Love's Reckoning (3 page)

Silas began the remaining thirty miles of his journey, fortified by a good meal and a sound if frigid night's sleep in the stable. 'Twas Tuesday morn, the last of December. Horatio, rested and well-fed, with no sign of lameness, gave him little trouble even in half a foot of snow. Yet he found himself wishing the journey was far longer, that something warm and sure and good awaited him at day's end.

As it was, the scanty facts learned at supper with David Greathouse left him at loose ends. Liege Lee sounded like a tyrant of a blacksmith with a wife. At least one bonny daughter. A young son. Two failed apprenticeships. The latter was common enough. Masters and apprentices did not always mix. Bound men ran off all the time. He'd considered it himself, but his convictions held him fast. He pondered it now, fighting anxiety.

Mayhap he'd best keep going and bypass the Lees altogether. His ambitions lured him westward to Fort Pitt, far beyond the boundaries of York. The lyrical names of the rivers there played in his mind like a melody. The Monongahela. The Allegheny. The Ohio. Indian words, all. But much as he wanted to, he couldn't push west till he'd fulfilled the terms of his contract. He'd have need of it in future.

The Lee farm, Greathouse told him, lay a league south of Elkhannah Creek. Silas measured his steps, taking note of his strange surroundings. He passed beneath a giant oak holding fast to a few stubborn leaves, majestic and stalwart in the newly fallen snow. All around him the countryside was rolling and open, so pastoral it reminded him of southern England. Gentle hills and meadows abounded, nothing as abrupt or raw as his Highland home. He'd expected more wilderness, a wild and rough beauty, and felt disappointment pool in his chest.

In time he passed an ornate gate with an
H
and an
R
wrought in fancy iron, much as he'd worked in Philadelphia. Hope Rising? A long drive snaked past an abundance of linden trees, but he couldn't make out the house at road's end. David Greathouse was a man of means—a gentleman—thus his house would be the same.

His misperceptions shifted once again. He'd not thought to find signs of civilization—wealth—this far west, just modest farms at best. For a few moments he felt disoriented in the glare of blinding snow. He couldn't ask for directions or inquire how much farther he had to go, for no other steps marred the ground but his and Horatio's. A strong west wind was picking up, keening like women at a Scottish wake, and he looked uneasily in its direction.

His gaze snagged on an ice-encrusted pond just beyond a low stone fence. Greathouse land, he guessed. Surely the laird wouldn't begrudge him a swim. Though hardly the River Tay of his youth, nor the heat of summer, it would have to do. He reeked of horses and hay, hardly fit for company, even that of a tyrant blacksmith.

A good quarter of an hour later he was clean, though made of gooseflesh. A clean linen shirt, scratchy breeches, thick woolen stockings, and worn boots covered his frigid skin, and he was only too glad to slip into the confines of his frayed greatcoat again. His two days' growth of beard he could do little about, as he was lacking a razor. He'd lost both shaving kit and comb between here and Philadelphia when Horatio stumbled, spilling him into a ditch, but hurting little more than his pride.

On he walked, making note of every shrub and rock that raised its head above the snow, listening for the echoing cadence of a hammer striking iron. Heavy snowflakes began to dance down, and a biting wind made ice of his washed hair. Another quarter of a mile and he was soon in sight
of a farm he knew was the Lees', given the distinguishing feature Greathouse had told him about—a bold, wrought-iron weathervane atop a large barn adjoining a blacksmith's shop, its stone chimney puffing smoke. The farmhouse was simple, if sprawling, and made of local limestone. All around it fallow fields lay like faded squares of an old, fraying quilt.

Would the Lees be expecting him? Had they received his letter? The lantern? 'Twas all too quiet below. Nary a dog barked. He felt a niggling worry for all that awaited based on David Greathouse's ominous words and his own Scottish good sense. And then his faith thrust him forward, checking his dread.

Father, to this place You've led me, and I thank You for safe travels. May Your purposes be accomplished here, whate'er they may be.

 3 

Let honesty be as the breath of thy soul.

Benjamin Franklin

In the last remnants of daylight, Eden ran her hands over the skeins of wool and flax she'd spun in the shadows of the weaving room, caressing the distaff and ribbon that held the fibers in place—a yellow ribbon proclaiming her unmarried state. But her mind wasn't on her beloved Saxony wheel or the hearth's fire that had flickered out an hour ago. She could spin no matter what the hour if need be. Indeed, she had been doing so since she was four.

This cold afternoon, every fiber of her being strained toward one thing and one thing only—a newborn's cry. Three hours it had been, and no sounds other than the usual birth noises of pain and weariness met Eden's ears. While her sister labored in their parents' bedchamber below, she labored over what she would say to the county busybodies.

