Love's Fortune (16 page)

They stared back at her as if she was some mindless simpleton, incapable of the obvious. Finally Andra spoke. “It’s none other than James Sackett. There’s not an escort in Pittsburgh his equal.”

James Sackett?

Wren stared at her as if she’d misheard. She’d expected someone else, someone older, more in keeping with her father’s age. Anyone but him . . .

All around her they began talking and quitting the room, leaving her to her tumbled thoughts. What she’d begun to see as a sort of game, an introduction to Pittsburgh in hopes to gain some friends, had suddenly gone wrong in the worst possible way.

Mim remained, jarring her from her silence with a terse sentence in Gaelic. “He’s nae so bad, James Sackett, though ye look like he just killed yer cat!”

Taking a seat on the nearest settee, Wren all but wrung her hands. “I don’t mind Mr. Sackett. I’m just . . . skittish about what’s to come.”

“Well, it’s nae every day a girl gets a season—or a gallant escort. Ye’ll do right by Mr. James, I’ll grant ye that. He never missteps, never gives rise to any gossip.”

Because he’s cast in stone.

Mim prattled on, though Wren was hardly listening. “Miss Criss and her lot will dance to yer tune in matters of dress, anyway. Never in a thousand years would I have expected ye
to take charge like ye did. If your aunt had nae pinned me with her steely gaze, I would have clapped and hooted.”

“I didn’t mean to make a fuss.” Releasing a pent-up breath, Wren examined her calluses. “If it wasn’t for the prospect of dancing, and Papa’s wish to make the most of my time, I wouldn’t agree to all this.”

Mim chuckled. “Ye ken what may happen? Ye might find a man to yer liking. Every lass longs for love, aye?”

“Even you, Mim?”

She smiled a canny smile. “I canna marry so long as I’m in service. That’s the butler’s privilege.”

“There’s no man who suits your fancy?”

“
Och
, there’s a groom at River Hill . . .” A rare flush stole over Mim’s features. “I dinna see him much, but he keeps me posted on the goings-on there.” Glancing at the closed door, she faded to a whisper. “And word is there may be nae more of a season for you than Mr. Bennett. Yer grandda has taken a turn. Pneumonia, the doctors say.”

Wren listened as through a fog. Her circumstances were changing so rapidly she couldn’t keep up, her emotions trailing. Even now she felt a latent grief. Grandfather was so ill the doctors had forbidden visitors. She’d lost touch with Izannah and everyone else at River Hill.

“A telegram’s been sent to yer da in Philadelphia, but it seems he’s gone off to Boston,” Mim whispered.

Boston. Bereft of Charlotte. A place that had come to be clouded with loss and unhappy endings. On par with Pittsburgh.

From the cupola Wren took in every subtle shift in color as the trees slowly began shaking free of their leaves and
autumn deepened. There Mim found her on what was to be one of her last mornings free of obligations and expectations.

“Since the dancing master and such won’t come again till later, ye’ve time to sneak in a little ride like ye’ve been wanting. I’ve already sent word to the stables to saddle the mare you fancy.”

Relief washed through her. “Oh, Mim, you’re such a gift to me.” Somehow Mim seemed to sense her every need, much like Molly used to.

“We’ll have to be quick about it in case yer aunt concocts something else for you this morning. This afternoon the seamstresses and corsetiere return.”

In minutes Wren was warmly clad in her riding habit against the October damp. Though it had taken time to ride sidesaddle and not astride, she felt she’d nearly mastered it. Perhaps it would be the same with the season, though such seemed a fearsome thing on James Sackett’s arm. But she couldn’t back down now with all the plans in place. She’d simply pray Papa home so he could take James’s place, or pray he’d bring a halt to society altogether.

Riding toward River Hill, she went at a canter, wanting to get some distance from New Hope lest Andra call her back. In minutes she’d removed the veil from her hat, thinking it hardly mattered, as the lemon juice Miss Criss had recommended for her complexion didn’t appear to be helping. She stopped short of shaking her hair free of its pins, pulling off her boots instead.

A weary wooziness crept over her and she gave into it, turning the mare loose to graze. In a quiet, sun-rimmed meadow she lay down atop grassy ground and dozed till the call of a warbler sang her awake. For a few disorienting moments she felt she was home. She pondered what Molly might be doing.
If Selkirk was busy with his bride. No matter. The present solitude was too pleasurable to waste on the bittersweet.

Sleepy, she sat up, spying Izannah at a distance on her roan, a white feather in her hat. Her spirits lifted. And then Izannah turned away, galloping in the direction of River Hill. Only the sight of James Sackett stayed fast . . . and he was riding hard toward her.

