Love's Fortune (34 page)

Izannah met James in New Hope’s parlor, making him feel even more disoriented, as if he’d ridden to River Hill instead.
“I wanted to be here when Grandfather and Grandmother learned the news. Andra has taken to bed with a headache and has said nothing to them yet. I came right over after she sent word Wren had left.”

“Do you know how long she’s been gone?”

“I have no idea.” She touched her brow, rubbing a furrow as if she had a stabbing headache. “I took the liberty of searching her room. Mim said her valise, some clothes, and her violin are missing. And I discovered this.”

Yet another letter. This one to Ansel.

Dear Papa,

Word has come about the Guarneri Grandfather sold so long ago. A gentleman by the name of Du Breon has recently written from Cincinnati, saying he has information regarding its whereabouts. It seems a blessed time to leave Pittsburgh, given my season has ended and I’m not to wed. I thought to wait for you but am ready to go alone. I hope to find out more about the family heirloom you’ve long wanted. I will send word to you once I arrive safely.

Your loving Wren

A blessed time to leave Pittsburgh? Was she mad? Or merely heartbroken at all that had happened and in need of time away? One look out the windows’ icy panes confirmed his worst fears and brought Izannah’s distressed voice into play.

“I cannot believe she’d leave in winter. She’s not traveled except to come upriver to us—and she’s alone. Heaven only knows what she’ll encounter in getting there, if she ever gets there.”

“My guess is that she’ll end up in Kentucky.” He handed her back the paper. “I’ll find her.”

The look she gave him implied doubt. “Since the river is frozen this far north, she’ll have to go overland. We don’t have any idea when she left—or how.”

“She’ll likely take the stage west to Columbus and then on to Cincinnati.” He started toward the door. “You’ll have to explain everything to Ansel when he returns. I’ll be leaving right away.”

“Wait, James, please.” She reached out a hand, dismay darkening her eyes. “Why not hire security guards, private detectives like Pinkertons—”

“Because I need to be the one who finds her.”

Her hand fell away. “All this trouble for a violin?”

“I doubt the news from Cincinnati is credible.” He felt to his bones it was a hoax. It could be nothing else, with the real Guarneri waiting in Edinburgh.

“You think it’s just a ruse?” The horror in her eyes drove Gunniston’s murder home. “A ploy to lure her there? To lure you there?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He wouldn’t tell her he had as many enemies in Cincinnati as New Orleans, a tight ring of anti-abolitionists who were becoming increasingly vocal—and violent.

“James, it’s too risky. You could be walking into a trap. Whoever means you harm has obviously linked you with Wren and has some scheme to—”

“And the longer we spend talking, the more danger she’s in.” He started for the door a second time. “You might as well know she’s broken her engagement to Malachi.”

She stared at him, pure astonishment in her gaze. “You didn’t tell Wren my feelings for him . . .”

“I did not.”

“Then she’s ended their tie solely out of love for you, James. Is that it?”

He looked down at the hat in his hands, trying to take it all in. “I’ll send word as I can. All I ask is that you pray for her safety. Pray that I find her.”

“Find her?” At a third voice, James and Izannah stilled. Bennett filled the parlor doorway, barring any hasty exit. “I doubt you will. Even if the letter from Cincinnati is credible, she’ll have little to do business with, as I took the liberty of relieving her of the Nightingale before she left.”

There was a stunned silence before Izannah erupted in outrage. “You took the Nightingale? How dare you—”

“Rowena’s naïveté comes in very handy at times. The note she sent to Malachi breaking their engagement was shown to me first by a trusted servant, giving me ample time to act. As far as I’m concerned, Rowena reneged on her responsibilities. The agreement was to make a match, to emerge from the season with an engagement, and a brilliant one at that.” He walked toward the largest window, cold sunlight outlining his tall form. “You failed in that respect as well, James. A lasting Ballantyne-Cameron alliance was within our grasp and the two of you tossed it to the wind, and now we have nothing—”

“I don’t care about any alliance, as you call it.” James took a step toward him. “I only care that she’s left and you’ve taken from her what she values most.”

With a shrug Bennett faced him. “I doubt she even realizes it yet. I substituted one of Grandfather’s less valuable violins, slipping it in the case to fool her. The Nightingale has already been sold, by the way—”

With a catlike swipe, James took Bennett by the throat, twisting his cravat into a tight knot. “Then I suggest you do everything in your power to buy it back.”

“Too late, Sackett.” Bennett tried to jerk away, but James held fast. “Though I made a hefty profit, it doesn’t begin to make up for a broken engagement or the latest business deal that’s sure to sour now that Cameron’s been jilted—”

“Cameron be hanged!” With a ferocious shove, James sent Bennett reeling backward.

