Love's Fortune (7 page)

Wren stole a glance at Charlotte. Still pale. Still at war within. And obviously full of dread at the coming afternoon.

Izannah stood at the window of the bedchamber, feeling like a wrung-out rag. The cloud of dust on the long drive roused her, and she pressed her forehead against the glass pane. Grandmother? A second figure sat beside her in the handsome barouche. Not Aunt Andra. Andra rarely came. Mama was always a bit sad at her absence—and Papa sullen. Yet little could dim Izannah’s joy that the endless night had passed.

Across the room Mama lay sleeping, the babe bundled in her arm, the maids going about on tiptoe as they tidied the bedchamber. In the adjoining dressing room, the tardy midwife dozed in a rocking chair, snoring softly. Thankfully one of the tutors had taken the boys fishing, so everyone was spared their wild tumbling and talk.

Turning back to the window, Izannah watched Rowena step down from the carriage and pause to admire the roses. In that instance it seemed James stood near, his low voice in her ear.

Her eyes are like sea
foam . . . her hair is the color of hemp rope . . . She
barely comes to my shoulder . . . She handles a fiddle like
I pilot a boat.

Izannah thought of all he hadn’t said.

She’s brown as a berry. Her hands
are callused. She speaks with a backwoods drawl.

Pushing away from the pane, she smoothed her wrinkled skirts, wishing she had time to change. Mama was stirring now, and the babe gave a little cry like a kitten’s mewl, bringing Daddy round. His eyes were red-rimmed from a sleepless night, his jaw unshaven, but his relief was as potent as her own, though they both knew the danger hadn’t passed. Mama had a slight fever. And the babe was so large Izannah had gasped when the midwife had first placed the infant in her waiting arms.

“Her name is Chloe,” Daddy had said at the sight of his second daughter.

“Chloe,” Izannah echoed, moved by the sudden glimmer in his and Mama’s eyes. Once Papa had had a sister named Chloe, dear to him and Mama both. Izannah struggled to hide her dismay, wishing for a less melancholy name. But Chloe it was.

Now, hours later, she supposed all that mattered was that Mama be well again. She sent up a quick prayer, preparing for a visit. “Grandmother and Rowena are here. Shall I ring for tea?”

Mama brightened. “Yes, of course. Bring the chairs nearer the bed. And the tea table, if you please.” She put a hand to her plaited hair. “You’ve taken care of everything, Izannah, even my favorite bed jacket.”

“You look beautiful, Mama.”

“Yes, she does, though I can hardly believe it after she’s
been up all night.” Great-Aunt Elspeth stood at the doorway to the bedchamber, lips pursed as the judge went past. “Please tell me it’s not another boy. A girl would be a fitting finish to all this endless procreation.”

The maid leaned in and whispered something, but Elspeth simply chortled and moved into the room’s center, her cane leading. “Martha reminds me I must behave or your father has threatened to send for my nurse . . . and a straitjacket.”

“Would you like to hold Chloe?” Izannah gestured to a chair, knowing the answer before she asked.

“Ah, a girl! No baby holding, thank you. But I would like some tea.” Despite her advanced age, Elspeth was dressed and pressed to perfection, showing little sign of the onerous malady that plagued her. One didn’t discuss the French pox in polite company.

Grandmother and Rowena soon joined them, gathering round and making such a fuss over the new arrival that introductions were nearly forgotten.

Eventually Elspeth’s inquisitive gaze settled on Wren in the chair opposite, her eyes alive with interest. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Wren Ballantyne, Ansel’s daughter.”

“Ansel’s daughter?” Her eyes rounded. “So the prodigal has returned. Oh my . . .”

Izannah noted the slight lift of Wren’s brows. “There are no prodigals in this family, Aunt Elspeth. Not even you.” She picked up a plate of tea sandwiches and passed them round the table. “Rowena and her father have just arrived in time for the wedding.”

“Ah, the wedding. I don’t suppose I received an invitation.” Elspeth looked to her maid, who shook her head in confirmation. “Well, I’ll stay here with Ellie and the baby, then.”

“You’ve been invited to the reception, which will be at the Monongahela House,” Grandmother told her. “The bride is a beautiful girl from Boston—”

“Boston!”

