Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (9 page)

Amen
, Ellie thought, wishing he’d mention the night’s events and include her. But he simply drank his coffee and eyed the
Pittsburgh Gazette
spread open on the table, the headlines still swelling with reports of storm damage.

She forced a lightness she was far from feeling. “I wanted to thank you for coming to the dancing lesson yesterday. I’d forgotten how beautifully you play.”

He looked up, regret in his gaze. “I’m surprised it was worth hearing. I don’t practice as much as I used to. Business, ye ken.”

Business.
Had his whole life become one of work? Her heart gave a little lurch. Where was the quick-to-smile, affable Ansel she so loved? The one who was happiest amidst reams of music and plans to craft a violin?

A shadow filled the doorway, and Andra came in, looking equally preoccupied as she fastened fretful eyes on him.
“Peyton needs you at the boatyard but I told him to wait. One of the carpenters wants you to have a look at the smokehouse first.” She cast a glance at Ellie. “Are you teaching today?”

“This afternoon,” Ellie murmured, praying Andra wouldn’t ask where. She wasn’t ready to divulge that her newest student was a Turlock just yet.

“Mamie could use your help sorting seeds and planning the kitchen garden this morning. Jacob is busy with a shipment of roses and shouldn’t be bothered.”

“Of course. I’m almost done with breakfast.” Poor Mamie, eyesight ebbing, had been in their employ long before Ellie was born. Jacob, the gardener, was no better, unable to decipher the tags that identified manifold plants shipped from the East, even with his spectacles on. But her father, out of loyalty and affection, wouldn’t let them go. New Hope was their home till they died, if they so wished, and they would be buried in the family graveyard beyond the chapel.

Ansel finished his coffee and got up, his breakfast untouched, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t leave without an escort, El. Da’s orders, remember.”

The words assumed new meaning. Because there were slaves in the attic—and slave catchers at their door—and everything had turned perilous? Though she’d been insulated from such matters all her life, she now felt thrust into the very thick of it.

“Sabbath services are on the morrow, the first time since the storm.” Andra’s voice cut through Ellie’s musings. “We’d do well to attend.”

Ellie gave a nod. Andra somehow made churchgoing sound as appealing as encountering bounty hunters. She took a bite of egg, but the forkful seemed to stick in her throat. Ansel and Andra left without another word.

The scent of old leather and tobacco embraced Jack as he entered River Hill’s study. Every crack in the worn floorboards, every nick in the paneled walls, he knew like his own name. He’d been schooled in this very room by his grandfather. No reason Chloe couldn’t do likewise. A woman’s mind was no less agile than a man’s, therefore the curriculum would be the same. Latin. Geography. Arithmetic. Forget the fancy needlework and French. And since no one would be inviting Chloe to any dances, dancing lessons seemed frivolous as well.

Opening a cabinet, he took out his old lap desk, the top scarred and worn. A gift from his grandfather on his eighth birthday. The judge had wanted him to pursue a career in law. Since Wade had been commandeered for the whiskey trade, their parents had let Hugh O’Hara take their secondborn to River Hill. Jack spent more time there than at Broad Oak, nearly taking up residence. No one protested the arrangement, least of all Jack.

“You’re so like my father,” his mother had once said. “You might have been his son. You belong at River Hill.”

Jack often wondered what she meant. He’d been studious. Thoughtful. Dutiful. Until the day his grandfather died. Then his moorings had come loose and he’d run pell-mell into trouble like a scow snagged midriver. All that Turlock wildness had threatened to sink him—and might still.

His knuckles grazed the spines of countless leather-bound books as he perused one bookcase after another, dismissing
The American Distiller
and
The American Brewer and Maltster
in search of more acceptable fare. He’d start slowly, as he wasn’t sure his patience—or Chloe’s—was up to the task. Myriad responsibilities weighted him, and he was faced with travel come fall. But he’d do what he could till that time.

Half an hour later he’d made his selection and was riffling
through the lap desk, emptying it of childhood memories—stubs of pencil, a slingshot, yellowed sheets of penmanship and arithmetic. He grew pensive at the passing of time. Though his grandfather had been gone for years, his legacy lingered. A king’s ransom of books. A crumbling, ivy-coated house. The unmistakable essence of leather and tobacco and brandy. But Jack most remembered a broken old man with broken dreams. And a daughter who’d destroyed them.

Glancing up, he took in the front drive through a bank of open windows, wondering where Chloe was, how long he’d have to look for her. Likely she was in the stables or fishing again. He left the study and traversed the cool hall, nearly colliding with Mrs. Malarkey as she exited the parlor.

“Mr. Turlock, sir. I didn’t see you.”

