Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel

  But she simply shook him off and headed the other direction. “I think I hear Mrs. Malarkey calling.”

  He watched her go, raking a hand through hair he hadn’t bothered to comb in days, though it was clean, at least. He’d swum across the Monongahela and back at daybreak, just as he did nearly every morning save in winter. Pausing, he retrieved the cologne from his pocket and deposited it in a liquor chest in the hall before opening the study door.

  Something told him Ellie awaited to give notice, that she’d tired of playing tutor to Chloe. Or her father had returned and forbidden it. Just as well. Time the charade ended once and for all. He was becoming far too aware of her—the profound emptiness he felt in her wake, the stranglehold she had on his senses.

  Her gentleness disturbed him.

  He swallowed down any disappointment he felt for Chloe as he stepped into the room, but nothing could prepare him for the picture Ellie made as she waited for him. Patiently. Expectantly. And heartrendingly lovely in a pale blue dress that fluttered to her ankles in an alluring flounce. Her back was to him, the knot of curls that crowned her head cascading to the nape of her slender neck, the paisley shawl she wore slipping off her shoulders, its fringed end swaying gently as she turned round.

  The smile she gave him was nothing short of glorious. Did she smile that way at everyone? So broadly a dimple appeared in her left cheek? For a moment he couldn’t even recall his own name. “I—my sister said—”

  Her gaze was unblinking. “Chloe told me you wanted to see me.”

  The tightness in his chest soared.

  Duped again.

  But Ellie was obviously none the wiser.

  “Chloe says a great many things,” he muttered, unaccustomed to the heat creeping up his neck. He moved to his desk, shuffled some papers, and tried to salvage the situation. “I was simply wondering—how are the lessons going?”

  “Very well. Her penmanship is improving and she’s quite fond of reading. I was hoping we might borrow a few books.”

  He glanced at the bookcases. “Borrow as many as you like.”

  “I was thinking of George Whitefield’s Journals and a Bible.”

  “Whitefield, the British evangelist?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “My grandfather once heard him preach in Philadelphia.” He walked to the far side of the study, pushed aside a rolling ladder, and opened a glass-fronted case. “His Journals are in here.”

  “Do you know where everything is so readily?”

  There was teasing in her tone as they surveyed what was, at last inventory, over ten thousand tomes. “I’ve a ready explanation. The books are grouped by subject. The Bible you’re wanting is in my bedchamber.”

  She took the leather-bound books from him. “I won’t trouble you about the Bible, then, especially if it’s in use.”

  “Your father gave it to me . . . the last time I was in jail.”

  Color pinked her cheeks, but her gaze held steadfast. “Then it must be having some effect, given you’ve not been back since.”

  He nearly smiled as she looked down at the borrowed books. She was so close his every sense was heightened. Lemon . . . lavender . . . talc. Her subtle fragrance rivaled the lilacs at River Hill’s entrance. He wrestled with wanting to reach out and touch an inky curl to test its softness.

  Like the rogue he was.

  Turning her back to him, she began perusing the shelves while he sat down, scuffed boots up on the corner of his desk. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his mind on the words at hand.

  “What are you reading?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

  “The American Farm and Garden.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Speaking of gardens, I have another request. ’Tis Chloe’s, actually.”

  He removed his glasses and rested his book atop his chest, not bothering to lower his boots.

  “Might we have a small corner of the garden? A sunny place to plant some flowers?”

  The request, so humbly and hopefully stated, tugged at him.

  Just a corner? I would give you all the garden if you would ask, Ellie.

  “Aye, if you like,” he said.

  Her petition was so small. Couldn’t she sense he’d give her anything? Anything at all?

  All but his heart. That he kept locked. Behind bars.

  “I have some seeds from Hope Rising—perennials mostly. Gardening holds some good lessons, and your garden was once so beautiful. The talk of Pittsburgh, Mama said. I heard it rivaled the King’s Garden outside Fort Pitt.”

  “That was before my time or yours.” He regretted his abruptness but wanted to bring a close to the conversation. He needed to talk to Chloe—reiterate what he’d said in the hall. Absent himself. “You’re leaving now, I’d wager.”

