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

  Jack.

  Leaning toward the candelabra flickering on the dressing table, she expelled a breath, as if it could extinguish the image smoldering in her mind just as readily. But one candle stayed fast, mocking her. There was simply no forgetting their last encounter the night of the ball. She’d not quite recovered from the shock of his presence. His exquisite attire. Their near moonlit waltz.

  Oh, Jack, you are full of contradictions.

  The loud rap at her door pulled her from her reverie, and she scrambled to kindle the other candles again.

  “Elinor, are you abed?”

  The door cracked open. Ellie feared Andra’s wide-eyed countenance spelled a late night.

  “Come in.”

  Taking a chair, Andra sat toying with the hat she’d just pulled from her head. Two hatpins remained at odd angles near her brow, highlighting her discomfiture. She looked chastised as a schoolgirl. “Da just brought me home from town, after I finished settling Elspeth at the hotel.” Her voice was quiet, without its exuberant edge. “On the ride home in the carriage—well, I’ve never seen Da so . . . birsie.” She spat out the Scots word as if it soured her tongue. “He actually called me heidie!”

  Headstrong? And she was surprised?

  “He raised his voice to me—‘haud yer wheest,’ he said!”

  Hold your tongue. “Well, did you?” Ellie asked.

  Andra’s red-rimmed eyes glistened in the candlelight. Had she been crying? “I was simply offering him an explanation as to why I’d brought Aunt Elspeth here. But he—he—” She left off, flinging the hat onto a near ottoman. “Tis partly his and Mama’s fault this happened. Had I known their history in York, I wouldn’t have done so. Not once did they mention Elspeth was but a half sister—and a wayward one at that!”

  “They would have if they’d not been in New Orleans when the letter came.” Ellie took a sip of lukewarm tea. “It’s rather risky having anyone at New Hope, even a relative, given we have fugitives coming and going.”

  “Those were Da’s words exactly. But what’s done is done. Elspeth is here, and now we know the details about Mama’s past. ’Tis not a pretty tale.”

  “About Mama’s birth, you mean?”

  “That’s not the half of it.” She reached up and pulled the errant hatpins free. “There was a fire, a baby died, years ago in York County. Elspeth was suspected.” At Ellie’s frown, she sighed. “Of course Elspeth made no mention of such to me, just said how she longed to see Mama again.”

  “Da told you everything, then?”

  She nodded, smoothing a pleat of her gown. “The trouble happened so long ago. Perhaps she’s changed. I find her quite entertaining, if unconventional, her shunning mourning and all that.”

  And all that.

  Ellie feared there was far more to be reckoned with. “Does Mama know about Grandmother Lee?”

  Andra glanced toward the closed door. “Da’s going up to tell her now. I can just imagine what he’ll say. There’s simply no way to soften the news. ‘Your mother has died, and the half sister you hoped never to see again is here . . .’” Looking up, she spied Ellie’s half-finished cup of tea. “I have a fierce headache. Do you mind?”

  Ellie pushed the cup her way. “Perhaps you need some headache powders. Dr. Brunot is coming.”

  “Dr. Brunot? Why?”

  “There are two new fugitives in the attic. One of them has river fever.”

  Her face paled. “Oh, would that I had stayed in York! First Da’s set-down and now this. ”

  Seldom had Ellie seen Andra so upset. Feeling a burst of sympathy, she sought to distract her. “I’m sorry you missed the ball. The dancing was wonderful, as was Mamie’s midnight supper. Several gentlemen asked about you.”

  Cool green eyes surveyed Ellie over the rim of the cup.

  “But I’ll only mention one—the young widower Alec Duncan.” The memory of the handsome, bookish lawyer made Ellie smile—and Andra flush. Her dear sister wasn’t as chary of romance as she feigned. Not with numerous copies of a romantic serial hidden beneath her bed, like The Pirate’s Treason and The Count’s Secret. “I told him you’d soon be back.”

  Andra gave a fierce shake of her head. “I’d much rather talk about you and Daniel. Find out what the two of you were doing sitting so close on the garden bench earlier today. For a moment I thought I’d stumbled upon a proposal.”