He couldn’t help but smile. He stood well over six feet and could hardly be missed. Little wonder dust decorated every corner and spiderwebs spanned every crevice. She couldn’t see those either. “I’m looking for Chloe.”

“Chloe? Oh yes, she’s here somewhere. On the veranda. Riverside.”

There were two verandas—the one fronting the shimmering Monongahela, rarely used, and the one facing the drive. Chloe, in perpetual motion, never lingered long on either. He nodded thoughtfully and watched his housekeeper sans cook make her way down the hall as carefully as if she was walking a tightrope in a circus. Blast, but the woman was blind! She’d seemed old and in need of replacing when he first came to live at River Hill. But if he turned her out, where would she go?

Passing through the ballroom shrouded in dust cloths for twenty years or better, he caught sight of a bent head through a near window. The image seemed to tease him, the fetching hat aflutter with navy ribbon. Not Chloe . . .

Ellie.

On his veranda.

He felt the same breathless wonder he’d felt along the turnpike when the tree had fallen and missed him by a hair. Pushing open a French door, he stepped out so quietly she didn’t look up, preoccupied as she was with the book in her hands. Kohl-black hair, shot through with glints of red, was gathered beneath her straw hat, a few curls escaping.

He couldn’t recall the color of her eyes, but when she looked up at him, they struck him hard with their blueness. A half smile softened her pale, heart-shaped face, so fetching he glanced at the river as if to stop it from reaching his heart. It was rude not to greet her, but his thoughts were in such a tangle all good manners escaped him.

“Chloe went looking for you.” Her voice was as tentative as her smile. “I wanted to thank you for allowing the lessons after all.”

“For allowing . . .”
What?
He felt a deep sinking in his chest as the realization took hold. They’d both been tricked. By a thirteen-year-old snip of a girl. Only Ellie didn’t know. He swallowed hard, trying to harness his surprise. “Are you . . . finished?”

“With today’s lessons, yes.” She stood, smoothing the skirt of a finely made green dress edged with lace. “We’ve been deciding on a course of study. I’d like to capitalize on Chloe’s interests.”

“Other than fishing and riding?”

Again that fleeting smile. “You might be surprised at what swims round your sister’s head.”

“No doubt,” he said wryly, wishing Chloe back if only to wring her conniving neck.

“I was hoping we could meet once weekly, perhaps more.”

“You and Chloe . . .” he said slowly. At her nod, he shrugged. “Meet whenever you like. I’m often away on business. Mrs.
Malarkey will be here to let you in.” He couldn’t believe he’d just agreed to the deception. Feeling stubborn, he said, “But there’ll be no dancing, understand.”

Her smile strengthened and bordered on teasing, or so he thought. “Have you never danced, Jack? Because I believe, if you had—”

“No dancing, Ellie.”

Their eyes locked, held fast, till pink touched the tops of her cheeks. Seconds ticked by, slow and sweet. He looked toward the river again, and her voice reached out to him.

“Chloe seems to have gone fishing.” She made a move toward the door, clutching the book to her chest, making him wonder what the title was. “I’d best be on my way.”

“Your rig is out front?”

She nodded, looking suddenly vulnerable.

“Don’t ever come alone,” he cautioned.

Her gaze swung back to him, troubled. “My father forbids me to ride by myself, much as I’d like to.”

“Wise man, your father.”

She left then, climbing into a finely appointed carriage. The driver was crisp and efficient in his actions, reassuring Jack she’d arrive home safely. As soon as the wheels met gravel and pulled away, Chloe appeared, an impish look on her usually straight face.

Jack wrestled with his temper. “I should send you back to Broad Oak for such a trick.”

Her smile dimmed.

“I seem to remember you not wanting any tutoring, and yet today I find Ellie Ballantyne on my porch.”

Thoughtful, she bit her lip and looked up at him with a telling shine in her eyes. “I didn’t ask her here for me, Jack. I asked her here for you.”

 9 

A great fortune is a great slavery.

S
ENECA

Ansel stood on the levee with Peyton, eyeing the skeleton of a ship on the scaffolding taking up a good hundred feet of waterfront. William Mason, the sailmaker on Water Street, was there to take measurements, his mouth pursed in contemplation as they reviewed the dimensions. It was a task Ansel had overseen countless times but never without his father near. The questions that had arisen were ones he couldn’t answer. Lately New Orleans seemed as far away as the Orient, and he found himself wishing his parents would materialize. But the only sight that met his eyes was an aging packet coming up the storm-swollen Ohio, almost limping along, hardly a Ballantyne steamer.

