Love's Reckoning (21 page)

Liege's shadow fell over them just as Mrs. Lee called them to noonday dinner. The smell of fried apples and roast pork carried on a warm wind—an enticing invitation. Silas waited for Greathouse to leave, his eyes trailing to the fine thoroughbred hitched to the rail outside.

“I've come at an inconvenient time,” Greathouse said, looking toward the house. “I'd hoped to speak to Eden.”

Silas felt a rush of dismay, but Liege's dark countenance brightened as he limped their way. “Eden, you say? Stay on and speak to her after dinner, then. You've no dislike of simple fare, I'll wager, though I hear Hope Rising has a new cook.”

“I'm afraid she quit her post after the ice harvest.”

Liege chuckled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “Then you no doubt have an appetite.”

Slapping David on the back in a gauche display of familiarity, Liege motioned him toward the house. Silas brought up the rear, surprise sifting through him. Would a laird sit at a tradesman's table? Though he and Greathouse had shared a meal at the Rising Sun, a tradesman's home was an altogether different matter. Social boundaries were rarely breached in Scotland, at least in daylight.

The image of Naomi flashed to mind. He felt a deep sinking in his spirit and heard Elspeth's taunt afresh.
My sister has her mind set on grander things.
He removed his leather apron, hung it from the nearest nail, and raked a hand through his hair, appetite gone.

Their arrival in the kitchen was creating quite a stir. At the sight of them coming through the doorway, Mrs. Lee nearly dropped a hot round of bread, the peel wobbling as she took it from the oven. Elspeth sang out a greeting as she stirred the gravy, expression smug. He dismissed them all, as it was Eden's reaction he sought. After tucking the babe in his cradle, she turned, and he caught the sudden splash of color across her cheeks as she took in the unexpected arrival.

“We've an honored guest today,” Liege said a bit too loudly, leading them into the dining room. “Set an extra place.”

Silas lingered at the washbasin, then turned to see Greathouse usurp his seat at the end of the table, Liege opposite at the far end. Elspeth was waiting, motioning for Silas to
sit beside her in the place Thomas usually occupied, a hint of triumph on her face.

The meal Eden had found so palatable in the making now turned tasteless. With Silas across from her, David occupying Silas's place beside her, and Papa making conversation in an unusually brash way, she picked at the roast she'd seasoned and basted so carefully, the first bite sticking in her throat. For once she wished the rule of silence would descend.

All around her, masculine voices droned. They spoke of sheep. Spinning. Hope Rising's coming wheat crop. The rising price of goods brought about by war's end. She listened with interest as Silas spoke of water-powered spinning mills newly opened in Philadelphia and Boston for the manufacture of textiles. One day, he wagered, their simple Saxony and walking wheels would be a thing of the past. Eden couldn't conceive it. Machine-made cloth? She doubted it had the quality of what she fashioned by hand, each thread spun with pleasure and care.

After several uneasy minutes, her surprise at David's appearance eased somewhat, only to soar again at meal's end when Papa said, “Master David wants a word with you, Eden.”

Startled, she lifted her eyes from her unfinished plate as Mama mumbled, “In the summer parlor, then.”

The summer parlor? Eden froze. Why there and not here, with all present? She had no wish to be alone with David. 'Twas a touch scandalous, especially in light of Silas's warning. Across from her, Silas excused himself to return to the forge, his rich Scots lilt sounding a bit strained. Her own rise from her chair was less than graceful. In her disquiet, she dropped her napkin and nearly overturned her cider. Papa fixed her with a stern stare, allowing no exit.

Down the hall she went in David's wake. He seemed preoccupied, brow creased in contemplation, his mind clearly on the conversation at table. “He has a keen mind, Ballantyne.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged, not expecting this. But rarely had she seen him so interested as when Silas was talking trade in Philadelphia.

He entered the parlor and shut the door, and she stood awkwardly before him as he looked about the neglected room with its familiar furnishings. She realized then that he'd never been within the confines of their house, only the smithy. When she heard Jon crying, she felt a tug to go, but David took a seat on the settee, dashing her hopes. Unable to meet his eyes, she pretended to be preoccupied with a stubborn wrinkle on her skirt.

“Have you been unwell, Eden?”

Looking up, she met his colorless eyes. His simple question seemed cloaked with censure. “Unwell? Nay.”

