Love's Reckoning (25 page)

“Well, we might get there eventually,” Jemma bemoaned from her perch in the saddle, “though both barn and smithy will likely be finished by then, poor beast.” She maneuvered her mare nearer the cart. “My word, Eden! You look the same as you did ten years ago, sitting there in your simple dress with your unbound hair. Have you given any thought to wearing it up? You'll have to, you know, at the foundling hospital. I imagine you'll look very Quaker-like in their plain
gowns and those little caps. It seems a good time to go to the city—what with the trouble at home.”

When Eden said nothing, Jemma looked over her shoulder as if to make sure they were alone. “Is it true what they're saying? That the barn doors were locked from the inside?”

Eden nodded, gripping the reins so tightly her fingers hurt. She didn't want to dwell on Philadelphia or the fire, though the latter was the talk of the entire county. But Jemma wasn't easily dissuaded.

“Why not just set the fire without securing the doors?” she mused. “It seems like someone wanted to do the most damage they could, hurting the animals, destroying the haymow, obviously hoping the smithy would burn along with it.”

“Papa is not well thought of,” Eden confessed. The grudging admission made her realize anew how precious one's reputation was. He'd been building a wealth of enemies for years. “Any number of people might wish him ill.”

“I'm thinking the trouble might not lie in York County but closer to home.”

Eden sighed. “Elspeth, you mean.”

“No . . . Silas.”

“Silas? He would never do such a thing.”

“No, of course not. But I do believe he's the cause of it all.” Jemma's words, though calmly stated, stirred up a tempest inside Eden. “Think on it. Since his coming, he's turned your household upside down. People flock to the smithy to do business with him, shunning your father. Elspeth wishes to wed him. The tavern in York has doubled its patrons on account of his fiddling. He turns every head when he goes to church. No doubt he's added a few congregants there. David has even asked him to be overseer here at Hope Rising—”

“Overseer?”

“Yes, for an exorbitant sum that he's turned down. It seems he's intent on going west.” She took a breath, eyes searching. “I wonder if you're not besotted with him as well.”

Eden gripped the reins harder, hardly feeling the sudden jarring from a bump in the road. “Silas is not without his charms,” she managed carefully, only to feel a telltale warmth when Jemma laughed.

“And might those charms account for your riding after him in the worst storm York County has seen for a decade or better?” Jemma's tone was gentle but insistent. “Everyone from the tavern patrons at the Golden Plough to the county magistrates saw you tearing after him. Come now, Eden. Look at me and tell me you don't fancy him.”

The query begged answer, but Eden couldn't respond. Tears hovered on her lashes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand, unwilling to lie. Her only refuge, she decided, was silence.

Jemma shifted in the saddle, a rueful slant to her mouth. “I think Elspeth believes you ran away with him that day . . . and she started the fire because of it.”

Yes.
The awfulness of it stole over Eden like a nightmare. Unbidden, her mother's words came rushing back, followed by Silas's.
Daughter, take care . . . We want no trouble—no repeat of what happened on the stair.
It was imperative their love, their future plans, stay secret. She'd not speak of it to anyone, even Jemma.

“As I was saying, should Bea summon you to Philadelphia, it seems a prudent time to go.” With that, Jemma rode ahead of her into the chaos of the smithy yard.

The place was astir like a great hive, buzzing and bustling with the sweat-stained efforts of the local men Silas had recruited in the rebuilding effort. Guiding the pony cart toward the springhouse, Eden was aware of Elspeth standing by the
kitchen door, arms crossed, her features stiffening with disapproval as she took Jemma in.

Elspeth retreated to the heavily leafed arbor where she'd been perusing ledgers, a hot coal of resentment burning inside her at the sight of Jemma riding her fine horse into their humble yard. Her anger cooled when she noted Papa ignoring the youngest Greathouse, then flamed brighter when Silas stopped his hammering to speak to her in that charming way that enlivened his every feature. Though preoccupied, even overburdened, he attended to his tasks with a quiet confidence that belied his many demands—and she was furious to find that it only made him more appealing.

She scanned through the columns of shillings, pounds, and pence, many crossed out and adjusted at Silas's insistence. This was one of the new contract terms, a point that caused Papa the most difficulty. “I will not be a thief,” Silas had stated in his terse Scots speech, reversing years of accumulated greed in just six succinct words. Such news had spread faster than the fire, and they were now busier than before.

Laying her quill aside, she entered a kitchen crowded with dinner smells—a robust stew, loaves of crusty bread birthed in their oven, crocks of honey and butter, and an enormous bowl of applesauce. She and Eden were confined to the kitchen, for the dining room table was set for the workmen—one in particular who'd caught Elspeth's eye, and who'd been eyeing her in return that very morning.

For the moment her attention was diverted to the parlor, where women's voices cooed and crooned in irritating rhythms. She didn't have to join them to know the object of their interest. Jemma's voice eclipsed them all—and well it
should. 'Twas Jemma's own flesh and blood she fussed over, though she'd deny it if she knew.

