Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (34 page)

He felt dazed. Bone weary. The days and nights since the sinking had been an endless blur.
Kindle a candle at both ends and it will soon go out.
The Irish saying returned to him, full of worry and warning. Stepping away from her, he opened a desk drawer and removed some papers and a small box, feeling time tick against him.

Ellie watched his sure movements, marveling that while she couldn’t stop trembling, Jack showed an unnerving calm. Firelight gilded his hair and his winter-tanned features, calling out deep shadows of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.

“If something should happen to me, if my father comes upon these papers, he’ll destroy them. I want you to take them to New Hope and keep them there.”

Confused, the pain in her heart building, she took the documents, her reluctant gaze making out the lettering of a will and deed of property.

“Your father approached me months ago about the sale of River Hill. I’d meant it for Chloe but have since made it out to him. I want it to be his—yours—if it can’t be mine.”

She felt a strange resistance override her surprise. Her father had approached him? Why?

River Hill means nothing to me without you.
Though she tried to hold them back, her tears spotted the papers, making the ink blot and run.

Laying the documents aside, he took something from his pocket.

She spoke past the catch in her throat. “A posy ring?”

“Aye, the one my grandfather the judge gave his bride.” He slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand, a near-perfect fit. The width and weight of it seemed to carry a promise. His voice was oddly rough, as if the words came
hard for one unused to tender things. “With this ring, I’m asking you to be my bride. To live here and make a better life. A faith-filled life. To turn River Hill into what it once was—a place of beauty. And peace.”

The words seemed solemn as a wedding vow. She stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, sealing a covenant wrought in words, if not in church. Though she’d tried to forget the wonder of his kisses, their sweet roughness stole her breath all over again. And then, without another word, he took her gently by the arm to the waiting sleigh.

From his perch in the cupola, Ansel could make out the dark lines of Ellie’s cutter slicing a new path across the whitewashed landscape toward New Hope. Relief tempered his anxious mood. He’d wanted to go after her as the winter light dwindled and she’d not come back.

Once home, she’d likely shed her wraps and go into the study. She’d been spending a lot of time there, not talking much but reading, as if she sought the comfort of their parents’ presence and the escape of books.

She’d become so fragile since Chloe’s death. And losing Jack Turlock seemed a blow she couldn’t recover from. Ellie’s feelings ran deep once her heart was won, much like his own. He felt the need to get her alone, confide in her about Sarah Nancarrow. The letter from England rested in his breast pocket and was fraying around the edges, he’d read it so many times. But Sarah would have to wait.

Now it was dusk, and the maids had been busy for half an hour, turning the house bright, bringing dozens of tapers to life. The scent of beeswax, pine, and spices was particularly heady. He could hear Mari’s high Welsh lilt in greeting and Ellie’s soft answer as she came into the foyer.

Bowing his head, he breathed a prayer of thanks and a petition for any who’d been waiting for him to light the signal lamp. The rivers were nigh frozen now and could be walked across without great risk, or so he hoped. Just two winters past, a young mother, her baby bound to her back, had crossed the Monongahela near River Hill. The river’s center had turned fragile, spilling them into the icy current, and she’d had to claw and crawl her way across. Hands and feet bleeding from the passage, she’d finally collapsed on shore.

Thankfully, Sol had found the mother and child and brought them to New Hope. Judith and little Tice had stayed for months before they’d been well enough to go north. The Ballantynes had considered letting them stay on, but bounty hunters had turned vigilant—and more vicious—bringing an end to the matter. Ansel recalled his mother’s weeping at their leaving, as she so often did when fugitives moved beyond the relative safety of New Hope.

Despite the fear shadowing him, his hands were uncommonly steady of late when he lit the cupola. Tonight he prayed the ice would hold. That Ellie’s broken heart would mend. That no more cryptic notes would be sent to him, warning, threatening, just like Brunot had received at the last. The doctor had become a hunted man . . . a haunted man.

And so had he.

Ellie came up the staircase, so shaken by Jack’s reappearance she felt the news was written on her face. Voices filtered down from overhead. Was the attic full again? If she ran into Andra or Mama, she could simply blame the cold for her red cheeks and trembling.

She reached the second-floor landing as Andra and Peyton started down from the third floor. Hurriedly she made it to
her room, slipping inside and shutting the door as quietly as she could. She leaned against it, willing her thoughts to be still, wishing her heart would follow. But she could do little but fall to her knees by the crackling hearth. For long minutes she sat locked in prayer, her petitions a muddle of joy and disbelief.

And terrible fear.

 34 

To him that you tell your secret you resign your liberty.

P
ROVERB

The dining room, bedecked with greenery, shone softly with candlelight, the best china and French crystal luminous. Mamie had outdone herself with one course after another, keeping them long at table. Ellie spooned her Christmas pudding at meal’s end, feeling stuffed with secrets as much as holiday fare. Beneath her bodice, the posy ring dangled on a thin slip of silk ribbon, an ever-present reminder of Jack. If not for that small token, she would have sworn she’d dreamed up that snowbound hour at River Hill the day before.

