Love's Fortune (22 page)

Another hour crept by, then two. Would the night never end? No one else appeared to make note of the time. But why bother? For now the men were being feted with cigars rolled in one-hundred-dollar bills.

In the dwindling candlelight, James held his between thumb and forefinger before putting it in his breast pocket. The grim slant of his mouth made her think he was struggling in the midst of such extravagance. Perhaps thinking of the orphans. His humble beginnings. Or hers.

Alice Mellon’s eyes were on them again, lingering longest on James before moving on. As if she knew Wren was nothing more than a pretender, an imposter. Despite her Ballantyne name and her Spitalfields silk and the newly acquired black pearl.

25

Where there is great love, there are always wishes.

W
ILLA
C
ATHER

Despite the late hour at the Mellons’ ball, Malachi came awake just after dawn. Light caressed the Wilton carpet with pale fingers, calling out the rich dyes and intricate design. His sleepy gaze slid to the ridiculous cigar on his bedside table, and he groaned, something not allowed the night before when surrounded by a great many self-satisfied, smoking men. In the heat of the moment he’d considered riding straight to River Hill. He might yet. If Izannah Turlock would have him, he’d end the social charade.

Rolling over, his head thundering from the strange mix of spirits at the endless midnight supper, he lay on his back, scattered events cluttering his conscience.

Lilly Alexander’s vexing flirtatiousness.

Judge Caldwell’s tasteless jokes.

Ice swans and expensive cigars.

Rowena Ballantyne.

When the butler had announced her at the start of the ball, his high spirits had sunk to his shoes, their meeting along the road all too fresh. She’d been so gracious about his apology. No other woman in the room, mistaken for a servant, would have been half as forgiving. But she didn’t seem to care. He liked that she didn’t.

Within a quarter of an hour he’d dressed and was heading down the sloping drive to the newly constructed gatehouse rimmed with young oaks and elms shivering in a biting wind. A maid let him in, her cheery good morning as welcome as the tattie scones turned out by his Scots cook. The aroma of coffee filled the small foyer, luring him to the dining room. There his grandfather sat at the head of the table, Mina to his left, both their faces framed with surprise.

“What? Dancing till the wee small hours and up soon after? I didn’t think we’d see you till supper!” Mina eyed him suspiciously. “You didn’t leave the ball early, did you?”

“No, though I was sorely tempted.” He tossed his hat onto a near chair. “I have business to take care of this morning and am expecting Ellis to come in by stage at long last. But first, why didn’t you tell me about Rowena Ballantyne?”

A sly penitence stole across her pale features. Observing it, his grandfather chuckled. “Found a lady to your liking already, Malachi? And a Ballantyne at that?”

“Have some coffee,” Mina interrupted, passing the sugar and cream. “I promise I won’t ask you any questions about last night till you’ve had your breakfast.”

Cullen Cameron winked, eyes shining beneath his thatch of white hair. “Don’t let Mina fool you, Malachi. We’re far more stuffed with news about the Mellons’ ball than breakfast.”

With a wave of her hand Mina motioned to the stack of
newspapers in the chair next to her. “Even you were mentioned, Malachi—and quite favorably too. You’re being lauded as the catch of the season.”

“My personal fortune, you mean.”

Her smile remained undimmed. “No one in Pittsburgh was expecting you . . . or Wren.”

“Wren?” He swallowed some coffee and glanced at the papers. “Why is she called Wren?”

“Apparently Ansel has called her that since she was small. It seems to fit well with her nature and upbringing in Kentucky.”

“You talk as if you know her.”

“Oh, I suppose having tea with her at New Hope on occasion counts for something.”

He fixed his gaze on the far window.
Rowena . . . Wren.
What did James call her? “Rowena Cameron does have a ring to it.”

Her eyes flared. “Surely you jest! You’ve only just met her.”

“Isn’t that why men and women go to these marriage markets? To meet? Marry?”

“Marriage markets indeed,” Mina scoffed as he gave into temptation and reached for the
Gazette.
“Don’t be crass, Malachi.”

Still chuckling, Cullen pushed his chair back and rose as smoothly as his arthritic form would allow. “Let me know just who you and Mina decide on.” With another wink, he reached for his cane. “I’m late for my morning walk with the dogs. I’ll say a prayer for you and your intended as I go.”

The door shut behind him, and Mina opened her mouth, preparing to pepper him with questions, but he silenced her with a look and returned to the paper. Splashed across the front page was a boldface headline.

S
EASON
O
PENS
WITH
S
URPRISES
.

Aye, pearls and cigars.
He read on.

B
ALLANTYNE
B
ELLE
S
URE
TO
S
TEAL
H
EARTS
.

Beneath this, the name of every debutante was listed in a long column, Rowena Ballantyne leading. He felt a swell of satisfaction that she was first. She had a lovely name. So very Scottish.

“You needn’t read any further.” Mina drained her cup and leaned back in her chair. “Every other word is about the mysterious Miss Ballantyne—what she wore, how she danced, who her escort was, the state of her fortune. They go on and on about James too. What a lovely pairing they made and all that. They even make mention of Silas.”

“They have no shame, drawing attention to a dying man.” He turned to the business section all too eagerly.

“It makes for riveting reading nonetheless,” she said stubbornly.