The memory of David's brief liaison with her flashed to Elspeth's mind, along with the niggling certainty that he'd dallied with her when it was Eden he wanted.

Behind her, as if a bell had been rung, the men began coming in, Papa leading, Silas bringing up the rear. Mama was showing Jemma to the door, their chatter a rasp to Elspeth's ears. Tying on an apron, Elspeth prepared to serve, waiting till Papa was seated. He was talking of going to Philadelphia in the near future, surprising her and creating a hubbub at table. Having never been there, she listened hard before her attention swung to Silas.

He stood in the dining room doorway, his gaze riveted to Eden and the babe in the adjoining parlor. Her throat grew dry as envy tightened its grip, wrapping round her and snuffing any fine feeling. She couldn't deny what a fetching picture Eden made with Jon cradled in her arms, kissing and crooning over him till his fussing subsided. The babe might have been Eden's own she was so taken with him.

And Silas was so taken with her.

 24 

Let none but Him who rules the thunder put this man and woman asunder.

Jonathan Swift

Within half an hour of Liege and Elspeth's leaving for Philadelphia, Eden blossomed like a rose transplanted from shade to sun, a fact that did not escape Silas's notice. At work by the sweltering forge, he smiled to himself as he caught sight of her through the open smithy doors. She fairly danced across the yard as she went from chore to chore, and his heart picked up in rhythm to think she might slip inside and warm him with her smile.

Liege's hastily arranged trip to the city seemed nothing short of providential. Obviously weary with watching the activity all around him, his gout ever worsening, he'd announced that he must procure new tools and other sundry items, though Silas suspected he went to seek medical attention. Elspeth had not wanted to accompany him, but she went quietly at his insistence, her back ramrod stiff as they rode east.

Silas watched summer's dust erupt beneath their wagon wheels, a prayer of thanksgiving on his lips. A fortnight or more they'd be away. A whole two weeks to woo his Eden. Properly. Passionately. Without fear of reprisal. To make up for the four weeks he'd just spent ignoring her, busy as he'd been with the rebuilding.

Finishing the ironwork in front of him, he passed outside to the garden, where an abundance of lavender grew along the wattle fence. Picking a fistful, he stood just inside the smithy door and was soon rewarded by her coming. She stepped inside the newly repaired shop, unaware of him behind her, and let out a small sigh, the sag of her shoulders expressing her disappointment at finding him gone.

Soundlessly he wrapped his arms around her, flowers at chin level so she had only to lower her face and inhale their fragrance. She did so—deeply—and then turned to him with a tentative smile, casting an anxious look about, as if expecting to find it all a dream and Liege or Elspeth watching them.

“No one is here,” he reassured her, “but your mother and Thomas—” Hearing a baby's fervent cry, he smiled. “And Jon.”

“Mama knows,” she began. “About us.”

“I thought it only fair to tell her.”

“She won't breathe a word to anyone. Mama's good at keeping secrets. Oh, Silas, there are so many secrets . . .”

“Secrets?” Thoughts of David Greathouse and the letter from Bea crowded in, and he felt a sudden sinking in his chest. “None of your own, surely.”

Her gaze held firm, and he found her eyes the same startling hue as the blooms in her hands. “I should have told you sooner about the babe . . . He's not Mama's. He's Elspeth's. We don't know who the father is. I—”

“Shush, Eden.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I've suspected from the first.”

“You have?” Her expression darkened. “But how?”

“A look, a word. I'm not a blind man, ye ken.” He said no more. He wouldn't drag her through the mud of his personal observations, nor belabor her family's faults.

“Then you know Papa is troubled by more than gout—he's addicted to drink and has long been lying, cheating—”

“Aye, all of it.” He placed a finger to her lips, surprised by the force of her confession. “But I'm only interested in you—us—our future.”

Tears glinted in her eyes. “I want no secrets between us, Silas.”

“No secrets,” he echoed, his mouth near the gentle curve of her ear. “Then you should know I can hardly breathe for thinking of you. You're the most maddening lass I've ever known, and every day without you near is an agony to me.” Taking her face between his hands, he moved to kiss her, but the sound of approaching horses gave him pause.

The regret in her face mirrored his feelings. “I'll be finishing my Sabbath dress tonight after supper. Bring your fiddle to the parlor—for Mama and me.”

His disappointment deepened. “I've promised to play at the tavern. But I'll come in before—or after, if you're still awake.”

She nodded, standing on tiptoe to brush her mouth to his. “The Sabbath is ours, Silas.”

The Sabbath. A mere twelve hours hence. Her first Sunday in kirk. They hadn't gone to services since the fire, waiting for the swirl of gossip to subside, hoping they might go alone. The joy it brought him couldn't be measured. He found it hard to believe, steeped in his own Scots faith since childhood, that she'd never darkened the door of a church. He prayed it would seem to her a foretaste of heaven. Simply having her beside him would be a foretaste to him.

