Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her again, hunger and need and longing in the taste and feel of it. Every brush of his mouth against her own, every caress, drove home the bittersweet truth that he loved her deeply.
“Chloe said that you pray for me.” Wonder warmed his voice. “That must take some time.”
“I ask God to bless and keep you. To bring you back to me whole-souled.”
“Redeemed, you mean.” He smiled, but there was something sad in it. “For as a good old Puritan observes, Christ is beholden to none of us for our hearts. We should never come to Jesus until we feel that we cannot live without Him.”
She held his gaze. “You’ve been doing Chloe’s lessons.”
“Aye,” he murmured. “I’ve always had a bookish bent.”
She took his hands as she’d seen her parents often do, entwining their fingers the way she wished they could entwine their bodies and souls. “Would you . . . pray with me?”
“Ellie, I . . . don’t have the words.”
The vulnerability in his eyes wrenched her heart. “Sometimes words get in the way.”
For a few emotion-laden moments they lowered their heads, the minutes marked by some obscure timepiece she couldn’t see. Their combined “Amen” was hushed, eclipsed by the parlor clock shuddering a mournful five times.
She spoke through her tears. “’Tis your last chance, Jack, to make me your bride.”
“Nay, Ellie,” he said with difficulty. “Next to last, Lord willing. I’ve just prayed that it will come to pass.”
Jack released Ellie, only to take her in his arms again before they left the house. His heart was hammering so hard, it seemed he’d been swimming the length of the river instead of the usual breadth of it. The sweetness he experienced with her was a joy he’d never known. There was something hallowed and hushed in her embrace, a refuge from the storms within and without. A promise of a better life.
He guessed they’d been in the parlor a good hour or better but wasn’t sure. Time melted away at her touch, every second wedding her deeper into his head and heart, making him second-guess his decision to leave. The anguish of it was something he’d not reckoned with.
He looked longingly toward the river beyond the wide, sunburned slope of grass. Aye, a long, cold swim was what he needed, something to wash away the heat on his unshaven face and help him return to reason. Even if he didn’t want to.
He took her by the elbow, and they walked to the porte cochere through a swirl of autumn leaves, the sun unbearably bright after the dimness of the parlor. There her driver waited, the coach at rest. Sweat spackled the back of his neck and dampened his shirt. Surely Sol and the stable hands could see him unraveling.
And Ellie . . . Another glance at her and he almost pulled her into his arms again, uncaring about broad daylight or who might be watching. She looked even lovelier well kissed, her lips made fuller from the brush of his own, her hair threatening to spill free of its pins. His longing collided with raw grief and the half truths he’d told her.
Never again would he touch her, kiss her. Not beyond this day. If something happened to her father at the hands of a Turlock, Ellie would be caught in the crossfire. Fear and frustration left him short of breath. Whatever transpired, he’d not be here to see it play out. She’d soon come to hate him and his family, their tie and the memory of this moment severed forever.
His heart fisted as he motioned for the coachman, who stood talking with Sol in the cavernous, hay-scented space. Once situated in the coach, Ellie smoothed her skirts, settling back on the seat, her damp eyes seeking his.
He sent up a silent plea to help stem his churning emotions, wanting to reach for her again.
Pray for me, Ellie. Never stop loving me.
He shut the door and the coach rolled away, crushing crisp fall leaves beneath its wheels. He held his breath, waiting, hoping. She turned and looked back at him through an open window, heartache in her gaze.
30
Preceded on a jentle brease up the Missourie.
WILLIAM CLARK
Ellie’s return to New Hope was little more than a haze as she clung to the memories just made in the dusty, bedimmed parlor. Jack’s scent clung to her, earthy and clean, her skin a bit raw from the brush of his whiskers. She’d been a little desperate at the last, wanting something tangible to hold on to—a lock of his hair, some token from his study. But all she had was the fading feel and taste of him, the words he’d whispered and those she sensed he’d held back.
