind.
“You’re to have some new shoes,” she announced, looking down at her own mud-spattered boots and thinking of the dainty calamanco slippers Jemma had been wearing when she last saw her. Rather, trying to think of shoes, anything other than the man awaiting her back at the smithy. Leading Half-Penny out of the barn, she glanced up and saw Elspeth watching from the weaving room window. Her stern countenance reminded her of her unwelcome mission.
There must be someone else. I want you to find out.
Turning away, Eden rounded the smithy’s rear wall and sank ankle-deep in mud, her short skirt hem dragging and darkening to a murky brown. At least Elspeth couldn’t se
e her now.
“Eden.” With a nod of his head, Silas greeted her, wiping the sweat from his brow with a rolled-up shirt sleeve. His forearms, even in winter, seemed tan, so well-sculpted and thickly corded she became distracted and forgot to return a greeting. The hands that took hold of the bridle seemed to belong to someone far older, not a man of thirty or less. And then there were his thumbs . . . Sorrow wet her eyes, made her bite her lip to ground herself.
Why must everything pierce her heart?
With nary a glance at her, he moved the big horse into position, running a hand down its sleek, copper-colored back before he took a long look at its hooves. This was Elspeth’s moment, Eden remembered. She had only to ask one bold question on her sister’s behalf. ’Twas far easier to speak to a bent head than stare straight into his keen eyes, truly. Why then did she feel afraid?
“Silas.” She leaned nearer. “Do you . . .” She swallowed hard and felt she might choke. All her practiced words took flight. She couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . . But she must.
“Why . . . are your thumbs branded?”
“Why?” His head came up, stark amusement in his eyes. “Wheest, Eden! What about, ‘Good morning, Silas,’ or ‘I’d be pleased if you would shoe my horse,’ but ‘Why are your thumbs branded?’”
Warmth shot through her—overwhelming, mortifying. She wanted to sink lower than the matted hay beneath her feet. Half-Penny was forgotten now as they faced each other. Asking about a sweetheart would have been far better!
Stricken, she watched him walk away. His broad back was to her now, his capable hands heating and reshaping the right size shoes at the forge. He returned and held Half-Penny’s foreleg in place between his knees, fastening the hot shoe to the hoof wall before driving in the nails. Eden wrinkled her nose at the smoke, but the gelding’s tail twitched nonchalantly. ’Twas a painless procedure, but one she’d never liked. All she could think of was her own tender feet.