Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel

by Laura Frantz

  Had he?

  Overhead came the sudden shutting of a door. A baby’s cry. Ellie tensed, praying for quiet.

  Mina’s gaze fixed on the ceiling before drifting down again. “I know about the people in the attic, Ellie.” She squeezed Ellie’s hand. “Ansel told me some time ago. Perhaps we should go into the music room. I’ll be glad to accompany you on the pianoforte if you like.”

  Ellie nodded, desperate to mask the attic sounds. To ease the pain she felt over Peyton. To quell the flutter of anxiety at the mention of Daniel’s name.

  To forget Jack Turlock.

  In all his five and twenty years, Ansel had never set foot in the Allegheny County Jail. Though his father had once been temporary sheriff and the building was a respectable-looking establishment on the corner of Fourth Street, he’d never crossed its threshold till now. Sheriff Ramsay met him and Cullen Cameron at the door, surprise and regret on his weathered face.

  “Ansel, Cullen.” With a nod to them both, he returned to a wide desk lit by a single candle. Behind him yawned a narrow hall with barred cells leading to a dead-end brick wall. Skeleton keys hung nearby from a rack. “I suppose you’ve come for Peyton.”

  Ansel nodded, trying to stem the stench of urine and spirits and worse, his breathing labored from the effort.

  The sheriff took out some paperwork and inked a quill. “Bail is set at the amount written. Sign here and make payment. Then I’ll release him. But you might have trouble getting him to sit his horse. He’s that drunk.”

  Ansel winced. Richard Ramsay wasn’t known to mince words, but this was one time Ansel wished he would. He’d never seen Peyton drunk. Even the thought seemed ludicrous. He almost didn’t believe it.

  “Well, there’s a saying in Ireland about that,” Cullen murmured with forced levity. “A young man’s got to make his hay before the sun sets, whether rich or poor. I expect your brother has now done so.”

  The words failed to lessen Ansel’s disquiet, though he appreciated the older man’s efforts. Ramsay counted the money Ansel laid out—once, twice—before reaching for the keys. “Follow me, as there might be a bit of a ruckus. The jail’s full tonight, so I’ve had to combine two and three to a cell. If any try to rush the door, you’ll have to help me keep order.”

  With that, he cocked a pistol, holding it aloft, keys in the other hand. Ansel’s angst thickened. God in heaven, I’m glad Da isn’t here to witness this. It was shame enough to share the burden with Cullen Cameron, a godly man and elder in the Presbyterian Church.

  When they reached the last cell, past shouts and curses and spirit-sated laughter, Ansel felt as filthy as the floor he walked upon. A lone candle was affixed to an end wall, otherwise the cells were cast in darkness. Like hell, Ansel thought. Hell was surely full of such vile smells. And sounds.

  “That you, Ballantyne?”

  A man lunged at the bars, rattling them so hard Ansel thought they might bend. He hated that he started. But even Cullen looked wary as he turned toward the sound. Someone was spewing epithets their way—and more. A wad of spit slicked the back of Ansel’s neck, and he groped for his handkerchief in the darkness.

  “Take that, you pious upstart!” a man shouted.

  “Mind your tongue, you heathen Hennessey,” the sheriff spat back at him. “Ye’ll find no favors trying to bust out or belittle sober citizens. Get back to your cot.”

  A rattle of keys. The whine of bars swinging open. Ansel tensed at the sight of Peyton’s drawn face in a dark corner, revealing bloodshot eyes and soiled clothes that would never come clean.

  “Bail’s been posted, Ballantyne.”

  Peyton stood—or tried to—and then listed a bit. A solid figure rose in back of him, grabbed his coat collar, and heaved him toward the opening.

  Wade Turlock.

  Ansel’s gaze shot round the fetid cell for a second shadow, sure Jack was there too.

  “That . . . you . . . Ansel?”

  Peyton’s words, hopelessly slurred, brought more shame. Ansel had to shoulder him out as the sheriff slammed the door behind them, his voice overriding the din. “I have his personal effects up front—a pistol and the like.”

  Ansel gathered up Peyton’s belongings while Cullen led him outside. How they would get him home was a mystery. He clearly couldn’t sit his horse. Tonight the few miles to New Hope seemed one too many.

