Love's Reckoning (31 page)

Pulled from her stupor for a few self-conscious moments, Eden realized what an odd pairing they made. David looked every inch the heir to Hope Rising in beaver hat and fine broadcloth, while she in her humble flowered muslin and wrinkled lace kerchief was naught but a tradesman's daughter.

“I've taken the liberty of ordering for you,” he told her, “though I'm sure the fare isn't as palatable as your own.”

She nodded but didn't know how she'd eat one bite. Grief had stolen her appetite and now filled her to the brim with a profound numbness. Even the aroma of freshly baked bread left her slightly sick. Her eyes drifted in the same direction as David's, through an archway to a second room clouded with tobacco smoke and reverberating with the rattle of dice. She'd heard of such places and could smell spirits, but her perusal ended when an enormous pewter plate was plunked down in front of her by a pink-cheeked serving girl.

She bowed her head briefly, then found David's eyes on her when she whispered “amen.”

“How are you feeling?”

Touched by his concern, she tried to smile, eyes falling to the buttered beets and charred fowl before her. But she gave no answer.

“You're in need of some rum punch or flip to bring your color back.” He took a sip from his own tankard. “It works wonders for whatever ails you. I recall returning from church in the winter months as a lad after crying in the meeting from the cold. Uncle would serve us flip to warm us.”

He was making a valiant effort to distract her, she guessed, though she was in no mood for conversation. Still, she managed, “There was no church stove then?”

“No. Is there now?”

She nodded and picked up her fork, trying not to think of Silas or church or the Bible she so sorely needed hidden in the garret.

“Fortunately, there's a good hearth here,” he said, buttering some bread. “I'm not sure about the rooms above stairs. You're welcome to sleep in my cloak.”

The very thought returned a rush of color to her cheeks. He glanced toward a window, his mouth twisting in a wry line. “The weather has taken a turn. Some are forecasting snow. Can you imagine? Snow in October.”

She bit down on a beet, so reminiscent of her own garden it brought about a crushing homesickness. Swallowing hard, she opened her mouth to beg him to take her back, then remembered Jemma. Poor Jemma, in dire need of a physician. Beset by new worries, she ate a few halfhearted mouthfuls, noticing his attention returning to the gaming room.

“The inn is overfull this chilly eve, I'm sorry to say, though the thought of sleeping six to a bed might well warm us.” Finishing his meal, he asked for another tankard, looking askance at her nearly untouched plate. “I'll see you to your room so you can rest.”

She followed him reluctantly after he set his cape about her shoulders, her hands clutching the fine fabric in her fists to keep it off the dirty floor. Doors were appearing on all sides of them, unfriendly in their austereness, but he showed a familiarity with their surroundings, leading her to a room at the top of the back stair.

He set a candlestick on a shelf just inside, and they surveyed the lodging together. A bed hardly big enough for two people was pushed against a far wall, a fireplace at its foot. A beleaguered table and chair rested atop a faded rag rug. Eden spied a chamber pot beneath a tottering washstand—and a tiny rat darting into a corner hole.

“'Twill do for one night,” he said, looking down at her. “No doubt you'll find the Philadelphia townhouse more to your liking, though that's another forty miles or so.”

“'Tis fine,” she said awkwardly. “Think no more of it.”

“I'm going below to play cards.” He hesitated as if debating the wisdom of leaving her. “If you need me . . .”

At the shake of her head, he shut the door. She heard the jingle of keys followed by a click. Heart pounding, she rushed to the door and grabbed hold of the handle, her near elation snuffed when it held steadfast. He'd locked her in. But why? To protect her from other tavern patrons? Or did he mean to keep her . . . captive? The thought sent her scurrying to the sole window. But the drop from there was too high, the pitch of the roof too steep. She'd likely break her neck.

Shivering, she moved to the comfort of the hearth, cold hands outstretched to the feeble flames, seeking more than comfort. She was in desperate need of the Comforter.

Lord, be in this strange place . . . please.

