Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (35 page)

“What the devil is happening here?”

’Twas Peyton’s voice, as aggrieved as Andra’s had been, resounding to the rafters as he came in the back door. Ellie latched on to the strength of it even as her own was ebbing. But the darkness proved too deep, and she let go, tumbling into an inky abyss.

The pungent scent of smelling salts brought Ellie round, but it was more shame over her weakness that propped her upright. Ansel hovered over her where she lay on the study sofa, concern etched across his handsome face. The room was empty. The house was empty. She felt it—and feared it.

“El, I need you, never more than now.” He raked a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the study door as if expecting the sheriff to reappear. “Peyton and Andra have gone to town with Mother to the jail. A few aldermen are searching the grounds, starting at the river’s edge.”

She listened, breathing in hartshorn and camphor and the scent of cloves, her head coming clear.

“I want you to ride to the mill right away.” Glancing away, he called for Mari and asked her to fetch a cape before lowering his voice again. “The runaways are hiding there—”

“They weren’t found in the attic, then? By the sheriff’s men?”

“Nay.” His features hinted at impatience. “There’s no time for questions. Ride to the mill and tell them to slip through the woods and cross the creek, heading north to Ferry Road. They’re to wait in the brush and watch for a wagon bearing hogsheads. The driver will conceal them and take them to safety, Lord willing.”

He helped her to her feet, enfolded her in the cape Mari brought, and fastened the braided collar. “Your mare is saddled and waiting behind the stables. I won’t be here when you return.”

The cryptic words swam round her head, silencing the queries that sprang to her lips. Without a look back, she hurried toward the stables, shivering, stumbling.

The journey to the mill took twice as long with sleet spattering her face and the wind working to tear her hood free. Fear beat a suffocating rhythm inside her all the way. Would the sheriff’s men follow?

At last the old edifice rose up, its dark timbers starkly ugly against the melting snow. Likely the poor, shivering souls within were huddled behind the secret door in back of the wheel. An eerie silence hovered as she tethered her horse to a laurel bush and fought the tremor of apprehension that urged her to flee.

A tentative push to the door left her overcome by the odor of old grain and dampness and the drip of water. When a rough hand clasped her arm, pulling her inside, she gasped. Something hard and cold pressed against her temple.

“P-please,” she stuttered wildly. “I-I mean no harm.”

She heard a terse oath as both hand and pistol fell away.

“Ellie, forgive me—I couldn’t see who approached.”

Jack.

Her surprise was so great she fell against him. Clutching his coat with shaking hands, she tried to steady her voice as Ansel’s instructions spilled out of her. “You must hurry—the sheriff’s men are searching the property as we speak.”

In moments, without another word, he’d opened the trap door behind the giant wheel. Four fugitives shuffled past by the light of a lone lantern, each clutching blankets, making her think they’d left the attic hours ago. Ellie stood silent as they passed, emotion closing her throat. When they’d almost reached the door, Jack asked them to wait.

Bending his head, he began to pray. Haltingly. Brokenly. Though the words seemed wrenched from his very soul, a sense of wonder pervaded the still place, beginning in Ellie’s thankful heart. “Almighty Father, you created all men equal, and for that liberty we give you heartfelt thanks. These fugitives are in your faithful hands. Guide them safely to freedom and lives spent in Your service. For this we plead Your everlasting mercy.”

It was a prayer she’d heard uttered by Dr. Brunot many
times in the last few months, before he’d gone missing. While she pondered it, Jack said “Amen” and led the group out, leaving her to murmur her own prayer on their behalf.

In minutes he returned, shutting the door soundly. His beard scraped her cheek as he took her in his arms. “What’s happening at New Hope?”

She shut her eyes, still woozy. “The sheriff and his men came with a warrant and a pistol—the one the bounty hunters took from me that day along the back road. They claim my father gave it to a slave, so they’ve arrested him. I feared when they searched the house—”

“Ben overheard Wade say the sheriff was planning to arrest your father today, and he told Sol.” His arms tightened about her. “I rode over in the night to give a warning. Ansel asked me to bring the runaways here in his stead. He felt his absence would arouse suspicions if the sheriff came.”

She could only imagine Ansel’s shock at Jack’s appearing. As if reading her thoughts, he murmured, “I had a rough go of it convincing him to trust me—and making sure no one else saw me. We transferred the runaways soon after.”

“You’ve been here since last night?” Beneath her hands he felt chilled to the bone, his clothes seeped with cold.

“I’m only concerned about the fugitives . . . your father.” He brushed back a stray curl from her face. “You.”

“My father—” Her voice broke. “What will happen to him now?”

“Your father has been incriminated on false evidence. He’s done nothing wrong except shame those who are cowards about their convictions, who won’t make a stand against slavery. There’s a proslavery ring in Allegheny County that is working to undermine abolitionists. Ramsay and other city leaders are among them. My father and Wade are said to be the founders of the group.”

