Love's Reckoning (2 page)

Standing by the meadow pond the next afternoon, Eden tried to look at everything through a stranger's eyes—through Silas Ballantyne's—but since she'd been born and bred here, that was hard to do. Now, in early winter, the place held few charms. The landscape was skeletal at best, full of shivering oaks and elms, low stone fences, and a ribbon of road in shades of gray.

Even the pond gracing the near meadow looked more puddle, swollen by rain, yet devoid of its blue brightness. 'Twas simply an uninspiring dove gray like all the rest, mirroring the dullness inside her. She longed for a little color. Her soul felt nigh starved for it. But she was no better, totally nondescript in butternut wool, worn leather shoes, and fraying bonnet.

Her gaze strayed to the little church on the hill, her imagination filling in what she couldn't see beyond the snowy rise—a muddy road, more meadows and fences, a few farms, then the tiny hamlet of Elkhannah with its gristmill, a school, and a scattering of timbered houses. The village of York, far larger and busier, was just beyond.

Though she'd just come from the neighboring estate, Hope Rising, she already felt the pull to return there. The rich taste of imported tea and raisin scones lingered on her tongue, compliments of its housekeeper, Margaret Hunter. Each Sab
bath she and Margaret met regularly and saw to the needs of the tenants who lived on Hope Rising land. There were but twenty of them at last count, but someone always seemed in need of a basket or tonic, a pair of mittens or a kind word.

Eden glanced down the lane to the big house a final time, a great yearning skewing her insides. But it seemed Elspeth stood there watching, about to rebuke her for her gawking.

“You can find no fault with Hope Rising and no good at home,” her sister had once said, a bite of bitterness in her tone.

Eden acknowledged the truth of it now. She'd always loved the very land the Greathouses owned, every hilly, timber-rich inch. Even in the depths of winter it never seemed to be lacking, nor steeped in mud as was their own home place. The glazed brick house topped with a gambrel roof glowed a rich red, warm as a fire's embers, as did every dependency surrounding it—smokehouse, icehouse, necessary, and summer kitchen—right down to the bricks in the garden walkway. Even the gate with its fancy scrolled ironwork seemed to smile in rich defiance at winter's bleakness.

Hope Rising was the only respite from what had always seemed a dreary life. Even with Master David and his cousins away, 'twas grand to her. Ever since she'd been small she was welcomed there, had imagined herself one of them. The cook had snuck her sweetmeats. The gardener showered her with flowers, tucking a peony or rose into the buttonhole of her simple homespun dress. The stable master, long dead now, let her ride a pony named Tomkin. And the elder Greathouse, a conundrum though he'd been with his rare smiles and rollicking temper, allowed his nephew and daughters to befriend her and Elspeth.

But it was not to last. Time and privilege had wedged its way between them. The three Greathouse girls had gone to
finishing school and become proper Philadelphia belles while David went to England, enrolling at a fancy school called Eton. Eden and Elspeth remained behind to manage the wear and tear of ordinary life in York County.

Tucking the faded memories away, Eden focused on a redbird atop a shivering branch. She supposed she made a strange sight, standing forlornly by the pond. If the apprentice happened by, he'd think her fey—or a hopeless dreamer as Elspeth did. The thought spurred her down the tree-lined lane toward home, but as she went she was trailed by another, larger worry.

Just whose husband would Silas Ballantyne be?

Perhaps there was no need to fret. Perhaps he wouldn't arrive but become lost in the woods between here and Philadelphia. Or become the third apprentice to run off before his time. Such ponderings made her almost dizzy, like she'd been skating in endless circles on the pond for too long, just as she'd done in childhood.

When she was halfway across the icy meadow, snow began to fall, covering her worn cape with a lacy dusting. She felt a rush of wonder. Oh, let a snowfall dress the landscape like a bride! When the apprentice came, the only home she'd ever known would seem a magical place.

Not misery.

 2 

Much may be made of a Scotchman if he be caught young.

Samuel Johnson

The winter landscape was like an old man—or a poor one like himself, Silas Ballantyne decided. Full of sharp angles and bony barren places, never quite comfortable or at rest. But he was rich in spirit, he remembered, lest self-pity take root. He had some tools. A violin. A vision. And he'd traveled nearly fifty miles in two days, lacking but thirty more till he reached York County. If he pushed harder he'd be there on the morrow, but his gelding was acting a bit sore-footed, and then the snow came, at first fragile as a dusting of flour and then thick as goose feathers.

