“You know what Ma always says,” she hissed. “Wade’s going to get himself killed, and then you’ll be the master of everything.”
Master of everything.
And he wanted none of it.
25
I am now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.
EMILY BRONTË
Ellie stood at the doorway of the ballroom beneath the glitter of countless spermaceti candles. Every window was open to the river, which emitted a blessed evening breeze that buffeted the flame in a merry dance. Roses of every hue spilled from cut glass vases, specially made for the occasion by the glassworks.
Everything was so breathtaking, she wanted to frame it in her heart and head forever. Her excitement was tinged with a bittersweet relief that it would end in a matter of hours. Soon the rich parquet floor would be scuffed by a hundred or more dancers. The punch toasted and drunk. Mamie’s fine supper devoured. The flowers wilted in the summer’s heat.
For now the musicians were assembling at one end of the long room near her harp and Ansel’s violin, a reminder of their midnight duet.
Clad in her coral gown, she felt conspicuous, her French stays cinching her waist impossibly small, her breathing almost nonexistent. Raising a hand, she touched the pearls wending through her hair, twin to the strand circling her throat.
All day she’d teetered between elation and expectation, one thought uppermost.
Would Chloe come? Would Jack? Not once had Chloe made mention of the ball during lessons. Perhaps Jack hadn’t shown her the invitation or had thrown it away. His stance on dancing was clear enough. It was foolish to hold on to false hope, yet it bloomed inside her like the most stubborn weed. The duet with Ansel she could manage. Seeing Daniel again after so long was feasible. But navigating the disappointment pooling in her chest was far more daunting.
Oh, Jack, won’t you come?
The guests began to arrive along the lantern-lit drive, first a trickle and then a steady stream. Ellie stood with her family at the entrance to the third-floor ballroom as extra staff hired for the occasion showed people upstairs. Her parents looked resplendent in full evening dress, the emeralds about Mama’s throat catching the light. Mina had arrived early and was beside Ansel, his charcoal suit and her saffron dress a comely pairing. Peyton stood off to one side, more arrogant than ever in formal attire.
As the crowd swelled, there were a great many names to recall. Being in Philadelphia for four years save Christmas had dulled Ellie’s memory. Some people she barely recognized. A stray glance in a gilt-edged mirror told her she scarcely knew herself. When she turned round, she found Daniel Cameron standing before her, in no way resembling the man she remembered.
“Daniel?”
He was as tall as Jack Turlock but leaner, the formal lines of his attire lending a severity to his narrow features, all boyishness gone. But his eyes were the same unusual hue, a pale lichen-green, sweeping her from head to toe with the familiarity of old and shining with new appreciation.
“Elinor?” Not once had he ever called her Ellie. Nor would he answer to anything but Daniel.
Daniel and Elinor Cameron.
He’d teased her about it once years before, saying it sounded rich and right. Now the words returned to her in all their intimacy, making slush of her insides. Or perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze as it slanted over her.
Mina hovered as if sensing her discomfort. “Make haste, dear Daniel! You’d best claim Elinor for a dance before the music begins.”
He took her hand, and Ellie was aware of a great many eyes on them. The warm pressure of his fingers was felt through her gloves. When he didn’t let go, she sensed she was turning the color of her gown.
“I reserve the last dance—and the one preceding midnight if it’s not taken.” With that, he claimed her as his supper partner, a coveted feat. “I also have something to discuss when we find a moment alone.”
She nodded, keeping her smile in place, as he stepped aside to speak with her parents. When he turned back to her, bending to whisper a compliment in her ear before moving on, she felt the heat of the ballroom like never before.
The receiving line was dwindling now, the hum of a great many voices swelling louder. With all the hubbub, no one could hear the noises on the floor above. How many of their guests would be shocked by the activity in the attic? How many were opposed, perhaps violently so? She wasn’t even sure of Daniel’s stance . . .
“Are you looking for someone, El?” Ansel was at her elbow, punch cup in hand.
