Love's Reckoning (39 page)

He nuzzled her quivering chin, sniffing at her skirts as if to make sure it was she. The girls gathered round and took turns petting him, laughing when he thumped his tail and barked in glee. Amazement trickled through her when she remembered the last time she'd seen him. Had Sebastian followed Silas that snowy day? All the way here?

With a sudden bark, he turned and ran away, disappearing down a narrow alley toward the waterfront. Eden longed to follow—but didn't.

Eden's gloved hand had just touched the stair banister when a clerk stopped her. “Miss Lee? I have a note for you.”

She hid her surprise, waiting till the girls traipsed up the carpeted stairs to their rooms before crossing to the front desk, where a sealed paper waited. The indigo wax bore a bold
B
, and she ran a finger over it, awash with trepidation. Silas? There could be no mistaking the sender. This was best read in the privacy of her room.

Once there, she splashed cool water on her flushed face, taking a deep breath and trying to untie the knot in her stomach. The note lay unopened on a desk by the window, the Allegheny gliding idly by the glass. Her fingers shook as she broke the seal and drank in the familiar slant of each letter.

Eden, we must talk. Silas

She felt a swell of disappointment. All that fine foolscap and wax for five terse words? Her heart picked up in rhythm. She wasn't sure what she'd expected. A meeting place? A time and date? Perhaps he was simply letting her adjust to the idea first. Or was trying to do so himself.

In the warm confines of Grant's Tavern, the aroma of game pies and beeswax candles lingered. Though the dining room had emptied half an hour before, Silas continued to sit at a corner table by an open window, the lights of Pittsburgh spread before him in the river valley below. Would that Eden had come in winter when the hills wore a silvery-white coat and the stench of the waterfront was subdued. As it was, dust and insects clouded the summer air, dissipating just a bit as night moved in and spread a mist over the water, long and white as a bridal veil.

“Care for a dram of whiskey?”

He glanced up to find Jean Marie holding a glass and bottle. “Aye,” he said, though he usually shunned the stuff, relegating it to weddings and wakes. Lately it reminded him of the whiskey boys, which lessened the guilty pleasure.

She perched in the chair opposite and pushed the offering toward him. He took a drink, glad for the bracing brunt of it after so long a day. Though it burned his throat, it spread languorous warmth to all the rest of him, easing his turmoil.

“You look tired tonight—and no wonder.” Her appraising gaze raked him with unusual vigor. “First you frolic at River Hill, and then you stride out of church before the service even begins.” Leaning nearer, she whispered, “Your unorthodox courtship habits are the talk of Pittsburgh.”

“Wheest!” The glass came down with a clatter, sloshing amber liquid onto the tabletop.

Her mouth bowed in a knowing smile. “How many hearts must you break? Mary Duncan, the banker's daughter . . . Jenny Jones, sister to the doctor . . . Kesiah Jenkins, Reverend Cosby's niece—”

He shot her a warning look. “Who looks to have been baptized in a pickle barrel, I remember you saying.”

Undaunted, she continued. “Frances Epperson, Bess Aldrich, Isabel O'Hara. In all this time not one of them so much as turns your handsome head. And then a lady from Philadelphia comes to town . . .”

His jaw tightened.

“And it is love at first look.”

“Or so the gossips say.” His gaze returned to the window, where a sudden gust of wind wafted over him and nearly snuffed the candle flame.

She sat back and crossed her arms, dark brows nearly touching in contemplation. “Something happened at River Hill to set their tongues wagging.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Was his shock at seeing Eden so apparent, then? Granted, she'd recovered faster than he . . .

“You are the most eligible bachelor in Pittsburgh, no? People are watching.” She refilled his glass. “I hear the newly arrived Miss Lee is lovely in both appearance and manner.”

“Aye,” he admitted grudgingly, ignoring the whiskey.

“If you were to ask my opinion—which you won't, stubborn Scot that you are—I would tell you that I admire your discernment. Choosing a Philadelphia bride is not only wise but considerate and will lead to less discord among your brokenhearted admirers here.”

Silas nearly rolled his eyes. “I've no wish to wed the lass. I've only just met her.” The half-truth stung, as did the intricacies of their predicament. How was he to explain such
a relationship? Not once had he spoken of his time in York County. He had no wish to break the silence now.

“I would proceed cautiously if I were you. Isabel is not so pretty when she is angry, and her dear, widowed papa dotes on her a trifle much. Things could become . . . ugly.”