“Then Da has little chance—”

He put a finger to her lips. “I’m doing what I can to distract them at Broad Oak and elsewhere. And I’m privy to their plans.”

“But if your father or Wade realize you’re alive . . .” Overcome, she pressed her cheek against the smooth wool of his coat.

“I’m simply giving them a taste of their own medicine. And I have no fear for my own life. Not since coming to Christ. As the old saint Whitefield said, we are immortal until our work is done.” He took her gently by the shoulders. “Go home, Ellie. I’ve more work to do. Pray for your father. The fugitives. Pray for me.”

 35 

Love can hope where reason would despair.

L
ORD
G
EORGE
L
YTTELTON

Nearly dawn, it was the day of Silas Ballantyne’s arraignment. So wary the hair on the back of his neck bristled, Jack positioned Ben at the edge of the clearing to act as sentinel. Though Jack had yet to disturb the soil, the shovel was heavy in his hand and sweat slicked his brow. A band of sunlight stretched across the silent meadow, promising to melt the remaining snow.

His breathing quickened as he turned the shovel over on its side and scraped free a sheen of ice. The grass beneath was missing, and mud met his gaze. A fresh grave, just as he’d suspected. Not only the lawman’s of old.

Brunot’s.

Heartsick, he thrust the shovel into frigid ground. His father must have been hopelessly drunk to have planted both bodies in the same place. And a hurried job it had been. Casting a look at Ben to make sure he was acting as lookout and was spared the grisly sight, Jack began to dig.

For all its gilt and glitter, Sloane’s Boardinghouse had a slatternly reputation, its posture on the edge of Pittsburgh a reminder of its removal from polite society. Though a far cry from the Palais-Royal or the Château-Gontier Jack’s father frequented when in Paris, its lush, whiskey-laden rooms boasted courtesans just the same. Till today, Jack had never been inside, though one step into the foyer shook him to the core. He spied a prominent attorney’s profile as the man disappeared for a tryst in an upstairs room.

He’d planned his visit carefully, knowing his father and most of Pittsburgh would be in court for Silas’s arraignment. Wade and Isabel would have gone with Henry, not wanting to miss the glorious descent of a man so many respected, even revered. Jack wagered Elspeth would shun the courtroom drama and remain behind at Sloane’s. Henry would likely join her here once the proceedings were over. Elspeth Lee provided a welcome distraction from all the chaos swirling around them.

His father, flummoxed and furious over the destruction at Broad Oak, had hired bounty hunters to track those responsible. He’d also ordered another still from Ireland and sent Marcum to Kentucky to bring up more slaves. Henry Turlock was not a man to be daunted for long.

Jack removed his hat and dangled it in one hand while running callused fingers over his beard with the other. The gilt mirror opposite reflected a well-dressed man, slightly gaunt, his whiskers a handy ruse. Shadows rimmed his eyes, bespeaking one too many sleepless nights and a great deal of mischief. He was growing weary of playing the game, and he couldn’t hide forever. Someone might well recognize him here and the news would spread like fever.

A sudden movement from a side parlor caught his eye. Silk skirts rustling, a woman came forward, rouge marking high
cheekbones the color of her ruby gown. Madame Sloane? “Welcome to my establishment, Mister . . . ?”

Jack ignored the question. “I’m here to see Elspeth Lee.”

“Miss Lee?” She seemed surprised, slanting him a shrewd glance and reaching for a bell on a marble-top table. “Is she expecting you?”

The appearance of a maid spared him an answer. When Madame turned back to him, a question in her eyes, he said, “I won’t be long.” But in truth, he’d be here as long as it took.

“Very well, then. If you’ll wait in the red parlor, Anna will escort her down.” She began a slow, unnerving walk around him. “But I must ask that you leave all weapons at the door or in my safekeeping while you’re here.” Extending a hand, she waited as he reluctantly withdrew a pistol from his greatcoat and a knife from his boot.

In moments, he was hemmed in as the maid closed the parlor’s double doors and Elspeth Lee stood facing him. Though he’d only seen her at a distance, he knew she was a handsome woman. But the similarities linking her to Ellie’s lovely mother ended there. The sisters simply bore the same remarkable eyes, as blue as the Monongahela on the clearest day, and the same lushness of figure.

“Have we . . . met?” She was taking his measure, her gaze warming with unmistakable interest.

“I’m Henry Turlock’s son Jack.” He felt the same reluctance of old at the admission.

Her brows arched. “The one who drowned at the headwaters of the Missouri?” She was smiling at him slightly, as if privy to some secret joke. “Well, I must say, you’re in fine form for a dead man.”

He nearly smiled back at her as she sat down upon a near sofa and smoothed her skirts, her gaze swinging back to him warily.