“Yes, Boston. Charlotte met Bennett while he was studying at Harvard.”

“But I don’t believe in Pittsburghers marrying foreigners.”

“Charlotte shan’t be a foreigner come Saturday,” Grandmother replied. “She’ll be a Ballantyne.”

“Sister, do you always have an answer for everything?” Elspeth returned her attention to Wren. “I suppose you’ll be next—a debut ball, a groom. Izannah hasn’t had much luck with either.”

Izannah bit her lip, feeling a familiar bristling.
Oh, that the wedding on
Saturday was my own, and a babe to follow.
Lifting Chloe out of her mother’s arms, Izannah handed her to Grandmother, praying for a turn in conversation.

“She has your blue eyes, Ellie, and Jack’s fair hair. And there’s no mistaking the Ballantyne nose.” Grandmother’s pleasure knew no bounds. “Such a big baby! I do hope you’ll consider a wet nurse till you regain your strength.”

“The midwife said the same, but I’m not sure.” Fever glazed Mama’s eyes, stealing Izannah’s joy.

“Why don’t you let me stay here with you a few days?” Grandmother’s gracious offer only fueled Izannah’s worries. “I’ve not forgotten all the years I spent at the foundling hospital in Philadelphia. Babies have always been second nature to me.”

“But what about the wedding and all those guests, Mama?”

“Andra and the staff have all in hand. Wren has been a blessing as well. I daresay I won’t be missed.”

With a loud harrumph, Elspeth got to her feet, cane in
hand. “All this family harmony gives me indigestion. I must go and see what might be suitable to wear to the reception, other than the straitjacket Jack keeps talking about.”

Hiding her relief, Izannah bent and kissed Elspeth’s wrinkled cheek, showing her out. The maid waited in the corridor, biding her time with a bit of knitting. Izannah shut the door after them and returned to Wren while Mama spoke in quiet tones with Grandmother.

“I apologize for Elspeth.”

Wren simply smiled. “She’s the great-aunt you told me about. The one who doesn’t make as much trouble as she used to.”

“Sometimes I wonder. Her tongue still seems sharp as a rapier.”

“I’ve never met anybody like her.”

“Pray you never will.” Izannah reached for a tea cake, hungry again after so long a night. “How are you faring at New Hope? Isn’t Mama’s old room quaint?” At Wren’s nod, she said quietly, “Grandmother is fond of keeping things as they used to be. Other than the new wing, the old house is quite the antique.”

“Papa said it has changed little in time.” Wren sat back, teacup in hand. “New Hope’s beautiful, but I miss Kentucky and long to get back there.”

“Oh?” Izannah masked her surprise. There’d been no talk of returning to Kentucky, not that she knew of. Uncle Ansel had even confided to Daddy his plans to build a home on acreage west of New Hope. Obviously Wren didn’t know, and Izannah wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

Her comely cousin seemed to be unaware of a great many things, Izannah realized, the least of which was Wren’s inexplicable hold on James Sackett’s heart.

9

When sorrows come, they come not as single spies, but in battalions!

W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

More than seventy years of weather and the sun’s glare had bleached the old building white, but James felt more at home in the place the Ballantyne legacy had begun than the ornate Water Street offices across the way. Silas had turned over his old domain to James the week before, key and all, humble as it was. Jutting out over the levee on an aged sliver of dock, the place was easily overlooked, dwarfed by piles of freight and an army of men working under the Ballantynes’ renowned Irish hull builder, Anthony Dunlevy.

James couldn’t help but contrast the hum of activity to the eves he sat alone with a lantern, charting the crossings and laying out the courses by compass, the levee cat winding round his boots, the night wind sighing through the drafty boards. During daylight hours, little peace was to be had at the height of the shipping season. The door’s rusty hinges required
constant oiling as it swung to and fro, drawing complaints, but James wouldn’t replace it. He liked the look of that door. Solid. Stalwart. Steadfast. Unlike his shifting circumstances.

Leaning back in a chair in need of repair, he looked upward to a battered shelf. There Silas had driven a hand-forged nail, a reminder that the Almighty, crucified but risen, was always near at hand. It had been the guiding force of Silas’s long life. Never had James needed the reminder so much as now.