  “Yes, we’re done for the day. I just need to give these books to Chloe.”

  He got up and took them from her hands, feeling an insatiable desire to read them himself. “I’ll see that she gets them. And I’ll walk you to your carriage.”

  Now what had made him say that?

  It sounded almost . . . gentlemanly.

  Jack rode Cicero hard, skirting the fringes of River Hill, hoping to outride the knot festering inside him—or at least loosen its frayed edges. All around him, endless fields of grain bowed low in the warm night wind. His land. His bounty. Tonight they failed to bring the usual pleasure. He was weary. Hungry. Flummoxed.

  When Ellie’s carriage had disappeared through River Hill’s imposing gates that afternoon, he’d found Chloe in the southeast corner of the garden, already overturning a plot of soil. He wrestled the shovel away from her, his aggravation at fever’s pitch. “Should a lady be digging like a common laborer?”

  “I’m wearing gloves—see?” She held up canvas-covered hands already blackened with dirt. “Miss Ellie said you can’t call a garden your own unless you tend it, which is what I’m doing.”

  “I’ll help you, then.” He thrust the rusty tool into soft soil, unearthing loamy ground, rocks, and a tangle of worms.

  She stood and watched him work, expression perplexed. “I know you didn’t come out here to help me, Jack. You look mad enough to spit nails.”

  “Aye, I’m here to fix your flint once and for all in regards to Ellie.” He gave her a black look before another shovel thrust. “No more double dealing, understand? No more conniving or manipulating or—”

  The surprise on her face was sharp. “But that’s what you and Wade and Pa always do!”

  Aye, best take a long look in the mirror, Jack.

  He felt he’d been hit broadside with the shovel. Tears wet Chloe’s eyes and spilled down her dress front. She looked like a little girl again, and it didn’t help that Ben was watching, his own eyes damp and round as marbles as he peered at them over the garden wall.

  She swiped at her eyes with a dainty sleeve. “I asked her here for you, Jack. You’re all alone. You need someone like Miss Ellie.” Her words were all a-warble. “She’s pretty and kind. She even likes to fish. She’s not a strumpet!”

  “Chloe Isabel . . .”

  “What’s more, she seems to like me—and Ben. I-I can’t tell if she likes you yet. She never says.”

  He tossed the shovel aside. “A lady like Ellie would never consider a Turlock, no matter how much conniving is done. If she comes here at all, it’s out of pity. A mercy mission. Don’t expect it to last. She’ll soon move on.”

  Turning away, he left her with Ben and returned to his study, only to find that Ellie’s lingering presence drove him out again. He finally sought refuge in the stables, taking deep breaths, his pulse racing inexplicably. Cicero whinnied in welcome as he led him out into the waning sunlight, not bothering with a saddle, just sinking his fingers into the horse’s tumbled mane and riding bareback.

  Stepping out of a cottage, his farm manager tried to intercept him, but he waved him away. He was in no mood for small talk or fielding trouble with tenants. His feelings were t
oo raw, ready to spill over into a brawl. All because of Ellie Ballantyne.

  He took a backwoods route to Broad Oak, arriving in record time, disgruntled when his mother met him on the porch. Her eyes narrowed as he tied Cicero to the hitching post. He rarely arrived at dusk, and she likely sensed trouble. “You’re just in time for supper.”

  “I’m not hungry.” The words were flat, gruff, much like her welcome. “There’s a storm brewing and I need to hurry. I’ll not be long.”

  Thunder underscored his words and sent a shiver up his back. Ever since his brush with death along the turnpike, the mere threat of rain haunted him and seemed to carry a second warning. He brushed past her and went into the house, slowing impatiently when her voice trailed him, tethering him.

  “If it’s Wade you’re looking for, he’s not here. He’s in jail . . . alongside Peyton Ballantyne.”

  He stopped as if lightning-struck, turning in time to see blatant satisfaction, even triumph, cross her aging face. “Apparently, Wade became intoxicated and tore up the gentlemen’s club in town. Peyton was jailed for inviting him in, among other things. Something to do with gambling . . . a threatened duel.”

