Love's Reckoning (27 page)

 26 

Gardening is the purest human pleasure.

Francis Bacon

Eden dropped to her knees within the wattle fencing of her herb garden in the July twilight, unsure of what pained her more—her aching head or the gaping crater Sebastian had dug. Again. She supposed it didn't matter, as her leave-taking was creeping up as fast as the thyme along the far fence. Soon she'd be free from worries of mischievous sheepdogs and their fondness for digging, and ponder crossing mountains and rivers instead.

Taking up a trowel, she sighed. If she missed anything, it would be her garden, a place of pleasure and profitableness and peace. Though not as elaborate as Hope Rising's with its miniature box hedges and ornamental topiary, it was the work of her hands—and heart. And tending it meant more to her than ever after reading about her namesake in Scripture: “And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed . . . to dress it and to keep it.”

She took in the feathery fennel and skin-softening mallow, gaze drifting to the purple spires of sweet rocket that grew more fragrant as the sun went down. Surely the West wasn't so wild she couldn't keep a garden. For now she needed a remedy for her aching head. Feverfew? Valerian? Skullcap? Margaret had advised her to take an infusion of lavender flowers—indeed, had made her drink three cups yesterday at tea.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flick of a wagging tail. She sat back on her heels, her smile a trifle sad, a trifle wry. Sebastian had simply come looking for Silas again. She didn't blame him. Wasn't she always doing the same?

“Come along, Sebastian, and I'll return you home.”

Making her excuses to Mama, she went down the lane, wanting to return before dusk overtook her completely. When she reached Hope Rising, she saw Margaret and Jemma sitting in the brick-walled garden, drinking tea, backs to her. 'Twas David who met her in the courtyard, a stable boy by his side. The lad ran to her and grabbed the rope round Sebastian's neck while he wagged his tail and looked back at Eden mournfully.

“Let me guess.” David's expression was chagrined. “Sebastian has come calling . . . again.”

“Yes,” she said, a bit breathless from returning at a near run. “He seems to have a liking for my herbs.”

He frowned and raked a hand through his hair. “I wish he had the same appetite for wolves.”

“Jemma said you've lost two more ewes.”

“Regrettably, but Ballantyne can't be everywhere at once. Nor can I. Besides, the sheep aren't what most concern me.” His eyes swept her from head to toe. “Margaret tells me you're unwell.”

She met his troubled gaze reluctantly. “Just a headache now and again.”

“Headaches, is it? Any more trouble at home?”

She felt a tad cornered by his probing. Though Margaret was normally closed-mouthed, since the fire she'd been less so. “No more mischief, if that's what you mean.”

“I hardly think such a fire mere mischief, Eden.”

That she couldn't deny. But what could they do about it? “The barn and shop have been rebuilt, as you know. Now Papa has his hands full with the wheat harvest—”

“Have you given any thought to the spinning operation I told you about?”

“There's been little time.” Impatience needled her as the sun sank like a scarlet ball on the horizon. She wanted to be away, repair the mess Sebastian had made . . .

He stepped closer. “You know that in future you can come to me, that Hope Rising is a safe haven. You could even move into the empty cottage now—”

“Nay!” The word erupted far too forcibly, and she rued the surprise in his eyes. “Please, David, I'm . . .”
Fine?
She teetered dangerously close to a lie. In truth, she wasn't well. She was missing Silas and becoming increasingly worried about Elspeth. And she couldn't dismiss the cold, hovering fear that something far more troubling than the fire loomed on the horizon. “You needn't worry about me . . . please.”

Despite the lump rising in her throat, she forced a smile, if only to ease the furrow in his brow. She longed to tell him she would soon go west with Silas. 'Twas time David settled down as well. He was in need of a wife, Jemma said. Whoever he chose, she'd no doubt be a proper Philadelphia belle from one of the prominent families the Greathouses knew. Once they parted, Eden would likely never see Hope Rising again.

The realization made her melancholy, and she started to turn away lest he see the sorrow in her eyes. But he made a sudden move and caught her arm. “Wait, Eden. Promise me
you'll come to Hope Rising if you need anything—anything at all.”

Their eyes met, and she saw a wealth of childhood affection there. “I promise,” she said, as much to appease him as to be on her way. Her head was throbbing now, steady as a drum, nearly making her dizzy, and the pressure of his hand hurt.

“Is Silas playing at the Golden Plough tonight?”

She nodded. “Nearly every night, it seems.”

“Those York lasses like to see him come round.” A knowing smile lightened his features as his hand fell away. “Some tarry outside the tavern and wait for him.”

A little trill of alarm sounded inside her. “Do any . . . go in?”

“To hear him play?” He shrugged. “A few bold ones do, but he gives them nary a glance. His eye is on the West, though I can't fathom why. Fort Pitt is naught but a mud trough with dogs and pigs running amok through the streets, yet he pockets every bit of coin to that end.”

