Love's Fortune (30 page)

He leaned in, the touch of his mouth to hers silk-soft. She gave a little sigh of surrender as he buried his hands in her loose braid, dislodging the ribbon and sending it to the floor. More kisses followed, their warm breath mingling, till they drew apart in a sort of stunned agony.

In the semidarkness Wren read yearning and regret, confusion and tenderness in his gaze. Not once had she thought of Malachi. But the look on James’s face assured her he was thinking of little else.

James stayed motionless for long minutes, the taste and scent and feel of her lingering. He could hear her light tread on the stairs, the careful closing of a door. He thought he heard a sharp sob—and then silence. If he could go to her, he would. Beg her to forgive him. But the joy he’d just felt made any apology a lie. Faced with her a second time, he’d simply gather her in his arms again. Kiss her till he had no strength left or she begged him to stop.

He sagged against the doorframe and shut his eyes, trying
to recall the moment it went wrong. There was no denying the pull between them, at first a simple spark upon meeting in the pilothouse, then flaring into something warm and enduring over time before blazing irreparably tonight.

Tunneling a hand through his hair in agitation only reminded him of the gentle whisper of her touch, and he nearly groaned. He’d broken faith with the Ballantynes. He’d broken faith with Malachi, knowing how he felt about her. He’d broken faith with Wren herself. Though she’d come to him willingly, he’d been wrong to act upon it and let his heart rule.

How to undo the deep water they’d waded into was beyond him.

32

I may have lost my heart, but not my self-control.

J
ANE
A
USTEN

Tucked in River Hill’s chintz sitting room two days after Christmas, Izannah sat and stitched a particularly challenging piece of English eyelet embroidery, in no mood for its intricate design. Beside her, Mama had abandoned her own sewing to bounce Chloe on her knee. At four months of age, dimpled chin shiny with drool, Chloe chewed vigorously on a teething ring, smiling and howling by turns.

“I don’t blame her for being so fractious,” Izannah admitted. “I feel somewhat out of sorts myself.”

Mama gave her a knowing glance and pulled on the bell cord for tea. “You’ve been quieter since Christmas. I feared you were getting the grippe like your brothers.”

“Not the grippe, though my head is still spinning over James’s injuries and the Camerons coming to New Hope for the holidays.” Bending her head, Izannah examined her handiwork with a sigh. “And I’ve yet to recover from Uncle
Wade, uninvited and intoxicated, waltzing right in during Christmas dinner!”

“He wasn’t uninvited, just intoxicated, and he didn’t stay long.” Mama swiped at Chloe’s damp chin with a handkerchief. “I’m glad the Camerons were there. I saw you speaking with Malachi.”

Izannah nodded, schooling her expression. “I hardly recognized him, it’s been so long.”

“He’s quite handsome with that full beard. Looks more like his father every day.”

“Daniel Cameron,” Izannah mused. “The man you nearly married.”

“Very nearly, yes. But the truth was I never cared for Daniel the way he deserved,” Mama murmured, offering a rare glimpse into the past. “I couldn’t be betrothed to him and feel the way I did about your father.”

“I know you cared for Mina like a sister.”

This time Mama sighed, a rare tension touching her features. “We were very close back then, until I wed. Mina never quite forgave me for what she perceived as an unforgivable slight to her brother. And then, to add insult to injury, Ansel left for England without a word. She’d hoped to marry him, you see. Sometimes I think she’s renewed her hopes since he’s come back.”

Izannah set aside her botched embroidery, ruing the work it would take to make it right. “It would be good to have a Ballantyne-Cameron alliance. Something beyond that of business.”

“Are you thinking merely of Mina and your uncle Ansel . . . or another pairing?”

Izannah nearly squirmed at the query, unsure of whether to spill her secret or keep it close. But Mama had a curious way of uncovering matters, no matter how much or how little
was said. “I don’t dare turn facts into fancy, but I can’t quite dismiss my conversation with Malachi.”

“Oh?” Chloe’s teething ring fell into the folds of Mama’s skirts, and she bent to retrieve it, sparing Izannah her searching gaze. “At Christmas?”

“Yes. He asked, after the usual pleasantries, if I was being courted . . . if my heart was engaged.”

Mama’s brows peaked. “Then he’s as candid as his father was.”

“He’s always said what he thinks, sometimes to a fault,” Izannah confessed, the delight of the moment lingering. “But I-I don’t want to get my hopes up. He’s immersed in the season, likely to find a bride among all those willing debutantes.”

“I used to think there might be something between you before the railroad took him away.”

Something.
She’d felt it too, elusive as it was. Or was she woolgathering?

They lapsed into momentary silence as the tea service was brought in. Spying a plate of ginger biscuits, Chloe gave a happy shout and tossed the teething ring away. Their shared laughter banished all awkwardness, but as soon as the door was closed, Mama resumed the conversation. “What did you say when Malachi asked you what he did?”

“About my being courted?” The directness of his gaze when he’d spoken still unnerved her. He was all business, Malachi, and little sentiment. “I said there was no one else.” The confession had cost her dearly. She—daughter of a highly respected judge in Allegheny County and a former belle of Pittsburgh—a spinster. “No one at all.”

“Oh, Izannah.” The sorrow in Mama’s tone bruised her as sure as Alice Mellon’s snubs. Mama had high hopes for her, wanted more for her. “You’re every bit as forthright as your father.”

Reaching for the sugar bowl, Izannah wondered if Malachi took his tea sweet or plain, and felt her face flame. “Would you have me be untruthful?”

“Never. I simply meant that there are ways of saying things, softening things, to cast them in a gentler light. You might have said, ‘No one at present’ or ‘No one has yet spoken for me.’”

“I lack your tact, Mama.”

