Love's Fortune (6 page)

He started walking and she stayed slightly in back of him, wet hem dragging. Thoughts of Charlotte crowded in, raising more questions. Had she sent the note asking for his help? If not for the curt way he clipped his words as if each one was ground out of him, she’d ask. Charlotte might have changed her mind, or—her heart stilled at the thought—James Sackett might have refused her.

They navigated the maze far more easily than when she’d entered, and it was apparent he knew it well. Once again she stumbled on her cumbersome skirts, feeling the burn of embarrassment as he reached out to right her. Warm fingers cupped her elbow, then fell away as if bitten.

“Are you all right?” His words came quiet in the stillness, surprising her, turning her a touch shy.

In answer, her hand went to the rose she’d tucked in her hair. Plucking it free, she pressed the fading bloom into his sinewy hand. He took her small token of thanks without a flicker of emotion. As if she’d done nothing at all.

Mercy, she’d never seen a man so . . . unbent. If she handed him a rattlesnake, what would his reaction be? Unlike Selkirk and the Cane Run men she knew, James Sackett seemed cast in stone.

Papa appeared in their path, smiling bemusedly when he took in her wet attire. “I knew you’d be in the garden, Wren. Our carriage is waiting.” He extended a hand, which James shook firmly. “I’ll see you early in the morning, at the levee.”

At James’s nod they parted company, though Wren gave a backward glance at the big house, thinking of Izannah.

Papa looked back too. “Pray for your aunt, Wren. Her baby is about to be born and not all is well.”

The terse words erased every thought of James Sackett from her head.

“Where’s Mistress McFee, the midwife?”

Izannah swung toward her father as he stood in the doorway of the dressing room, wishing she had better news. “She’s been sent for but is at the Kirks’.”

A flash of exasperation lit his bearded face. She knew what
he was thinking. How dare young, vivacious Kitty Kirk, who birthed babies like a cat had kittens, intrude on a Turlock at such a time? It seemed to underscore the obvious. Mama was too old. Too tired. Too besotted with a house overflowing with children. Too passionate about Daddy—and he with her—despite a union that spanned a multitude of years and should have long since cooled.

Childbirth was the only time her father showed fear. Izannah saw it now in the tight, tanned lines of his face, the grieved gray of his eyes. As a revered and respected judge, Jack Turlock was used to swaying fate with the swing of his gavel, yet here in the stifling bedchamber he appeared completely powerless. Out of place.

Lying back on a bank of feather pillows, Mama tried to smile despite the ordeal stretching before her. “Izannah, ready the cradle and make sure a warm blanket is waiting. Then we’ll—” The words were snatched away by a pain so acute her face turned ashen despite the heat of the bedchamber.

Witnessing it, Papa tunneled a hand through his hair and shut the door, enclosing himself in the dressing room. Izannah turned back to the bed as Mama finished telling her what to do, her words rushed and then extinguished altogether by an anguished moan. For a moment Izannah stood stricken.

It should be
me, Mama, lying in that bed, giving you a grandchild
. I’d gladly withstand the pain to bear my beloved
a son . . .

The thought sent her flushing and nearly stumbling as she readied the cradle. Used by countless Turlock babies, its pine edge was marred by tiny tooth marks, the interior lined with lamb’s wool in winter and the softest cotton in summer.

“Open the windows wider, Izannah. And call for your father to—” Stopping again, Mama bit her lip. “To come pray
with me. It shouldn’t be long now. I’ve had pains all through supper—”

Before the last word was uttered, her father thrust open the door that separated them. Izannah fled down the hall to fetch linens, her last look capturing her strong, stalwart father on his knees at Mama’s side.

In the shadows of the linen closet, she drew in a quivering breath and tried to shake the sick feeling that followed. The day had gone wrong from the start. Her brothers had been an unmanageable handful since dawn. Her maid had scorched her favorite gown. Cook had dropped the dessert she’d promised. And James had been far too preoccupied . . .

Feeling her way through the familiar closet, she latched on to what she sought, thoughts settling on Uncle Ansel. Long ago, Mama had lost her first baby from the shock of his leaving. Would she lose this babe at his reappearing? Or worse?

“Izannah!”

Her father’s voice thundered through the second floor like cannon fire. Hugging the linens to her chest, she ran toward the sound, tripping in her haste.

Lord
, help us, please . . .

8

Old age is not a matter for sorrow. It is matter for thanks if we have left our work done behind us.

T
HOMAS
C
ARLYLE

James leaned back in his chair, senses filled with the newness of the latest Ballantyne enterprise. The recently finished offices along Water Street fronted the levee, the large bank of windows offering a panorama of ceaseless activity. Ballantyne steamships lay in tiers three deep as the mist rose off the river and the strengthening sun vied with black ash and coal dust in a furious play of light and shadow.

