by Laura Frantz
“I’ll keep her with me.” Jack’s calm overrode her complaining. “She can visit Broad Oak as often as she likes. Or you can come to River Hill.”
“Would that I had never left it.” The words were a mere whisper, but Jack had heard them before. She looked at him, eyes still clouded with doubt. “How on earth will you keep her occupied?”
“I’ll begin by opening the judge’s library to her. Some required reading should be in order. And since she seems to have a head for figures, I’ll introduce her to accounts—”
“All masculine pursuits, which is why I want Elinor Ballantyne. She’s advertised needlework, French, dancing.”
Ignoring this, Jack took a sip of coffee. “I’ll have my housekeeper take Chloe to a seamstress, see about a new wardrobe. Maybe arrange for a trip downriver.”
“To Louisville? New Orleans?” Isabel all but rolled her eyes. “Now that sounds disastrous. I can just see her falling overboard—or worse. You’re of a sensible bent, Jack. Don’t do this.” Yet even as she uttered the words, he saw through her exasperation to the relief beneath.
He shrugged. “And if I fail? It won’t be for lack of trying.”
She expelled a frustrated breath. “Perhaps it will be of some benefit. With the slave unrest and the storm and whatnot, we’re all in need of a change.”
“Perhaps you and Pa should take a trip, then. See to accounts farther south and combine business with pleasure.” Pausing, he gauged her reaction. “The new steamer, Naomi, is set to launch in July.”
“If you’re suggesting I take a Ballantyne-made vessel, I’d sooner walk on water.” Coldness crept into her fair features, deepening the lines and years, making her look as old as Henry. “Besides, steamboats are fraught with danger. A boiler is always exploding, crew and passengers killed. Europe is far more to my liking. There’s some interest in Turlock whiskey on the continent, your father says.”
“We can’t compete with the Scots and Irish distillers, at least in Europe,” he murmured. “We’d best set our sights on the American West.”
When she frowned, he let the matter rest, wanting to return home to River Hill and tell Chloe the news. Excusing himself, he started for the door, aware his mother would be left alone just as she had so many nights. The thought was sharp as a knife’s blade, the knob of the door cold beneath his hand.
He turned back to her. “You’re welcome to come to River Hill whenever you like and see Chloe. It was yours before mine, and I’ve not forgotten.”
7
Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Would the spring hold nothing but storms? From her open carriage, Ellie eyed the unsettled sky as dark thunderheads shut out the sun altogether. She hoped the weather was better in New Orleans. Her father was in need of a respite, absorbed by business as he was, and sometimes Mama’s charitable spirit seemed careworn too. Still, she missed them and wished them back. New Hope wasn’t the same without them. Peyton and Ansel were overwhelmed with work at the waterfront and rarely came home, and Andra’s temper seemed to fray at the slightest provocation.
Though repairs were being made and dependencies restored, the incessant sawing and hammering shattered the usual birdsong, encroaching on what had always been a peaceful place. Ellie knew better than to look out her bedchamber windows onto the garden and chapel. The sound of falling timber from its direction grieved her. The chapel had always been the spot she’d gone to be quiet, to pray. Without it her prayers seemed small and scattered, without a home.
“Keep count of your blessings,” Mama always said.
Mindful of this, Ellie ticked them off one by one. She was back in Allegheny County. Free of Philadelphia. Earning her keep. She now had four girls to instruct—and four sets of pleased parents—and had begun teaching this very afternoon. All her finishing school years were fading. Though she missed Rose dearly, the future seemed bright.
With a squeal of wheels, the carriage slowed to a stop, and the groom helped her down. Ellie stood for a moment atop the large mounting block, slick from moss and rain, and eyed the unfamiliar horse hitched to the iron post a few feet away. Her stomach swirled.
Daniel Cameron?
Impossible. Mina said he was in the East. As if sensing her disquiet, the handsome animal reared its proud head and snorted so loudly Ellie started. Chuckling, the groom regained his seat as Andra came onto the porch, her expression no more friendly than the glowering skies above. Ellie wanted to climb back inside the carriage, but it was lumbering away to the stable down a shaded side lane.
