Love's Reckoning (36 page)

The Morris mansion was extravagant in the extreme, yet the Philadelphia elite and a great many Friends gathered there whenever its doors were open, stuffed into one of its marble drawing rooms like cargo in a ship's hold. Tonight was no exception. Eden breathed a prayer of thanks for the cool evening air, wanting to escape as soon as she could. Surrounded by liveried servants, she took a seat at the back of the grand room, watching the guests flow past in a parade of jewels and rich fabrics, hoping to catch sight of Hannah Penn.

With a flick of her wrist, she snapped open her sandalwood fan, praying silently as her gaze roamed the room's candlelit interior.

Please, Lord, let me find Hannah before the music starts.

Since leaving York County, not once had she attended a musical soiree. But tonight, a bit desperate, unable to rest till she'd stilled the tempest inside her, she had little choice. Her wary gaze returned to the musicians on the dais again and again, dismissing every instrument in the large ensemble till she came to the violins. The musicians were tuning their fine instruments just as Silas used to, yet it seemed they tore at her heartstrings instead.

I will not cry.

Tears lined her lashes, only to be dried by the frantic fluttering
of her fan. For years she'd carefully schooled her emotions. If loosed now, what a torrent that would be! The last time she'd wept was at his leaving, when she'd discovered his tracks in the snow. An eternity past . . .

“Miss Lee.”

The masculine voice loomed from behind. She pretended not to hear. She mustn't be distracted from her mission. But it came again, ever nearer. “You're looking lovely this evening.”

'Twas Robert Morris's oldest son, Andrew, just returned from London and resplendent in the latest fashion—trousers, not breeches, a lily affixed to his frock coat. Eden thought of the lemon trees in the Morris greenhouse from which the fragrant flower had surely been taken. Just before he'd left for England, Andrew had sent a basket of lemons and lilies to her rooms at the boardinghouse. Their mingled fragrance—one so pungent and the other so sweet—had given her a headache despite her fondness for them.

“Very lovely,” he repeated.

“Thank you,” she said with a self-conscious smile, gaze falling to her lap. He meant her gown, surely. Though a bit outdated, the heavy silk was the hue of honey, the bodice and sleeves a confection of Irish lace. It had been one of Jemma's favorites.

“You seem to be looking for someone. I was hoping it might be me.”

His gentlemanly phrasing tugged at her, and she stood, if only to be polite. “'Tis good to see you on American soil again, Andrew, but in truth I'm seeking Hannah Penn.”

Her voice fell away as the chatter rose around them, and she rued his obvious disappointment. Extending his arm, he led her down a candlelit corridor to Hannah's side before bowing and returning to the drawing room.

“Eden Lee? What on earth?” Hannah's eyes widened. The
gentleman beside her excused himself, as if expecting their need of a private tête-à-tête.

“'Tis me, not a ghost,” Eden said to make light of her surprise.

“Why, thee are pale as one. I haven't seen thee at a social function for . . .
forever
.”

“I've come to ask a favor.” Nay, a favor it was not. Eden groped for the right words and came up woefully short.

“If thee are wanting someone to teach the foundling girls embroidery—needlework—I'll be happy to help.”

“Nay.” The opening strains of the program—Haydn—threaded through the warm foyer, which had suddenly begun to empty. Eden seized the moment. “I remember some months ago you spoke of going west—to Pittsburgh—to visit a relation . . .” The rest of her request poured forth, Eden hoping she didn't sound as foolish as she felt.

Hannah's fair features clouded. “I wish I could go in thy stead, Eden, but my Pittsburgh relation has passed away, and—” She waved her fan at a distant figure, leaning in to whisper in Eden's ear, “'Tis no time to be leaving the city, my friend. I'm practically betrothed.”

With a squeeze to Eden's arm, she moved away, the silken swish of her skirts a mesmerizing coral. Watching her go, Eden felt mired in a puddle of disappointment. Yet why should she be? Hannah had a full life away from her charitable work at the foundling hospital—and a wide circle of friends. The large Penn family seemed to have a hand in everything.

