Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (32 page)

She daydreamed as much as she prayed, dressing the little kirk with ribbons and roses as if it were her wedding day. At long last she’d wear Mama’s silk dress and veil. Chloe would be best maid along with Andra, if Andra didn’t protest her Turlock groom. There would be a bride’s cake, a honeymoon. But none of it mattered, truly. If no one came—if there was only a small celebration—nothing could take away the joy she felt in Jack’s presence.

Bending her head, she tried to quell her longing, the mere memory of his embrace making her woozy. Her every prayer was that he’d come back to her again. She felt bewildered that she didn’t know just where he was. As the days passed, she fought the perplexing feeling he’d somehow moved beyond the reach of her caring. Her prayers.

Footfalls made her look up. Da? His beloved form filled the doorway, seeming strangely out of place. He rarely came here. Her smile waned at the look on his face, the grieved green of his eyes.

She stood, her muff falling to the bench as her thoughts began a wild dance. “Are you all right? Is Mama?”

He came nearer, all too silent, his arms closing about her. He rested his cheek against her loosely pinned hair. In that instant she sensed his desperate struggle, his anguished reluctance to say what he must.

“Ellie . . . there’s been an accident downriver.”

“An accident?” The frantic lilt of her pulse filled her ears.

“On the keelboat your Jack was traveling on.”

Your Jack.

She went completely still. In the silence of her heart, she knew.

“The paper reports the sinking happened a fortnight ago. I confirmed it with port authorities before leaving town.”

The words washed over her, stormy and frightening and strange. She listened to them as if from a distance. As if she were drowning too.

“The boat was caught in a storm at the headwaters of the Missouri. The cargo was too heavy and it capsized.”

“All . . . lost?” Her voice broke.

“Aye, ’tis said.”

Lost.
What a world of hurt lay within the smallness of that word.

She felt herself fade as a tide of anguish rose inside her.
Jack! Jack! Jack!

Her sobs filled the chapel, rebounding off cold stone walls, bringing her to her knees. If not for the hard arms around her, she’d have sunk to the stones at her feet. They stood a long time amidst her weeping, oblivious to the cold and Andra’s distant call and the winter darkness pressing in on them.

Regret rushed in. She should have gone with him. Should have been there at the last. She far preferred a watery grave to life without him.

They were being so careful of her. In the days to come, everyone at New Hope seemed to tiptoe around her. Broken, numbed by a chasm of lost, she’d finally told Daniel the reason she couldn’t wed him.

“But Elinor . . .” He looked down at her, his conundrum
playing out across his face. “With all respect to Jack Turlock and his passing, there’s no longer any impediment to us . . . once you’ve finished mourning, that is.”

“And you would still have me, knowing I love another.” Even the suggestion seemed a compromise, a betrayal.

“I would still have you, knowing you’d stop loving him in time.”

In time.
Did such heartache ever ease? Or did it only deepen? Her prayers for Jack, for their future, had gone unanswered. She felt haunted. Had Jack cried out to God in the storm? Had his last thoughts been of her? She would live with the gnawing uncertainty the rest of her days.

Her tangled thoughts swung to Chloe. Who had told Chloe the terrible news? Had they done so gently? Had there been anyone at Broad Oak to hold her and bear the brunt of her hurt? Chloe loved Jack so, and he, in his own gruff way, had loved her. He’d tried to do right by Chloe, tried to give her something beyond Broad Oak’s coldness and deceit.

She went through the motions of each day, trying to keep sudden, stubborn reminders at bay, but they were everywhere. The rivers turned stormy, tormenting her anew. Ansel donned a swallowtail coat, a replica of Jack’s the night of the ball. A message came from Broad Oak, hand delivered by Sol, casting her back to Chloe’s first note saying Jack would allow lessons.

She took the paper from Sol’s wrinkled hand warily, her emotions as raw and reddened as her eyes.

“Ben asked me to bring this to you real quiet-like.” His voice was low, as if sharing a secret.

Ellie thanked him, his sorrowful expression weighting her long after he’d left. She tore open the paper in the privacy of her room, her fingers trembling.

Pleez cum. Cloe sic.

Heartsick, no doubt. Had Chloe taught Ben to write, to read? It could be nothing else. With a purpose she’d not felt in days, Ellie wrapped herself in a dark cloak and bonnet and hurried to the stables. As the coach rolled away, she wondered if Andra and the maids watched her going, mystified. She’d forgotten to tell anyone she was leaving.

She’d never been to Broad Oak, daunting prospect as it was. Consumed by Jack’s passing, she gave little thought to her mission, the fear she felt over arriving unannounced and uninvited buried deep. She prayed Henry Turlock wasn’t at home. He frightened her in ways she couldn’t fathom. Even now she recalled seeing him at Benedict’s and felt a latent chill.

