“Ah, Andra.” Mina gave a sympathetic nod then brightened. “Of course I’ll go, if you’re quite determined. There’s a new confectionery on Market Street just down from the Pittsburgh Gazette. Need I say more?”
Ellie laughed. “You are looking noticeably more rounded. Hardly the broomstick I remember.”
“I daresay you notice more than that brother of yours.” She sighed at the mention of Ansel, brown eyes assessing. “Speaking of waistlines, you’re thinner than when I last saw you. Have you been ill?”
“I’m afraid Philadelphia didn’t agree with me.”
“You’re not nursing a broken heart, I hope.”
“Hardly that. Just fleeing the Matrimonial Society.”
“I’ve never heard of such.” Mina looked almost envious. “Why would you flee that sort of thing?”
“You’d have fled too, if you’d been subject to their assemblies.” Ellie took a chair, setting her bonnet in her lap. “The girls at Madame Moreau’s were required to attend monthly or else. A bulletin of sorts was sent out to eligible gentleman and the finer Philadelphia families detailing which females would attend and the state of their fortunes. All in the name of matrimony.”
“Oh, fortune hunting! It sounds . . . splendid.” Mina gave a wicked wink. “Would that we had such a society here! Why don’t you scrap your plans for a day school and found the Pittsburgh Matrimonial Society instead?”
Ellie’s smile faded. Obviously Mina was no nearer a betrothal than when she’d last seen her. At five and twenty, her friend was on the verge of spinsterhood and wanted to be wed with all her heart. She ventured carefully, “You . . . and Ansel . . . are you not . . . ?”
Mina gave a shrug. “I don’t know what we are, Ellie. Friends? A bit more at times? I’m never sure. Ansel keeps so busy and . . . well, with Mama gone, I have so many things to manage here.” She started for the door. “You must be in need of a little refreshment. Then we can go to town.”
The tea tray was brought out—a charming assortment of mismatched cups and saucers, some prized silver spoons, and a Wedgwood pot from England. They filled an hour talking of everything their frequent letters hadn’t touched upon, delicately skirting the issue of Ansel, though Ellie sensed it was all Mina thought of.
Noting the time, Mina reached for the empty teacups, but Ellie intervened. “I’ll return these to the kitchen and meet you at the stables when you’re ready.”
Picking up the tray, Ellie moved toward the hall. Sadly, Cameron Farm was not the same without its mistress. Though she’d succumbed to consumption two years prior, Anna Cameron’s presence still lingered in the colorful samplers of Scripture adorning the walls. She’d hoped to see her only son enter the ministry, but Daniel had other ambitions. Ellie thought of it now as she washed the cups in the stone sink.
Beyond the window, a quaint wooden gate was ajar. The housekeeper was likely in the garden, for she was the cook too. Though the Camerons were prosperous farmers, they hadn’t the means to afford more than this. The bulk of their hired help were men who worked the land alongside Mina and Daniel’s father, Cullen. But someday, her father had said more than once, that would all change. Young men like Daniel Cameron would leave a lasting legacy.
“Daniel is away touring factories in the East now that his apprenticeship has ended,” Mina had said over tea. “He’s working on another of his inventions, this one involving pressed glass. He’s due home in July.”
July was but three months away. Pondering it, Ellie went out the back door, traversing a stone path that circled a pond, a large timbered barn in back of it. The doors were open wide, and she felt a tickle of apprehension as she stepped inside, half expecting Daniel to materialize before her very eyes.
Today the sun slanting through weathered cracks swirled with dust motes, and the empty structure sighed in the wind. Ellie wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or disappointed. Her rare meetings with Daniel always left her upended. Perhaps it was the unspoken expectations placed upon them, the uncertainty of whatever was in store.
Hearing Mina’s distant call, she pushed aside her musings, anxious that her advertisement be printed in the very next copy of the Pittsburgh Gazette.
Hours later, feeling like she needed to tiptoe, Ellie entered the newly refurbished anteroom adjoining Andra’s bedchamber. The lovely French wallpaper, a dusky rose and silver, had been rehung in one corner, the crown molding repaired. Elegant and bursting with new furnishings, it seemed to state Andra had no intention of moving or marrying, ever.
