Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (23 page)

“You’d best go back to the house,” Jack growled as thunder rumbled. Chloe and Ben exchanged glances, the worried cast of their features a clear sign all was not well. Ben scooted closer to Jack, his voice a mere whisper. “This mornin’ we was fishin’ and heard some voices.”

Chloe leaned in from the other side, her small shoulder snug against Jack’s hard arm. “There are people in the tunnel talking real low, Jack. Maybe runaways. There’s even a raft hidden in the reeds.”

He swallowed hard, eyes on the lightning-lit sky. “You tell anyone?”

“Nobody,” Ben said. “But Sol knows. He was with us.”

“Fishing, you mean?”

“Yep, he caught a big ol’ catfish. Said he was gonna cook it and give it to them hungry souls.”

Jack took a bite of bread, chewing thoughtfully. “Well, let Sol do his good deed, but stay out of it. The trespassers will likely move on.”

The look Chloe gave him implied doubt. “Trespassers? I think they’re escaped slaves, same as last time—”

He shushed her with a look. “Best get back to the house.” He didn’t want Jarm and Cherry mentioned. They’d made it safely to Harmony Grove, and he’d deemed it the end of the matter. “If you see Sol, tell him I want him in my study after dark.”

He had few qualms about his grandfather’s former manservant, trustworthy as he was, but he wanted to determine Sol’s part in the sudden slave activity and discourage it if he could. One bout of helping fugitives was enough. He’d not be entangled twice. Taking a long swig of switchel, he leaned back against the tree.

Chloe’s face darkened. “But what if someone in the tunnel is sick or hurt—”

His jaw hardened. “Get back to the house.
Now.
” He stopped short of threatening to send her back to Broad Oak. That would happen soon enough, and the very thought grieved him.

Nodding, she took Ben’s hand and started through the tall grass with bare feet, more child than young lady under the tutelage of Ellie Ballantyne.

Jack watched them go, mulling the situation. If he didn’t intervene but simply left the runaways—if that was what they were—alone, they’d likely move on. He didn’t begrudge them the use of the tunnel or his land if they just passed through. To New Hope or the Quaker settlements sympathetic to their cause. He had enough on his plate without turning abolitionist.

Toward dusk the last of the light leeched from the fields and the mowers slowed, thankful the threat of rain had passed. Bidding the tenants farewell, Jack stood and surveyed the toppled grass to be ricked on the morrow. Endless acres. Spent and thirsty, he caught up the switchel keg and uncorked it with his teeth, spitting the plug into the weeds at his feet.

As the last of the liquid trickled down his throat, his thoughts began to run rampant, consumed with Ellie and dance steps and meeting Sol after dark. He simply wanted a quiet corner. Some peace. But when he shouldered the keg and turned toward River Hill, all thoughts of rest vanished. There, across the cropped meadow, was a lone shadow. Tall. Still. Distinct.

Silas Ballantyne.

He felt biting surprise—and a shiver of fear.

Ellie.

Was she all right? The question cut through him like a scythe. Since she’d been waylaid the month before, the dread of it happening again fettered him night and day.

It seemed an eternity before he crossed to where Silas waited in the firefly-studded dusk. This close he could see no sign of tension in Silas’s face. Just the same clarity of countenance he’d observed before—an inner strength that led to an outward calm. He’d often coveted that look. Likely the eternal struggle in his soul showed on his face . . .

“A fine harvest, Jack.”

“Fine, indeed,” he replied, suddenly aware of how disheveled he looked—grass-flecked and sweat-stained and reeking of switchel. This was how he’d feel at New Hope at month’s end, surely. Flummoxed. Out of his element. An outcast. Yet there was no censure in Silas’s eyes or demeanor.

He simply smiled and said, “Patience and persistence conquer all, aye?”

Jack shook his outstretched hand with a firmness he was far from feeling. “I’ve always been at home swinging a scythe.”

“It shows.”

The terse words were tinged with appreciation, or so he imagined. Just how long had Ellie’s father stood watching him work? And why? Silas hadn’t set foot at River Hill since Jack’s grandfather’s passing. The memory was always melancholy, and he had no wish to revisit it now.

Anxiety turned him blunt. “I doubt you’re here to talk about the harvest.”

With a slight nod, Silas turned toward River Hill. “I wanted to thank you, reimburse you, for repairing the chaise and returning it to New Hope.”

