Love's Reckoning (15 page)

A thin smile curled her lips, and she bent nearer her sewing lest they notice.

Perhaps that light was but an invitation.

Eden tucked a sleeping Jon into his cradle after swaddling him, leaving her parents' bedchamber for her own. Both
Mama and Thomas were abed and she tiptoed past, though her thoughts remained in the winter parlor where Silas and Elspeth lingered. 'Twas improper for them to be unchaperoned, but her parents, wanting to hasten a match, cast all conventions aside. Nor should she pay it any mind, she told herself, fastening her thoughts on Philadelphia.

Shivering, she sought refuge in the window seat of her room, where she could see the distant lights of Hope Rising through the threadbare trees. David had ordered a dozen three-sided lanterns from Silas and was putting them to good use. Now, at nine o'clock, the place was lit like a bonfire. The sight solaced her, reminded her that the ice harvest was but three days away. She'd been given permission to go earlier when Jemma sent a note round unexpectedly.

“So Miss Greathouse is home and seeks your company?” Papa had tossed the summons into the forge's fire, gray brows nearly touching in contemplation. “Will Master David be there?”

She had nodded absently and looked about the smithy, wondering where Silas and Elspeth were, waiting for Papa's grudging approval—or another tirade.

“Go then. Be of service.” He waved a hand in dismissal as if she was naught but a pesky fly. “But don't return home without something to show for it.”

She nearly winced at his blunt wording. He meant a suitor, surely. Though most every unmarried or widowed man in the county would likely come to both harvest and ball, none had appealed to her yet. His cryptic words of a fortnight before returned and sent another chill through her.

After Elspeth is settled, Daughter, I have plans for you.

She prayed drinking had muddled his mind to make him utter such and he'd since forgotten the matter in the swell of sobriety. Thinking of her uncertain future, she rued the
loss of Bea's letter. Had she dropped it in the lane? Here at home? Dismay trickled through her. No one must know about Philadelphia. Not till the plan was in place and she'd gathered enough courage to go.

Blowing out the candle, she lay down, fully dressed, wishing she had nerve enough to disobey Papa's dictum of letting the fire die at night. This very morning she'd awakened to ice in the wash pitcher atop the washstand, a boon for the coming harvest but for little else. At least Silas was snug in the garret room. Somehow the simple thought of him deriving some comfort in this cold house gave her some comfort in return.

She could hear Elspeth's purposeful footfall on the stair, and in minutes her sister was in bed, her soft snores assuring Eden she was indeed asleep. What had she and Silas talked about after she'd left the parlor, if indeed they had talked? Was he becoming smitten? She tucked the hurtful thought away. Down the hall the clock struck ten. She lay still, waiting for the muted sound of Silas's violin, the Scripture he'd penned scrolling through her thoughts.

The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want . . .

Her hungry heart craved a shepherd. She wanted to know why, if the Lord led her, she was often left wanting. In want of more Scripture. More solitude. A different sister. A position in Philadelphia. A fire in the hearth to stop her shivering. An end to all the turmoil within and without.

Pushing back the covers, she was but halfway to the door when a noise sounded above her head. Shutting her eyes, she leaned into the door frame, fisting the wool gloves she'd made him. The music was slow and low, more a lament, so far removed from anything he'd ever played that she went completely still.
His fiddle weeps
, she thought, yet it wooed her with its sweetness, warm as a lover's touch.

For long minutes she just listened, summoning the courage
to open the door and ascend the garret stair in the dark. Hell, Papa said, was full of fiddlers. If so, Eden mused, surely heaven had its share. Thankfully Papa, deaf as he was getting, couldn't hear the music. Mama wouldn't complain if she did. Elspeth showed more irritation than interest in his playing, though Thomas often cocked his head and clapped his little hands.

She climbed upward, the music masking her movements. As she placed his gloves on the step, the playing ceased and the door opened. Light spilled down the steps like water on a hillside, illuminating the narrow stairwell.