  “We can hardly think of proposals or weddings with Mama in mourning.”

  “Oh?” The empty cup rattled in its saucer when Andra set it down. “I thought you might announce your betrothal at the ball.”

  Taking up the length of her hair, Ellie began braiding it as she always did before bed, a subtle reminder of the late hour. “I’m no nearer marrying Daniel Cameron than you are becoming Mrs. Alec Duncan.”

  Andra’s gaze narrowed. “There’s someone else, then.”

  “No one,” Ellie said, tying off the braid’s end tightly with a small ribbon and wishing she could do the same with her ungovernable thoughts.

  No one permissible, conventional, or nameable.

  Just Gentleman Jack.

  The old house at the noon hour was unusually quiet. Chloe had left for lessons in town with Ellie, Mrs. Malarkey accompanying her, as it was market day. In the windless, early August heat, the cicadas shrilled beyond the open study windows as Jack perused the newly inked will atop his desk. In it he’d left everything to Chloe, including River Hill. When it dried, he’d secure it in the safe hidden behind the false bookcase next to the hearth.

  In the hours following the Ballantyne ball, the idea had come to him to get his affairs in order. He’d lain awake in the heat of his bedroom, his blood warming at the barest thought of Ellie soon to be another man’s bride. The idea of her living and loving beneath this very roof should the sale of River Hill become final was so unsettling that he’d come downstairs, unable to sleep.

  Silas Ballantyne had been right. Jack couldn’t part with River Hill. The only legacy he had was the one he’d inherited. Since he had no heirs, it seemed only right the estate go to Chloe. Knowing how dangerous the West was, he’d drawn up a will, crafting a second copy for his attorney. He’d already arranged passage on a keelboat to the confluence of the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers, where he’d then go north to St. Louis with the whiskey shipment. Farther upriver were the garrison and sutlers and soldiers anticipating his coming—or rather his cargo. The details blurred after that.

  He removed his spectacles and dropped them on the desk, then tread down the hall to the kitchen, where he spied a cold coffeepot sitting in the ashes of a cavernous hearth. Straddling a stool, he reached for a poker, hoping for a red ember or two, but nothing sprang to life beneath his hand. Cold coffee it was. Rummaging through a cupboard didn’t gain the mug he sought, so he opened another sideboard filled with River Hill’s best china. The pattern, a deep delft-blue with floral embellishments, reminded him of Ellie.

  The Spode cup seemed fragile in his hand, much as she had felt in his arms the afternoon she’d fainted, the day he realized the feelings at war inside him were more enduring than lusty and fleeting. The night of the ball, he’d ached to hold her, savor her softness and exquisite scent, using the waltz as an excuse. But for Daniel Cameron he would have had that dance.

  Instead he was left with a handful of memories. Ellie reading. Ellie fishing. Ellie and Chloe laughing girlishly. Ellie regarding him in that winsome way that made him want to be better than he was. No matter where he roamed, she’d continue to warm him—and haunt him—the rest of his days. Remind him of all he had lost. Drive him wild with desire.

  If she knew, Chloe would be beside herself with glee.

  Ellie, what have you done to me?

  Elspeth Lee had not donned mourning garb, but Eden Lee Ballantyne did. Clad in black, Mama came down for breakfast the next morning looking wan, her hair caught back in a chignon at the nape of her neck without the slightest touch of ribbon or lace to soften its severity.

&
nbsp; “Just tea, please,” she said to Mamie, who duly brought a steaming pot. Sunlight shimmered on china and crystal, casting Mama in a warm puddle of light, calling out lines of sleeplessness and sorrow.

  Ellie’s heart clenched. She sensed Mama was mourning Elspeth’s visit as much as her mother’s passing. “I’m sorry about Grandmother Lee, Mama.”

  Mama nodded, eyes damp. “I wish I could have seen her a final time.”

  At the far end of the table, Peyton lowered his newspaper. “At least we didn’t receive word of her passing before the ball. It would have been canceled and all that preparation wasted.”

