Love's Fortune (13 page)

Relieved, Wren followed her out, their dresses and capes dotted with flecks of cotton, Andra’s words burned into her brain. Beneath a polluted autumn sky, she took a last look at the sprawling factory with its No Trespassing signs and inhospitable fences and wanted to lift a hand and block it. But it loomed too large, too proud, edging out other, kinder memories of Indian-summer days spent gathering nuts and making apple butter, tending leafy bonfires, and going barefoot a final time till spring.

These beloved things seemed to belong to someone else, to another woman in another time and place. She’d already begun to look back on Cane Run as if it was nothing more than a story in a dusty, hastily shelved book. Almost a fairy tale.

Her thoughts reeled and her heart wrenched.

Papa seemed a world away, Kentucky even farther.

The Lord more distant still.

The voices of children and the lively sight of them playing in the enclosed orphanage yard lightened Wren’s spirits, as did news that Grandmother was indeed there, somewhere.

The director greeted her warmly as Andra made her exit. “Mrs. Ballantyne might be anywhere in the Orphan Home
but is likely in the nursery with the infants. You may wait in the visitors’ area if you like or go outside on the green till I locate her.”

Craving fresh air, Wren pushed open a near door, grateful the Orphan Home had been built on a hill outside the city. A crushed stone path led to a lone oak, a wooden swing suspended from one lofty branch. Afflicted with coal dust, the tree was no longer a stalwart green but a sad gray like most of the trees within the city limits, its leaves the same stunted shade.

Mindful of her wide skirts, Wren sat down carefully in the swing and gave a small push with her foot. At the first glide came a giggle. A curly head popped out from behind the tree’s withered trunk, the toothless grin wide and welcoming. “I never saw a lady swing before.”

Wren smiled back at her. “I’m hardly a lady.”

“You’re dressed as such.” The child touched her own plain frock, smoothing out a wrinkle before peering intently at Wren’s bonnet. “Are those flowers real?”

Plucking a silk lilac from the brim, Wren held it out. “They’re pretend.”

Taking it, the girl tucked it in a buttonhole. “I like it nearly as well as what Jamie gave me.” Looking down, she withdrew something from her pocket and held it aloft. Nested in her palm was a tiny carved bird. “He says it’s a wren.”

“Oh?” Wren touched a wooden wing, so well-crafted it returned her to Selkirk and the violin shop. “Your little bird looks so real it could sing.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she replied. “There aren’t many birds or trees here.”

Had she never heard a bird sing? Wren nearly sighed at the thought. Pursing her lips, she let out a cheerful, trill
ing imitation, the song rising in pitch with a rapid cascade of notes. Making birdcalls had been as much a part of her upbringing as making fiddles, though Papa and Selkirk were far better at it than she.

The girl’s eyes widened, her giggle broadening to a belly laugh.

Delighted, Wren laughed along with her. “You can tell your Jamie, whoever he is, that you’ve heard a wren sing.”

“I will.” She pushed the carving into Wren’s gloved hand. “Jamie can make me another. He comes here as often as he can.”

Touched, Wren thanked her, wishing she had more to give. On a whim she pulled her bonnet free, placed it atop the child’s dark head, and tied the chin ribbons in place.

Small hands touched the silken strings with near reverence. “For me?”

Wren nodded. “A fair trade—your pretty bird for my pretty bonnet.”

“For keeps?”

“For keeps,” Wren replied. “What’s your name?”

“Adelaide. I’m six years old and I’ve been here since I was a baby.” The rushed words sounded rote as if said one too many times, or time was short. “I like it here. It’s safe and warm and I’m not hungry.” She took a step back at the sound of a bell. “Time for lessons.”

Wren watched her go, the cotton mill fresh in her mind. She didn’t like to think of Adelaide there—or at the Orphan Home. Despite the place’s tidy appearance, it was no substitute for a loving family.

As the child passed through a far door, clutching her new hat, Grandmother appeared at yet another entry, a tall shadow behind her.

James Sackett?

Awkwardness choked her at the mere sight of him. Abandoning the swing, Wren smoothed her skirts, glad for Grandmother’s company, at least. As they walked her way, she fought off the memory of her last meeting with James, when she’d flown out his office door, acting no older than Adelaide.

She greeted them, noticing the way Grandmother was leaning on his arm as if the day had stolen away her strength. “Afternoon, Granny . . . Mr. Sackett.”

Grandmother kissed her cheek, clearly pleased to see her. “You’ve already met James, of course.”

