Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (25 page)

“Tomorrow I want you to attend that horse auction in Washington County with me. Maybe do a little betting on a side race.” Wade jerked free of Jack’s grip and started for the hall. “Guess I’ll have to go to Teague’s by myself tonight and tell Janey you’re stepping out on her. She’s suspected as much, the way you’ve been shunning town.”

Chloe opened her mouth—to bicker, no doubt—but Jack silenced her with a look. No sense prolonging Wade’s stay with an argument. As it was, the clock struck half past eight, resounding to the far corners as they came down the stairs. The ball had begun and they were now late. As Jack thought it, Wade stumbled and careened into the walnut banister, the only impediment that kept him from falling headlong into the foyer below. Chloe’s eyes flared as Jack righted him and steered him straight.

“You know what Ma always says,” she hissed. “Wade’s going to get himself killed, and then you’ll be the master of everything.”

Master of everything.

And he wanted none of it.

 25 

I am now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.

E
MILY
B
RONTË

Ellie stood at the doorway of the ballroom beneath the glitter of countless spermaceti candles. Every window was open to the river, which emitted a blessed evening breeze that buffeted the flame in a merry dance. Roses of every hue spilled from cut glass vases, specially made for the occasion by the glassworks.

Everything was so breathtaking, she wanted to frame it in her heart and head forever. Her excitement was tinged with a bittersweet relief that it would end in a matter of hours. Soon the rich parquet floor would be scuffed by a hundred or more dancers. The punch toasted and drunk. Mamie’s fine supper devoured. The flowers wilted in the summer’s heat.

For now the musicians were assembling at one end of the long room near her harp and Ansel’s violin, a reminder of their midnight duet.

Clad in her coral gown, she felt conspicuous, her French stays cinching her waist impossibly small, her breathing almost nonexistent. Raising a hand, she touched the pearls wending through her hair, twin to the strand circling her throat.

All day she’d teetered between elation and expectation, one thought uppermost.

Would Chloe come? Would Jack? Not once had Chloe made mention of the ball during lessons. Perhaps Jack hadn’t shown her the invitation or had thrown it away. His stance on dancing was clear enough. It was foolish to hold on to false hope, yet it bloomed inside her like the most stubborn weed. The duet with Ansel she could manage. Seeing Daniel again after so long was feasible. But navigating the disappointment pooling in her chest was far more daunting.

Oh, Jack, won’t you come?

The guests began to arrive along the lantern-lit drive, first a trickle and then a steady stream. Ellie stood with her family at the entrance to the third-floor ballroom as extra staff hired for the occasion showed people upstairs. Her parents looked resplendent in full evening dress, the emeralds about Mama’s throat catching the light. Mina had arrived early and was beside Ansel, his charcoal suit and her saffron dress a comely pairing. Peyton stood off to one side, more arrogant than ever in formal attire.

As the crowd swelled, there were a great many names to recall. Being in Philadelphia for four years save Christmas had dulled Ellie’s memory. Some people she barely recognized. A stray glance in a gilt-edged mirror told her she scarcely knew herself. When she turned round, she found Daniel Cameron standing before her, in no way resembling the man she remembered.

“Daniel?”

He was as tall as Jack Turlock but leaner, the formal lines of his attire lending a severity to his narrow features, all boyishness gone. But his eyes were the same unusual hue, a pale lichen-green, sweeping her from head to toe with the familiarity of old and shining with new appreciation.

“Elinor?” Not once had he ever called her Ellie. Nor would he answer to anything but Daniel.

Daniel and Elinor Cameron.

He’d teased her about it once years before, saying it sounded rich and right. Now the words returned to her in all their intimacy, making slush of her insides. Or perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze as it slanted over her.

Mina hovered as if sensing her discomfort. “Make haste, dear Daniel! You’d best claim Elinor for a dance before the music begins.”

He took her hand, and Ellie was aware of a great many eyes on them. The warm pressure of his fingers was felt through her gloves. When he didn’t let go, she sensed she was turning the color of her gown.

“I reserve the last dance—and the one preceding midnight if it’s not taken.” With that, he claimed her as his supper partner, a coveted feat. “I also have something to discuss when we find a moment alone.”

She nodded, keeping her smile in place, as he stepped aside to speak with her parents. When he turned back to her, bending to whisper a compliment in her ear before moving on, she felt the heat of the ballroom like never before.

The receiving line was dwindling now, the hum of a great many voices swelling louder. With all the hubbub, no one could hear the noises on the floor above. How many of their guests would be shocked by the activity in the attic? How many were opposed, perhaps violently so? She wasn’t even sure of Daniel’s stance . . .

“Are you looking for someone, El?” Ansel was at her elbow, punch cup in hand.

She opened her fan to cool her face, turning her back on the room’s entrance. “No,” she replied, trying to keep the disappointment from her tone. “Everyone seems to be accounted for.”

“All but two,” he mused, his gaze fixed on the doorway. “You wouldn’t be expecting the Turlocks, by any chance?”

She whirled about, the fabric of her skirts shuddering from the sudden movement. There, filling the doorway, stood Chloe, Jack at her side. In that instant, his hold on her heart tightened, never to let go. The ballroom seemed to grow hushed, her amazement eclipsed by that of a hundred onlookers. She felt Ansel’s restraining hand at her elbow as if he sensed she wanted to rush forward and greet them.

