Love's Reckoning (8 page)

“He's new to the world yet,” Margaret said. “Likely he'll adjust to life outside the womb in time.”

As she poured tea, Eden swept the plaster walls in a glance, eyeing the new window coverings she'd not noticed last time. The red checks dressed up the small parlor and gave it a summery feel, far preferable to the black window dressing that signified Margaret's extended mourning. She'd been widowed two years.

“So thy apprentice has come.”

At her wording, Eden nearly winced. She looked down at her steaming tea, forgetting to take cream and sugar. “His name is Silas Ballantyne—and he's Elspeth's, not mine.”

Now what had made her say that? she wondered. And why was there a note of lament in her voice?

Kind, amber eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “So thy father is going to hold with tradition and arrange the marriage? Between thy sister and this Silas?”

“Papa is very determined.” Eden reached for a tea cake still warm in the basket. “Elspeth is aware of the situation. I fear
the apprentice is not. He's been here but a month. There's been no courting as of yet. Elspeth is recuperating.”

“Ah yes, the besetting illness.” Sitting back in her chair, Margaret looked more somber than Eden had ever seen her. “And what if the apprentice favors thee and not thy sister?”

“I . . .” She hadn't considered this. Why would he? Elspeth was the comely one, the clever one. “Well, Elspeth is the eldest . . .”

And Elspeth always gets her way.

“Do thee favor anyone, dear Eden?”

“Me?” Suddenly the fire seemed too warm. The tea burnt her tongue. “Nay,” she sputtered and nearly choked, the tea cake finally going down. “I simply feel sorry for apprentices bound by tradition.”

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. “Where does this young man hail from?”

“Scotland.” She struggled beneath Margaret's gaze, afraid she'd given the wrong impression. Did Margaret think she was smitten? Coveting Silas as her own? Best pick her words carefully. “He's been in America since before the war. But he rarely speaks of it. He's simply a poor tradesman.”
Though he has a fine fiddle . . . a gun . . . some leather-bound books.
Bending low, Eden searched in her basket as if groping for safer ground. “I'm anxious to learn how the tenants are faring. And I've brought you some cheese curds and a little something I made.”

As Margaret exclaimed over the offerings, Eden arranged her sewing discreetly on her lap. Usually she brought handwork—a bit of embroidery or lace to bestow on Margaret or leave for one of the tenants, some sachet from the rose petals and lavender harvested from her garden. Something feminine—not this.

“What are thee working on today?” Margaret's brows peaked in curiosity. “A man's shirt?”

“Yes,” Eden confessed. “Papa owes the apprentice a set of clothes per his contract. I lack but one sleeve.” Truly, Silas was in dire need of a new shirt—and a shave. His entreaty by the woodpile returned to her, made the heat climb to her cheeks again as she bespoke her strange request. “Might you have a . . . razor?”

Margaret looked up from her steaming cup, surprise enlivening her plain features. “Is that in thy contract too?”

“Nay.” Eden gave her a sheepish half-smile. “But Silas is sorely in need of such.”

“Well then, I seem to remember that my Miles had a shaving kit.”

“Please, I didn't mean—”

“Now, Eden, what need of a razor has he in heaven?” At this, she disappeared into a bedchamber, returning with far more than Eden had hoped for. “The blade stands a good sharpening, but all seems to be in order.”

The Sheffield steel kit was encased in leather and bore a brush, a straight razor, and a small mirror. Gratitude suffused every part of her. “Bethankit,” she uttered without forethought.

“Bethankit?” Margaret adjusted her spectacles, a slow smile dawning. “What means thee?”

“I—I think it means thank you but I'm not sure.” Slipping the shaving kit into her basket, Eden resumed sewing, the needle's point grazing her palm and making her grimace. “'Tis something the apprentice says at meals. He says little, actually, so 'tis easily remembered.”

Taking a sip of tea, Margaret watched her ply tiny, even stitches. “This Scotsman, despite being a man of few words, seems to have made quite an impression.”

Eden feared it was a lasting one. “He's different than any man I've met. Granted, I've not met many . . .” She was ram
bling now, trying to put into words the impossible. Quiet Margaret, given to confidences, had a quality that drew Eden out, made her confess things she dared not give voice to anywhere else. Things that Elspeth would laugh at and Mama had no time for. “I think,” she ventured, exposing the hope in her heart, “that he may be a believer.”

“A believer?” Across from her, Margaret poured more tea—rich oolong, banished during the war, and only recently returned to York. “Thee must bring Silas to Hope Rising some Sabbath. I'd like to meet him.”

The pleasure Eden felt at the invitation lasted but a second. Could she? Without throwing the whole household into a spin? He was Elspeth's intended, not hers. All would look askance at the invitation, even Silas himself. She was never quite sure of him. He ignored her most times, rebuked her for bringing him wood, loaned her books, then waylaid her and begged a razor . . .

Examining the banded collar, she tied off a length of thread, wondering if Margaret was lonely and seeking company, thus the invitation. But loneliness, she knew, was an elusive notion. Wasn't she more lonesome in the midst of her busy household than anywhere else on earth?

“'Tis quiet here without the Greathouses,” Eden murmured, hoping to change the current of conversation.

Margaret moved the lamp closer. “David will be back soon for the ice harvest, and then 'twill be spring. He and Dennis Hastings, the new overseer, are expecting a large flock of sheep. Now that the war's won, the English cannot restrict wool as they once did. Then there's all the plowing and planting to see about. I'll be airing out the house shortly and making ready for the girls' return.”

The news buoyed Eden's spirits. She missed the Greathouses when they were away, especially Jemma, though it
was Beatrice, the eldest sister, who'd taken part in Eden's scheme. Not even Margaret knew what they were planning. Eden felt a sudden qualm, but now was hardly the time to be confiding anything. Best wait till the plan was firmly in place. Margaret would be pleased, if surprised, to learn her destination involved the Society of Friends.

