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

  “Jack—you there?” Wade was at his back, done with the McTavishes. “It’s not yet midnight. What do you say to a quick game of draughts? If the tavern’s still standing.”

  Too tired to argue, Jack simply nodded, sure he’d leave Teague’s alone. Wade spent almost as many nights in town as he did at Broad Oak.

  Untying Cicero, he swung up into the saddle, trying to summon some enthusiasm. But tonight he simply felt empty. Drained. Soulless. The memory along the turnpike was too fresh.

  At the soft clatter of a tray sliding onto his desk, Jack came awake. Sunk into his leather chair, boots splayed outward, arms crossed, he mumbled his thanks as Mrs. Malarkey slipped away. Quiet as a mouse—he didn’t think she’d said a dozen words to him since he’d inherited River Hill—she was getting so gout-ridden she could barely cook and clean.

  Pulling the tray nearer, he surveyed the offering with surprise. Toast, a trio of eggs, grits aswirl with butter, and fried apples adorned the immense china plate, all indicative of her Southern roots. First he sipped the steaming coffee, black and bitter—just the remedy for spending the night in his study.

  Half a dozen candles were guttered in wax-hardened holders around him, no longer illuminating thick ledgers detailing Turlock whiskey accounts. He couldn’t understand why desk work tired him more than field work—how he could till over an acre a day with a moldboard plow and a team of oxen, stopping only to scrape the heavy earth free of the metal plowshare with a paddle staff—and yet a few hours of paperwork laid him low. Out-of-doors he felt alive, even as sweat plastered his shirt to his skin and mud climbed to the tops of his boots.

  As he ate, he eyed the latest copy of the Pittsburgh Gazette at the edge of the tray, the headlines a bold tapestry of black.

  STORM TAKES DOWN NEW ALLEGHENY BRIDGE.

  DAMAGE TO LIVESTOCK AND BUILDINGS INCALCULABLE.

  RIVER TRAFFIC SLOWS.

  He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting past the glass-fronted bookcases to a near window. The slant of the sun as it filtered past heavy drapes foretold eight o’clock. He needed to speak with his farm manager about the new variety of rye they’d planted. See how Ben was faring with Solomon at the stables. Check the notices of auction for farm implements.

  He turned the paper over, his attention snagging on an elaborately fonted advertisement. A day school was opening for young ladies.

  And the teacher was . . . Ellie?

  Surprise skittered through him. A Ballantyne for hire? Though the clan was known for their benevolent bent, this seemed sort of odd. Or maybe right on target. A smile tugged at his mouth as he recalled Ellie tossing the Matrimonial Society paper out the coach window. Obviously she was as opposed to marriage as the headstrong, imperious Andra—and was opening for business instead. He wished her well. She was certainly qualified. Four years of finishing school had undoubtedly left their mark. Pittsburgh was in need of a lady’s academy. The academy for men had opened its doors in 1794, and though Jack had wanted to enroll, his father forbade it, calling it a foppish retreat.

  Leaving the paper on his desk, Jack started for the door, practically colliding with Chloe as she charged in, the tip of her parasol poking a small hole in his chest. “Are you here to see Ben?” he asked, angling the point away from him.

  “No, you!”

  He took her in from head to toe in one dismayed glance, from the too-short hem of her dress to her mismatched shoes and stockings and ridiculous hat. Shutting the door, he gestured to a chair, finally wresting the parasol away from her after calling it a public nuisance.

  Agitated, she slumped in her seat, the silk violets atop her bonnet trembling.

  “How did you get here?” Jack asked warily. She’d never come so early, nor been so riled.

  “I rode Shadow.”

  Not sidesaddle, Jack knew. The mare was likely in a lather. Chloe smelled like horses, had hay in her hair. Who had suggested that ridiculous dress?

  “Ma called me into Pa’s study this morning. She wants Silas Ballantyne’s daughter to take me on as her pupil.”

  “Take me on” was certainly the right wording. From the rigid set of Chloe’s features, she wanted nothing to do with it. A knot of alarm tightened in Jack’s gut. He ran a hand across his whiskered jaw and groped for a sensible solution.

  “Nay,” he said.

  “She’s posted an advertisement about some blasted day school—”

  “Nay,” Jack said more emphatically.

