Love's Fortune (10 page)

12

Delight and danger grow on one stalk.

S
COTTISH
PROVERB

James turned over atop the big bed, the linens growing taut about his restless limbs. Sweat slicked his brow despite the open window as the late summer heat pressed in. At midnight the Monongahela House was quiet aside from the muffled snores of George Ealer across the hall, a habit as persistent as his stutter.

Throwing off the covers, James swung bare feet to the floor. He was often up nights, assisting fugitives in the endless labyrinth of underground tunnels that served as the hotel’s escape network. Like River Hill, the staff was mostly free blacks devoted to the abolitionist cause, helping runaways off Ballantyne boats or those who’d come into the city on their own seeking refuge. Tonight there’d been little activity. All was calm but for the storm inside him.

Steeling himself, he looked beneath the bed, hooking a
leather strap with his thumb and giving a tug. The small chest scraped against the planked floor, loud as Ealer’s snoring. He fumbled with the lock, a prayer rising in his heart, and raised the heavy lid. Scant light danced across old, tattered things. Remnants of another life. After all these years, Georgiana Hardesty’s citrus scent still seemed to linger, as unforgiving as her memory.

At the trunk’s bottom lay an embroidered scarf, tattered love letters sent downriver to New Orleans, and a silver token with their initials entwined. On the flip side were the engraved, almost mocking words . . .

When this
you see remember me.

He lingered on a locket, its glass face imprisoning strands of inky hair that had once caught on his callused fingers.

Sad remnants, all. He’d kept them reluctantly, mostly as a means to guard his heart. Painful as it was, he needed the reminder to ground him anew. He needed the reminder of what Bennett had done in a fit of rage over some forgotten business matter. Riding hard on the heels of that bitter memory was Rowena Ballantyne.

On a near table was the dried rose she’d given him, alongside Charlotte Ashburton’s note. It lay open, a reproach to his timing, his tendency to tread too carefully. Never would he have believed he’d have a death on his hands. Or that Wren would blame him for it.

When she’d come to the levee hours before and he’d faced her across his desk, the tug of desire he’d first felt in the pilothouse resurfaced, flowing strong and invisible as a river current beneath their heated interaction. He’d not meant to be so stubborn, but he’d wanted to cover his conflicted feelings, his outright dismay at her leaving, as best he could. It hadn’t helped that her father had asked him to keep an eye
on her, as if she was as willful as a spring colt and needed careful handling.

Wren was no refined Pittsburgh belle, yet she was the first woman who’d turned his head—and his heart—since Georgiana. But for all her humility and homespun charm, she was a Ballantyne. Far beyond his reach. A first cousin to Bennett and subject to his scheming.

Resurrecting Georgiana Hardesty was far more likely than a liaison with Silas’s granddaughter. Remembering that was all the grounding he needed.

The inhabitants of River Hill had wasted no time in adorning the newest arrival with every feminine furbelow and gewgaw they could find. Wren felt a sudden melting as wide blue eyes looked up at her, a plump, pink hand brushing the lace of her bodice. Clad in an embroidered linen gown and cap, Chloe Rose Turlock was already a beauty, the apple of everyone’s eye.

Izannah reached out and touched a flawless cheek. “I can hardly steal her away from Daddy. Even the boys think she’s naught but a wee fairy.”

Ellie smiled. “It was the same when you were born. No one cared a whit you weren’t a boy.”

“Daddy’s finally had his fill of sons,” Izannah said with a sigh. “Now that Wren is here, we’ll both help with Chloe till you’re well again.”

Wren warmed at being included. Aunt Ellie did look in need of tender care, pale as she was and still abed. The fever had left her, but the birth had been a difficult one and she was confined mostly to her room.

“I’m feeling stronger by the day,” she reassured them, her
smile as sunny as Grandmother’s own. “Soon we’ll be able to take the carriage out and have a picnic and savor an Indian summer. For now Wren will stay with us till things settle down.”

Settle down? Would they ever? Charlotte’s death was being investigated, the wedding gifts returned. But all that seemed distant here at River Hill. Since arriving the day before, Wren was almost able to forget James Sackett’s maddening refusal and her soreness over missing Molly. Izannah did her best to amuse her, showing her about the old house and relating bits of family history.

“The boys have the run of the second floor, but up here on high it’s just us two.”

Wren was delighted with the privacy of Izannah’s third-floor bedchamber adjoining her own, both replete with twin sleigh beds and chintz upholstery. Everything smelled of fresh flowers, with double-hung windows overlooking the gardens below.

Opening a small door, Izannah motioned Wren up steep, winding steps. “I’ve been wanting to show you my secret place.”