I've not encouraged her
, he thought. No more than the others. But indeed he had. That night at River Hill he'd kissed her, spurred on by the need of the moment and Jean Marie's heartfelt words.
You need to be married to something besides boats.
But there had been no talk of marriage since, nor any further intimacies. He'd made sure of that.

Though Isabel and other lasses had flirted and cajoled and tempted him, he'd come up against a wall, a promise made and kept. Having given his heart long ago, there was nothing left to give. Though he'd tried to move past it, some invisible cord seemed to bind him to Eden Lee, no matter the distance or passage of time.

Jean Marie motioned to the glass. “You look in need of some spirits, Silas Ballantyne.”

“Nae,” he told her, pushing away from the table. “I simply want a conversation. Some honest answers. Nothing more.”

 41 

Hopes, what are they? Beads of morning strung on slender blades of grass.

William Wordsworth

The next week slipped past, the heat ravishing the hotel's rose garden and turning the entwined rivers into a shimmer of blue. Eden spent the time meeting with prospective employers and masters, trying to match each girl's interests and temperament with the proper people before binding all parties in writing. After much forethought and prayer, final arrangements were made, to everyone's relief.

Annie and Ruth were to be housemaids in town. Abigail was assigned to a dressmaker on Market Street, and Molly to Grant's Tavern as a maid. Helen was to work for a hatter, Clara a chandler. Stephen placed the boys with his usual panache, confident of a good outcome. Two of the lads, Jacob and Luke, had been apprenticed to Ballantyne Boatworks, the rest to other tradesmen.

Tonight was the culmination of their efforts. A small recep
tion was to be held in the hotel's parlor, after which the new employers would take their apprentices home to new trades and new lives. Excitement—hope—seemed so palpable it lessened the angst of separation.

“'Twill be lonesome without them,” Eden remarked, though in truth she was tired and in need of some quiet.

“We'll see them oft enough in the weeks to come,” Stephen assured her. “I look forward to visiting each situation and monitoring their progress.”

She nodded, thinking how conscientious he was in all the little details that mattered. “You were right to bring them here. Pittsburgh is growing, and they'll grow along with it.”

He extended his arm. “Shall we? 'Tis almost seven o'clock.”

They passed from the foyer to the parlor, where several open doors invited a breeze. The sunburnt lawn just beyond was crowded with their high-spirited charges. Turning toward the crystal punch bowl where she would play hostess, Eden caught a glimpse of herself in a gilt-edged mirror. Startled, she put a hand to her carefully coiffed hair. Why did it suddenly matter how she looked when it hadn't before? The glass reflected smudges of sleeplessness beneath her eyes, and the summer heat had turned her cheeks primrose. She looked, she lamented, anything but cool, prim, composed.

When the clock struck seven, Silas was the first to arrive, and what little courage Eden had fled. He was freshly shaven, his hair riotously curling along his collar, just as it had been long ago by the forge's fire. Tonight was nearly as hot.

Stephen thrust out a welcoming hand. “Silas, you surprise me. Last I looked you were knee-deep in cordage at the pier, and now you're here ahead of schedule. The boys are still talking about that boat trip earlier this week.”

“No doubt we'll be eating catfish for a fortnight or better,” he said with a wry grin, looking Eden's way. “Miss Lee.”

She nodded in acknowledgment from behind the table, glad to be occupied, eyes on the cups she was to fill. Silver étagères of sweetmeats stood on both sides of the punch bowl, an enticing offering of sugared almonds, macaroons, candied flowers, and muscovado-sprinkled cakes. Stephen's doing, surely, she thought, groping for a distraction. He'd spoken of a confectioner on Market Street. She snuck a candied violet, more from nerves than hunger, her eyes on the children as Stephen went outside to speak with them.

When a sudden shadow fell over her, she couldn't look up, couldn't meet Silas's eyes. “Would you like some punch, Mr. Ballantyne?”

“Aye . . . if you please.”

She ladled the liquid into a cup, hands atremble. Would she slosh it onto the linen tablecloth? His finely tailored suit? Nay, it was her own dress she spoiled, staining the lace overlay of her skirt a brilliant berry red. Her face, she knew, was the same hue.

Lord, help.
She'd forgotten her handkerchief.

Silas reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew his own handkerchief, and passed it to her. She took it gratefully, eyes down as disbelief crowded in. 'Twas her own cloth, spun on her beloved wheel, his initials embroidered in a frayed corner. Emotion flooded her.

His voice was low, hesitant. “Did you get my note?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice was as unsteady as her hand. She dabbed at the stain on her skirt, afraid to look at him.