She began tugging on her boots and replacing her hat and veil, suddenly out of sorts. Looking for her mare, she saw it had wandered. Whistling failed to help. She could only watch, unsurprised, as the man she had no wish to see rounded up her wayward horse.

She tried not to pay him any mind—what he was wearing, the way he sat in the saddle. The tousled, windblown look of him hardly put a crimp in his self-possession as he reined in beside her. James Sackett was as unbent as ever.

“Miss Ballantyne.”

“Mr. Sackett.”

He looked into the distance. She stared at the ground. Their formal greeting hung icicle-stiff in the chilly air.

Finally she raised her chin, letting go of her hope that her cousin was trailing and would ride up next. “Where is Izannah?”

“Probably home by now.” He ran a gloved hand along the sleek neck of his gelding, which was the color of molasses. Her little mare looked drab in comparison. His gaze found its way back to her. “You have no escort?”

She nearly squirmed. “Not till the first of November.”

His eyes lit with undeniable amusement. And then he smiled—a slow, heart-catching smile, the first smile aimed at her. It reached to his remarkable eyes, creasing the corners and warming her like an Indian-summer sun. “We could ride together now . . . ease into it.”

Torn, she glanced back the way she’d come, judging time and distance, certain Andra was by now missing her.

“You’d rather return to New Hope, I take it.”

She looked back at him, unable to resist a final gibe. “
Rather
is a generous word, Mr. Sackett.”

His smile turned wry. “No doubt you’d rather sail south but for a certain pilot who stands in your way.”

She took a breath. “You were right to refuse me.” The words came hard but were needed. “If I’d gone with Molly, I’d have returned to a home no longer mine. Our place has been sold, given over to someone else.”

He showed no surprise. Had Papa already told him? She’d likely never know. James Sackett was a question mark of a man, revealing little. Her eyes trailed to the mourning band about his sleeve. Surely it wasn’t too late to make amends for what she should have said at the levee. “You’re grieving your fellow pilot and his crew . . . I’m very sorry.”

“Thankfully Trevor Bixby was as fine a Christian as he was a pilot.” He swung free of the saddle, landing agilely in thigh-high grass. “I’m sorry about Miss Ashburton as well.”

Was he? The memory was still raw and unmended and might always be. “Charlotte sent you a note, wanting your help.”

“And you think I didn’t respond.” He looked at her squarely as a cold wind whooshed between them. “What you don’t know is that plans were in place to help her, but she went to the lake that day and it was too late.”

There was a catch in his voice, a glint in his eye, that told her how sorry he was. Deeply so. She toyed with her reins, sorry she’d misjudged him, wishing time could be turned back and all made right again.

“How goes it at New Hope?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Papa is away on business till Christmas. We keep praying Grandfather recovers. I try to fill my time as best I can.” She rued the prickliness in her voice, the stubborn edge that said she’d made up her mind about life in Pittsburgh and found it lacking.

“Do you ever stop to think you’re here for a reason? Something beyond the aggravation of Pittsburgh, I mean?” His gaze locked with hers in question. “Perhaps your father needs to reclaim his old life. Or your grandmother a son. Or your grandfather a business ally. You have your whole future in front of you. You can leave here in time. But give it time.”

Time. It hung heavy on her hands but for her music . . . and the coming season. While she pondered his words, he took the reins from her, examining her mare. “Your saddle is girthed so tightly your horse is having trouble breathing.” He began adjusting the leather straps, dark brows knit together in concentration. “And your stirrup doesn’t fit correctly.”

She watched him work, a new awareness dawning. “I’m beginning to see why you were asked to be my escort.”

He said nothing, intent on the girth, not raising his eyes to look at her. “Are you willing to make peace with that?”

Peace? She’d not felt peace since Mama’s passing. She wasn’t sure she ever would again. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. But it was honest, spelling out the turmoil inside her. He reached for her without warning, startling her much as his smile had done. His hands slid around her waist with practiced ease as he lifted her to the saddle. She found herself wishing for another of his smiles. Wondering if he set Izannah atumble the way he did her . . .

“Good day, Miss Ballantyne.”

Bidding him goodbye, she bent her head, shaken by all the ways her world had been upended since Mama died. She felt
torn up by the roots, transplanted from a humble place to a rigid, rule-bound world that crowded out both life and spirit.

As he rode away, fading to no more than a pinprick on the horizon, she felt a yawning, aching emptiness. Rushing in to fill that void were the words she couldn’t wipe from her mind.

Perhaps your father needs
to reclaim his old life. Or your grandmother a son.
Or your grandfather a business ally . . .

Or Wren a new purpose. Beyond the scroll of a fiddle.

18

Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.