“Elinor, you have a . . .” Andra paused, her face florid. “A caller.”
A maid usually announced visitors, not Andra. Ellie’s alarm peaked. “Where is Mari? Gwyn?”
“Trying to keep our guest out of mischief. She’s been here half an hour and can’t seem to sit still. She’s already let Feathers out of his cage!”
“She?” Ellie refused to go another step till the visitor’s name was divulged.
“Chloe Turlock.” The words were hissed as if announcing the devil himself.
Ellie felt her features go slack as she mentally raced to put together her tattered memories of the youngest Turlock. All she recalled was a pudding-faced lump of a girl, following after her older brothers with none of their natural graces and all of their flaws.
“In the parlor?” Ellie asked.
“Yes—with Feathers!” Andra ground out the canary’s name between clenched teeth, as if demanding Ellie do something.
Following her into the foyer, Ellie removed her gloves and bonnet and set them on a nearby chair. “I’ll try and rescue Feathers . . . and send Miss Chloe on her way.”
Andra eyed the closed parlor door warily. “You’d do well to remember what Peyton always said. Never turn your back on a Turlock.”
“I believe he was referring to Wade.” Ellie swallowed, unwilling to say Jack’s name. His kindness to her along the turnpike—if that was what it was—returned to her and raised her color a notch. She touched the parlor door with some trepidation, mindful Feathers might be winging about. Both Mari and Gwyn were standing guard just inside.
“You can go now,” Ellie said, summoning a smile. The maids fled, leaving Ellie to spy Feathers atop a tall bookcase, preening and enjoying his newfound freedom.
“I—I’m sorry about the bird. I didn’t mean to release him. I only wanted a closer look.”
Ellie’s gaze settled on a girl in the shadows—boyishly slim, brown as a chestnut, and clearly ill at ease. “Never mind Feathers. I only hope he performed for you after all the fuss.”
Before her last syllable was uttered, the canary burst into song, and its sweetness seemed to banish all awkwardness. Chloe looked from Ellie to the bookcase as if she’d pulled a string and gotten the bird to do her bidding or concocted some sort of magic.
Ellie touched her sleeve. “Just raise your arm like this. He’d much rather perch than return to his cage.”
“I’ve never seen such a cage.”
Ellie smiled. “Too grand for a bird, you mean? My father made it. He was once a city smith—a blacksmith—and fashioned one like this for Benjamin Franklin in Philadelphia. You’ve heard of Franklin and his inventions, I suppose.”
Chloe didn’t answer, obviously far more interested in the canary now moving from its lofty roost than Philadelphia history. Her lips parted in surprise when Feathers flew to a nearby sofa and then landed on her extended arm.
“Meet Feathers,” Ellie said. “Now if you’ll be so kind to walk toward the cage, my sister will be forever grateful.”
Chloe’s expression soured. “Your sister tried to send me away.”
“Yet you’re still here,” Ellie whispered with a wink. “So who won that battle?”
A conspiratorial smile played about Chloe’s mouth. She inched across the carpet to the brass cage, where she imprisoned the canary once again and locked the small door.
Nearly singi
ng with relief herself, Ellie smiled her brightest smile. “Would you like refreshments? Something to drink . . . eat?”
Shrugging, Chloe sat on the edge of the nearest chair as Ellie tugged a bell cord. When Mari appeared she requested gingersnaps and orange ice from Mamie in the kitchen.
Chloe’s eyes were on her again, questioning, wary, unsure of her welcome.
Ellie took a seat on a near settee. “While we wait, why don’t you tell me why you’ve come?”
Taking a breath, Chloe fiddled with a wrinkle on her skirt. “I . . . I saw your advertisement in the newspaper.”
Had she? So Chloe Turlock was literate, at least . . .
“I’m in need of a teacher, Ma says, and it’s true. I should be doing more than fishing and riding horses. I’ll soon be thirteen—yet I can’t sew a stitch or speak a word of French or dance a step.”