Her gaze roamed the room, resting on Peyton. Her older brother seemed absolutely besotted. Beside him, Penelope Cameron was clearly enjoying his monopolizing, cheeks red as the holly berries adorning the mantel. Next to her, Andra was eyeing the mistletoe—and Alec Duncan—warily. Ellie’s heart twisted for him . . . and Mina. Ansel, usually attentive, seemed preoccupied, even distant, tonight.

Her spirits sank further when she came to Elspeth. Her enigmatic aunt was being her most charming, centered between Daniel and his father. Would that she attend to the widowed Cullen instead of the married Henry. Ellie felt a nudge of sympathy for Isabel, who was surely aware of her husband’s dalliances. Perhaps this explained the deep bitterness Ellie had sensed in her at Broad Oak.

“Elinor, may I?” Daniel was looking down at her, extending an arm. She gave him a small smile, thinking how shocked he’d be—how shocked they’d all be—if they knew Jack was back.

Once dinner was over, they gathered in the parlor where the Yule log was lit, and Ansel took up his fiddle, giving Ellie a questioning look as if wishing she’d join in. But she simply sought a seat on the sofa nearest the hearth as he tightened his bow. Soon the firelit room resounded with a lively Scottish jig.

Thankfully, Daniel wouldn’t ask her to partner with him, as she was still mourning Chloe, if not Jack. Her dress, usually so festive on Christmas Day, was a deep purple, almost black, and served as a reminder. With twelve of them present, Daniel wouldn’t lack for partners, at least. Mina was dancing with Alec Duncan now and looking more animated by the minute.

Her parents passed in front of her, and Ellie felt the brush of Mama’s brocade gown. Mama was smiling at something Da had said, regarding him intently when they slowed to a waltz, in perfect time with his steps. The way her father was looking at her mother reminded Ellie of Jack. There was fire and steel in his gaze, tempered by tenderness. She’d witnessed their quiet exchange for years but had never understood the depths of it till now.

Watching them, she wondered without end how Jack was spending his Christmas. If he would honor her plea. He should be here in this very room, having partaken of their fine supper, daring to dance with her, experiencing the joy
of family and friends in ways he’d never known. Oh, what a cold, comfortless Christmas it was likely to be at River Hill with him in hiding . . .

At the anguished thought came the faintest rattle of glass like the tinkling of a chime. And then, in another breath, a tremendous boom seized the room. The dancing ceased. Ansel’s bow slid off the strings. Ellie’s pulse picked up in rhythm, strenuous as the reel he’d just abandoned. Absently she put a hand to her bodice, feeling the posy ring beneath.

Her father looked west. “Broad Oak, mayhap.”

Ellie felt a sickening certainty it had to do with Jack. She took a deep breath, fumbling with her fan, afraid her own culpability was splayed across her face. She so wanted to share the joy of Jack’s return as well as the burden it wrought. That he was bent on ruining Broad Oak—foiling his father and Wade—she now knew without a doubt. The Turlocks’ legacy of violence and misdeeds spanned generations and seemed unstoppable.

Elspeth settled on the sofa beside her, arranging her peacock-blue skirts to their best advantage. “Elinor, you look so very pale.”

Ellie swallowed down a sigh. The fact that she was sitting knee to knee with Henry Turlock’s mistress restored her color, surely. “You’re kind to take notice, Aunt,” she said politely, nearly flinching in anticipation of the next boom.

“I saw that you ate little at dinner. I’m afraid not even all this commotion can put a dent in my appetite.” Mamie had come into the room, serving syllabub, and Elspeth reached eagerly for a cup. “Peyton tells me your dear papa may be whisking you away to Scotland ere long.”

“Oh?” Surprised, Ellie looked to where her father had been standing, only to find he’d left the room. “I’d love to see the land of his birth, Highland Perthshire especially. There’s
said to be a portrait of Niel Ballantyne and his fiddle in the great hall of Blair Castle . . .” Her voice trailed off. She’d not wanted to confide such things, but Elspeth’s presence always rattled her beyond reasoning.

“That might be just the remedy for what ails you.” Elspeth’s voice turned silk soft in consolation. “New vistas, new memories. Even my short trip from York to Pittsburgh has done wonders for me.”

Ellie said nothing to this, relieved when Ansel resumed playing, this time a slow air. Thankfully, no other noises rattled the windowpanes. She looked toward the wavy glass to the snowy world beyond and said another silent prayer, trying to latch on to the wonder of Christmas.

Joy to the world.

The next day brought high winds and blowing snow—and word that another of Broad Oak’s costly Irish stills had exploded on Christmas Day, shutting down the entire operation. The
Pittsburgh Gazette
shouted the story in bold black, telling how the great numbers of livestock there, fattened on the spent mash left over from the distilling, had gotten loose and were running amuck over Allegheny County.