A dour-faced housekeeper let her in and grudgingly went to fetch the mistress. Ellie’s gaze climbed the ornate staircase after her, lingering on the angelic mural overshadowing the foyer. Heaven . . . harps . . . plump, smiling cherubs. Harps aside, she didn’t believe in that kind of eternity. Stilted. Shallow. The scene resurrected her deepest fear. She craved the comfort, the reassurance, that she’d see Jack again. In a place far removed from Broad Oak’s stairwell ceiling.

The house was all too hushed. She latched on to the hope that Chloe wasn’t truly sick but heartsick, and would come running down the steps into her arms. Her courage almost faltered when Isabel Turlock appeared instead. Clad in black, she descended the staircase slowly, without a single gem of the jewelry she was known for except an elaborate mourning ring. At the bottom, she squared her shoulders, and the enmity in her eyes erected a wall.

“Miss Ballantyne, I believe.”

“I’ve come to see Chloe.”

“Chloe is ill.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie saw a sudden movement. Wade had come into the hall, coatless and dressed as casually
as Jack had once been, driving home his memory. The band of pain around her heart tightened. “I’d still like to see her.”

“Another day, perhaps.”

“Another day might be too late.” Her fleeting time with Jack had taught her that. Never again would she take time, a life, for granted.

“Are you insisting, then?” Crossing her arms, Isabel withered Ellie with a look. “Of all the impudent, unladylike—”

Clutching her skirts, Ellie did the unthinkable and pushed past Isabel, anguish propelling her up the unfamiliar staircase. Isabel’s shouts to stop only fueled her steps. At the very top, a great many closed doors seemed to mock her impulsiveness. Which was Chloe’s? Hearing a noise, she whirled round to find Wade taking the stairs two at a time in her wake. To escort her out by force?

The heft of him, his flinty expression, stole her courage. She’d beg if she had to. But he simply stepped around her and walked to a far door before thrusting it open. Ellie rushed toward it, hearing Isabel call for the housekeeper below. Trembling, distrustful of Wade, she all but slammed the door and slid the bolt into place. Wade’s footfalls faded, but his ensuing argument with his mother was far harder to dismiss.

Behind her, Chloe lay on the bed, her face lacking any color, her hair shorn short. Because of a fever? Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Ellie expected to see the usual clutter left by a physician—opaque bottles and bloodletting devices—but the nearest table was bare save a guttered candle and an untouched cup of tea. No doctor . . . Why?

Dropping to her knees by the bed, she reached for Chloe’s still hand. “Chloe, ’tis only me. Ben sent a note round by Sol. I-I didn’t realize you’ve been teaching him to read and write.” The simple, misspelled words were indelibly penned in her
heart and head, evidence of a boy’s heartfelt affection and concern. “I’m so proud of you.”

To her relief, the limp fingers gave the barest squeeze.

“I heard about River Hill.” Ellie kept her voice soft, afraid of taxing Chloe with too much talk. “Sol said it’s yours now.”

Chloe’s eyes fluttered open. “I want to go . . . be with Jack . . . I miss him so.”

Not only you, Chloe.

The sorrow of the moment cut deep. How was it that she had so much—a loving family, a good name, a secure home—and Chloe had so little? Why had Chloe lost the one thing that mattered most?

Ellie worked to keep her voice even and hopeful. “When you’re better, we can continue lessons and plant the garden like we planned—make it pretty again. We’ll even go fishing.”

Cool fingers caressed her damp cheek. “Say a prayer for me, Miss Ellie . . . Say some Scripture.” Chloe’s eyes closed again. “Too tired to talk . . .”

A noise at the door reminded Ellie she was an unwelcome guest. She’d run out of time. Words. Hope. Chloe was holding on to life by a slender thread, one frayed by things too hard for a girlish heart to hold.

“Then just listen, Chloe love.” Though she felt mired in heartache, a beloved Scots Psalm rose above her sorrow. Her father’s deep voice returned to her, undergirding her much as his arms had done in the chill of the chapel when she’d learned of Jack’s fate, helping her speak words of comfort and truth. “‘The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want. He makes me down to lie, in pastures green he leadeth me the quiet waters by
 . . .
’”

In the stillness of the unfamiliar room, the Lord seemed near.

And that was enough.

 32 

My harp also is turned to mourning, and my organ into the voice of them that weep.

J
OB
30:31

Ellie faced Isabel in the foyer and found that the woman was regarding her with even more hostility than before. She’d earned it, she guessed, barging upstairs like she’d done. For a few breathless moments, Ellie tried to fathom that this was Jack’s mother, a woman who might have been her mother-in-law. But she could find no hint of her beloved in this irate woman who was clearly desirous of her leaving.