  Tears glinted in his sister’s eyes, blunting her anger, and Jack saw beneath the surface to the heart of the issue. Chloe knew she was a failure at femininity, that she, of all Allegheny County girls, was in need of some polish. But he suspected their mother had ulterior motives, and this was what worried Jack most. Likely she wanted to enroll Chloe in this so-called day school only to declare it a failure, withdraw her daughter in a public display, and cast reproach on the Ballantyne name.

  Jack was no seer, but their mother’s bitterness had led her to seek countless confrontations with the Ballantynes over the years, one of the reasons the Turlocks were never invited to New Hope. Chloe was obviously the latest pawn in a humiliating game.

  “Elinor Ballantyne is nothing but a bluestocking!” Chloe tore off her hat and flung it onto the floor, looking like she might trample it. “Next we know she’ll be heading up the local temperance society we keep hearing about.”

  Though he wanted to chuckle, Jack had no wish to pursue the matter. He walked across a frayed rug to a tall chest and withdrew a cedar fishing pole. He could feel Chloe’s mood lighten with his every step. She shadowed him, near reverence in her tone.

  “Was it Grandpa O’Hara’s?”

  “Aye.” Jack felt a twist of sentiment saying so. “Tell Ben he can spend the morning fishing if he tends to the horses this afternoon. I promised him a trip but haven’t had the time.”

  Her lip quavered again. “What about Ma and the day school?”

  “I’ll handle that,” he said, ruing the interruption. He was expecting a bottler from Pittsburgh. A large order of seed from the East. His confrontation at Broad Oak would have to wait. “I’ll ride over and see Ma at suppertime and settle matters then.”

  She smiled and looked like she wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude, but the fishing rod was between them, crowned with a particularly menacing hook.

  “Try not to drown yourself—or Ben,” he cautioned as she made her way out the study door.

  “I can outswim you nearly!” she replied, admiring the hook, her fury forgotten.

  He forced a grin, though he wasn’t lighthearted. Chloe’s mishaps were well known. Not long ago she’d gotten stuck in a corn crib, emerging so mouse bitten it seemed she had the measles. Another time she’d sampled a bottle of horse tonic found in the stables and became gravely ill. A dozen other calamities flashed to mind, but he simply watched as she ran past the lilacs toward the stables, bellowing for Ben like a wharf-hardened river man.

  “God help her,” he breathed.

  It sounded remarkably like a prayer.

  6

  I do perceive here a divided duty.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Ellie sensed Andra’s displeasure in her furious footfalls as she traversed staircase to foyer to music room. Letting go of the harp strings, Ellie’s hands dropped to her lap and the ethereal music faded. She removed her foot from the harp’s pedal and tried to smile as the door she’d left ajar swung wide open with the force of a strong wind. Andra swept in—there was no other way for Andra to enter—linen skirts swirling, every line of her taut with tension. She clutched a paper—the paper—bearing Ellie’s advertisement.

  “Elinor!” Sinking down atop the ottoman opposite, she shook the Gazette in agitation. “Peyton laughed, Ansel applauded. But I’m outraged! First you return home unannounced, without your maid and a Turlock in tow, and now . . .” She paused for breath, voice trilling higher. “Now you advertise your services like a common tradesman. I can
only hope no one responds to your ridiculous offer should they have the misfortune of reading it!”

  Biting her lip to still a hasty reply, Ellie was drawn to the figure in the doorway. For a moment she thought it was her father, as the tall, lithe outline was so familiar, but Peyton had a swagger Da lacked. His deep voice resounded across the room, stemming Andra’s tirade. “Bravo! A masterful performance. I’ve been thinking you should audition for the new theatrical company in town, and now I’m convinced.”

  “Shush!” Andra stood, fisting the paper. “What will Da say when he returns and finds his beloved youngest daughter employed—”

  “I ken he’ll admire her enterprising spirit. You seem to forget our humble beginnings. Poor Scots blacksmith and all that.” Going to the pianoforte, he banged out a few discordant keys. “Have you any replies to your post, little sister?”

  “Only two.” Ellie forged ahead. “The Dennys and Wrenshalls have enrolled their daughters, and I’m meeting with the Negleys tomorrow. I hope to hold lessons in the girls’ homes two afternoons a week and then meet for a dancing lesson here. The parents seem particularly eager for their daughters to learn the latest steps.”