She opened her fan to cool her face, turning her back on the room’s entrance. “No,” she replied, trying to keep the disappointment from her tone. “Everyone seems to be accounted for.”
“All but two,” he mused, his gaze fixed on the doorway. “You wouldn’t be expecting the Turlocks, by any chance?”
She whirled about, the fabric of her skirts shuddering from the sudden movement. There, filling the doorway, stood Chloe, Jack at her side. In that instant, his hold on her heart tightened, never to let go. The ballroom seemed to grow hushed, her amazement eclipsed by that of a hundred onlookers. She felt Ansel’s restraining hand at her elbow as if he sensed she wanted to rush forward and greet them.
Her father was shaking Jack’s hand heartily, his expression earnest, welcoming. Mama was speaking with Chloe, making much of her dress. Breathless, Ellie waited her turn. Her hungry gaze fastened on Jack’s dress coat—a midnight-blue—and his flawlessly tied cravat. It seemed she couldn’t have enough of him in a glance. His hair, usually rumpled and awry, was more sun-shocked than she remembered but tonight was considerably tamed.
At last he stood before her. “Ellie . . .” The cords in his neck tightened. “You look . . .”
She waited for him to finish, her elation starting to ebb. All she could think of was that he hadn’t wanted her at River Hill. They’d simply been thrust together through Chloe’s scheming. He likely didn’t want to be here now.
“Miss Ellie!” Chloe hugged her, dispensing with all propriety, crushing both their dresses in a heartfelt embrace.
They stood in a conspicuous circle, Chloe chattering and masking their momentary awkwardness while a great many guests looked on. Ellie realized with a sinking certainty that this might well be the last time the three of them were together. As it was, she hadn’t seen Jack for weeks, preoccupied as he’d been with plans for going west, so Chloe said.
Was this why he braved a ballroom, risked people’s staring and murmuring, and stepped far beyond his ken? Because he’d turn his back on it all come autumn?
“You look . . .” he began, locking eyes with her again, “like it’s your birthday.”
It was as near a compliment as he’d ever given her. She embraced it as if he’d handed her a bouquet of roses, holding the words close, savoring their sweetness. “Thank you,” she said softly, “for bringing Chloe.”
His smile was tight. “Just don’t ask me to dance, Ellie.”
She tried not to laugh, finding him as irreverent as ever despite his exquisite attire.
Standing at her side, he scanned the crowded room as if contemplating battle. There was a fiercely palpable tension about him, and she realized it had taken tremendous courage for him to come. He was surrounded by young men all pampered and polished—the pride of Pittsburgh—who’d inherited their fortunes by order of birth, who toasted business deals with Turlock whiskey but despised its namesake. Who were lined up to flaunt their fortunes and woo her if they could.
It was a battlefield.
An opening reel was struck, and Ellie was the first on the floor with her father. Jack took Chloe by the elbow and guided her toward the nearest wall. Chairs and loveseats were placed at the room’s edges, many occupied by the aged or those declining the dancing. Having never been exposed to much more than tawdry taverns and bawdy fiddlers, he was a bit overwhelmed by the novelty of New Hope’s ballroo
m. Everything was polish, perfection, undercutting what little confidence he’d mustered.
Too tense to sit, fearing his large frame would reduce the fragile chair in front of him to kindling, he hugged the finely papered wall as Monsieur Boucher recommended, Chloe at his side.
“Oh, Jack!” She was beginning to sound more like Ellie. Softer. More ladylike. Less like a Turlock. Her excitement lent a becoming glow to her face as she drank everything in. “Miss Ellie . . . she’s so lovely. Are you sure you don’t want to dance with her?”
He didn’t answer, following Ellie with his eyes as she swirled about the room on impossibly graceful feet. Partnered with her, Silas Ballantyne looked every inch the proud father. Watching them, Chloe seemed almost wistful. He wondered if she was thinking of their own father, cold and distant, rarely sparing a kind word—and never an embrace.
He tried to smile as a black-clad servant served punch. There were no spirits in evidence tonight, not even a glass of champagne, but he wasn’t surprised. He’d heard the Ballantynes avoided liquor at all costs.