“Chloe is in dire need of a physician. I fear she’s more ill than you might think.” Ellie looked past Isabel to Wade. But Wade was regarding her in an unnerving, half-amused way, as if she was merely providing him an afternoon’s entertainment. She renewed her plea, flushed and perspiring beneath her heavy cape. “Dr. Brunot will come as soon as possible, I’m sure—”

“I don’t remember you having any medical background,
Miss Ballantyne, only a simple day school.” Isabel gripped the newel post of the staircase. “And I’m insulted that you force your way into my house, uninvited, and dictate what I should do with my daughter.” She motioned for the housekeeper to open the front door. “Chloe will mend. Besides, I’ll not let Brunot set foot on this property, given his sentiments.”

His sentiments?
The words were coated with such derision there was no mistaking their meaning. “Then send for Phipps or Alexander,” Ellie retorted. “They share your own misguided views, if I’m not mistaken.”

At this Wade smirked. Phipps and Alexander were proslavery physicians, both outspoken opponents of Brunot. Ellie couldn’t have fueled Isabel’s ire more if she’d set fire to her.

“Horse doctors, the both of them!” Isabel spat. “As for you, Elinor Ballantyne, I’ll thank you not to show your face here again or bestow any more of your unwanted advice.”

Ellie ached to have the last word, then gave way. Shaking, she hurried out, sensing the deeper danger of encountering Henry Turlock the longer she tarried. Never had she been so glad to flee a place, yet she felt brutally torn as she got into the waiting coach.

All the way home she prayed, so undone she felt she was on the brink of falling ill herself. She tried desperately to quiet her thoughts, but the sound of Peyton’s raised voice sent her spinning as she set foot in the house. It carried through the open study doorway into the foyer, heated and dismayed. Ansel spoke next, his voice equally aggrieved. Were they sparring again?

Intent on her room, Ellie’s foot touched the first step when Andra’s voice stopped her cold. “Elinor, where have you been?”

“Broad Oak,” she confessed, her voice thick from weeping.

“Broad Oak?” The revulsion in Andra’s tone cut her. “Why?”

“Chloe is ill.”

Peyton appeared and motioned them both into the study, out of the maids’ hearing, and shut the door. Ellie was relieved to find Ansel in the shadows. “El, are you all right?”

She could only stare at him in mute appeal, emotion closing her throat.

“You didn’t see Brunot at Broad Oak, I suppose.” At the shake of her head, he ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. “I’m afraid he’s missing. Mrs. Brunot says he hasn’t been seen or heard from since leaving for a medical call out Braddock’s Road two days past.”

Peyton shrugged. “He’s likely attending a birth or death at some far-flung farm for all we know.”

“Well, I don’t have a good feeling about it,” Ansel replied.

“Nor do I.” Andra walked to a window, giving Peyton a sidelong glance. “And I’m tired of you making light of everything, including the equally disturbing matter of Aunt Elspeth’s latest admirer.”

Peyton tugged nonchalantly on the bell cord. “She has many admirers, most of them widowers.”

“And one most decidedly
not
,” Andra shot back, eyeing him fiercely.

“Henry Turlock’s peccadilloes are well known.”

“That’s not the point. I lay the blame at your door for introducing them.”

“I didn’t introduce them. Wade did.”

“So Wade had already made Elspeth’s acquaintance?”

“Aye, at the theater.”

Ellie stepped between them, hoping to quell the quarrel. “Where are Da and Mama?”

“Dining with friends in town,” Andra told her.

Ellie sank into a chair by the glowing hearth, wanting to curl up into a little ball and go to sleep. Peyton and Andra’s
arguing stilled while Gwyn served tea, only to resume the moment she went out again. Resisting the urge to cover her ears, Ellie looked toward Ansel.

He took a seat beside her, sympathy in his eyes. “You didn’t receive a warm welcome at Broad Oak, I take it.”

“I didn’t expect one.” Isabel’s barbs still clung to her, bitter and hurtful, but it was Chloe she was most concerned about. “Please pray for Chloe. She’s very ill and heartsick over—” She stumbled on Jack’s name. She hadn’t spoken it aloud since the tragedy. “Isabel won’t send for a doctor. I mentioned Brunot and she flatly refused.”

“We can’t force a physician on them, but we’ll pray Chloe weathers this without one.” Though his words were reassuring, the alarm in his eyes held fast. “As for Brunot, he didn’t come last night as planned, and he’s not one to miss a meeting. We have four friends needing transport north.”

She felt a shiver of alarm yet clung to Peyton’s assumption that the doctor was simply making a prolonged call. “You’ll go in his stead then.”

“Aye, I’ll go—and gladly. But it doesn’t help explain his absence.”