The cupola? Much like at New Hope, the panorama stretched from the eastern mountains to the three rivers. All was blue and sun-drenched and calm. A stack of books lay in the window seat, a testament to Izannah’s favorite pastime.

Wren leaned into the sill, savoring the view. “Reminds me of the pilothouse aboard the
Rowena
.”

Izannah turned toward her, eyes wide. “James let you come up by the wheel?”

“I was feeling poorly. It was during the midnight watch—”

“The midnight watch? The most hazardous of them all?”

Her startled reply sent Wren scrambling. If she’d ever
doubted her cousin’s feeling for James Sackett, she doubted no longer. “No harm was done. I wasn’t there overlong. The captain came and I went back to my cabin.”

“I’ve never been on a steamer except when a boat lays at landing.” The wistfulness in Izannah’s tone couldn’t be ignored. “And even then I’ve never been invited to the pilothouse.”

“Mr. Sackett was less than obliging yesterday,” she confessed, putting to rest any privileges Izannah may have imagined. “He wouldn’t let me see Molly home.”

“Wren, you were going to leave us?” There was hurt in the words—and something akin to disbelief. “Do you dislike it here so much?”

“Well, I . . .” The thought of traipsing up the winding, leaf-littered lane toward Cane Run moved her in ways she had no words for. But it was more James Sackett calling her Wren at the last that she couldn’t drive from her mind.

“James was wise to say no. Losing you after all that has happened . . .” Izannah sighed and touched her sleeve. “Let’s speak of other things, like your pretty dress. Those Louisville seamstresses are as accomplished as any we have in Pittsburgh.”

Wren looked down at the confection of linen and lace and smoothed a flounce, trying to master her dismay. “This is Charlotte’s, not mine.”

“Charlotte’s? You don’t mean . . .” Dismay dawned in Izannah’s silvery eyes. “Is Aunt Andra insisting you wear the trousseau? Oh, Wren . . .” She turned back to the glass, the lines of worry about her eyes more telling in the light. “Whatever is she thinking?”

With a lift of her shoulders, Wren thought to dismiss the matter. “Truth be told, I can’t stop thinking of Charlotte no matter if I’m clad in her dresses or not.”

Izannah sighed. “I can think of little else either.” She touched her forehead as if getting one of the headaches she was prone to. “The papers are already full of the news, though with Grandfather’s connections, the accounts are kinder than they could be.”

Wren hadn’t reckoned with the scandal that was bound to ensue. Back home there’d been no paper but plenty of tittle-tattle. In Pittsburgh and Boston there would be an abundance of both, especially with two prominent families involved. She prayed the matter would be dealt with fairly, the turn of events favorable.

“We should go below,” Izannah finally said, taking a last look out the glass.

The sun was setting now, the smells of supper and the clink of china carrying to the cupola’s far reaches. Wren’s restless gaze stretched to a sunburned pasture where Izannah’s brothers rode on horseback, two sheepdogs in tow. The sight of little Tremper atop a pony eased Wren’s sorrow. She longed to be out of doors with them, glorying in the start of fall like she’d done at home. Autumn had always been her favorite season.

From somewhere on the second floor, Chloe’s persistent wail reminded her of why she’d come. Turning, she started down the steps, eager to be of help. “I need to earn my keep.”

“I’ll see to the boys, then, and get them ready for supper.” Izannah tried to smile, but the worry in her eyes remained.

“You’re a marked man, James.”

Though he knew it was true, hearing the fact spoken aloud in confirmation raised the very hair on the back of James’s neck. Just south of Memphis now, past Island 37, he and
Captain Dean stood amid the grease and sparks of the engine room. The sweltering heat of late August ratcheted up the temperature in the bowels of the
Belle
of Pittsburgh
as the engines were fired with pitch.

Dean began to fill his pipe, nonchalant though his tone was taut. “My suspicion is Silas wants you off the river come October.”

Off the river? Even the thought made James chafe. More of Pittsburgh meant more of Bennett and matters beyond James’s control. A sort of landlocked prison sentence. The river had always been his refuge.

“Things are becoming so tense over the slavery issue, many are predicting outright war.” Dean looked at him long and hard. “Silas has asked us to consider a suitable replacement for Trevor Bixby, God rest him. We need another abolitionist pilot who’s not afraid to do some slave running in your stead.”

“I know the man. I’ll arrange for a meeting when we get to Natchez.”

Dean gave a nod. “Once we’re there we need to be on guard about John Madder and his cronies. They’ve been known to book passage on steamers heading north.” Pipe smoke whitened the close space between them. “There’s growing suspicion the
City
of Pittsburgh
was somehow sabotaged by Madder and made to mimic a boiler explosion.”