She continued to stand, fan dangling limply from her wrist, the impassioned trill of half a dozen violins in her ears. The exquisite sound was sheer torment. Why had she come? The folly of it filled her to the brim and overflowed as she sought the nearest exit. Nodding to the footman at the door, she hurried out into the rain-laden hush of twilight to hail a carriage home.

 36 

In the election of a wife, as in a project of war, to err once is to be undone forever.

Thomas Middleton

Frolics at River Hill were a distillation of tobacco smoke, brandy, fine food, a great deal of business, and a little dancing to pacify the women. Ever since Silas had come stumbling into Pittsburgh on that icy December day in 1785, River Hill had seemed a sort of paradise. Situated on the high, rocky banks of the Monongahela, it was grand yet unpretentious and had none of the negative associations of Hope Rising or Blair Castle.

River Hill's master, Hugh O'Hara, was a former tradesman who had come up in the world by dint of hard work. A true visionary, he'd put Pittsburgh on the map and was already reaping her fortunes, and he had the capital to back every business venture Silas brought him. Never having lost his ties to his humble beginnings as saddler turned soldier turned lawyer, he opened his vast library at River Hill to
young men with a bent toward self-improvement. Silas had been one of them.

Tonight they'd been talking iron, but the conversation had taken a personal turn as the ladies cajoled the men into the ballroom—all but Isabel. Recently returned from the East, where her father had sent her to acquire some Philadelphia polish, she seemed to be waiting for Silas to seek her out. Though they'd touched elbows at the ornate mahogany dining table where they'd been seated side by side, she'd said little, leaving Silas to wonder what Philadelphia had done to her in the six months she'd been away.

He felt a bit unsettled by the sight of her in a formal gown of painted silk, jewels circling her throat and adorning her ears. She'd returned from the city with a lady's maid, Hugh said, and from all appearances she was an experienced one.

Standing beside an open French door that led to a wide terrace overlooking the river, Isabel looked his way. The candlelight gilding her fair hair and the way she fluttered her fan was invitation enough. Silas extricated himself from the cluster of politicians and industrialists and took her by the elbow onto the empty terrace.

“Welcome back, Isabel.” His words were almost lost over the swell of the cotillion beginning inside. “How was Philadelphia?”

She smiled up at him over the fan's lace edging. “Crowded. Smelly.”

“That I remember.” He half chuckled at her forthrightness. Some things never changed, he guessed. “Did you see Bartram's Gardens? Solomon's Book Shoppe?”

Her powdered nose wrinkled in distaste. “You forget I'm not interested in fussy flowers and boring books. Rickett's Circus was much more to my liking. Besides, Aunt Bess kept me plenty busy. Between the theater and tea shops and visits
to the dressmaker, I hardly had time to breathe.” She fluttered her fan as if trying to master it. “But I was often homesick. For Papa . . . River Hill . . .”

And you
, she didn't say, though Silas suspected. Her feelings were plain—had been for some time. He looked down at her, struck by how tiny she was. He'd met her soon after coming to Pittsburgh, when she was but twelve. Now nineteen, she'd always seemed more child to him. But tonight, with her grown-up gown and her expression rapt, he saw something more.

“And you?” She touched his coat sleeve with her fan. “What new business ventures have you dreamed up in my absence?”

His mind stretched back over the frenzied fall and winter, eyes on the water. “Ironmaking. A glassworks. Soon there'll be a mercantile and warehouse by the boatyard.”

“Papa said you'd acquired more lots in town, made some shrewd investments.”

He nearly smiled at her phrasing. That she was her father's daughter there could be no doubt. “Aye, some land sold by the sheriff in execution of legal judgments. Insolvent debts and bankruptcies and the like.” He'd spread himself too thin in the process. But life on the cusp of the frontier, he'd learned, was an ongoing gamble, and if he didn't rise to the challenge, a great many other men would.