  15

  More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

  ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

  Long after the music had faded, Ellie lay awake, listening to the house settle, trying not to think of jail and the strange matter of bail. ’Twas all too easy to ponder River Hill instead and wonder whether Chloe was abed, or whether Jack . . . Stifling the thought, she turned on her side, the linen pillow slip smooth against her heated cheek. Old houses seemed to have noises that only came alive at night. Though she didn’t believe in ghosts, she felt River Hill and New Hope a fine haven for them, full of dusty memories from another century.

  At midnight the Edinburgh-made clock in the foyer far below struck a resounding twelve notes like little chimes. Ellie felt a ripple of unrest at another sound. Approaching horses. Her heart seized. Bounty hunters?

  Lord, protect us, please . . .

  Mina slept alongside her, her breathing deep and even. Tonight Ansel wasn’t home to throw open the door, rifle in hand, Andra in his wake. Just two helpless women. Getting up, she reached for her dressing gown and felt her way to the door, dredging up Scripture to keep her knees from knocking. The Lord is my rock, my fortress . . .

  A key clicked in a lock. The front door swung wide as she peered into the foyer below.

  Peyton looked up at her, bewhiskered and red-eyed, Ansel silent and serious behind him. She hovered on the top step, wondering what Andra would do in such a moment. Lambast Peyton, most likely. She felt a rush of gratitude her parents couldn’t see their firstborn so . . . undone.

  Hurrying down the stairs, she read a question in Peyton’s eyes. Unable to bear that querying look, she did what her heart bid and slipped her arms around him in an awkward embrace. He stiffened, unused to her touch, clearly uncomfortable with any display of affection. Or far too inebriated to appreciate it.

  Ansel’s frown deepened as Peyton pulled away and moved past them, treading up the stairs like lead lined his shoes, gripping the balustrade to stay his swaying.

  “It’s all right, Ellie.” Ansel’s words held wry exasperation. “His pride is damaged. But he’s got plenty left.”

  “What happened?”

  “The sheriff told of a bet, a brawl. Someone insulted Wade and a duel was threatened. The men’s club is a bit of a wreck as a result. Damages will have to be paid.”

  “Was Wade’s brother involved?”

  He looked at her, surprise sketched across his features. “Gentleman Jack? Why do you ask?”

  “I . . . I’ve been . . .”A small thread of hope tightened round her heart. “I’ve been praying for him.”

  “About his drinking and carousing, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Da used to visit him in jail. He even gave him a Bible.”

  “Jack? And he kept it? Didn’t pitch it in the river or gamble it away?” He looked bemused at the thought. “I wonder how many of those Bibles that Da’s given out are ever used?”

  Ansel was studying her, and a wave of guilt swamped any high feeling. He didn’t know she went to River Hill. No one knew but Mamie and the stable hands. What would Ansel say? Keeping it secret seemed devious, but she wasn’t comfortable sharing it . . . yet.

  She changed course. “Your sweetheart is above stairs.”

  He nodded absently as if he’d forgotten. “And Adam and Ulie?”

  “I took supper up to them. They’re ready to leave with Dr. Brunot when it’s safe.”

  His face clouded. “I’d meant to send word to Brunot tonight. But there’s still some sign of bloodhounds and slave catchers along the far shore.”

  Hearing it, she
felt small and overwhelmed. “I’ll feel better when Da is back—and Mama.”

  “They’ll soon walk through that door to find you here—and Andra gone.” He released a pent-up breath. “I wonder what Da will have to say about that.”

  Ellie was more worried about Mama’s reaction, especially where Andra was concerned. She had more to pray about than Jack and Chloe Turlock, truly.

  Dr. Brunot came the next eve, pulling the carriage known as a liberator into the lantern-lit stable at nearly midnight. Adam and Ulie were waiting, knapsacks brimming with food and clothing to see them north. Ansel had taken care to fit them with new shoes, and Ellie wondered how many miles they would go to find freedom. The Quaker settlements were close, but Canada seemed a world away.

