Love's Fortune (3 page)

Or order her to go below.

She turned to him, a beguiling light in her eyes. Sea foam, just as he’d suspected. Her ungloved hand came to rest lightly on his sleeve. “Might I stay here with you till morning?”

The gentle question rocked him much like the river current far beneath his feet. He looked at her longer than he should have. Speechless. “Miss Ballantyne, I—”

A sudden shadow snatched his words away. Captain Dean cleared his throat and filled the pilothouse doorway. For once
James hadn’t observed his approach. “Sackett, a word with you, please.”

His solemn tone, cordial with an undercurrent of authority, sent Rowena Ballantyne scurrying to the waiting arm of the clerk.

And then she vanished from sight like the wood nymph she was.

4

Pittsburgh entered the core of my heart when I was a boy and cannot be torn out.

A
NDREW
C
ARNEGIE

Long before the Ohio melted into the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers and ushered them into the city, Wren took in the pall of Pittsburgh. Immense. Dark. Industrious. Enormous smokestacks belched black clouds, overshadowing the distant spire of a church steeple. Soot and grime lay over a crush of brick and timber buildings that rarely saw the sun and seemed to sag in protest. She shuddered. If this was what Papa had run from years ago, she need never wonder why again. Kentucky seemed a sort of paradise.

In the feeble morning light, the steamer was alive with activity, shattering the dawn’s calm. The captain stood at the wheel, preparing to nose the
Rowena
into port. Wren heard his gruff call to open the fire doors and cool down the steam. James Sackett was nowhere in sight. Had she caused him
trouble by invading his midnight watch? The mere thought flipped her still-queasy stomach, the furious churning of the paddle wheel rivaling the unrest inside her. Last night Pilot Sackett had struck her as gentlemanly if a mite high-minded. As if she was a fly that bedeviled him and wouldn’t settle.

This morning Molly had made her look presentable in linen and lace, her upswept hair crowned by a matching bonnet, her hands gloved. The smudges of sleeplessness about her eyes she could do little about. In such fancy dress, she felt like an imposter, sorely missing her varnish-soiled calicoes and aprons. But she read approval in Papa’s eyes when she joined him at the railing, much like at supper the night before.

High above the whistle blew, sounding like a long yawn punctuated by two gasps. Boats—packets, Papa called them—lay three and four deep along the levee. On the wide, muddy shore, cargo was stacked higher than a man’s head, and a great many wagons and drays rushed about. Everything was a swirling, perspiring melee as the
Rowena
entered Pittsburgh. Wren took it all in, gaze snagging on a boardwalk closest to the water. Amid stevedores standing ready with mooring lines and stage planks stood a tall figure in a top hat.

“Papa, who is that man?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “My father.”

Silas Ballantyne
.

The rush of emotion coursing through her made no sense. Her grandfather was a stranger to her, little more, though Papa was clearly overcome by the sight of the old man waiting. Something told her he’d been waiting a very long time.

“How does he know it’s us?”

“He knows the sound of each boat’s whistle. They’re tuned to be distinguished from each other.”

She scanned the levee. “Where is Granny?”

“Your grandmother is a lady, Wren. Ladies do not appear in indelicate places like levees and other unsavory situations if they can help it.”

The
Rowena
was nosing into port now, all hands on deck, James Sackett among them. By day he looked entirely different than in the moon-washed pilothouse. Sun-worn. More serious. His hair wasn’t tobacco-brown as she’d first thought but black as cast iron. He was flanked by fellow officers and crew, the pecking order quickly apparent.

If he was high-minded, he’d come by it honestly.

A silver pin denoting the Ballantyne line winked at her from his lapel, a replica of the one never worn in her father’s wardrobe. His shoulders were squared, his hands clasped behind his back, his coattails flapping in the morning wind. He looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed on some point she couldn’t fathom. She turned back toward Pittsburgh reluctantly, wondering if she’d ever see him again.

Lifting a gloved hand that hid the calluses made in the violin shop, Wren tried to make peace with their arrival . . . and fought the dizzying sensation she was being pitchforked into a world she knew nothing about.

For several long moments Papa and Grandfather stood locked in an emotional embrace. Ignoring the catch in her throat, Wren looked away, feeling like an intruder in the midst of so poignant a scene, and then Grandfather turned to her. His arms were warm and strong and steadfast. She liked that he called her Wren. He bore the same tobacco-bergamot scent that was Papa’s own. Though her father had recovered his composure and was instructing the steward about
the Cremona violins laid by, emotion still choked her. Ansel Ballantyne seemed a different person here with his genteel clothes and manners, admiring the waiting vehicle along the curb. Not her beloved papa but a near stranger.

Grandfather smiled as a groom opened the lacquered door. “You’re just in time to break in the new coach.” Trimmed in plum velvet, the rig’s leaded glass windows opened and closed via pull straps. The groom showed her how to manage them, but instead of the fresh air she craved, her senses were stormed by coal dust and the potency of the levee.

She didn’t draw a decent breath till the coach had whisked them beyond Pittsburgh, past the last bastion of Fort Pitt and the once-grand King’s Garden and out the Allegheny Road toward New Hope. Beside her, Molly’s eyes were everywhere at once. It felt good but odd to have her riding with them as a passenger, not in the baggage wagon behind. Things were indeed different in free Pennsylvania. Kentucky was very much a slave state.

