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

by Laura Frantz

“I came home in April, during the storm,” she said in a little rush, “but safely.”

  Ansel shot a wary glance her way as if he feared she’d mention Jack. But she simply smiled up at her father, determined to steer clear of such foundering matters. “You and Mama look wonderful, rested, despite all the merriment in New Orleans.”

  He clasped her shoulders with gloved hands, jade eyes roaming over her as if he couldn’t quite believe it was she. “And you? Have you had enough of Philadelphia? Are you quite finished?”

  She bit her lip, moved by the emotion in his lined face. “Madame Moreau might say otherwise, but I believe I am.”

  When he brought her close again, she tried to stem her emotions, but her relief at having him home was so great and her ordeal of the afternoon was so harrowing, she rested her cheek against the lapel of his fine broadcloth coat and cried.

  “Is oniething the matter, Daughter? Or are you just glad to have us hame?”

  His tender Scots set her at ease. “Both,” she whispered, not wanting to alarm him. “I’ll tell you all about it soon.”

  She stepped back when Mamie’s voice sounded, calling for them to come inside. She had a tea tray set for Mama, some flip for Father. The evening promised to be very late indeed.

  17

  He who bestows his goods upon the poor shall have as much again, and ten times more.

  JOHN BUNYAN

  The day, Jack mused, seemed to have a touch of eternity in it. Since Ellie had met with trouble that afternoon, time seemed to drag with little to fill the long hours but dark thoughts. Returning to his study after confronting Wade at Broad Oak, he sat at his desk, his emotions in a snarl, unsettled as the Monongahela at flood stage. It was all he could do to scrawl empty words across the paper before him, trying to ignore the fierce knot in his gut.

  The land, twelve hundred acres, is very good, drained and ditched. The house, built in the former century, is sound, the dependencies made of Fort Pitt brick . . .

  If this was the proper course of action, why did his soul sink lower with every word?

  Vexatio dat intellectum. Vexation sharpens the intellect.

  Nay, he thought, pushing away from the desk. A little vexation, perhaps, not a boatload. Although Dr. Brunot had come and assured him Ellie had only been frightened and roughly handled, it failed to ease him. His ensuing confrontation with Wade had resulted in frustration and few answers. Chloe was now sulking and morose, likely realizing Ellie wouldn’t be back. Even Mrs. Malarkey was keeping to her room. And the battered chaise remained in River Hill’s coach house, an ever-present reminder of all the trouble.

  At candlelight, he left his office, the gloom of evening matching his mood. Sweat slicked his brow, as the day had been the warmest thus far, promising a feverish summer. Undressing by the riverbank, he left his clothes atop a rhododendron bush and dove into the cold current, wishing the water could wash away his turmoil. The far bank seemed endless, but he finally reached it, spent and nearly sick, lungs seared from lack of air. He’d not eaten, he remembered, since breakfast.

  Still winded, he returned to the opposite shore, where he shook off and dressed, his gaze drawn to the ground beyond his boots. Sometimes he sighted bear, cougar, and other animal signs in the tangle of reeds and underbrush, but these . . . These were human footprints, each distinct as bare feet met river sand, all leading to one place.

  The forgotten tunnel.

  In his grandfather’s day, when hospitality was at its peak, before Jack’s mother had disgraced herself by running off with a Turlock, the tunnel had been built to hasten supplies from boat to house in all kinds of weather. Busy as he’d been elsewhere, he’d never used it, letting the vegetation choke the entrance, the dock and moorings fall into disrepair.

  Curious, he followed the trail, finding the overgrowth slightly disturbed, as if the trespassers were being careful . . . wary. Alarm scissored inside him, and his right hand rested on the pistol at his waist. Shoving aside a mulberry branch, he ducked low and stepped inside the tunnel’s entrance.

  Smoke stung his senses, and he heard the drip of water from moss-covered bricks taken from Fort Pitt the century before. Smoke, aye . . . an endless dripping . . . a distressed cry. The latter sent the hair on his neck bristling. He wanted it to be an animal, but there was no mistake. He’d heard the sound of newborns wailing in the servants’ quarters at Broad Oak for years.