Before he could argue, a brimming breakfast plate was set before him. He murmured his thanks, withdrawing the expensive cigar from his pocket. “Give this to Mrs. McFee and tell her I don’t expect her to smoke it.”

With a nod the maid disappeared, and he heard a hoot of satisfaction coming from the kitchen.

“You spoil your cook,” Mina told him, setting her napkin aside.

“I’ll spoil her all I like. I had a devil of a time convincing her to leave Edinburgh and come here, if only for the winter.” Breakfast nearly forgotten, he turned back to the society page, focusing on one telling line.

Miss Ballantyne performed with such grace in the ballroom
she drew every eye. Indeed, her dance card was insufficient
to hold all the names of her admirers.

Reading it, he felt his pulse rise. Like he’d been thrust into
the middle of some feverish contest, the competition fierce, the prize unattainable. He was used to winning, to getting what he wanted. Had his father felt the same challenge in his pursuit of Elinor Ballantyne, Izannah’s mother? Before he’d been turned aside for a Turlock?

Gently Mina tugged the paper from his hand. “Your breakfast is getting cold. I’ll be glad to tell you the highlights.”

He returned to his plate, thoughts suspended between Wren and James.

“Simply put, Rowena Ballantyne is
the
debutante of the season, an honor which will no doubt continue at the musical soiree given by the Alexanders on Wednesday next.”

He forked a bite of egg, counting the days. Dreading them. The Alexanders were nearly as pretentious as the Mellons.

Mina filled the silence. “She’s something of a violin virtuoso.”

“Yes, that she is,” he replied, remembering their memorable carriage ride.

“Oh?” Mina leaned forward, curiosity catching fire. “How would you know? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He cleared his throat. “A great many things.”

“Really, Malachi, I wish you’d be more forthcoming.”

“No need. You said you’d tell me the highlights.”

She sighed. “Rowena Ballantyne is simply a dear, bewildered young woman deprived of her mother and home, thrust into a wealthy world she cares little about.”

The words softened him. Made him put down his fork. He’d sensed something sad about her along the dusty road that day, fiddle and baggage in hand. The lament she’d played in the carriage came from a place soul-deep and grieving. He knew that all too well.

“What are her father’s plans?” he asked. “Is Ansel here to stay?”

“I hope so. At the moment he’s away on Ballantyne business, which is why James is acting as her escort. Since assuming charge of the ironworks, Ansel hasn’t much time for anything else.”

The complaint buried in her words caught his notice. “Did Ansel give approval for his daughter to have a season?”

“I don’t think so.” She reached for the sugar as a maid refilled her teacup. “But I believe he’d be delighted by her success, the way she’s charmed society.”

“For one night, anyway.” He fought back the sarcasm in his tone. Society was as fickle as the rise and fall of railroad stock.

“Don’t be so dour, Malachi. I trust you danced with her.”

“Twice,” he said. “In a row.”

“Back to back?” she sputtered. “But that’s simply not done!”

“No one said a word.”

Her smug smile returned. “Because you’re a Cameron and might run them over with a train.”

Grinning, relishing the thought, he returned to his breakfast. “Speaking of trains, I’m expecting word of a possible merger involving the Baltimore and Ohio. Society is the farthest thing from my mind.”

Society. But not Rowena Ballantyne.

Standing by his office window, Ealer at work behind him, James scanned the packets lying in port, his unease rising like the rivers at flood stage. Only a few steamers were still plying the upper Mississippi this late in the season, the
Rowena
among them. His replacement, John Gunniston, who was
committed to the lower Mississippi run with Captain Dean, wouldn’t see Pittsburgh till the spring thaw.

James’s focus widened and took in the pewter surface of the Monongahela. Under noon skies it shimmered like a silk skirt as it slowly turned to ice. Though his time in port had just begun, he kept thinking of his quarters in the New Orleans garden district, lush with bougainvillea and bird of paradise in late fall. Already he was chafing to return to the pilothouse, where he was isolated and in control, able to change direction at will. Not lying in port like some sort of target, unable to counter any trouble.

He hissed out a breath as the lad who’d brought him the telegram minutes before faded from sight. The message was fisted in his hand. It wasn’t the easy, informative telegram Dean usually sent that shrank the miles between them, telling of river conditions and cargo and the like. This message held fear and fury and warning.

“P-pardon, sir. It’s about quitting t-time and I w-wanted to ask about the M-Mellons’ ball.”

Turning toward him, James tried to hide his disquiet, but Ealer was looking at him—looking at the crumpled telegram—like he suspected. “The evening was uneventful.” The words fell flat in the silence. “Except for expensive cigars and pearls in oysters.”

“D-did you d-dance, sir?” At James’s nod, he asked, “And M-Miss Ballantyne—d-did she fare well?”

“It would seem so.”

Ealer returned to counting passenger receipts, leaving James to dwell on Wren. When she’d come into New Hope’s parlor in her beautiful gown, so wanting to please, to do the Ballantynes proud, he’d felt wildly and unaccountably possessive of her. He was doubly undone when he realized she
seemed to be seeking his approval. As if it mattered to her what he thought, hope shining in her eyes. He wanted to tell her she’d already won him over long ago, the moment she stepped into the pilothouse. He wanted to guard her tender heart and untried emotions.