Around an immense refectory table made of oak, shareholders gathered alongside a fleet of company attorneys, head shipwrights, apprentices, and more. Silas Ballantyne didn’t exclude anyone who had a hand in the business, be it the boatyard or ironworks or glassworks. Every employee owned stock and prospered—or stood to lose everything—depending on the Ballantynes’ rise or fall.

To his left, the judge’s place was conspicuously empty. Jack Turlock was at River Hill, about to become a father again. James had hoped Ellie’s travail would be over when he awoke, but no babe’s cry had rent the morning stillness when he’d left for Pittsburgh. He’d gone down the long drive, a hollow feeling in his gut, unsure of what awaited on his return.

Silas stood at the far end of the table, diverting James’s thoughts. As usual, the founder of the Ballantyne fortune didn’t mince words but took matters by the tail. “I’ve called this morning’s meeting to announce two matters of importance—the return of my son Ansel to Pittsburgh and the possibility of a Ballantyne-Cameron alliance.”

A murmur of approval—and surprise—rippled through the room. James fixed his eyes on Peyton, the ailing heir, and Bennett, second in line. He knew how father and son felt about both matters. They were spitting nails over Ansel’s return—and could hardly contain their glee over partnering with the powerful Cameron clan.

“In the weeks to come, Ansel will assume leadership of Ballantyne Ironworks while the management of our other interests will remain unchanged.” Turning toward the wall with a surety that belied his age, Silas unveiled a large map showing railroad routes crisscrossing the eastern United States in bold black lines.

“As you know, the Baltimore and Ohio is nearing completion in Wheeling, West Virginia, and will soon be a part of the Pennsylvania Railroad. The Camerons and I have nearly formalized a partnership comprised of seven Ballantyne steamers that will operate in conjunction with the line at its end point . . .”

Though his own spirits lifted at the inclusion of Ansel and
a possible Cameron tie, James couldn’t keep his mind on talk of tracks and land west of the meridian and competing railroad routes. Couldn’t even entertain a sliver of envy that his old friend Malachi Cameron had finally come into his own. Couldn’t feel any awe as Silas spoke of the Camerons’ grand plan to link the East and the West with a transcontinental railroad.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sackett. Seems like the heat
went to my head.”

Raising a hand, James gave a discreet tug to his cravat. Though the room was cool, it seemed he was still standing in the heat of the garden, bewitched by what he’d never have—a Ballantyne bride—wading in the water. In his breast pocket was the rose she’d given him, dried now. Its faint fragrance reminded him of her.

As if he needed a reminder . . .

The morning inched ahead, the meeting ending on a congratulatory note as Silas turned toward Bennett. “Best wishes to my grandson and his bride-to-be, Miss Charlotte Ashburton, on the occasion of their Saturday nuptials.”

Handshakes and applause returned Bennett to the center of attention. Quietly James left his seat to stand near the door, preparing to take his leave. Perhaps it no longer mattered that Bennett’s longtime rival was making such strides. Malachi Cameron had yet to take a wife, and Bennett was about to marry a shipping heiress.

But for the note in James’s pocket.

Though it wasn’t signed, he’d been assured of its origin—Bennett’s bride. One of New Hope’s maids had sent it over yesterday. The help were always going between River Hill and New Hope, and he’d thought little of it till a stable hand slipped the note to him at dusk.

Mr. Sackett,

Have heard you are trustworthy. Am anxious to return to Boston. Servants say you have connections. Please advise.

Without a doubt a scandal was in the making, and he wanted no part of it. Common sense told him to pass the matter to Silas—but something stopped him.

“Ready to depart for New Orleans, James?” Silas was at his elbow, leaning on a gold-plated cane.

“A Saturday sailing, aye.”

Their eyes met, communicating a great deal more than piloting and wedding journeys and the coming twelve-hundred-mile trip. Silas’s keen gaze was a never-fading jade, his handshake firm. There was no sign of the man who had collapsed two weeks prior, leaving James on tenterhooks since.

“If you have need of anything . . .” Silas began.

“A prayer or two,” James replied.

Silas’s voice was low and measured. “Just remember to stay clear of Island 37. And take care to dock in Louisville on the midnight watch.”

James gave a nod, barely registering the details, the bride’s plea weighting him.

It was the perfect opportunity to show Silas the note. Excuse himself from any trouble. But he couldn’t shift the burden to an ailing man. Miss Ashburton’s heartfelt note was for him and no one else. Despite the scandal about to ensue, James felt an undeniable swell of sympathy for Bennett’s bride. And a certainty he had to help her.

In the privacy of the dressing room, Charlotte’s strained whisper turned urgent. “I must tell Bennett today.”

Darting a look at the door Aunt Andra had just passed through, Wren dared a single word. “Today?”

Charlotte’s eyes, a deep lavender-blue, darkened. “Another letter came from Christian yesterday. Bennett intercepted it and confronted me. He was so angry I thought he might strike me.”

