Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (14 page)

He stopped as if lightning-struck, turning in time to see blatant satisfaction, even triumph, cross her aging face. “Apparently, Wade became intoxicated and tore up the gentlemen’s club in town. Peyton was jailed for inviting him in, among other things. Something to do with gambling . . . a threatened duel.”

“Has bail been posted?”

“Not yet. They’re such a lovely pairing, I urged your father to let them sit it out.” She smiled coldly, her sarcasm at its peak. “Of course, Peyton might be released by his brother or one of his father’s business associates once word gets round. But the damage is done. It’s sure to be in all the papers come morning.”

There was no measuring her glee. Disgusted, Jack pushed open the door to his father’s study and found him leaning back in his chair, cigar in hand. Josiah Kilgore stood by a window and gave Jack a cursory nod as he came in. Gauzy spirals of smoke curled toward the elaborate plasterwork ceiling. A celebratory cigar? His father’s ill will toward the Ballantynes was just as deep as his mother’s, and he looked equally pleased.

Jack rued his timing, relieved when the door closed behind Kilgore and he and Henry were left alone.

“Well, Jack, you’ve no doubt heard the news. It’s sure to be the talk of all Allegheny County shortly.”

Jack took a chair, misery twisting inside him. Though he had no fondness for Peyton, he regretted the turn of events, if only for Ellie’s sake. And he had no wish to discuss it further. “I’m here to talk about going west. To Missouri and beyond.”

Henry studied him through the smoke. “When I first broached the matter, you weren’t what I’d call willing.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” The words were terse and far too obliging, revealing a desperation he’d not intended. “I’ll leave whenever you like.”

Immediately his father’s hackles rose. “You’re not in any trouble, are you? In town? With that slattern Janey?” He leaned forward, displeasure deepening the furrows in his face. “I’ll not have another illegitimate child on my hands, not after Wade’s debacle with the women at Teague’s Tavern, both of them claiming—”

“Nay,” Jack cut in. “I tend to learn from Wade’s mistakes, not repeat them.”

Henry’s gaze hardened. “I don’t care what you do just as long as you don’t get caught doing it.”

The warning chilled Jack to the bone. Though he’d been hearing the admonition all his life, tonight it seemed more wounding. He fixed his attention on a brace of dueling pistols in back of his father. “I’m considering selling River Hill, using the profits to push west and establish a distillery up the Missouri River like we planned.”

Jack sensed his father’s surprise in the silence that followed. Henry raised a hand and smoothed his mustache, his stare unwavering. “That’s all well and good. But those eight hundred barrels that need escorting won’t be ready till autumn. Besides, with Wade residing in the county jail more than Broad Oak lately, you’re needed here.”

“Autumn, then. Time enough to bring in the harvest.” Yet even as he agreed, his anxiety deepened. Months yet.

His father nodded. “I’m certain our new venture in the West will prove profitable, given your oversight. We should finish the fall run by October. By then you’ll be on your way
west before the rivers freeze. You can winter at Fort Bliss, scout the best land, prepare for spring planting.”

“You’ve no objection to the sale of the estate?”

“Not as long as we can lease the land and continue to grow grain. But your mother might not be so agreeable to the plan. It was her home, after all.” He snuffed his cigar and stood, hesitating long enough to check the timepiece in his waistcoat pocket. “Care to join us for supper, Jack?”

“Nay, I need to get back to River Hill. Chloe.”

Henry nodded and started for the hall. “How is your sister?”

Jack mulled his answer. He wouldn’t mention Ellie. The less said, the better. “She seems content.”

“Well, she’s enough like her mother that it won’t last.” The words were spoken at the very entrance to the candlelit dining room, loudly enough to set Isabel smoldering.

Jack could hear the soft clink of china as a skittish maid prepared to serve the first course, careful to not offend her mistress. The tension was as thick as the gravy being set upon the sideboard in its crystal dish. Isabel looked ready to pile on the agony as Henry joined her at the immense table.

Without another word, Jack turned on his heel and left the house. He walked into the damp, lightning-lit night, more pent-up than when he’d come. Perhaps peace could be found in Missouri.

It had always eluded him here.

