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Authors: Elizabeth Camden

The Lady of Bolton Hill

BOOK: The Lady of Bolton Hill
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The Lady of Bolton Hill

Copyright © 2011

Elizabeth Camden

Cover design by Jennifer Parker

Cover photography by Mike Habermann

Cover background: The Summit Room, courtesy of the University Club, St. Paul, MN

E-book edition created 2011

Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations identified ESV are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version,® copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.­bethanyhouse.­com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

ISBN 978-1-4412-3224-3

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

For my husband, Bill.

Since the day we married,

you have propped me up, cheered me on,

and run the extra mile alongside me. Thank you.

A thousand times, thank you.

Prologue

Baltimore, Maryland, 1867

C
ome on, boy. Your dad needs you.”

Daniel looked up from his exam in disbelief, certain his father would never pull him out of this test. But a grim-faced Joe Manzetti stood in the doorway of the classroom, trails of perspiration streaking through the soot on his face. Being summoned to fix the aging equipment at the steel mill was a regular occurrence for Daniel, but it wasn’t going to happen today.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” Daniel said as he glanced around the classroom, noting the glares of resentment among the other students competing for the same scholarship. They all had the advantage of decent schools and private tutors, while Daniel’s only knowledge of engineering came from tinkering with the equipment in the steel mills of Baltimore’s east end.

“There’s been an accident and your dad is trapped,” Manzetti said. “You need to come right away.” The blood drained from Daniel’s face. Everyone at the steel mill knew what this test meant to him and would not have summoned him for anything short of a life-and-death catastrophe. He threw his pencil down and shot up from his seat, not even glancing at the proctor as he bolted from the room.

“It was a boiler explosion,” Manzetti told him as they left the school and ran across Currior Street. “They’ve put out the fire, but your dad was trapped by the tank that got blown off its base. He’s still pinned beneath it.”

Daniel broke out into a sweat. There would have been tons of steam if the boiler tank had been blown out of its brick encasement, and his father’s entire body would have been scalded. “How badly was he burned?”

“It’s not good, boy. We can’t get the canister off him until the fire tubes are disabled. The boiler was mangled in the blast, so we need to do some quick work before the pressure makes it blow again.”

And that was why they’d summoned Daniel. Anyone could operate those boilers under normal circumstances, but when the equipment broke down they relied on Daniel to figure out what was to be done. He was only nineteen years old, but he’d always had a knack for tinkering with machines to make them work better or do something different.

His legs were trembling after sprinting the two miles to the mill, a stitch clawed at his side, and his lungs were barely able to fill, but the workers parted as he and Manzetti entered the boiler room. Clouds of steam and soot still hung in the air, bricks were strewn everywhere, and on the concrete floor, crumpled beneath a massive copper boiler, Daniel’s father lay sprawled like a broken doll.

“Dad?”

His father’s eyelids flickered. “Fire tubes still attached,” the words rasped from his father’s throat. “Be careful, lad.”

Daniel glanced at the twisted fire tubes and the ruined boiler. Soldering the tubes closed would work, but it would take hours. He had to think of another way to disengage the tubes before they could lift the boiler from his father, or there would be another explosion.

“I need a sledgehammer and a steel pin,” Daniel said. “Get a couple of valve clamps and some leather gloves,” he added, his gaze fixed on the white-hot fire tubes. A wave of murmurs passed through the workers who circled the site of the accident, but a few of them ran to get the tools. There was no time to explain the unconventional solution that was taking shape in his head. He wasn’t even sure it would work, but trying to disable those fire tubes directly would be suicide. “And I’ll need a lot of water . . . just in case.” Stupid to worry about it, since he and his father would both be killed instantly if this didn’t work.

The men brought the equipment to him, and the assembled workers began pulling back to a safe distance. A tremor ran through his father. “You know what you’re doing, laddie?”

Daniel didn’t meet his father’s eyes, just placed the steel pin against the first of the mangled fire tubes, the heat so fierce it penetrated his thick leather gloves. “Yup,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “Just like pricking the crust on one of Mom’s pies to let the steam out,” he said as he positioned the sledgehammer atop the pin. The first whack did nothing other than send a shrill
ping
through the air. Neither did the second, but the third blow pierced the pipe, and the escaping steam sent out a high-pitched whistle. Daniel reared away from the burning steam. “Clamp down the safety valve,” he yelled over the noise. Two workers moved in, arm muscles bulging as they wrenched the equipment into place. It took a minute, but the pipe lost pressure, and the whistle lowered in pitch and then fell silent. The fire tube was disabled.

A smattering of applause came from behind him, but Daniel didn’t tear his gaze from the ruined mass of the boiler. There was still one more pipe to disable. Sweat rolled into his eyes and he brushed it away with a grimy forearm before he set the next pin into place.

“Want you to know . . . proud of you, boy,” his father said.

Daniel kept his eyes fastened on the fire tube. He wished his father wouldn’t talk like that, like this might be the end. “Yeah, okay,” he said, keeping his gaze steady on the task before him. He struck the first blow at the remaining fire tube. It was a good, solid blow, as was the second. On the third blow the high-pitched whine began.

An instant later the pressure burst in the tube and shot the pin free and straight into Daniel’s face. He was hurled backward and crashed to the ground, blood pouring from a cut across his brow. The roars of approval from the men signaled he had succeeded in disabling the fire tube.

Daniel grinned as he pushed into a sitting position, barely able to see through the sting of blood in his eyes. A dozen men were pushing bricks out of the way, lifting the copper boiler up a few feet. He couldn’t see his dad because of the cluster of workers surrounding him.