“I thought—I hoped—we might talk. I can send a carriage round—”

“Nay . . . please.” She clutched the hankie harder, sensing his own disquiet, unsure if it was her refusal or Isabel's sudden entrance that most upended him.

“Silas, there you are! I thought you'd be waiting in the foyer.”

The censure in her tone raised the fire in Eden's cheeks, and she looked past Silas's broad shoulder to find Isabel looking directly at her, brown eyes smoldering. Abandoning her father's arm, she drew nearer, plucking a macaroon from a tray with a gloved hand, her voice equally cloying. “No doubt the sweets are a trifle tempting tonight. Come, Silas, and introduce me to your hirelings.”

Hirelings? Jacob and Luke? Silas said little in return, made no move to do as she bid. Judge O'Hara filled the gap, stepping between them and smiling at Eden. “Miss Lee, a bit of punch would do me well in this heat.”

“Of course,” she said, trying to smile under the weight of Isabel's gaze. At least her hand had ceased its shaking. She passed him his cup, spilling nary a drop.

He surveyed her with thoughtful eyes. “Stephen tells me you're like a daughter to him, devoted to the foundling hospital as you've been. I was surprised, given your graces, to find you're not fresh from the Young Ladies' Academy of Philadelphia but rural York County.” He took a sip and continued. “I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that Silas once apprenticed there.”

“'Tis no secret,” Silas said. “'Twas long ago.”

The judge drained his cup. “Might you know friends of mine there, Miss Lee? The Greathouses?”

Eden groped for words as full-fledged panic struck. She looked toward Silas entreatingly, wishing Stephen was near and could steer the conversation in a safer direction.

“The Greathouses are known by many,” Silas said evenly. He turned toward a woman in dark blue silk, slim and straight-backed, who was looking at Eden as intently as Isabel. “Miss Lee, I believe you've met Jean Marie, proprietress of Grant's Tavern. I have rooms there.”

Eden felt a tug of surprise. “You . . . and Sebastian?”

He smiled in affirmation, and Jean Marie took the cup of punch Eden offered. Eden had spent the afternoon atop Grant's Hill with Molly two days past, meeting the staff and trying to put the girl at ease in the busy tavern. She was unaware Silas boarded there.

“You must wander up the hill and visit us again soon, mademoiselle,” Jean Marie told her as Isabel laid a hand on Silas's sleeve.

“Come, Silas,” Isabel urged, her displeasure plain. “I must meet your apprentices.”

They moved toward the French doors, the judge following, leaving Jean Marie alone with Eden at the table. Eden invited her to partake, eyes on the cut of Silas's coat as he walked away. “Please, have some refreshments. Once the children come in, I'm afraid you'll be left to nibble on crumbs.”

As Jean Marie surveyed the offerings, Sebastian gave a shrill bark from a side door and made straight for the table. The children spilled in after him, trying to catch his wagging tail as he rushed Eden and licked her hand, sniffing the tablecloth and eyeing the étagères greedily. A ripple of amusement passed over the room before Silas intervened and herded the lot of them outside again.

Leaning nearer, Jean Marie reached for a cake and whispered, “Which confection do you fancy, Miss Lee? Besides the handsome Scotsman, I mean.”

Eden lowered her eyes, unable to resist a slight smile. “Macaroons . . . though they don't hold a candle to him.”

With a knowing chuckle, Jean Marie joined Stephen across the room as other guests came for punch and the children reappeared. Perspiration beaded Eden's brow, and she dabbed it away with Silas's now-stained handkerchief, amazed that he'd kept it, or wanted to. After her outright rejection of him years before—and again moments ago when he'd asked to
talk—she doubted he'd want it back. Yet he'd offered to send a carriage round . . .

Oh, Silas, I care not to revisit that night.

The Black Swan Inn loomed dark in her thoughts like the blackest scourge. She'd told no one about what had happened there. How could she? How did one speak of the shock and shame? 'Twas a wounding she had no words for. Though she couldn't know, she sensed Silas's mind was awash with the same memories. It seemed only yesterday that they'd stood in the inn's darkened stairwell and he'd asked, “Eden, what has happened here?” She'd been unable to tell him. She'd simply wanted to protect him. And her silence, or so she'd thought, had set him free.

Her gaze fastened on his handsome profile as he stood near a window, deep in conversation with Stephen. His two young apprentices stood at his side, their eager faces tipped up as if hanging on his every word, full of promise and hope. Her heart gave another lurch.

Lord, please let them have the happy ending I cannot.