  Handing Adam a Bible, Ellie was touched by the sheen in his eyes. He couldn’t yet speak, but he’d begun to read, and his appreciation was unmistakable. Ellie hugged Ulie and the baby as Brunot opened the trap door in the false bottom of the carriage. Surely a more cramped, uncomfortable ride couldn’t be found. Ellie felt an overwhelming need to know they’d be safe, that the next haven would indeed be welcoming, but the night held few guarantees.

  Removing his hat, Brunot bowed his head and offered up one of the most heartfelt prayers Ellie had ever heard. When the coach clattered away into the night, Ansel lingered in the stables while Ellie returned to the house.

  She lay awake in her bedchamber long after the coach had departed, but the sound of its wheels atop the drive didn’t seem to fade. She would never forget the cruelty of Adam’s injuries. Or all that Ulie had suffered at the hands of the Turlocks’ overseer. While her heart was too full for sleeping, the attic was all too empty.

  Mamie served strawberry ice for breakfast the next morning as the sun poked fierce spokes across New Hope’s grounds, banishing the dew by seven o’clock. “Summer is here,” she crowed in satisfaction, standing amidst her kitchen garden. Old Jacob had been working night and day to restore the physic and formal gardens to their former glory, while Mamie labored over her own humble patch. “Look at these herbs already flowerin’. Glad we took two tons of ice from the river last winter, or this heat would curdle all my cream.”

  ’Twas the end of June. Ellie felt time slipping through her fingers like river sand. She went about her morning duties as if driven, thoughts on River Hill and afternoon lessons. A wheel was being repaired on the coach, denying her the usual transport, so she asked a groom to ready the two-wheeled chaise. Peyton, fully recovered from the debacle with Wade yet tight-lipped about the lapse, had left for the levee at dawn with Ansel. Only Mamie eyed her with concern as Ellie placed her bundle of flower seeds and sewing basket beneath the seat, the pearl-handled pistol hidden within.

  Mamie gestured to the rear platform where a groom usually perched. “Where’s your escort?”

  Ellie stepped up into the vehicle and smiled in reassurance. “The stables are busy today. Two of Da’s prize mares are foaling and the coach is being repaired.” She sat atop the upholstered seat and arranged her skirts, glad the chaise’s leather bonnet half hid her from Mamie’s probing gaze. “I’ll take the back road. ’Tis quicker that way.” Feeling a twinge of conscience, she confessed, “I wouldn’t want to miss lessons with Chloe Turlock.”

  “Well, you look like a fine lady even if you be bound for Hades itself.”

  “Oh, Mamie, you should see it. Next to New Hope, River Hill is the most wondrous place in all of Allegheny County.” She took up the reins—ribbons, the grooms called them—unable to contain her delight at riding out on so beautiful a day. “I’ll be home by suppertime.”

  Round the stables she went and out a side lane, birdsong bursting all around her. A warm wind tugged at the chin ribbons of her straw hat, and she slowed the horse to a walk, wanting to savor every minute. All dark thoughts seemed to take wing on such a sunny afternoon.

  She’d not taken the back road for years. In the early days it had been little more than an Indian trail north, bordered by giant hardwoods and abundant berry vines. Seldom used, it seemed safer than the main thoroughfares. Her brothers needn’t worry, nor Mamie.

  Reaching down, she felt beneath the seat for her basket, her anticipation of planting a garden making the miles fade to mere inches. Chloe’s enthusiasm had surprised her—the prospect of digging in the dirt garnered as much interest as fishing. Contrary to what she’d expected, Chloe threw herself wholeheartedly into anything Ellie suggested. Even Jack seemed surprised.

  Her pulse quickened as River Hill’s gate loomed in the distance. How different than the dread she’d felt at first, when she’d gone to honor Chloe’s request and Jack had turned her away. Unconventional, unpredictable Jack. She flicked the ribbons harder as if to outrun any further thought of him, sliding slightly on the seat as she took a bend in the road too quickly.

  Here the trees grew so close the way was dark as a tunnel. Shadows loomed everywhere she looked. Her gaze fixed on a break in the trees just ahead where light again limned the road. The bay was acting strangely skittish, slowing down slightly, ears flickering nervously. Ellie ignored the shiver of fear that skimmed over her till the chaise shuddered to a sudden halt . . .

  Before a wall of men.

