Love's Fortune (23 page)

He wanted to take Bennett by the throat.

Only the shock of the telegram had driven her from his mind. And now, despite Dean’s dire words, she’d snuck in again, returning him to the night of the ball, where no fewer than a dozen men had vied for her attention. Even Malachi had done the unthinkable and claimed two dances. But Wren was too naïve to make much of the gaffe, and society too enamored with the Camerons to make a fuss.

Malachi . . . and Wren. He’d been willing to wager they’d meet and give each other little more than a passing glance. But somehow she and Malachi had already met. Just when that happened James didn’t know, leaving him to a wilderness of wondering.

“Are you c-coming to the M-Monongahela House for s-supper?” Ealer was at the back door, ready to depart.

“No,” he said, glancing again at the telegram. “I’ll be at River Hill.”

26

If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

J
ANE
A
USTEN

Izannah met him at the door, joy filling her face. “Oh, James! You’ve come in time! It’s Grandfather—he’s back. Since yesterday he’s been steadily improving. The doctors can scarce believe it!”

The sudden news was the last he’d expected to hear. In a heartbeat James swung like a pendulum between hope and fear. Not bothering to remove his hat or coat, he went up the stairs on Izannah’s heels. The bedchamber door that had been closed, barring them entry, was open wide. Was Silas truly back? Or only rallying before death took him? Ellie’s laughter and Eden’s joyous voice reassured him.

In the shadowed room, the big bed was empty. Silas sat by the window in a dressing gown, looking older and thinner but upright. James half believed not even the shadow of death daunted Silas Ballantyne.

“Well, Da,” Ellie exclaimed as she and Eden left the room,
“we’ve monopolized you long enough. James is here. Perhaps you’re in need of some masculine company.”

Silas turned. Smiled. “How goes it, James?” His voice was a bit hoarse, more an echo of its former strength. But the easy companionship they’d shared in years past snuck in again, banishing awkwardness. “I’ve been remiss, the doctors tell me, lying abed for a month.”

Throat tight, James clasped Silas’s outstretched hand. “I’d say you deserved the rest, busy as you’ve been ninety years or better.”

Silas’s chuckle broadened to a deep cough. Tensing, James looked toward the open door, expecting Eden or Ellie to rush back in. When they didn’t, James handed him a glass of water, slightly opaque from the medicine he’d been taking.

Sinking back in his chair, Silas took a drink and drew in a shaky breath. “Time is against me, James, and I feel the need to know some things. How is being in port for the winter?”

“Well enough.” The telegram in his pocket made a mockery of his calm words. “You needn’t worry on that score.”

“Business matters are all in hand, I suppose.”

James hesitated. The new Ballantyne-Cameron alliance was the farthest thing from his mind. “Everything is proceeding smoothly, yes.”

“How about matters downriver with Gunniston and Dean?”

“The same.” He thought of all that Silas had missed in the month he’d lost. The news had never been so inflammatory. “The papers are full of war talk. The slavery issue must have an end.”

“I won’t be here to see it, but I trust you will do the right thing, the honorable thing. You always have. I have a feeling you’ll enlist if it comes to that, use your piloting skills to benefit the cause.” His voice faded though his gaze stayed
firm. “If you’ll humor an old man, I’ll hazard a little meddling and ask that you give serious thought to settling down.”

Blood rushed to James’s face. Even at ninety, Silas was a very shrewd man. Though his body was failing, his mind remained unbroken. Did he sense the struggle buried within him? His growing feelings for Wren? His desire to see Izannah settled?

“I wish the same for all my grandchildren in time. Marriage. A godly family.”

James looked down at his hat, his fingers twisting the brim in a mindless circle. “Two nights ago Wren debuted at the Mellons’ ball. I was her escort. Any concerns you have about her future, a husband, are unfounded.” Even saying the words tore at him, but he was in so deep he might as well confess all the rest. “I’ve even spoken with Malachi Cameron about Izannah. He has little time for society and is in need of a wife.”

Silas smiled. “Mayhap I should lie abed more often. All seems well.” The warm words came slowly, as if forced from a weary place. “And you, James? Are you content to go it alone? Is there no woman with a hold on your heart?”

The persistent question sent him scrambling for an excuse. “I’ve little to offer, being on the river and going to war, if it comes to that.”

“You have a great deal to offer in the interim. Life cannot be lived based on what-ifs, aye?”

It was as near a rebuke as Silas had ever given him, and James felt the sting of it from five feet away. If he ever wanted to dig the telegram out of his pocket, it was now.

I’m
a wanted man
, he nearly said, wanting to spell out the fear and confusion at war inside him. Silas thought he was protecting James by keeping him in port, never thinking that Pittsburgh had become not a safe haven but a hunting ground. The realization brought a sort of panicked breathlessness,
curbed only by bedrock truth. The Almighty was near at hand, strong of hand, well aware of the danger if Silas wasn’t.

Wasn’t He?

“There’s another matter I need to entrust to you once Wren’s season ends.” Silas set the glass of water down, hand shaking slightly. “Before I took ill, I had plans in place to return to Scotland. I still hope to do so unless the Lord wills otherwise. But if I cannot . . .”

“Of course. Whatever it is, I’ll see it done.”

“For years I’ve prayed that the Guarneri violin I sold long ago would be restored to our family. Shortly before we went to Lake Lanark, I received word that a collector in Edinburgh has possession of it. It’s being kept in a vault, waiting for us to retrieve it. At a price, of course.”

