by Laura Frantz
10
Farmers, I have before remarked, ye are the Lords of this lower creation.
AN EARLY HANDBOOK ON
AMERICAN FARMING
In the years since his grandfather’s passing, Jack had tried his hand at a great many things, but nothing satisfied like working the land. Some of his best thinking was done amidst the fervor of seedtime and harvest. Now, standing in a field at dusk, the grain knee-high, he listened as his farm manager spoke of crop rotations, the new variety of rye they’d just sown, and plastering the lower mow lands with manure. Jack knew the details firsthand, having tilled and planted several acres himself, combing the fields to uproot cull growth, watching for disease, and calculating the yield as the strengthening summer sun warmed his shoulders. Wade laughed at him, called him a fool for doing what he had slaves to do in his stead, and even their father had looked on in silent disapproval. Jack’s kinship with the land couldn’t be explained.
River Hill sprawled along the Monongahela River for miles, some of it forest, most of it field, the plentiful grain they grew fueling Broad Oak’s gristmill and distillery. When his grandfather manumitted his slaves upon his death, Jack had contracted indentures from the British Isles, mostly Irish. These men and their families lived as tenants on River Hill land, farming large tracts in exchange for their eventual freedom. Though Jack was far more involved in the daily aspects of agriculture than most landowners, his absences from River Hill were increasing, and he would soon see Missouri, all in the name of the expanding Turlock whiskey enterprise.
He chafed at the possibility he might miss the harvest, that his unpredictable father might send him west sooner than planned. Little surpassed swinging a scythe over a gilded, fragrant field from dawn till dusk. The challenge of the gleaning was what he lived for. He longed to be lost in his labors, not sunk in dismal reflection like he’d been since the storm.
A sliver of guilt drove his thoughts home. Tonight Chloe would be waiting for him to return from the fields, their unfinished conversation dangling between them. Was it just a couple of weeks ago Ellie had surprised him on the veranda? And Chloe’s confession rendered him speechless?
I didn’t ask her here for me, Jack. I asked her here for you.
He’d avoided his sister ever since, trying to bury her words beneath a blur of work, but they stuck to him like pitch. Even now they stole his appetite. He sought another distraction, but all that came to mind was town and Janey. Shrugging aside his misgivings, he finished with his farm manager and gave in to the temptation to head for the stables.
He headed west on Cicero, finally turning down Water Street, where the acrid smells of tanneries and slaughter houses stung his senses. Pittsburgh was fast becoming a city, a pall of soot and grime obscuring the rivers and hanging like a shroud over boats and buildings, making him itch for clean air and clear vistas. Maybe the West wasn’t such a bleak prospect after all.
Around the corner, Teague’s Tavern loomed, still a bit battered from the storm with shingles and shutters askew. He tied Cicero to the hitch rail in front and entered, the swirl of tobacco smoke obscuring his view of the corner table he preferred, now commandeered by Wade. Janey hovered, serving drinks, and Jack tried to mask his stark surprise when she moved away in a flurry of plum skirts and revealed Wade’s companion.
Peyton Ballantyne.
The heir. Harvard educated. London dressed. As striking as his father yet . . . different.
Jack veered toward the tavern counter, expecting Wade to motion him over like he usually did. But Wade was obviously too engrossed in the company he kept to give him any notice. To Jack’s knowledge, Peyton Ballantyne had never set foot in Teague’s Tavern. He preferred the gentleman’s club farther in town.
Without waiting for him to ask, the barkeep served him a tankard of ale. Mumbling his thanks, Jack sought a shadowed alcove, the day’s labor catching up with him. He learned back in his chair, glad when Janey’s ample form blocked his view of Wade and Peyton and theirs of him.
“I ain’t seen you in some time, Jack.” She smiled wearily, the gentle rhythm of her words a reminder of her Virginia roots. “Where you been?”
“Plowing and planting. It’s spring, remember.”
“The seasons don’t seem to change inside these four walls.” She reached for his hand and turned his callused palm over, studying it with such intensity it seemed she was about to tell his fortune. “You’re in need of a respite, a good meal . . . and more.”
