Love's Reckoning by Laura Frantz
Tucking the faded memories away, Eden focused on a redbird atop a shivering branch. She supposed she made a strange sight, standing forlornly by the pond. If the apprentice happened by, he’d think her fey—or a hopeless dreamer as Elspeth did. The thought spurred her down the tree-lined lane toward home, but as she went she was trailed by another, larger worry.
Just whose husband would Silas Ballantyne be?
Perhaps there was no need to fret. Perhaps he wouldn’t arrive but become lost in the woods between here and Philadelphia. Or become the third apprentice to run off before his time. Such ponderings made her almost dizzy, like she’d been skating in endless circles on the pond for too long, just as she’d done in childhood.
When she was halfway across the icy meadow, snow began to fall, covering her worn cape with a lacy dusting. She felt a rush of wonder. Oh, let a snowfall dress the landscape like a bride! When the apprentice came, the only home she’d ever known would seem a magical place.
Not misery.
2
Much may be made of a Scotchman if he be caught young.
Samuel Johnson
The winter landscape was like an old man—or a poor one like himself, Silas Ballantyne decided. Full of sharp angles and bony barren places, never quite comfortable or at rest. But he was rich in spirit, he remembered, lest self-pity take root. He had some tools. A violin. A vision. And he’d traveled nearly fifty miles in two days, lacking but thirty more till he reached York County. If he pushed harder he’d be there on the morrow, but his gelding was acting a bit sore-footed, and then the snow came, at first fragile as a dusting of flour and then thick as goose feathers.
Squinting through the twilight glare he saw a light in the distance—an answer to prayer. His stomach cramped at the aroma of wood smoke and baking bread. What he’d give for some bannocks and mutton stew. The memory of his Highland home sharpened and turned melancholy, so he thrust it aside and grappled for a gracious thought. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord. Tonight the Almighty seemed a giving God, and Silas uttered bethankit before seeing the colorful shingle flapping in the swelling wind.
The Rising Sun Tavern. A far cry from the Man Full of Trouble Tavern he’d frequented on Spruce Street in Philadelphia. There he’d downed seared ham with raisin sauce and applejack each Sabbath, his one ample meal of the week. Here he smelled roast sweet potatoes and goose and something else he couldn’t name—or afford. A handbill had been nailed to the front door, which he perused tongue in cheek. Not all taverns were what they claimed to be—nor were people, he mused.
Guests must be treated with kindness and cordiality, served wholesome food, and all beds, windows, crockery, and utensils to be kept in good order.
Tired and tempted, he tied Horatio to the hitch rail in front and entered the large, smoke-filled public room to find it bursting, the rattle of dice at gaming tables sounding like dead men’s bones. Shoulders slightly bent with the weight of twin haversacks, rifle in hand, his first thought was to stable his horse.
“How goes it, stranger?” A voice boomed from behind a scarred counter, overriding the surrounding din.
“Well enough,” Silas answered, turning that direction. “I’ve a lame horse to see about.”
With a nod and a whistle, the apron-clad man summoned a servant and then bent to hear the lad whisper in his ear. He straightened with a scowl. “The stable’s nearly as full as the inn this snowy eve. What else will ye be needing?”
“I’ve little coin left,” Silas admitted. “Mayhap I’d best see to my horse.”
The shillings crossed the counter and disappeared into one of the man’s many linen folds. He was enormous—big as a ship’s sail, or so it seemed. Silas tried not to stare, stepping aside when the door behind him opened to admit a retinue.
A gentleman swept in ahead of three women, his beaver hat frosted with snow, the jewel-colored capes of the ladies the same. Beneath the wide brims of their bonnets, the feminine trio stared at Silas without a speck of primness as if he were a horse at auction. Heat crept beneath his collar and rose higher, encroaching on cold cheekbones. He shifted his rifle to the crook of his other arm, perusing the tavern floor with its alternating boards of white ash and black walnut, made bright by wooden and tin chandeliers.
