Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (31 page)

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.

You deserve far more than I could ever hope to give you. I’ll not disgrace you with my name or my family’s reputation.

Cold. Terse. Typically Turlock. He scrawled his signature and sat back, letting the ink dry, then fisted the letter into a ball. He held it over the candle flame till it caught fire before tossing it into a nearby bucket, where it curled to ashes.

He couldn’t hurt her. Better to say nothing and never return. She’d soon grow tired of waiting. Daniel Cameron or someone else would woo and win her, holding her close as Jack had done in the hallowed breathlessness of a late summer afternoon, daring to imagine she might be his.

Sleep finally relieved him—restless, dreamless sleep—and then a sudden crashing outside his cabin jarred him awake. Yanking open the door, he expected chaos, only to find that a crew member had slipped on the rain-slicked deck and dropped Jack’s supper tray.

“I’m not hungry anyway,” he told the apologetic lad with a shrug.

The wind had shifted and grown stronger, bumping up against him, ruffling his coat and hair as he stood at the prow, the rowers behind him as twilight encroached. He wondered what Chloe was doing. If the rain was coming through the roof at River Hill or the carpenters had mended the leak. Whether or not Sol would give Cicero to Ben as Jack had requested or keep him at River Hill in hopes Jack would return. And Ellie . . .

Thoughts of her raced down like rain, pelting him. Was she thinking of him? Trying hard not to? Loving him at a distance? Praying?

He faced the storm, feet widespread as the keelboat listed a bit. He felt soulless. Bereft. Without anchor. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew George Whitefield’s old journal and turned to a random page.

The weather was cold, and the wind blew very hard; but when the heart is full of God, outward things affect it little.

 31 

They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies.

W
ILLIAM
P
ENN

She had to tell Daniel. But now wasn’t the time. The trouble was there never seemed to be a proper time. Heartbreak was best dispensed in small doses, if at all. But since Daniel didn’t love her, perhaps the sting of her refusal wouldn’t be so great. Still, her dread went deep. Wedged between Daniel and Mina in the Market Street Theater, Ellie paid little attention to what was happening on the stage, preoccupied with what she must say. The truth—all of it.

I cannot marry you, Daniel.

You are, and ever will be, my friend.

I’m in love with Jack Turlock.

The cold of early November seeped along the floor, chilling her leather slippers and linen-clad legs despite her froth of petticoats. If she was shivering amidst an overflowing theater crowd, what must it be like for Jack in the West? Winter was hurtling ever nearer, every day that passed a bleak reminder
of how much time and distance was between them. Had it merely been two months since he’d left?

A burst of laughter returned her eyes to the stage, to the comedy performed by a traveling theatrical group from New York. The irony of the play’s name didn’t escape her.
The Thwarted Suitor.
Try as she might, she couldn’t follow the storyline, able actors though they were. Their exaggerated antics and painted faces both fascinated and repelled her, though Peyton seemed to find them amusing, and even Ansel and Daniel were laughing. Andra and Mina were absolutely rapt, as was Elspeth, hardly blinking as the drama unfolded. It was Elspeth who had talked them into going, despite Da’s quiet disapproval and Mama sending her regrets.

As her shivering increased, Ellie turned her thoughts toward warming up at Benedict’s afterward with steaming cups of chocolate and late-night chatter, something to take her mind off of Jack and Chloe.

She’d sent two letters addressed to Broad Oak since Jack’s leaving. Likely Isabel had intercepted them, as there’d been no reply. Ellie longed to know what Chloe was doing, if she was happy. She and Ben would have retired their fishing poles till spring. As for Jack, she’d been unable to put her thoughts to paper, unsure of where to send a letter. And she’d received no word from him . . .

A standing ovation soon freed the group from their balcony box, and they went out into the frosty night, Daniel taking her arm. Just down the street, Benedict’s was as crowded as the theater, but they were soon seated and served. Distracted by customers coming and going, Ellie sipped her chocolate and listened as everyone discussed the play’s highlights.

“Once I had dreams of being on the stage,” Elspeth told them, her smile almost wistful. “Your mother had gone to Philadelphia to work at the foundling hospital. I wanted to
join her in the city and audition. But when I arrived, the only thing I met with was yellow fever.”

“It’s not too late to further your ambitions, is it?” Peyton studied her in the flickering lamplight. “You’re lovelier than any actress I saw tonight and just as entertaining.”

“You flatter me—something I’ve always enjoyed.” She winked and everyone chuckled. “I’ve since decided that all of life is one grand drama. Who needs a stage? Besides, I don’t like the idea of traveling round with a company. I want to settle down.”

“Are you thinking of returning to York?” Daniel broached the question they all seemed to be pondering.

“I’m afraid the smithy in York was getting a mite crowded. My sister-in-law Felicity and I never quite saw eye to eye.”

“Ah, Felicity,” Andra murmured as she and Elspeth exchanged a glance. “A more high-strung soul there never was.”

“Pittsburgh is more to my liking.” Elspeth toyed with her cup, slanting a glance about the crowded room. “I’ve made inquiries and have found work at a millinery on Broad Street.”

“Are you fond of needlework, then?” Ellie asked.

“I’m not as gifted as your mother, but I do what I can.”

“I’d be glad to help you find lodging,” Peyton told her. “There’s a genteel boardinghouse on Liberty Street that might suit, with a view of the river.”

“Perhaps tomorrow. I’m anxious to settle in, attend church.”