A hefty one, James was willing to wager. Yet for the moment pointed surprise was coursing through him, and gratitude that something that meant so much to a dying man had finally found its way back again.

“I want you to go to Edinburgh and take possession of it. My nephew lives there, the son of my late sister, Naomi. He deserves most of the credit for hunting it down and will be waiting to meet you.” His eyes glittered, and he looked at his hands as if recalling the hours he’d spent playing it. “The Guarneri belongs to Wren. She’ll appreciate it for the treasure it is and not let it go missing again.”

James gave a nod. The thought that it was meant for Wren moved him. But it was more the humble sight of Silas’s branded thumbs that whittled away at his composure like a carving tool. He wished Silas had more time. Time enough to hold the Guarneri again. Time enough to give it to Wren himself.

“I’ve written down instructions for you to withdraw funds from the proper accounts when the time comes, authorizing
you to pay the collector upon inspection of the violin.” He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and retrieved a folded paper. “Everything should be in order once you reach Edinburgh.”

James glanced at Silas’s heavy scrawl. The set amount was staggering. He didn’t doubt the violin was worth the price, simply because it was a missing piece of the Ballantynes’ past. “If Ansel returns soon, I can sail for Scotland before the season ends.”

“Nay, I’ll not undo whatever is in place. I have as much trust in you regarding Wren’s future as I do the Guarneri’s.”

“I’ll see both done.” The only question was when. He’d not anticipated an extended trip, a long ocean voyage. Was this the Lord’s provision for him, leading him away from Pittsburgh? From Wren? Scotland was indeed a safe haven, though James rebelled against the thought of going into hiding as Ansel had done.

“Grandfather, what a change!” Bennett’s voice rang out, ending their lengthy discussion. For once James was glad of him as he strode into the room and took charge. With a last look at Silas, James bade him goodbye, wondering if and when he’d see him again.

Wren stood in the unfamiliar music room of the Alexanders’ mansion overflowing with Pittsburgh’s elite. Fans were waving languidly, and lapel pins were winking among the two hundred or so guests gathered for the musical soiree. With the Nightingale perched on her shoulder, she rested in its beloved familiarity, though her bow hand trembled slightly as the crowd swelled. She was beginning to pin a few names to myriad faces, but most stayed a confusion of Mellons
and Ewings and Schoonmakers. Buttoned so high and tight, Pittsburgh’s leading lights all looked the same.

When Malachi Cameron entered the room, she tried to hide her startled pleasure. He took a discreet seat in the back row beside James, hardly a prime spot for viewing, but both men were so tall it didn’t matter. One quick glance and she could clearly see their bearded faces.

Try as she might, she found it hard to adjust to James’s new look, though nearly every man in the room followed custom and sported a mustache or beard. She missed the open, honest angles of his features, clean-shaven till now. The beard rendered him a bit more inaccessible and harder to read, if more handsome.

A voice from behind her, clear as a bell, brought the room to attention. “Our final performance prior to intermission is by Miss Rowena Ballantyne . . .”

Ahead of her had been harps and harpsichords, pianofortes and flutes, but nary a violin. She’d caught some of the audience napping throughout the lengthy recital, though she’d been wholly entertained. She’d not let them sleep through her piece if she could help it. “Set the heather on fire,” Mim always said. This she meant to do.

Striking a rousing, high E, she launched into a spritely reel full of life and spirit. Élan, Papa would say. With no music or music stand before her, she was able to look about the room, noting with satisfaction those sleepy heads had come awake and side conversations had ceased. Alice Mellon sat in the front row, her closed fan clutched in gloved hands, gaze riveted to Wren. Even the servants positioned at the doors and alcoves seemed to stand at attention.

Who could help but toe-tap to “The Reel of Tulloch” or turn teary at the heartrending “Settler’s Lament”? Days—
weeks—of schooling her emotions gave way as she played. When her bow slid off the strings after a trilled finish, there was a marked, stunned silence.

Undaunted, she grabbed hold of the next melody floating through her mind. An openly passionate piece, sure to woo—or raise brows. Closing her eyes, she cradled the Nightingale like the treasure it was. Stiff formality flew.

At the last aching note, she gave a small curtsey to polite, stilted applause. Her high spirits started to ebb. This wasn’t Kentucky, where music was met with appreciation heartfelt and deep. This was Pittsburgh, not Cane Run, and she supposed she was wrong to expect it to be.

Throat dry, she tucked the Nightingale away and pulled on her gloves before joining the throng moving toward a sitting room where refreshments were served. In the foyer an immense longcase clock chimed six. Would this breathless watching of the minutes never end?

A touch to her arm turned her around. Behind her was Malachi, open admiration in his bearded face. For a moment they stood like stones lodged in a brook, people eddying around them in little waves.

His eyes held hers. “I couldn’t place your second piece.”

“The ‘Settler’s Lament’?” She smiled up at him, thankful for one appreciative listener, at least. “It’s an old Scots tune Papa taught me when I was knee-high.”

“You play with a great deal of feeling. Much like the Highland fiddlers I’ve been privy to.” Taking her elbow, he led her to a windowed alcove overlooking a rain-drenched garden. A cup of punch rested on the sill.

Gladness sifted through her at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you.”

“Actually, it was your escort’s doing. Sitting in the back of
the room has its advantages, first in line at the refreshment table foremost.”