How different it had been last winter when fifty boats had lain locked in ice, unable to break free till the spring thaw. Now that it was mid-May, a great many vessels were taking in cargo bound for Nashville and St. Louis and intermediate ports. Places he’d never seen but wanted to, their mystery
gnawing at him with fresh ferocity. Standing there, sweat beading his brow, Ansel listened to the drone of Mason’s voice and wrestled down the desire to roam till it was no bigger than a fleeting wish, snuffed like a candle flame.

Around them the whole of the levee was dotted with drays and wagons, freight stacked high as a man’s head in manifold bales and barrels and hogsheads, all in “beautiful disarray,” as Peyton called it. Shouting seemed to come from every quarter—shippers, porters, draymen, and more. He could hardly hear himself think.

Passing a hand over eyes stinging from the water’s glare and lack of sleep, Ansel marveled that Peyton was already chafing at returning to the mercantile that swallowed the street behind them. It had just expanded to accommodate more supplies needed to send settlers west. They were coming in a steady stream as summer began, and Peyton, most obliging, kept doors open from dawn till dusk.

And then there was the glassworks, the mining on Coal Hill, and the endless string of properties about town that needed tending. His father had a hand in everything and managed to stay atop it all. Not so his sons.

It was nearly noon when Ansel received a summons to come to the mercantile. Accustomed to interruptions, he left the boatyard office and entered a timbered building redolent with coffee and spices and brimming with clerks and settlers. The only thing they didn’t carry, Ansel mused wryly, was spirits, specifically Turlock whiskey, though every traveler seemed to desire it, if only for medicinal purposes.

Distracted by the hum of activity, he slowly worked his way to a back room that resembled a ship’s galley, narrow and shadowed but for a few small windows and hanging lanterns. Peyton stood at the far end of a counter, shoulders squared, the rigid set of his features giving a warning. Lately he was
unbearably short-tempered, barking orders, making the apprentices cower. None were present today but stayed busy in the adjoining warehouse, taking inventory and stocking endless rough-hewn shelves.

“I’ve just learned that you signed off on some cargo that was missing valuable content.” Peyton tossed aside his quill and turned toward him, tense with fury. “But I suppose you have an explanation for such an oversight.”

Ansel stopped mid-aisle. “Aye, I’ve been awake half the night transporting freight about the county, something you’d know little about, as you’ve taken rooms in town.”

“
Freight?
Call them what they are.
Fugitives.
And don’t talk to me of rooms in town. I’m weary of your excuses—and they don’t mend accounts.”

Leaning against a low counter, Ansel struggled to keep his voice even. “I’ve told you before, I’m too busy at the boatyard to help here. You have clerks to do the same. If you’d take pains with your apprentices and train them properly, you’d not have me to reckon with.” He started to turn away, but Peyton’s low lament stopped him.

“Sometimes I wonder what we’re working for—if we’re little better than the fugitives in the attic, enslaved right here working for Da and standing the risk of losing it all.” He reached for a newspaper on a near stool and fisted it. “Have you heard the news? Another abolitionist ruined, his business seized, his house burned to the ground, this one in Washington County.”

“Aye, the risks are well known. Yet Da won’t be moved.”

Peyton let the paper drop. “Nay. He feels his whole life—this business harboring slaves—is in God’s hands. That he has divine approval.”

“Aye. But not yours.”

Their eyes locked. This was the very heart of the matter,
something Peyton couldn’t deny. He could only respond in heated protest, raising his hands in futility. “Da’s risking our futures—our very inheritance. Yours and mine. Elinor’s and Andra’s. Everything he’s worked for—all we’re working for. Are you at peace with that?”

“I’m at peace with God,” Ansel replied. “That’s all that matters.”

“By heaven, to be so glib.” Peyton shook his head, regret in his gaze. “I wish I shared your faith. As far as I’m concerned, this battle is Da’s, not ours. Not mine.”

Ansel looked toward the door to make sure it was shut and lowered his voice. “You don’t have to continue the work. The understanding is that once you’re wed, you’ll leave New Hope and inherit your own land, your own share of the business.”

“Aye, but it’s still a gamble. I’m a Ballantyne, and Da’s sentiments about slavery are becoming known. He’s just joined the new abolitionist society, all in secret, though these things have a way of spreading. A great deal of his capital goes to the cause. Besides, there’s no one I wish to wed—or who’d wish to wed me, given our involvement. There’s too much danger.”

“No one?” Ansel could count half a dozen women who were smitten with Peyton, abolitionist activity or no. But his brother was blinded to his matrimonial prospects. “There’s more than one woman who’d be glad to further your acquaintance, given the chance.”

“Oh?” His surly mood sharpened. “How am I to notice, buried as I’ve been?”