  He nodded. “Who will play for you? Provide the music?”

  “Ansel volunteered, though at the moment he’s far too busy. I’m hoping for more students, enough for partners, at least. Mina said she’ll help.”

  “Mina?” The censure in Andra’s tone said she was none too happy with that either. “You shouldn’t involve so many in your scheme. We’ll simply be fodder for gossip.” She wadded up the paper and deposited it in the cold hearth. “When do you begin?”

  “Day after tomorrow.” A stitch of nervousness threaded through Ellie’s middle. “I’ve decided any earnings will go toward the orphan home.”

  “Well, at least Mama will be pleased.” Andra’s strident voice eased somewhat, though she still looked vexed.

  “The more pupils I have, the busier I’ll be,” Ellie told her. Surely Andra could rejoice that she’d not be underfoot.

  “You’ll need a groom to take you into Pittsburgh and back,” Peyton reminded her. “You remember how adamant Da is about that. A lady—particularly a teacher—should have an escort.”

  Ellie looked at him, surprised. “If you insist, though I rather like driving my own rig.”

  “It’s no longer safe to travel alone. Highwaymen, ruffians, and the like.” Peyton and Andra exchanged a glance. “Da would never forgive us if something happened to you. We’d not forgive ourselves.” Stealing a look into a near mirror, he started toward the door. “I’ve been away from the mercantile long enough. Thankfully, river traffic is returning to normal and the boatyard is busy again. Don’t wait supper on me. I have business in town tonight.”

  The click of the door as it closed returned the music room to a strained hush. Andra was looking after him as if she wanted to call him back, worry crimping her brow and calling out a wrinkle. Sympathy—and second thoughts—tugged at Ellie. Her sister was preoccupied with a great many things yet would share the burden with no one. Ellie felt a tad guilty adding to it but held fast to her plan to teach. Now home for keeps, she needed to find her place, wherever that might be.

  Of all the rooms at Broad Oak, the dining room was Jack’s least favorite—the place of heated eruptions, stilted silences, and seemingly endless disputes. The dark wood paneling lent an oppressive air, the heavy drapes were always closed, and the immense table seemed to reinforce the distance between them. Jack’s father occupied one end while his mother favored the other, a good six seats down. Wade and Jack usually sat on opposite sides while Chloe preferred eating with Sally in the kitchen.

  Tonight Wade was missing, still at their offices in town or spending another night at Teague’s, and so Jack sat discussing runaways in the glow of candlelight when all he wanted was to settle the matter of Chloe and the Ballantynes once and for all. He was acutely aware of how much wine his father had drunk and the way his mother glared at the help as they entered and exited on nervous feet through the side door to the kitchen.

  As usual, Sally’s cooking was faultless. Her blancmange was his reward for the prolonged silences between courses, though he much preferred meals at River Hill, where a simple tray brought to the library sufficed. By the time coffee was served, Jack had managed to steer the conversation away from the subject of escaped slaves back to business.

  “So, Jack, are you prepared for a fall trip downriver to St. Louis?”

  Jack paused, caught off guard. “I thought you wanted me to go east.”

  “Nay, I’ve just signed a contract with the Missouri Fur Company. Eight hundred gallons of whiskey need to be delivered to one of its posts before the rivers freeze, and I’m in need of an escort.”

  “Isn’t there a ban on importing spirits in Indian country?”

  “A mere formality. Most of the Indian agents are opposed to any restrictions on the whiskey trade—and the few who would enforce it are powerless to do so. Boatmen and fur traders are still allowed to bring in personal supplies in as great a quantity as they like.” Henry took a drink of Madeira and motioned a servant to bring him a cigar. “In fact, I’m considering transporting the necessary equipment up the Missouri River and building a distillery there. We won’t import whiskey. We’ll circumvent the ban by making it on-site.”

  Jack schooled his surprise. “In hostile territory?”

  His father smiled a tight smile. “Not so hostile once the barrels are rolled out. I’ve heard prairie dirt is capable of producing forty bushels of wheat or a hundred of corn to the acre.” With a shrug he lit his cigar. “We’ve nothing to lose.”

