by Laura Frantz
Awkwardness crept over her and nearly closed her throat. Jack Turlock wasn’t in a talkative mood. Best state her case and dispense with any pleasantries. “I’m here on Chloe’s behalf. I’d like to school her.”
His eyes were on her now, shining with amused, half-mocking light. “Her French governess only lasted a fortnight. What makes you think you’d fare better?”
Beneath his scrutiny she tried not to cower. “Chloe gave her consent yesterday when she came to New Hope. Surely that counts for something.”
“She came to see you?” The words held the ring of surprise. Clearly, Jack wasn’t privy to his sister’s whereabouts at all times, even if she was his responsibility. “Are you lacking students, Ellie?”
“I have four pupils so far. Chloe would make a fifth.” She read outright skepticism in his face and strove to counter it. “I instruct each girl individually in their homes. They also come to New Hope for a dancing lesson once a week.”
He grimaced. “My sister . . . dancing.”
She felt defensiveness take hold. “I watched her ride away yesterday. She’s very graceful on a horse. If that’s any indication . . .”
“Horses and waltzes are an odd pairing. I can’t dance a step but I ride like the wind.”
“Oh?” She couldn’t check a smile. “Then perhaps you’d better come for lessons too.”
His stony gaze shot down the notion. “I’m better suited for the stables.”
“So is your answer aye or nay? For Chloe’s sake?”
“Nay.”
The strand of hope in her heart snapped. “Don’t do this, Jack.” She hadn’t meant to say his name, or beg, but she had his full attention, at least. “I didn’t thank you properly for bringing me home after the storm. Think of it as repayment—”
“So this is a charity case?”
Exasperation ticked inside her. “I do charge for my services—a small fee—”
“Expenses be hanged. Money isn’t the issue, ever.”
His boldness made her bold in turn. “Then what is?”
Impatience sharpened his features. “You’ll likely end up with Chloe and lose all your other students, once they learn you’re schooling a Turlock. I’m simply trying to save you the trouble—and spare her the hurt.”
She’d not thought of this and had no ready answer. She wouldn’t tell him her genteel pupils didn’t need her or that their time together was pleasant—and decidedly dull. They stitched samplers and stifled yawns, conjugated French verbs and fluttered their fans inanely.
“I care little about what others think,” she said softly, eyes on the sunlit path at her feet.
“Well, I do, for once.” Turning his back on her, he began walking toward the house without a word of farewell, violating every single tenet of good behavior. But then Gentleman Jack was no gentleman. Though they’d known each other since childhood, how wide the chasm was . . .
She felt oddly hurt, and her discomfort doubled when Chloe appeared and blocked his path. Jack reached out to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. Though she couldn’t hear him, she guessed he was explaining his refusal. The slump of Chloe’s shoulders confirmed it. Sensing that staying any longer was futile, Ellie disappeared down a side path, skirting a brick wall, till she reached the porte cochere where her carriage waited.
“To town, please,” she said without enthusiasm as the groom opened the door.
The clatter of wheels atop muddy stones sounded in her ears, and she looked back at the old house through an open window. Jack watched her go, a formidable shadow on the sun-dappled veranda, Chloe at his side. The vision of River Hill vanished from sight, if not from memory.
8
Being myself no stranger to suffering,
I have learned to relieve the sufferings of others.
VIRGIL
The high trill of a fiddle began a simple country dance, the girls stepping lightly and avoiding toes. Soon they were laughing more than dancing, the ballroom floor noticeably scuffed, and Mamie was bringing a tray of raspberry ice up two flights of steps to the third floor. The lesson had gone on long enough this May morn, Ellie decided, and her students needed to return home. With Andra hovering at the door intermittently—and Mina flirting with Ansel while he attempted his bowing—Ellie couldn’t keep her mind on the lesson.
“You have a letter, delivered but an hour ago,” Andra told her when the ballroom emptied.
“A post?” Her finishing school friends wrote her often enough. Likely it was one of them. Ellie pocketed the paper, wanting to read it in privacy, aware of her sister’s probing eye.
