Love's Fortune (5 page)

Grandfather’s Scottish estate? Papa hadn’t mentioned that. Wren fell into step beside him as he led them to the house, musing all the way.

She tried to find a place to rest her eyes as a dozen different things vied for her attention—the noisy boys, the cupola atop the gambrel roof, the string of cottages down a side lane. A profusion of roses crowding the front porch won out. Their perfume was like a presence, strong and sweet, blooming in such varied hues Wren nearly stopped on the walk, dumbstruck.

Before they’d mounted the front steps, a woman flew through the open doorway as fast as her bulk would allow. Aunt Ellie’s face was joyful yet wistful, her blue eyes glistening with tears. Still remarkably pretty despite the delicate lines about her eyes and mouth, she resembled the boys in the cut of their features if not their fair hair. She nearly sent Wren’s father off his feet. Next her warm arms enveloped Wren in the sincere welcome denied them by Andra at New Hope, bringing a lump to her throat. “Rowena? Little Wren?”

Wren clung to her a little too long, reminded of Mama’s lavender-scented embrace. She didn’t break free till a man appeared behind them, overshadowing them. There was no mistaking who’d sired ten sons. Jack Turlock’s imprint was stamped on his brood as indelibly as ink. Wren found herself
staring at this tanned giant, fair hair like a shock of wheat, features ruddy. He looked more gentleman farmer than judge.

“So you’ve come back to us.” He shook Papa’s hand heartily, his silvered eyes alight as he took in Wren. “I have a daughter hereabouts who’d like to meet you.”

John Henry pointed off the porch. “Izzy’s down at River Row.”

Wren’s gaze trailed west, to a leafy, oak-lined lane. A young woman walked toward them, straw hat in hand, ribbons trailing along the ground. The man beside her seemed thoughtful, his head bent as she talked, her comely profile turned toward him entreatingly.

The boys began to buzz like agitated bees, swarming to one side of the long porch. “James is coming for supper! About time too! Suppose he’ll tell us another river tale?”

Wren felt a stirring of recognition as the couple came closer. Coatless, James Sackett was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, dark trousers falling to leather boots. All bore the mark of a gentleman at leisure, not an officer of the Ballantyne line. A mere echo of the polished pilot she remembered. She’d left him behind at the levee two days past, not expecting to see him again, yet here he was, holding her surprised gaze with his own across the fragrant, crowded porch.

And next to him was . . . her cousin? Beautiful and buxom, golden-haired and silver-eyed, Izannah Turlock stood in a shaft of sunlight looking like she’d just stepped out of a fairy tale.

“Come in out of this heat,” Ellie invited, threading her arms through Wren’s and her father’s. “There’ll be plenty more talking at table.” With that, she led them into the antique elegance of River Hill.

7

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a faery’s child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

J
OHN
K
EATS

Wren swallowed down a wave of wonder. Her gaze lifted, took in lofty ceilings and crown molding nearly a hundred years old. Someone seated her at an immense table. She took care to manage her unruly crinoline, sitting down on a chair that thankfully had no arms and allowed for her skirts to settle. Wedged between Nathaniel and Izannah, she glanced about the sumptuous, lemon-hued room.

Farther down, past a runner of ivy and creamy day lilies, James Sackett and the judge sat opposite Papa and Aunt Ellie, boys sprinkled in between. So far Izannah hadn’t said a word. Wren prayed their initial awkwardness would mend. She so needed a friend.

The judge cleared his throat and leveled a solemn eye at
the boys. A prayer was said. At his “Amen,” the stillness gave way to chaos. Laughter and talk bubbled over as the meal commenced. Navy-clad servants darted in and out, bearing steaming silver dishes and the loveliest china Wren had ever seen. River Hill employed free blacks and whites, Papa said. They were in emancipated Pennsylvania, after all.

“I’m never quite hungry in this heat.” Perspiration beaded Izannah’s upper lip and left damp wisps about her oval face. Setting her fork down, she brought out a bamboo fan embellished with tiny pink and cream seashells.

“That’s fetching,” Wren said, thinking of her own, a humble blend of wood and paper. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“James brought it back to me from the West Indies.”

James.
There was an intimacy to the word that made Wren’s flush climb higher as he looked their way. Raising her glass of lemon ice, she took a careful sip, mindful of her spill at New Hope.

Across from her, Danson was forking his chicken with gusto, murmuring to John Henry between bites. The younger boys were trading disliked items for more palatable ones, spearing deviled eggs and pickled asparagus off each other’s plates when the judge wasn’t watching.

“Mama, is that pretty lady coming to live with us?” At Tremper’s raised voice, every eye turned toward Wren.