W
ASHINGTON
I
RVING

Wren was becoming accustomed to churchgoing at First Presbyterian. Situated on Sixth Street and made of red brick, the building seemed squat and stolid as an old hen, unable to boast a towering spire like Third Presbyterian, which dominated the city skyline. But it was grand and old nonetheless, smelling of antique wood and worn velvet, the kneeling benches frayed.

At home, bereft of a church building, their Cane Run neighbors simply gathered round and had a little praise, worshiping and making music and singing at will. No numbered pews. No stained glass. No silver sacrament dishes for communion. This was another world, another way to feel at sea with her surroundings.

Behind her and Aunt Andra sat Izannah in the Turlock pew, gloved hands folded. Farther down sat Great-Aunt Elspeth,
the judge just beyond, all six boys a study of stifled stillness. Only Grandmother and Grandfather were missing, and Aunt Ellie. James was never there. Why, Wren didn’t know. God felt far away in such a formal place. Perhaps he felt it too.

She fought to stay awake, to feel at home in the familiar snatches of Scripture spoken by Reverend Herron in the high wooden pulpit. But she couldn’t deny her gladness when Izannah took her aside at service’s end.

“Daddy thinks we’re in need of an outing, given matters are so serious at home,” she whispered, her Sabbath demeanor switching to delight. “We’re to have our luncheon at the Monongahela House today. And there’s to be
no chaperone
.”

They passed out of the church into a light sleet, parasols raised against the wet October weather. In minutes they’d traversed a busy thoroughfare and passed into the lush foyer of Pittsburgh’s most reputable hostelry. Seated at a discreet table, Wren took in the patterned carpets and potted palms arranged for privacy around the grand room, nearly forgetting the menu in her hands. Sunday was a popular day to be out. No other seats were available, but several tables had been reserved and waitstaff filed in and out of the kitchen door in a steady stream.

James lived here somewhere, when he wasn’t at River Hill. Sympathy nudged her, something that had little place in her resistant heart. Surely home wasn’t to be found in a hotel, no matter how fancy. Or even a cottage at a grand country estate.

Izannah studied her over the menu. “Have you never been to a restaurant, Wren?”

“Cane Run has no restaurants, Izannah, just a simple inn.”

“I recommend the chicken pie or leg of mutton, then. The pastry is good too, particularly the plum tarts and boiled custard.”

Wren lingered on the fried chicken and hominy, something Molly made, then remembered Miss Criss’s dictum.
She’s to eat nothing but egg,
broth, and bread.
Smiling up at the waiter, she said, “I’ll have the fried chicken and an extra helping of hominy.”

Izannah’s brows peaked. “A double portion, Wren? That isn’t like you.”

“I’m feeling rather hungry of late.” Dare she say she was nigh starved to death at New Hope? “It may be the last good meal I’ll partake of till spring. You see, I’m to have a season.”

“A season?” Izannah looked like she might laugh. “Says who?”

“Aunt Andra.”

“Andra?” As she sat back, Izannah’s somber expression resembled the judge’s. “I imagine Bennett is behind this too. No doubt they’re conspiring. You’re a Ballantyne and must rise to the occasion and all that. You’ll need an escort, of course. I’d name Bennett, but that’s out of the question.”

Wren’s gaze shifted, disbelief taking hold as James entered the dining room. Uneasy, she reached for her glass of water, torn between telling Izannah the details or letting her cousin discover them herself.

“I’m sure the matter of an escort has been decided too,” Izannah said, gaze thoughtful. “And given you keep looking across the room, I’ll hazard a guess that he’s here.”

“It’s just . . . James Sackett.”
Your James.

“Oh? He hadn’t yet told me. But he’s perfect for the role, I’ll grant you that.” She turned her head to take him in. “I daresay he’ll . . .” Voice fading to a thread, she faced Wren again, looking stricken.

Wren stole another look at him. Seated at a discreet corner table across the cavernous, chandelier-lit room, he was in the company of a well-dressed man with russet hair. Recognition
stirred. Could it be? The very one who’d given her a ride along the dusty road to New Hope?

Malachi Cameron.

She hadn’t known the two men were friends. Malachi had come back to Pittsburgh looking for a bride, Mim had said. Somehow the prospect of meeting up with him again unsettled and excited her all at once.

A second waiter appeared with large white dinner plates bearing the Monongahela House pattern, one mounded with more hominy than Wren could manage in a week. She picked up her fork, anticipating Izannah’s next query.

“When is your first function?”

“Not till the first of November.” Dread nearly stole her appetite. “There’s an opening dance where I’ll be introduced.”

Izannah nodded, placing her napkin in her lap. “The Mellons’ ball, no doubt. Well, I’m sure James will serve you well, being the gentleman he is.”