The jarring crash of an overturned table and Izannah’s startled cry rang out like a tavern fight in the elegant room. Righting himself, Bennett lunged, knocking James back with renewed fury. The ribs that had yet to heal seemed to splinter anew. Blinding, breathless pain left him nearly doubled over. But it was nothing compared to the anguish he felt over Wren.

“Stop it, both of you!” Izannah rounded a near settee, her gaze flicking to the open doorway. “If Grandfather finds you fighting like this . . .”

As Bennett’s boot knocked the breath from his middle, James steeled himself then charged. Chest heaving, every sense strained, he pushed Bennett across the grand room till they came up against the largest window.

Strength almost spent, fists full of Bennett’s tailored coat, James thrust him backward with all that was in him. The sound of Izannah’s ragged scream slashed through his conscience as a thousand glittering fragments broke over them, stinging and sharp.

“James, stop! You’ll kill him!”

Chest heaving, he stood over Bennett. The old crown-glass window lay in ruins, a cold wind whooshing through the jagged space. Bennett lay slumped on the floor, eyes closed.

Wiping a sleeve across his perspiring face, James stepped back, his boots crunching glass. The Nightingale was gone. Wren was gone. His life meant nothing without her.

36

You pierce my soul, I am half agony, half hope . . . I have loved none but you.

J
ANE
A
USTEN

Ice and mud and misery left Wren raw and unsettled mile after mile. She dozed, waking occasionally to lift the coach shade and peer out on endless farms and towns and mileposts while her fellow travelers, snoring and indifferent, slept. She’d abandoned the Ballantyne name upon leaving Pittsburgh, afraid of attracting notice. Away from the city, no one seemed to care who she was or where she was going. She was but one of dozens of beleaguered travelers, the passing days a blur.

By now the news of her leaving would be well known. There’d likely been a rush to keep it out of the papers, sparing the Ballantynes and Camerons any damage. Once Papa returned to New Hope, what then? The note she’d left for him said so little. He’d be beside himself that she had no escort.
As she pondered it, her pulse raced in tandem with the coach wheels, the jarring stretch of road shaking her fully awake.

Despite the emotional wreckage she’d left behind, deep down she felt she’d done right by breaking her engagement. She wasn’t meant to be Malachi’s. And she risked grieving God by marrying for the wrong reasons. That alone reassured her the first hundred miles in cramped, smelly coaches and filthy inns, but then her health—and courage—began to wane.

Shifting on the overcrowded seat, she fastened her gaze on the posted rules for passenger behavior above the door.
Refrain from the use of rough language. Chewing tobacco is
permitted, but spit with the wind, not against it. Men
guilty of unchivalrous behavior will be put off the stage
.
She supposed there was something to be said for gentility after all.

Thankfully, she had plenty of coin due to the funds she’d managed in Papa’s absence from the sale of their Cane Run interests. But that was of little consequence. The Nightingale in her possession had once been appraised at a staggering sum. Parting with it would be anguish, but the joy the Guarneri would bring kept her from coming apart completely.

She needed to reach Cincinnati. She needed distance. A diversion. A mission. Perhaps once there she’d find some scrap of peace.

When she finally emerged from the coach and saw the forest of smokestacks and tasted the grit in the air, she was cast back to Pittsburgh. Cincinnati was an overgrown bully of a city sprawling to the river’s edge, the landing lined with steamboats as far as her eye could see. She nearly flinched at its sameness. Head and heart pounding, she stood alone in the dusk as her traveling companions continued on their
way. She was weary. Hungry. Longing for home. But home wasn’t Pittsburgh.

And it certainly wasn’t Cincinnati.

Izannah hadn’t stopped praying, it seemed, since James had left New Hope three days earlier. A paisley shawl around her shoulders, she focused on a lone rider traveling over the rutted road from the west. From Pittsburgh? She leaned nearer the cupola glass, the beautiful bay horse coming clear.

Malachi.

The closer he came, the harder her heart thundered, so forceful she struggled for breath. He rode right up to River Hill’s front steps and swung down from the saddle, tethering his mount to the hitch rail. Surprise sallied through her. She’d expected him to be long gone, parting with Pittsburgh and a very public broken engagement like a moth-eaten coat. Yet he was here, on her very doorstep, causing her stomach to somersault in bewildered expectation.

In seconds she’d made it to her bedchamber, catching up a brush and attending to her hair. A maid came to fetch her as she splashed rosewater on her wrists, making her glad she’d not changed out of her best gown. The persimmon silk rustled as she started down the steps to the blue sitting room to meet him.

He’d come to say goodbye, she supposed. To see if she’d heard anything from James. Perhaps ask a favor of her. Her cold hand clutched the doorknob. She was so weak in the knees she wanted to sit down. Too much had happened over the last few days. Her whole world felt on end . . . and Malachi’s too, but in a different way.

Oh
, Lord, for a smidgen of Mama’s composure, please.