Aunt Ellie smiled. “Cousin Wren is always welcome here, but she’s staying at New Hope for now.”

“With Grandfather and Grandmother?” Comprehension dawned on his upturned, freckled face. “And sour Aunt Andra?”

A burst of laughter tore round the table. Pink-cheeked, Aunt Ellie wiped Tremper’s mouth with a napkin and turned the tide of conversation. “Would you like some strawberry ice cream once you finish your supper?”

He nodded and Izannah swished her fan more vigorously. “You may be wondering why the children aren’t served separately like in most large houses. Daddy won’t allow it, though there are times I wish he would.”

Wren set her own fork aside. Hunger still gnawed at her, but her corset wouldn’t allow for another bite. “How is it having so many brothers?”

Izannah sighed. “Downright dangerous.”

Wren nearly laughed. “You have in mind a baby sister?”

“Daddy believes it will be another boy. He’s been right ten times out of eleven, though Mama and I still have hopes for a girl.” Izannah looked at her, a curious light in her eyes. “So tell me, cousin, what do you think of Pennsylvania? Is it very different from Kentucky?”

“Different? Like silk and homespun.” Wren spoke the first thing that came to mind. “You’ve never been?”

“Papa won’t allow me to travel. He says ladies should stay near to home. And Mama needs me here given all the children underfoot.”

“One day maybe you’ll wander.”

“Wander?” Izannah’s lovely face lit up. “I should hope so. I have in mind New Orleans and Europe. I’d especially like to see Edinburgh and London.”

“You should talk to Papa, then. He’s been nearly everywhere hunting violins, though he’s yet to find the one he’s looking for.”

“The Italian Guarneri, you mean. The one Grandfather sold long ago?” At Wren’s nod, her expression turned more earnest. “You’ve never accompanied him on his travels?”

“Hearing about them is enough,” Wren replied with a smile. “Staying home suits me.”

They slipped into a comfortable silence, in pointed contrast
to the lively conversation at table’s end. Wren let her gaze wander, alighting on the pilot again. Candlelight called out the sun lines about his eyes, his stoic profile and squared jaw. She liked how his dark hair waved and fell to his collar, like a brush of ink on stark white paper. In the heat it curled on the ends, in outright defiance of a comb. In mockery of his fierce reserve. Did he never smile . . . never laugh?

Across from him, Papa had come to life. He was talking and gesturing in a way that made Wren’s jaw sag. Like he was at home here, had ever been. All his melancholy had flown.

Izannah stopped her fanning. “Would you like to walk in the garden? There’s usually a blessed breeze off the river.” With a last look at James, she smiled. “Mama won’t mind.”

Wren hated to leave her rich meal unfinished and cast her aunt Ellie an apologetic glance as she followed Izannah’s graceful exit from the table.

Izannah’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mama usually spends summer evenings in the garden but tires easily of late. My father and yours will likely shut themselves in the study and talk business, corralling James if they can, unless my brothers get to him first.” She expelled a little breath. “I believe you’ve met everyone at River Hill except Great-Aunt Elspeth.”

“Elspeth?”

“She’s Grandmother’s half sister.” Izannah’s brow knotted and she paused, as if unsure how much to share. “Daddy sort of inherited her when he married Mama. But Elspeth is now so old she doesn’t make as much trouble as she used to. She lives in a stone cottage at the east end of the garden with her maid and nurse. See that far chimney?”

They stepped onto a side porch that overlooked acres of
flowers, a large fountain at its heart. Far beyond was Elspeth’s domain, a safe distance from the main house.

“I’ve never seen such a garden,” Wren said.

“It was naught but weeds when my parents wed.” Izannah plucked a cluster of wisteria climbing a near column. “Daddy employs three gardeners to tend it for Mama.”

“We have a small patch,” Wren said. The confession seemed a shameful thing, almost laughable. Theirs was no bigger than a wagon wheel, hardly worth mentioning, though Molly tended it like a baby. “Herbs and vegetables mostly. A kitchen garden.”

“We have a physic garden too, between the house and summer kitchen, but it’s so full of bees and snakes I stay away. Poor Cook is forever chasing the boys out of it.”

They started down stone steps into fading sunlight and cooler air when a maid appeared behind them, apology in her tone. “Your mother needs you upstairs, Miss Izannah.”

“Coming,” she answered, sudden alarm in her eyes. “Feel free to wander about, cousin. If you go far enough, there’s a yew maze with a pond at the center . . . swans.”