Looking out the window, he took in the
Rowena
lying at landing with a score of other vessels, but it was the
Belle of Pittsburgh
being bedecked like a bride that held him. Men scoured her decks with mops and wash buckets, while inside the grand salon artists were at work painting panels of each stateroom door with scenic vistas in oils. All at Bennett’s urging. As it was now Thursday, the honeymoon sailing was only two days away.

The frivolity jarred sourly with James’s task and Silas’s warning words to him that morning. There was much at stake. So much that James’s skin grew clammy from a sudden chill, though his shirt was sweat-damp in places.

The door groaned open. James failed to hear his cub pilot’s approach, though there was no ignoring the bearish shadow filling the doorway.

“S-Sackett, s-sir?” George Ealer’s stutter was more pronounced in his alarm. “There’s b-been a t-telegram from d-downriver.” He approached the desk, looking dazed. “B-Bennett’s mad as a b-bull.”

Standing, James reached out a hand and clamped Ealer’s slumped shoulder as if to give him anchor. “Slow down and tell it to me straight.”

Ealer swallowed hard. “It happened s-six o’clock this
m-morning north of S-Ship Island, about thirty m-miles below M-Memphis—”

“The
City of Pittsburgh
?” The latest and swiftest addition to the Ballantyne line? The nod of Ealer’s head was enough. James felt a sinking to his boots.

“The s-striker and s-second engineer had the watch in the engine r-room. The s-second m-mate had the watch on d-deck . . .”

All inferior crew and cargo save one. Trevor Bixby had been at the wheel. Ealer shuddered and tried to finish. James wanted to shake the labored words out of him.

“Four b-boilers exploded.”

Lord, no.

“They’ve t-taken B-Bixby to the nearest m-maritime hospital.”

James blinked back the stinging wetness clouding his vision. “Any other survivors?”

Ealer gave a shake of his shaggy head. “B-Bennett’s on his way here. I w-wanted to w-warn you.”

“Go to the Monongahela House and tell Captain Dean I’ll meet him there for supper instead of the noon meal.” James glanced out the window, feeling he’d not eat for a week, and faced another unappetizing prospect.

Bennett was crossing the street, flanked by several minions and attorneys. Leaving out the back door, Ealer made his escape.

When Bennett stepped into the old office without his entourage, the air turned oppressively still. “I suppose you’ve heard the news.”

“Yes, just,” James said.

The tick of the wall clock swelled in the silence. Bennett turned toward a shelf of ledgers, each bearing the name of
every Ballantyne packet in the line. “How much was she insured for?”

How much?
The words held the force of a fist. All the breath left him. A crew lay dead and a pilot lay dying. Not just any pilot but one of the best in the line—

“I said how much was the
City of Pittsburgh
insured for?”

Still, James gave no answer. His fingers clenched around an iron paperweight atop the cluttered desk. What was Bennett’s creed?

Success at any cost
and hang the consequences.

Bennett swung toward him, expression thick with hostility. “I want you to find out and send word to me at Ballantyne Hall. I don’t have time for mundane matters.” His gaze swept the room as if searching for answers before he went out, slamming the door in his wake.

Fingering the heavy paperweight, James wanted to draw back and hurl it after him, aggravated the oak door would take the blow. But it didn’t dint his desire that it knock some common decency into Bennett instead.

In the flicker of gaslight, Captain Dean’s face was the color of his linen napkin. “Bixby was a God-fearing man, James. Take comfort in that.”

Was
.
Throat too tight to reply, James stared at the elaborate menu and tried to focus. But all that filled his head was the thought of his friend and fellow pilot severely scalded, his body packed in linseed oil and cotton, dying in a strange hospital far downriver.

“You know the lifespan of a steamboat is but three to five years. It’s a dangerous business. That’s why we’re paid like kings.”

“If there’d been a first-rate crew aboard, it wouldn’t have happened.” James kept his voice low, his eyes on the menu. “I warned Bennett more than once . . .” His voice faded. Dean didn’t need the reminder of Bennett’s oversight and excess. He’d witnessed it firsthand. Bennett seemed to leave a trail of it in his wake, scrimping on safety and crew while indulging in wild financial schemes, all to get ahead of the Camerons and the railroad.