As usual, Janey was not one to miss a proposition. He extracted his hand and ran it over his unkempt hair, feeling downright shabby next to the impeccably dressed Peyton.
Her beleaguered eyes held his. “I’d begun to think you were gone again—to New Orleans.”
“I’m done riding the river,” he said. The very mention brought to mind one too many sordid recollections he had no stomach for. “Standing on solid ground is more to my liking.”
“I never did figure you for a roustabout.” She got up, the heady scent of her perfume cloying. “I’ll bring you a plate.”
When she moved away, his view broadened. The truth was he’d never cared much for the eldest Ballantyne. With his ruddy Scots coloring and hair, Peyton reminded Jack of Silas. But Silas had an uncommon clarity of countenance that Peyton lacked. Peyton was arrogant, guarded. Jack preferred the affable, unassuming Ansel. No guile, just guts. He worked the levee like a seasoned river man, whereas Peyton didn’t like to get his hands dirty, confining himself to mercantile and office.
Janey set down a plate and awaited his reaction. Roast pork and potatoes, pickled beans and warm bread. He nodded his thanks and lifted a fork. She moved away among the other patrons as if sensing he was in no mood to talk, leaving him to eat in peace. If peace could be found in a crowded tavern.
Wade was doing the lion’s share of the talking now, animated by another round of drinks, Peyton listening intently. Jack couldn’t fathom what had brought them together. All he could think about was Ellie, who wouldn’t want her brother in such a place. He attempted a few halfhearted mouthfuls before leaving a gold piece beneath his plate and passing out the back door.
The uneasy feeling followed.
Beyond the tavern’s entrance, the Monongahela waterfront shone like polished pewter beneath a gibbous moon. All around him the clip of carriages sounded and laughter burst from doors and windows. All was the same as it had ever been. Once, it had been enough. What had changed? When? Now, like a coin that had been flipped, he craved the familiar confines of his study . . . Chloe’s impudent chatter . . . the sight of Ellie on the veranda, dark head bent over a book.
The black edges of the night weighted him on every side. He much preferred a new day kindling at the rim of the horizon like yellow candle flame. Night reminded him of his misdeeds. His mistakes. The dark moment along the turnpike. Shrugging aside the grim memory, he untied Cicero and mounted. He was nearly to the edge of town when a voice rang out like a gunshot.
“You there! Jack!”
Standing in his stirrups, he looked back over a lumbering wagon to a cadre of horses and riders, bloodhounds at their heels. Bounty hunters. The McTavishes foremost.
“We need to talk, Turlock.” The words were slurred, rum-soaked. “There’s been a spit o’ trouble.”
Jack turned into an alley and waited for them to join him, anxiety brewing in his belly. The leashed hounds were yelping and sniffing, latching onto a plethora of scents the city streets offered, most of them unsavory. One of the men leaned over and spat tobacco juice onto the cobblestones, barely missing Jack’s boot.
“Talk, then,” Jack said, unable to keep the aggravation from his tone.
“We think we’ve found what you’re looking for—you and your pa and Wade. But it’ll require more coin, as there’s bound to be trouble.” Clive McTavish paused and tucked tobacco into a sun-wrinkled cheek. “We tracked some of them runaways onto Ballantyne land two nights ago.”
Jack shifted in the saddle, ice lin
ing his spine.
“We suspect it’s your man Adam and his Ulie.”
“They’re not mine. They’re Broad Oak’s.”
Clive shrugged. “The dogs led us to New Hope. There may even be more runaways there. We ain’t sure but we aim to find out.”
Another man, Jared Sparks, maneuvered his horse closer to Jack, a smugness lining his heavy features. “This calls for a little mischief. With Silas Ballantyne downriver, the time’s ripe for it. I say we harass them, hide out, and watch their comings and goings. Give ’em a scare. The eldest daughter, she’s something of a wildcat, but the younger one . . .”
A muted whistle of appreciation turned Jack’s head. Clive McTavish muscled his way into the conversation again. “You mean the pretty, dark-haired gal? The one fresh from Philly? I saw her around town the other day. Word is she’s downright docile. Might be a good candidate for some of that mischief you mean to make—”
Jack had no memory of leaping off Cicero and taking a McTavish with him. Fists full of fabric, he shoved Clive hard against a timbered wall, epithets crowding his throat. “If there’s any trouble with the Ballantynes, I’ll send some bounty hunters after you.”