“Mim, my maid, will come along too.” Wren’s hasty words held an apology. Izannah mustn’t think she was sweet on James. Mustn’t think there was anything other than his acting as her escort. “Tell me about your season, Izannah, so that I can learn from it. Be better prepared.”

Izannah let out a little sigh. “Be prepared not to breathe. Between fancy dress balls and masquerades, musicales and soirees, you’ll be thoroughly baptized into Pittsburgh society. The newspapers are already full of what’s to come.” Picking up her fork, Izannah sampled her mutton. “I’m sorry your father isn’t here to put a stop to such nonsense. If Grandfather weren’t so ill, he’d intervene.”

Wren tried to smile. “I don’t see how a season could hurt. I do love to dance.”

“Well, we might be worrying needlessly. This season of
yours might never come to pass. There’s Grandfather’s health to consider, and you’ll need a suitable wardrobe. Mine was months in the making. I remember Andra complaining bitterly of your Louisville dresses.”

“Some of Granny’s old gowns are to be remade. They’re still beautiful, hidden away in the attic like they’ve been. The seamstresses seemed pleased with the idea.” But not Andra. No matter how hard Wren tried, Andra would always find her lacking.

Izannah lapsed into preoccupied silence while Wren pushed her food about her plate, as she’d surely do come her debut.

Nineteen more days.

Her ordeal had just begun.

Coming home from the Monongahela House, Izannah shut herself away in her chintz bedchamber. Still a bit dazed from seeing Malachi Cameron across the busy dining room, she took out a key at her writing desk and unlocked a secret drawer. Countless clippings from Pittsburgh’s newspapers, some so old they were yellowed and faded, lay before her. Her prayers for a husband and family outnumbered them all yet seemed to go without answer. And then, when she’d all but given up, Malachi had returned, reviving hope.

She knew Malachi preferred to winter in Philadelphia or even his Edinburgh townhouse, not here in the semi-wilds of western Pennsylvania, grand new house or no. He was having the mansion built mainly for his aunt Mina’s benefit, the servants whispered. Mina wanted him to settle down and thought such a house a fine reminder.

The memory of their last meeting clung to her, and she felt almost light-headed recalling it now. Time hadn’t diminished
how handsome he’d looked that day, standing on the levee in the bright spring sunlight, ready to go downriver to New Orleans. She’d happened to be in the city shopping and had picked up a little something for James in farewell. Coming by the boatyard office to give it to him, she’d run into Malachi instead.

Unused to the hustle and bustle of the waterfront, she’d nearly been upended by a dray and a heavy load of freight, the near collision sending her bumping into the man she couldn’t quite shake free of. Her maid stood by, aghast, as Malachi Cameron intervened.

“Miss Turlock? Are you hurt?” Reaching out, he took her gloved hand, looking her over as if he feared she was. His touch was sure, confident, leaving a tingling trail from her head to her toes. But his studied formality hurt her somehow, as if reinforcing the years and distance that had come between them.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’d just forgotten how hazardous the levee can be.” The rushed words were full of irony and angst.
Hazardous to my heart.
“Are you about to leave Pittsburgh again, Mr. . . . ?” She left off. She wouldn’t call him by his surname. He was simply Malachi and always would be.

“So it seems.” He broke their gaze to eye a waiting packet. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that you’re leaving too?”

“I’m afraid I’m tied to home.” She smiled, trying not to gaze up at him with a schoolgirl’s adoration. “But I must admit, as exciting as steamboats are, I’d rather ride on your train.”

He chuckled. “I’ll see if I can hurry that up for you. Lay some track in Pittsburgh.”

“Will you be away long?”

“Longer than I like.” He studied her, hazel eyes slightly brooding beneath the brim of his top hat. “After New Orleans I return to Philadelphia and then Edinburgh.”

So far. Simply hearing about such places set her soul on
fire. She was cast back to the globes and maps of their schoolroom and endless books filled with fascinating facts. Yet she’d never set foot beyond Philadelphia or Cincinnati. Sometimes it seemed she would burst from the desire to roam.

“You’re looking at me like you want to go with me.” His honest appraisal brought heat to her cheeks.

She groped for a memorable response, wanting to make the most of this very fleeting moment. His eyes held hers, as if he was wanting more too. Or had she dreamed of him so long it was clouding her usually sound judgment?

“Perhaps one day women will travel as men do,” she murmured, unsure of him.

“Perhaps,” he replied.

“I wish you safe travels, Malachi.” On a whim she handed him what she’d bought for James. “A little something for your going away.”

He’d turned swarthy as the package passed from her gloved hands to his. Only now she couldn’t recall what she’d given him. Something from the tobacconist or confectioner’s, perhaps. Or a book shop. She supposed it didn’t matter. He probably no longer remembered it either.

Or did he?