“Ah, Mr. Greathouse!” The innkeeper tossed out a greeting and gave a little bow. “What brings you to the Rising Sun?”
“The weather and naught else,” the young man answered moodily, knocking his hat against his knee. Snow spattered to the floorboards, glistening like discarded diamonds. “I’ll wager we’ll be snowed in here till New Year’s and not make it to Philadelphia.”
“You’re abandoning Hope Rising then?”
“Just till the ice harvest. The place is deadly dull in winter, or so my cousins tell me.” He slid his eyes in their direction, a rueful pinch to his mouth. “They crave the comforts of the city and all its distractions.”
At this, the three women tittered and talked in whispers. Silas turned his back to them, overcome with the scent of lavender sachet and their powdered, feminine faces.
“I’ve one room left for your party, but it needs a good tidying first.” The innkeeper summoned a harried serving girl. “Your cousins can wait in the ladies’ parlor, and I’ll have Effie serve them tea.”
“Very well.” Greathouse nodded his head at the women, and they left the room, obviously familiar with the inn. He cast an appraising eye over the crowd, his ruddy features relaxing. “I’ll have whatever they’re having . . . if there’s any left.”
Chuckling, the innkeeper moved toward a far door Silas supposed was the kitchen. The supper smells were intensifying, and he was suddenly bone weary. Shifting his load, he waited for Greathouse to step away from the door and take the only remaining table before he made his way to the stable. The thought of a hay-strewn space, though cold, was far preferable to a flea-infested room where they slept six to a bed.
“So, man, have a seat.” The gentleman—Greathouse—was looking at him, gesturing to a chair.
Surprise and suspicion riffled through Silas at the invitation. There were but two seats left in the room. He’d not insult the man by refusing. Besides, he had no wish to seek shelter in the stable just yet, though he did need to see to his horse. He disappeared for a time, then returned and lowered his belongings to the floor, taking the offered chair, eye on the huge stone hearth gracing the low-beamed room, its flames burnishing the paneled interior a pleasing russet.
“Are you traveling east or west?” Greathouse asked, hanging his cloak on a peg behind him.
“West,” Silas answered, removing his battered hat.
“Oh? We’re in need of an extra man at Hope Rising.”
“Hope Rising?”
“Our family’s estate—my estate.” A look of bemusement lit his features. “Sometimes I forget my good fortune. My uncle passed last year, God rest him. Since he had but three daughters and no male heir, everything passed to me.”
“You’re not sorry about that, I suppose,” Silas said wryly.
Greathouse chuckled. “His father, my grandfather, made his fortune as a privateer in the Seven Years’ War.” There was unmistakable pride in the words. “His first ship—a sloop—was called Hope Rising.”
“I ken the name,” Silas said quietly, a cold realization dawning. “I’ve seen the Sally and Antelope at anchor alongside it in Philadelphia.” Slavers, all, he thought with a twist of disgust, appetite ebbing.
“Ah, yes, we’ve some business in Jamaica and the West Indies, and occasionally dock in Philadelphia. But I let my factor handle any unsavory matters.” He averted narrowed eyes, clearly anxious to change the subject. “You’re going west, did you say? You have the look of an able hand.”
“I’m apprenticed in York County.”
“Apprenticed?” Surprise lightened his features, and he raked a hand through unruly, straw-colored hair. “You wouldn’t be bound for Liege Lee’s, would you
“Aye,” Silas answered as the innkeeper returned and set down a steaming trencher of more food than he’d seen in a fortnight.
“Two pints of ale and another plate,” Greathouse ordered without pause. “I’m not a man who likes eating alone.”
Taking a steadying breath, Silas wondered just what he wanted—and what he knew about Liege Lee.
Greathouse forked a piece of meat to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, eyeing him with renewed interest. “How long before you’re a master tradesman yourself?”
“A year or less.”
“I could use a good blacksmith. My estate borders the Lees’ should you, um, have need of employment in future.”
The second plate was plunked down. Mindful that Greathouse was watching, Silas bowed his head anyway and uttered a silent prayer. The raucous laughter and rolling of dice all around him resounded far louder than his low amen.