Suddenly the high note of a fiddle pierced the air. She nearly flinched at its uneven tone, so unlike Silas's. A ribald ballad was struck, so loud she spun toward a dark corner, expecting to find the fiddler in her very room. But the merriment was directly below, seeping through worn floorboards, promising a sleepless night. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, she lifted the hem of her quilted petticoat, tore at a seam, and extracted a bit of wool to fill her ears. If only she could do the same to fill the hole in her heart . . .

The image of Jon's round face rose up, and she shut her eyes as if to block it, putting a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Coupled with her concern for Jemma, grief had her hovering on the brink of near hysteria in this strange place. The night loomed long.

Her hopes plummeted. She'd forgotten to make sure David had sent word of where she was. Silas would wonder.

Nay . . . Silas would be wild with worry.

 30 

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain

I wish I was a maid again.

Traditional folk song

His ill luck had returned. Haste and panic were poor traveling companions, and this trip he'd reaped the consequences in spades. No coin. No canteen. No saddlebags. All he possessed was a keen sense of direction and a burning conviction to keep going. Within five miles of his journey, Atticus had cast a shoe, requiring him to stop and beg repair from a fellow blacksmith at a sleepy village. Foolishly he'd thought to overtake Eden on the road or at some wayside tavern. Then he recalled the Greathouse coach. Imported from London before the war and painted a fashionable green, its German steel springs and new wheels would fly over the rutted thoroughfare to Philadelphia as if winged.

Back in the saddle, he ignored the hunger gnawing his gut, drinking his fill from a leaf-littered creek. The night was cold, the moonlight fickle. His anxiety soared. Questions he had no answer for pummeled his every step. He was sure of but one thing: Eden's grief over Jon had made her flee. That
it had sent her into Greathouse's arms, if indeed it had, cut him to the quick.

One weary, uneventful mile gave way to the next. He felt the stinging bite of a snowflake on his bare neck, as if in warning. He was nearly out of hope . . . out of prayers. A light in the distance made him press on. A tavern?

Oh, merciful God, let it be so.

The lone candle was nearly guttered but lit the room well enough to assure Eden that it was David who entered and no one else. Unable to sleep, she'd been sitting by the window, staring into the night, trying to wade through the darkness of sorrow to latch onto the Scripture hidden in her heart. Snow had begun shaking down, rendering the autumn air wintry. She started when he shut the door, unable to swipe the tears from her face before he saw them.

“Eden, you're shaking with cold. Why aren't you wearing my cape?”

It lay over a chair back—discarded in case Silas came. But she could hardly tell him that. He moved toward her and she stood, willing her trembling to end, squaring her shoulders in a show of strength. “I'm all right.” But she wasn't. And she read the doubt in his eyes . . . and something else.

“Come now, Eden.”

He settled the cape around her shoulders, his fingers fumbling at the fastening around her neck. A strand of her hair caught and she attempted to pull it free, but he intervened, wrapping the tendril around one ringed finger, his breath warming her cheek. She inhaled the unwelcome essence of brandy and rum and nearly recoiled but for the pressure of his thumbs as they rested along her throat. He began to make little circles on the bare skin there, raising goose bumps.

Startled, she stepped back, eyes on the candle as it sputtered on the shelf behind him. He came nearer, face shadowed, but she sensed his purpose—his misplaced passion. He wasn't the David she'd always known. He was someone else—a stranger—and the realization rocked her in new ways.

“By the devil, Eden, you're beautiful even in mourning.” His hands were in her hair, his fingers loosening the ribbon that bound it. She felt a wild revulsion. No man had ever touched her so, not even Silas, whose touch was all she wanted.

Frantic, she pushed away from him. “Nay, David—please!”

She rushed for the door and pulled on the knob. It held fast beneath her hand despite her frantic tugging. Locked. Again. He was behind her now, turning her round like she was naught but a doll, clutching her shoulders with his large hands.

“Come, Eden, let me comfort you . . . and you comfort me. No one need know.”

Comfort? What comfort did he speak of?

Her cry for help was more a strangled whisper. Though she pushed and begged and pleaded for him to stop, she was no match for his strength. Overcome by the stench of spirits, sweat, and pain, she nearly fainted. The cold room, the too-small bed, became her prison. And all her hopes for the future turned to ashes.