  Andra glowered at him. “Well, I’m glad to know I did something right by delaying our coming.” She softened somewhat when she looked at their mother. “Should we wear mourning, Mama?”

  “I see no need to. My mother was a stranger to you, though I wished otherwise.” She looked about the table, lingering longest on Ellie. “I didn’t want to burden you with the past, but it seems the past has caught up with us.”

  Peyton set aside his paper and glanced at his watch. “What’s to be done with Elspeth?”

  Ellie felt a flicker of irritation. Sometimes Peyton’s plain-speaking bordered on harshness. If Da were present, he wouldn’t be so fash . . .

  “I don’t know what’s to be done,” Mama replied candidly. “But I’ll begin by telling you the truth. Perhaps then you can make sense of Elspeth’s coming—and our concerns about having her here.”

  “But Mama, might another time be better?” Andra looked decidedly uncomfortable, as if the blame for all the trouble sat squarely on her shoulders. “You’re clearly upset—”

  “Upset, yes, but trusting that God has all in hand. Besides, it’s time to tell you.” Her gaze came to rest on a far window, and she seemed to struggle with where to begin. “You know I grew up believing I was the daughter of a blacksmith. What I didn’t realize is that my mother had long been in love with the largest landowner in York County, a man she’d been forbidden to marry. She bore his child—me—while married and a mother to Elspeth.” She paused, and everyone waited, locked in silence. “I had an especially close relationship with the Greathouse daughters, who lived down the lane at the family estate, Hope Rising.”

  “Greathouse?” Peyton leaned forward. “Are you telling us you’re a Greathouse, as in the Philadelphia Greathouses?”

  “Only by half. An illegitimate daughter hardly qualifies, though I did arrive in Philadelphia on account of them.”

  “So you learned of your parentage later?” Ansel’s question was quiet, so at odds with Peyton’s gruffness.

  At Mama’s nod, Andra asked, “What has this to do with Elspeth?”

  “Elspeth and I were never close, despite our nearness in age. She seemed to resent my relationship with the Greathouses, and in hindsight I don’t blame her. Perhaps she knew the true nature of things and saw through their preferential treatment. Later, like our mother, Elspeth came of age and had a child by the Greathouse heir.”

  “’Tis common enough,” Peyton murmured, “though it seems odd happening twice in the same family.”

  Mama continued, clearly reluctant. “We named him Jon and kept his parentage a secret.”

  “Jon?” Andra interjected. “Was that the baby who died?”

  “Jon was just shy of his first birthday.” Mama’s voice faltered, the old memory still wounding. “I found him in his cradle one afternoon . . .”

  Ellie’s gaze strayed to the doorway. No one else seemed to realize Da stood there, concern darkening his face.

  “Was he ill?” ’Twas Andra again, drawing Mama out, determined to have answers.

  “He didn’t seem to be. Other things had happened, all unexplained. There was a fire shortly beforehand. No one knew the cause of that either. But I feared it was Elspeth.”

  “Why would she do such unspeakable things?”

  At Andra’s probing, Ellie wanted to put up a hand to spare Mama from answering, when her father’s voice sounded behind them.

  “Because Elspeth fancied herself in love with me and would stop at nothing to have her way.”

  The ensuing silence was so heavy, Ellie felt the weight of the past overshadow them like a burial cloth. Tears glistened on Mama’s cheeks as she turned her face toward the doorway. “I’ve often hoped—prayed—over the years that Elspeth has changed, but I don’t know that she has.”

  “She’s never married? Lived apart from your mother?” Peyton pulled himself to his feet to join his father at the door.

  “Not that I know of.” Mama stood as well, her tea mostly untouched. “Enough of the past. ’Tis time I return to the attic. Our patient’s fever, I’m thankful to say, has broken, and he was able to take some broth in the night.”

  All seemed to breathe easier at this. Andra followed at Mama’s bidding, leaving Ellie and Ansel alone at table. Peyton and Da soon left for the levee, making the morning more ordinary. Ellie heard the crunch of gravel beneath the departing horses’ hooves.

  “Perhaps I should go into town,” she said, trying to be cheerful. “Have tea at Mistress Prim’s or shop for some music at the Sign of the Harp.”

