Love's Reckoning (9 page)

When she glanced up at him again, her face held a rare resolve. “Here in the stairwell. I don't know when. Soon. For now I must see to noonday dinner.”

With that, she started down the steps. He watched her go, wanting to change his mind, call her back. The weight of what he'd just committed to, simple as it seemed, nearly made him groan. 'Twould be easier to simply attend kirk, he reasoned,
thinking of the stone church atop the hill. He could see it now in the distance, had watched a few faithful congregants emerge despite the sullen weather a half hour before.

He wanted no complications, no romantic entanglements. If Elspeth had asked him, he would have questioned her motives. There was a slyness about her, a cunning, that was entirely absent in Eden. Aye, Eden was cut of a different cloth. With Eden, her hunger was for the Word, not him. Not time spent with him. And she was willing to risk her father's ire—for ire it would surely be—to get the spiritual sustenance she craved. Who was Silas to deny her?

A snatch of a Gaelic Psalm wended its way through his tangled thoughts.

My God with His lovingkindness shall come to meet me at every corner.

Even in a stairwell.

 8 

Books, like friends, should be few and well-chosen.

Samuel Johnson

In her bedchamber, Elspeth struggled with the pair of front-lacing stays Mama had made her, allowing for her added girth. Swiping at a tear with a cold hand, she cinched herself tighter than common sense allowed, ending with a knot at waist level. Her full bosom seemed to shudder with the effort, and the bone points sharpened and pricked her skin. But naught was as painful as the thought of Eden's slim yet full-bosomed figure. So girlishly fetching. So unsullied. Envy rose up and snatched away what little sweetness she'd felt upon awakening.

“Coveting always makes one poor,” Mama said. But this did little to assuage Elspeth's hurt. She supposed she'd have to starve herself to regain the fine figure the babe had ruined, while Eden, uncaring and unkempt with her hair and person, drew the eye of one too many men. Expelling a sigh, she eased Eden's best dress on, waiting for the sound of straining seams.

Betimes she wished she'd not dallied with fire as she'd done.
If anyone discovered who had sired Jon, what a ruckus would be raised! She'd thought to use the child to her advantage but didn't know how it could be done. If the facts became known, Mama's perpetual melancholy would deepen and Papa's shaky reputation would be a shambles. Likely Eden would never marry, and Thomas and Jon would be cast in disrepute as well. She doubted Jon's father would own up to the transgression even if she did.

She turned to look in the mirror a final time as Mama's voice climbed the stairwell, calling her to breakfast. Time to put her plan in place. Oh, how she hoped Silas would be at table. After a near-fatal misstep with little Jon, she hoped to make a better way and must tread carefully.

Despite her father's insistence that the Sabbath was no different than any other day, Eden strove to honor its significance, if only subtly. “Honor the Sabbath and keep it holy,” said the embroidered plaque hanging in one of the tenants' cottages. She had pondered it during a number of Sabbath visits, and it seemed engraved upon her heart and now guided her hands as she set out Staffordshire plates and utensils atop the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.

The simple act set her aglow with quiet joy. If it felt pleasing to her, was it honoring to God? Did He care about such simple things? She crossed to the corner cupboard and took two bayberry tapers from a candle box. Even with the snow's brilliance, the windows were narrow and the room was winter-dark. As she set the tapers in pewter holders, she sensed she wasn't alone. Behind her, Elspeth stood in the dining room doorway, on her feet again after a morning spent in bed. And she had on . . . the yellow silk. Immediately all the light left Eden's soul.

“Why are you taking such pains at table?” Elspeth asked,
disdain marring her features. “Bayberry candles? 'Tis not Christmastide! Papa will have a fit!”

Why are you taking such pains with your appearance?
Eden wondered. But she simply said, “I thought . . . perhaps . . .”

“You aren't smitten with the apprentice, are you? Thinking he might find you more attractive by candlelight?”

What?
The mere suggestion pinched her with panic. Eden darted a look toward the doorway, fearing someone might hear. “I merely meant to brighten the room.”

Elspeth took the tapers from her, voice chilly. “Mama needs you in the kitchen.”

Sensing a confrontation brewing, Eden left the dining room. Though dismayed by Elspeth's wearing her dress, she was more embarrassed. The lovely silk was hopelessly out of place. 'Twas fit for a dance—a day in Philadelphia—not a simple Sabbath dinner. But Elspeth had ever liked making a spectacle of herself. There was little doubt left in Eden's mind that her sister was fully recovered, found Silas to her liking, and was now in outright pursuit.

“Come, Eden, and slice the bread.” Mama barely looked up as she stirred butter into a mound of turnips. “We're a bit tardy. You know your father likes his meals on time.”

Eden surveyed all that Elspeth had left—potatoes unmashed, beets unseasoned, gravy in need of thickening—as her mother took a roast from the turnstile spit.

“Your sister tires so easily—and I don't want her dress spoiled,” Mama continued. “Carry everything to the table and then I'll call your father.”

Biting her lip and slicing the bread so hastily she nearly reinjured her hand, Eden tried to make peace with her mother's comment. So the dress was now Elspeth's.

Care not for earthly things, but dwell on the heavenly.

The Quaker saying brought some solace, but her girlish
heart held on to the dress. Yet what need had she of such garb in Philadelphia? Soon she'd be clad in dove gray and white. Let Elspeth have her way. She, Eden Rose Lee, would rise above such things.