Taking the chair opposite, he set his hat aside, gaze roaming a room made darker by several shaded windows. “I’m here to talk about your future,” he began thoughtfully, remembering all that Ansel had told him. He chose his words carefully, not wanting to rile her but simply back her into an uncomfortable corner. “I thought you’d want to know that my father will soon be in the Allegheny County Jail on charges of murder—”

“Murder!” She seemed amused again—and disbelieving—though she cast a quick look at the door as if fearing someone might be listening.

He kept his voice low. “Murder, aye. A far cry from the charges of petty thievery against you.” He let the words take hold, rued the slight hardening of her features. “Since Madame Sloane likes to be paid on time, you’ll soon be out on the street without my father’s backing. You can’t return to York, as your brother has a warrant out for your arrest. Even now your transgressions there are circulating in the papers.”

He reached into his coat pocket, removed a copy of the
York Gazette
, and placed it on the table between them. “The money you stole from your brother’s smithy has no doubt run out, making my father’s offer to keep you here a very convenient, if temporary, solution. You’ll get no help from the Ballantynes, as there is still the matter of a fire and the death of your infant son between you—”

“How dare you!” She lashed him with the words, all levity gone. “That was years ago! Nothing was ever proven, no charges filed.”

“All sins cast a long shadow, as the Irish say. My father is no exception. Whiskey and women have ever been his downfall.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her, feeling her own alarm was but a mirror of his own. The lovely Elspeth Lee was clearly trapped, as was he. He’d taken a terrible risk
talking about his father. Elspeth could tell Henry everything before the day was out, and he’d hunt Jack down and kill him. Or have someone else do it in his stead. Even now his father’s warning of years before turned him to ice.

If you tell a soul, you’ll share the same grave.

Since the sheriff was in league with Henry and Wade and those who comprised the Pittsburgh kidnapping ring, Jack doubted an arrest would be made. He had to act quickly. Stay hidden. Everything hinged on the response of the woman facing him.

“There’s a remedy to all this.” He forged on, aware of the rush of heat beneath his damp collar. “I’ll repay your debt to your brother in York and provide you a handsome allowance, enough to live on comfortably the rest of your days. But you’ll have to cooperate with me.”

Her chin lifted. “What makes you think I can be bought?”

“What makes you think I’d think otherwise? You have no history of doing things out of the goodness of your heart.”

At his rebuke, she turned her face away, staring into the hearth’s fire. “The truth is, no matter what I’ve done, I’m fond of my nieces and nephews. They’ve shown me more kindness than most—and precious little judgment.”

“Then you need to help their father.”

“Help him? How can I?” She sank back on the sofa as if all the fight had gone out of her. “Your father is determined to bring the Ballantynes to ruin. He told me so within these very walls.”

“I’ll wager he told you a great deal more that can be used in the Ballantynes’ favor.”

“Only that he forced a free black man to lie about the pistol or else be sold south—the very gun Elinor was carrying along the lane when he sent his slave catchers after her. Apparently the sheriff is all too willing to believe the ruse.”

“I want you to testify against my father. And the sheriff.”

“What?” The fear in her face almost smote his resolve. “You must be mad! You’d actually betray your father?” Her gaze turned smoldering. “You’re certainly no saint to be speaking to me of my sins.”

“I never claimed to be. But God in His mercy has forgiven me. And I’m bound by Him to tell the truth.” Jack reached for his hat. “You have until the Ballantyne trial begins to make up your mind. My offer to repay your debt and shelter you stands. But not a word to anyone.”

She stood up, her demeanor still far from obliging. “How will I know when the legal proceedings start?”

“I’ll send word to you here when I find out.”

If my father doesn’t silence us first.

“Your mouth—it’s bleeding.” Ansel’s concern barely dinted Ellie’s misery as he fished a handkerchief from his coat pocket.

She’d bitten her lip repeatedly, trying to quell the emotion that roiled inside her. Each step into the filthy jail was like a blow. Even in winter, the chill failed to suppress the stench, making Ellie glad she’d eaten nothing at breakfast lest she lose it on the straw-lined floor.

Mama had gone first, into a small anteroom off the sheriff’s office. Sand sifted through an hourglass on a crude table by the barred door, marking what little time remained. At the last moment, no doubt brought on by the incident in New Hope’s parlor, Ramsay had denied Andra entry, and she remained outside in the coach with Peyton.

When Ellie saw her father bound from ankle to wrist, the long chains grinding and dragging at his barest movement, something broke inside her. He was unshaven, clad in the same
clothes he’d had on when arrested four days prior, terribly disheveled, and seeming a stranger. Shackled so tightly his wrists were raw and bleeding in places, he couldn’t embrace her, and she sensed his keen regret. With a little cry, she threw her arms about him as Ansel stood by silently.

“When all this is over, we’ll go to Scotlain, aye?” His lilt settled over her, his words sure and steadfast. “Home to the Highlands.” He pressed his bristled cheek to hers. “Ye ken what the Buik says. ‘The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust.’”