Love's Reckoning (28 page)

Heartsick, she cleaned up the spilled beans before rocking Jon to sleep by the open kitchen door, trying to court a reluctant breeze. The scraping of utensils on plates in the adjoining room set her teeth on edge. When she served a berry cobbler at meal's end, it seemed everyone was looking at her closely, as if Papa had just told them something momentous.

As she passed behind Silas's chair, he shot her a sidelong glance. “Eden, I have need of a good shirt.”

'Twas Saturday—wash day—and he was to play at a wedding that evening. She nodded absently, though his request struck her as odd. He'd never asked her outright for such. She always left his clean clothes in a basket by his door.

She went into the side yard, where half a dozen shirts and breeches were draped over the garden fence. Darting a glance about, she brought one sun-warmed shirt to her face, breathing in the fragrance of linen and lye. But it was his scent she craved . . . his touch . . . the safety and security of his arms. Her heart turned over. Was he as lonesome for her as she was for him?

When she returned to the dining room, his chair sat empty. Papa and the merchant were deep in conversation while Mama and Elspeth cleared the table. Slipping out to the empty smithy, she found Silas's door ajar.

Oh, Lord . . . for a moment alone with him.

“Eden, come.”

His tender tone was her undoing. Her heart gave a wild leap. Without a backward glance, she stepped into his room for the first time since he'd claimed it.

 27 

Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.

Edmund Spenser

Silas shut the door with a firm click, taking the shirt from Eden's hands. Pulling the garment over his head, he watched, bemused, as she turned her back on his bare chest, a faint tint to her cheeks. “You'll not be so modest once we wed, I'll wager.”

She spun toward him, her fingers grazing his collar as she fumbled with a button. “Nor so clumsy. Only a few weeks more.”

“Aye, Eden Ballantyne.” His hand circled the back of her neck, her hair like silk beneath his calloused palm.

The sweetness of her rose up and turned him inside out as he bent and kissed her, his senses reeling dangerously as she kissed him back. He sensed her surprise and delight, her yearning for more. More than he could yet give her. Drawing back, he drank in the anticipation of what was to come. For now he had but a foretaste. There was only the two of them. The door was shut. No one and nothing else existed.

But the gunsmith's son.

Her expression clouded as he thought it, as if they'd already become one and she was thinking it too. He kept his voice low, mindful of Liege returning to the forge. “Eden, what is this about Giles Esh?”

Worry raced through her eyes. “I've heard naught of it till today. He danced with me at Hope Rising's ball. I—I've never encouraged him—”

“'Tis your father's doing.” His voice softened in sympathy, though he felt a spike of alarm. She was just a pawn in a business deal; Liege hadn't even consulted her. “He wants another man at the forge once I leave. Being a gunsmith with some understanding of iron, Esh is the logical choice. And he is, by all accounts, smitten with you.”

She simply looked at him in surprise. Losh, but she had no idea how tempting she was. Taking her hands, he turned them over and kissed them. “One day, Eden Lee, you'll have to fend off no man but me.”

She was regarding him with such love and trust it rent his heart. A gentle and quiet spirit she had, more than any lass he'd ever met.

A new worry gnawed at him. Was he even worthy of her?

“There seem so many obstacles of late,” she whispered. “David Greathouse keeps speaking of spinning, and now Giles Esh . . .”

He studied her thoughtfully. “I could tell your father my intentions.”

“Nay, he'd simply use it against us—make things harder for us.”

“He's given Esh permission to court you. Or so he said at table.”

“Oh, Silas, what am I to do?”

He cupped her chin in gentle teasing. “You could simply
be a sonsie lass, hardly giving him a glance, pretending he's not even in the same county, like you do with me.”

Dismay stole her smile away. “Doing so breaks my heart into little pieces.”

“'Tis best for now,” he said with a weary smile. “Till October.” The thought filled him with a profound sense of wonder. She was nearly his.

Why, then, did he feel a nagging doubt that it was not to be?

Eden watched warily as Giles Esh approached her at the well. A good fifty feet from the kitchen door, the stone recess was surrounded by old apple trees recently laden with fruit. She knew why he sought her out, having received Papa's permission to court her. And their courting was to begin . . . now.

She surveyed him in the warm shade, trying to smile, trying to stay the judgmental thoughts that sluiced through her like the cider they'd just finished pressing. Through no fault of his own, Giles was so unlike Silas. Small. Thin. Pockmarked. Already losing his fair hair.

“Good day, Giles.”

He removed his hat, turning the worn brim in his hands a bit awkwardly. “Good day, Miss Eden.” The brilliant hue of his eyes, even in the shade, struck her hard. They were as blue as Jon's—and totally besotted. She lowered her bucket into the well, wanting to climb in after it.

He plucked an apple from a low branch and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Your father's given permission for me to squire you to church come the Sabbath.”

She worked hard to keep her dismay down. Elspeth had already intruded on this, her most favorite day. Would Giles too? She drew up the bucket so hastily she spilled half the water out.

“If you have need of church,” she said quietly, “I would bid you come.”

