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

by Laura Frantz

  His voice rang out harshly as he cleared the steps. “Take the carriage to the coach house and turn the horse to pasture!” Used to his demands, the help scattered, sparing him their gawking.

  “Ellie . . .” He held out a hand as he walked toward her, but it seemed she couldn’t see him, couldn’t focus. Her eyes were strangely blank, her cheeks like fire.

  “Jack . . . ?” She seemed to melt before his eyes, swaying before he could reach her, and fell to the ground at his feet.

  “Send for Dr. Brunot!” He shouted it, so panicked himself it seemed he shook when he gathered her up in his arms. He was barely aware of Chloe on his heels, crying and asking frantic questions till Mrs. Malarkey led her away.

  He carried Ellie into the house, across the foyer into the blue room, and gently laid her on a sofa covered with an enormous dust cloth. Dirt smudged one of her cheeks, and he spied a dangling button on her bodice, a tear in her skirt. The sight shattered what little remained of his calm. He felt a wild, thundering rush of something he couldn’t name. She’d clearly been hurt. Manhandled. Assaulted?

  God, no. God, help.

  Her eyes slowly opened. “Where am I?”

  His voice sounded strangled. “In the blue room. The front parlor.”

  “I-I need to go home.” She struggled to sit up, palms flat against the sofa.

  He knelt in front of her, taking her gloved hands in his. “Ellie, I can’t let you leave till you tell me what’s happened.”

  Instead of answering, she wilted against him, her face nestled against the curve of his neck. This close he could feel the tick of her heart against his own racing pulse. She seemed so fragile . . . like lace or new snow. And the scent of her was like nothing he’d ever known. It was all too easy to cradle her, solace her. “You’re safe now. Dr. Brunot is coming.”

  She drew back a bit. “I’m not hurt. Just frightened. Please—send for Ansel.”

  Ansel. Not Peyton. Why, he wondered?

  “Ellie, talk to me.” His mouth was near her ear, his face half buried in the glossy length of her hair. He shut his eyes, overcome. Ashamed of his desire when she was in need of comfort, protection. “Tell me what happened.”

  She shuddered. “Some men—they stopped me on my way here.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “No . . . they were all masked. I-I can’t remember what they said. They’d been drinking—I could smell spirits. One of them knew my name.”

  He swallowed hard, all but choking on the question, “Did they . . . hurt you?”

  “Only the chaise. They seemed to be searching for something.” She raised her head, regret in her gaze. “I shouldn’t have come alone.”

  “Aye, but what’s done is done.” His relief was short-lived as fury gained the upper hand, white-hot and unrelenting. He was far more at home with this than any fine feeling, only too glad to let his yearning ebb. “Stay here till Dr. Brunot and Ansel come.”

  She nodded absently, sitting back on the sofa. The blue room, unused for a quarter of a century or better, was dark, and he went to get a light. Dust cloths covered the finely crafted Chippendale furnishings, hiding their graceful lines and rococo ornamentation, the damask drapes and shutters drawn. He returned with a candelabra, glad the room was cool, if stale. Pulling on an antique bell cord, he summoned Mrs. Malarkey and asked for tea, lingering on Ellie as she looked about the once grand room.

  “What is that hiding in the corner?” she asked quietly.

  Glad to distract her, he glanced at the musical instrument the judge had been so fond of. “The first armonica west of the mountains.”

  “A glass harp? Dr. Franklin’s invention?” Her haunted expression now shone with such delight it almost seemed the wretched afternoon had never happened. “Do you . . . play anything, Jack?”

  “Cards,” he murmured, taking a chair across from her and trying to keep his eye on the musical novelty.

  She smiled slightly, bemusedly, drawing his attention back to her again. Candlelight was gilding her hair as it fell in waves to her waist, turning her so fetching he felt his throat tighten. He’d never seen her with her hair down. He’d only imagined it . . . and had fallen fall short of the mark. “Do you . . .” he asked, more polite than he’d ever been, “play an instrument?”

  “Only the harp.”

  Only. Like the angel she was. Like the angelic mural gracing the stairwell at Broad Oak, the only bit of heaven in an otherwise miserable house. “I’ve never heard the harp,” he admitted.