“I heard your playing,” she whispered.

“Am I keeping you awake?” Concern skimmed his features. “My fiddle does not like this cold, else I'd be in the barn.”

Her throat constricted. How could she explain that she didn't want him to stop . . . ever? She simply gestured to the gloves. He leaned down and gathered them up, a bit solemn, as if wondering why she bothered looking after him. He stepped back inside the garret and held something out to her. “Careful you don't cut yourself.”

Her eyes widened. “Skates?”

“I saw you stumble on the pond. These should give you no trouble.”

Warmth rushed to her cheeks—and Jemma's flattering words melted to nothingness in her mind.
The Scottish apprentice was watching you . . . watching like a man who cannot watch enough.
Jemma had been wrong. He'd merely had pity on her because of her miserable skates.

She turned the shiny blades over in her hands, disappointment softened by wonder. These were no ordinary skates. Like everything else he made, they bore his unmistakable mark. The front blades were curved upward in the shape of a swan's head, graceful and shiny and smooth, so lovely they made her heart ache. He'd made them at the forge, right beneath
her father's watchful gaze, in spite of his penny-pinching and thundering.

“A kindness for a kindness,” he said, fisting his gloves.

Nay
, she thought. This was more than a kindness. 'Twas daring—and a rebuke that Papa hadn't seen to it himself. “Thank you.”

She studied him, drawn to the way the light framed his sturdy shoulders and gilded his hair. Flustered, she tried to summon the real reason she sought him out. Scripture. This alone propelled her to leave her pride at the foot of the stairs and come begging under the guise of giving him gloves. For a moment she felt as deceitful as Papa and Elspeth.

“I ken you need more than skates,” he uttered.

She flushed at his insight, hoping the way her heart was hopping about her chest stayed hidden. “Yes.”

Soundlessly, he brought out the Buik and sat down beside her, placing a candle on the step above. A stray draft wreaked havoc with the flame barely illuminating the Gaelic print. She marveled at his surety as he turned toward the back of the thick tome straightaway. Here was a man who knew where he wanted to go, even on the printed page. She lingered on his hands, clean yet creased faintly with coal dust. No longer did she see the scars, the branding. She saw only capability and purpose and strength.

“The book of John,” he said quietly but with conviction. “'Tis the Lord of the universe's love letter to you.”

She'd never before heard a preacher but was sure he sounded like one. The richness of his English and Gaelic sent shivers running down her arms, much like his music did. Twice she interrupted him, questions clamoring. He answered her carefully, even gently, and she felt undone by his tenderness.

“Would you write something down?” she whispered. “To take to heart?”

Shivering, she ached to follow as he returned to the garret, wanting to curl up on the rag rug by the Franklin stove. But she had to be content with a meager look at the room that had once been her hideaway. On the opposite wall was a map rife with black markings, some books and papers beneath. Curious, she stood to get a closer look, unmindful of the candle flame licking her dress hem. The sour smell of scorched wool wrenched her back to the stairwell as a cry of alarm crept up her throat.

Next she knew he was beside her, snuffing out the candle and her smoldering hem with his bare hands. She watched, taut with terror. More than one house had burned down in York County from such carelessness. And in the depths of winter, with nowhere to go . . .

“Are you hurt?” When he stood, his mouth—his warm breath—brushed her ear.

The gentle question circled in her head but made no sense.
He
was the one who'd just been burned! Stricken, she clasped his hands between hers out of habit, nearly bringing them to her lips. Like she did Thomas when he burned himself at the hearth, in a flurry of sympathy, as if she could kiss away his hurt. Above her thundering heart she could hear the click of a door below, loud as a musket in the quiet house. She let go of his hands.

Oh, Lord, please, not Elspeth!