The lament in her voice seemed sincere, yet Ellie still felt a niggle of doubt. She stayed silent, letting Chloe tell her what she would, trying not to stare at her disheveled dress—a sad affair of linen and ruffles in a style more suited for a three-year-old than one nearly thirteen.
“Ma wanted me to come and talk to you last week, but Jack intervened.” Her silvered eyes held Ellie’s, reminding her of his. “You remember my brother—the younger one? Not Wade.”
There was an unmistakable grimace at Wade’s mention. Ellie could only surmise that Jack was the favorite. “I remember them both.”
“Jack told me not to ask you, but I keep wondering if you might teach me . . . make him change his mind.”
For once Ellie was wordless. Jack’s reasons for refusing intrigued her, in light of Isabel Turlock wanting her services. Yet one long look at Chloe convinced Ellie some intervention was overdue. Best proceed cautiously. She sensed a snare but couldn’t discern just where.
The ices were brought in, mounded in crystal glasses, a sprig of fresh mint atop each. Chloe took up her spoon with relish, delight softening her solemn features. “I’m so thirsty I’m almost spewing feathers, as Wade says.”
Hiding a smile, Ellie sampled the ice without really tasting it. “So you want me to talk to your brother Jack. What makes you think he’d change his mind?”
Chloe raised an eyebrow. “He likes your pa.”
I can’t imagine why, Ellie almost said. Jailed as many times as Jack had been when her father was temporary sheriff . . . “I could send a note round.”
“That’s the coward’s way out, Jack says.”
Chagrined, Ellie set down her spoon. She could imagine Jack Turlock feeling that way. He seemed more a man of action than letters. “Why does your brother have the final say in your education, Chloe? More so than your mother and father?”
“Because I’m living at River Hill.”
At that, everything slid into place. Chloe was Jack’s ward now? Why? Ellie had been in Philadelphia far too long to be privy to the latest happenings at Broad Oak, but she sensed all was not well. “All right, then. I’ll ride over in the morning.”
“Promise?” The blonde head lifted, and Chloe’s eyes were awash with gratitude—and something else Ellie couldn’t name. “I’ll try to keep Jack to the house. Sometimes he’s hard to pin down.”
A telling statement, Ellie thought. In the meantime she’d tell no one of her mission—and try to summon some courage.
Standing before a full-length mirror, Ellie glanced at the small clock ticking the time across the room. Half past nine. She’d been trying on one garment after another for over an hour, dismissing each as too fancy, too plain, too snug, too childish. When meeting Jack Turlock, it was paramount she looked the part of teacher—even if he denied her request and sent her packing. Another quarter of an hour passed, and she wanted to send a note round instead. Why take such pains? Was it Chloe’s solemn face that made her press on? Or something more?
She finally decided on a simple yellow day dress and blue paisley shawl, a bit dated but sufficient. She needn’t worry about Jack Turlock being fussy about fashion. When she’d last seen him, he’d shunned proper attire for the most common breeches and boots. Still, she pinned her hair carefully into a looped knot high on the back of her head, securing it with a silk ribbon. It wasn’t as fine as the coiffure Rose would have done, but it would suffice.
The plan was ridiculously simple. She’d arrive at River Hill—a place she’d heard about but never seen—and there Jack would deny her request, and she’d continue on to Pittsburgh. Since her lessons didn’t begin till early afternoon, she’d visit the boatyard and see Ansel, perhaps hunt for a new hat at one of the shops along Market Street.
Too nervous to eat breakfast, she’d simply sipped a cup of tea, wrapped the biscuit Mamie had sent upstairs in a napkin, and deposited it in her reticule. Her driver showed no surprise at her destination, covering the miles to River Hill at a steady pace now that the roads were clear of debris. When their carriage passed through unfamiliar iron gates, Ellie’s anxiety rose a notch, as did her curiosity.