“I only want to hear about the four hundred acres further downriver.” In the moonlight her amber eyes were beguiling. “Tell me everything.”

He leaned into the railing. “You tell me, Isabel. Word is you've ridden out to see for yourself.” At her surprise, he smiled. “Pittsburgh spies, ye ken.”

“Jean Marie, you mean.” She sighed and folded her fan. “I simply wanted to see where all those bricks were headed. Fort Pitt's fall is like losing an old friend. I was born within
its walls, remember, when Papa was an officer there. I rather enjoy the thought of a new beginning with all those bricks.”

Though he hadn't succumbed to the same sentiment, he liked the idea of preserving the past. But the old garrison's dismantling meant little to him except as a sign that east had met west and the Indian question was now forever settled in Pennsylvania. He could finally begin building a home of his own.

She moved nearer, and he was enveloped in a floral scent he couldn't name. “What will you call the place?”

“I've given it little thought,” he said, looking from her expectant, upturned face to the French door, now shut. Who . . . ? Her father, no doubt. He was trying to give them some privacy, foster a tender reunion after long months apart. Whatever Hugh's motives, Silas
was
glad to see her. She offered him something beyond the unceasing busyness of the wharf and the worrisome distraction of the whiskey rebellion. Jean Marie might well have been right. Mayhap he needed to be married to something besides boats.

Bolstered by a bit of brandy, he reached out a hand and brushed a stray curl behind the curve of her ear. Against his calloused fingers the strand was whisper soft. He'd never touched her except in the most casual way, never touched any woman since . . .

Eden.

The memory bore the brunt of newly forged nails. He leaned closer, desperate to block it, to replace it with another, fresher memory. Isabel offered no resistance. Their mouths met, tasted, returned for more. Pleasure shot through him in a way it hadn't in years, along with a latent realization. Beneath his hands was a woman who wanted him. Who'd never been courted by anyone but was admired by many. Whose dowry, Hugh had just told him, contained half of Pittsburgh.

Who bore no taint of the past.

 37 

Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word.

Edmund C. Stedman

Eden looked up from her open trunk to the small spinning balcony adjoining her room. Her Saxony wheel rested there, still and silent at dusk. The little terrace overlooked a narrow alley crooked as a dog's hind leg, and offered a small if stingy window of the city. Tonight the horizon was a lush lavender-gold, a sort of benediction on her momentous day. How, she wondered, would it look without the spire of Christ Church or the crush of buildings along Market Street in the way? Soon she would find out.

In warmer weather she would sit outside and spin, trying not to think of home or the fact that the spinning jenny and rotary steam engines in the city's textile mills made her task quaint and nearly obsolete. There was a beauty and simplicity in the old ways, in the gentle whirr of the wheel and the feel of the thread against her practiced hand. She'd let go of so much of her old life, of the past; this was one comfort she
wanted to keep. That it would sit idle for a summer hurt her somehow. If only it could be heaved atop a lumbering coach!

Had it only been a fortnight before that she'd agreed to accompany the children to Pittsburgh? Thinking back on her conversation with Stephen Elliot, she wished she could begin again, say far less with half the emotion. In the comfortable familiarity of Constance Darby's office, the story had spilled out of her, so unrehearsed and rusty the memories seemed to belong to someone else.

“I want the children to have a fresh start in Pittsburgh,” she'd told them. “'Twas selfish of me to almost refuse you. I've pondered it and prayed about it, and I'll gladly go.” Yet even as she spoke the words, she felt duplicitous. Her agreement had more to do with avoiding Elspeth's visit than being a help to the hospital, truly. Yet even without Elspeth's coming, she felt inexplicably led to accompany him.

Stephen looked relieved, though his wrinkled features held a touching concern. “I must say, Miss Lee, I'm glad you've come round. We'll be taking the Forbes Road west, of course. I remember you have family in York County. We'll be passing by there, should you want to see them.”