  Ansel leaned back in his chair and began tying his cravat. “I thought you had lessons.”

  She toyed with her teacup, still struggling with the turn of events. “Two of the girls’ parents have sent their regrets. Something about unsavory connections.”

  His expression registered surprise—and understanding. “I’m sorry, El.”

  “No matter. I’m sure there’s something to be done here to fill those hours.” Setting aside her napkin, she started to leave, but he reached out and shut the door, hemming her in. “I ken there’s more on your mind than the day school.”

  She almost smiled, thinking how like their father he sounded.

  “Something is afoot, aye?”

  Biting her lip, she confessed, “I don’t know what to make of Jack Turlock.”

  “A man can’t be all bad who takes pains with his little sister.”

  “The same could be said of you,” she replied.

  He chuckled then grew serious. “Some shun the Turlocks on account of their reputation. A few court them for their fortune. Jack is something of a riddle. He’s not quite with his clan but not quite against them.”

  She looked down at her knotted hands. “I never meant to become involved so . . . deeply.” Now that was tantamount to confessing her feelings.

  “Is Jack in love with you, El?”

  Her head came up. “Jack? He never wanted me at River Hill to begin with.”

  “Mayhap at first.” His eyes held hers. “The Jack Turlock at the ball made quite a different impression. But I can’t read the man’s mind, so the better question is—what are your feelings for him?”

  “I—it doesn’t matter.” Her gaze faltered and returned to her lap. “He’s leaving come autumn. Selling River Hill.”

  “There’s little doubt how you feel about that.”

  She kept her tone steady. “Not long ago you told me feelings are often fickle, that matters of the heart can’t always be trusted. So I’ve decided to let my head rule . . .”

  Her voice tapered off as she thought of all the coming year offered if she married Daniel. A husband. A home. A baby, Lord willing. The latter filled her with joy yet shook her to the core. If she couldn’t tolerate Daniel’s kiss, how would she bear his repeated embrace? Yet she would give her parents the gift of a grandson or granddaughter. Accept the life that was waiting.

  Jack’s own future was in place. The West would make him a hard man, harder than he was—more like his father. She’d seen frontiersmen on the levee, trading in the mercantile, manning flatboats and keelboats and other vessels, smothered in buckskin and feathers and all manner of weapons. The West was a wild place, sure to snuff out the little bit of light she’d sensed in Jack’s soul, that tiny flicker of hope she’d held on to for his faith, his future. Jack’s path was plain. As was hers.


  “I’ve decided to consider Daniel’s proposal,” she said. “He wants me to ride over and see the house site he has in mind. Of course we can’t marry till Mama’s mourning ends, sometime in January.”

  There was an uneasy, prolonged silence. “El . . . don’t.”

  Ansel’s voice reached out to her, but he was little more than a blur of broadcloth now, his words so low she was tempted to discard them. Getting up, she opened the door and fled to the chapel.

  28

  For of all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these:

  “It might have been!”

  JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

  The confectionery, hot as Hades in the blaze of late August, continued to turn out an infinite variety of sweets that perfumed Ellie’s classroom and ensnared passersby on Water Street. Marzipan. Ladyfingers. Sugar plums. Gingerbread. Ellie inhaled the tempting aroma as she unlocked her classroom door ahead of lessons, glad to be alone. The awkwardness she’d felt during the family meeting with Elspeth minutes before hadn’t faded. Never had Ellie seen Mama so silent or Da so steely.

  “You’re welcome here so long as your behavior warrants a welcome.” Her father sat in the hotel’s parlor, locking eyes with her lovely aunt, tone quiet but intense. “As I told you thirty years ago, if there’s any harm done my family while you’re in Pittsburgh, any loss to my property or business, I won’t bother bringing you before the Allegheny Court. You’ll answer to me.”

  Elspeth’s gaze faltered. “Come now, Silas, those thirty years might have wrought changes you know nothing about.” She took out a costly-looking ebony fan and waved it back and forth with a gloved hand. “I’m no fool, whatever you think of me. And I didn’t come here intending you or your family harm.”