“Be careful.” Her soft words were almost lost amidst the swell of Andra’s and Peyton’s voices across the room. “I suppose you’ll take the newly refitted coach—the one like Dr. Brunot’s.” At his nod, she pushed past her exhaustion. “Let me go with you—you’ll need a ruse. You can’t go driving an empty vehicle about the county and arouse suspicion.”

“I’m hoping no one will notice.”

“I’ll say I’m visiting Harmony Grove. Mama and I do have friends there.”

“El, it’s too risky.”

“’Tis far less so with me as a passenger, surely.”

He studied her, his gaze heavy with indecision.

“Please,” she urged, wanting to help, wishing Andra and Peyton would stop their wrangling. Lowering her voice, she asked, “What is all this about Aunt Elspeth?”

“Elspeth seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time with Henry Turlock of late. A dangerous liaison, Da says.”

Dangerous
seemed an understatement. ’Twas shocking. Frightening. “I recall seeing him at Benedict’s,” she said, remembering how he’d given Elspeth a lingering look. But in truth, her striking aunt garnered many admiring glances wherever she went.

“We can do little about Elspeth, but we can pray for Chloe and manage the fugitives as best we can.” Ansel stood and looked down at her, his reluctance plain. “We’ll delay a while longer in hopes Brunot will return. But we’ll soon need to act. More fugitives are waiting to cross the river.”

I’m in love with you. I’ve long been in love with you. Do you believe me?

Ellie’s needle slipped. Drew blood. A scarlet drop fell onto the ivory cloth she was embroidering and melted into it, soiling the lovely fabric. ’Twas Mama’s Christmas gift, but she didn’t feel so much as a flicker of dismay. Her heart was not in her task. It felt as frozen as the Allegheny outside her window, ice-hardened in the fist of winter. Sometimes she doubted it would ever thaw or see spring.

A month had passed since she’d heard of Jack’s death, a fortnight since she’d seen Chloe at Broad Oak. She seemed to watch the goings-on around her like a wax figure or a spectator viewing a play, with little interaction or interest.

Somehow she’d made the trip to Harmony Grove with Ansel more than once, despite Da’s concerns. He’d spoken
to her about reopening the day school sooner than planned, but she doubted she’d do so even come spring. That seemed a part of her past, buried with Jack.

As Christmas neared, Mama went about singing hymns and keeping the small staff busy with preparations.
Nollaig Beag
, or Little Christmas, was not to be missed, despite the pall of mourning. Mamie was immersed in the kitchen, baking an abundance of Yule bread and black bun, the fragrance rivaling the confectionery on Water Street. Swaths of holly and berries and greenery were wound round the stair banister by Mari and Gwyn, every mantel adorned with countless candles. All wished for wintry weather. Christmas without snow is poor fare, Da always said.

Ellie tried to fasten her thoughts on the things that had brought such pleasure in years past, but the darkness inside her was too deep. Her every thought seemed to be one unending prayer. For Chloe. Dr. Brunot, still missing. The fugitives in their care. Aunt Elspeth.

“Ellie?”

Mama came into the parlor and shut the door, the concern in her eyes making Ellie’s heart leap with renewed alarm. “Sol is here to see you. I asked him to wait in your father’s study. But if you’d rather, I can see why he’s come in your stead.”

Ellie’s hurry to the door was her answer. ’Twas the finest Christmas gift imaginable to have Chloe well again. Had he come all this way to tell her on such a bitter, windy day? Perhaps deliver a note from Chloe herself? Her spirits lightened at the very thought.

As Mama looked on, she crossed the foyer and entered the study, leaving the door open in her haste. Sol stood facing the fire, shoulders bowed. Slowly he turned round.

Ellie’s hopes collapsed at first glance. The grave look on his face negated any glad news, and she was cast back to the
shattering moment she’d heard about Jack. Unable to give a greeting, she sought the nearest chair.

“I’m afraid I don’t bring much other than bad tidings here lately, Miz Ellie. But I figured you’d want to know straightaway. It’s about Miz Chloe . . .” He struggled for control, his eyes dark pools. “She was buried at Broad Oak yesterday.”

Ellie stared at him, unable to take it in. Unwilling.

Heartache upon heartache.

“It’s said she went real peaceful-like.” A tear glazed his wrinkled cheek. “Sally—Ben’s granny—was with her when she passed.”

Sally . . . one of Broad Oak’s slaves. The irony was not lost on Ellie. Despite the sickening swirl of the room, she felt deeply thankful it was Sally who’d been with Chloe. Though they’d never met, she sensed Sally was a believer. ’Twas only fitting that Chloe was ushered into the presence of the King by one who knew Him well.

“She told Sally—” Sol looked away, the hat in his hands clenched tight. “At the last Miz Chloe told Sally that she saw somebody waitin’.”

Her voice, when it finally came, sounded far-off and fragile. “Somebody?”

“Aye. Mister Jack.”

Jack.

And Jesus.