He removed his hat. “And I see you’ve met Addie.”

She met his eyes reluctantly, mindful of the little wren tucked in her hand, as surprise gained a solid foothold. Was this Addie’s Jamie? “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

He glanced toward the gray stone building. “I lived here as a boy. I’m also on the board of directors with your grandmother.”

An orphan? She’d assumed he was from a prestigious Pittsburgh family, not a man without a home. She lowered her gaze, finding him less intimidating today than he had been in his office. Away from the levee he wore what she was coming to recognize as the height of men’s fashion—cravat, waistcoat, frock coat, trousers, and dark leather gloves and shoes, all exceptionally tailored. Not even Bennett Ballantyne dressed so strikingly or carried himself so well.

“James has had a hand in a great many things in Pittsburgh starting when he was very young.” Grandmother smiled up at him almost adoringly. “We couldn’t manage without him.”

“Your grandmother is a gracious woman.” He spoke in that low, measured tone she was coming to know. “I’ll see you to your carriage and then I’ll be on my way.”

He took her elbow, and heat shot through her at his touch.
Would their every encounter be one of uneasiness, at least on her part?

Once he’d settled them in the carriage, Grandmother bade him goodbye, but Wren bit her tongue. He didn’t look her way again. Somehow it aggravated her that he didn’t—and that she minded. He simply walked west, into a haze of soot and feeble sunlight, his silhouette tall and distinct and all too unsettling.

Tucked in the confines of her dressing room with the door closed, Wren spoke in Gaelic as offhandedly as she could. “Mim, I want you to tell me about Mr. Sackett.”

“Mr. James?” Mim’s needle never stilled on the hem she was mending, but Wren didn’t miss the playful smile around her mouth. “Whatever for?”

“I’m just curious, is all.” Wren looked down at the cotton sampler she was working, aggravated she’d missed a stitch. “I keep bumping into him in Pittsburgh. Seems like I should know more about him.”

“Well . . . he’s as
braw
as they come with those jade eyes and hair black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Wren said in a rush. “Yesterday, when we met up at the orphanage, he told me he was raised there.”

“
Och
, that he was.” Mim’s head bobbed in confirmation. “At least in his early years. He apprenticed with the Ballantynes and was oft at River Hill after that. He’s an able hand with the horses too. He and the judge have a liking for a handsome stable. But that was before the river claimed him.”

Wren nodded, thinking of Izannah. That was how they’d met, she guessed. She’d often wondered . . .

“Ye hardly need reminding that James Sackett’s the finest
pilot in the Ballantyne line, mayhap the finest from here to New Orleans. He’s working on publishing a book charting the crossings and whatnot to help in river navigation.” Mim’s moody sigh gave a warning. “Of course there’s nae good wi’out the bad.”

Wren lifted her head.

“Years ago there was a certain lady here in Pittsburgh, of good family and reputation, who was smitten with Mr. James. He’s nae one whose head is easily turned, ye ken, but ere long they were engaged to be wed.”

“Mr. Sackett and this one lady?”

“Aye, her name was Miss Georgiana Hardesty. A wee bit younger than Mr. James, she was dark-headed and had the queerest eyes, a sort of violet-gray. They made a bonny pair, they did. But it was nae to be. A fortnight before the wedding, the bride was cut down with a fever. Came on her all of a sudden and then she was gone like a puff o’ smoke.”

“Oh, Mim . . .”

“He took it hard, he did. Never has righted himself, some say.”

Wren bit her lip, mulling it over. Was Izannah smitten with James but he was still mourning Georgiana? Might that change in time? Or had he closed his heart for keeps? She felt certain she’d seen an answering spark in him when they were together, an unmistakable affection.

“Of course we dinna speak of such things much, as they’re so dreary.” Mim lapsed into an odd silence, as if she had far more to tell but was keeping secrets. “Best let bygones be bygones.”

“I won’t say a word,” Wren reassured her. “I was only . . . curious.”

And somewhat humbled that a man with such unsettling reserve might have come by it honestly.

15

Only solitary men know the full joys of friendship. Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.

W
ILLA
C
ATHER

The wood flat they were towing up the muddy Mississippi behind the
Rowena
looked like any other, its facade huge and hulking, full of the fuel that stoked a steamer’s ravenous engines. Few knew that beneath its carefully constructed scaffolding, two dozen slaves were huddled. The
Rowena
’s crew, bound to secrecy and well rewarded for it, treated it no differently than an ordinary tow, except for the steward’s strange dispensing of rations on the midnight watch.