 14 

A lost good name is ne’er retrieved.

J
OHN
G
AY

Twilight found Ellie sorting seeds in a warm corner of the hothouse and wrapping them carefully in wax paper. On the outside of each packet she wrote the name of the plant, what month it flowered, and how high it grew. A catalog of John Bartram and Sons of Philadelphia lay open to a lantern’s lambent glow. June was fading fast. If she and Chloe started soon, at least a portion of River Hill’s garden would be abloom by late summer.

Head bent in concentration, she didn’t hear the slight footfall beyond the open door.

“Ellie?”

Looking up, Ellie took in the familiar silhouette, surprised at seeing Mina at such an hour. “Please, come in. Are you . . . all right?”

“I’m fine, Ellie. Ansel asked me to come. He’s gone to town with my father. There’s been a bit of trouble.”

Ellie stood and held the lantern higher as if to shed more light on the matter. “Trouble?”

“Peyton is—well, he’s . . .” Her voice dropped a notch. “In jail.”

Jail?
The very mention sent Ellie’s stomach swirling. She didn’t even like to utter the word. Jail was darkness. Misdeeds. Lostness. Peyton wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .

Mina’s face, usually so animated, was ashen. “Something happened with a Turlock at the gentleman’s club.”

Ellie’s thoughts spun to Jack. She’d left River Hill but hours ago. Had he gotten into trouble since? Or was it Wade?

“You know those Turlocks—never idle for a minute, but they’re making mischief,” Mina said, reaching out to touch a lemon tree’s waxy leaves.

Ellie clamped down a warm retort in Jack’s defense and ached to know more, but Mina seemed preoccupied with the hothouse’s lush interior. A far cry from the drama at the jail.

“Papa went with Ansel to post bail. I’m not sure when they’ll return.” Mina turned back to her. “I’ll stay with you till they do.”

How long did it take to free someone from jail? Ellie wished Jack was near enough to ask. Speechless, she followed Mina into the house, where they sat in the parlor and sipped tea. The whole evening seemed odd . . . off-kilter. Even Feathers was strangely silent in his corner cage.

Mina tried valiantly to distract her with chatter and eventually succeeded. “Daniel is coming home.”

Though her thoughts stayed pinned on Peyton, Ellie managed, “I’ve not seen your brother in two years or better, not since your mother’s passing.”

“Far too long,” Mina pronounced, reaching into her pocket for a letter. From Daniel? Opening it, she scanned it briefly before reading, “Tell Elinor I expect a dance—and I promise not to step on her slippers.” Mina looked up. “Has he ever called you Ellie?”

“Never.”

“Well, he’s ready to take a position at the glassworks. There’s some excitement over an invention of his involving lead and sand. Your father thinks it may revolutionize the way glass is made not only in Pittsburgh but elsewhere.”

“He’s getting nearer a patent, then.”

“One would hope. After ten years or better . . .” She placed the letter on a table. “He has no interest in farming like Father. He thinks the future is in glass, industry.”

“Sounds ambitious.”

“Oh, he’s always been fiercely competitive. Don’t you remember?”

Ellie didn’t. Amidst the excitement of her homecoming and all that was happening, her old memories of Daniel Cameron had been shelved like a tin of stale tea. “I’d rather talk of you and Ansel.”

It was Mina’s turn to flush. “There’s precious little to discuss on that score.”

“I thought—hoped—the two of you had set a date.”

Mina shook her head, eyes downcast. “The only dates Ansel thinks about are launch dates. I’m afraid I’m the only one pondering a honeymoon voyage aboard one of your father’s vessels.”

“Honeymooning on a steamer sounds very romantic.”

“So you aren’t opposed to the idea?”

“What? Steamboat trips?”

“Becoming a Cameron.”

For just a moment Ellie succumbed to the notion. “I suppose now that I’m home, it’s expected that I’ll settle down. But I still don’t feel . . . ready.”

“Ready?” Mina repeated.

“I want to know Daniel cares for me.” Frustration tinged her words. “It has to be more than something unspoken . . . expected.”

“He’s cared for you since childhood. He even spoke with your father about you when he was last home.”