“You lack nothing, my dear. My guess is Malachi appreciates such plain speaking. Admires it even.”

“Perhaps.” She passed Chloe a crumb of a ginger biscuit and was rewarded with a toothy smile. “I dared to hope, when he came back this winter, that we might meet up again and further our friendship. But he’s entirely too busy with the season.”

“Do you love Malachi, Izannah?”

The gentle question stopped her cold. “I . . .” She broke Mama’s gaze, tempted to dismiss her feelings as girlish infatuation. But the truth was she’d never stopped holding him close in her head and heart and wishing he’d return to Pittsburgh. Nor had she ever stopped praying, nearly wearing a hole in heaven with her petitions. “I do care for him. I have for a very long time. But I don’t want to make too much of it.”

“Perhaps he cares for you too, and only needs a little encouragement.”

Izannah fell silent, beset by another worry. She couldn’t confess her certainty that Wren was in love with James and somehow Malachi was mixed up in that. Mama would be beside herself if she knew James’s painful quandary. Though he’d said nothing to Izannah about his feelings for Wren, she sensed his ferocious struggle as the season progressed.

“I’ve been praying ever since you were small that the Lord
would bless you with a husband and home of your own. We’ll keep praying, trusting in His faultless timing if that is His best for you. The Lord is never too early—or too late.”

Izannah brushed the moisture from her eyes with a quick hand. Her mother’s faith that all would turn out for the best touched her but left her ruminating.

Would her heart be broken in the process?

Wren had grown fond of New Hope’s breakfast room with its butter-yellow walls and rich aromas. The promise of coffee always met her when she set foot in the foyer, the temptation of ham and biscuits a reminder of home.

“Good morning, Wren.” As usual, Grandmother greeted her, beckoning her into the bright room with a wave of her hand.

“Morning,” she echoed as every eye turned toward her.

Everyone sat in their usual places—Grandmother and Grandfather at one end of the table, she and Andra in the middle, Papa’s place yawning empty. Until today. For the moment James occupied Papa’s empty chair, his eyes on her as she entered.

James downstairs? Why?

His fever had returned the day after Christmas, giving rise to fresh fears and half-frantic prayers. With the doctors and nurse hovering again, she’d not had opportunity to go to him, though she kept vigil in the cupola when she could.

Five days had passed since their heated embrace Christmas night, and not once had they crossed paths. But it hardly mattered. He was the first man to ever hold her. Kiss her. He’d left his mark on her as plain as if he’d made her his by any other means, even marriage. Could he sense he consumed her
every waking thought? She could hardly breathe for thinking of him. She couldn’t even sleep.

This morning he was every inch the old James in black superfine cloth and snowy cravat, the Ballantyne lapel pin winking at her. The unruly hair she’d raked her fingers through was sleek and combed, not wildly unkempt. He was on the mend. At their very table. And hiding his discomfiture far better than she.

She choked down a bite of biscuit, thankful the men were talking business, their resonant voices strong and decisive as black coffee. A far cry from the throaty timbre whispered in her ear. Thinking it, she nearly shut her eyes. The storm of longing inside her was swirling again, stirred into a tempest by the mere memory of his touch.

“Rowena, you’re to continue the season with James after all.” Andra’s clipped announcement slipped in beneath the tenor of the men’s voices. “He’s much improved and wants to finish as your escort.”

Wren felt a qualm. “But the doctors . . . his fever . . .”

“The doctors have given him leave to resume his duties, barring a final examination. Even his nurse has returned to the hospital as of this morning. We’re very thankful James was able to join us for breakfast.” Andra consulted the watch pinned to her bodice. “This afternoon we have a final fitting for your ball gown. Saturday will be here all too soon.”

Across from them Grandmother was listening and nodding. “When Malachi was here at Christmas, he mentioned the Jenny Lind concert. Pittsburgh is readying for her arrival this Wednesday, and she’ll be staying at the Monongahela House, the papers say.”

In the tumult of the last few days, the event had slipped Wren’s mind. Now it brought fresh dread.

“James is relieved of escorting you that night, though Mim will attend you.” Clearly, every detail had been taken care of. Andra looked more satisfied than Wren had ever seen her. “Mistress Endicott has almost finished your fur cape. The opera house can be quite chill, though you’ll be ensconced in a private box.”

The masculine voices had hushed. The coffee Wren swallowed too hastily burned her tongue.

“We’re so proud of you, my dear.” Grandmother’s tone was as warm and enveloping as an embrace. “If only your father was here to share in your happiness.”

Happiness? Since she’d come to Pennsylvania, her days and nights had held challenges and miseries she’d never known. Till James had taken her in his arms, she wasn’t sure she could go another step. Yet here they sat beaming at her as if she’d won some sort of prize.

“Your father should return soon.” Grandfather stood, hesitating a moment as he always did, as if unsure of his bearings. “He sent a telegram yesterday to say he’d left Philadelphia. Apparently he’s recovering from the influenza there and spent the holidays alone. Thankfully he’s much improved and able to travel.”

Wren’s heart barely lifted at the news. So much was happening. One never knew what life would lay hold of next. She stared at her plate, all too conscious of James at table’s end.

Passing behind her, Grandfather placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Ansel will return in the Camerons’ private car to the end of the line in Lancaster, thanks to Malachi’s generosity. But after that he must take the stage. I’ll be glad of the day the Pennsylvania runs into Pittsburgh.”

“I agree.” Andra frowned and motioned the maid for
more tea. “The stage is becoming so antiquated. Much like packets.”

There was a stilted pause. Wren raised her eyes to Andra, weary of her perpetual sourness. She felt a sudden burning to reprimand her aunt, but Grandfather spoke, resignation in his tone. “One day we’ll say the same of the railroad, hard as it is to envision. Time has a way of pressing on and keeping us all humble.”