Years before, they’d hidden fugitives in the hold amid the cargo, but lately port authorities and searches were becoming more aggressive, penalties more harsh. Death in some cases. For every abolitionist on their side, there were a dozen who were rabidly proslavery. The rivers seemed to roil from the
escalating tension between the North and the South, particularly on shores of states that proclaimed slaves free.

Nearly abreast of Island 37, the nest of Madder and his Mystic Conspiracy, they sailed past precarious chutes and reefs and rock bars that challenged James’s navigation skills and his temper. He’d not rest till they were in sight of Cincinnati and could offload the fugitives onto free ground. Thankfully Silas Ballantyne had forged contacts there that had stayed strong half a century. James prayed they would hold.

For now the danger was from the river itself—and the uproarious laughter from the captain’s quarters on the texas deck, where an intense game of chess was in progress. Though gambling wasn’t allowed in the Ballantyne line, or spirits, the officers were cutthroat competitors. Recently Silas had gifted Dean with a rosewood chess set from Scotland for his fortieth birthday.

James’s melancholy wouldn’t let him join them. It had taken all his nerve to maneuver past the graveyard—the site of the
City of Pittsburgh
’s explosion—half an hour before. Bits of debris still rode the water, a grim calling card in the moonlight. Trevor Bixby and crew hadn’t lived long. The loss had faded to a dull, disbelieving ache.

Uttering a low prayer, he tapped the bell three times, giving the signal to land.

The
Rowena
lapsed into a lonesome silence as the engines sputtered and stilled. In breathless seconds the wood flat emptied. Fugitive slaves, some clutching small pokes, set foot on the dark Ohio shore. Freedom’s shore. A few wagons awaited, their Quaker drivers committed to helping them north. No one said a word, communicating solely through hand gestures and facial expressions, ever alert to the torchlight of bounty hunters or the barking of bloodhounds. All that remained
was for the wood flat to be carefully stowed in some secluded cove till needed again on a return trip.

Dean stood in back of James as he returned the steamer to the swift Ohio current. “That was a clever ruse back there in Louisville, Sackett, filling them with fear of fever. I’ve never seen port authorities call off an inspection so fast in all my days. They scattered like windblown leaves.”

James’s smile was thin, though his relief was potent. “It was more our lead engineer playing the part than anything I said or did.”

Dean chuckled. “He always looks ill, poor Perry, working around the boilers as he does. Filled to the brim with typhoid, aye.”

James took his gaze from the shore as the last of the wagons faded from view. “We’ll have to become more quick-witted if we’re to stay in the game. The stakes are getting higher.”

“The latest being the Fugitive Slave Act, you mean.” Dean took a seat, fishing out his pipe and striking a lucifer match on the bottom of his boot. “Now that any person can be deputized to assist in recapturing slaves, it raises the danger to a whole new level.”

“Some are predicting a war between the states.”

“It doesn’t help that Washington is sending mixed signals, abolishing the slave trade in the capital but letting slavery continue down south.” Dean grimaced and released a plume of pipe smoke. “That’s bound to make for mayhem.”

“Mayhem, aye.” James changed course, knowing it would be a long night if he kept Dean talking politics. “I spoke with Silas before we left Pittsburgh. He wants us to join him for a few days at Lake Lanark when we return.”

“His mountain retreat?” Surprise edged Dean’s voice. “It’s not like Silas to be away the end of the shipping season.
Though Lord knows he needs it, with the Ashburton affair and inquest.”

Aye, and more besides.
But James wouldn’t mention the turn in Silas’s health—or Dr. Hennessey’s frank appraisal. As far as he knew, only he, Silas, and the doctor were privy to that. “A few days fishing and hunting should do us all good.”

Dean was looking at him as if he suspected something was amiss. “Taking Bixby’s death so hard you’re in need of a respite yourself.” His voice dropped to a low murmur. “I’m also very sorry about Bennett’s fiancée, but I’m not sorry you kept your distance.”

“I was going to help her.” The truth of it had come to haunt him. A day’s delay had cost him everything, including Wren Ballantyne’s confidence. Though there could never be anything between them, her opinion somehow mattered. “I simply should have acted sooner than I did.”

“Let it go, James. Think instead of what’s ahead.”

He gave Dean a long, questioning look. The future was hardly promising. Madder’s threats . . . Bennett’s extravagance . . . Silas’s demise. “Lake Lanark holds little appeal as matters stand.”