Jack fell into step beside him. “No repayment needed. It was the least I could do for El—you.” The near slip of her name lent to his loose ends, and he felt sweat bead his brow. No doubt the lapse was noticed. Desperate for firmer footing, he returned to the matter at hand. “There’s been no more trouble, I hope.”

“Nae.” Silas was looking toward the horizon as the sun smudged the western sky a fiery red. “I’ve come about another matter. The sale of River Hill.”

Jack tensed, his surprise plain. “I’ve not yet posted the sale.”

“Some things need no advertisement,” Silas replied.

“Are you . . . interested?” The question came through clenched teeth, revealing his reluctance. He looked down at the ground, wondering who had let the matter slip. Wade? Chloe? His father? Someone at Broad Oak, more than likely. He supposed it didn’t matter. He now had a buyer and hadn’t even had to advertise.

“I’m torn between trying to talk you out of it and making you an offer.”

Jack met his unnervingly direct gaze. “Talk me out of it?”

“’Twould be selling your birthright, your inheritance—a mistake I once made myself years ago.”

Had he? Such a blunder seemed beyond a Ballantyne. Jack slowed his steps, forgetting his fatigue, curiosity gaining the upper hand.

“When you’re young, your judgment is often clouded,” Silas told him. “You make decisions better left to time and experience. I cannot turn the clock back on what was done, but I can urge caution for someone else.”

Jack’s hand tightened on the scythe’s smooth handle. “My grandfather meant this land for me. But there comes a time when one opportunity needs to be set aside for another or be lost altogether.”

“You have other plans, then. Besides settling down here and raising a family.”

“I’ve no plans to settle down,” Jack said with vehemence, leaving little doubt about the matter. Ellie flashed to mind and he blocked the image, though it was getting harder and harder to do so. “My future lies elsewhere.”

“You’re certain of the sale.”

Jack gave a decisive nod. “Aye.”

Still, Silas showed no pleasure. “I’ve always had an attachment to this place. Your grandfather and I—” He broke off, emotion weighting his voice. “It goes without saying I have a history here. ’Twould grieve me to see the property pass into the wrong hands.”

The possibility, coupled with the mention of Hugh O’Hara, left Jack’s eyes stinging and damp. What would his mother say to this? There was no question that she’d try to block the sale if she knew it involved a Ballantyne. Only he didn’t plan to tell her about it beforehand.

Silas had obviously given the matter much thought. “I’ll
gladly purchase River Hill for whatever it is you’re asking . . . as a wedding gift for my daughter.”

Jack stopped walking, his heart tripping on the last words he’d expected to hear.

A wedding gift.

Not for Andra.
Ellie.
He felt all the breath had been knocked out of him. Speechless, he couldn’t even summon an “aye” to the sale.

Silas resumed walking. “When you’re ready to discuss the terms, I’ll be waiting.”

They were nearing the stables, where a big bay horse was tethered to a hitch rail. Without another word, Silas loosened the reins and swung himself into the saddle, turning down the long drive toward home. Jack watched him go, unable to shake the certainty they hadn’t been discussing the sale of River Hill but Ellie.

Ellie and the future and Jack’s own intentions.

 23 

Life often presents us with a choice of evils rather than of goods.

C
HARLES
C
ALEB
C
OLTON

Lightning flashed River Hill’s way, making Ellie second-guess her walk. But the sky above New Hope was clear and blue as a robin’s egg, and the letter she’d just received seemed to burn a hole in her pocket, spurring her on. Now, at three o’clock, the big house was empty, the only sounds coming from the summer kitchen, where Mamie banged crockery in preparation for supper, and from the stables, where horses nickered and grooms cajoled as Ellie quietly walked past.

The attic was empty, the latest fugitives whisked away the previous night by Ansel instead of Dr. Brunot. He’d passed her on the stairs beforehand, disguised as a common laborer in brogans and homespun, giving her a slight smile. She’d watched from the landing window as a wagon full of grain, disguising fugitives, was driven to an unknown destination under half-filled burlap bags and the cover of darkness.

Lord, please hide them in their going and bring Ansel home.

Something bittersweet swept through Ellie as the night
swallowed them from view. What would become of all these people who’d shared her home and heart? They were headed to a place called freedom, yet neither she nor they knew if they’d ever get there.

Now, even with the sun on her shoulders, the brilliant rays skimming off the wide brim of her bonnet, she felt a thread of fear. The meadow was open, sheep grazing by a pond, the briards herding, a shepherd lad or two dotting the landscape. Green pastures and still waters. Why, then, did she feel uneasy? The day was ordinary in every way. Mama was in town at the orphan home. Father and Peyton were at the boatyard and mercantile . . .