Another strike against the Turlocks.
As the evening inched forward, Jack spoke with a few of the men, mostly business associates who approached him, as did Dr. Brunot and Ansel. Peyton stayed at the far end of the room with Mina Cameron when he wasn’t dancing, and Jack had yet to see Andra. That alone brought some measure of relief. Andra would be appalled by his very presence.
Strangely enough, his suit was comfortable as a second skin, the stock Sol had tied not overly tight. As his gaze swept the crowd warily, he was amused to find several young ladies eyeing him over the edges of their lace-tipped fans. None held the appeal of Ellie. Looking down, he pulled on the silver chain of the watch Sol insisted he bring, raising it out of his pocket a notch to check the time. Ten o’clock. He’d arrived late and still the evening was progressing as if mired in molasses.
“May I have this dance?”
It was Ansel, bowing slightly over Chloe’s hand, as a cotillion began. She giggled and managed a curtsy, then followed him onto the gleaming floor. Jack felt a flicker of gratitude, his gaze circling the room a second time. Nowhere did he see Daniel Cameron, though it had been so long he doubted he’d recognize him if he did.
By the time the midnight supper was announced, Jack was too on edge to be hungry, craving the solitude of River Hill instead. Attending a ball and being formal was a bit like having the influenza. He couldn’t wait till it was over and dreaded the thought of it happening again.
Somehow, as supper ensued, he managed to down a white soup and some dishes he couldn’t name, as well as fruits and vegetables from New Hope’s hothouse and gardens, followed by cheeses and nuts. Berry trifle and ice cream ended his misery, and he found himself back in the ballroom as Ellie and Ansel took their places on the dais, the rest of the musicians sitting idly by their instruments. For a moment he grappled with the obvious.
Her harp.
She was seated on an upholstered bench, her left foot upon the harp’s pedal near the floor. Countless strings were tightly aligned alongside a fluted column covered with what looked to be gold leaf. At her nod, Ansel raised his violin. Someone near Jack whispered the piece. Sonata in D Major by Louis Spohr. The words meant nothing to him.
Her eyes were closed. Was she nervous? Not a sound was heard in the cavernous room. When she leaned her flawless shoulder into the instrument, her fingers poised to play, his breathing thinned to nothingness. Even Chloe stood slightly openmouthed beside him as the music began.
For a few moments his tension ebbed, lost as he was in the movement of her fingers as they teased forth every delicate note, as lithe upon the strings as her feet had been upon the floor while dancing. The richness of the violin wove an equally mesmerizing spell, rising sweetly and then falling silent so that only the harp was heard.
Chloe tilted her face up to his, eyes shimmering in the candlelight. He ignored the catch in his throat and stayed perfectly still, as if moving might shatter his reserve. He’d never heard such music. Ellie played with such . . . feeling. Her heart seemed wedded to every note, inexplicably wrenching his, reviving emotions he hadn’t experienced in years.
Wonder. Tenderness. A thirst for finer, deeper things.
The enthusiastic applause braced him, as did Chloe’s heartfelt plea. “Jack . . . you all right?”
He didn’t answer but looked toward the exit. It was long past midnight now, and he was beyond weary from the harvest and more than a tad lost amidst such refinement. Ellie was leaving the stage now, smiling at Ansel, touching his arm in silent thanks.
And heading straight for Jack.
He took a breath, hopeful she might seek him out, only to be jarred by the sight of Daniel Cameron stepping into her path. Expectation turned to irritation as Daniel took her hand, claiming her for a quadrille. She looked back at him over her shoulder, still smiling, as if to say, “See, Jack, now you can say you’ve heard the harp.”
He turned his attention to a lad not much older than Chloe who was asking her to dance. Nodding his approval, he made his way to a punch bowl, waiting for the announcement that had yet to be made. He needed to hear the news of Ellie’s engagement, no matter how painful, needed to rein in his feelings for her now spiraling out of control. He felt certain her intended was Daniel Cameron, who would be master of River Hill. He wanted to choke thinking it, the punch sour to the taste.