“And there’s also word from Mama.” Andra sank down on a chair beside an open window and unfolded a letter. “Seems like they’re having a lovely time in New Orleans.” She studied the familiar script. “She writes, ‘The city is the same—humid, hurried, yet ever fascinating.’”
“We should have gone with them.” Ansel swiped his brow with a handkerchief before putting his violin away.
“You and Peyton, perhaps,” Andra said. “Da won’t let Elinor or I set foot on a steamer. And I don’t want to. They’re too dangerous.”
Ellie took a seat beside her. “They likely don’t know about the storm, I suppose, being so far away.”
“They may by now,” Ansel replied. “News travels fast along the river. By the time they return, everything should be in order again, Lord willing.”
“At least we can live vicariously through their letters.” Andra returned them to the matter at hand.
New Orleans is quite unchanged. Its citizens spend the Sabbath drinking, dueling, partying, and presenting slave dances to African drums in the public squares. We cannot help but notice and pray for them on our way to church . . . Magnolias are abloom everywhere . . . Your father and I have become quite fond of the local fare, gumbo, a French dish made of meats and mingled with rice and seasoned with chopped sassafras and okra. Perhaps Mamie could make a fair rendition in the kitchen . . .
They listened to the remainder in thoughtful silence, and Ellie felt a keen craving to have her parents home. “How long does it take for a steamer to travel upriver from there to here?” She was half ashamed she couldn’t remember, having been away so long.
Ansel winked at her. “Two thousand miles? With Da at the wheel?” He shrugged. “Overnight.”
They laughed and went down to an early supper, a quiet affair without Peyton present. Ellie pushed her chicken fricassee around her plate as Andra talked endlessly of repairs and what needed to be done on the morrow. The mysterious letter, momentarily forgotten, seemed to burn a hole in Ellie’s pocket.
Excusing herself, she made it to the staircase landing, pausing long enough to examine the post. The sepia wax seal bore a bold T, but the hand that had penned her name was sprawling and uneven. Still, the words bore a surprising eloquence, if misspelled.
Miss Ballantyne, my brother Jack has given purmishin for you to tutor me at River Hill. Cum whatever afternoon you wish.
Chloe Turlock
Clearly, Miss Chloe was in need of a penmanship lesson or two. Why, she wondered, didn’t Jack send a note instead? But she knew that required good manners. Something he didn’t have nor was the least concerned about.
Climbing the remaining steps to her room, Ellie smiled. What had transpired in the week since she’d come to River Hill and he’d refused her?
Chloe’s timing was perfect. Tomorrow was blank as a piece of newly minted writing paper.
Sometime in the night, Ellie awoke to a child’s crying. Just a dream? She lay completely still as an old memory unfolded from childhood. When Mama was a little girl, living on the edge of the Pennsylvania frontier, she’d been near enough to an Indian encampment to hear a baby cry. Indian children rarely cried, Mama said, for they were trained not to. But this child . . .
Her eyes fluttered closed as the sound ebbed, only to fly open at the creaking of a door above. Her senses grew taut. Someone was humming . . . a hymn? The familiar melody tugged
at her, and the darkness seemed almost unfriendly, harboring secrets. In all honesty, the house hadn’t felt right to her since she’d come home. Something other than the storm and her parents’ absence was at play, she felt certain. The babe’s cry was proof.
Fumbling her way from bed to dresser, she shrugged on a dressing gown and moved into the hall. Light from the cupola high above splashed through the large landing window, gilding the rug beneath her feet. She began a slow, silent climb to the third floor and attic and then stopped, surprise shackling her. Ansel’s voice drifted down—and then another she knew but couldn’t name. It seemed to echo in her head, taunting her, prodding her to memory.
“The leg will mend. I’ve given him laudanum to ease the pain. But his mouth is badly damaged. He may never talk normally again. I’m afraid Broad Oak’s overseer is responsible.”
Dr. Brunot?
Ansel’s reply was smothered by the baying of hounds—at first distant, then hellishly close. Someone cried out in the darkness. The sound lingered, rose above the baying. Ellie pressed herself into the velvety fold of drapes at the landing window and stood stone still. Muffled footsteps tread past in the dark, and she caught Ansel’s subtle bergamot scent. Panic churned inside her as he went below. The distinctive snap and click of a rifle being loaded met her ears.