Aye, 'twas an onerous birth, indeed.

The babe looks just like Papa, truly.

Nay, best wait a while to come calling.

She pondered the lies and excuses swirling through her head, grappling for facts. Likely Elspeth's labor would prove indecently short, as all things seemed to work in her favor. And the babe couldn't resemble Papa, as it wasn't his and Mama's. And no one should dare come calling till the Lees got their story straight. How were they to explain away the fact that they hadn't summoned the midwife when they'd always relied on her before? The snowy weather, Eden guessed, was a handy excuse—and they could always say the babe came early, hardly an exaggeration. And Mama, bless her, always had the bearing look about her.

Sighing, Eden struggled with this new complication, wishing for a different outcome, a chaste sister. How long would Elspeth keep weaving deceit and selfishness into the fabric of their lives? How long would Papa and Mama allow it? Unlike the fine fibers spun on her wheel, their lives seemed like tangled thread, knotted further by the coming of a babe who wouldn't know his or her true mother . . . or father. Eden took a breath and held it, back tense and eyes tearing, sending up a petition to a being she was unsure of.

Had the Almighty made this babe? Like He made the flowers in her beloved garden and the wind and weather?
If so, please let the child grow to be kind and good and giving, not like its mother.
Two wayward Lees were too many!

At her amen, the air was rent by a hiccup and a cry—so high and sharp it sent the fine hair on her neck tingling. She sensed it was a boy—hoped and prayed it was. A boy was less likely to take after Elspeth, would make a fine companion to young Thomas.

In moments, the door to the weaving room cracked open and Papa's voice filled the quiet space. “A son—just whose son, we know not. But 'tis as lusty a babe as has ever been born in York County.”

Eden simply nodded, watching her father's sturdy shadow retreat, knowing he wanted to be at his forge among the sameness and predictability of the iron he worked, much like she sought solace in her spinning.

She hadn't asked how Elspeth fared and felt a twist of guilt. But she needn't wonder. Her older sister led a charmed life. Be it tallying ledgers or cavorting or begetting babies, Elspeth Lee came out as sleek and well-crafted as a fine Pennsylvania rifle.

'Twas snowing harder, Eden noticed, and was shiveringly cold. Within minutes of Papa's announcement, she abandoned her spinning and went to the kitchen to check the spitted meat and baking bread before joining Mama and Elspeth in the bedchamber. Though she'd offered to be present at the birth, Mama had forbidden it. Her youngest daughter's virtue must be preserved, she insisted in a strained whisper. This seemed a bit odd given the fact Eden had witnessed a great deal of barnyard carousing and the birth of countless animals. But Mama held sway.

Since the York midwife was absent, Mama had had to manage everything herself, for not even the meddlesome Mistress Middy knew about Elspeth. All thought it was Mrs. Lee who was lying in. For months now Elspeth had been kept hidden out of fear someone would discern the truth. Bound by a lingering English law, a midwife was obliged to learn the father's identity for all unwed mothers. Her strategy was simple: she waited till the throes of labor to ask whom the father was. Oftentimes only then was the secret divulged, and the new parents later hauled to court and fined, chastised, and disgraced.

“Here, let me take him,” Eden told her mother. “I've made a sugar treat.”

With practiced hands she embraced the wailing, flailing bundle of flesh and brushed his open mouth with the treat that had always soothed Thomas. It pained her to see that even angry, he was every bit as handsome as Elspeth. She searched for some sign of his father in his livid countenance, names and faces of settlement men buzzing in her head like horseflies. David Hofstettler. Josiah Himer. Angus McEachon. Donal Shire. Wouldn't the father step forward in time, anxious to see his own son?

Frantic, the baby began sucking, but it was a short-lived reprieve. 'Twas his mother he wanted, her known scent and warmth, but Elspeth turned aside and slept, her comely form buried beneath a hill of blankets.

“She needs her rest.” Mama's face held a telling anxiety, the tired lines of midcentury deepening. “Where is your father?”

“At the forge.”

Their eyes met and held. Mama looked so worn it seemed
she
had given birth. “The babe is to be mine and your father's. Not a word is to be breathed otherwise.”

“Yes, Mama.” Why else had Elspeth pled illness and kept to the house so no one would know? The plan was nearly foolproof. Mama certainly looked the part—plump, full-bosomed, clad in shapeless wool or linen dresses. None would question the babe's origins.

“What will you call him?” Eden asked quietly.

“That I don't know. Your father hasn't decided.”