Silently, Silas drew the door to the garret shut, blocking the light. His hands cupped her shoulders, anchoring her to the step, steadying her in the inky blackness. He faced her, his bristled chin grazing the top of her head. Comforting. Reassuring. A bit light-headed, she leaned into him, felt the soft linen of the shirt she'd made, senses aswirl with his nearness and strength. For a few exquisite seconds she couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

No other sound came. When he stepped back, cold air rushed between them. Without a word, he cracked open the garret door so that the candle within lit her way to her bedchamber below. The paper on which he'd written the Scripture was tucked in her hand. She couldn't wait till morning to read it. 'Twas precious to her as a love letter. A
billet-doux
, Jemma called it, practicing her French.

'Twas Christ's love letter to her.

 14 

Eat to please thyself, but dress to please others.

Benjamin Franklin

For once Eden didn't want to go to Hope Rising. A medley of excuses tethered her to home. She had mending undone. Jon was especially fussy. Thomas had taken a fever. Elspeth was working in the smithy longer hours, leaving the running of the household to their overburdened mother. All morning she dragged about as if lead lined her shoes. Strangely, it was Mama who sent her packing.

Looking up from her dough tray, Mama cast a weary glance at the clock and simply said, “Be gone, Daughter. You're needed elsewhere this day.”

And so off Eden went down the lane the eve of the ice harvest, pondering her reluctance, wondering what mischief Elspeth would concoct in her absence.

Father, protect Silas, please.

The sky was a pearl gray, low clouds weighted with snow, and a north wind licked the edges of her scarlet cape and
tried to usurp her bonnet. Steadying it with her hand, she was glad to find shelter among the linden trees—but they seemed colder than she, limbs bare and quaking, as they lined the long drive to the stately house.

Bypassing the handsome front door with its bold brass knocker fashioned by Papa's own hand, she sought the servants' entrance on the west side. There Margaret Hunter greeted her, looking like the Quaker she was in a prim wool dress, her salt-and-pepper hair captured in a severe knot beneath a cambric cap.

“Margaret, have you recovered?” Eden asked as she was ushered into the cozy keeping room in back of the immense kitchen.

“I can be nothing else on the eve of the harvest,” she returned with a slight smile, pressing a handkerchief to a nose still reddened with cold. “David and the tenants are working themselves to the bone gathering tools and outfitting sleds and the like. They're planning on taking three tons of ice this year.”

Three tons?
Twice what they'd harvested in years past. Eden removed her bonnet, thinking of the coming work, praying it would prove successful.

“Shed thy cloak and I'll take thee to Jemma. She's all a-dither trying to decide which gown to wear to tomorrow's ball. First 'twas the painted silk, then the brocade, and now the velvet and lace. Likely when she sees thee she'll change her mind yet again.”

Eden smiled. “'Tis half the pleasure, isn't it? Wondering what to wear?”

“Well, wondering must give way to deciding—and Jemma's having none of that.” Margaret looked exasperated. “She has one too many new gowns when a single one would suffice!”

The snap of Margaret's heels atop the polished floor of the foyer seemed to announce their coming. Jemma leaned over the banister above, stripped to her petticoats and stays,
pocket hoops astride her hips, a gloriously expectant smile upon her face. It wasn't Eden she addressed but Hope Rising's housekeeper, whose countenance held an uncommon sternness.

“Now, Margaret, don't look at me that way. Not even David is about to see me so. This old house echoes with emptiness.”

“There are workmen coming to hang the crystal lusters,” Margaret rebuked her, pausing at the foot of the staircase. “I would hate for them to utter abroad that they'd seen thee undressed.”

Jemma simply laughed as Eden began the long climb upward, the freestanding staircase circling an elegant papered wall made bright with peacocks and green foliage. Unchanged since her childhood, every echoing room and fixture still left Eden slightly openmouthed with wonder. She supposed it wasn't grand as Philadelphia mansions went, but never having seen one, she had no such template in her mind.

“So what will it be, Jemma?” Eden asked, a bit awed at the disarray of the sumptuous room. “The silk, brocade, or velvet?”