And Andra had sent a letter.

She wasn’t coming home yet, she’d penned. The Lees had been most welcoming, namely Aunt Elspeth and Uncle Thomas, who manned the blacksmith shop along with his wife, Felicity. Grandmother Lee had rallied at Andra’s appearing, thinking she was Mama. ’Twas an easy mistake. Andra was Mama’s twin physically but for her fair hair. Only she didn’t
act
like Mama. That was Ellie’s inheritance, something Andra claimed made her a favorite. “’Tis no secret you’re the jewel of Da’s heart,” she’d said. But Ellie always dismissed the notion. Their father was simply too fair-minded to play favorites.

The Ballantyne mill stood alongside Rogue Creek, fed by a large pond upstream on Cameron land. Inside the cavernous building, water poured over a huge mill wheel that operated alongside gears designed the century before for grinding grain. Climbing up the grassy bank to the nearest stone wall, Ellie sought a small door, expecting Ansel to be at work within after his long night.

As the hinges groaned, she shuddered and shrank back. The place had always frightened more than fascinated her with its shadows and mist. Stepping inside, she let her eyes
adjust to the dimness, making sense of ladders and sacks and barrels, a scattering of grain upon the wooden floor.

The mill was like any other save the small room in back of the waterwheel, where fugitives could hide undetected when the wheel was in motion. She wanted to call out Ansel’s name but knew she’d never be heard above the din of rushing water.

A sudden shadow sent her spinning round.

“El, you all right?” Ansel loomed over her, bringing sudden relief. She rarely came here and sensed his surprise.

“I just wanted to . . .” Her voice was a near shout over the fall of water. “Talk.”

He nodded and disappeared for a few moments. She heard the slowing of the wheel and the gentling of water.

“You’ve come at a good time. I’m done for the day.” He drew the door shut behind them, and they passed out into light and fresh air. “All the tenants delivered their loads at first light.”

“I wish I could be of more help.”

“What? Grinding grain and smuggling slaves?” He winked at her, dispelling her worry. “I’d rather you manage your day school and play your harp and prepare for the ball.”

She smiled at his teasing. “Speaking of balls, Mama has asked for a duet after supper that evening, before the dancing resumes.” Sensing his reluctance, she said gently, “Consider it a birthday present to me.”

“A present, aye.” He helped her down the steep bank to level ground, giving a last look at the silent mill. “What do you have in mind?”

“A sonata, perhaps.”

“Then we’ll have to tune your harp lower than concert pitch if we’re to keep from breaking any more of your strings.”

“I’m sure any key you choose will be fine. You’ll not even have to practice much and ’twill still sound divine.”

“You flatter me. How many days is it now?”

“Only eight.” She felt a tremor of trepidation thinking of all they had yet to do. “The fuss will soon be over.”

“Fuss, indeed. Dining on oysters and dancing till dawn? Whose idea was this anyway?” His blue eyes swung back to her, questioning. “You’re not going to make some announcement that night? Proclaim a betrothal I don’t know about?”

“I might ask you that same question.”

He frowned, kicking at a rock in the grass, and she wondered if he might be thinking of Mina.

She said quietly, “I think everyone expects—hopes—the ball will be the turning point for me and Daniel.”

“How long since you’ve seen him?”

“Two years.”

“Do you want a future with him, El?”

She shrugged lightly. “I used to think so. And then I saw how happy Rose was with her Matthew. Nothing was arranged or expected. It just happened . . . naturally.”

Like . . . Jack.

Her feelings for him, so new and sweet, rose up and turned her breathless. She didn’t know how to stop whatever it was that had started. If he wasn’t a Turlock . . . If they weren’t unequally yoked . . .

“I’ve ne’er been the romantic sort, I’m afraid,” Ansel told her. “Either that or I’ve little time to think of such things.”

“Well, someone has to!” she said in a rush, exasperation gaining the upper hand. “And it shan’t only be me.”

Chuckling ruefully, he thrust his hands into his pockets. “My guess is that Peyton and Andra will be the old man and old maid. The Ballantyne legacy depends on us.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

“You tell me.”

She hesitated, bending low to pluck a lone daisy. She felt a
stab of embarrassment at sharing her romantic heart, though Ansel, unlike Peyton, wouldn’t laugh if she did. “I’m waiting for someone I care so soul-deep about that being apart is anguish.”

“Some grand passion, aye?”

“Is that asking too much?”

