Love's Reckoning (22 page)

He was affixing something to an elm's sturdy trunk near the woodshed, sending bark chips flying as his hammer drove in a nail. A birdhouse? Fashioned from wood and straw, it was mounted on a copper frame, a tiny gambrel roof protecting it from the elements. Practical. Charming. Heartfelt. She felt a shimmer of joy at such thoughtfulness.

Finished with his hammering, he said over his shoulder, “Something to remember me by.”

The words brought her brief happiness to a sudden halt.

Oh, Silas, I need nothing to remember you by.

He gave the nail a final blow. “I told your father I'm leaving. You probably heard his shouting.”

Thankfully she hadn't, as she'd taken cheese to Hope Rising at dawn and Jemma had detained her. Nor had Elspeth mentioned it when she returned. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Eden said, “I've some things for you—for the journey.”

He nodded. “I leave at first light.”

Overhead, lost in an array of budding branches, a bird chirped as if coming home. The sweetness of the song, the
gentle beauty of the day, cut her afresh. Unable to look at him, she sought his handiwork instead. “The birdhouse . . . is it for wrens?”

He turned away without answering, passing out of sight. She heard the ring of the ax as he began chopping wood—a task that would return to her upon his leaving. Oh, but he'd lightened her load in myriad ways since his coming. How often she'd forgotten to thank him! Tracing his steps, she rounded the woodshed wall, swiping at a stray tear.

Seeing her, he paused. “Och, Eden, will you make me rethink my decision?”

Surprise skittered through her. “I've not come to do that, Silas—to make you change your mind. I only want to thank you.”

His eyes held hers and wouldn't let go, warm as the forge's fire. She grew lost in them till her own eyes filled and nearly overflowed. It seemed he'd already left and taken her heart with him. She felt an overwhelming, aching emptiness . . .

He looked away. “Go into the house, Eden . . . please.”

She took a step back and he resumed his chopping. He didn't stop, not even for noonday dinner. Not till dusk did his labors cease. A mountain of firewood awaited her in the woodshed, deftly cut and stacked to the rafters, a promise that she'd have need of no more till autumn.

At supper, Silas's place had yawned empty. 'Twas a shame, Elspeth grumbled, that Mama's fine meal, her plum pies, went untouched. No one, not even Papa, had an appetite. He'd sated it with rum. Ever since Silas announced he was leaving, Papa had nursed one cup after another. The ring of his scornful words seemed to linger and poison the very air hours later.

“You're a fool, Silas Ballantyne! No man would shun such daughters—nor a trade! You're far more likely to make your fortune in Hope Rising's spinning operation than you are in the West. You'll soon find yourself lost in the wilderness or worse, daft as you are!”

As Elspeth pressed her ear to the smithy wall, her own anger simmered.
Silas must stay.
She'd not be content till he stood before Pastor McCheyne and made her his wife. Her dower chest was full. The yellow silk dress awaited. No man had seriously caught her fancy since his coming. She feared no one ever would. That she might be left wanting when she'd never been before pricked her like the sharpest thorn. It was time to take action. She rued that she'd waited, had let circumstances force her into a false propriety. Boldness had ever been her way, as surely as meekness was Eden's.

At least he hadn't chosen Eden.
That
couldn't be borne.

 21 

Change indeed is painful; yet ever needful.

Thomas Carlyle

Silas laid down his quill and looked out the garret window. Clouds were interspersed between scattered stars, blotting out the moon, dampening his hopes of a clear traveling day come dawn. Though he felt led to leave the Lees, he hadn't reckoned with the awful wrench of it. Across from him, his burgeoning haversacks waited, his fiddle case secured for travel. He'd leave his books behind, all but his Bible. The garret room would be Eden's again, to do with as she wished.

The Buik lay open, the taper's golden light illuminating Song of Solomon 2:14. The lovely words, without significance till now, seemed to lodge and splinter inside him. They reminded him endlessly of Eden.