For an hour or better they talked in low tones, sipping their tea and sewing. Intent on finishing the shirt, her back to the window, Eden was unaware that it was snowing harder, the sky darkening like dusk instead of noon. The pealing of distant church bells made her finish her stitching with haste.

“Thank you for the tea—and company,” she said. “Perhaps the weather will clear next First Day and we can visit the tenants.”

With that, she fairly flew down the cold lane, the snow obscuring her view of the meadow and pond. Turning, she took a last hungry look, but her gaze caught on the small, stone church atop the hill. It overlooked Hope Rising like a sentinel, a beacon. Here dissenters gathered to worship as they wished, without the Church of England's interference.

She knew little about them but wanted to join them—wanted to sing their songs and hymns and have her soul stirred by their preaching. Listening to the bells each Sabbath was poor recompense. Even now her heart twisted with longing as she heard the echo of their music and imagined how the church might look crowded with worshipers.

As the last bell sounded, Eden turned down the humble lane toward home, trying to shrug aside the sadness that descended each and every Sabbath as she did so, preparing herself for whatever upheaval awaited inside.

Thank You, Lord, that Hope Rising is a rest for me, and You've provided both shaving kit and shirt.

She reminded him of a sith—a fairy—Silas thought, not so much in looks but in manner. Nae, he didn't believe in such, but he'd been so long steeped in Scots lore he knew the signs. In her scarlet cape, with her hair spilling down and touched by snow, he stood spellbound near the garret window as she came down the winding lane. With a basket on her arm, she seemed to dance rather than walk. The music of the kirk bells sounding in the distance only lent enchantment to the scene.

Sitting down on the bed lest she look up and see his gawking, he ran a hand over his beard and rebuked himself for feeling elf-shot. Watching her, wondering where she'd been and if she'd remembered his razor, he fought the tight feeling in his chest, almost believing he'd succumbed to the sickness thought to be caused by fairies. It didn't help that she hadn't minded her hair like he'd prompted. With it unpinned, every tress a silken tangle, she all but begged to be paid attention to.

He could hear the careful closing of the front door, sense her soft tread on the landing. The house was suddenly still. Even the babe had stopped crying. With every step she took, his pulse seemed to climb along with her. And then he heard . . . nothing. Was she trying to tiptoe? Avoid him? The thought turned him sick inside. He'd seen how she sidestepped everyone in the household as if avoiding a blow. And he'd been as guilty, wanting a wall between himself and all the Lees, brusque with her as he could be.

He pulled open the garret door. She hovered five steps down, cheeks crimson from the cold, her unbound hair glistening with melted snow. Between them lay a leather case and a bundle of linen on a smooth step. He reached for it just as she did and felt the warmth of her fingers graze his hand.

“I—” she began.

“You—” he said in tandem.

“Remembered,” they finished together.

Holding the leather case in one hand, he unfurled the linen with the other, surprise riffling through him. Made in the prevailing style, the shirt was full cut, with a banded collar and dropped shoulders. He could see that the work was well done, the cloth fine. Spun on her own wheel, no doubt.

“The shaving kit is from Hope Rising. I made you the shirt, but I hurried so.” Her tone, her expression, were sweetly apologetic. “The stitching is not very fine.”

“Not fine?” His tone begged to differ. “I need nothing fancy.”

She looked down at her empty hands, to the cut that bore a rosy scar. “Papa was to give you a suit of clothes per the terms of your contract. I've not enough cloth to make a weskit or breeches. Not yet.”

“I need little, ye ken. Just a roof o'er my head and enough food to stem the gnaw of hunger.”

She brightened, reminding him of a child eager to please. “I could knit you a hat, some stockings. Our winters are very cold—”

“Nae.” As soon as he said it, he felt a tug of regret. Her lovely face grew pinched. Gentling his tone, he added, “You can ill afford more work.”

Her chin lifted. “'Tis my way to do such things. If it's not your shirt I'll be sewing or your stockings I'll be knitting, 'twill be someone else's.”

The softly spoken words put him in his place. “I'm in your debt.” He shifted in the doorway, suddenly at sea. “D'ye have need of anything? I could make you a ladle, some tongs for the kitchen. A cowbell or two.”

“Might you have another book?”

“How goes the Thomson?” he asked, remembering the poems he'd lent her.

She smiled, the dimple in her cheek deepening. “Fareweel,
ye bughts, an' all your ewes, / An' fields whare bloomin' heather grows.”

Her Scots was so charmingly mangled he couldn't check a grin. “Here's another you might like.” He stepped back into his room and produced a worn copy of brown leather. “I've but three more, other than the Buik.”

“The Buik?” she echoed, taking the offering.

“The Bible.”

Something so poignant passed over her face at his answer, he found himself nearly holding his breath. She asked quietly, “Might I have that instead?”

He hesitated. “You have no family Bible?”

The answer was in her eyes before it reached her lips. “Nay, no Bible . . . no Buik.”

He'd suspected the Lees had no Holy Writ, just as they said no prayers. And he sensed he'd erred in his asking, as she was turning the color of her red cape. “Mine is in Erse—Gaelic—or I'd give it to you straightaway.”

Her eyes filled with tears. His gut twisted. That she was thirsty for heavenly things, there could be no doubt. He'd oft felt the same so understood her need. Yet he had needs of his own. And he needed to distance himself, starting now . . .

“Might you . . . read it to me?” she queried.

Heat climbed up his neck. “'Tis a big book.”

She looked away and he saw her disappointment.

“Aye, I will,” he said. “But when—where?”