The small church, built of local limestone, was gray and crumbling, though sturdy tombstones sprouted like wild mushrooms in back of it, sprawling over the hill and beyond. They'd walked up the sunlit road well ahead of the tolling bell, and Eden seemed so overcome by it all she hardly said a word. But Silas was comfortable with their shared silence, and equally at ease when she peppered him with questions.

“How many people come of a Sunday?”

“Fifty or so, depending on the season,” he answered. “Fewer in seedtime and harvest.”

“Do I look . . . pleasing? Proper?” She stopped and turned toward him, her troubled expression her only flaw, the picnic basket on her arm swinging in consternation.

His gaze traveled the length of her. Clad in a new gown that mirrored her eyes, she showed her fine hand in every feminine pleat and tuck, right down to the fragile minionet lace adorning the bodice. He was as surprised as she about Liege's generosity in buying such goods. Today she had no need of Hope Rising's castoffs, truly.

“Something is amiss,” she lamented softly, confidence ebbing. “I see it in your eyes.”

“Nae, Eden.” It was his turn to flush uncomfortably, the heat of his honesty rising to his face. “The only thing amiss is my thoughts. They're hardly Sabbath-holy.”

Giving him a soft smile, she turned and increased her pace up the sun-drenched hill, the silk ribbons of her bonnet trailing to the small of her back.

Och, but she was a sore temptation even in a kirk yard.

He fixed his eye on a wooly clump of sheep grazing in a far meadow, wondering why the Greathouses had yet to attend church when signs of their beneficence were everywhere. The elaborately carved pulpit, the windows, even the collection boxes inside were Eben Greathouse's doing. Perhaps he'd
been a religious man. His heir did not seem so. Though Hope Rising was but a stone's throw away, David Greathouse had yet to come up the hill. Silas's gut gave another wrench of warning.

Near the kirk but far from grace.

Within the building's austere confines, Eden followed Silas's lead, sitting beside him in a back pew after speaking with a dozen or so people in the churchyard, all expressing surprise at her coming—or more noticeably, Elspeth's absence.

“My sister has gone to Philadelphia with Papa,” she said, which seemed to mystify rather than satisfy them. Beside her, Silas spoke quietly with the congregants about other matters, mostly sheep and the smithy, as if trying to lessen her discomfort.

Though she sensed their minds spinning with unasked questions, she was comfortable in the knowledge that appearing with Silas at church was well within the bounds of acceptable behavior. They'd give no quarter to salacious gossip. From all appearances they were simply the apprentice and the master's daughter intent on church. Yet even if these people entertained the blackest thoughts, nothing could dampen the near-holy awe Eden felt as her eyes roamed the hushed interior.

The smell of cold stone and warm candle wax filled her senses, as did the jingle of coins in the wooden collection box by the door. She felt a lingering embarrassment that she had nothing to give. Nothing but her heart. Her gaze kept returning to the stained-glass window behind the pulpit, drinking in every lovely shard—verdigris, crimson, ochre, ebony—all blending to form a picture of the Savior, the cross behind.

Beside her, Silas sat still, and she wondered what he
thought, if his time here made him yearn for the Scottish kirk of his boyhood. When the minister appeared, she felt a small start that she'd paid so little attention to the fact that he was a Scotsman. His lilt was less honeyed than Silas's, subdued by years spent in York County, perhaps. She simply knew him as Owen McCheyne, the widower farmer who lived north of Hope Rising, his white hair glinting like ice, his rugged features kind. He'd come often to their shop over the years, but Papa wanted little to do with him, and lately it was Silas who minded his business.

Though they'd been here but a few minutes, she was already loath to leave. The silence, the austere beauty of wooden pews and arched windows, lent a profound peace to the scene. Her troubled thoughts seemed to melt away as she listened to the solemn prayer intoned in Gaelic, followed by a Scripture reading. Silas took her hand as a Psalm was sung, their entwined fingers hidden beneath her voluminous skirts.

“Would the brethren care to give a testimony as to how Christ is precious to them?” one elder intoned from a far corner.

Eden watched as several men in surrounding pews stood up one by one to share how the Lord had made them alive in Christ. This was what her heart was hungry for—to hear firsthand the life-changing power of the Savior. Her Savior. Tears trickled down, dampening the lace of her bodice. She'd forgotten her handkerchief, so Silas took out the one she'd made him, a square of soft linen with
SB
marked in dark blue thread.

They were preparing to sit at the Lord's Table, McCheyne said. She watched transfixed as bread was broken and wine poured. And they were to . . . eat, drink? One by one the congregation went forward to receive something from the pastor's hand. Silas returned with a small lead token.

Seeing her confusion, he leaned nearer and whispered, “'Tis an old Scots custom called ‘fencing the table.' The aim is to keep out those who shouldn't partake and keep in those who should.”

“And am I . . .
out
?”

“Not if you speak with McCheyne after the service.”

To show him she was spiritually sound? Her heart thumped harder. “But I can explain nothing . . . I only
feel
.”