So Elspeth wouldn't name her firstborn son. Eden felt a twist of grief. If this was her babe, she'd savor the sweetness of naming him, illegitimate or no. But Elspeth had never held with sentimental things, didn't care for children. Though perhaps, in time, she'd take to her own.

Whoever's son he was, this new one flailed in her arms and let out a war cry, sugar treat forgotten. Mayhap he was
Heinrich Grossvort's, as the man so loved the sound of his own voice. But Heinrich was so dark, and this child's hair was pale as bleached linen.

Watching, Mama sighed and pushed a graying curl behind her ear. “I'll swaddle and try to quiet him. Go below and ready the meat and bread. Thomas will be rousing and your father will want his flip.”

Eden gave up her bundle, nearly wincing at his stubborn squall. Down the narrow hall she went, into the warm confines of a kitchen smelling of rosemary and thyme, so reminiscent of her garden. She felt nearly wrenched with longing to be lost in it. Truly, 'twas her garden she craved, just beyond the snow-covered door stone.

Dropping to her knees at the hearth, she took a bake kettle from the ashes and pretended the aroma of bread was a rose instead—the red damask rose she'd gotten from Hope Rising's gardener last spring. Lost in whimsy, she failed to hear the footfall or the knock.

“Begging your pardon, miss. Would this be Liege Lee's?”

The strange voice came from behind, so deep and rumbling it seemed to be underground. Eden felt a swift spasm of mortification. There was simply no getting up gracefully. Her backside, covered as it was by two petticoats and an indigo short dress, faced the stranger. With furious haste she pushed herself up by her palms and turned to meet him. A man filled the door frame, a shadowy giant.

Face aflame, she managed, “Would you be . . . ?”

“Silas Ballantyne.”

Nay! Papa's new apprentice? On the day of the babe's birth!

His bearded face took on a swarthy hue. “I knocked on both front and back doors and had no answer.” His tone was heavily Scots and a touch apologetic. “With all the noise . . .”

All the blood left her head and she had no answer. She'd gotten up too suddenly and the kitchen seemed to swirl.

“Eden, are you there?”

Her mother's high-pitched voice carried down the stair, and then she appeared, babe in arms. The nameless lad was screaming lustily with no thought to their fragile circumstances. There was no disguising a newborn's cry. All their carefully placed plans began to unravel fast as thread.

Mama's eyes grew wide as saucers, and her plump face paled at the sight of Silas Ballantyne. “I'll go get the master.”

The kitchen's shadows seemed to deepen when the stranger shot a glance up the stairs as if he knew Elspeth was there—knew all their secrets—and had come to call them out. Or perhaps he was simply wondering where his lodging would be?

Quickly Eden took stock of him like Mama did her spice cupboard. Sturdy, wool-clad shoulders. Black boots and frayed breeches, and a greatcoat so shabby it seemed mere spiderwebbing in places. Hair as rich and multihued as the hard cider Papa kept locked in the shed, a damp amber-gold threaded with red. In their humble kitchen he cut an imposing figure. He stood, she guessed, more than six feet tall. She couldn't get a fix on his features, couldn't tell how pleasing or plain—

“Eden,” he said quietly, in a voice so low it was nearly lost to her. “Like the garden.”

Her head cleared. “The garden?”

“Aye, of Eden.”

She tried to smile. “I—I'm sorry for my mother's haste. She's . . .”

“Busy with the babe,” he finished for her.

“Aye, the babe.” She turned toward the water barrel beside the kitchen door and plucked a pewter cup from a nail. “Born today. We've not even named him—” She bit her tongue all too late.
Oh my!

He took the cup from her unsteady hand. “Today,” he echoed, a touch of awe in his tone. “I'd heard you frontier women were hardy . . .”

While he took a long drink, she felt mired in a stew of subterfuge. Could he sense her panic, her deceit? She must speak of something else—anything. “You—you've come far without a companion.”

“I had Horatio.”

“Horatio?”

“My gelding.”

She looked out the window in the fading light and saw a horse, its snow-capped nose at the pane.

“If this is the wilderness, there were no dangers along the way,” he said. “No wild animals. No Indians.”

Darting another look at him, she almost laughed despite herself. Did he think
this
the wilderness?

Silent as a savage himself, Liege Lee filled the doorway. “So, Silas Ballantyne, you've braved a snowstorm to get here.” Voice gruff, he glanced at Eden. “Daughter, see to the man's horse.”

The Scot turned and shifted his load, shaking her father's soot-stained hand. Eden began taking small steps backward, wondering if master and apprentice would take a liking to each other when such had never happened before. She could hear Mama down the hall but no more wailing. The babe was likely tucked in the worn cradle by the hearth. Supper awaited with the stranger.