“Pittsburgh was nothing but a small fort town when I arrived in 1785.” There was pride of place in Grandfather’s tone, a strong sense of ownership. “Now it boasts nearly fifty thousand citizens.”

Cane Run barely boasted fifty souls. Sensing Molly’s skittishness, Wren took her hand and squeezed. Across from them Grandfather sat shoulder to shoulder with Papa. She measured their likeness, marveling that this timeworn stranger was her flesh and blood.

“Enough of the city,” Grandfather said suddenly, his aged face creased with a hundred kindly lines. “How was your journey?”

“Blessedly uneventful,” Papa replied. “No sinking, no explosion, no mutiny.”

Grandfather nodded in wry satisfaction. “And you, Wren? How do you like the floating teakettle that bears your name?”

She answered in Gaelic, clinging to its sameness when the whole world seemed to be shifting around her. “I liked the
Rowena
better once I stepped off her.”

He laughed, surprisingly rich and deep. “No doubt you’ll like a wedding better.”

Papa gave him a sideways glance. “A wedding? Mother’s letter didn’t mention . . .”

“She likely thought I’d already told you. Bennett is to wed a Boston lass this Saturday. The first of our grandchildren to tie the knot.”

“Boston? Not a local bride?”

“Charlotte is a shipping heiress. Apparently Bennett likes boats. The Ashburtons arrived last week and are staying at New Hope and Ballantyne Hall.”

“Sounds a bit crowded.” Papa turned toward a window, where the sooty Pittsburgh skyline was fading from view.

“Since we’ve added a new wing, there’s plenty of room for all.” Grandfather steered the conversation in another direction. “As for floating teakettles, the honeymoon voyage will be aboard our newest steamer, the
Belle of Pittsburgh
.”

Papa sat back, hat resting on his knees. “How many packets are in the Ballantyne line?”

“Twenty-four at present, though some are so old they’re hardly river worthy.”

“I’ve heard of plans to build a floating palace, a showboat. Are you moving more toward passengers than cargo?”

“Not if I can help it. Cargo is always the better choice and less risky when something goes awry.”

“Mother said you’ve begun to invest heavily in the railroad . . .”

Wren left them to their business, the gentle swaying of the coach nearly rocking her to sleep. As she leaned into a sunbeam falling through an open window, her soul lightened. No humble cabins or split-rail fences met her eye, just river and rolling hills. Soon the horses were turning, passing through open iron gates and gliding up a gently sloping hill fronting the river.

She’d been expecting something different, something far from what she knew, yet she still felt a start of surprise at the palatial brick house straddling the river bluff like an aging king holding court. New Hope was a grand dove-gray, old but well kept, dressed with sparkling glass and sweeping porches and fluted columns. An eight-paned cupola crowned the wide gambrel roof. She caught the diamond glitter of a fountain beyond yew hedges and bricked walls. People were wandering about, some sporting top hats and parasols. The wedding party? Curiosity seeped into her, crowding out resistance.

Was Papa glad to be back? Had Mama ever longed to be here?

Amid a small storm of dust, a groom helped her alight from the coach onto a mounting block. Near at hand was an unsmiling man in fancy dress who ushered them into the mansion. Molly followed close behind, her eyes still as wide as Wren’s own.

The breezy foyer held a soaring staircase, a profusion of peonies in silver bowls on an immense sideboard. Servants were lined up from front door to back, their posture soldier-stiff, eyes forward, all dressed in navy and white. Wren felt a breathless bewilderment. There were as many servants as the steamboat had deckhands.

Someone was coming down the stairs, someone who seemed a part of all the polish, her gown the deep orange of a wild
lily.
Andra?
Wren couldn’t recall much about her save she was Papa’s older sister.

“Rowena?” Appraising jade eyes peered out of a lightly lined face. Her figure was trim as a girl’s, her fair hair the exact shade of Wren’s own. Pearls draped her lace bodice, countless creamy rows matching the drops at her ears. “I’m your aunt Andra.”

Wren opened her arms to embrace her and met nothing but air. Her aunt had moved on to her father with a starched, “Welcome back to New Hope, Ansel.”

Papa returned her tight smile. “Good to see you again, Andra.”

Grandfather gestured upstairs. “Your mother is resting, though she wanted me to rouse her as soon as you arrived.”

The butler—was that what Andra called him?—was introducing them to servants, who curtsied or bowed at his bidding. Papa clasped hands with a few of them he’d obviously known since boyhood, their faces creasing with fleeting smiles as he called them by name.

With a wave of her hand, Aunt Andra led her beyond the sweeping staircase toward a rear door. “If you’ll come out onto the veranda for refreshments, the servants will bring your belongings to your rooms. Of course, you must meet our guests, the Ashburtons of Boston. The wedding is but a few days away.”

The next hour became a blur of voices and faces and first impressions.

Uncle Peyton, Grandfather’s oldest son. Clutching an eagle-headed cane.

His wife, Penelope. A pale ghost.

Their son, Bennett, the Ballantyne heir. Tall. Tanned. Firm of voice.

His fiancée, Charlotte. Pale. Slim as a willow switch. Silent.

Charlotte’s parents were doing most of the talking, their northeastern nasal tones unsettling. Aunt Ellie and her brood were missing. She was nearing her confinement, someone whispered, and couldn’t hazard the short distance between River Hill and New Hope.

“Mayhap we’ll see them on the morrow,” Papa said as if sensing Wren’s disappointment. “For now, feast your eyes on those old roses climbing the garden wall. They were planted in honor of your first birthday.”