“When Da returns, you’ll have more time.” His own tone was more gruff than reassuring. Lately all Peyton did was grumble. “At least look up now and again. You might be surprised at what’s waiting.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Peyton raked a hand over the stubble marking his jaw, the day’s growth glinting copper in
the noon light. “There’s talk of a group—a ring of proslavery activists and professional slave hunters, even local lawyers and city constables—at work in Pittsburgh much as they are in Philadelphia, the Turlocks foremost. They mean trouble to every abolitionist.”

“You mean the Pittsburgh kidnapping ring? The ones who sell free blacks into slavery?”

“Aye.”

“There’s always been fierce opposition, especially in a border state like Pennsylvania.”

“But never in Allegheny County till now. Rumor is they’re not above targeting women they believe to be sympathetic to the cause. I worry about Mother. Andra and Elinor.”

Coldness crept over Ansel at the words. “Only a rogue would stoop so low.”

“We’re dealing with Turlocks and their ilk, remember. They seem to know no bounds. I can’t stomach the thought—”

Peyton’s words caught and hung in the air as the door groaned open. Ellie appeared, cheeks flushed, her smile bright. Ansel felt a crushing anxiety at the sight of her. For a moment he couldn’t so much as return her greeting. Even Peyton stayed silent.

Andra could hold her own if needed. Even their mother was made of sterner stuff than her ladylike demeanor suggested. But Ellie . . . Ellie was unassuming. Innocent. Unaware of all that was at stake. She should never have left Philadelphia.

I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.

Ellie shifted atop the feather mattress, finally putting the pillow over her head and meditating on the Psalm heard at church that very morning. But there was little sleep to be
had this night. Her body tensed as the baby’s cries reached a crescendo, loud enough to be heard throughout the house—and throughout the entire county—summoning the bounty hunters to their door once more. Or so she feared.

Footsteps sounded on the landing and stair. Ansel? Something other than the frantic wailing was stirring, and this returned her to the attic. Pushing open the small door, she found Andra on her knees by the bed, salving the man’s facial wounds before applying linen cloths. A thick tension spread over the room. Ellie could see fierce determination in her sister’s expression as she worked, as if time was against them or she might explode at the child’s incessant fussing. Ellie’s sudden appearance only raised Andra’s ire, judging by the hasty glance tossed to her.

Was the babe hungry? Colicky? Sick? The lone lantern revealed little, but Ellie felt the child’s resistance as she took her from her mother.

Leaving the attic, she descended to the third-floor landing. A hymn spilled out of her, though it was her harp she wanted, thinking it might lull the babe to sleep. Barely a year old, she guessed, and smelling of her mother’s milk. The blanket was one of Andra’s doing, as it was new flannel from Mama’s sewing chest.

Though it took a few minutes of jostling, humming, and pacing, the child finally quieted, her tiny mahogany fingers splayed across Ellie’s dressing gown where they’d clutched it frantically before.

Behind her, Ansel reached the top step and set a candle on a low table. “You remind me of Mother. She’s especially good with the children.”

“There have been others, then—more than these.” Ellie kept moving lest the babe wake. “That’s why the bounty hunters were here.”

He gave a nod. “We started taking in runaways several years ago, right after you left for finishing school. Most are from Kentucky and Maryland. Some come farther.”

“How do they know to make their way to New Hope?”

“Our place can be seen for miles along the river. Word spreads as to who can and can’t be trusted.”

“And the cupola light—is it a signal for them to come?”

“Aye, on the nights it’s deemed safest to cross the water. We have small boats hidden in the brush on the opposite shore.”

She felt a chill at the words, knowing he meant when bounty hunters and their bloodhounds weren’t about.

“We feed and clothe them, help the sick. If they’re here long enough, Mother and Andra teach them to write their names and read.”

“Where do they go next?”

“Farther north to safe havens—Quaker settlements. Most head to Canada where they can live free. Sometimes Da transports runaways on Ballantyne boats coming up from southern ports to Pittsburgh.”

She stopped pacing. “What?”

“Aye, it’s somewhat risky. Just last fall, port officials in Louisville searched the
Elinor
, where a dozen fugitives were secreted. But they were so well hidden among the cargo they weren’t found.”

Somewhat risky? Smuggling slaves? Fear and surprise lashed her. “Is that what Da’s doing now in New Orleans?”

“He never says. That’s another thing you need to know. Everything is cloaked in secrecy. There are other abolitionists in Allegheny County and elsewhere, but we don’t know them by name other than Dr. Brunot.”

“But aren’t they breaking the law?” The question seemed to stick in her throat. Her beloved father, pillar of Pittsburgh, elder in the Presbyterian Church . . .