In the gleam of moonlight he read surprise—nay, outright shock—on all their faces. Straightening, never taking his eyes off Jack, Clive adjusted his hat and backed away. Few could outfight a Turlock, sober or otherwise. In the past Jack had wrangled with them, not against them, and now a somber mood ensued.
Sparks’s tone turned surly. “What do you want us to do about the search, then?”
“The search?” Jack cast him a menacing glance. “Call it off.”
“What?”
“You heard me. The bounty expires now. Keep the coin my brother paid you and say no more.” Mounting Cicero, he left the alley, his breathing labored, his stomach clenched. Hearing Ellie bandied about so coarsely left him sick. Ellie . . . docile? That hadn’t been his impression. More demure. Determined.
And no match for these men.
He knew what the McTavishes were capable of. The law was often lax in a western settlement like Pittsburgh. Allegheny County had many criminals who were never caught or punished for their crimes but simply pushed farther west to commit more.
He rode hard all the way home as if to outdistance his tangled thoughts, glad when Ben met him at the lantern-lit stable and saw to his lathered horse. “You gave Cicero quite a run, Mister Jack.” The boy’s toothy smile shone wide and reassuring. “You goin’ to turn him into a prize racehorse with all the night ridin’ you do.”
Jack simply clamped him on the shoulder in response, throat too tight for their usual banter. With a low call, Ben led the stallion away as Jack turned toward the house. The scent of lilacs, unbearably sweet, ushered Ellie into his thoughts again. Was she part of the slave harboring the bounty hunters suspected at New Hope? Having been away in Philadelphia for so long, she’d likely returned and stumbled into her family’s abolitionist activities, if there were any.
The foyer was empty and felt strangely lonesome. Mrs. Malarkey liked to retire early since she rose at dawn. He took the stairs two at a time, following the curve of the banister, the hallway lit by a single sconce. When Chloe had chosen her bedchamber from all the rooms on the second floor a fortnight before, she’d surprised him. It was their mother’s suite she’d wanted, untouched since she’d married and left home more than thirty years ago.
Jack had an almost eerie feeling when he entered, as if he’d stepped back in time. Fashion babies lined a deep windowsill, dressed in their eighteenth-century best. A writing desk held Isabel’s favorite girlhood books alongside a framed black velvet silhouette of her mother. Through an adjoining door was a dressing room containing a great many old, unfashionable garments. Everything reinforced his belief that his mother had been more of a child when she’d made the rash decision to wed his father.
Asleep atop a feather tick, Chloe looked carefree like the child she was, or he wanted her to be. Not an afterthought. Not an accident. Just a girl who’d had the misfortune of being born to an embittered mother who couldn’t embrace the present because of the past, whose unhappiness spilled over to those closest to her in increasingly callous barbs.
The sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and brush back the hair obscuring Chloe’s flushed features—to be gentle and not harsh—struck him hard. His fingers extended. Faltered. He was unaccustomed to any tenderness, any fine feeling. Turning away, he felt a twist of regret. But the old Turlock pride and stubbornness won out.
“I want you to take me fishing.”
Looking up from her lap desk, Chloe regarded Ellie with a sort of bemused wonder. They sat on the veranda, riverside, the table between them spread with books and papers.
“I’ve never been fishing,” Ellie persisted. “And I’d like to learn.”
“Seems like you’ve done everything else.”
“Not everything, Chloe.” She didn’t want to give the impression she was that accomplished. “There’s a great many things I’ve never done. Like travel by steamboat. Or tour Europe. Or have a suitor.” At this, she had Chloe’s full attention. “Nor have I ever,” she added with a slight smile, “tasted Turlock whiskey.”
Grimacing, Chloe cleared her throat and spat into the near bushes. “Oh, it’s dreadful stuff. Fit for a spittoon.” At Ellie’s raised brows, she said in a little rush, “Pa makes me take a sip at Christmas, but I just about cast up accounts doing it. He even gives me the special cinnamon whiskey women prefer, but I still hate it.”