Mumbling “Amen,” she pushed open the door. There he stood by the blazing hearth, hands outstretched toward the warmth, reminding her that his own mantelpieces were far from finished at Cameron House. But what did it matter without a bride or even a hope of one?

Slowly he turned toward her, and she framed his handsome, pensive profile in her head and heart to hold on to in the lonesome days to come. He looked careworn, his clothing rumpled.

“Izannah . . . I apologize for arriving unexpectedly.”

“Never mind that, Malachi,” she said softly. “You wouldn’t be here without good reason.”

“I just came from town. From seeing your father.”

“Oh?” It was the last thing she expected to hear. “Business, then?”

“Yes, of sorts . . .” He began unbuttoning his heavy coat, revealing a bright scarf beneath. The red plaid matched his cold-reddened cheeks. “Rather, I have business with you.” He swallowed hard and met her searching gaze. “I asked your father for your hand, Izannah.”

She stared at him, his shocking words toppling the careful wall she’d built around her heart. “My father . . .” She could only imagine
that
scene. “What did he say?”

“He asked me what had taken so long.” A small, rueful smile played around his mouth. “He asked why I hadn’t listened to James Sackett in the first place.” He stood in front of her, closer than he’d ever been, so close his spice cologne made her senses swim. “This is somewhat awkward, given what’s happened with Wren and James.”

Somewhat?
“Oh, Malachi . . .”

Taking her hands, he looked down at their joined fingers. “I’m asking for your hand right now, Izannah, but I’m hoping in time for your heart. And I’ll gladly get on bended knee
if you like.” His slow smile held her captive. “But I’m not leaving here without your answer. I’m due in Philadelphia day after tomorrow and have little time left.”

She’d never seen him so humble. So hopeful. Dare she say she’d waited for this day for
years
? She bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t want some distant engagement, some indistinct wedding date. “Take me with you.”

“I should have taken you with me when I left Pittsburgh years ago.” He studied her, his look half disbelieving, half elated, as if he was weighing all the possibilities. “We’ll need to marry on the morrow. A Philadelphia honeymoon is what I have in mind. After that we sail for Scotland.”

We.
The word warmed her like a winter’s fire. “My father can do the honors,” she said calmly, as if one day’s notice was all that was ever needed. “Mama can act as best maid.”

“My grandfather will be best man, then. And Mina . . .” He expelled a breath. “Mina will scold us for being in such a rush, then forgive us when we bring home our firstborn.”

She smiled, joy rising inside her at the pressure of his hands, the way his eyes held hers and didn’t let go. Despite the suddenness of it, she felt strangely at peace. Having dreamed of this moment since the schoolroom, she realized perhaps it wasn’t so sudden after all. “We shouldn’t waste any more time, Malachi. A Philadelphia honeymoon sounds perfect, as does Scotland after.”

“Then Mr. and Mrs. Malachi and Izannah Cameron it is,” he said, and he took her in his arms and gave her the kiss she’d long dreamed of too.

James had finally made it to Cincinnati, where he notified port officials to be alert to Wren’s arrival. Something told
him she’d soon leave for Louisville on an available packet, given river conditions. This far south the Ohio was free of ice and far more obliging, river traffic undaunted. Gray-faced with fatigue, he’d shrugged aside any concerns for his own safety. Hopefully those who meant him harm were still in Pittsburgh. At least here he was on the move, perhaps as hard to find as Wren.

Leaving the port office, he returned to the street, where fog hung like a tattered veil, snaking between narrow alleys and crawling over the water. Clutching his valise, he started walking, the loaded pistol inside his waistcoat feeling odd and heavy.

He moved past gin shops and taverns fronting the river, considered by many to be the seediest place in the city, and wondered if Wren was even here. His belly cramped at the smell of roasting meat. He was in need of a meal and a bath. Sleep. Reluctantly he made his way to his usual lodgings, redolent of tobacco and brandy and the crush of masculine voices.

The clerk greeted him warmly and summoned a concierge to take his luggage to his room. “I’ve not heard of Du Breon, Mr. Sackett. He’s likely farther toward Vine Street, where the music shops are located. Perhaps one of our staff could point you in the right direction come morning.”

Come
morning
might be too late. Saying nothing, he went out again, ignoring the warning voice that told him to stay off the streets, that looking for her was nothing but a pipe dream. Standing by a dry fountain in the busy square, so torn in spirit it seemed he was no more than the slim shadow darkening the cobbled walk, he faced the truth. In a city teeming with over one hundred thousand people, it would take a miracle to find her.

He hadn’t called in the police, though Ansel’s latest telegram demanded he do so. James dismissed it as a frantic
father’s plea, well meant but ill timed. He didn’t want her apprehended like a common criminal. He wanted to find her himself. He wanted to prove that faith and prayer mattered and would lead him back to her again.

As the fog tightened and gas lamps flared in the January twilight, the sick feeling inside him deepened.

Lord, please . . . Wren.