Love's Reckoning (16 page)

Doom.

It was a word Eden disliked but found frightfully fitting. Sighing, she returned the Scripture to her bodice, trying to push Silas to the farthest corners of her mind.

She must get to Philadelphia posthaste.

A rogue wind sent the smithy doors banging, and Silas set lead weights against them to hold them open. They'd been loading wagon after wagon with ironwork all afternoon, and Eden's pup was gamboling about their feet with comical abandon. Twice Liege had shouted at the mongrel, which went slinking away only to return, tongue wagging, begging for company. He'd taken a strong liking to Silas, who'd made peace with his howling in the barn on the eves he spent fiddling. Now the pup was hopelessly underfoot and too slippery to tie up.

“Blast the cur!” Liege bellowed, wiping his brow with a scrap of linen. “Where's Eden gone to?” His disgruntled gaze swept the smithy before pinning Elspeth. “Where's your sister?”

“At Hope Rising, playing lady's maid to Jemma Greathouse, likely. You gave your permission, Father.” She looked up from the ledgers, quill in midair. “The ice harvest begins on the morrow, remember, then there's the ball.”

“Which means you'll be shirking your work and attending also, no doubt.” Liege tossed some tongs onto a table with a clatter. “I expect Silas to return you both home afterward. No later than midnight.”

“Midnight? But the festivities go on till dawn.”

“The dancing, you mean?” He shot her a disgusted look before taking in Silas. “I'll not have my apprentice fiddling himself to pieces, not even for a Greathouse. There's been no offer of payment, I suppose.”

“Nor should there be.” Silas faced him, hammer in hand. “I'll not play for hire.”

“Nay? Then what will you play for?”

“The man asked me as a favor—”

Liege tossed up a fist as if deflecting his words. “Playing twelve hours without ceasing is no favor. 'Tis slavery.” His scowl deepened. “The going rate for a frolic is two and sixpence to five shillings. I'll send word round that I expect—”

“You'll do no such sending round.” Silas's rebuttal resounded to the far corners. “Our contract here is from dawn till dusk, excepting the Sabbath. No more, no less. If I want to fiddle myself to pieces, the call is mine to make.”

Liege stared at him, visage reddening. No doubt he didn't care for a set-down in front of his daughter—or anyone else—but Silas held firm.

“Then I'll charge for your time on the ice,” Liege replied, stalking out of the smithy as fast as his gout would allow.

Silas could hear another wagon approaching just beyond the smithy door. Lately business had doubled, but he felt no pleasure that it might be due to his work. He wiped his
brow on his sleeve, the forge's fire burning his backside. As he positioned another piece of iron trim atop the anvil, Elspeth was at his elbow, the citrus scent of her overwhelming.

“I'm sorry about Papa, Silas. His leg is ailing him, which always spikes his temper.” She handed him a cup of water, her gaze wandering to the door. “Why not take a rest? 'Tis been a long day. I'll see to the next need.”

He took a drink, guessing the time, as he had no watch. He'd been waiting for Eden to call them in to supper, then realized anew she was missing—gone to Hope Rising. Her pleasure at being summoned there washed over him in a punishing wave. Never had he seen her so speeritie—so delighted—as when the Greathouses were mentioned. Weary as he was, he had no wish to recollect it now. Nor her dancing down the lane like Hope Rising was her home.

Picking up a stone, Elspeth hurled it at Eden's dog before he could stop her. It yelped and ran away. “Silas, are you listening?”

“Nae.”

“Well, at least you're honest about it.” Placing a hand on his arm, Elspeth returned his attention to her flushed face. Her eyes were hugely blue, reminding him of wild hyacinths . . . his Highland home. “Do musicians take leave of their instruments and dance?”

“Why d'ye ask?”

“Will you dance with me—at the ball?” Her expression for just a moment held a touching vulnerability. He'd seen the same in Eden—often. As if she was unsure of him, as if she expected only harshness from him, as she did her father.

“A dance, aye,” he told her, returning to his work.

Her hand fell away and he sensed her disappointment. A dance he would give her, but nothing more.

 15 

A winter's night, a woman's mind, and a laird's purpose often change.