  “Has bail been posted?”

  “Not yet. They’re such a lovely pairing, I urged your father to let them sit it out.” She smiled coldly, her sarcasm at its peak. “Of course, Peyton might be released by his brother or one of his father’s business associates once word gets round. But the damage is done. It’s sure to be in all the papers come morning.”

  There was no measuring her glee. Disgusted, Jack pushed open the door to his father’s study and found him leaning back in his chair, cigar in hand. Josiah Kilgore stood by a window and gave Jack a cursory nod as he came in. Gauzy spirals of smoke curled toward the elaborate plasterwork ceiling. A celebratory cigar? His father’s ill will toward the Ballantynes was just as deep as his mother’s, and he looked equally pleased.

  Jack rued his timing, relieved when the door closed behind Kilgore and he and Henry were left alone.

  “Well, Jack, you’ve no doubt heard the news. It’s sure to be the talk of all Allegheny County shortly.”

  Jack took a chair, misery twisting inside him. Though he had no fondness for Peyton, he regretted the turn of events, if only for Ellie’s sake. And he had no wish to discuss it further. “I’m here to talk about going west. To Missouri and beyond.”

  Henry studied him through the smoke. “When I first broached the matter, you weren’t what I’d call willing.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” The words were terse and far too obliging, revealing a desperation he’d not intended. “I’ll leave whenever you like.”

  Immediately his father’s hackles rose. “You’re not in any trouble, are you? In town? With that slattern Janey?” He leaned forward, displeasure deepening the furrows in his face. “I’ll not have another illegitimate child on my hands, not after Wade’s debacle with the women at Teague’s Tavern, both of them claiming—”

  “Nay,” Jack cut in. “I tend to learn from Wade’s mistakes, not repeat them.”

  Henry’s gaze hardened. “I don’t care what you do just as long as you don’t get caught doing it.”

  The warning chilled Jack to the bone. Though he’d been hearing the admonition all his life, tonight it seemed more wounding. He fixed his attention on a brace of dueling pistols in back of his father. “I’m considering selling River Hill, using the profits to push west and establish a distillery up the Missouri River like we planned.”

  Jack sensed his father’s surprise in the silence that followed. Henry raised a hand and smoothed his mustache, his stare unwavering. “That’s all well and good. But those eight hundred barrels that need escorting won’t be ready till autumn. Besides, with Wade residing in the county jail more than Broad Oak lately, you’re needed here.”

  “Autumn, then. Time enough to bring in the harvest.” Yet even as he agreed, his anxiety deepened. Months yet.

  His father nodded. “I’m certain our new venture in the West will prove profitable, given your oversight. We should finish the fall run by October. By then you’ll be on your way west before the rivers freeze. You can winter at Fort Bliss, scout the best land, prepare for spring planting.”

  “You’ve no objection to the sale of the estate?”

  “Not as long as we can lease the land and continue to grow grain. But your mother might not be so agreeable to the plan. It was her home, after all.” He snuffed his cigar and stood, hesitating long enough to check the timepiece in his waistcoat pocket. “Care to join us for supper, Jack?”

  “Nay, I need to get back to River Hill. Chloe.”

  Henry nodded and started for the hall. “How is your sister?”

  Jack mulled his answer. He wouldn’t mention Ellie. The less said, the better. “She seems content.”

  “Well, she’s enough like her mother that it won’t last.” The words were spoken at the very entrance to the candlelit dining room, loudly enough to set Isabel smoldering.

  Jack could hear the soft clink of china as a skittish maid prepared to serve the first course, careful to not offend her mistress. The tension was as thick as the gravy being set upon the sideboard in its crystal dish. Isabel looked ready to pile on the agony as Henry joined her at the immense table.

  Without another word, Jack turned on his heel and left the house. He walked into the damp, lightning-lit night, more pent-up than when he’d come. Perhaps peace could be found in Missouri.

  It had always eluded him here.

  14

  A lost good name is ne’er retrieved.