And so he did, sitting as close as he dared that next Sabbath while she pined for Silas further down the pew. Beside Giles, Elspeth managed to look bright-eyed despite her near-nightly jaunts, turning every head as she entered the austere little church in her outrageous ostrich feather hat. Eden eyed her buxom figure, fearing the worst.

As the opening Psalm was sung, she stole a look at her beloved, straight-backed and silent, eyes ahead. She missed their stairwell meetings, his fervent kisses. All summer their paths had hardly crossed. Sometimes he seemed to have forgotten all about her. And she was struck by the realization that his work, his ambitions, might well be the greatest rival for his affections. He was so driven. So fiercely determined.

As she'd read the Song of Solomon the night before in the garret when the household was asleep, her worn emotions had intensified and turned her breathless.

By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.

As the heat of August faded into a cooler September, dread and elation were Eden's constant companions. Soon she would be free of Papa's and Elspeth's fractious ways and Giles's unwanted attentions. The wilderness awaited, promising a sort of peace, yet as that day neared, new worries dawned. Mama seemed to have taken another melancholy turn, going about her chores teary-eyed and silent. Eden feared it was her own leaving that made her mournful, then remembered hearing Mama and Papa arguing more and more often behind closed doors.

She escaped to Hope Rising when she could, though it
no longer held the appeal it once did. Silas spent afternoons there, overseeing the breeding of the now-flourishing Blackface. Eden lingered at a fence, watching his tall figure in a far meadow as he moved among the flock, nearly forgetting Margaret was waiting. Steaming cups of hyson tea and rose petal sandwiches welcomed her, a far cry from the usual fare. Though Eden hadn't breathed a word of her departure, it seemed Margaret somehow suspected.

Margaret poured the rich brew into pristine cups, the hand-painted flowers and leaves adorning the china reminding Eden of her own fading garden. Absently, she wondered if any good tea could be had in the West. She doubted the porcelain pot she'd packed would make it over the mountains intact.

“Cream and sugar?” Margaret asked, ever polite.

“Both, please.” Eden shifted in her chair, wondering how she'd manage with the babe. Jon sat on her lap, a chortling, cooing imp, his fists tightly fastened to his leading strings as he chewed them to soggy bits. At nine months, he was heavy as a tub of lard and twice as slippery, always trying to stand or crawl.

“I'll hold him for thee,” Margaret offered, nearly groaning as she did so. “My, but he's a handful! How is his temper?”

“Sweeter now that he's supping on more than milk. Mama's trying to wean him as he tires her so.”

Margaret tucked a ginger biscuit into one of Jon's dimpled hands. He turned it over, such a study of contemplation they both laughed. “He seems to be a deep thinker,” Margaret mused with a chuckle. “At least where his stomach is concerned.”

Eden took a sip of tea, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grimace. “Margaret, are you brewing something new?”

The question was followed by Margaret's knowing nod. “Thee are in need of some headache powders, Eden. I can see it in thy eyes.”

Medicinal tea?
“'Tis kind of you.” She forced herself to take a second sip. “Now that the harvest is nearly over and the larder is full, I'm sure I'll mend.”

Despite Eden's hopeful words, Margaret's expression indicated doubt. “I asked David to go to the apothecary on his recent trip to Philadelphia. He consulted Dr. Rush, who prescribed the powders.”

Eden thanked her, eyes on Jon as he gnawed his biscuit. “Actually, my mind isn't on my own malady but someone else's.” She took a breath. “I'm worried about Mama.”

The sudden surprise in Margaret's countenance nearly stole her courage. She hadn't meant to be so blunt, but she felt an overwhelming need to know, to settle matters in her mind, before leaving home for good. “Since the fire, Mama hasn't been herself. Actually, before the fire, she and Papa had words about the past. I know you and Mama used to be friends. I remember her coming to Hope Rising when I was small. I thought . . . perhaps you'd know what the trouble was back then.”

The silence stretched long and uncomfortable. “'Twas long ago, Eden. I scarcely recall it.” Margaret looked down at Jon, her expression strained. “The Lord desires us to dwell on what is pure and lovely and of good report, does He not?”

“Yes,” Eden echoed, dismayed. Within Margaret's carefully couched words was her answer. Whatever Mama had been a part of, 'twas not pure or lovely or of good report. Curiosity and confusion welled inside her, only whetting her need to know a hundredfold. Yet further questions seemed to stick in her throat.

Forcing a smile, Margaret gave a bounce to the babe on her knees. “Let's speak of other things—like the changes coming to thy household. Is it true the gunsmith's son is often there?”

Eden sipped the unpleasant tea, finding it far less galling
than this subject. “Papa wants someone to take Silas's place once he leaves.”

She nodded. “David says he is bound for the West—Fort Pitt. York is not to his liking.”

“He feels the Lord leading him into the wilderness,” she said carefully, eyes averted. “I wish him well, wherever he goes.”

The clock struck three, and Margaret waited till it finished chiming to say quietly, “I must admit I had once hoped . . . that thee and Silas . . .”

Eden set down her cup with a clatter. “I'd best be going. Jon is in need of a nap.” She brushed ginger crumbs from his chin and hoisted him on her hip. He looked about with a satisfied smile, waving a wee hand and lightening the somber mood. “Please thank Master David for the headache powders.”