Ellie moved over the rich floral rug toward the far windows, eyes drawn to the sheep pasture beyond. She’d come to confess she’d just placed her advertisement in the Pittsburgh Gazette but nearly forgot her mission when greeted by the clutter atop her sister’s normally neat desk. Papers were scattered across the tambour top, several sheets crowded with lines and a great many names. A dim memory kindled. Andra’s passion was genealogy. Had she taken it upon herself to keep the family records?
“Elinor! What are you doing?”
Ellie spun round, feeling like a little girl caught snitching something. “I thought you might be here and just didn’t hear my knock.”
“I was below with the maids.” Depositing her leather basket on a windowsill, Andra shook her head in consternation. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll ever get those girls trained. They seem far more inclined toward the stable hands than they do the dust in the parlor.”
“They’re very young—and very pretty.”
“I think I’ll make sure the next ones are plain as grain sacks.” Sighing, she pulled out her desk chair, gesturing for Ellie to sit opposite. “I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve something to discuss with you.”
Dismay sat squarely in Ellie’s stomach. Did Andra know of her plans? Or have something that would upend what she now had in place? The advertisement had already gone to print.
“I’m at a standstill with my research.” Andra’s attention returned to the family tree she was constructing, her flowing script missing in several noticeable areas on the genealogical papers. “I wanted to see if Mama might have revealed anything to you over the years that might help with the family record.”
Relieved, Ellie leaned back in her chair. “Mama rarely speaks of the past.”
“Precisely. Which is why I need for you to rack your memory.” She surveyed her work, a disgruntled look on her face. “Da’s Scottish roots are more easily traced, but the Lees’ . . .”
“I know Mama has a sister named Elspeth and a brother named Thomas.”
Nodding, Andra identified their names on the papers. “There was another brother—a baby—who died. I’m in dire need of his name, his dates of birth and death.”
“She’s never spoken of such to me.”
“Mama only mentioned the babe once to me. Strangely, there’s no baptismal record in York County—or certificate of death.” She sat back, clearly perplexed. “I’ve been thinking of writing to York for answers. ’Tis been so long since we’ve had a letter from Grandmother Lee. She wasn’t well, you know, last time Mama wrote her. I don’t know that we ever received a reply.”
“Mama has always sent packages to her—dry goods and comfits from the mercantile.”
“But Mama never goes to York herself. Don’t you find that strange?”
Did she? Ellie lapsed into silence. She’d never given it much thought. Their father was as closemouthed about the Lees as Mama. “’Tis quite a journey to York, almost as far as Philadelphia.” She glanced again at the paperwork. “Did you ever find out about Da’s brothers?”
“I confirmed their names from the manifest of the ship they sailed on from Scotland to Philadelphia before the Revolution.”
“And Da’s sister? The one who died in childbirth?”
“Naomi Ballantyne? I know little but her name, though I remember Da saying you look just like her.” Andra studied her as if trying to imagine the resemblance. “I hate to ask him anything else, as he turns so silent
and melancholy when she’s mentioned . . . which only increases my curiosity.”
Ellie held back a sigh. “Perhaps all this genealogy is not a good thing.”
“What? Unearthing family secrets and skeletons and the like?” Andra’s expression turned impish. “’Tis just my cup of tea.”
“Meddling, you mean.”
“Genealogy isn’t meddling!” Andra began straightening the papers. “More like preserving. ’Tis important to preserve the past for future generations.”
“Generations?” Ellie sent up a silent prayer on Ansel and Mina’s behalf. “There may not be any, given the fact none of us are as much as betrothed.”
Andra chuckled, green eyes smug. “Well, we plan to remedy that now that you’re home, little sister.”
All thoughts of the day school vanished. The “we” she spoke of was definitely a worry. Ellie said quietly, “I’ve no more intention of marrying than you do.”
“Well, I wonder what Daniel Cameron will have to say about that.”
“Very little, given he’s in the East.”