“I don’t know, El. Mayhap friendship, mutual respect, are the best footing. Feelings can be fickle. Fleeting.”

“But what of Mama and Da? I’ve never witnessed such devotion.”

He nodded, more solemn than she’d ever seen him. “Theirs was a love forged amidst hardship and absence and a great many things you know little about. Such a bond comes along rarely, if at all. We can’t expect the same.”

Her heart sank at his practical words. “Then why, given that dismal pronouncement, don’t I simply marry Daniel and you marry Mina?”

“Why?” He gave her a slow grin as if she’d caught him in a conundrum. “Because it’s not that simple.”

Reaching into her pocket, she fingered the post. “I didn’t come out here to bother you about matrimony. I’ve a letter from Andra.”

Passing him the paper, she awaited his reaction. He slowed his steps as he read, glancing up occasionally to navigate the grass. “So she’s to stay on in York, till Grandma Lee has recovered or passes away. And when she returns . . . what? She’s bringing someone with her?”

“She’s asked me not to say a word but ready one of the guest rooms in secret. She wants it to be a surprise.” She looked at him entreatingly. “But what if the surprise isn’t a welcome one?”

“It may not be.” Concern skimmed his features. “It’s a bit risky having anyone stay at New Hope with fugitives coming and going.”

“Which makes me want to forewarn Mama.”

“Even if we were to write and caution Andra, she’d do what she wanted anyway.” He refolded the post. “I’d give this to Da. He’s the only one who’s ever been able to reckon with Andra.”

She nodded, gaze drifting to the climbing roses spilling over the garden wall like a pink waterfall. “A moment ago you said something . . .” She paused, unsure if she should ask. “That I know so little about Mama and Da’s past—their love affair.”

“Aye, but it’s their story to tell, El, not mine.” He gentled his tone when he said it, as if to soften his stance. “Let’s go practice that music you mentioned and forget about all this York business. And pray Andra and her guest don’t arrive the eve of the ball.”

The door to the study yawned open, as if her father was expecting her. Ellie slipped inside, marveling that the scent of leather, books, and bergamot was as timeworn as her surroundings. Everything bespoke security and comfort and peace, the very things that had eluded her of late. A lone candelabrum flickered across a Gaelic Bible open on the large desk, gilding a worn page. One glance about the large room told her he’d stepped out.

“Ellie.” The door clicked closed, and she turned toward him, warmed by the welcome in his voice. “I had to mind the light.”

She nodded, wondering if, come morning, the attic would be full again. Taking the stool near his desk, she watched as he opened a box, withdrew his favorite pipe, and packed it full of tobacco crumbles. He glanced up at her before he lit the bowl. “D’ye mind?”

“Nae, I find it
cantie
enough,” she replied, lapsing into the little Scots she knew.

He grinned, so boyish it seemed he was rewarding her with a rare glimpse of the lad he’d been. “More
cantie
than
ugsome
?”

She nodded. Drawing her feet up on the stool’s edge, she wrapped her arms around her legs and the voluminous folds of her linen skirt, feeling like a little girl again. “I wish I could speak Gaelic like you.”

“’Tis ne’er too late to learn.” He drew hard on his pipe and leaned back in his chair, studying her through skirls of smoke. “I’ve been thinking hard of Scotlain. The Highlands. Mayhap I’ll go home again.”

She felt a little start. Home wasn’t here, then, but the place of his birth. The realization left her slightly misty-eyed. Sometimes her beloved father seemed a mystery. The past—Scotland, his life before Pittsburgh—seemed to belong to someone else, a stranger. Growing up in the cocoon of New Hope, she’d not thought to ask many questions. Till now the world seemed to begin and end at its gates.

“Mayhap I’ll go with you,” she ventured.

He looked hard at her as if weighing her response. “’Tis a hard crossing. Eight weeks in a wooden tub with no guarantee you’ll ever get there.”

“You did it once.”

“I was in good company. ’Twas the eve of the Revolution. Scots were coming to the colonies in droves.”

“Why Scotland after so long?”

“I’ve kin there—a nephew.” Seeing her confusion, he added, “My sister Naomi’s son.”

“I have a Scottish cousin?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. All of a sudden he seemed to have as many family secrets as Mama.

“He lives on the duke of Atholl’s estate and is a relative of the Murray clan. The Ballantynes were tenants long ago. You
ken my father—your grandfather—was fiddler and composer to the duke.” His gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the study windows before returning to her. “But I’ve no wish to dredge up the past. I’d rather talk about you.”