Scottish proverb

Toward evening it began to snow. Standing by a damask-clad window, Eden felt a startling delight as the realization sifted through her. She'd prayed for snow. God had answered. Did He truly care about so small a matter as ice? The harvest would be a great success if the weather held.

She could hear David's voice ringing enthusiastically down the hall and turned in time to see him come through the drawing room door, shrugging off a greatcoat salted with flakes. He tossed it over a chair, then removed his hat and deposited it on a table, his fair features pinched with cold—and etched with surprise.

“Eden . . . what are you doing here?”

She gave a little shrug, unsure of her welcome. “I can disappear if you like.” In the firelight, she detected a flicker of unease on his part, followed by a show of good manners.

“Don't you dare. I was expecting Jemma, is all.”

“She's with Margaret seeing about supper.”

“Ah, yes. We've a new cook.” His expression grew grim. “You're brave to stay on.”

She smiled, wanting to reach out and smooth his rumpled hair like she used to in the schoolroom, trying to master his impossible cowlick. “Jemma tells me she's good at making soup.”

“Yes, and little else.” He came to stand beside her at the window, pushing the drapes aside to better see into the twilight. The meadow lay before them, surprising her with its white beauty, the snow falling so fiercely it obscured the frozen pond. The scene was beautiful—even a touch romantic—with the crackling fire casting a golden glow about the room.

He looked down at her. “I'll take you to see the ballroom once supper is over. It's a bit grand for York, but so well done even miserly Uncle Eben, God rest him, would approve. The lusters are finally hung. Never mind that everything still smells of paint. 'Tis the price you pay for building in winter.”

“I'm sure 'tis beautiful. Much better than the third-floor ballroom.”

“Much bigger.” His eyes glinted with anticipation. “And we'll have no mishaps, I'll wager, with guests on the stairs. You probably recall the brawl last year?”

She blushed at the mere mention. Surely he remembered how she'd hidden in the broom closet, a timid mouse. The rabble of York, as Papa called them, had had too much hard cider and not enough work. The failed harvest had turned some of them mean, one of the reasons Bea and Anne had excused themselves this year. Even Jemma had been badly frightened, fearing they might tear the place to pieces.

“This time I've hired help to keep order—some of the miller's sons.”

A wise choice, Eden thought, as they were all burly as millstones. His arm brushed hers as he loosened his cravat. Face warming at this familiarity, she wished Jemma would appear. Lately she felt a bit odd alone with David, as if their old camaraderie was slipping away and turning them in a new direction. 'Twas in a word, a look, a too-long silence . . .

“Eden,” he began. “I—”

A sudden commotion from behind made them pause. “Oh, there you are, David! Why didn't you tell me you'd come in? Cook's been waiting dinner.” Jemma's bright smile negated her scolding. “Have you been here with Eden all along?”

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his tone rueful. “For a few minutes, anyway.”

“You must be ravenous after working in this weather all day long.”

Eden turned toward the table set for three before the ornate hearth, leaving them to their banter. The familiar French Sevres crystal and china were a blessed distraction, winking at her, making her wish she had on something other than a worn wool gown with a scorched hem.

She lifted her eyes to the stern, somewhat disapproving countenance of Eben Greathouse, eternally set in oils in a large gilt frame above the marble mantel. How was it that she, a blacksmith's daughter, was at the table of the heir to half of York County? The question seemed to take her by the shoulders and shake her, demanding she give answers when none were needed before.

Pleasure faded to wonder, then confusion. She swallowed past the sudden catch in her throat. She was here because Jemma was like a sister, because the Greathouses were kind and generous neighbors, because long ago her mother used to deliver cheese and honey to Hope Rising . . .

A chill danced up and down her spine.

Could there be more?

Light from the garret fell in a perfect square to the snowy ground below, ornate as a piece of Brussels lace. Elspeth studied it from the window seat of her bedchamber, far longer than she usually contemplated anything, indecision taunting her.

Should she or shouldn't she?

'Twas nearly midnight. She couldn't imagine what kept Silas awake. David had sent word that every available man was needed at Hope Rising by first light. As it was, Silas would get little sleep. Papa had been working him hard of late, so much so that she'd rebuked him again when Silas was out delivering ironwork in the wagon that very morning.