Squinting through the twilight glare he saw a light in the distance—an answer to prayer. His stomach cramped at the aroma of wood smoke and baking bread. What he'd give for some bannocks and mutton stew. The memory of his Highland home sharpened and turned melancholy, so he thrust it aside and grappled for a gracious thought.
The Lord giveth
and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.
Tonight the Almighty seemed a giving God, and Silas uttered bethankit before seeing the colorful shingle flapping in the swelling wind.

The Rising Sun Tavern. A far cry from the Man Full of Trouble Tavern he'd frequented on Spruce Street in Philadelphia. There he'd downed seared ham with raisin sauce and applejack each Sabbath, his one ample meal of the week. Here he smelled roast sweet potatoes and goose and something else he couldn't name—or afford. A handbill had been nailed to the front door, which he perused tongue in cheek. Not all taverns were what they claimed to be—nor were people, he mused.

Guests must be treated with kindness and cordiality, served wholesome food, and all beds, windows, crockery, and utensils to be kept in good order.

Tired and tempted, he tied Horatio to the hitch rail in front and entered the large, smoke-filled public room to find it bursting, the rattle of dice at gaming tables sounding like dead men's bones. Shoulders slightly bent with the weight of twin haversacks, rifle in hand, his first thought was to stable his horse.

“How goes it, stranger?” A voice boomed from behind a scarred counter, overriding the surrounding din.

“Well enough,” Silas answered, turning that direction. “I've a lame horse to see about.”

With a nod and a whistle, the apron-clad man summoned a servant and then bent to hear the lad whisper in his ear. He straightened with a scowl. “The stable's nearly as full as the inn this snowy eve. What else will ye be needing?”

“I've little coin left,” Silas admitted. “Mayhap I'd best see to my horse.”

The shillings crossed the counter and disappeared into one of the man's many linen folds. He was enormous—big as a ship's sail, or so it seemed. Silas tried not to stare, stepping aside when the door behind him opened to admit a retinue.

A gentleman swept in ahead of three women, his beaver hat frosted with snow, the jewel-colored capes of the ladies the same. Beneath the wide brims of their bonnets, the feminine trio stared at Silas without a speck of primness as if he were a horse at auction. Heat crept beneath his collar and rose higher, encroaching on cold cheekbones. He shifted his rifle to the crook of his other arm, perusing the tavern floor with its alternating boards of white ash and black walnut, made bright by wooden and tin chandeliers.

“Ah, Mr. Greathouse!” The innkeeper tossed out a greeting and gave a little bow. “What brings you to the Rising Sun?”

“The weather and naught else,” the young man answered moodily, knocking his hat against his knee. Snow spattered to the floorboards, glistening like discarded diamonds. “I'll wager we'll be snowed in here till New Year's and not make it to Philadelphia.”

“You're abandoning Hope Rising then?”

“Just till the ice harvest. The place is deadly dull in winter, or so my cousins tell me.” He slid his eyes in their direction, a rueful pinch to his mouth. “They crave the comforts of the city and all its distractions.”

At this, the three women tittered and talked in whispers. Silas turned his back to them, overcome with the scent of lavender sachet and their powdered, feminine faces.

“I've one room left for your party, but it needs a good tidying first.” The innkeeper summoned a harried serving girl. “Your cousins can wait in the ladies' parlor, and I'll have Effie serve them tea.”

“Very well.” Greathouse nodded his head at the women,
and they left the room, obviously familiar with the inn. He cast an appraising eye over the crowd, his ruddy features relaxing. “I'll have whatever they're having . . . if there's any left.”

Chuckling, the innkeeper moved toward a far door Silas supposed was the kitchen. The supper smells were intensifying, and he was suddenly bone weary. Shifting his load, he waited for Greathouse to step away from the door and take the only remaining table before he made his way to the stable. The thought of a hay-strewn space, though cold, was far preferable to a flea-infested room where they slept six to a bed.

“So, man, have a seat.” The gentleman—Greathouse—was looking at him, gesturing to a chair.

Surprise and suspicion riffled through Silas at the invitation. There were but two seats left in the room. He'd not insult the man by refusing. Besides, he had no wish to seek shelter in the stable just yet, though he did need to see to his horse. He disappeared for a time, then returned and lowered his belongings to the floor, taking the offered chair, eye on the huge stone hearth gracing the low-beamed room, its flames burnishing the paneled interior a pleasing russet.

“Are you traveling east or west?” Greathouse asked, hanging his cloak on a peg behind him.

“West,” Silas answered, removing his battered hat.

“Oh? We're in need of an extra man at Hope Rising.”

“Hope Rising?”