  Bullwhips, ropes, and handcuffs were lashed to half a dozen saddles, the horses restless, the dust roiling. She blinked against the grit of gray, and the reins grew slack in her gloved hands.

  If ill will could be felt, she felt it—a cold malevolence like icy fingers on warm skin.

  Three men were on horses, three on foot. All were masked. In seconds a hard hand clutched her arm, propelling her out of her seat. She heard the jarring tear of fabric as it caught on some trappings. Her skirt? The men circled round, tightening like a noose. Though her eyes were everywhere at once, her breath came in short, desperate bursts, her voice not at all.

  “Well, Miss Ballantyne, I’ve a mind to hold you for ransom. But since your pa ain’t here to pay, we’re after other things.”

  She stood, limbs like wax, as the vehicle was searched, her sewing basket flung open, seeds scattered, the pistol confiscated. A sudden slashing sent her shaking. Were they knifing the bonnet of the carriage to ribbons? The poor bay was straining against the harness, clearly as terrified as she.

  “Stop!” The word burst out of her but was drowned out by their laughter as they held up a dainty handkerchief meant for Chloe.

  Another man drew near, dwarfing her with his largeness. “Let me have a look.”

  The dark eyes slanting down at her were full of some darkness she couldn’t name. With one deft move he jerked her hat free and sent it into a ditch before taking her roughly by the chin.

  “God forbid, but you’re ever’ bit as pretty as I’ve been told.” His other hand was in her hair, scattering its pins. At his touch she felt soiled, nearly nauseous.

  “Please—stop!” Jerking away, she tripped over the boots of one man only to be righted by another. Ensnared again. They were laughing harder, the carriage in tatters, passing her from hand to hand in an endless circle, groping at her skirts, her tumbled hair, her gloves.

  “Leave her be.” The lone man left on horseback spoke, angling his head to the east. Without another word, he rode off in the direction she’d come, his henchmen following.

  Pulling in one ragged breath, then two, Ellie didn’t think she’d make it one step farther. Her heart drew her to home, but she couldn’t go back that way lest she meet up with the men again. Her only recourse was forward. Fixing her gaze on River Hill’s distant gates, she tried to calm the bay before climbing shakily into the battered chaise, hoping Jack would be away, trying to summon words for Chloe when she saw her.

  The crunch of wheels atop the cobbled courtyard seemed to shout her arrival—as did the decrepit condition of her vehicle. A stable hand rushed to assist her, his shocked expression underscoring her predicament. Ellie’s heart sank further when Chloe came running from the garden, Ben trailing. At the sight of her, Chloe’s mouth for
med a perfect O. White-faced, she wheeled toward the house, Jack’s name on her lips.

  Standing in the sunlight as a great many men gathered to examine the chaise, Ellie put trembling hands to her hair, trying to draw the length into a knot only to realize she couldn’t. Nary a hairpin.

  “You all right, Miz Ballantyne?” To her left was an elderly black man she’d never before seen, concern deepening the grooves in his solemn face.

  She managed a nod, unable to force a reply past her parched throat. Spots began to dance before her eyes, stealing away her vision. Her skin felt warm to the point of fever, her stomach at sea.

  Oh, for a shaded eave . . . a sip of water.

  She tried to anchor her faltering gaze to an approaching figure, to little avail. Aside from the purposeful stride, she could barely make out who it was. Taking a few tentative steps toward the tall shadow, she collapsed at Jack Turlock’s feet.

  16

  He felt now that he was not simply close to her but that he did not know where he ended and she began.

  LEO TOLSTOY

  At Chloe’s cry, Jack shot upright, almost overturning a bottle of ink. He’d been writing out the notice of sale for River Hill, carefully considering the terms, wanting no distractions. Pushing away from his desk, he left his study and cleared the hall in long strides, the alarm in her tone raking his every nerve. She rounded the corner to the foyer just as he did, her eyes alive with panic.

  “Miss Ellie—she’s—”

  Ellie? Alarm drenched him at the mere mention of her name. Brushing past Chloe, he strode through the open front door, assessing everything in a heartbeat. The battered chaise. A passel of helpless stable hands. Dust and sunlight. And Ellie standing forlornly on the cobbles, hatless, her hair falling like a sooty curtain to her waist, her body trembling beneath a disheveled blue dress.