She remembered their confrontation now with renewed frustration, recalling how Papa's hands had trembled as he tried to hammer out a slab of hot metal that would have taken Silas half a minute. He'd been drinking again. His gout drove him to it, she knew. She wondered if spirits worsened his condition, as the doctor had recently suggested. But before he could have elaborated, Papa had called him a quack and thrown both him and his Keyser's pills out the door, forbidding him to come back.

“Father.”

He'd looked up, eyes bloodshot, impatience knitting his brow.

Oh, what terrible timing on her part! But she had to seize the moment lest she lose it altogether. She threaded her fingers together and said firmly if quietly, “You're working too hard. You're working Silas too hard.”

“Am I now?” The downward slant of his mouth twisted
into a fiercer frown. “He doesn't complain to my hearing—nor should you.”

“He's likely too tired to do so.” Fighting down her impatience, she worked to keep her voice even. “He's too tired to do much of anything—including any courting.”

“Oh, so it's courting, is it? And bedamn the work?”

She set her shoulders at his icy tone. “He's not only slaving here from dawn till dusk but often misses supper to play at weddings and wakes all over the county.”

“So? He's getting paid for his trouble.”

Aye, and none of it was going into Papa's pocket.
That
was the real trouble. She quashed her growing fear that some pert miss might tempt Silas elsewhere and simply said, “Father, listen to reason. You are hampering the plan—
your
plan
—before it comes to pass. The overdoing can come later, once we're wed. Give him time—”

“Give him time? You've been by his side nearly night and day since his coming here. If he's not taken with you now, he likely never will be.”

Humiliation lashed her and she struck out at him with vehemence. “Because he's too tired! That's why! Between you and David Greathouse pressing him for all sorts of projects, he doesn't have an idle minute. I'm simply asking you to ease up a bit, leave Silas alone at the forge with me more often. Why don't
you
make deliveries in the wagon instead of sending him all over the county? It might rest your leg and accomplish more good in the end.” She glanced about the smithy in frustration, certain a bit more privacy would achieve her ends.

I've not met a man I can't charm,
many of whom darken the door of this forge, including Jon's father.

She pondered it now as she studied the square of light upon the snow, trying to plan her next move. There was something
about Silas that made her tread lightly as no other man had. She couldn't put her finger on it no matter how hard she tried, and she hated that it rendered her powerless. Regardless of her dress or cologne or sashaying about, Silas hardly looked at her. She might as well don breeches and boots!

She went to the bedchamber door and opened it slowly, listening to the household settling. With Eden at Hope Rising, she had the run of the second floor. The garret stair she knew like her own name, even in the dark. Below, Jon began wailing again—a strangely welcome sound that masked any creaking she made on her climb. She was halfway to the garret when his crying ceased.

Uncertainty pulsed through her. She hovered, eyes on the light beckoning beneath Silas's door. And then, before she drew her next breath, he'd snuffed it out. The click of a lock and the taut stretching of bed rope assured her he'd lain down. She felt a stinging defeat, as if he'd heard her after all and avoided her coming.

Snow was still falling. Eden awoke in the night, Jemma slumbering beside her, and slipped through the bed curtains, a brilliant backlog in the hearth lighting her way to a window. Perhaps too much snow was as bad as rain, she mused groggily. How would they clear such a load from the ice? Curling up on the window seat, she tried to see beyond the frosted pane but soon fell asleep.

At daybreak, the shouts of men beyond the window shook her awake. She'd dozed against a bank of cushions, hardly in need of a blanket, for Jemma's room was far warmer than her own. Dawn touched the sky—a gentle palette of pink and cream. The snow lay on the land and pond nearly a foot deep, with little sign of abating.

Through the blur of whiteness, she dismissed the men one by one, mostly Hope Rising's tenants and its overseer, till she came to Silas. Easily distinguished by his height, he was surrounded by a dozen or more men huddled in heavy coats that would soon be shed when the cutting began. For now they were shoveling snow off the pond, creating a creamy drift around the edge. Horse-drawn sleds awaited, ready to bear their loads to the two icehouses behind the main house and summer kitchen.

Donning worn boots and cardinal cape in the keeping room below, Eden ventured out to help Margaret, who'd left a plain trail, pushing a small cart just ahead of her. 'Twas a long trek across the meadow, where a huge kettle of cider hung over a fire, its leaping flames melting the surrounding snow.