  Nothing but our scalps, Jack thought. He’d read the reports in the papers—of Indian unrest and the halfhearted attempts to regulate trade in the newly christened state of Missouri. Chaos reigned. It was one thing to transport—ship—whiskey illegally. They’d been doing it for years. Making it on the premises was another matter altogether.

  “You’re not opposed to going west, I trust?” Henry posed the question and drew hard on his cigar.

  “I’d planned on going east.”

  His father’s level gaze took him in, hard and glossy as frosted glass. “The West calls for a cool head and a steady hand. Wade will handle established accounts in the East.”

  A snort from the far end of the table drew their attention. “I don’t know how you expect to manage that. Captain Ames nearly refused to let Wade board our very sloop in Philadelphia last fall.” Isabel’s voice was low and annoyed as she toyed with her dessert. “I have a feeling it was more his paramour in every port than his imbibing that dismayed the captain.”

  “The captain is in our employ, remember. He’ll do as I tell him, inebriated son or no. I’d let Wade go by land, but he seems to find worse trouble there. Besides, no sense traveling all that way by coach or horseback when you can sail along the coast from port to port in half the time. The sloop is currently in Martinique but should dock in Philadelphia in late July. Captain Ames requested you come, Jack, but I think you’re needed elsewhere.”

  Isabel sighed and motioned for coffee. “We can expect better from Jack. And he’ll not risk any accounts either.”

  “That’s precisely why the West is Jack’s territory. Missouri—and beyond—has become far more important than eastern accounts. The West is, simply put, our future.” Pushing aside his empty plate, Henry Turlock eyed the candelabra at the table’s center. The flickering light called out the deep grooves in his weathered face, which had always reminded Jack of furrows in a freshly plowed field. “You’ve not been to dinner here in some time, Son. I have a feeling you have something else to discuss.”

  Jack nodded. He never fooled his father for long. “My mind isn’t on business but Chloe,” he admitted, grieved by the sudden shuttering of his mother’s fair features. “I heard there was some talk about enrolling her in a day school.”

  “Chloe’s schooling? That’s something I know little abo
ut.” Henry rose abruptly. “I have a shareholders’ meeting tonight at the Alexanders’.”

  His exit was prolonged, slowed by the rheumatism that plagued him, reminding Jack of the fifteen-year difference in his parents’ ages. Isabel looked after him, her irritation fading to melancholy. “Another meeting. This happens virtually every eve. I know these outings are nothing but a pretense for the valley men to gamble and make fools of themselves. Or worse.”

  Or worse. Henry’s infidelities were no secret. They seemed to grow more brazen over time. He’d even begun appearing in public with his latest paramour.

  Jack fixed his gaze on the candle flame and said quietly, “We need to talk about Chloe . . . why you want her to go to New Hope.”

  She stiffened visibly, jet earrings trembling. “At the moment your sister is the farthest thing from my mind.”

  As usual, Jack didn’t say. He leaned forward, couching his words carefully. “I propose a different plan. For the summer, anyway. Let Chloe come live at River Hill.”

  “River Hill? Why? I’d rather take advantage of the Ballantyne girl’s services and have her tutor Chloe here.” She met Jack’s eyes with her usual resistance, and he detected a slur in the word girl.

  “Since the French governess you hired didn’t last a fortnight,” he said, “I doubt any other arrangement would be much different.”

  “That was more your brother’s doing than Chloe’s,” she countered, confirming Jack’s suspicions of Wade’s unwanted attentions. “As for the Ballantyne girl, surely four years at the finest female academy in Pennsylvania amounts to something.”

  “This has more to do with Chloe’s unwillingness than Elinor Ballantyne’s capabilities,” Jack told her. “Personally, I think such a pairing would be a disaster.”

  “And so you want your sister underfoot at River Hill?” Her tone assured him she expected another defeat there as well. “You know I’ve had little time for a daughter. She was born so late—an afterthought.” Jack tensed, ready to correct her if she used the word mistake as she sometimes did. “And then when I tried to make something of her, I realized I was trying to make a sow’s ear into a silk purse. We can lay the blame at your father’s door. If she’s willful and unladylike, it’s because he treated her like a third son and never corrected her—”