Love's Reckoning (13 page)

Eden watched her go without a word, watched her hurry across the frosted grass to climb the hill. Sinking to the window seat, Eden took from her bodice the scrap of Scripture that Silas had penned for her. The paper, warm from her skin, returned their staircase meeting to her in all its secret poignancy.

The Lord's my shepherd . . .

She'd already memorized the short Psalm and was hungry for more. Indeed, each word seemed woven into her soul the way the weaver wove his wares, taking the barest threads of her faith and making something beautiful and enduring as fine cloth deep inside her. Something that couldn't be taken away like Elspeth took her yellow silk and bonnet. These were her words—holy words. And they'd surely help her in her quest to reach Philadelphia.

As she traversed the lane to Hope Rising later that Sabbath morn to take tea with Margaret Hunter, her heart was sore over what was in store for Silas. But her soul was singing.

Hoofbeats broke the winter stillness. Loud. Hurried. Purposeful. As Eden rounded the bend in the treed lane that brought her abreast of Hope Rising's gate, David Greathouse appeared on a black stallion. At the sight of her he reined in, dismounted, and gave a little bow. His breath and that of his winded horse plumed in the icy air like frozen white
feathers. In a gesture that was charming and a bit bumbling, he removed his beaver hat from atop his head and nearly dropped it.

“Miss Eden, how goes the new year for you?”

“Well and good, Master David. And you?”

“Very well . . . at the moment.”

He studied her till she felt heat touch her cheeks, and she in turn took him in beneath half-lowered lashes. He'd filled out a bit more since she'd last seen him, though perhaps she'd grown used to Silas's well-muscled leanness, which made the heir of Hope Rising seem stout. Her eyes fastened on his snowy cravat and the cape that bore the newness of the city, thinking how shabby she must look.

Giving his hat a twirl in his hands, he smiled. “I was just coming round to ask your apprentice if he'd perform at our party.”

She felt a rush of pleasure. “The dance, you mean? After the ice harvest?”

“I hear he plays an exquisite fiddle.”

Did he? Exquisite? How she loved the thought! Since his coming he'd not played a note, not that she'd heard. Her delight faded as she looked up the hill. “You'll not find him at home but at church.”

“Ah, church . . . the place I should be.” His expression grew rueful. “Since I've returned from Philadelphia I've been so preoccupied I've nearly forgotten what day it is. Will you ask him for me?”

She nodded, glad to see him, wanting to inquire about his cousins but feeling suddenly tongue-tied.

He flexed his gloved hands, then reached inside his pocket and withdrew a letter. “From Beatrice.”

The unexpected sight unleashed a firestorm inside her. 'Twas her future, her pass to a new life. Or so she hoped.
Taking it from him with trembling hands, trying to keep her excitement from showing, she smiled her thanks. Just how much did David know of her plans? Though Bea was his cousin, she was notoriously closed-mouthed.

His brow raised in question. “Have I missed much being away? How fares your family?”

She tucked the letter into her basket, eyes drifting to a bird preening on an icy branch. “Papa and Mama are well. There's a new babe at the farm.” She swallowed hard, anxiety crowding in. Having known her for so long, did he suspect she was hiding something? “The apprentice seems to be charming the whole county with his work.”

“So I've heard. And young Thomas? Your sister?”

“Thomas is fine, thank you. As for Elspeth, she's well—well enough to go to church.”

Surprise lightened his eyes, followed by amused understanding. “With Silas Ballantyne, I suppose.” He chuckled and returned his hat to his head. “Where are you going?”

“To Margaret's for tea.”

“Would you like me to escort you?”

She nearly laughed.
For fifty feet?
“'Tis kind of you, but I'm nearly there. And my basket isn't heavy.”

“May I have the first dance then?”

She met his eyes, finding them so different from Silas's. David's were mild, like his manners, and so gray they seemed without color. “You've asked me that since we were very young,” she said, feeling their old kinship return, “when Master Gilbert came to Hope Rising to give us dancing lessons.”

He reddened, eyes on his boots, and raked a hand through his sandy hair till it stood on end, reminding her of the boy he used to be. “Yes, but we're no longer so young and the dancing master is no more, and I'm thinking you may have other admirers.”