“Aye, a gentleman in a fancy coach lodged here just last night,” a stable hand said as he paused in his currying. “Had a woman with him, mayhap his mistress her dress was so plain. She was a beauty, though, with a head o' hair like fire . . .”

Silas fixed his gaze on the Black Swan's shingle creaking on its iron chain in a biting wind. “What time did they depart?”

The lad shot him a sheepish grin. “None too early on account o' the late night he had. A wee too much flip and faro kept him abed till nearly noon.”

Silas didn't doubt it. Greathouse was one of the Golden Plough's best patrons. Masking his dismay, he returned Atticus to the rutted road, wishing his roiling emotions would fall numb like his hands and feet. The ache in his gut deepened, whether from hunger or anxiety he didn't know. Eden was ahead, as was Philadelphia, some thirty miles distant. The worst of his ordeal was over.

Or—he steeled himself against the taunting thought—'twas just beginning.

Ribbons of light lay across the meadow beyond the dirty windowpane. Though Eden had lost all track of time, the sun's cold slant told her it was midafternoon. She tried to raise her head to look west, but the pain pulsing behind her temples was so severe she groaned. Still, she felt a desperate need to get her bearings. They'd traded the Black Swan for a less respectable inn a few hours before, when she'd grown too sick to continue in the coach. She felt anxious that they might never reach the city.

“Eden, must I fetch the doctor for you like Jemma?”

She felt David's cool hand on her forehead, brushing back the tangle of hair he'd undone in the night. His bloodshot eyes surveyed her with something akin to alarm.

Shuddering at his touch, she tried to sit up, reaching for the cup of cider he'd brought her as he went below for another drink. Every inch of her ached . . . from his rough handling? Or mayhap she was ill like Jemma? Fever seemed to burn her eyes . . . her very bones. Whatever it was, it was nothing like the ache in her soul.

Oh, Lord, have You forgotten me, Your lamb?

Slowly she made it to the door, hope kindling at finding it unlocked. Navigating the steep stairs was another matter. She felt strangely detached, her head and her feet at odds. Stumbling, she leaned into the wall and gripped the handrail, steadying herself with a deep breath.

The tavern smells she was coming to loathe were stirring all around her—unwashed bodies, overcooked meat, endless spirits. One shaky step . . . then two. Below, in the empty tavern foyer, the door groaned opened to admit a gust of wind—and a man.

Silas.

His green eyes were searching as he shut the door and glanced at the stairwell where she hovered. In the half light his face took on surprise, then stark relief. She could see the rise and fall of his chest beneath the linen shirt she'd made him. He'd ridden hard and fast—hatless and coatless—his exertion highlighting his anxious features.

Beneath the force of his gaze she turned away, stricken. The room spun a bit. She nearly lost her footing on the stairs. Shame spilled over her, filled every part of her. He couldn't see her like this. One look and he'd know everything.

When Silas saw her, relief made him even more light-headed, riding hard on the heels of his fatigue and hunger. “Eden.” Saying her name was sweet to the taste, given he'd been tormented by the ludicrous worry he might never find her.

No one else was in the foyer, so it was only him she turned away from.
Him
, when she'd once looked at him with a love inexpressible, as if she couldn't have enough of him. He climbed the stairs slowly, sensing her anguish, fearing she might flee.

“Eden, look at me.” The quiet plea set her shoulders shaking, and she dropped her face in her hands, tottering a bit on the step.

He eased a hand in back of her, palm flat against the rough wall to catch her if she fainted. The glorious length of her hair, usually bound so sedately if girlishly, hung in unruly, russet coils to her hips, flagrant as an autumn leaf. He ached to feel its silkiness, to find her ribbon and set it right. “Eden, I'm sorry . . . about Jon.”

She looked up briefly, eyes red-rimmed, the shadows beneath them shocking. A knot of anguish expanded in his chest like a cable wound too tight. This was not his Eden. All the light had gone out of her. Something beyond the heartache over Jon weighted her and rendered her unable to meet his eyes. Gently he brushed her wet cheek with the back of his fingers.