“So you’re a religious man. A Presbyterian, I’ll wager.” His smile was thin and laced with warning. “You shall need a prayer or two before your time with the Lees is through.”
Silas sat back in his chair, the man’s insinuations wearing thin. But he lifted his own tankard in a sort of toast. “If they’re such heathens, mayhap I’ll convert them.”
At this, Greathouse nearly spewed his ale in amusement. “That I would like to see, though their youngest daughter does have Quaker leanings.”
“God is good at making silk purses out of sows’ ears, aye?”
“She’s no sow,” Greathouse murmured around a mouthful of bread.
Smiling now, Silas took another sip of ale and pinned his gaze on the young man opposite, who was turning a shade shy of beet red.
Greathouse blundered, “I mean—well, our land borders the Lees’ and—you see, we have occasion to meet.”
“Who?”
“Me . . . and Miss Eden.”
Miss Eden. The laird of Hope Rising was undeniably smitten. Warming to his easy manner, Silas decided to learn all he could. “So there’s a daughter, then?”
“Yes, indeed, more than one.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still looking like he’d been caught snitching something. “Though the eldest has been ill for some months and confined to the house.”
Hearing it, Silas felt a clutch of concern. Two daughters too many. He wanted no distractions, no romantic entanglements. He simply had an apprenticeship to finish. And his future, unenviable as it was, lay far beyond York County.
“There’s also a younger brother and the mistress of the house, Louise Lee. They’ve been there thirty years or better, since the time my uncle built Hope Rising.” Greathouse studied him intently. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a bit on the mature side for an apprentice.”
“The war got in the way,” Silas said simply. He looked to his plate, cutting off a bite of meat and wishing he could do the same with the conversation. He had no wish to recount his personal history. His main concern was the Lees and the situation he was walking into.
Greathouse leaned back in his chair. “The war, yes. I didn’t serve myself, being the heir. My father and uncle forbade it and pressed someone else into service. You’re from Philadelphia, then?”
“Nae, Scotland.”
“I’d gathered that, given your speech. I see the outline of a fiddle in your baggage there. How long did you say you’ll be with the Lees?”
“A year or less, unless . . .”
The sympathetic smile returned. “Unless you become the third apprentice to quit before his time?”
The third?
Silas set down his fork. Dread danced up and down his spine and nearly stole his appetite. He’d not been told this. The trade guild had simply given him a name and address. Liege Lee on Elkhannah Creek, York County, Pennsylvania. With the war won, he was fortunate to find a place, or so he’d thought. Like himself, nearly every apprentice in the colonies had collected a bounty and enlisted in the rebel army and was now seeking a position.
“I’ll wager from the look of you that Liege Lee has met his match,” Greathouse said with a smug smile. “And like I said, work awaits you at Hope Rising, should you need it in future.”
Silas began the remaining thirty miles of his journey, fortified by a good meal and a sound if frigid night’s sleep in the stable. ’Twas Tuesday morn, the last of December. Horatio, rested and well-fed, with no sign of lameness, gave him little trouble even in half a foot of snow. Yet he found himself wishing the journey was far longer, that something warm and sure and good awaited him at day’s end.
As it was, the scanty facts learned at supper with David Greathouse left him at loose ends. Liege Lee sounded like a tyrant of a blacksmith with a wife. At least one bonny daughter. A young son. Two failed apprenticeships. The latter was common enough. Masters and apprentices did not always mix. Bound men ran off all the time. He’d considered it himself, but his convictions held him fast. He pondered it now, fighting anxiety.
Mayhap he’d best keep going and bypass the Lees altogether. His ambitions lured him westward to Fort Pitt, far beyond the boundaries of York. The lyrical names of the rivers there played in his mind like a melody. The Monongahela. The Allegheny. The Ohio. Indian words, all. But much as he wanted to, he couldn’t push west till he’d fulfilled the terms of his contract. He’d have need of it in future.