“Nary a one!” With a flutter of her hand, Jemma motioned her in and all but slammed the door. “I'm so glad you've come. I miss having Bea and Anne here to cluck over me. But Margaret! Bah! Would that she was still sick and abed!”

“Then who would warm all that cider for the workers tomorrow?” Eden chided gently. “Or greet guests as they come to dance?”

Jemma's smile resurfaced. “Did you peek into the ballroom?”

“I've only seen the outside, not the inside.”

“'Tis big as the ice pond! And so new it smells of paint. Don't stand too near the walls, mind you, lest you smear your dress.”

“
Your
dress, you mean.” Eden perched on the edge of a tapestry chaise and drank in the luxury that was Jemma's
room. Pale peach paint. Delicate Chippendale furniture with its scroll and shell design. Large windows that overlooked Hope Rising's perennial garden and dovecote. Everything smelled of lavender water and powder. Was it any wonder after being in this elegant, peaceful bower, the mere thought of returning home made her melancholy?

Jemma threw open an immense wardrobe and stood, hands on hips, tapping her foot impatiently. Gowns of every hue and fabric were draped across chair backs and tables about the room. A stool displayed hair ornaments, a dressing table glittered with jewelry. Hat boxes were stacked about a bureau, tempting Eden to look inside.

“Tell me, Eden Rose, what color takes your fancy? And what shall we do with your hair?”

Ever mindful of Silas's rebuke, she felt her hand fly to her head self-consciously. “You decide which gown. As for my hair . . .” There was resignation in her voice as she fingered her wayward mane. Freshly washed, it hung in damp strands to her hips. “I shall wear it up, for the first time ever.”

Jemma nodded approvingly. “We hardly need the curling tongs, just some pearl-tipped combs.” She selected a jade gown with a deep rose petticoat. “How about this?”

Dismay sat squarely in Eden's stomach. The bold colors, the plunging bodice, the richness was all wrong. Elspeth would say she was putting on airs.

Casting her a knowing look, Jemma dropped the dress onto the floor and continued digging. “Don't fret—I've no wish to dress you like a doll. You prefer a simpler look, I know.” Rummaging further, head buried in costly fabrics, she let out a little cry. “Voilà!”

With a triumphant smile, she pulled out a cloud of lilac silk. The bodice was adorned with silver flowers and leaves, the neckline ruched with a darker lilac ribbon, the quilted
petticoat snow-white. Elegant and utterly feminine. Before she'd even touched the lustrous fabric, Eden had fallen in love.

“Yes,” she whispered in confirmation and awe.

“You must try it on, though we'll be hard-pressed to fit your full bosom into so narrow a bodice. But with Margaret's help and my French stays . . .”

Eden's hands went to the hooks of her dress as Jemma began examining the gown's petticoat. “I only wore it once—to a boring tea at the Biddles' townhouse—as it pinched my waist so. You can have it for keeps.” She paused, wicked humor in her eyes. “Speaking of waists, your sister's is none too small. I suppose all that time playing invalid over the winter has added a stone or two. I'm surprised she can squeeze into your yellow silk.”

Eden kept her eyes on her own fumbling fingers. Did Jemma suspect little Jon's origins? Not once had Eden even hinted of their shameful secret. As she bent over to step out of her dress, the scrap of Scripture she'd hidden fluttered from her chemise to the floor. Startled, she reached out to retrieve it, but Jemma was faster, plucking the paper from the rich carpet.

“Eden, are you keeping secrets from me?” Her brows arched in question. “I've been wondering if you have a suitor.”

“I—nay,” Eden replied, reaching for the lilac silk. “Go ahead, read it if you must.”

A rustle of paper preceded Jemma's rapt perusal. “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son.” Her delight faded. “Why, 'tis Scripture, not a love note! Who penned this? The hand is unfamiliar.”