The mere suggestion, kind as it was, gave rise to second thoughts. How could she explain the cold reception they'd likely receive? After so long a time, Mama might be willing, but . . . “I wouldn't want to delay us,” she said quietly, wondering how much to reveal. “There are things you don't know about my past. Years ago I left home under a . . . a cloud.”

After finding out I was the illegitimate daughter of one of the founders of this very hospital, upon being ill used by his heir . . .

She could well imagine their consternation if she was to speak of that. 'Twas far safer to speak of Pittsburgh. “I—I was once betrothed to a man—a blacksmith's apprentice.
We'd planned to go to Fort Pitt, but circumstances conspired against us.” There was a catch in her voice, but she forged on. “Our betrothal was broken. I came here instead.”

“Oh, Eden, I had no idea,” Constance said. “What became of thy betrothed?”

Eden fingered a crystal inkwell, her damp eyes on the plumed quill. “I don't know. He was a good man—a godly man. I only wanted what was best for him. I try not to look back. God has been so good to me, and I try to dwell on that.”

“Wise words,” Stephen murmured, more serious than she'd ever seen him.

She folded her hands in her lap and tried to smile in expectation. “No doubt a trip west will be good for us all, like you said. Lately I've felt a bit . . . unsettled. I'll miss Philadelphia, of course, and you, Constance—the babies especially.”

Constance dotted her eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh yes, and don't forget the sweltering summer heat, flies and mosquitoes big as bats, and those everlasting board meetings.”

Their shared laughter lifted the heavy mood and lingered, lightening Eden's spirits hours later in the confines of her rented rooms.

They'd be leaving around the middle of May. She'd made arrangements with Mrs. Payne to let Elspeth lodge in her stead while she was away, hoping she'd have gone back to York by the time Eden returned. She wondered what Elspeth's motives were for coming and how long she'd stay. The mere thought of their reunion left her shaky and sick. She had no wish to see her half sister again, not after the fire or Jon's death, for she was certain Elspeth had had a hand in both.

In need of a distraction, she returned to packing, taking stock of the new dresses befitting her age and station. Though still girl-slim despite her eight and twenty years, she could no longer wear the pure whites and pastels of younger women.
Those had been replaced by more matronly mosses, plums, nutmegs, and navies. 'Twas hardly the trousseau of her youthful dreams, but the Elliots had been more than generous, so much so that she had need of another trunk for all the hats, gloves, fans, and shoes.

Kneeling beside her bed, she reached for another, smaller chest, then nearly let go of the leather handle as misgivings crowded in. More memories. In the near darkness her fingers fumbled with lock and key, and then it opened, the scent of dried lavender and rose petals filling her senses. Shut away for years, the contents still held a bittersweet familiarity. A candle was needed, but she shied away from the light. It was better to feel her way through the dusty remains of her former life.

Here were her old journal and a few of Jemma's favorite books. Garden seeds, mostly everlastings. The blue dress she'd worn to Sabbath services on the hill. Her fingers stilled at the feel of soft linen. Within its folds was a lock of Jon's hair. It had been so fair. Sunlight itself. That he was now in heaven she believed with all her heart.

Biting her lip, she sat back on her heels as a hundred questions assailed her. What if . . . what if he hadn't died? What if she'd never gotten into the Greathouse coach that day? What if she'd told Silas the truth of what had happened at the Black Swan Inn? What if she'd trusted that his love was enough to overcome her hurt? That God could heal her over time?

Her fingertips brushed a scrap of paper. Some fragment of poetry, perhaps, or a note. Rising, she went in search of a candle, kindling it from the hearth's fading embers. The room rebounded with yellow light. She was on her knees again, reaching for the last treasure. The ink was faded and time had turned the paper yellow, but the handwriting was all too familiar. Her eyes fell on a telling line, her heart about to burst.

I will betroth thee unto me forever.

“Silas, we simply
must
have a summer kitchen.”