  Her surprise was plain. “Never?”

  “There’s precious little chamber music in gin rooms, Ellie.”

  “Oh, Jack . . .”

  He wasn’t sure what dismayed her more, mentioning gin rooms or his complete ignorance of music. He wasn’t even sure how to operate the armonica, if time and neglect hadn’t stilled it forever. Tearing his attention from her, he looked toward the door and spied Chloe peering through a crack. Before he could motion her in, the door clicked closed.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Malarkey soon served tea, eyes round as carriage wheels at Ellie’s tumbled appearance. He half expected her to bring hairpins next, but she left as quickly as her arthritic legs would allow, leaving the door open wide in her wake as if to rebuke them for being alone.

  As Ellie sipped her tea, he excused himself and sent word to Ansel, wishing Dr. Brunot would hurry. He had important business at Broad Oak and was determined to finish it before dusk.

  Ansel rode in within the hour, his expression fraught with anxiety as he bypassed the stables and dismounted in front of River Hill’s front veranda. Jack met him there, realizing he’d been a bit too terse in his note, wishing he’d gone to fetch Ansel himself. He’d not spoken with Ellie’s youngest brother in years, only seen him along the levee at a distance or in passing on the road. Unlike Peyton, who ignored him, Ansel always nodded and gave a greeting. But he had none for Jack now and looked absolutely perplexed at finding Ellie at River Hill.

  “She’s all right,” Jack said, leading him into the house. “There was some trouble on the road—highwaymen, maybe. They ruined the hood of her carriage, but she’s unharmed.”

  “So she came here?”

  The confusion on his face set Jack’s heart to pounding. This, he realized, was the end for Ellie and Chloe. Obviously Ansel didn’t know of their arrangement. And didn’t approve. Why hadn’t she told him? The answer came, and there was no shrugging it off.

  Because Ellie was ashamed of their tie.

  The certainty left him slightly sick. It was just as he’d told Chloe in the garden. A Ballantyne would never consort with a Turlock unless it was some sort of mercy mission. And Ansel’s shocked expression was confirming it now.

  Jack stopped just shy of the blue room. “Dr. Brunot is on his way. I’ve some business elsewhere. If you need a coach, an escort to return you home—”

  “Nay,” Ansel replied, going in to Ellie and shutting the parlor door.

  Jack galloped down the back road linking New Hope and River Hill like a man possessed, his stallion raising clouds of dust that swirled like smoke to his thighs. The sight of the fracas was easy enough to find. Signs of several horses lingered in the dirt, as well as Ellie’s carriage tracks. Their wayward trail indicated she’d nearly been run off the road.

  His fury spiked at the sight of a sewing basket discarded in a ditch amidst scattered garden seed. She’d obviously been too frightened to retrieve what was left of it. His worry deepened. Were these random thugs . . . highwaymen? Or slave catchers and bounty hunters? They’d left no evidence as to their identity, none that he could discern after a thorough going-over of the sight.

  He picked up Ellie’s basket, eyes drawn to her discarded hat in a near ditch, the fine fabric and flowers battered beyond repair. He secreted both in the hollow of an oak to retrieve for her on his way home. For now he was intent on Broad Oak, wretched mission that it was.

  As usual, he found Wade supervising the steaming mash tubs, with Jo
siah Kilgore inside the main distilling room. Glasses in hand, they downed the contents at Jack’s approach and turned toward him with little trace of welcome.

  “Join us for a little pre-supper libation, Jack?” Already half inebriated, Kilgore gestured to a tapped barrel.

  Wade was regarding Jack with mild amusement—maybe even a touch of scorn. Jack preferred gin, cheap and plentiful, a betrayal of the Turlock name and trade. It had been a source of dissension for years.

  Jack shook his head and sent Kilgore on his way with a look. Thoughts full of Ellie, he motioned Wade beyond the hearing of numerous slaves. His voice, when it finally came, was so low it belied the storm inside him. “What’s happening with the bounty hunters?”

  Wade regarded him coldly. “What bounty hunters?”

  “You led me to believe you’d called off the search.”

  Heat threaded the blue-gray eyes. “No, Jack, you did when you pinned a McTavish to the wall.”