She stared at the landscape without focus, relieved she’d taken the coach and no one could witness her tears. By the time New Hope’s cupola gleamed above the treetops in the dusk, her damp handkerchief had been folded and tucked away. Slipping past the maids to her room would be a formidable feat. Her hopes died when the front door was flung open.
Gwyn welcomed her in, taking her hat and gloves. “Good afternoon, Miss Elinor.”
Ellie tried to smile as Gwyn recited who was at home and who wasn’t. Across the foyer, the study door was open and beckoning, confirming her father’s presence. Indecision flickered through her. From where she stood, she could see him at a window, back to her, the unyielding line of his shoulders reminding her of Jack at the last. He had a view of the orchard and stood stone still, the way he did when pondering something. Might it be Mama? Aunt Elspeth? Some business matter?
Gathering courage, she entered and drew the door shut behind her. He turned, welcome in his eyes. Oh, why had she not simply gone to her room? She felt empty and poured out, too sore for speech, yet unable to hold all the hurt in her heart.
She looked at her beloved father, a catch in her voice, knowing how much her words might wound him but determined to speak them anyway. “I’m in love with Jack Turlock and he’s leaving in the morning.”
There was a breathless pause.
“I ken both,” he replied, opening his arms to her.
She rushed to him like she’d done in childhood, wishing he could take away her hurt. Though she clenched her jaw till it ached, sobs tumbled out of her as his arms closed about her.
“I-I never meant to care for him. I simply wanted to help Chloe. And now I’ve just come from River Hill, hoping to see her again, but said goodbye to Jack instead. My feelings for him are such that I practically threw myself at his feet.”
“I doubt you had to throw yourself far but that he was right there to catch you.” Understanding laced his voice as he smoothed her hair with a gentle hand. “I’ll wager his feelings are as strong as your own.”
“I wasn’t sure till today. We spoke of marrying . . . children. I told him I’d go with him. But he said becoming a Turlock isn’t something to be decided in an afternoon, if ever.”
“Then he’s an even better man than I thought he was. I don’t know many who could withstand the temptation of a lass like you. I ken he loves you and wants to do right by you. By your family.”
Shamed by her own impulsiveness, she bent her head. “I’d have broken your heart if I’d left with him. Mama’s too.”
“Aye, and then mended it back again by bringing home a bairn or two.”
She pressed her damp cheek against the soft felt of his coat. “Jack has always behaved honorably.”
“I expect nothing less, Turlock or no.”
“If he goes, I’m afraid—” She stumbled on the barest thought of a long separation, sure the West would swallow him whole and her life would be one of waiting, wanting, ever wondering. “I have this terrible feeling I’ll not see him again.”
“Pray for him, Ellie. Pen him letters.” His voice dropped a notch. “Simply love him.”
Love him.
That she could do. But at such a distance?
He tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. “You need not fear being apart. Your mother and I were separated eight long years, remember, yet nothing could dull her memory nor dampen my feelings for her. When she came back into my life, ’twas as if she’d ne’er been gone. S
he was even more beautiful to me—and just as beloved.”
“Would you welcome Jack here at New Hope as your son-in-law?”
“I’ll welcome whomever you love, Ellie. Just don’t betray yourself and wed for anything less.”
“I cannot marry Daniel, then.” The admission, so easily spoken here in private, seemed to stick in her throat when she thought of facing Daniel himself.
“D’ye want me to speak with him?”
“No, I—I owe him an answer.” But she wouldn’t mention Jack. Daniel’s pride might never recover. “I’ll tell him. Soon. For now I’d best go to my room.”
“All right, then.” Looking across the study to the mantel, he made note of the time as she stepped free of his arms. “The Andra docked this afternoon with a full load of cargo and a few guests. Since your mother isn’t back from the orphan home yet, your sister could use your help upstairs.”
A full attic, then. She nodded, latching on to being of help and forgetting herself, if only briefly. “Is that why you’re home early today? Did you bring them here? In broad daylight?”
“Aye, one of the coaches has been refitted for the task.”