Oh my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.

Stomach rumbling from fasting, palms blistered from a
feverish round of wood splitting, he was weary but couldn't sleep, every sense stretched taut. When he heard a noise on the stair, he shot to his feet, nearly snuffing out the taper adance on the scarred desktop.

An acute longing made him pull open the door a bit too forcefully. With the thought of his leaving, of never seeing her again, he nearly lost all reason. Who cared if the door creaked or someone heard? The sonsie sight of her in the soft candlelight was all that mattered.

She hovered two steps down, still clothed in a simple linen dress though it was midnight, her eyes red-rimmed. For a moment he stood stricken. Was he a fool to not declare his love for her, make her his? Wouldn't he regret not doing so the rest of his days?

“I've left some things for your journey in the hollow of the old oak in back of the barn.”

Her voice was husky—from crying, he guessed. His own throat ached with the words he couldn't say. Tender words. Words of passion and promise. 'Twas now—or never.

“Eden . . .”

An unwelcome sound below skimmed the surface of his desire and turned him alert. There was the hasty click of a shutting door, a sudden footfall on the stair. Eden whirled on the step, tottering precariously, and his hand shot out and steadied her.

On the landing below stood Elspeth. Even in the dimness her ill will was palpable, her nightgowned figure stiff with rage. “Oh, Sister, wait till I tell Papa! You pretend to be so good, so pure—yet I find you sneaking about the garret doing shameful things! Have you just left his room? Has he—”

“Nae!” Silas's voice rolled down the stairway, firm and full of warning.

He moved to stand in front of Eden as Elspeth came swiftly
up the stairs. But in a heartbeat, Eden slipped past and faced her instead, holding out a hand as if to stop her shameful words. Elspeth grabbed at her sleeve, the candelabra in her hand wobbling wildly. Silas watched the tapers sway, panic soaring.

Her voice trilled higher. “You're naught but a tramp! What would Master David say to see you now, handing out your favors so freely?” Her free hand moved to Eden's throat, clenching tight, pushing her hard into the wall.

Clearly frantic, Eden jerked away and the candelabra fell, flaming brighter as it struck the step. Silas made for the light, a prayer on his lips.

Almighty God, not fire!

The skirt of Elspeth's gown caught the flame, but in her fury she was unaware of the danger. Both hands were about Eden's neck, and with a ferocious shove she sent her down the stairwell. The jarring thump of it struck Silas's every nerve. Pushing Elspeth aside, he all but jumped to the landing where Eden lay crumpled, a lump of linen and streaming hair. Sobbing, Elspeth moved past them into the largeness of the hall. He heard her voice and then Mrs. Lee's—hysterical, echoing. Elspeth was shouting wildly, loud enough to raise Liege, surely.

“'Tis Eden's doing—all of it! I found her on the stair—with Silas—”

“Your dress—'tis smoking . . .” Mrs. Lee's voice faded as she tended to the smoldering, blackened cloth.

Silas gathered Eden in his arms and moved toward the bedchamber. The room was strange to him—he'd never before seen it, only imagined how it might be. He didn't want to release Eden—didn't want Elspeth hovering. In moments she dared to come near, her expression as she stood at the foot of the narrow bed a tearful smirk, untouched by concern or apology.

Laying Eden down, he shouted over his shoulder, “Get her out of here!”

With a venomous glare, Elspeth fled. Mrs. Lee came closer, holding a candle higher, her lined face more grieved than Silas had ever seen. He touched Eden's cheek, the porcelain-pale skin already beginning to bruise.

“Eden . . .” The word was more prayer. “D'ye hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered open. “I'm . . . fine . . .”

“Nae, Eden . . .” She looked dazed, confused. His worry spiked. He'd once seen a man receive but a glancing blow to the temple and hemorrhage to death soon after. “Where d'ye hurt?”