  “Who’s there?” His voice was thunderous, hurling through the tunnel and sounding just like his father’s.

  Silence.

  He sprinted back to the house, taking a different route so he wouldn’t be seen, and came into the keeping room that led to the brick-lined cellar and the tunnel’s other entrance. Taking up a lantern, he fumbled with flint and tinder till it flashed before jerking open the heavy door closed for a decade or better. The resulting groan threatened his resolve, but he shrugged aside his misgivings and plunged ahead through spiderwebbing and dank darkness.

  “Please, sir—don’t shoot!”

  Lantern held high, he stood over them, a ragged, frightened knot of slumped shoulders and bare backs etched permanently with a horse whip, a dozen terrified eyes turned his way. A woman’s sobs tore at him, but it was the babe’s crying that rent his heart.

  Jack took in the young mother’s tear-wet face, saw the newborn she clutched as if fearing he would grab hold and fling it away from her. Bloodied rags lay in a heap about her, and her thin dress was little better. Was she hemorrhaging?

  “We be gone soon, sir,” one man said. “We mean no harm. Just lookin’ for a place called Hope.”

  New Hope?

  The Ballantynes were deeply involved then. Jack leaned into the wall, eyes on the faint remains of a fire they’d made. The smell of river water overrode the odor of old bricks, even smoke. Indecision weighted him. He could simply wait till dark, send them a few miles more to Ballantyne land and be done with it. “Come with me. I won’t cause trouble for you if you’ll cooperate.”

  At that, a muscular man lumbered to his feet, a younger man after him. Out of the shadows came another woman. Blast! How many?

  Someone moved to pick up the new mother, another the child. Turning, Jack led the way back through the tunnel to the keeping room, the events of a too-long day overtaking him. Above ground, he summoned Mrs. Malarkey, who surveyed the tattered company with such abhorrence it seemed she was seeing ghosts. In a heartbeat he recalled her Southern, proslavery roots.

  “Ready the empty cottage nearest the house. My father’s transferred these slaves downriver to me.” The lie was strangely bitter, but he pressed on. “And tell Solomon I want Dr. Brunot sent for . . . again.”

  Sated from Mamie’s feast of chicken fricassee followed by raspberry flummery, Ellie sat with Mama on the back veranda till she went upstairs to bed. A night wind was coming off the river, ruffling the edges of Ellie’s muslin dress and spreading the scent of honeysuckle to the far corners. An occasional insect flitted about but was hardly noticed, quickly banished with the swish of a fan.

  Table talk had been light at supper, in keeping with the spirit of thankfulness that graced every gathering. The Scots meals of his youth had been merry if meager, her father always said, and he’d not ruin fine fare with unpalatable conversation. Weighty matters always waited till later, often discussed behind closed doors. Still, Ellie’s thoughts wove about in a decidedly unmerry manner, and she wondered if Peyton would tell of his time in jail or Ansel of the bounty hunters. As it was, Ellie couldn’t dismiss the shocked look on Mama’s face when she’d first set foot in the house and learned Andra had gone east.

  “To York? Is my mother ill again?”

  Ellie hoped Ansel would give a soft answer, but Peyton spoke first, ever brusque. “Ill, aye. Perhaps dying. Last month a letter came from your sister Elspeth.”

  Her parents exchanged a glance.

  “The post is on Andra’s desk,” Ellie said softly, starting up the stairs to retrieve it.

  The
foyer was all too quiet when she returned. Mama took the letter, expression laden with alarm.

  Da fixed them all with a solemn eye. “When did your sister leave for York?”

  “Early this month, soon after she received the post.” Ansel rubbed his jaw, where a day’s growth of beard glinted. “There was no dissuading her. She promised to send word once she arrived, but we’ve not yet heard.”

  Mama finished reading the letter and passed it to their father, who simply pocketed it. No more was said, the conversation turning to the storm and repairs both at home and in town. As the night lengthened and a late supper was served, Ellie fought to stay awake, waiting till Mama was abed and her brothers had left the study to take her turn. Despite the late hour, the study door was ajar in invitation.