Wren stared at her, mind spinning. Bennett . . . angry? He looked so gentlemanly in his tailored clothes, so polite and refined, like he’d never lift a hand to anyone. Yet here Charlotte was pouring out her heart to the contrary.

“Bennett has planned an outing on the lake today at Ballantyne Hall. He says we’ve hardly had a moment alone together. He wants to show me his new skiff. I dread it yet feel this may be the opportunity to end things. Last night I sent a note to James Sackett through my maid—”

A stirring outside the door quashed their whispering. Aunt Andra was approaching, her brisk step unmistakable. “The bride-to-be is in here, ready for a final fitting.” She showed the dressmaker in, two assistants trailing. “I trust you’ve also brought a suitable gown for Rowena.” She glanced at Wren, her smile thin. “I took the liberty of asking Mistress Endicott to improve on your Louisville dresses and find a more fitting garment.”

“And improve we did.” The aging seamstress’s face held satisfaction as both gowns were brought in.

The bridal ensemble was unveiled first in all its creamy splendor. Speechless, Wren pondered how Charlotte would last through the ceremony in such heavy silk when she already looked wilted in camisole and petticoats. On a near dressing table, the wedding bonnet with its mock orange flowers and matching lace veil awaited to complete her misery.

Mistress Endicott stood with hands on her ample hips. “If you’ll undress to your undergarments, Rowena, we’ll fit your new dress.”

The rustle of tissue drew every eye. Something satiny emerged, the mint shade with its rose trim pleasing. Wren hadn’t seen anything so splendid on their hurried Louisville shopping trip. Of a lighter fabric than Charlotte’s silk, the dress slid over her shoulders, the frothy lace hem settling to the floor.

Wren ran a light hand over the gathered skirt. “Reminds me of spring . . . wild roses.”

Andra stood back, teeth catching on her bottom lip in contemplation. “The shade seems a trifle pale. Is there nothing else?”

Mistress Endicott moved toward a muslin-wrapped bundle, clearly anxious to do Andra’s bidding. “We’ve brought another in chrome-yellow.”

The gown emerged, a glaring gold, its full skirts edged with large blue bows.
Tawdry
was the word that leapt to mind. Even Charlotte looked aghast. There was a strained pause before a knock sounded at the door, prolonging the decision.

“I’ve come to see Charlotte and Wren.” Grandmother took a slow step into the room on the arm of her maid, smiling, ever joyful. “Ah, the final fitting. We’ve not had a bride at New Hope since Ellie wed her Jack.”

“Yes, Mother, you were just telling Charlotte that yesterday.” Andra bent and examined the garish dress closely. “This gown is far more eye-catching, don’t you agree?”

Grandmother looked to Wren, hesitancy in her every feature. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that shade of yellow. In my day Spitalfields silk was the height of fashion.”

“Times are changing,” Andra told her curtly. “Chrome-yellow it shall be.”

Wren held her tongue. She didn’t want to cross Andra or create a stir for her very fragile grandmother.

“How lovely you look, Charlotte.” The maid at Grandmother’s side helped her to a settee. “All that Honiton lace becomes you.”

Did no one notice Charlotte was as pale as her dress? The alarm Wren had fought since their garden talk now filled her to the brim. Here they were discussing gowns and weddings that might never be while Charlotte looked as if she might faint at their feet.

“I’ve not come to discuss fashion but share some glad news.” Grandmother looked triumphant. “We’ve just received word that Ellie has been safely delivered of a new babe, born this morning at River Hill.”

Wren’s spirits took wing. “Boy or girl?”

“Jack likes to tease me and never says. I was hoping you might accompany me to River Hill this afternoon. Charlotte will be at Ballantyne Hall with Bennett, so she tells me. I thought we could take her there on our way. There’s room enough in the carriage for you too, Andra.”

Andra ceased fussing with Charlotte’s hem, brow as creased as the fabric in her hands. “Really, Mother, I can’t possibly spare an afternoon, not with more gifts to catalogue and music to see about for the reception.” She sighed. “Elinor’s lying-in couldn’t come at a worse time!”

The nettlesome remark hung in the air, causing hurt, or so Wren feared. Laying a hand on Grandmother’s shoulder, she gave a gentle squeeze. “I’ll gladly go. There’s nothing better than a baby, surely.”

Andra gave them a disparaging glance and the room stilled.
“I think a visit could wait till after the wedding. All those Turlock boys tire you so, Mother.”

“Tire me?” Grandmother gave a little chuckle. “Old as I am, everything tires me. Those boys are life itself.”

“You may give Elinor my best wishes if you like.”

Wren studied her aunt, Tremper’s words resounding.
Sour Aunt Andra
.
Out of the mouths of babes . . . A chill settled over the room that not even the warmth of Grandmother’s presence could thaw.

Undaunted, Grandmother smiled up at Wren. “We’ll leave for River Hill after luncheon then.”