“And due home by your birthday, or so Mina tells me.”
“He only wrote one letter to me while I was at finishing school,” Ellie admitted, reluctant to say she’d thrown it away. “Once in four years. That hardly qualifies as a romance.”
“Daniel is quite busy—too busy for penning poetry to a sweetheart. He’s nearing a patent, Da says, and wants a position at the glassworks. And more.”
And more? Feeling hemmed in, Ellie groped for a decidedly safer subject, that of deceased relatives. “Tell me about Da’s brothers.”
But her mind remained on Daniel.
5
Death at one door, and heirship at the other.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
By candlelight, Jack stood at the study’s open window and looked past open fields and fencerows toward New Hope. From Broad Oak, New Hope’s cupola could be seen beyond a distant thicket of trees like the spire of some towering cathedral, a hazy, golden orb in the darkness. Welcoming. Beckoning. Reminding him of Ellie Ballantyne. But here at River Hill, miles distant, he could only imagine the sight. Contemplating it, he felt restlessness steal over him and made his way back to his desk. But before his backside connected with the leather chair, the abrupt snap of a pistol pulled him to his feet.
Wade.
The long, tree-lined drive was peppered with gunfire, a ruckus usually reserved for the shadowed alleys of Pittsburgh. Brother Wade was inebriated—in the words of their whiskey-abhorring mother—or riled. Or both. Here there was no Allegheny County sheriff to rein him in, just two alarmed faces poking out of the sole occupied cottage on River Row—those of Solomon and Ben. Jack felt a blistering irritation. Lately Wade didn’t seem to know if he was afoot or on horseback.
Jack stepped onto the veranda, where the evening shadows encroached and fireflies swirled thickly in the sticky air. He felt a strange heaviness at his brother’s approach, so at odds with his usual expectation. True to form, Wade rode his black stallion past the aromatic tangle of lilac bushes and up the muddy steps right onto the veranda. The huge horse huffed at Jack as Wade waved a pistol in the air, a smirk on his scarred face.
Though Wade was the eldest by two years, Jack was the largest. With a long, hard arm he grabbed Wade by the back of his coat and dangled him like a puppet before wresting the pistol away from him. It fired again, lodging in an ornate column, and Jack nearly swore. He searched for a bullet bag and returned the gun. “Someday you’re going to hit more than the house and find yourself a permanent place in jail. Or the cemetery.”
Wade snorted and jerked away, smoothing his finely tailored coat. “I didn’t ride ten miles to hear some straitlaced lecture.”
“State your case then.” Jack slapped the horse’s flank and sent it off the porch.
Two hard, blue-gray eyes took him in. Normally his brother’s best feature, they were marred by a nose broken in too many brawls and tonight were a telling red. “I’m riding to town to post a handbill about the runaways. Thought I might stop at Teague’s Tavern before I’m through and see Delia.”
“The road is a shambles. You might not get there.”
Wade shrugged and slanted a hand through unruly chestnut hair. “There’s a full moon and I have little choice. Pa wants more bounty hunters.” The last words slurred slightly, and Wade leaned into the nicked column. “Usually you’re saddled at the mere mention of Teague’s. You and Janey have a fight?”
Jack ignored the question. “Why more bounty hunters?”
“Two more slaves ran away this afternoon—Adam and Ulie.”
Only two? It didn’t surprise him. Broad Oak’s overseer, James Marcum, was as hard a man as he’d ever met, even harder than the overseer they’d been used to at the Turlock plantation in Kentucky.
Wade ambled on. “You know Marcum, can’t stay away from the still when the day’s done. He got into it with Adam again over Ulie. He’s long been smitten with her—”
“Ulie belongs to Adam.”
Scowling, Wade shot down the notion. “Ulie belongs to Broad Oak, and Marcum thinks he has every right—”
“Get to the point.”
“There was a bit of a fight . . .” At Jack’s scrutiny, he averted his eyes. “Things got ugly. Marcum pounded a block of wood into Adam’s mouth in a drunken rage.”
“What?”