  She stood on the threshold, drinking in the sight of the man her small world revolved around. He glanced up from his desk, a smile softening his intensity in the glow of candlelight. “You’re a patient lass to wait so long.”

  Relieved, she took a stool nearest him, the embroidered top fashioned by Mama’s own hand. When little, she’d twirled upon it till she grew dizzy, but tonight she sat stone still, hands folded in her lap. If confession was good for the soul, she was anxious to end the tumultuous day and bare her heart. “Did Ansel tell you . . . anything?”

  “About you?” Their eyes met, his questioning. “Nae.”

  “Then I’d best start from the beginning.” Not one to mince words with her plain-speaking father, she came straight to the point. “I left Philadelphia because the Matrimonial Society was hounding me.”

  His mouth quirked in a wry grin. “You’re of an age to be hounded, aye?”

  She nearly smiled. “I suppose I am.” In hindsight, the society didn’t seem so bad. Perhaps they’d simply had a mission. “On the way home the weather overtook me, and I sought refuge at Widow Meyer’s tavern.”

  “A tavern.” The words were threaded with surprise. “Where was your maid?”

  Where, indeed. “Rose eloped after I released her from her indenture document. She wanted to marry a tradesman she’d met in the city. I wanted to come home.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off her.

  “There, along the turnpike, I met up with Jack Turlock.” Her gaze fell to the paperwork atop the broad desk, all awaiting his signature or perusal. She couldn’t bear the displeasure she feared she’d find in his face. “A storm had swept through and a great many people were stranded. He was clearing the road. He brought me home as soon as it was safe to do so.” She met his eyes again, thinking there’d been nothing safe about it. They’d forged on despite a second storm, come what may, in typical Turlock fashion. “I thought that was the end to the matter, but . . .”

  “But . . .” His expression held a flash of amused exasperation. “The Turlocks have a way of continually cropping up.”

  “Truly. Within days I found there was little for me to do here at home, as Andra is so . . . competent.” Bossy, she refrained from saying. “So I posted an advertisement for a day school. Soon I had a few young ladies signed on for dancing and French and needlework.” She rattled off the names of prominent Pittsburghers her father knew, saving Chloe for the last. “She came here and nearly begged me to school her. I-I didn’t have the heart to refuse her, though Ja—Mr. Turlock turned me down.”

  “Why would he?”

  “He cautioned me against taking her, saying it would spoil what I’d set out to do and I’d likely lose my other students. Chloe is living at River Hill, you see.” She paused, still puzzled by Jack’s sudden reversal. “Then he changed his mind and allowed the lessons after all. Chloe is certainly in need of a feminine touch.”

  “You’re fond of her, I take it.”

  “More than fond. She needs me, or seems to, though I sometimes think we’ll accomplish little.”

  “You hold lessons at the girls’ homes?”

  “Aside from a weekly dancing lesson here, yes. Till today it’s never been a worry. I’ve always had an escort. But this afternoon, the stables were busy and I decided to take the chaise myself. River Hill isn’t far along the back road, as you know . . .” At the admission, all the levity was chased from his expression. She forged on, surprised at the chill of memory. “As I was riding to meet Chloe, some men stopped me and searched the carriage. I don’t know what they wanted, but they damaged the chaise’s hood. It’s still at River Hill. They even took the pistol Peyton gave me from your gun case—”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “They frightened me, but little else.”

  “I wondered at the bruise on your chin.” He leaned nearer, his callused fingers grazing her cheek. Apprehension and anger were etched around his eyes, marring his beloved face. “You’ve ne’er seen these men before?”

  “They were all masked. No voice was familiar to me, though one knew my name.” She covered his large hand with her own as it cupped her cheek. “Once they rode on, I made it to River Hill. When I arrived, Jack Turlock sent for Dr. Brunot and Ansel.” Tears stung her eyes at his obvious disquiet. “I’m sorry, Da. I’ll not ride out alone again.”

  “Nae, we’ll keep you here at home for a time. Your mother has need of you, especially with your sister in York. I want you near at hand.” His eyes glittered as his hand fell away. “I have a confession of my own. Things are not as they were when you left for finishing school four years ago.” Studying her, he leaned back in his chair. “By now you must know of the situation in the attic.”