“We've not seen you at Hope Rising of late. Jemma is threatening to return to the city, and Margaret is missing your Sabbath teas.”

“'Tis so busy now that spring is here.” Truly, there weren't hours enough to do all her chores. She tried to push the weariness from her voice. “The new babe takes much of my time. With two little ones, Mama needs my help more than ever.”

He seemed thoughtful but unsympathetic, forcing a stilted smile. Reaching into the confines of his coat, he withdrew a letter. “My oldest cousin seems fond of the post, especially where you're concerned. I sometimes suspect Bea has something up her sleeve.”

Bea? Did the foundling hospital now have an opening? Her pulse picked up in rhythm, but when she reached for the letter, he brought it behind his back. His smile had slipped. A distinct coldness had crept in that chilled her like a winter's
draft. He was unhappy with her. Because of her absence? Or the letter?

“Promise me you'll return to Hope Rising,” he said.

“I . . . yes. I'll come visit next Sabbath. Please tell Margaret and Jemma for me.”

At this, he released the letter, gesturing to the seat beside him. “I want to talk to you about the future.”

The future? He meant Philadelphia, surely. Had Jemma or Bea told him? Weak-kneed, she sat beside him, wishing Mama would appear—or even Elspeth—and ease this very awkward moment.

“Silas has interested me in wool production and the possibility of manufacturing it here. You're a fine spinner, perhaps the finest in York. When I have a good fleece, I'd like to hire you to spin Hope Rising's wool.” He paused as if weighing his words carefully, or perhaps weighing her reaction to them.

His words swept through her head, scattered as windblown leaves, a touch frightening in their newness. Nay, she'd not considered this. Philadelphia—the foundling hospital—was what she wanted . . .

“If the wool clip is large enough, I plan to employ some local women and have you oversee them. In the meantime I'll be looking into the machinery Ballantyne spoke of.”

“'Tis . . . ambitious.”

“Yes, but doable. I plan to import a larger flock in time. Shearing is still months away, but I need to be looking ahead.” He was the David of old now, sharing his plans, including her. The frost between them had thawed. She clutched Bea's letter between her fingers, wishing he would go, but he leaned back and crossed his arms, studying her.

“I'd like to have you on the premises once the work begins. The empty cottage adjoining Margaret's should suffice.”

What?
The mere suggestion stole her breath.

He leaned forward, awaiting her answer. His probing gaze seemed to bore a hole in her. “Say you'll consider it.”

Could he sense her reluctance, her confusion? She'd rarely said no to him, not even in childhood. He was ever amiable, if she was obliging. When provoked, his temper was nearly as thunderous as Elspeth's.

“Your father will give his approval, no doubt,” he said.

Oh yes, Papa would leap at the offer. She groped for some vague answer, feeling dangerously close to a lie by agreeing to the plan. “You'll let me know when things are in place?”

“Yes, of course.”

With that he got up and left, freeing her to tear open the post and devour the contents, his words still echoing in her ears.

Dear Eden,

The foundlings increase in number but fail to thrive . . . So many babies and not enough wet nurses . . . The director has reviewed your application based on my recommendation and will place you in the next available opening . . . Your time is nearly at hand. When I send word, Jemma will accompany you to Philadelphia . . .

Oh, Bea!
She felt a wild, trembling excitement and then a profound dismay. She would have to tell Papa. Decline David. Risk their wrath. The futility—the foolishness—of it all now mocked her. Why didn't she feel her old joy at the prospect? Her plans, once so sound, seemed naught but sand.

She went to the towering secretary where her journal was
secreted and hid Bea's letter, gaze falling to the scrap of Scripture Silas had last given her. The holy words were in her heart and her head now, a strength and solace. God would guide her just as Silas had said. She would rest in that.

The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.

 20 

Every path has its puddle.

Samuel Johnson

When she returned to the dining room, a tad upended and plucking at her apron, all but Silas awaited her, and he was uppermost in her thoughts. What would he think of her stepping into the parlor with Hope Rising's heir? Like they had some sort of understanding? Some tie?

“So, Daughter?” Papa demanded gruffly, pipe stem between his teeth. “Was there some business between you and Master David?”