“Like Dr. Brunot’s?” At his nod, she let the fact take hold, sensing their involvement was deepening. “My, Da, but you’re bold.”
“The Ballantyne steel,” he said.
By the time Mama returned with news that Peyton would be dining with Aunt Elspeth in town, Ellie had managed to bathe, clothe, feed, and cajole twin babies to sleep. Each was nestled in the crook of her arm as the rocking chair glided to and fro in the candlelight. Situated on the third-floor landing by a window, the attic stairs just across, Ellie studied the wee features of her charges, marveling at their uniqueness. One boy. One girl. Not ebony but the hue of coffee with cream, born of a black mother and a white overseer.
They’d had colic, the mother said, and the father had threatened to sell them or smother them if they continued to cry, so one rainy, New Orleans night she’d scooped them up and run. How Da found her, found the other five now upstairs, was a mystery. Once at New Hope, they spoke mostly of the future, not the past, and Ellie was left to guess about their tragic lives before they’d been smuggled aboard a Ballantyne vessel.
As night deepened, the anguish in her heart leapt bright as candle flame. Jack would be having his supper now, she guessed, though she’d been unable to eat her own. He’d likely wander through the empty rooms of River Hill, going from study to bedchamber, packing, checking, remembering, perhaps backtracking to the blue room where they’d kissed, wondering if it was all a dream.
Never had she traversed such heights or depths in one day. She still felt spent, the push of her foot to maintain her rocking tedious, the gentle movement lulling her toward sleep.
A sigh shuddered through her. Oh, to rearrange time . . . drain the rivers dry so he couldn’t leave . . . send for Reverend Herron, who’d surely voice his objections to her wedding a rebellious Turlock when he’d expected a pious Cameron instead . . . become mistress of River Hill in the span of a blessed, passion-filled night . . . have Chloe returned to their care and begin a new life.
Lord, let it be. Someday. If it pleases Thee.
The river was a soft lavender-silver now, spreading out before her from her eagle’s perch, looking endlessly long as it slipped west.
Oh, Jack, come back to me.
Jack met the misty September sunrise atop Cicero, heading not toward Pittsburgh but Broad Oak. Taking an overgrown, neglected trail, he tried not to think of Ellie. His heart pulled him to New Hope, to ask Silas for her hand and savor the feel of her in his arms again. But he stayed steadfast, bent on another place. He’d not come here for years. The memory had always come to him instead—fresh, frightening, relentless as the river at flood stage.
Dismounting, he tied Cicero to a scraggly limb of laurel that rimmed the little glen like a fence, a trickle of creek cutting through. It had altered little in all that time. He recalled how his father, shrouded in shadows, had stood across the way, having trapped the lawman like prey. Jack remembered the horror on Cyrus O’Leary’s bearded face when he realized he’d not ambushed Henry but Henry would bury him.
In that instant Jack had cried out in terror, and his father backhanded him, sending him sprawling into the late autumn leaves, their brilliance crumbling beneath his boyish weight. It was over in seconds. A fatal gunshot. Smoke. His father had thrust a shovel in Jack’s hand and told him to stop crying and dig like a man. He’d vowed that Jack would share the same grave if he told. Jack hadn’t said a word.
Now the first leaves of fall lay atop the lone gravesite, a bewitching amber-gold. But even beneath a foot of fallen snow, Jack would have known the place, so heavily had it lain upon his heart.
God, forgive my father, my family, for our many sins.
Forgive me.
The rain pocking the pewter surface of the Monongahela reflected Jack’s somber mood. A west wind was kicking up, much to the aggravation of both captain and crew, making ascending the river against the current doubly difficult, even dangerous. The Independence, ponderously heavy with cargo and lying low in the water, shuddered as it left the dock.
Jack gave in to a final impulse to look back at Pittsburgh. All was dappled in haunting, rain-swept shades of gray. The place they’d docked was slick and empty save the barefoot boys who’d freed the mooring lines moments before. Silas Ballantyne was nowhere in sight. Only Ansel stood on the levee as they left, raising a hand in farewell.
