by Laura Frantz
Ellie smiled, looking over voluminous beds of hollyhocks and peonies. “Do we have enough flowers for sachet?”
“We’re in need of lavender next.” Starting down a bricked path, Ellie trailing, Mama surveyed the fragrant purple spikes. “The French variety is preferable to the English, as it holds its fragrance and color far longer. I thought you might take some sachet to your girls in the day school . . . Chloe in particular.”
The mention seemed to invite conversation, but Ellie’s mouth went dry. So Da had told her of the Turlock connection. Did Mama know about the incident on the back road too?
“The girls could line their petticoats with lavender like I used to.” Mama knelt by a vigorous patch of English munstead. “I had a modest garden growing up in York.” Snip. Snip. The purple spires waved and fell. “And I lived near an estate with a lovely formal garden called Hope Rising.”
“Hope Rising?” Ellie’s curiosity peaked. “’Tis an unusual name.”
Mama sat back on her heels, her full skirts in a swirl about her. “I can’t remember why it was called that. I only remember the people there.” Her flushed features, so lightly lined, took on a rare wistfulness. “’Twas long ago—like a dream, really.”
“It seems strange to think of Andra in York.”
“I wonder if I shouldn’t be there too. But your father is against it, and he’s far wiser than I. My every emotion often clouds matters.” Her smile resurfaced. “Besides, I’d much rather deal with what’s before me.” She set her clippers aside and tugged off her gloves. “And the birthday ball that begs planning for my daughter.”
“A ball?”
“Yes, we’ll need to make up the guest list, send invitations, decide on a menu for the midnight supper. ’Tis not every day a girl turns one and twenty.”
A birthday ball? Though a delightful prospect, the event had ominous overtones.
Rather the ball-to-wed-me-off.
Ellie tried to summon some excitement as Mama shared the details. “There’s a new French seamstress on Market Street, fresh from Paris. She’s gifted with a needle and privy to the very latest fashions. I’m sure the three of us can come up with something suitable. Beautiful.”
This sparked some interest. Ellie dearly loved a new gown. Mama had made most of her clothes till she turned twelve, and a few favorites still lingered in old chests. Her current wardrobe was a bit stale, if sufficient. “Whom all shall we invite?”
“Whomever you like—and then some,” Mama replied, meaning the obligatory crowd. “You’ll have at least one willing partner, or so Mina tells me.”
“Oh?” Ellie mused, looking up from the lavender basket.
“I daresay I don’t have to name him.” With a fleeting smile, Mama turned toward a bed of woolly betony, leaving Ellie to her conflicted feelings.
Oh, Daniel, it’s been so long. Will I even recognize you when you return?
Madame de Rocher’s shop was on Market Street, by far the busiest thoroughfare in Pittsburgh, and was directly across from her competitor, Miss Rachel Endicott. The latter, bedecked in a Turkey Red gown that could hardly be missed, was standing in her open doorway as the Ballantyne coach pulled along the curb, something that didn’t escape Ellie’s—or Mama’s—notice.
“We’ll order your gown from Madame de Rocher and then meet with Miss Endicott for all your accessories,” Mama told her as a groom helped them down.
Ellie felt a rush of thankfulness. It was no secret the two dressmakers didn’t get along. While some Pittsburghers enjoyed the drama of their rivalry as they sought to outdo the other in the quality of goods or window dressing, Mama, ever the peacemaker, sought to build a bridge in her own small way.
Ellie’s gaze rose to the large bay window of the newly refurbished shop, excitement rising. The day was sultry, sharpening her appreciation for the East Indian chintz gowns on display, all in brilliant, polished hues. There would be no Spitalfields silk for a July ball, though it was what Andra preferred for her December birthday, straight from Bond Street in London. She found Pittsburgh dressmakers too rustic, she said, and Da allowed her the extravagance.
A bell jingled as they entered the shop, bringing Madame from behind the counter, hands full of the latest fashion plates in Magasin des Modes. Clearly she was expecting them. “Accueillex, les belles dames!”
When Mama hesitated, Ellie answered with a smile, “Bonjour, we are indeed glad to be here.”