Had he?

Overhead came the sudden shutting of a door. A baby’s cry. Ellie tensed, praying for quiet.

Mina’s gaze fixed on the ceiling before drifting down again. “I know about the people in the attic, Ellie.” She squeezed Ellie’s hand. “Ansel told me some time ago. Perhaps we should go into the music room. I’ll be glad to accompany you on the pianoforte if you like.”

Ellie nodded, desperate to mask the attic sounds. To ease the pain she felt over Peyton. To quell the flutter of anxiety at the mention of Daniel’s name.

To forget Jack Turlock.

In all his five and twenty years, Ansel had never set foot in the Allegheny County Jail. Though his father had once been temporary sheriff and the building was a respectable-looking establishment on the corner of Fourth Street, he’d never crossed its threshold till now. Sheriff Ramsay met him and Cullen Cameron at the door, surprise and regret on his weathered face.

“Ansel, Cullen.” With a nod to them both, he returned to a wide desk lit by a single candle. Behind him yawned a narrow hall with barred cells leading to a dead-end brick wall. Skeleton keys hung nearby from a rack. “I suppose you’ve come for Peyton.”

Ansel nodded, trying to stem the stench of urine and spirits and worse, his breathing labored from the effort.

The sheriff took out some paperwork and inked a quill. “Bail is set at the amount written. Sign here and make payment. Then I’ll release him. But you might have trouble getting him to sit his horse. He’s that drunk.”

Ansel winced. Richard Ramsay wasn’t known to mince words, but this was one time Ansel wished he would. He’d never seen Peyton drunk. Even the thought seemed ludicrous. He almost didn’t believe it.

“Well, there’s a saying in Ireland about that,” Cullen murmured with forced levity. “A young man’s got to make his hay before the sun sets, whether rich or poor. I expect your brother has now done so.”

The words failed to lessen Ansel’s disquiet, though he appreciated the older man’s efforts. Ramsay counted the money Ansel laid out—once, twice—before reaching for the keys. “Follow me, as there might be a bit of a ruckus. The jail’s full tonight, so I’ve had to combine two and three to a cell. If any try to rush the door, you’ll have to help me keep order.”

With that, he cocked a pistol, holding it aloft, keys in the other hand. Ansel’s angst thickened.
God in heaven, I’m glad Da isn’t here to witness this.
It was shame enough to share the burden with Cullen Cameron, a godly man and elder in the Presbyterian Church.

When they reached the last cell, past shouts and curses and spirit-sated laughter, Ansel felt as filthy as the floor he walked upon. A lone candle was affixed to an end wall, otherwise the cells were cast in darkness. Like hell, Ansel thought. Hell was surely full of such vile smells. And sounds.

“That you, Ballantyne?”

A man lunged at the bars, rattling them so hard Ansel thought they might bend. He hated that he started. But even Cullen looked wary as he turned toward the sound. Someone was spewing epithets their way—and more. A wad of spit slicked the back of Ansel’s neck, and he groped for his handkerchief in the darkness.

“Take that, you pious upstart!” a man shouted.

“Mind your tongue, you heathen Hennessey,” the sheriff
spat back at him. “Ye’ll find no favors trying to bust out or belittle sober citizens. Get back to your cot.”

A rattle of keys. The whine of bars swinging open. Ansel tensed at the sight of Peyton’s drawn face in a dark corner, revealing bloodshot eyes and soiled clothes that would never come clean.

“Bail’s been posted, Ballantyne.”

Peyton stood—or tried to—and then listed a bit. A solid figure rose in back of him, grabbed his coat collar, and heaved him toward the opening.

Wade Turlock.

Ansel’s gaze shot round the fetid cell for a second shadow, sure Jack was there too.

“That . . . you . . . Ansel?”

Peyton’s words, hopelessly slurred, brought more shame. Ansel had to shoulder him out as the sheriff slammed the door behind them, his voice overriding the din. “I have his personal effects up front—a pistol and the like.”

Ansel gathered up Peyton’s belongings while Cullen led him outside. How they would get him home was a mystery. He clearly couldn’t sit his horse. Tonight the few miles to New Hope seemed one too many.