“All that matters is that they’re gone and Pa’s grieving the loss of his property. He wants you with me when I ride into Pittsburgh and talk to the McTavishes.”
“All right, I’ll go,” Jack said, turning toward the stables and weighing this latest complication.
The two-mile ride to town was something of an adventure, complicated by skirting downed logs and mud sloughs by the light of a brilliant moon. Wade drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket and tucked it in one cheek, casting a wary glance at the wall of woods on both sides of them. “I never liked riding this road at night. Too many thugs and the like.”
“Aye, us,” Jack replied wryly.
Wade let out a cackle, his features less taut as the lights of Pittsburgh came into view. “What’s first, business or pleasure?”
“Since you smell like a barrel of rye already, I say business.”
Grumbling, Wade reined his horse toward Water Street. “Chloe begged to come.”
“Chloe?”
“She’s bored, missing Ben. All through supper she lamented him being at River Hill till Pa put her in her place.” Wade was rambling now, his tongue too loose. “Should have been a boy, our Chloe. Strangest little sister I ever saw. There are times when Delia and Janey show more feminine graces.” His horse veered again toward the waterfront, to the glittering hulk of Teague’s Tavern.
Reaching out, Jack gave a rough tug to the stallion’s bridle. “The bounty office is this way.”
Spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the street, Wade said merrily, “Just gauging how sober you are, little brother.”
“Stone cold,” Jack answered.
Truly, tonight he couldn’t slip into his usual joie de vivre, as a great many things clawed at his conscience. Wade was looking at him, his expression such a study of bewilderment in the moonlight that Jack’s own perplexity deepened. He couldn’t tell him about his near accident in the woods. He had no words for how he’d felt since it happened—the chill of memory, the inexplicable sense of warning, his inability to shake free of its grip. Wade would likely laugh—or punch him.
The bounty office was before them, a sole light burning in one grimy window. Though Jack despised the place and the abrupt barking of bloodhounds raked his already fractured nerves, he slid off Cicero’s back and tied him to the hitch rail with a terse “Let’s get this disagreeable business over with.”
Though the shingle out front said TANNERS, the McTavish brothers engaged in a host of nefarious activities, one of which was tracking fugitives fleeing Kentucky and other slave states. Jack leaned against a wall, letting Wade tak
e the lead in providing details about the runaways—height, weight, brands, and other defining marks.
Although slavery had ceased being legal according to state law and legislation had been enacted for its gradual abolition, its grip on Pennsylvania lingered. More than a few Allegheny County residents owned slaves, the Turlocks being the largest holders with fifty-six. Forty-nine, Jack mused silently as a few coins and bills crossed the counter. The remainder of the bounty would be paid upon the runaways’ return.
“What’s the matter, Jack?” Clive McTavish pocketed the money and squinted Jack’s way. “Rather be at the tavern?”
“River Hill,” Jack answered, pulling open the door in a bid for fresh air. Stepping outside, he stood by Cicero beneath the light of a whale oil lamp and felt the stallion’s warm breath as he nosed Jack’s arm.
Just across the mud-mired alley was Ballantyne Boatworks, its long, storm-damaged levee snaking alongside the Monongahela and crowded with vessels. A month before, he’d watched from afar as the Elinor, a Ballantyne-built steamer, departed for New Orleans in a haze of rain. It was every bit as fetching as its namesake, with three graceful tiers, the newly painted hurricane deck open to the heavens, and the jack staff flying the black-and-white checkered flag denoting the Ballantyne line.
The Andra and Eden lay at anchor and weren’t half as fair, being older. Jack’s longing to have been at the Elinor’s christening still lingered. There’d been quite a celebration—a throng of well-wishers, colored streamers, a small band. If his grandfather was still alive, Jack liked to think Hugh O’Hara would have been foremost among the crowd.
Once, when Pittsburgh was more of a frontier village, the judge and Silas Ballantyne had been business partners and friends. Before Jack’s mother had sullied the connection and then severed it altogether. The closest Jack had ever gotten to Silas was in jail. Color crept into his bewhiskered cheeks—he could feel its heat—as he tried to put down his unsavory past.