Through the balustrade, she had a clear view of the foyer two floors down. Andra emerged from the study, candelabra in hand. Still dressed despite the late hour, she flung open the front door just ahead of Ansel and stepped onto the porch, venom in her tone. “You McTavishes are encroaching on Ballantyne land, which carries a hefty fine—mayhap a court appearance or jail time.”
“There ain’t no hidin’ anymore, Miss High and Mighty.” The deep voice was just as vitriolic yet held a taunting streak Andra’s lacked. “Tonight there’s a trail of blood clear to your door, and I dare anyone to deny it.”
Another voice sounded, a bit hoarse but more reasonable. “We just want to search the house and grounds, see for ourselves. The law is on our side—”
“The law? Nay. You have five minutes to get off Ballantyne land or I’ll fill your hide with buckshot and bury your dogs.”
Ansel? Never had she heard such mettle in his voice. For a moment she thought it Peyton, home from town.
The silence stretched long and excruciating, finally broken by the jostle of horses and riders as they turned away. Light-headed, Ellie released a breath, unaware she’d been holding it. The front door slammed closed and was bolted. Dr. Brunot came quickly down the stairs, clutching a satchel. He, Ansel, and Andra went into the study and shut the door.
Beneath her nightgown, Ellie’s heart beat an irregular pattern as she hurried up the stairs. Reaching the attic landing, she pushed at the glass knob leading to dark, dusty rafters. The door gave way. The crowded attic of old had been swept clean, former furnishings and trunks missing. Ellie smelled blood and medicine—and unmistakable fear.
A man lay on a narrow bed, his leg and his mouth cocooned in a swell of linen, eyes closed. Was he drugged? Or simply sleeping? A woman sat in a rocking chair beside him, a baby in her arm, the child’s hair a fuzzy halo in the lantern light. Her troubled gaze met Ellie’s own.
What had Dr. Brunot said? Were these Broad Oak’s slaves?
Though fear wove its way across her chest, she tried to smile reassuringly as the pieces of this strange puzzle fell into place. “’Tis all right,” she whispered. “The men who came looking are gone.”
Gone, yes, but for how long? The McTavishes were of ill repute. Feared. Shunned. And on their very doorstep.
The woman’s worried face creased in a small, grateful smile as Ellie eased the door closed and tiptoed back to bed.
And a long, sleepless night.
The next morning a lukewarm breakfast awaited her on the sideboard. Taking a plate, Ellie spooned some scrambled eggs onto its shiny surface and took a biscuit from a covered basket. Mamie served tea, her dusky features a study of serenity. Born of a French trader and an Indian mother at Fort Pitt the century before, she was a free woman.
Unlike the people in the attic.
With no one else at table, Ellie wanted to ask her about the goings-on upstairs. But ’twas likely they didn’t want her to know. Yet how was it possible to sleep through such a ruckus? Something told her these weren’t the first escaped slaves beneath their roof—and wouldn’t be the last. She’d thought home was safe. Civilized. Unchanged. She’d been in Philadelphia far too long. New Hope had become something else in her absence.
Buttering a biscuit, she pushed down her shock, but the moving scene in the attic stayed steadfast. Where were these people going? How did they end up at New Hope? The child was so small, the woman so thin. The man had been shot, his mouth severely injured. Somehow Broad Oak was involved.
Since her family had never owned slaves, and most of the Negroes in Philadelphia and Pittsburgh were free, she’d given such matters little thought. But all at once, like awakening from a dream, everything came clear. The weariness Ansel wore like a second shirt—was it from countless sleepless nights? And Andra’s temper? Was it frayed not only from the storm but from frequent fugitives?
“Morning, El.” Ansel came into the sunny room, taking a chair opposite as if nothing unusual had happened. “It’s early. I thought you’d still be abed.”
She started from her reverie, rattling her teacup as she returned it to the saucer. “You know what Da says—early to bed and early to rise . . .”
“Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” He reached for the sugar bowl and glanced at the sideboard. Mamie appeared and poured him coffee, as he’d never liked tea, before padding away on moccasined feet. “Did you have a sound night?”
She stirred a sugar lump into her cup. “Well enough. And you?”
“I’ll sleep better when things return to normal.”
Amen, Ellie thought, wishing he’d mention the night’s events and include her. But he simply drank his coffee and eyed the Pittsburgh Gazette spread open on the table, the headlines still swelling with reports of storm damage.
She forced a lightness she was far from feeling. “I wanted to thank you for coming to the dancing lesson yesterday. I’d forgotten how beautifully you play.”
He looked up, regret in his gaze. “I’m surprised it was worth hearing. I don’t practice as much as I used to. Business, ye ken.”
Business. Had his whole life become one of work? Her heart gave a little lurch. Where was the quick-to-smile, affable Ansel she so loved? The one who was happiest amidst reams of music and plans to craft a violin?
A shadow filled the doorway, and Andra came in, looking equally preoccupied as she fastened fretful eyes on him. “Peyton needs you at the boatyard but I told him to wait. One of the carpenters wants you to have a look at the smokehouse first.” She cast a glance at Ellie. “Are you teaching today?”
“This afternoon,” Ellie murmured, praying Andra wouldn’t ask where. She wasn’t ready to divulge that her newest student was a Turlock just yet.
“Mamie could use your help sorting seeds and planning the kitchen garden this morning. Jacob is busy with a shipment of roses and shouldn’t be bothered.”
“Of course. I’m almost done with breakfast.” Poor Mamie, eyesight ebbing, had been in their employ long before Ellie was born. Jacob, the gardener, was no better, unable to decipher the tags that identified manifold plants shipped from the East, even with his spectacles on. But her father, out of loyalty and affection, wouldn’t let them go. New Hope was their home till they died, if they so wished, and they would be buried in the family graveyard beyond the chapel.
Ansel finished his coffee and got up, his breakfast untouched, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t leave without an escort, El. Da’s orders, remember.”
The words assumed new meaning. Because there were slaves in the attic—and slave catchers at their door—and everything had turned perilous? Though she’d been insulated from such matters all her life, sh
e now felt thrust into the very thick of it.
“Sabbath services are on the morrow, the first time since the storm.” Andra’s voice cut through Ellie’s musings. “We’d do well to attend.”
Ellie gave a nod. Andra somehow made churchgoing sound as appealing as encountering bounty hunters. She took a bite of egg, but the forkful seemed to stick in her throat. Ansel and Andra left without another word.
The scent of old leather and tobacco embraced Jack as he entered River Hill’s study. Every crack in the worn floorboards, every nick in the paneled walls, he knew like his own name. He’d been schooled in this very room by his grandfather. No reason Chloe couldn’t do likewise. A woman’s mind was no less agile than a man’s, therefore the curriculum would be the same. Latin. Geography. Arithmetic. Forget the fancy needlework and French. And since no one would be inviting Chloe to any dances, dancing lessons seemed frivolous as well.
Opening a cabinet, he took out his old lap desk, the top scarred and worn. A gift from his grandfather on his eighth birthday. The judge had wanted him to pursue a career in law. Since Wade had been commandeered for the whiskey trade, their parents had let Hugh O’Hara take their secondborn to River Hill. Jack spent more time there than at Broad Oak, nearly taking up residence. No one protested the arrangement, least of all Jack.
“You’re so like my father,” his mother had once said. “You might have been his son. You belong at River Hill.”
Jack often wondered what she meant. He’d been studious. Thoughtful. Dutiful. Until the day his grandfather died. Then his moorings had come loose and he’d run pell-mell into trouble like a scow snagged midriver. All that Turlock wildness had threatened to sink him—and might still.
His knuckles grazed the spines of countless leather-bound books as he perused one bookcase after another, dismissing The American Distiller and The American Brewer and Maltster in search of more acceptable fare. He’d start slowly, as he wasn’t sure his patience—or Chloe’s—was up to the task. Myriad responsibilities weighted him, and he was faced with travel come fall. But he’d do what he could till that time.
