Love's Reckoning (4 page)

'Twas at supper that she noticed his thumbs. The candlelight seemed to call attention to their ends. At first she thought them injured. Had he burnt himself at the forge? 'Twas a dangerous work they did. Pity softened her, nearly made her
forget the babe in the cradle or little Thomas at her elbow making a mess of his beans. But it was the stranger's bowing of his head that most moved her. Was he . . . praying?

Silas Ballantyne seemed to marvel at their table. “I'd not thought,” he said quietly, “to find such fare so far west.”

Eden read deprivation and loneliness in the words while Mama smiled wearily and passed him more beef and bread. Glancing in Papa's direction, Eden waited for him to belt out the admonition that there was to be no talking at table. But to her dismay, and surely Mama's, he launched into a speech of all he possessed.

“I've got four hundred acres here along the Elkhannah, a fine wife, two young sons . . .”

There, he's gone and done it
, Eden thought.
Claimed Elspeth's babe as his own.

“A pair of marriageable daughters . . .”

Her bread turned to ashes in her mouth. She wanted to crawl beneath the trestle table.

He continued on, confident. Nay, boastful. “A fine harvest of wheat and flax, twenty head of cattle, countless chickens and an aggravation of goats, a bountiful garden, corn that surpasses eighteen inches an ear. Not all you've heard about this land is fabricated. The woods to the west of us really are alive with Indians. Settlers beyond the Alleghenies still fort up on occasion. Any questions?”

“Two daughters?” Silas asked, shooting a glance about the room.

Eden's fork stilled.

“Aye, two. One's ill and abed,” Papa said.

Silas buttered a piece of bread, expression thoughtful. “Tell me about the forge.”

The forge. Always the forge. Was he winning her father over already? Papa's grim expression beneath his shock of
graying hair told her he had not. Papa seemed tetchy, a bit on edge. Was he thinking of Elspeth? The babe beginning to stir in its cradle near the hearth?

“The forge.” Papa forked a slab of beef onto his plate, voice rising as the infant's fussing intensified. “What about it?”

“How long you've been in business. How you come by your iron. What you turn out.”

The crying could no longer be ignored. Eden got up, food forgotten, and fished the babe out of the cradle. Mama soon relieved her, her whisper low and urgent. “Make them both some flip. And mind your cap—it's all askew. You must put your best foot forward.”

'Tis not my foot that needs to be minded but Elspeth's.

The Scottish apprentice now belonged to her sister, Eden realized with a little start. But Elspeth was abed. Disappearing into the kitchen, she measured out generous amounts of molasses, small beer and rum, and a dash of cream and egg. This she poured into two tankards, returning to the dining room, cap still askew, careful to keep her eyes off Silas Ballantyne.

 4 

He speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Silas watched the young woman at the hearth now that the room had emptied. Greathouse's words came rushing back and nearly made him groan.

She's no sow.

Nae, most decidedly not. Whatever Liege Lee's faults, he'd sired a lovely daughter. But it wasn't the snug lines of her wool dress that drew his eye, nor the worn lace kerchief dressing up her shoulders, nor the fact that her linen cap was a bit crooked.

A spitfire
, he'd thought at first sight.

But as soon as she'd spoken, he'd detected a certain sweetness about her that altered his hasty opinion. And her smile . . . losh, bright as a sunrise, raising a dimple in her right cheek. But it was her voice that held him captive. He'd expected it to be high, girlish, simple. But when she spoke it was like a song. Soft and dulcet. Somewhat refined.

Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms and legs, waiting for the drink she made him. Into the flames went her poker before the tip turned his pewter mug sizzling. Though he'd been in the house an hour or better, his insides had hardly thawed.

When she handed him the mug, their fingers met and then their eyes, hers a startling indigo in the pale oval of her face. Shyly she turned back toward the fire, and he caught a flash of cherry red as she flipped the length of her hair over her shoulder. Bound with dark ribbon, it cascaded to her waist in lush spirals, thick as blackberry vine.

Eden, indeed.

The other daughter was ill, the master said. Just as well. If she'd been present and was half so bonny, he'd have been struck speechless.

When Liege returned, he took up his own mug, surprising Silas with his terse words. “We breakfast at first light. Eden will show you to your garret room. Tomorrow comes all too soon.”

Silas looked from master to daughter, saw the pained expression that crossed her face then skittered away like mist, making him think he'd imagined it. But she merely lowered her head and nodded, expecting him to follow, he guessed.

Bidding Liege good night, he walked a respectable distance behind Eden, down a narrow hall past two closed doors, then up a small, winding stair to a second and third floor that nearly had his knees to his chin. Once, her taper nearly went out in a draft, but she cupped her hand around it and pressed on, finally pushing open a door at the very top of the stair.

The promised garret room.

It was small and prim, redolent of linseed oil and old wood. A narrow bed, a stove, a table, and a chair made it hospitable, and he was heartened to see a small window. Immediately he
looked west, if only to look away from her. The snow made the land lantern-bright, the view unobstructed for miles.

He nodded his thanks, stepping around her, remembering he'd left his belongings below. Setting the candle on the table, she added a chunk of wood to the glowing Franklin stove before shutting it soundly. He'd seen such contraptions in Philadelphia but never one so small. Fit for a child, it barely came up to his shin, yet he felt its warmth from several feet away.
Bethankit
, he nearly uttered aloud. 'Twas a far cry from the unheated hovel he was used to.

With nary a look, she left him. He heard her soft footfall in the stairwell and wondered where she was off to. The babe was howling again with the keening pitch of a newborn, as if announcing Silas would get no sleep. Sitting in the too-small chair and finishing his flip, he contemplated whether or not to fetch his haversacks or wait till morning.