Swans? Wren took the remaining steps by twos, bypassing a bubbling fountain. Its music fed her unsettled spirit, its windborne spray a welcome mist on her flushed face. She’d always felt nearer to God in a garden than any place on earth. If not for the pinch of her crinoline and slippers, she’d be nearly free.

Glory, but it was a wonder to be alone.

All day long Aunt Andra had kept her busy at New Hope, cataloguing wedding gifts and arranging them just so in the twin parlors in case callers happened by, while Charlotte sat and penned copious thank-you notes. They’d had tea with Grandmother at three o’clock before resuming their
unwrapping and admiring and writing. As the day wore on, Charlotte seemed more unsettled and near tears—but what was Wren to do?

She quickened her step as if to outdistance the thought, passing flowers she had no name for. Recognizing a climbing rose, she tucked one into her upswept hair. Just ahead was the promised yew hedge. She disappeared into its green folds, befuddled. Several wrong turns and dead ends later, she stumbled into the maze’s middle. Twin swans glided over the pond’s shimmery surface in the hush of twilight. Never in her life had she seen swans. They seemed the stuff of fairy tales. Like Izannah.

Bending down as easily as the detested corset and crinoline would allow, she shed her stockings, garters, and shoes. The sides of her taffeta bodice were soaked through, more from nerves than the heat. Oh, to shed her dress! If she was home she would.

Fists full of fabric, she waded into the water, a shiver of delight dancing down her spine. The swans drew nearer, undisturbed by her presence. She longed to be like them, to glide through her present predicament composed and queen-like. Leaning over, she studied her flushed reflection in the still water, the blossom in her hair a ghostly white.

She could hear boyish shouts and laughter back at the house as she felt her way over the pond’s pebbly bottom. The urge to shuck off all her clothes and swim was strong. The sun sank lower, but she was hardly conscious of the time, unmindful of anything but the delicious coolness of the water.

When she looked up again, the yew hedge seemed to melt away.

In the shadows stood James Sackett. He looked down at the ground as she let go of her skirts. The fabric ballooned
around her, riding the surface of the water like a lily pad. Without a word he turned his back on her.

Heat prickled her skin at the sight of her discarded clothes. The high-minded pilot of the Ballantynes’ . . . here? There was little to be done but hurry out of the water and wring out her skirts. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sackett. Seems like the heat went to my head.”

“Your father asked me to find you.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Izannah would have come in my stead, but she’s with her mother.”

So Aunt Ellie’s baby was about to be born. What else could it be? She swallowed down a sigh. She’d rather Izannah had come. It was plain James Sackett didn’t relish the task. “You needn’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“It’s no trouble, Miss Ballantyne,” he said smoothly. “I just didn’t expect to find you . . .”

“Wading?” She half smiled at his careful phrasing. “I suppose barefoot Ballantynes are rare as hen’s teeth.”

He glanced at her and she caught a flash of green. The sun lines about his eyes were chiseled deep, reminding her of mossy rocks in a millstream. Her insides gave a little lurch. His handsomeness was a heart-catching thing. Despite his wall of reserve and too-fine manners, she could see why Izannah was smitten.

“Have you never been wading, Mr. Sackett?” She drew abreast of him, missing Selkirk and their easy banter.

“Every day I’m on the river I’m in danger of wading, Miss Ballantyne. It’s not a favorite pastime.”

“Yet you fancy being a pilot.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known.”

She bent to gather up her discarded underthings, her hair coming free of Molly’s hastily placed pins. It spilled round
her shoulders, the ends brushing the cool grass. What a sight she must look! Izannah flashed to mind, nary a hair out of place . . .

She fumbled with her flimsy slippers, trying to stuff her damp feet into them while he averted his eyes again. Giving up, she decided to go barefoot.

“I’d suggest you keep your shoes on while in Pittsburgh, Miss Ballantyne.”

She straightened, searching for the slightest sign of teasing in his face. “I’ve been barefoot all my life, Mr. Sackett.”

“I don’t doubt it, but Pennsylvania isn’t Kentucky, understand.”

“I won’t be staying long.” She met his green gaze head-on. “Not long enough to mend my ways.”

“I don’t remember hearing of your return downriver.”

“You will once the wedding’s through.” If there was a wedding . . . if Charlotte didn’t run away. Unsettled, she turned and took a last look at the swans. “I plan to be back home by the first killing frost, if not before.”

“The killing frost . . .” His eyes held a query.

“When the last of the tobacco is cut and the late apples get sweet.” She could tell he didn’t have any inkling about such things.

He gave a thoughtful nod. “Before the rivers freeze.”

“Yes.” She’d canoe home if she had to. Could he sense that?