Gravy bowl in one hand and bread basket in the other, she backtracked to the dining room—and then wished she hadn't. Elspeth stood by the hearth with a much-changed Silas Ballantyne. He wore the linen shirt she'd made him and was shockingly clean-shaven. One look at him—at them—and she nearly dropped both gravy and bread. Elspeth was staring up at him so coyly, so fetching in her yellow silk, that Eden felt reduced to rags.

They'd been talking in low tones but ceased when she entered. Though Elspeth paid her scant attention, she saw Silas glance her way as she retreated to the kitchen. In and out of the dining room she went, hardly aware of setting the steaming dishes on the table. The aroma of noonday dinner turned a stomach already too full of Margaret's tea cakes nearly nauseous. 'Twas as if her sister had ground her heart beneath her heel.

Slowly she removed her apron and hung it from a peg by the hearth. “Mama, I'm not feeling well. I'd best lie down.”

“Are you ill, Eden?” Mama studied her, pale eyes touched by concern.

“I don't know what I am,” Eden answered as honestly as she dared.

Just heartsick. Over a foolish dress . . . and a clean-shaven man in a linen shirt.

“Well, be so good as to take a peek at Thomas and the babe on your way,” she replied as Eden moved toward the door. “They're napping in our bedchamber, or should be.”

Leaving out the door that led from the kitchen to the hall, Eden did as she bid. Little Jon, swaddled and snug in his cradle, slept while Thomas tossed fitfully atop his trundle
bed. Thinking him cold, she covered him with a quilt before climbing the stairs to her and Elspeth's room, her spirits slowly lightening. Perhaps she should shun meals more often. By declining dinner she realized she'd moved straight to dessert—a coveted piece of privacy.

The thought quickened her steps and soon had her planted in the narrow window seat between their beds, Silas's book in hand. Though he'd slipped it to her in the stairwell a week ago, she'd only had time to peruse the title:
Travels and Adventures in Western Pennsylvania and the Indian Territories
by Alexander Henry. This time there were no mysterious words on the flyleaf to distract her or fill her head with romantic notions. She plunged into the dog-eared pages as if they could ease her raw feelings, alert to Elspeth's step. It came far sooner than expected.

Quickly Eden wedged the book between the feather bolster and rope springs of her narrow bed, then lay down and pretended to sleep. But the forceful shutting of the door signaled her sister's displeasure, and she opened an eye to see Elspeth tugging at the buttery silk, preparing to leave it in a careless puddle on the floor like she always did her things.

“Sister, we must talk.” Clearly exasperated, she leaned over Eden. “And you simply must help me out of this dress!”

Getting up, Eden helped wrestle the too-snug silk off her, waiting for Elspeth to fill the silence. Eden sensed her frustration—and felt a bite of warning—before she'd uttered a single word.

“Is there something the matter with Silas Ballantyne's eyesight? Have you seen spectacles on his person?”

“No . . . why?” Eden ventured warily.

“He seems not to notice the things most men take notice of.” Pursing her lips in contemplation, her fingers plucked at her new stays. “Have you noticed
that
particularity about him?”

“He does seem . . . different,” Eden said carefully. “I cannot account for it.”

“Perhaps . . .” Elspeth looked wildly about the room as if searching for answers. “Perhaps he has a sweetheart. Has he mentioned such to you?”

The question turned Eden queasy. A sweetheart? Not once had she considered this. “I've . . . hardly spoken with him.”
Oh, Lord, forgive the lie!
“He's made no mention of such.”

“There must be someone else. I want you to find out.”

“Me? But—”

“You know how important this is to Papa, to have a second man at the forge. Business would double and we'd all benefit—have finer things.” Elspeth paused and took a breath. “Besides, 'tis time for me to marry. Past time. Silas is to my liking and I've told Papa so. I want you to find out why he seems so reluctant—if he loves another.”

Eden sat down on the edge of her bed, taken aback. Though used to her sister's edicts, this was too much. “How can I do such a thing?”

Elspeth's sky-blue eyes hardened as they took Eden in. “I don't give a cat's meow how you do it—just do it! Look through his belongings, ask him outright.”

“What?”

“He might have a letter—some private papers—in his room. You'll think of something—but you
must
find out.”

So Elspeth was demanding she trespass? Search the garret? Eden quailed at the thought. “'Tis Papa's place to delve into such matters.”

“I've already spoken with Papa. He doesn't want to seem too forceful. He believes things should develop naturally between us.”

Naturally? Through their scheming? And when had their father shied away from forcefulness? A sliver of insight pierced
Eden's disgust. She stared at her sister without focus, a new thought dawning.

Papa is unsure of Silas.

He'd run roughshod over his former apprentices, yet since Silas's coming he'd been far more restrained. True, Silas had been with them only briefly, but Papa's harshness and irascibility had been muted in that time. Perhaps this was simply due to his gout. This last attack had been particularly painful, responding to no remedies and requiring more spirits than usual. Sometimes the more Papa drank, the mellower he became. Lately he seemed almost . . . bearable.

“What is going on in that red head of yours?” Elspeth demanded, studying her with renewed suspicion.

“I'm simply tired,” Eden replied truthfully, yet even as she spoke she was pulling herself to her feet and smoothing the counterpane, thinking of Mama alone in the kitchen. Below, the babe had resumed his crying, but Elspeth seemed not to notice—or care—and was already curling up on her own bed.

Swallowing down a rebuke, Eden turned and hurried downstairs, finding Thomas wailing louder than Jon. Gathering up both of them, she sank onto the rag rug before the bedchamber hearth and tried to shush them. Remembering the tea cake in her pocket, she fished it out for Thomas, who immediately crammed the crumbling remains into his mouth. He was simply hungry, she guessed, as was Jon.