River Hill was known to be old, elegant. A step into the past. Her parents had met again here after years apart, ending the eight-year association between Hugh O’Hara and Silas Ballantyne. The blacksmith turned industrialist had wanted to wed Eden Lee, and the jilted Isabel O’Hara had eloped with Henry Turlock, leader of the infamous Whiskey Rebellion, soon after. Sometimes entire fortunes—and futures—were made in mere minutes. She was thankful Providence had decided in her favor. Being a Ballantyne was far better than being a Turlock in anyone’s estimation, surely.
The long drive unwound like gray ribbon through copses of lush trees and meadows brightened by wildflowers before cresting a magnificent hill. Her pulse climbed along with the lumbering coach. She was increasingly unsure of her mission, the careful speech she’d rehearsed in shreds. The sight of the main house, immense and aristocratic, snatched away her last shred of poise.
“I won’t be long,” she told her groom.
Just long enough to be refused . . . humiliated.
But she couldn’t deny Chloe’s unusual request. It had taken a great deal of courage to arrive at New Hope unannounced and manage Andra till Ellie had come in. The least Ellie could do was take the poor girl’s plea to River Hill, lost cause though it was.
She stepped down onto uneven cobblestones, and for a moment the crush of lilacs stole her breath. Fragrant spires of thick blossoms—burgundy, blue, white, and creamy yellow—waved in the breeze in double clusters, releasing an intense perfume as they crowded the walkway and steps. The house was of the same gray brick as New Hope, the windows of old manufacture but the best crown glass. Ornate shutters, once a lively green, framed countless windows fronting the river. It had a faded grandeur that warmed Ellie’s heart and gave her a bittersweet glimpse of a bygone era.
Had Mama come up these same steps and into the ballroom that ushered her into Da’s life again? Wonder stole her concentration, and Ellie failed to notice the elderly woman in gingham and wrinkled apron at the door. So River Hill had a housekeeper?
“I’m here to see Mr. Turlock,” Ellie said, half hoping he’d be away. Praying. Her palms were damp beneath her gloves. Her breath was coming in ragged bursts like she’d walked all the way.
“Is he expecting you?” The woman’s mouth firmed with disapproval. She was taking Ellie’s measure as if she were as forward as a fallen woman.
Heat bloomed in Ellie’s face. It was pretentious to arrive unannounced—uninvited. A note should have come first. She took a step back, all resolve seeping away. “If Mr. Turlock’s not available, I’ll call at another time.”
She turned toward the carriage and saw the groom jump down from his perch. But before she took a step, a quiet voice carried across the veranda.
“I’m here, Ellie. And there’s no better time than this.”
Jack.
No social niceties. No hello or greeting. Slowly Ellie turned around. The groom regained his perch. The housekeeper vanished. Ellie found herself wishing Chloe would app
ear. But it was just she and Jack. Alone. An arm’s length apart. Nothing stirred on the veranda but the heady scent of lilacs in the wind.
He was looking down at her, making her feel even smaller and more awkward. She’d forgotten how intimidating he could be. His skin was darker than she remembered, his hair more sun-streaked. His gaze like granite.
“We could walk in the garden,” he said.
She felt a burst of relief. Yes, out in the open, not shut away in the house, giving cause for scandal. She nodded and followed him down mossy stone steps, wondering if the housekeeper watched from a window. A crumbling brick wall enclosed the garden—or what was left of it.
“I’m sure it bears little resemblance to yours,” he murmured.
She caught his low words as shade trees swallowed them and her eyes adjusted to the play of light and shadow. A dry fountain stood at the garden’s heart, surrounded by barren flower beds begging for color and beauty. Buds clung to a few neglected rosebushes, decaying leaves scattered all around.
“Actually, it looks very much like ours,” she said.
He glanced at her. “After the storm, you mean.”
She nodded, wanting to take a seat on a near bench and still her unsteady legs, but he turned down a side path with a river view. The garden hadn’t been tended for years, but one look at the expanse of shimmering water beyond the sloping lawn and it hardly mattered.
“Is Chloe here?” she asked, eyes on the fitful Monongahela, so different from the serene Allegheny she’d been raised beside.
“Fishing,” he said.