Down the dark stairs Eden flew, berating herself for forgetting his belongings. The house below seemed empty of all but the babe's cries. Though he was tucked away in her parents' bedchamber behind closed doors, her ears—and nerves—felt shattered. To ground herself, she leaned into the parlor table where the Scot's rifle rested, her gaze falling to the smooth walnut stock bearing silver mounts, worked with a pattern of twisting acanthus leaves much like the copper lantern.

Had he fashioned this too?

This fine gun lacked a nameplate atop the barrel. Turning it over, she searched for a signature, finding it secreted beneath the side plate.

Silas Ballantyne, 1783.

A tiny ember of delight, of discovery, flickered in her heart. Those who labeled a gun so subtly often felt their craftsmanship
was God-given and to display their name prominently was to take away from His work. Usually Papa made sport of such folk behind their backs when they brought their rifles for repair, but their humility had made a far different impression on Eden.

Perhaps . . . Her heart quickened. Perhaps this Scotsman was a believer, someone who could speak to her of God—more so than Margaret Hunter with her mysterious Quaker murmurings.

Listen to the Light, Eden. Quiet thy thoughts. Worship is deeper than words . . .

Hoisting the canvas haversacks and rifle and nearly gasping at their weight, she trudged back upstairs. The apprentice met her halfway, surprising her in the stairwell, relieving her of her burden and handing her his empty mug.

“If you grow cold . . . have need of another quilt—” she began.

“Nae,” he said abruptly.

His terse tone surprised her. But he was weary, she reminded herself, in need of rest, with no understanding of her alarm. She glanced over his shoulder and into the garret, feeling a desperate need to rescue the private things she'd hidden there. She'd never dreamed Papa would want him upstairs and not in the room off the smithy reserved for apprentices. But the roof was leaking there and he'd had little time to repair it. Or might he have other motives? Like wanting him nearer Elspeth?

Whatever his motives, the garret had special significance for her. 'Twas Grandpa Gallatin's old room. All those stairs to its cramped rafters kept his old legs spry, he'd said. Her heart twisted further at the memory of Papa and Elspeth discovering her journal months before. Their shared laughter echoed long and loud even now. Made of scraps of rag linen sewn together by coarse thread, she'd been keeping count of her blessings within its pages, things that meant so much
but they'd made sport of. Her spinning. The robin outside her window that sang her awake. Thomas's sloppy kisses. Margaret's tea and scones. Jemma's generosity . . .

It mattered little, she guessed, if this stranger found her makeshift book. Once Papa began his bullying, Silas Ballantyne would likely go the way of the other apprentices and she'd never see him again.

She began to retreat, a plea arising in her heart that he'd be too tired to notice his surroundings tonight. In the morning, once he'd gone to work, she'd sneak in and reclaim what was hers. Find a new hiding spot. Oh, but the garret room had been nearly perfect except for the occasional bat. Already her mind was whirling with other possibilities.

Lord, please help me find another hiding place.

Eden scarcely slept between the babe's ceaseless crying and the coming of Silas to her garret room. As dawn dredged the sky with golden light, she dressed hurriedly in the second-floor bedchamber she usually shared with Elspeth, only Elspeth was lying in below.

“Come, Eden, and help me with the babe,” Mama whispered after breakfast when the men had gone to the smithy.

Entering her parents' bedchamber, she found Elspeth asleep atop the immense feather bolster, jarring her anew with their predicament. Had her parents slept in the trundle bed? Papa was not one for such concessions. The lines about Mama's eyes announced she'd not slept at all. Eden glanced at Thomas now rocking the low cradle so vigorously she feared the infant would be spilled onto the plank floor.

Kissing her brother, she slowed the cradle, and together they rocked the babe till his cries subsided.

“He's been fed,” Mama said. “Now I must see to Elspeth.”

Oh, Mama, hurry. I must go to the garret.

Flushing, she watched as her mother roused her sister and removed her nightgown, binding her bosom tightly with long strips of linen. To subdue her milk once it came in, Mama said. And it was well on its way from the look of her, Eden thought, lowering her eyes.

“Will you squeeze the very breath from me?” Elspeth protested sleepily, her hair spilling free of its braid and getting in the way. “You might as well lace me in my stays!”

Leaving the cradle, Eden took a brush from the washstand and crossed to the bed to subdue her sister's hair. With careful hands, she loosed the untidy plait, then brushed the length of it till it shone like yellow satin before twisting and pinning it into place.

Elspeth glared at them both, thunder knotting her brow. “How long must I lie abed?”

Mama's mouth set in a thin line. “A fortnight or better.”

“I heard another voice at breakfast. Has the apprentice come?”

Nodding, Mama smoothed the bedcovers. “He's at the forge.”

Elspeth's tired blue gaze turned sharp. “Well? What is he like?” At her mother's silence, she looked at Eden, who'd fallen into a tongue-tied perplexity.

“He's a man like all the rest,” Mama finally said with a curtness brought on by a sleepless night.

With a sigh, Elspeth flopped back against the bank of pillows. “Must I lie here and wonder about my future husband?” When the babe began crying again, she turned her face away in dismay. “How am I to recover with such noise?”

Noise?
Eden stared at her.
You should have thought of that before—

Biting her lip, Eden scooped her nephew—nay, brother—out
of the cradle. While Mama took the chamber pot from the room, Eden paced up and down while little Thomas covered his ears. The day yawned long and she was already bone weary, fearful not even childbirth could dampen her sister's strong will.

From the tumbled bed, Elspeth sat up, wincing at the sudden movement. “Tell me, Sister, what does he look like?”

Exasperation fanned through Eden. She didn't want to dwell on Silas Ballantyne, nor the bewildering confusion she felt over their dilemma. The poor man had walked into a trap and she wanted no part of it.