She opened her mouth in his defense, then hesitated. Best stay silent lest David see into her heart. She tried to shoo away his disturbing words so they couldn't take root and cause her more worry. Let the York girls look and listen all they wanted. They weren't a part of the plan to go west. She was.

“I believe I'll ride over to the tavern for some draughts,” he said, turning away.

Bidding him goodbye, she started toward home as if her heels had wings. Would that she could up and ride to the tavern and see Silas as easily. 'Twas weeks since they'd been alone. With Elspeth accompanying them to Sabbath services and the garden consuming all their energies at summer's peak, there was little time left for stolen kisses. If only she had a remedy for that as well. For now, valerian would do for the ache in her head, if not her heart.

The kitchen in the dog days of August had never been hotter. Eden wiped her perspiring brow with the hem of her apron, patience ebbing. Jon was wailing in the background, and a red welt glowered on her wrist after she'd tried to rescue the pot of beans Elspeth had spilled. They pooled on the worn floorboards in a brown mound, steaming and sticky.

Elspeth shot her an exasperated glance and began untying her apron. “You have no patience with me in the kitchen! No wonder I spill things! The smithy is far preferable to this—”

“Papa asked me to teach you.” Taking a deep breath, Eden feigned patience. “How are you to feed a family, manage a household, without such skills?”

Elspeth snorted. “And how am I to learn? You throw into the pot a pinch of this and a pinch of that. How am I to follow?”

“Making cornbread is simple enough. One egg and a cup of buttermilk. One cup meal. A pinch of salt. A spoonful of bacon grease. Mix well.”

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth planted her hands on her hips. “Little wonder you are so dull. There are far more interesting things afoot, but you take no notice.”

“And what should I take notice of?”

“Papa is making plans. Something to do with the gunsmith's son.”

Eden looked up from the mess on the floor, hope kindling. Was this why Papa wanted Elspeth in the kitchen? Was he about to pair her with Giles Esh? “Are you . . . partial to him?”

“Who? The gunsmith's son? Don't be ridiculous. Father tried to foist him on me first, and I refused him. It seems he prefers you anyway, daft as he is. My sights are still set on Silas Ballantyne, and don't you forget it.”

Eden bit her tongue.
Then why are you running amok at
night? 'Tis not Silas you're meeting with, surely.
She turned away, thoughts aswirl. The troubling truth was that Elspeth could be dallying with any number of men who came to the smithy for business or who'd helped with the rebuilding. The thought filled her with a recurring dread. What if another babe was on the way?

From the corner cradle, Jon's cries grew more muffled as if his fussing had worn him out. As usual, her sister didn't give him so much as a glance. It hurt Eden, this shunning. At eight months, he was the plumpest, handsomest babe she'd ever seen. Though she tried to puzzle out his parentage, looking for a clue in his tiny features, his origins remained a mystery.

“I'll make the cornbread,” Eden said in measured tones, taking up a whisk. “You fetch the cream and apple butter from the springhouse. We'll both clean up the mess.”

“Oh my, Sister!” The smile Elspeth gave her was far from warm. “That's the bossiest I've ever seen you.”

When the door opened unexpectedly, Eden bit her lip as Elspeth stood in front of the steaming beans, rearranging her full skirts as if to hide them. Silas and Papa were entering the kitchen for the noon meal, a merchant in their wake. There was a business matter brewing, one that involved Silas's three-sided lanterns adorning the expanding streets of nearby Lancaster.

Eden was acutely aware of Silas brushing past her on his way to the dining room, but she dared not look at him lest love and longing splay across her face. He was a master at hiding his own emotions, hardly giving her a glance. Not even Papa, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, suspected. Or so she hoped.

Today, with company present, table talk would be allowed. Eden began serving, beginning with their guest, then Papa, and lingering a bit by Silas at the last. Eyes downcast, she
took in the broad sweep of his shoulders, the way his thick hair overlapped his banded collar and needed cutting. Her fingers itched to skim the shadow of his jaw . . . lay her head against the warm hollow of his shoulder. Her heart constricted. Elspeth sat across from them, eyeing Silas openly like she longed to do herself.

The bounty of their table gave the merchant pause. “'Tis Eden's doing,” Papa was saying. “'Tis no secret she keeps the finest garden in the county.” His bald-faced boasting, so at odds with his usual criticism, made her flush the color of the beets she served. “She's been putting by a wealth of goods for the winter. No doubt she'll make some man a fine wife.”

“
Some
man?” The merchant's amused tone stopped her cold just shy of the kitchen door. “Word is . . .”

He had the grace to lower his voice, but Eden felt as if he'd shouted the words. She nearly dropped the gravy bowl as the drone of Papa's tone lowered in what she feared was affirmation.
The gunsmith's son.
It could be nothing else. She'd ignored Giles Esh's recent visits to Papa, thinking they were simply talking trade. Might they be arranging a match without her knowledge?