“Our family's estate—
my
estate.” A look of bemusement lit his features. “Sometimes I forget my good fortune. My uncle passed last year, God rest him. Since he had but three daughters and no male heir, everything passed to me.”

“You're not sorry about that, I suppose,” Silas said wryly.

Greathouse chuckled. “His father, my grandfather, made his fortune as a privateer in the Seven Years' War.” There was
unmistakable pride in the words. “His first ship—a sloop—was called
Hope Rising
.”

“I ken the name,” Silas said quietly, a cold realization dawning. “I've seen the
Sally
and
Antelope
at anchor alongside it in Philadelphia.”
Slavers, all
, he thought with a twist of disgust, appetite ebbing.

“Ah, yes, we've some business in Jamaica and the West Indies, and occasionally dock in Philadelphia. But I let my factor handle any unsavory matters.” He averted narrowed eyes, clearly anxious to change the subject. “You're going west, did you say? You have the look of an able hand.”

“I'm apprenticed in York County.”

“Apprenticed?” Surprise lightened his features, and he raked a hand through unruly, straw-colored hair. “You wouldn't be bound for Liege Lee's, would you?”

“Aye,” Silas answered as the innkeeper returned and set down a steaming trencher of more food than he'd seen in a fortnight.

“Two pints of ale and another plate,” Greathouse ordered without pause. “I'm not a man who likes eating alone.”

Taking a steadying breath, Silas wondered just what he wanted—and what he knew about Liege Lee.

Greathouse forked a piece of meat to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, eyeing him with renewed interest. “How long before you're a master tradesman yourself?”

“A year or less.”

“I could use a good blacksmith. My estate borders the Lees' should you, um, have need of employment in future.”

The second plate was plunked down. Mindful that Greathouse was watching, Silas bowed his head anyway and uttered a silent prayer. The raucous laughter and rolling of dice all around him resounded far louder than his low amen.

“So you're a religious man. A Presbyterian, I'll wager.”
His smile was thin and laced with warning. “You shall need a prayer or two before your time with the Lees is through.”

Silas sat back in his chair, the man's insinuations wearing thin. But he lifted his own tankard in a sort of toast. “If they're such heathens, mayhap I'll convert them.”

At this, Greathouse nearly spewed his ale in amusement. “That I would like to see, though their youngest daughter does have Quaker leanings.”

“God is good at making silk purses out of sows' ears, aye?”

“She's no sow,” Greathouse murmured around a mouthful of bread.

Smiling now, Silas took another sip of ale and pinned his gaze on the young man opposite, who was turning a shade shy of beet red.

Greathouse blundered, “I mean—well, our land borders the Lees' and—you see, we have occasion to meet.”

“Who?”

“Me . . . and Miss Eden.”

Miss Eden.
The laird of Hope Rising was undeniably smitten. Warming to his easy manner, Silas decided to learn all he could. “So there's a daughter, then?”

“Yes, indeed, more than one.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still looking like he'd been caught snitching something. “Though the eldest has been ill for some months and confined to the house.”

Hearing it, Silas felt a clutch of concern. Two daughters too many. He wanted no distractions, no romantic entanglements. He simply had an apprenticeship to finish. And his future, unenviable as it was, lay far beyond York County.

“There's also a younger brother and the mistress of the house, Louise Lee. They've been there thirty years or better, since the time my uncle built Hope Rising.” Greathouse
studied him intently. “If you don't mind my saying so, you're a bit on the mature side for an apprentice.”

“The war got in the way,” Silas said simply. He looked to his plate, cutting off a bite of meat and wishing he could do the same with the conversation. He had no wish to recount his personal history. His main concern was the Lees and the situation he was walking into.

Greathouse leaned back in his chair. “The war, yes. I didn't serve myself, being the heir. My father and uncle forbade it and pressed someone else into service. You're from Philadelphia, then?”

“Nae, Scotland.”

“I'd gathered that, given your speech. I see the outline of a fiddle in your baggage there. How long did you say you'll be with the Lees?”

“A year or less, unless . . .”

The sympathetic smile returned. “Unless you become the third apprentice to quit before his time?”

The third?

Silas set down his fork. Dread danced up and down his spine and nearly stole his appetite. He'd not been told this. The trade guild had simply given him a name and address. Liege Lee on Elkhannah Creek, York County, Pennsylvania. With the war won, he was fortunate to find a place, or so he'd thought. Like himself, nearly every apprentice in the colonies had collected a bounty and enlisted in the rebel army and was now seeking a position.

“I'll wager from the look of you that Liege Lee has met his match,” Greathouse said with a smug smile. “And like I said, work awaits you at Hope Rising, should you need it in future.”