“Silas Ballantyne.”

“The Scots apprentice?” Jemma's expression changed from surprised to disbelieving. “So he's a lettered man—and religious, even outside of church?”

“He seems so. And I—well, I simply want to learn the Bible . . .”

“The Bible?” Jemma's stare was blank. “I could lend you one from our library.”

“Papa won't allow it,” Eden said, gently pulling at a stray thread. “He burned our family Bible when he was read out of Quaker Meeting. Besides, I couldn't possibly hide such a big book—”

“Come now, Eden.” Jemma's eyes were unusually canny. “I think this has more to do with your apprentice than your father.”

Eden's hands stilled on the lush silk. “Please don't call him my apprentice. He's Elspeth's. Papa is desirous of a match. Everyone knows he needs a partner at the forge—”

“Then why is this Silas slipping you Scripture? And why are you keeping it close to your heart?”

Why, indeed? How could she explain her longing? Or confess Silas had almost made a game of it? Lately he left notes for her in all sorts of places . . .

In her egg basket.
Create in me a clean heart, O God.

On her spinning wheel.
I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

The toe of her work boot.
And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

At the bottom of her mending.
Blessed are the peacemakers.

Delighted, she'd memorized each one before secreting them in her journal, where she'd added Silas to her list of blessings.

Sadly, Jemma had little interest in spiritual matters. Not even Margaret's influence over the years had penetrated her worldly shell.

The dress forgotten, Eden sank down on the loveseat again. Though fearful of causing her friend undue hurt, she found it far easier to speak of Philadelphia and her hopes, however foolish, than Silas.

“So Bea is trying to arrange a place for you in the city?”
Jemma looked utterly deflated. “And neither of you have told me.”

“I was going to tell you—eventually—but the plan may not happen. If Papa gets wind of it . . .”

“I know, I know.” Sympathy creased Jemma's brow, and she passed the scrap of Scripture back to Eden. “You're unhappy at home. Elspeth is a constant thorn. Your father is no better—'tis been so for years. But you still haven't told me what learning Scripture has to do with all this.”

Eden felt new fears welling and worked to keep her voice even. She'd have need of such poise in future. “The hospital board expects their staff to be well versed in spiritual matters. I am not.”

“But you were educated in our very schoolroom. Mr. Seldridge taught us the Bible. Granted, not a great deal of it.”

“I remember very little. 'Twas long ago. If the hospital finds out my father forsook his Quaker roots, that I've never once been to Meeting, to church—”

“Yes, of course. I understand.” Though Jemma's voice stayed calm, her eyes registered unmistakable alarm. “But you're playing with fire in regards to your father—and Elspeth. Does the apprentice know of your plans?”

Eden plucked at a worn seam on her petticoat. “Nay.”

“Nay?” Jemma threw up her hands. “Oh, Eden! Sometimes you are so maddeningly simple! What if Silas Ballantyne misconstrues your interest in Scripture for interest in him?”

Eden lifted her head, a new worry dawning. “What?”

With a roll of her eyes, Jemma expelled an audible breath. “I do believe you're the only girl I know whose head would be swimming more from Scripture than a handsome Scots tradesman!” She chuckled, her vexed expression softening somewhat. “Don't look so perplexed. Perhaps he sees you for the simpleton you are. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart,'
and all that. Though I must admit I wouldn't blame you for being smitten
.
”

Eden took her tirade to heart, wishing she had but a kernel of Jemma's worldly wisdom. “Do you find him . . . handsome?”

“Do I?” A satisfied smile curved her lips. “I'll simply say this. When I first set eyes on Mr. Ballantyne at the Rising Sun Tavern, I was taken aback by his fine looks. And then I looked at Bea, who was staring, and saw Anne staring too. If you put him in a cravat and frock coat and breeches, every belle in Philadelphia would be fighting over him, not to mention the ones here in York. But alas, Elspeth has her claws in him, so he's met his doom.”