  “Last time I was here, standing by the new still, you said you’d not enforce the bounty if it gained you the shipping deal with Peyton Ballantyne.”

  Wade shrugged, turning surly and evasive, a habit Jack hated. No matter what was said, he couldn’t trust his brother—and never turned his back to him. Wade bent nearer the barrel to refill his glass, his smile in place when he straightened. “I’ve not yet sealed the deal, so—”

  Muttering a curse, Jack seized his shirtfront and shoved him against the nearest wall. The glass Wade held clattered to the wooden floor, sloshing whiskey onto Jack’s boots. Jack jerked the pistol from his waistband and pressed it against his brother’s temple. “I want proof that the bounty is void by tonight. And I need to know what the McTavishes were doing around one o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Careful, Jack.” Wade tried to shake him off, but Jack pressed the pistol nearer till he stilled.

  “By tonight,” he repeated. “And if I find you lied—”

  “Having a disagreement, boys?” Their father’s sturdy silhouette filled the nearest doorway, his voice low and deep. It was the same quiet, measured tone that warned Henry’s mood was growing dangerous. “Put away your pistol, Jack. Surely there’s no call for that.”

  The irony of the words shattered Jack’s focus.

  Surely there’s no call . . .

  Yet Henry Turlock had shot a lawman in the back before his very eyes when Jack was just a boy. Over whiskey and an unpaid debt. No one but the two of them knew where the sheriff was buried. His father had threatened to kill Jack if he told.

  Slowly Jack lowered the pistol, letting it go slack in his hand, though his gaze remained locked with Wade’s, underscoring his words. Would he kill a man to ensure Ellie’s safety? Aye. His own brother? Aye. The violent footprints his father had made were all too easy to follow.

  “Ansel, please, I didn’t mean to deceive. I was only trying to help school Chloe.” Ellie’s plea fell flat in the stuffy confines of the Turlock coach as its antique frame bumped and swayed over the main road to New Hope. Though it was a decidedly neglected conveyance, much like the rest of River Hill, she was thankful Jack had lent it to them. The chaise would remain behind for now till Ansel arranged for repairs.

  Across from her, her brother’s usual calm was decidedly ruffled. Rarely was Ansel angry, but today she’d dealt him a double blow. She’d had no escort. And she was consorting with the enemy. Though he had never maligned the Turlocks to her hearing, his silence was just as damning. He saw them for what they were—poisonous distillers and slave owners in dire need of God’s saving grace, and having none of it.

  He leaned back against the upholstered seat, his blue eyes grieved. “El, I received word you’d met with trouble on the back road, something that might have been avoided if you’d had an escort. Then I ride to River Hill to find you looking quite at home in Jack Turlock’s parlor—”

  “It’s not what it seems. I go there for Chloe. For lessons.” Even as she spoke the words, she felt warm as a cup of tea—and more than a tad blameworthy. “She’s like any other girl under my tutelage.”

  “How long has this gone on?”

  “More than a month . . .” She cringed at the surprise in his eyes. “I-I’ve said little, knowing Andra wouldn’t be pleased—”

  “Not only Andra. Our saintly mother might make peace with your mission, but the rest of us see it for what it is—foolish, dangerous. This afternoon, riding unescorted, you could have been . . .” He left off, delivering the dreaded ultimatum. “You can’t return to River Hill.”

  Ellie clenched her hands in her lap, thinking of Chloe’s frightened face as they’d ridden away. She’d appeared in an upstairs window, likely banished there by Jack, who’d disappeared once Ansel arrived. Ellie had wanted to say goodbye, reassure Chloe all was well, but there’d been no time. The thought of not seeing her again held a wrench she’d not anticipated.

  “Please don’t say anything to anyone about the trouble,” Ellie entreated, thinking how caustic Peyton could be.

  “I won’t, but you will.” Ansel’s voice, in his dismay, held a hint of Scots, so like their father’s. “The Elinor docked an hour ago. Da and Mama have disembarked and are on their way home to New Hope.”