“None,” she said softly, though Papa's ominous words held the hint of a coming match. Remembering it now seemed to snatch all the sunlight from her soul. Could her old friend see that too? “Good day, Master David. And yes,” she added, turning and tossing a shy smile over her shoulder, “you may have the first dance.”

 12 

Two is company, but three is none.

Eighteenth-century proverb

Two hours later in the glare of midafternoon, amidst church bells pealing, Eden returned down the lane, straight into the path of Silas on horseback. Elspeth sat behind him, arms wrapped firmly around his waist. The sight jarred Eden from her pleasant reverie and left her as overcast as the sky above. While Silas and her sister had just spent the morning together, in the place she longed to be, she'd been at Hope Rising, nearly forgetting Elspeth's glee. Truly, Elspeth had never looked so triumphant. A numbing hurt took hold that had everything to do with Beatrice's disappointing letter and nothing to do with the sight of them together. Or so she told herself.

She hoped they'd merely nod and go on their way, but nay . . . Silas came to a stop in the middle of the lane. Holding the reins loosely, he looked down at her, wearing a bemused expression she'd not seen before. Was he wondering why she'd not accompanied him instead of Elspeth? Thinking her reluctance was refusal? Disinterest? Fear of her father?

She kept her eyes on his greatcoat, the shirt she'd made him peeking out beneath. Despite his modest dress, she was always struck by his person, his presence, and today he loomed large. And Elspeth . . . There was no denying she was positively regal in back of him. No doubt she'd turned every head in the church with her colorful cape and feathered bonnet.

Horatio pawed the ground as if impatient with their dallying. No one said a word.

Awkwardness rent the air, so thick that Eden finally blurted, “Master David has asked that you play your fiddle at Hope Rising.”

Silas shifted in the saddle. “Why would he?”

“'Tis a tradition to hold a dance after the ice harvest,” she explained, thinking he'd be pleased. “Musicians are always in demand.”

He continued to regard her warily. Had Papa not told him help was needed? Why, the event was the talk of the entire county, anticipated for months. Still, she read no pleasure in his expression.

“I've not heard of any ice harvest,” he replied, raising the fire in her cheeks.

After David's courtly manner, she found Silas abrupt, even gruff. Had she erred in asking, somehow offending him, and in so doing pleased Elspeth? A satisfied smile pulled at her sister's mouth as she gazed down from her queen-like perch.

“Come, Silas,” Elspeth urged. “I'll tell you all about it later. My sister seems determined to turn us to ice with her chatter.”

“So be it.” With that, he slid from Horatio's back, reins dangling, and reached for Eden.

Her eyes went wide as his hands spanned her waist beneath the soft circle of her shawl. He lifted her off the ground, her basket tilting precariously, and set her in the warm saddle he'd just vacated before slapping the gelding's backside. Horatio
shot forward in the direction of the farm, Elspeth clutching Eden's middle without a look back.

Silas snatched up the paper that fluttered to the ground in Eden's wake lest it get soiled. A letter? He had no wish to read it, but the monogrammed post lay wide open and seemed to demand he do so. Across the bottom was a sprawling signature that bespoke elegance, ease. The author was no mystery. After spending the morning with Elspeth, he now knew the name of every man, woman, and child in York County. Beatrice was a Greathouse, Eden's friend . . . and Elspeth's enemy. The few words penned therein left him a bit upended, and the timorous Eden he thought he knew grew hazy.

Dearest Eden, The position you seek is delayed till spring.

He folded the paper and slipped it in his coat pocket, surprise sifting through him. For a few minutes he stood still, the winter wind biting him, and turned up his coat collar as he tried to make sense of the cryptic message. Was Eden leaving York County? Or simply seeking work within its confines, mayhap at Hope Rising? He felt a stinging disappointment, followed by a return to reason. What did it matter? Let Eden have her position, her plan.

He had his own.

Come Monday the weaving was but half done. Having been with them a fortnight, eating numerous meals at their table, sleeping in the summer parlor, and playing countless rounds of chess with Silas in the weary evening hours, Isaac
Lackey had turned out but a few rugs and coverlets. The paltry offerings were now spread over the dining room table for their perusal—a few napkins and towels, twin sheets, a rug, and other smaller items—making Eden wonder what else Isaac had been doing.