“I’m glad fishing is more to your liking.” Ellie closed her book, signaling an end to lessons. She made a silent vow to go slowly, sensing Chloe’s patience was thread thin and would snap if too pressured. Though she did need to put in a stern word about spitting . . . “So, shall we?”
Two wide gray eyes shone with surprise. “Dressed like that?”
Ellie looked down at her sprigged muslin gown. “’Tis not good enough for fishing?”
Chloe smirked. “I’m afraid you’ll fall in.” Standing, she looked about, lingering on the stables. “Can we take Ben?”
“Ben?”
“Yes, Ben.” She hesitated, perplexity playing across her sunburned face. “He’s my . . . friend.”
With a nod, Ellie included Ben. Whoever he was, Chloe was fiercely fond of him. “Don’t forget your bonnet,” she said gently.
Chloe made a face. “I’ll go find Ben if you’ll ask Jack for the rods.”
Rods? Reading her blank expression, Chloe grinned, but it was so full of mischief Ellie wondered if she was up to more than fishing.
“Jack keeps the fishing gear in his study. It was my grandfather’s.”
“Judge O’Hara?” Of all the skeletons in Chloe’s closet, the judge was the most respectable by far. “I wouldn’t want to bother your brother—”
“Oh, you’re far less a bother than I am.” She was already off the veranda, moving past the lilacs toward the stables. “Just ask Jack for the rods and he’ll hand them over.”
Ellie began stacking books, mulling her request. They’d had but three lessons, and despite Chloe’s agile mind, restlessness and a lack of confidence undermined her natural abilities. If they interspersed study with fishing and other diversions, their time together might be a success. It was important Chloe not fail in her family’s eyes. Or her own. Nor did Ellie want to be dismissed like the French governess . . .
Or beg fishing gear from Jack Turlock.
In moments Chloe returned, a wiry, homespun-clad boy in her wake, and a little dog in his. “Where are the rods, Miss Ellie?”
“Still in your brother’s study.”
“I suppose ladies don’t pester gentlemen . . . though Jack’s hardly that.”
Stifling a chuckle, Ellie smiled at Ben. His close-napped hair was a deep auburn, his skin coffee dark. Full of feature and wary of gaze, he reminded her of someone in the attic—Adam. Might they be related? She didn’t dare ask.
Chl
oe nudged him with her elbow. “This is Ben.” Looking down at the little dog, she added, “And Max.”
But Ben hardly looked Ellie’s way. His attention was fixed on the stack of books atop the table, a small tower of them. Sensing his interest, she passed him Gulliver’s Travels as Chloe’s earlier perplexity came clear. Ben was a friend but far more. A slave, albeit a favored one.
“Do you like books, Ben?” Ellie asked.
“Ben can’t read,” Chloe said when he hung his head.
Ellie’s heart twisted. She searched through her supplies and handed him a primer. “You’re welcome to this one too. There are illustrations—pictures on every page.”
Grinning his thanks, he tucked the books into the band of his breeches, as pleased as Chloe.
“I’ll get the rods.” Whirling, Chloe nearly collided with the object of her mission as he came out the front door.
Jack stood before them, gear in hand. “I heard something about fishing.”
She squinted up at him in the glare of sunlight. “We’ll need another pole for Ell—”
“‘Miss Ballantyne’ to you,” he corrected, then turned toward Ellie with a questioning smile. Slight and unexpected as it was, it warmed her inside and out. “Fishing? Is that on the curriculum?”
“It is now,” she said, smiling back at him.
“You digging for worms too?” he asked her.
“No, Mr. Turlock, I draw the line at that.”
He relinquished the poles and left to get a third, Ellie’s gaze trailing after him. Today he was in typical dishabille, without coat or waistcoat, just rolled up shirtsleeves, riding breeches, and boots. Finely wrought spectacles rested atop his head as if he’d pushed them up and forgotten all about them. She lowered her eyes when she realized Ben was watching.
Chloe started off the veranda. “Ben and me—”
“Ben and I.” Looking up, Ellie softened the reminder with a smile.
“Ben and I will dig the worms. You wait here with the rods.”