  JOHN GAY

  Twilight found Ellie sorting seeds in a warm corner of the hothouse and wrapping them carefully in wax paper. On the outside of each packet she wrote the name of the plant, what month it flowered, and how high it grew. A catalog of John Bartram and Sons of Philadelphia lay open to a lantern’s lambent glow. June was fading fast. If she and Chloe started soon, at least a portion of River Hill’s garden would be abloom by late summer.

  Head bent in concentration, she didn’t hear the slight footfall beyond the open door.

  “Ellie?”

  Looking up, Ellie took in the familiar silhouette, surprised at seeing Mina at such an hour. “Please, come in. Are you . . . all right?”

  “I’m fine, Ellie. Ansel asked me to come. He’s gone to town with my father. There’s been a bit of trouble.”

  Ellie stood and held the lantern higher as if to shed more light on the matter. “Trouble?”

  “Peyton is—well, he’s . . .” Her voice dropped a notch. “In jail.”

  Jail? The very mention sent Ellie’s stomach swirling. She didn’t even like to utter the word. Jail was darkness. Misdeeds. Lostness. Peyton wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .

  Mina’s face, usually so animated, was ashen. “Something happened with a Turlock at the gentleman’s club.”

  Ellie’s thoughts spun to Jack. She’d left River Hill but hours ago. Had he gotten into trouble since? Or was it Wade?

  “You know those Turlocks—never idle for a minute, but they’re making mischief,” Mina said, reaching out to touch a lemon tree’s waxy leaves.

  Ellie clamped down a warm retort in Jack’s defense and ached to know more, but Mina seemed preoccupied with the hothouse’s lush interior. A far cry from the drama at the jail.

  “Papa went with Ansel to post bail. I’m not sure when they’ll return.” Mina turned back to her. “I’ll stay with you till they do.”

  How long did it take to free someone from jail? Ellie wished Jack was near enough to ask. Speechless, she followed Mina into the house, where they sat in the parlor and sipped tea. The whole evening seemed odd . . . off-kilter. Even Feathers was strangely silent in his corner cage.

  Mina tried valiantly to distract her with chatter and eventually succeeded. “Daniel is coming home.”

  Though her thoughts stayed pinned on Peyton, Ellie managed, “I’ve not seen your brother in two years or better, not since y
our mother’s passing.”

  “Far too long,” Mina pronounced, reaching into her pocket for a letter. From Daniel? Opening it, she scanned it briefly before reading, “Tell Elinor I expect a dance—and I promise not to step on her slippers.” Mina looked up. “Has he ever called you Ellie?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, he’s ready to take a position at the glassworks. There’s some excitement over an invention of his involving lead and sand. Your father thinks it may revolutionize the way glass is made not only in Pittsburgh but elsewhere.”

  “He’s getting nearer a patent, then.”

  “One would hope. After ten years or better . . .” She placed the letter on a table. “He has no interest in farming like Father. He thinks the future is in glass, industry.”

  “Sounds ambitious.”

  “Oh, he’s always been fiercely competitive. Don’t you remember?”

  Ellie didn’t. Amidst the excitement of her homecoming and all that was happening, her old memories of Daniel Cameron had been shelved like a tin of stale tea. “I’d rather talk of you and Ansel.”

  It was Mina’s turn to flush. “There’s precious little to discuss on that score.”

  “I thought—hoped—the two of you had set a date.”

  Mina shook her head, eyes downcast. “The only dates Ansel thinks about are launch dates. I’m afraid I’m the only one pondering a honeymoon voyage aboard one of your father’s vessels.”

  “Honeymooning on a steamer sounds very romantic.”

  “So you aren’t opposed to the idea?”

  “What? Steamboat trips?”

  “Becoming a Cameron.”

  For just a moment Ellie succumbed to the notion. “I suppose now that I’m home, it’s expected that I’ll settle down. But I still don’t feel . . . ready.”

  “Ready?” Mina repeated.

  “I want to know Daniel cares for me.” Frustration tinged her words. “It has to be more than something unspoken . . . expected.”

  “He’s cared for you since childhood. He even spoke with your father about you when he was last home.”