Peyton had chuckled when he’d read the news aloud, envisioning the inebriated animals unsteady of foot. Even the waterfowl about Broad Oak were said to be flapping drunkenly, and there were precious few slaves left to restore order. Ellie was not amused, her scattered thoughts pinned on Jack.

Now in late afternoon, curled into a Windsor chair by the study fire, Ellie reread the opening lines of
Pamela
twice, three times. But the passionate love story failed to hold her. The scratch of her father’s pen stole her concentration, as did Mama’s soft humming as she sewed across the room.

In the past she’d always welcomed winter, if for no other reason than it freed her father and brothers from the demands of boatyard and mercantile. With the rivers frozen and every boat locked in ice, they’d not see the spring thaw till March. By then she hoped to be a bride. Settled at River Hill. Perhaps expecting a child.

Or in Scotland, if Da had his way.

Jack’s posy ring lay warm against her skin. She longed to slip it on her finger, slip free of the secrecy of hiding it. Her prayers to either confess Jack’s reappearing or stay silent clamored inside her without answer. Now the silence, the nearness of her parents, seemed to call for a confession. She cleared her throat and set her book aside, beset by misgivings. Would she betray Jack by doing so? Or help him in some way?

She started to speak as a timid knock sounded. When the door opened, Ellie shed her resolve. A worried Gwyn appeared, eyes on Da. “Pardon, sir, but the sheriff is here to see you.”

More news from Broad Oak? Breath held, Ellie uncurled from her knot, smoothing her skirts as her father stood and Mama looked up from her sewing. Sheriff Ramsay’s ponderous form filled the doorway, several aldermen behind him in dark greatcoats and hats.

“Sheriff . . . gentlemen,” her father said in greeting. “What brings you out in this weather?”

There was the slightest pause. “I wish I had a better reason than this . . .” Ramsay hesitated, his expression almost apologetic as he gave a nod to Ellie and her mother before turning back to the man looming large behind his desk. “As acting sheriff of Allegheny County, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Ellie took a step back as if buffeted by the words, her dress hem brushing the dog irons. But she barely noticed the heat scorching her linen stockings. Her gaze ricocheted between
Mama’s shocked features and her father’s stoicism, his expression never wavering.

Ramsay took out a paper—the warrant? “We also have reason to search the premises, beginning with the house.”

“On what grounds?” Da asked quietly.

“Harboring slaves.” Ramsay’s tone turned cold. “Not only harboring but equipping them with firearms, a federal offense.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew something wrapped in linen. Uncovering it, he held a pistol aloft. “We have the slave in custody who named you as the source of the weapon. You well know the penalty for arming fugitives, Ballantyne.”

Suddenly nauseous, Ellie fastened her gaze on the pistol—the very one she’d secured beneath the chaise seat that fearful day on the back road. ’Twas Mama’s weapon, rarely used. The pearl handle and markings couldn’t be mistaken even from several feet away. “I was last in possession of that pistol.” Her voice, maddeningly feeble in her alarm, was directed at Ramsay, though her eyes sought the safety of Da’s own.

Her father turned toward her, bade her stay silent with a single piercing look.

The sheriff’s expression hardened. “Then perhaps I should take you both into custody—”

“Nae.” The stern word erected a wall as her father cast a grim glance at the men. “Do what you will with me, but leave my family alone.”

Stepping aside, the sheriff motioned to an alderman bearing shackles.

Ellie’s heart clenched and didn’t let go. Did they think her father posed a threat? Might run? All seemed to freeze as a commotion erupted in the foyer.

Andra pushed past the throng of men, stiff with fury as she stepped into the room. “Shackles?” Her voice swelled with
censure as she leveled Ramsay with a look. “Are you insane? Or simply stupid?” She snatched the shackles away and flung them into the hearth’s fire, where they clattered noisily against the grate. “This is a Ballantyne,
not
a blackguard! Not a Turlock!”

There was a stunned silence. Ramsay’s gaze became a glare of ice. Undaunted, Andra stood between their father and the men, only retreating when he spoke a few terse words in Scots.

“Caumie doun, dochtor.”

The quiet admonishment touched Ellie, but she was drowning in too much dismay to heed it. While two of the men began to open doors and search the study and ground floor, another two hastened upstairs. Fear left a sour taste in Ellie’s mouth as she watched their ascent. The attic was full of slaves—three had come Christmas Eve, the fourth Christmas Day.

Desperate, she looked toward Ansel. His restraining hand was on Andra’s arm as the sheriff escorted their father outside to a waiting coach, its black lines forbidding, the horses’ breaths pluming in the cold.

Mama was standing alone in the study doorway, her head bent. Was she praying? Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. Ellie groped for a handkerchief in her dress pocket, her own face wet.

The foyer was closing in now, whirling and blackening. Her father’s sturdy form disappeared into the coach’s confines, swallowed from view by the sudden shutting of the door.