  As she brushed and repinned her hair, Ellie’s fingers trembled with excitement—and trepidation. Of all the days for her parents to return! The mirror in her room cast back a pale face and a slight bruise on her chin, a telling reminder of the frightening afternoon. She would tell her father and mother the truth—but not on the day of their homecoming. Thankfully, the ruined chaise was hidden away at River Hill, and the Turlock coach that returned them home had ridden out of sight. The ugly bruise she could do little about. She feared it was something her keen-eyed father wouldn’t miss.

  She hid her torn dress in the clothespress, left her bedchamber, and hurried to the third-floor window of the landing, taking in the expansive view. The Allegheny glided by, a mesmerizing blue, the road alongside bearing a passing dray and a few riders on horseback. No Ballantyne coach or baggage wagon stirred the summer dust just yet.

  By now Andra would have had the house in a spin, issuing last-minute orders, airing their parents’ rooms, reviewing the dinner menu, sending the staff for fresh flowers. Thinking it, Ellie felt mired in inadequacy. Andra wasn’t here but in York. She herself had been home mere minutes, feeling chastised as a child by Ansel in the coach. The household was utterly unprepared. She didn’t even know where the maids were.

  As she tread the staircase to the foyer below, Mari and Gwyn sped past, arms full of flowers. Mama loved her garden, and thankfully, despite the storm, it had survived, even thrived. Truly, the lilies had never seemed so fragrant, the late June roses so deep a pink. Ellie caught their perfume as they went by and breathed a prayer of thanks.

  Ansel came down the stairs, expression still tense. “I wouldn’t say anything about this afternoon, El. Save it for later. We’ve enough on our hands explaining Andra’s absence . . . among other things.”

  He was thinking of Peyton, she knew. Each of them had a story to tell. Of jail time and York and being accosted on a back road. Ellie was ashamed that so much had transpired in her parents’ absence. It made them all seem so . . . inadequate. Likely her parents would never go traveling again.

  Taking a bracing breath, she stood on the wide front veranda, fighting for poise when she felt like pacing, unwelcome images springing to mind. The beguiling blue parlor. The antique armonica. The moment Jack’s concern for her had melted his unflappable reserve and allowed her a glimpse into his heart. Strangely, it was these impressions that were uppermost, not the terror of what had happened along the back road.

  “Here they come,” Ansel said.

  Ellie focused, done with daydreaming, her whole world righting again. Shoulder to shoulder, she and her brother followed the dusty path of the largest Ballantyne coach with expectant eyes, its journey weighted with luggage, the big wheels turning impossibly slow.

  Despite ev
erything that had happened, she felt an unbridled happiness take hold. It seemed she was a child again, awaiting her handsome father after some trip, shivering with delight at the very thought of what he might bring her. A wax doll. A miniature tea set. Some frippery from a far port. Only now she was nearly one and twenty. And he wasn’t even aware she was waiting.

  The servants were assembling—maids, stable hands, the gardener, and Mamie—though they remained on the porch behind Ellie and Ansel. Emotions running high, Ellie wished for a more private homecoming, though Mama always liked to include everyone.

  The coachman began to slow the horses as they rounded the circular drive, keeping the summer dust to a minimum. When the vehicle shuddered to a halt, the finely painted door swung open with the aid of a groom, and everyone seemed to hold a collective breath.

  The first to alight, Eden Lee Ballantyne fastened her warm gaze on Ellie, unabashed surprise and pleasure in their depths. Ellie had almost forgotten how lovely her mother was. She had a timeless beauty that never seemed to ebb, though her fiery hair at midcentury had faded to auburn.

  “Daughter, you’ve come home—all the way from Philadelphia!” There was an undeniable question in the welcome as Ansel helped her down. She hugged them both but clung to Ellie the longest. “Well, let me look at you . . . You’re every bit the rose I remember. But where’s Andra?”

  “Andra is away—” Ellie began.

  “We’ve much to tell you,” Ansel said, turning to their father next. “I suppose you saw Peyton at the levee.”

  “Aye.” Silas Ballantyne cast a formidable shadow in the glare of sunlight. He squinted as he looked toward Ellie, his tanned face creasing in a smile. “But he said naught about Ellie being home.”

  Slipping free of her mother’s embrace, Ellie found herself locked in her father’s hard arms till all the breath left her lungs. “I’d hoped to surprise you—for your birthday.”

  “Surprise me? That you’ve done in spades.”