She felt hemmed in by too many eyes. Elspeth's were the most daunting as she stood sullenly by the hearth, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Mama began clearing the table and cast Eden a sympathetic glance as she stuttered, “H-he—Master David—spoke of spinning and sheep.”

“Well, what of it?”

She explained his plan carefully, avoiding his request that she live at Hope Rising, and felt Papa's impatience—and disappointment—mount with every word. “He said noth
ing else?” he demanded, puffing so hard his features were obscured by curls of smoke.

She knew what he hoped to hear, and felt the warmth of it from her feet to her face. He wanted a different sort of proposal, ridiculous as it was, and felt she was somehow to blame for the lack. “He seeks Silas's help with the flock and training a herd dog.”

His anticipation faded to irritation before rebounding. She could see his mind spinning, sorting, counting coin. “It might well prove lucrative once the flock is established and spinners are in place. Yet another reason for Silas to stay on. I can part with him half a day at a time and send him to Hope Rising. You, Eden, are to encourage Greathouse all you can. Do you understand?”

Tears stung her eyes. “But I—”

“Don't be daft, Daughter!” He knocked the ashes from his pipe against an andiron with such vehemence it broke. “This may well be your chance to make an agreeable match. 'Tis clear Greathouse is taken with you.”

“T-taken with my spinning,” she stammered, looking to her mother with a plea in her damp eyes.

Mama looked equally grieved. “Best not encourage her in that way, Liege. Master David is a gentleman, not a tradesman. Eden is but a—”

“Eden is but a what?” Papa's attention snapped to Mama. “A blacksmith's daughter? I beg to differ.” The heat of his gaze bore down on her, and she shrank visibly. “And what's this drivel about a gentleman,
not
a tradesman? That never stopped you—a gunsmith's daughter! What have you to say about
that
?”

All eyes were on Mama now. Though Papa hadn't struck her as he sometimes did, she wilted beneath the force of his words, and Eden was left reeling as well.

Kicking the broken pipe past the dog irons into the fire, Papa turned and quit the room, leaving the women huddled in a sore circle.

Elspeth was the first to break the silence, though her voice was more demanding than soothing. “Mama, what did Papa mean by saying such?”

Confused, Eden looked at her mother. There was a lengthy pause followed by a heart-shattering realization. 'Twas just as she'd suspected. Mama had grave secrets of her own, begotten long ago, which still lingered.

With a sob, Mama covered her face with her hands and swept out of the room.

'Twas almost April's end. In mere days he would trade the garret for sodden ground . . . or stay and take a bride. The weight of Silas's dilemma was overwhelming at times, and then it rolled off his shoulders by dint of prayer. As it was, he was too busy to think of much beyond his labors, though he still worried endlessly about Eden, committing her continually to the Father's care, only to feel he was abandoning her himself. Should he not lay aside his vision instead? Stay and wed her, if she would have him, to ensure her own future?

In the mornings he worked the forge and, at Liege's insistence, spent afternoons at Hope Rising. Admittedly, the open air and flock of Blackface were preferable to the stifling smithy and a surly master. This afternoon, the sky had darkened nearly to indigo as the sun slanted west beyond a bank of brooding clouds, turning the ground a vivid green. Around Silas were a dozen bleating, wobbly-legged lambs and the briard pup gotten from Philadelphia. Young and eager to please, the shaggy dog mingled with the sheep and returned repeatedly to sniff Silas's welcoming hand.

Though the work reminded him of his Highland home, his surroundings muted the memory of hills and lochs, moss and heather. Hope Rising was graced with thick stands of oak and chestnut and ash, and lush meadows as far as he could see. His thoughts were as far reaching. How would it be to have such treasure handed down, passed from father to son, generation after generation? To do with as you wished, at least in your lifetime? Would the West give him such a legacy? Or was it simply a foolish dream?

A sharp whistle made him turn. David Greathouse came striding toward him, his frock coat flapping about his thighs, a lamb in his wake. Silas wasn't sure what sort of shepherd the laird of Hope Rising would make, but he had a fine flock, losing but three ewes out of a hundred, his twin rams untouched in transit.

“You'll need a good man—a dependable lad or two—to tend them when you go to Philadelphia,” Silas told him, resuming their conversation of minutes before.