He was having a hard time trying not to watch her, and in a room full of onlookers, particularly meddling Pittsburgh matrons, he felt on dangerous ground. Turning his back to the dancers, he pretended interest in a painting. The landscape reminded him of Scotland, of distilleries locked deep in both highlands and lowlands. He’d gone there with his father years before after a brutal Atlantic crossing, not sure they’d make landfall. The West—Missouri—seemed just as far.
“Have you been to Scotlain, Jack?”
He turned and acknowledged Silas, then fixed his eye on the painting again. “Aye, Glenlossie and Glenkinchie, mostly. The Steins and Haigs.”
“The master distillers? ’Tis a long tradition.”
“Far longer than ours,” he replied, uncomfortable with the subject. In the glare of Silas Ballantyne’s success, his livelihood seemed lacking, tarnished by generations of Turlocks with less than sterling reputations.
“Have you ever considered another line of work? Say, iron or a trade?”
His attention swung back to Silas, his surprise plain. “I—nay.”
“Mayhap because you’ve tried little else.”
Little but farming and distilling. Because he’d had no choice. Henry Turlock wasn’t one to give his sons options. Just orders. Jack sensed Silas knew that, and it lessened the scour of guilt Jack felt.
“I’ve not given it much thought,” he admitted. “There was a time—when my grandfather was alive—that I considered law.”
“It’s not too late, is it?”
“I suppose that depends on who you ask. My father has threatened to disown me if I do anything but further Turlock whiskey.”
“What happens upon the sale of River Hill?”
“I’ll move on to Missouri. Establish a distillery in Indian territory.” The words rolled out of him, sounding empty, rehearsed. “There’s a plan in place to supply trading posts—military garrisons—with spirits. Keep pushing west.”
“You’ll not be back then.”
“Nay.” It wasn’t a question but he answered it anyway, struck by how forthright Silas was, willing to discuss such things. As if it mattered. As if he cared. As if there might be another, better way.
Once again Jack couldn’t shake the certainty that their conversation was more than about business, that at the deepest level it was about Ellie. If he had nerve enough, he’d simply ask Silas outright. If there’d been a trace of liquor in his punch cup, he’d have done so. But tonight, weary and out of his element, he couldn’t muster the words.
The coral roses, imprisoned in crystal vases
, were wilting as fast as Ellie’s spirits. ’Twas three o’clock in the morning—the wee sm’ hours, as her father said. A few guests had departed, mostly the elderly and infirm, bidding Ellie a happy birthday or kissing her flushed cheeks. After hours of dancing, her slipper-clad feet were pinched, her smile strained, her voice cracking from too much conversation.
“I’ll be back,” she murmured to Daniel, who’d not ceased shadowing her the entire evening.
Excusing herself, she slipped downstairs and out onto the back veranda, desperate for a measure of privacy. The lantern-lit stables and driveway were busy, the sultry predawn stillness filled with the nickering of countless horses and all manner of conveyances. But here, in back of the house, all was still save the summer kitchen and icehouses and a lone figure making his way to the necessary.
Passing into the garden, she tried to savor the stillness, but her rising turmoil stole it away. Jack was still upstairs but out of her reach, tonight and always. Nothing could bridge the chasm that separated them. He was clearly uncomfortable in her world—with the dancing, the formality, the social niceties. And somehow, without him, her privileged life failed to have the appeal it once did.
Closing her eyes, she heard a reel end and a waltz begin, the sound drifting down from the third-floor windows.
“Ellie.”
A touch to her back along a row of tiny buttons sent her spinning round. Jack looked down at her, features shadowed. “I wanted to say goodbye.”
Something stirred in her, sad and wistful. “Where’s Chloe?”
“Waiting in the coach.”
She tried to smile. “Thank you for coming.”
He looked away and then back at her as if wanting to say more. Weighing his words. Discarding them. There seemed so much that was unspoken between them. She longed to tell him she knew about his leaving, selling River Hill. But the truth stayed locked in her heart, sore and silent.