Church? Ellie nearly choked on her chocolate. Since when was her aunt interested in spiritual matters? Could it be their prayers for Elspeth were being answered?

“You’re more than welcome at First Presbyterian.” Ansel, silent until now, extended an invitation.

Elspeth smiled—that lovely, evasive smile that made Ellie wonder what was really at work in her head and heart. “I used to attend church in York . . . with your father. I’m not entirely the sinner one might think.”

There was a breathless pause.

“I hardly think that,” Peyton replied. “Father and Mother rarely talk of York.”

“Well, I don’t blame them. ’Twas so long ago.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, trying to sort through the threads of conversation. Elspeth had been in Pittsburgh for months now, living at the hotel, dining nearly daily with Peyton. Ellie suspected she’d depleted all her funds. They’d expected her to return to York weeks ago.

Lost in thought, she let her gaze drift about the crowded room, past ladies’ elaborate winter bonnets and gentlemen’s top hats to a man rising from a corner table. Her heart tripped.
Jack?
Same wide-set shoulders, same formidable stature.

Jack’s father.

He turned around and looked their way, making Ellie want to slink beneath the table. But Henry Turlock wasn’t focused on her. His gaze fastened on Elspeth and stayed fast. Andra and Peyton were sparring over something. Daniel and Ansel and Mina were talking of the glassworks. No one else witnessed the spark of recognition in Henry’s face—or the answering flicker in Elspeth’s. Ellie felt a bewildering dismay.

The woman on Henry’s arm was not his wife. Clad in an ermine-lined cape and hat, jewels about her throat, she didn’t remotely resemble Isabel.

“My, my,” Elspeth remarked, unfolding a lace-tipped fan and smiling benignly at Ellie. “Benedict’s is a touch crowded tonight. I was like ice in the theater and now I’m practically on fire.”

Ellie lowered her eyes as Henry Turlock passed by their table. Heartsick, she resisted the urge to watch his exit. He even walked like Jack.

Ansel opened the boatyard office at dawn, feeling more rested than he had in days after a sound night’s sleep. Dr. Brunot had transported the last of the fugitives two nights prior, and the attic was now empty save the maids readying it in anticipation of the next need.

Tunneling a hand through his hair, he surveyed the latest shipbuilding plans, ignoring the new copy of the
Pittsburgh Gazette
that lay folded on his father’s desk. They usually read the headlines before the day began, but lately there seemed little news of note, aside from rising grain prices and an oil embargo . . . and a sudden flurry of wedding announcements. None of which were his or Ellie’s.

He sensed Daniel was becoming as frustrated as Mina. No pending engagement. No wedding date. Time ticked on, and neither he nor Ellie, it seemed, had the heart to settle matters.

“Mornin’, Mister Ansel.”

Ansel looked up to see a dark-headed lad in the doorway, fetching in wood for the stove crackling in a far corner.

“Morning, James. You’ve begun a fine fire.”

“Thank ye, sir.” He heaved his load across the room and dumped it in the wood box. “I’ll confess my mind ain’t on fires and such this mornin’ but the dim news wingin’ about town.”

“Oh?” Ansel replied absently, sharpening a stylus with a penknife.

“Aye, sir. I s’pose the paper there on the master’s desk is full of it, though I ain’t had time to read it myself.”

Curious, Ansel flipped the
Gazette
over, then turned it around to better eye the headline.

K
EELBOAT
S
INKS
IN
M
ISSOURI
S
TORM
.

“I never figured the river would claim as fine a man as Captain Maxwell. Don’t seem fair somehow.” The apprentice
was watching him, awaiting his reaction. “But those Turlocks, guess they got what they deserve. One of ’em, anyway.”

One
. . . The stylus fell from Ansel’s hand and clattered across the desktop. Though his eyes remained locked on the newsprint, he wanted to fling it into the fire. A line in boldface seemed to shout the tragic story.

A
LL
LOST
.

Stunned, he scanned the names of casualties, the little breakfast he’d eaten starting to churn. Listed below Captain Maxwell and crew was Jack Turlock. The sole passenger.

Och, Ellie.

He shut his eyes as if doing so could staunch the pain he felt for her, for Jack.
All lost.
Lost in the icy water. Lost eternally.

“Everything all right?” His father stood in the open doorway, asking a question he couldn’t answer.

James gave a somber greeting and finished tending the stove. Ansel swallowed, tried to speak. His father shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it from a peg by the door. When the lad went out, Ansel passed him the paper.

For just a moment Da’s stoicism slipped. There was a flash of disbelief followed by barefaced sadness. He murmured something in Gaelic that sounded like a prayer.

Sitting down, Ansel sank his head in his hands as his father reached for his coat again.

“I need to tell Ellie. I may or may not be back.”

The stone chapel wore a mantle of ivy and moss, the waning November sunlight casting a pale halo about the stone foundation. Ellie pushed open the wooden door and felt immediately at peace. Here her parents had been wed, each baby
christened in the Scots tradition. She’d recently confided to Mama that she’d like to marry here as well. Mama had smiled and nodded, probably thinking she meant Daniel.

Taking a seat on the first bench, she pushed her hands deeper into her fur-lined muff, feeling the cold stone beneath her. She didn’t mind the chill. It lent itself to clarity of thought, whereas her bedchamber fire lulled her to sleep. Here she could pray unhindered, without interruption. Andra never thought to look for her, and Mama never intruded on her private time.