She watched as Mama ran her hands over a tablecloth of vivid red and green, her practiced eye finding a flaw or two. “He lacks the skill of his father. But weavers are so hard to come by and we are in such dire need of woolens, I'll not complain.”

Even as she said the words, the loom upstairs had gone silent—again. Eden felt a keen dismay. But Mama seemed not to notice. Her face resumed its placid lines, her expression benign. She simply turned to her pattern book, pointing out two designs.

“Go show Mr. Lackey these, Eden. I simply must have two more rugs worked in this way.”

Nodding, Eden set down the pewter she'd been polishing and wiped her hands on her apron, trying to master her dislike of the lazy Isaac. The profound quiet boded ill, but thankfully, before her foot touched the first step, the loom's clacking resumed. She imagined him throwing the shuttle back and forth across the stretched wool, Elspeth assisting, neither of them pleased with her unexpected appearance.

When she reached the landing, her heart seemed to grind to a halt. The door to the weaving room was closed, though Mama insisted it always be open.

The pattern book grew damp in her hands. Again the loom stilled. Breath held to the point of bursting, Eden pushed open the door. Isaac sat on his bench, but his hands were no longer on his work. They were on Elspeth, who was kissing him.

The pattern book fell from Eden's hands. Elspeth swirled around on the bench, her face a stew of surprise and indigna
tion. Isaac simply looked smug, taking up the shuttle again as if nothing untoward had happened.

A startling question cut through Eden's mortification. Might Isaac be Jon's father? The timing was certainly right. He'd last been here the previous winter . . .

Scooping up the book, Eden opened the door wide, voice trembling at their brazenness. “Mr. Lackey . . .”

Thoughts of Silas crowded out what little remained of her composure. What would he say to this? Her sister was so fickle—so unfaithful. The shame that should have been Elspeth's suffused Eden from tip to toe. “Mama needs two more rugs worked in this pattern,” she whispered, handing Isaac the book. Hearing the babe crying below, she turned and fled.

Silas spread the tobacco-colored map upon his desk—Eden's desk—in the garret room. The light slanting through the sole window highlighted every geographical feature that lay beyond the Allegheny Mountains to the west. Simply looking at the topography set his soul on fire. 'Twas a holy passion he had to push west—to move beyond the boundaries of who he was and what he'd been born to—to who he felt called to be.

Or was it a less holy, burning ambition instead?

He'd logged less than two months in York County, and already his soul chafed at his tenure. Yet if the Lord deemed it necessary for him to tarry here, he would. His sprawling indenture had an end, and he knew the date like his own name day.

Eighteen October, 1785.

He riffled through his haversack and brought out a second map far different from the first. This one he'd nearly
memorized. In the far left corner was the outpost of Fort Pitt, situated on an oft-disputed, arrowhead-shaped tip of land known as the gateway to the West. He'd heard of the raw breed of men there, of disease and lawlessness and Indian unrest, yet the more he learned, the more he saw beyond the danger and violence to what it would one day be. In the matter of trade, this new land was ripe for exploitation and settlement. Settlers were now plotting out the makings of a village, a Scottish stronghold. For years Quakers had pushed the intrepid Scots toward the borders to fend off the Indians on the Pennsylvania frontier. Pittsburgh was the result.

His longing to have been among the first wave of immigrants was fierce. Posts near the Forks of the Ohio and beyond were now well established, and men were getting rich through the Indian trade. Now there were rumors of a different sort of wealth—of coal and other natural resources buried deep in the western hills, there for the taking. One day the territory would surely be filled with the smoke and soot of Edinburgh. Pittsburgh even boasted of becoming a second Philadelphia.

Leaning back in his chair, he ran a hand through his unkempt hair and sighed. All that stood between him and his future was a precarious apprenticeship, the Allegheny Mountains, and two hundred miles of unfamiliar wilderness. Rolling up the maps, he returned them to his haversack along with Beatrice Greathouse's letter to Eden. If she came to him in the stairwell again, he'd return it to her.

Though he tried to dismiss it, the letter's terse words tore at him. Did she seek a position at Hope Rising? Were her parents aware of her scheme? Nae, reason told him. The plan was in place to escape this contentious place.