Then a worker with a soot-stained face walked over and squatted down to look directly at Daniel. A hand clamped him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, boy. Your dad is dead.”

This is probably the prettiest place I’ve ever seen
, Daniel thought as his gaze drifted past the cemetery walls to roam over the tree-shaded lawn and a church that looked like a medieval castle. Clara’s father was the minister of this church, which was the only reason Daniel’s father could be buried in a nice neighborhood like Bolton Hill. Daniel didn’t know how much it cost to bury a person, but he gathered it was expensive, and he should be grateful that Reverend Endicott was letting his father be put to rest in such a fancy place for free.

Daniel turned his head so he could see Clara from his one good eye. She was standing on the other side of his father’s grave, and her heart-shaped face winced every time she looked at him. Daniel cursed the patch covering his bad eye. He might end up being blind in that eye, but the swelling was still so bad the doctor had not been able to get a good look at it yet. Anyway, he knew his face looked horrible and it bothered Clara. She was only sixteen, and this sort of thing really ripped her up.

As they lowered his father’s casket into the freshly dug hole, Daniel tightened his arm around his mother’s narrow shoulders and wished her weeping would stop. He and his mother shared the same black hair and gray eyes, but that was where the resemblance ended. For three days his mother had done nothing but alternate between despondent stares and gut-wrenching sobs, whereas Daniel had been too busy taking care of the girls to let grief catch up to him. At least he could sometimes cheer up his sisters, but he had been a complete failure at trying to ease his mother’s hollow-eyed pain. He would have to figure out what to do about that, although all he could concentrate on now was how badly he wanted to see Clara. Guilt tore at his insides for even thinking such a thing, but just for a blessed few hours he needed to be with Clara.

When the ceremony came to an end, people began to wander away from the grave site. If he didn’t catch Clara, she would go back to her father’s house and he wouldn’t see her again for another week. Clara was his best friend, but running off to see her when his family needed him was shameful.

And the real reason he wanted to see her was even worse.

The day before the accident, Clara sent him a message saying she was learning a piece by Frederic Chopin, the Polish composer they both idolized. If it weren’t for their mutual love of Chopin, Daniel would never have met a person like Clara Endicott. He lived in Baltimore’s grubby east side, while she came from the privileged world of Bolton Hill, an enclave of manicured lawns, clean air, and old money. They came from entirely different worlds, but they bought music at the same shop in Merchant’s Square. Every Tuesday a shipment of sheet music arrived from Paris, and he always raced to the store after his shift to see if there was anything by Chopin he didn’t already have. Five years ago, just after his fourteenth birthday, he had arrived at the shop to learn that an entire batch of newly delivered Chopin scores had been sold to a young lady. He finagled Clara’s name out of the clerk and paid a call to her house that very evening.

It didn’t seem odd to him, seeking out a fellow enthusiast of the great Chopin. What could be more natural than wanting to meet someone else who shared his immense passion for the composer? It wasn’t until he saw Clara’s house, an imposing mansion set back an acre from the street, that he realized he was stepping into a very different world. Nevertheless, he straightened his shoulders, knocked on the door, and asked to see Miss Clara Endicott. He was surprised to see that Clara was merely a girl, not even twelve years old. She was a skinny little thing with hair like spun gold and wearing a frilly dress so white it made his eyes hurt just to look at it. Still, she adored Chopin, so that meant there must be something worthwhile underneath all those ridiculous hair ribbons.

“Hello, my name is Daniel Tremain. I hear you like Frederic Chopin, and I think we should meet.”

“You like Chopin, too?” The joy that lit her face was as though Santa Claus had stepped onto her front porch.

From that day on, they had been inseparable. Over the next five years Daniel spent every moment he was not at the steel mill beside Clara as they worked through the various Chopin ballades, études, and sonatas. Before meeting Clara, the only piano Daniel had access to was the out-of-tune upright in the public school. He was entirely self-taught, but Clara had the benefit of private lessons and had helped him improve his technique. Even better, Clara had access to the instruments in the Music Conservatory across the street from her father’s church, and Daniel became proficient on the cello, as well.

He looked across the stretch of cemetery to see Clara being pulled by her brother, Clyde, toward a waiting carriage. Daniel gritted his teeth in frustration. He
needed
to see Clara, and her brother could be so irritating. Ever since he became friends with Clara, Daniel had been hearing about Clyde’s accomplishments. Clyde went to Harvard, Clyde won an award from the Smithsonian . . . on and on it went. Clyde had the best education money could buy, while Daniel was stuck shoveling coal into a furnace.

Daniel sprinted across the lawn toward Clara, reaching her just before she stepped up into the carriage. “Clara, wait!”

She whirled around. Her face was a mask of concern and her lower lip was trembling. “Daniel, I’m so sorry about your father,” she said as she laid a hand on his arm.

“Never mind that. I need to speak with you.”

And he didn’t need an audience. He tugged Clara a few feet away, but like a watchdog, Clyde’s eyes narrowed and he raised his chin. “Not too far, Tremain,” he warned.

Daniel threw an annoyed glare at Clara’s brother. It should not be a surprise that Clara’s family was starting to become suspicious of him. For years he had been hanging around their house so much they had practically accepted him into their family, but Clara was starting to come of age. He pulled her a few feet away from the carriage.

“Do you have sheet music for the nocturne?” he asked in a low voice. He ought to be roasted alive for even thinking about music at a time like this, but for the life of him, he just wanted to get his hands on that Chopin nocturne so he could forget about steel mills and funerals and his mother’s shattered face. Music could do that, create a magical oasis where nothing else mattered except hearing the next line of the score.

BOOK: The Lady of Bolton Hill
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