“Oh, I have no plans for Philadelphia, other than an occasional business matter,” David replied, looking a bit winded, leaning into his walking stick. “In years past I was there for the social season, but 'tis time I settle down . . . think of matters near at hand.”

Silas crossed his arms, feet widespread, fighting the tight feeling in his chest. Since Greathouse had met with Eden in the parlor five days before, he'd been plagued by fresh fears. Though he wasn't privy to what passed between them, she seemed more aflocht than usual, and he felt a new tenderness for her.

“My cousins and friends keep reminding me I should wed.”

Silas felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. He looked at the ewes grazing on a far hill, tone thoughtful. “'Tis time we speak of breeding, then.”

“Breeding?” David seemed startled, a hint of red showing above his snowy cravat.

“Aye, breeding. Sheep.”

“Ah, yes. We've yet to speak of that.” He cleared his throat and glanced at his muddy boots. “I've read that one should choose breeding times carefully, depending on when one wants a crop of lambs.”

“Aye,” Silas said. “You've two horned, purebred Rambouillet tups. Quality stock. Just as you'd not think of dallying with a York lass but only a fine Philadelphia one, you need to pick your ewes with care. The same principle applies to sheep, ye ken.”

David's ruddy color had risen to his cheekbones. He studied the copper head of his walking stick before glancing at Silas, grim amusement in his eyes. “Sound advice, Ballantyne. I'll not forget it.”

“One more matter. Never turn your back on a ram.”

“Oh? They're dangerous, then?”

“Deadly, betimes.” Silas paused to let the words take hold. “And you'd do well to mark each tup with a harness during breeding season so you'll know the due date for each ewe.”

David nodded. “A meticulous practice.”

“'Twas the duke's own. You should have a fine flock with proper care. Now if you don't mind, I have a tavern frolic to attend.”

“You're playing tonight? At the Golden Plough?” Interest sharpened his fair features. “Mind if I join you? I'm in need of an ale—perhaps a good game of draughts.”

“Come along if you like,” Silas said reluctantly, beginning a slow walk uphill.

They fell into step together, David's voice low and undeniably curious. “Are you just fiddling all these nights at the tavern? Or have you found a certain maid to your liking?”

Silas tried to keep his grin in check, the thought of Eden lifting his heavy mood. “Aye, one. But she won't be found in a tavern.”

'Twas the last of April. As if to lighten Eden's somber spirits, the day dawned bright, ushering in a lapis sky and summer-like warmth. Today Silas would announce his leaving. With that in mind, she went about her work, every strike of his hammer seeming to shatter her heart. Come morning she would hear it no more. Toward that end, for weeks she'd been ferreting jerky and cornmeal and dried fruit for his trek west.

To Elspeth's irritation and Eden's own dismay, they'd seen little of him lately but for meals, and when they did, he gave them naught but a glancing nod. 'Twas clear Silas had no wish to wed. The realization brought about a bruising hurt. But what did it matter? She had no wish to wed either. Philadelphia was her future. He'd made his feelings plain. She was naught but a sister to him. Like Naomi. Why, then, was her heart so sore? Because she'd been his for the taking and he'd refused her?

The alternative haunted her like a dark specter.

What if he chose Elspeth instead?

To stem the impossible thought, she took Jon to the garden midmorning and laid him down in a basket beneath a blooming redbud tree. Slipping off her shoes, she waded into sun-warmed soil and knelt to weed prim rows of peas, the rich scent of earth filling her senses and easing her hurt. Soon her herbs would hug the porch steps, flowers and vegetables growing in wild abundance amongst the buzz of bees. And just beyond, the beautiful willow that shaded the well like a green silk skirt . . . She must keep her mind fixed on her blessings, not her losses.
Not
Silas's leaving.

At Jon's first cry, Mama appeared to take him into the house and nurse him, weighting Eden with another worry. Since Papa had spoken so harshly to her the day David came, Mama had withdrawn and no amount of coaxing had returned her to normal. Eden had even caught the scent of wine on her breath.
Lord, no, not Mama.
Papa's imbibing was burden enough.

She looked up across the yard, beyond the garden's wattle fence, to see Silas come out of the smithy. Abandoning her task, she focused on his beloved form. Aye, beloved. The admission stung her, brought her to her feet. Not caring if Elspeth watched or that dirt clung to her hands and skirt, she abandoned her task and followed him.