“Miserable weather for a departure,” the captain muttered as he stood beside Jack on the quarterdeck. “And we’ve only just begun.”
Nine hundred miles more.
Jack’s gaze swept the muscular slaves at the oars, their grim faces beaded with rain and sweat, sodden red kerchiefs flattened against dark skulls. The sight soured his already queasy stomach.
“With any luck, the rain will ease.” Captain Maxwell waved a hand to his second in command and ordered the sodden square sail taken down.
A low moan rippled through the rowers, and Jack’s thoughts swung to the giant pot still taking up much of the hold. God help him, he’d like to lighten their load, right here in plain view of Pittsburgh. What would his father and Wade have to say about that?
Too heavy astern, the keelboat moved through the water like a wing-clipped waterfowl. It wasn’t farfetched to envision the floating hulk speared by a snag or beached on a sandbar before they’d made the first landfall.
Maxwell scowled, slapping at a mosquito. “Congress has ordered the Army Corp of Engineers to begin ridding the river of debris, but I say we’ll ne’er see the end of it. Can you swim, Mr. Turlock?”
“I cross the Mon and back most mornings.”
“Then yer used to her fits and whims.”
The vessel was at the juncture of the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers now, widening into the Ohio, close to a mile across in places. Here the water turned a vivid, churlish green before flattening into a muddy maelstrom. The Mississippi was mostly yellow, Jack recalled, and then there was the fractious Missouri, aptly named Old Misery.
Maxwell turned to him, wry. “Care for a dram o’ whiskey? Yer father sent enough to flood the hold. I doubt the thirsty Missouri garrison yer bound for will miss a gallon or two.”
“Nay, I prefer to swim sober,” Jack said, voice snatched by the rising wind.
Maxwell chuckled. “So do I, though the crew might sing a different tune.” Adjusting his dripping cap, he sighed. “Feel free to retire to yer quarters if ye like. The foul weather shows no sign of abating.”
Jack turned away, going below to the afterdeck. Shedding his coat and hat, he surveyed the narrow cabin redolent of new lumber and small, fragrant drifts of sawdust that had escaped a brisk broom. A bunk, bench, and desk were its only furnishings save a bookshelf affixed to an end wall.
A far cry from the antique elegance of River Hill.
Homesickness seized him, made him question his course even
as the Independence swept him downriver. He could feel the restless rhythm of the water beneath his boots. No doubt he’d be out of his wits with boredom long before he saw the headwaters of the Missouri. Or else sunk in dismal reflection, as he was wont to do of late.
Opening his lap desk, he withdrew an inkwell, then sharpened a quill. Above his head, the wind was blowing a chill rain sideways through an open window, spattering his paper with a low whine and whistle. He slammed closed the shutter, then fumbled for a phosphorus match in his belongings like the ones Brunot had given Jarm and Cherry for their journey north. The candle flamed, and Jack returned to inking his quill.
Dear Ellie . . .
He shut his eyes, stunned by the power of memory. Was it just yesterday she’d come to him? Kissed him as willingly as a bride? Her tearstained face, the softness and scent of her, seemed to linger in the blue room long after. He looked toward the slim bunk with its thin wool blanket, where he might have lain with her in his arms. If they’d wed, the tiny cabin wouldn’t have held them. Yet it had taken every shred of self-control to refuse her.
Ellie Ballantyne Turlock.
The mere joining of their names sent a shiver of longing through him. Nine hundred miles of misery awaited if he couldn’t think about her clearly, couldn’t cut her loose from the moorings of his life like the Independence from Pittsburgh.
He took up his pen and aimed for honesty.
It only seems fair, given matters between us, that I tell you straightaway. I have decided against returning to Pennsylvania. Our separation will restore all sensibilities concerning our future and reveal our brief liaison for what it was—a fleeting infatuation.
Fleeting? Nay. Infatuation? Nothing could be further from the truth.
Still, the lie seeped from his pen, bold and black. His hand wavered, and he set the quill aside, only to take it up again and force a few final words.