“It reminds me of the time you were blown up around Madrid Bend near Memphis, right into the river from the wheel. That was no substandard crew but faulty equipment—and you came away without a scratch.” Dean took a swallow of water. “Besides, none of it can be chalked up to the affairs of men. The Lord himself ordains a man’s day of birth and death. Bixby said so himself.”

“I was there when he said it.” James found no comfort in the memory. “But I’ll not dismiss the matter so easily. There’s a pattern beginning of shoddy crew and careless handling, perhaps the intentional destruction of boats to collect insurance money.”

“That’s a heavy charge, James.”

“I wouldn’t voice it unless I thought it was sound.”

“The Ballantyne line has the finest safety record on the river.”

“Times are changing. As soon as Bennett is in charge and Silas steps down—”

“Silas has no intention of stepping down.” Dean chuckled humorlessly. “Dying, perhaps, but not stepping down.”

Dying, aye. James eyed Dean intently. No one else had witnessed the incident with Silas in the boatyard office that day. He’d told no one, nor had Silas. But the incident had shaken James to the core. Somehow, in years past, he’d ignored the
signs of Silas’s aging, dreading the day he’d no longer be with them. Pittsburgh wouldn’t be the same, nor would he.

A waiter hovered, serving Turlock whiskey in crystal shot glasses. “A round of drinks for you gentlemen, compliments of the Sullivan party.”

James looked across the crowded dining room and nodded to the foremost Ballantyne attorney obviously commiserating with them over the
City of Pittsburgh
’s demise. Though he rarely drank, tonight whiskey was the only thing he could stomach.

At least Bixby hadn’t had a wife and children. Rivermen tended to be a lonesome breed, always on the water with no place to call home. He wasn’t sure about the rest of the crew. It was no small miracle there’d been no passengers, only cargo. He’d try to take comfort from that.

“You’re not considering leaving the line, I hope.” Dean’s hands shook slightly as he lit a cigar. “If you do you’ll send a red flag from here to New Orleans that something is amiss, and our competitors will have a heyday.”

This James couldn’t deny. He stayed silent, gaze roaming the plush room restlessly. Tonight the heavy blue decor seemed almost funereal, the room too dark.

“Now more than ever, insurance rates on cargo are adjusted by the caliber of the boat.” There was a heated warning in Dean’s stern words, a reminder they were the river’s elite. “Nothing is more important than the reputation of captain and pilot.”

“I have too much loyalty to Silas and Eden Ballantyne to resign right now.”

Dean gave a nod, his relief apparent. “There are few if any pilots who would or could transport the freight you do.” He returned to the menu with renewed interest. “We sail in two
days’ time. Once Bennett and his bride disembark in New Orleans, we can proceed as usual.”

James took a slow drink, the liquor leaving a fiery trail. “There’s another matter.” He reached for the note in his breast pocket, weighing the wisdom of doing so. But when he let go of the paper, it seemed a burden lifted along with it. “I received this yesterday.”

“Another matter indeed.” Dean was looking at the note as if it was arsenic. “I suppose this came from the bride?”

“Who seems intent on returning to Boston.”

“You’ve not replied?”

“Not yet.”

“If you do and Bennett gets wind of it . . .”

“I need to help her.”

“Help her?” Dean’s brows knotted like rope. “The nuptials are two days away. All the legalities have been taken care of—”

“All the legalities will be null and void if there’s no ceremony,” James replied.

“Let’s hope it’s a simple case of hysterics.”

“Miss Ashburton seems entirely rational to me.”

“Promise me you’ll stay out of the matter.” Dean’s calm was eroding, his color high. Reaching for the whiskey, he nearly knocked over his glass. “James, it’s a scandal in the making. There’s been many a skittish bride before the ceremony. If you—”

His quiet vehemence faded as the mayor and his wife paused briefly at their table. “My condolences, gentlemen, on the loss of the
City of Pittsburgh
.”

James gave a nod but said nothing. There was little to be done for Trevor Bixby and crew. But he could certainly help Charlotte Ashburton.