“Well, I’m not averse to a little fishing and hunting and dining. Who all will be joining us?”

“Silas didn’t say.”

Dean drew hard on his pipe. “Well, if Silas has anything to do with it, there’s likely to be a few surprises. An interesting time will be had by all.”

The fall season, muted in the city with its crush of buildings, was an outright explosion of color in the mountains of western Pennsylvania. Russet and crimson and gold lit the
woods like fire, defying description. James was glad he’d come. Here he could see for miles and draw a clean breath, away from the hustle of the city. Even the trouble with Bennett seemed less pressing. Charlotte’s passing more distant. Only Wren seemed to have followed him. Would she find the fall color here as glorious as her Kentucky hills?

“Beautiful as it is, I’d rather be in the Highlands.” Dean cast his line into the lake’s still waters, where a gentle mist had begun to hover. “Nothing like salmon fishing along the Tay in autumn.”

James watched the lure drift lazily atop the water. “Since I’ve never been to Scotland, I don’t know what I’m missing.”

“You only need marry to go. Silas’s generous offer still stands if you’re willing.”

“A Highland honeymoon?” James examined his line, unsnarling a kink of silk near the tip. “Doesn’t that entail finding a bride?”

“Word is you have a paramour in every port, Sackett.”

The timeworn rumor nearly made James roll his eyes. “If that were true, I’d likely be in Scotland now instead of listening to your lies.”

Chuckling, Dean gave a shrug. “Oh, you know the papers, forever creating a story when there is none.”

“Like the Madder–Mystic Conspiracy affair.”

“Unfortunately, that one seems to have merit.” He watched as James recast, snapping the bamboo rod back and forth in several fluid motions. Dean’s amusement faded to amazement as the line tightened and jerked.

James flashed him a grin as he reeled his catch in. “If only fishing for Mrs. Sackett was as simple.”

“Ah, if only . . .” Wading into the water, Dean netted the catch in one swoop and held up a sleek black bass. “By heaven,
James. We’ve been out less than an hour. Will you best me in the shooting match tomorrow too?”

“I seem to remember Malachi Cameron besting us both last time.”

“Only you—by a hair. I didn’t make it past the first heat.” Bending low, he extracted the hook. “He’s here, you know. I saw him arrive with his grandfather earlier. Apparently they’ll be joining us for dinner.”

“I haven’t seen Malachi for a year or better. Not since his father died.”

Dean grimaced. “Terrible calamity, that. Cut down in the prime of life, along with a good portion of Pittsburgh.”

“Typhus plays no favorites,” James muttered, the memory of the mass burials all too fresh. He’d stood alongside the small Cameron clan as the ornate coffin was lowered into the hard winter ground, the only sound that of the wind and Mina weeping. From the stricken look on Malachi’s face, it seemed he wanted to be buried with it. He still had his grandfather, at least, though Cullen Cameron was nearly as old as Silas.

“Speaking of dinner . . .” Dean reached into his pocket and extracted a watch. “It’s nearly six o’clock. If we don’t start back now we’ll be late, and you know how Silas likes everyone to be on time. Besides, I wouldn’t want to miss whatever the evening has in store.”

“My guess is there’s to be some announcement. Though with Ansel, Peyton, and Bennett absent, one doubts how much business can be done.”

Dean nodded and started up the leaf-strewn path to the lodge. “Shall we?”

Coming downstairs ahead of the dinner hour, James saw Silas on the lodge’s front veranda. Just beyond the open front door he stood, dressed informally though finely, the walking stick he sometimes used nowhere in sight. It was unusual to find Silas alone. Usually he was surrounded by business associates, family, and friends.

The Ballantynes had purchased the surrounding six hundred acres several years prior, though the building was but three years old, its white and red exterior and polished interior a favorite retreat of Pittsburgh’s elite. All who came hunted and fished and sailed, bunking in the lodge or one of the cottages along the shore, sometimes bringing their wives but most often not. James was staying upstairs in the room he usually occupied, its wide windows overlooking Lake Lanark as it spread west.

A few men were gathering, all informally dressed and talking business. The aroma of roast lamb mingled with woodsmoke, the crackling fire in the immense, ceramic-tiled fireplace the focal point of the lodge’s main room.

Nodding to the attorney and chief counsel to the Ballantynes, James joined Silas on the veranda. Since his collapse, James had sensed an unspoken urgency about him, that matters be resolved and left in order, all loose ends neatly tied, whatever they might be. The growing ache in his throat . . . his heart . . . confirmed time was short.