We.
He made note of her words but merely said, “A summer kitchen.” He hadn't asked Isabel's opinion, but she was, with her usual exuberance, informing him anyway. With the dimple dotting her left cheek, her hands framing her shapely hips, he could almost forgive her for it.

She shifted her open parasol to rest against her other shoulder, the May heat spackling her high forehead with sweat. Dew, she called it. She'd been reading one too many copies of
Lady's Magazine
, he suspected, and was getting high notions. Her father imported all the latest periodicals from London, plying him with the same, but he had no time to give them more than a glance.

“Papa says it's better to build big from the first than add on later. Once the children come, there'll be a need for more room. You don't want to be tripping over servants and babies in a too-small house.”

“I've no servants or bairns to speak of,” he told her, stubbornness in his tone. “And only so many bricks.”

Twirling her parasol's ebony handle, she sighed. “Then order more bricks or build in stone. Goodness knows there are rocks enough on this property to outfit all of Pittsburgh!”

“I'm putting the rock to good use,” he said. “I'm having a chapel built first.”

“A chapel? Whatever for?”

He didn't answer. He simply felt compelled to do so, something he hadn't sensed in regards to his marital prospects.

Sebastian wagged his tail and barked, interrupting his musings, then turned and bounded toward an open carriage turning off the main road. Shielding his eyes against the sun's glare, Silas watched the new contraption bounce over rocks and navigate sinkholes in its quest to reach them, Hugh at the reins.

The warmth of Isabel's gaze reached out to him. “Papa has promised to send some servants over when you're ready to begin building.”

He finished driving in the last stake to mark off the house's west corner and straightened, mallet in hand.
I'll not use slave labor
, he nearly said, but sensed that the rising heat—and his reticence to go along with her plans—might put her in a high temper. “We'll speak of that another day.”

She simply shrugged as Hugh climbed down from the carriage and cast an appreciative eye over the stump-littered clearing. A lush wall of trees—enormous oaks and elms and hickories—hedged them on three sides, but it was the rocky southern slope he lingered on, as it gave way to the Allegheny River, offering a tremendous view. Silas never tired of taking it in, though the pride and pleasure it wrought was bittersweet. 'Twas a fine land on which to raise sons. Daughters. He'd hoped to have both long before now.

“Magnificent.” Hugh squinted beneath the sun's brilliance despite his wide-brimmed hat. “I believe I like this tract of land even more than River Hill. The only drawback, I'm sorry to say, is your neighbors.”

Silas felt a twist of regret. He'd almost passed on the land because of that, but at three dollars an acre, how could he have refused? “The Camerons are to the east. They're good, God-fearing folk. As for the Turlocks, mayhap they'll come round.”

Hugh looked dubious, pushing back the brim of his hat with a gloved finger. “I admire your optimism—and I'm glad your home is to be made of brick. The whiskey boys seem to have a fondness for wood.” He thrust the latest copy of the
Pittsburgh
Gazette
toward Silas before helping Isabel into the carriage. “You've missed all the excitement, occupied as you've been out here the last day or so.”

Silas took the paper reluctantly, eyes falling on another boldfaced headline: T
eague
'
s
T
avern
B
urns
. His jaw tensed. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, but there's plenty of damage. I've sent the sheriff to bring the Turlocks in for questioning. The general consensus is they're the ringleaders of this rebellion, being the foremost whiskey distillers.” Stepping up into the upholstered carriage, he took a seat beside Isabel and reached for the reins. “On a lighter note, I've received word the Elliot party is on their way. They left Philadelphia a few days ago. Hopefully the Black Bear will still be standing once they arrive. If the hotel burns, I'll have to lodge them all at River Hill.”

“
That
should be interesting,” Isabel said. “I imagine those foundlings are a wild bunch. They might well burn our place down before the whiskey boys.” Rumbling away in the carriage, she looked back at Silas briefly. “Don't stay overlong, mind you! And watch your back!”