Her father was shaking Jack’s hand heartily, his expression earnest, welcoming. Mama was speaking with Chloe, making much of her dress. Breathless, Ellie waited her turn. Her hungry gaze fastened on Jack’s dress coat—a midnight-blue—and his flawlessly tied cravat. It seemed she couldn’t have enough of him in a glance. His hair, usually rumpled and awry, was more sun-shocked than she remembered but tonight was considerably tamed.

At last he stood before her. “Ellie . . .” The cords in his neck tightened. “You look . . .”

She waited for him to finish, her elation starting to ebb. All she could think of was that he hadn’t wanted her at River Hill. They’d simply been thrust together through Chloe’s scheming. He likely didn’t want to be here now.

“Miss Ellie!” Chloe hugged her, dispensing with all propriety, crushing both their dresses in a heartfelt embrace.

They stood in a conspicuous circle, Chloe chattering and masking their momentary awkwardness while a great many
guests looked on. Ellie realized with a sinking certainty that this might well be the last time the three of them were together. As it was, she hadn’t seen Jack for weeks, preoccupied as he’d been with plans for going west, so Chloe said.

Was this why he braved a ballroom, risked people’s staring and murmuring, and stepped far beyond his ken? Because he’d turn his back on it all come autumn?

“You look . . .” he began, locking eyes with her again, “like it’s your birthday.”

It was as near a compliment as he’d ever given her. She embraced it as if he’d handed her a bouquet of roses, holding the words close, savoring their sweetness. “Thank you,” she said softly, “for bringing Chloe.”

His smile was tight. “Just don’t ask me to dance, Ellie.”

She tried not to laugh, finding him as irreverent as ever despite his exquisite attire.

Standing at her side, he scanned the crowded room as if contemplating battle. There was a fiercely palpable tension about him, and she realized it had taken tremendous courage for him to come. He was surrounded by young men all pampered and polished—the pride of Pittsburgh—who’d inherited their fortunes by order of birth, who toasted business deals with Turlock whiskey but despised its namesake. Who were lined up to flaunt their fortunes and woo her if they could.

It
was
a battlefield.

An opening reel was struck, and Ellie was the first on the floor with her father. Jack took Chloe by the elbow and guided her toward the nearest wall. Chairs and loveseats were placed at the room’s edges, many occupied by the aged or those declining the dancing. Having never been exposed to
much more than tawdry taverns and bawdy fiddlers, he was a bit overwhelmed by the novelty of New Hope’s ballroom. Everything was polish, perfection, undercutting what little confidence he’d mustered.

Too tense to sit, fearing his large frame would reduce the fragile chair in front of him to kindling, he hugged the finely papered wall as Monsieur Boucher recommended, Chloe at his side.

“Oh, Jack!” She was beginning to sound more like Ellie. Softer. More ladylike. Less like a Turlock. Her excitement lent a becoming glow to her face as she drank everything in. “Miss Ellie . . . she’s so lovely. Are you sure you don’t want to dance with her?”

He didn’t answer, following Ellie with his eyes as she swirled about the room on impossibly graceful feet. Partnered with her, Silas Ballantyne looked every inch the proud father. Watching them, Chloe seemed almost wistful. He wondered if she was thinking of their own father, cold and distant, rarely sparing a kind word—and never an embrace.

He tried to smile as a black-clad servant served punch. There were no spirits in evidence tonight, not even a glass of champagne, but he wasn’t surprised. He’d heard the Ballantynes avoided liquor at all costs.

Another strike against the Turlocks.

As the evening inched forward, Jack spoke with a few of the men, mostly business associates who approached him, as did Dr. Brunot and Ansel. Peyton stayed at the far end of the room with Mina Cameron when he wasn’t dancing, and Jack had yet to see Andra. That alone brought some measure of relief. Andra would be appalled by his very presence.

Strangely enough, his suit was comfortable as a second skin, the stock Sol had tied not overly tight. As his gaze swept the crowd warily, he was amused to find several young ladies
eyeing him over the edges of their lace-tipped fans. None held the appeal of Ellie. Looking down, he pulled on the silver chain of the watch Sol insisted he bring, raising it out of his pocket a notch to check the time. Ten o’clock. He’d arrived late and still the evening was progressing as if mired in molasses.

“May I have this dance?”

It was Ansel, bowing slightly over Chloe’s hand, as a cotillion began. She giggled and managed a curtsy, then followed him onto the gleaming floor. Jack felt a flicker of gratitude, his gaze circling the room a second time. Nowhere did he see Daniel Cameron, though it had been so long he doubted he’d recognize him if he did.

By the time the midnight supper was announced, Jack was too on edge to be hungry, craving the solitude of River Hill instead. Attending a ball and being formal was a bit like having the influenza. He couldn’t wait till it was over and dreaded the thought of it happening again.

Somehow, as supper ensued, he managed to down a white soup and some dishes he couldn’t name, as well as fruits and vegetables from New Hope’s hothouse and gardens, followed by cheeses and nuts. Berry trifle and ice cream ended his misery, and he found himself back in the ballroom as Ellie and Ansel took their places on the dais, the rest of the musicians sitting idly by their instruments. For a moment he grappled with the obvious.

Her harp.

She was seated on an upholstered bench, her left foot upon the harp’s pedal near the floor. Countless strings were tightly aligned alongside a fluted column covered with what looked to be gold leaf. At her nod, Ansel raised his violin. Someone near Jack whispered the piece.
Sonata in D Major
by Louis Spohr. The words meant nothing to him.