  She nodded, thinking how empty it was without Adam and Ulie and the baby.

  “It’s likely those men who waylaid you are professional bounty hunters. Now that summer is here, more runaways will come, as will slave catchers and their ilk.”

  “How is it the one man knew my name?”

  “They ken the Ballantyne name and suspect New Hope is a safe haven. I don’t want to trouble you with the details. Just help as you can when the attic is full, and say nothing to anyone outside these walls. For now bid me good night. You’re in need of some sleep to put the roses back in your cheeks.”

  He started to say more then stood, bringing her to her feet and enclosing her in his hard arms. For a few seconds she was struck with the power of his presence, the unspoken feeling between them. His thankfulness to be home, to find her safe, was profound, even palpable. As was hers.

  The cupola remained dark that night.

  18

  The more we knew of freedom the more we desired it.

  AUSTIN STEWARD, FORMER SLAVE

  “Miss Ellie won’t be teaching for a fortnight but will remain at home.” Chloe thrust a piece of paper Jack’s way, pleasure and worry mingling on her flushed face. “Do you think she’ll ever come back here?”

  “Nay.” He took the note, thinking how every elegant slant and dip of Ellie’s pen was so like her. “Her mother and father have just returned from New Orleans. They likely want an end to her teaching.”

  Though he hadn’t seen the steamer’s arrival himself, word of Silas and Eden’s homecoming had spread through Pittsburgh like the fire of 1812. The Elinor had docked, and in the darkest alleys and gin rooms, the rumor was that she’d carried a dozen slaves nearer freedom, a notable feat given that at every landfall, steamboats were searched for stowaways. The fugitives had since been spirited north to sympathetic Quaker settlements or hidden among Pittsburgh’s free black population, or so he’d heard.

  Chloe’s expression darkened and grew desperate. “Are you going to bribe them to let Miss Ellie come back here by fixing their chaise?”

  “The Ballantynes are immune to bribes,” he said, passing back the paper. “I’m having it repaired, but not for the reason you think.”

  Chloe pocketed the paper, looking decidedly more disheveled in Ellie’s absence. “Could it be because you find her pretty—or want to kiss her?”

  “Chloe Isabel . . .” The words were more growl. He inclined his head toward the study door, her signal to exit.
“I’ve no time to talk, nor do you. Where are the books she gave you? Have you even opened them?”

  She nodded, trying to look dutiful but failing. “She asked me to read a chapter of Scripture every day. You see, there are thirty-one chapters of Proverbs in the Bible and thirty-one days in most months—”

  “Aye,” he said, in no mood for her babbling. “You’d best get started then.”

  “Miss Ellie was hoping you might supervise . . . read them with me. See? It says so right here.” She dug out the paper again and tried to pass it back to him, but he waved it away.

  “I’ve other matters to take care of.”

  “I suppose you do.” Her chin jutted stubbornly, reminding him of Wade, smoky eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. “We have some slaves here you claim are Pa’s, but I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

  His jaw tensed. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well? Are you going to send them back across the river and collect the bounty?”

  When he hesitated, she looked hard at him, shock sprawled across her face. “You’re not going to . . . help them?”

  Refusing to answer, he glanced out the window he’d left open to better see the front drive.

  “Jack! You well know what the overseer does at Broad Oak when he thinks a slave is about to run. Even Pa says everyone who helps them should be chained and whipped right along with them. You could be arrested for Negro stealing—which means you’d be hung!”

  His chair came down with a thud. “All the more reason to keep your mouth shut.” Shooting to his feet, he circled the desk and took her by the elbow, intent on the hall. “Here’s a proverb to chew on: ‘He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life.’”

  “Dash, Jack! Do you always have an answer for everything?”

  He slammed the door and locked it after her, running an agitated hand through his hair. If he ever felt in need of a spree at Teague’s, it was now. Uncertainty gnawed a deep hole in him, and his usual decisiveness turned to mush. His every instinct told him to move the fugitives to the attic, as having them on River Row was too risky. Yet Mrs. Malarkey was sure to become suspicious should he do so.