“Just my head . . . where I struck the step.” She swallowed hard and forged on. “Naught is broken. I'm just a little dizzy.”

He knelt beside the bed, unmindful of Mrs. Lee, his anger dissipating a wee bit. His hands moved up and down her arms, over the soft silk of her collarbones and neck, checking for bumps and breaks, much as he had his sheep long ago. He couldn't examine the rest of her, so Mrs. Lee assumed the task while he moved into the dark hall. The sight of Elspeth lurking there curdled his stomach. She sidled up to him, a shameless specter in a clinging nightgown, and touched his arm.

He shook her off like a poisonous spider, the heat of his voice sending her back a step. “Take care, lass, or the ill you do will come back to you.”

With that he climbed the garret stair and slammed the door.

“She will mend, Silas. She has but a headache.” Mrs. Lee spoke in low, placating tones, insisting he eat his breakfast, though the porridge grew cold in his bowl and the strong coffee failed to brace him.

He sat at the kitchen table, eyeing the rain-splashed window
pane, haversacks and fiddle by the door. No one else had risen, though he heard rumbling upstairs. Thomas soon toddled in, bringing him toys as if to detain him, which Mrs. Lee eventually did.

“Mr. Lee is unwell this morning,” she began, serving him more coffee. “He's asked that you stay long enough to load the ironwork when the cooper comes by.”

“Aye,” he replied, expecting Liege would try to stay him at the last.

The weather was against him anyway, the wind whistling mournfully as it wrapped round the house, punctuated by an occasional crack of thunder. Truly, he was in no hurry to leave Eden. He couldn't go till he saw her up and about, reassuring him that last night's episode was little more than a bad dream.

“Hopefully the weather will clear by noon,” Mrs. Lee continued quietly, casting a wary eye toward the door as if fearing Liege hovered, “though we've had such a dry spring we're nearing a drought and are in need of a good soaking. You'd best eat if you can. You've a long trip ahead of you. Weeks—a month or more—till you reach wherever it is you're going.”

She so rarely spoke in his presence that he was struck by the soothing sound of her voice—a more seasoned echo of Eden's, just as Elspeth's held the harsh tenor of her father's. He wondered how it was that Louise Lee had become the wife of such a hard man. 'Twas an arranged match, surely. Hints of comeliness still clung to her, though time and circumstances had not been especially kind.

As she moved about the kitchen, his predicament pressed down on him like a millstone. He was about to forsake York County forever. In time, the memories he'd made here, however bittersweet, would grow dim as tarnished copper. Eden would likely wed another, bear the children that might have
been his, think no more about him. His chest rose and fell with an uneasy rhythm. He felt a crushing anxiety at the thought.

“'Tis plain to see she cares for you, Silas.”

Surprise shot through him. He looked up from his untouched breakfast.

Mrs. Lee's countenance sagged with regret, the slope of her shoulders resigned. “I thought . . . hoped . . . you would take her with you.” She came closer, and he saw tears shining in her eyes. “Once, when I was young like Eden, I turned my back on the one I loved and married a man of my father's choosing. 'Twas a terrible thing, never to be undone. Betimes there are no second chances.”

“Eden never said she cares for me.” But even as he spoke, he realized how foolish he sounded. Nae, she'd not wooed him with words but with deeds. A carefully stitched shirt and warm woolen mittens. An extra serving at supper. Stairwell meetings and lingering looks. Still, he said, “The wilderness is no place for a woman.”

She set down a crock of honey, expression plaintive, full of a mother's hopes for her daughter. “The wilderness has little to do with one's heart. She cares for you, Silas, though you might see her as more child with her hair hanging down and her quiet ways. Beneath all that lies a strong woman—a brave woman. A gentlewoman.”

She stressed the last word as if it had significance before turning her back to him and drawing a close to the conversation. His burden growing, he got up and poured his cold coffee into a slop pail and gave Thomas his porridge before retreating to the forge a final time.