The Lee farm, Greathouse told him, lay a league south of Elkhannah Creek. Silas measured his steps, taking note of his strange surroundings. He passed beneath a giant oak holding fast to a few stubborn leaves, majestic and stalwart in the newly fallen snow. All around him the countryside was rolling and open, so pastoral it reminded him of southern England. Gentle hills and meadows abounded, nothing as abrupt or raw as his Highland home. He’d expected more wilderness, a wild and rough beauty, and felt disappointment pool in his chest.
In time he passed an ornate gate with an H and an R wrought in fancy iron, much as he’d worked in Philadelphia. Hope Rising? A long drive snaked past an abundance of linden trees, but he couldn’t make out the house at road’s end. David Greathouse was a man of means—a gentleman—thus his house would be the same.
His misperceptions shifted once again. He’d not thought to find signs of civilization—wealth—this far west, just modest farms at best. For a few moments he felt disoriented in the glare of blinding snow. He couldn’t ask for directions or inquire how much farther he had to go, for no other steps marred the ground but his and Horatio’s. A strong west wind was picking up, keening like women at a Scottish wake, and he looked uneasily in its direction.
His gaze snagged on an ice-encrusted pond just beyond a low stone fence. Greathouse land, he guessed. Surely the laird wouldn’t begrudge him a swim. Though hardly the River Tay of his youth, nor the heat of summer, it would have to do. He reeked of horses and hay, hardly fit for company, even that of a tyrant blacksmith.
A good quarter of an hour later he was clean, though made of gooseflesh. A clean linen shirt, scratchy breeches, thick woolen stockings, and worn boots covered his frigid skin, and he was only too glad to slip into the confines of his frayed greatcoat again. His two days’ growth of beard he could do little about, as he was lacking a razor. He’d lost both shaving kit and comb between here and Philadelphia when Horatio stumbled, spilling him into a ditch, but hurting little more than his pride.
On he walked, making note of every shrub and rock that raised its head above the snow, listening for the echoing cadence of a hammer striking iron. Heavy snowflakes began to dance down, and a biting wind made ice of his washed hair. Another quarter of a mile and he was soon in sight of a farm he knew was the Lees’, given the distinguishing feature Greathouse had told him about—a bold, wrought-iron weathervane atop a large barn adjoining a blacksmith’s shop, its stone chimney puffing smoke. The farmhouse was simple, if sprawling, and made of local limestone. All around it fallow fields lay like faded squares of an old, fraying quilt.
Would the Lees be expecting him? Had they received his le
Father, to this place You’ve led me, and I thank You for safe travels. May Your purposes be accomplished here, whate’er they may be.
3
Let honesty be as the breath of thy soul.
Benjamin Franklin
In the last remnants of daylight, Eden ran her hands over the skeins of wool and flax she’d spun in the shadows of the weaving room, caressing the distaff and ribbon that held the fibers in place—a yellow ribbon proclaiming her unmarried state. But her mind wasn’t on her beloved Saxony wheel or the hearth’s fire that had flickered out an hour ago. She could spin no matter what the hour if need be. Indeed, she had been doing so since she was four.
This cold afternoon, every fiber of her being strained toward one thing and one thing only—a newborn’s cry. Three hours it had been, and no sounds other than the usual birth noises of pain and weariness met Eden’s ears. While her sister labored in their parents’ bedchamber below, she labored over what she would say to the county busybodies.
Aye, ’twas an onerous birth, indeed.
The babe looks just like Papa, truly.
Nay, best wait a while to come calling.
She pondered the lies and excuses swirling through her head, grappling for facts. Likely Elspeth’s labor would prove indecently short, as all things seemed to work in her favor. And the babe couldn’t resemble Papa, as it wasn’t his and Mama’s. And no one should dare come calling till the Lees got their story straight. How were they to explain away the fact that they hadn’t summoned the midwife when they’d always relied on her before? The snowy weather, Eden guessed, was a handy excuse—and they could always say the babe came early, hardly an exaggeration. And Mama, bless her, always had the bearing look about her.