Clearly delighted, Madame seated them at a small corner table, chatting in a charming mix of French and English as she spread the fashion plates before them. Ellie took a last look about, breathing in the heady scent of honeysuckle and lily of the valley that perfumed an enormous collection of soaps displayed in a glass case nearby. A far cry from the foul odors of the tanyards and levee.
Two shop girls waited on other customers, displaying lengths of lace and delicate handkerchiefs, ever accommodating. Ellie had a hard time keeping her mind on matters at hand with so tempting an array of luxury goods surrounding them, far more enticing than the more practical merchandise sold at the Ballantyne mercantile.
“We must, of course, take your measurements,” Madame was saying, eyeing Ellie discreetly.
“I have in mind a modest gown.” Mama held up some embroidered gauze to the light. “Nothing so sheer that you can see right through . . .”
Perusing the fashion plates, Ellie wondered if Chloe was wearing her town-made clothes or had resumed going barefoot in breeches. A week had passed since she’d left River Hill. Why did it seem far longer? She’d heard her father and Ansel discussing the battered chaise and wondered when they’d bring it home.
Madame held up a colorful plate. “Here is a fashion-forward gown with a diaphanous overskirt, perfect for certain dance moves such as the pas d’été.”
Ellie studied the design, smiling absently, her mind on the guest list instead. Just that morning she’d returned over one hundred names to Mama . . .
After putting Chloe and Jack at the very top.
Her next breath came up short as she realized her blunder. Mama now had the list and was going to discuss it with her father. Though Mama might not see it for what it was, Da missed nothing. At least where Ellie was concerned.
“Ellie, how does this sound?” Mama’s dulcet voice returned her to the present. “A fitted bodice and wide waistband with a full skirt and overskirt of net, in a soft mint or this delicate shade of coral.”
“Coral,” Ellie said without thought, fingering the proffered fabric.
Madame beamed as if she’d chosen correctly and summoned a shop girl. In moments the fashion plates disappeared and the table was beautifully laid out for tea. Ellie sat in pained silence, wishing back the guest list, ruing her foolishness. But the image of Jack and Chloe’s names in bold black ink was scrawled across her thoughts as plainly as the chocolate bonbons nested in ruffled paper now being placed upon the linen tablecloth. Why hadn’t she tucked their names in the middle of the list or saved them till the last?
But she’d done nothing wrong, truly. She’d simply behaved foolishly. And revealed the state of her heart with the stroke of a pen.
In the days following, Ellie stayed busy helping Mama as needed, playing her harp and plying her needle in a particularly frustrating attempt at whitework embroidery in spare moments. She found herself missing Adam and Ulie and the baby, praying for their safety. Chloe and the day school seemed distant as a dream. Life slowly resumed its regular rhythms. Feathers stopped his plucking and resumed his singing. They even received a disappointingly terse letter from Andra.
Arrived safely in York.
Mama sighed but said nothing when she read the post, then promptly turned her attention to other matters. The coming ball was scheduled for the last of July, to be crowned with a midnight celebratory supper and dancing till dawn. Even now the rooms were being readied and extra help hired, Mari and Gwyn nearly taking up residence in the formal dining room and third-floor ballroom.
The
invitations were being engraved at the printers, and not one word had been said about the names crowning the guest list. Thinking of it left Ellie slightly sick. Would they be stricken, written off? Or sent with the hope of being refused? If Andra was home and had her way, they would be. No Turlock, to her knowledge, had ever set foot inside New Hope save Chloe when she’d come begging to be taught. Jack, she remembered all too vividly, had stopped just shy of the veranda on that stormy April day when he’d returned her home. Andra had seen to that.
A fortnight had passed, and nothing more was said about resuming her teaching. Impatience frayed her every nerve, as did the summer’s mounting heat. Despite the feverish temperatures, she ventured beyond the coolness of the house, intent on a walk. Leaving out the back door, she donned a straw hat and meandered down the bricked path to the coach house. There the stable hands gave nods of greeting and resumed their work. All manner of vehicles met her eyes as she passed through—phaeton, cutter, coach—but the chaise stall remained empty.
She set off beneath a half-cast sky, clouds tumbling across the expanse of endless blue. A vast meadow stretched before her, dotted with black merino and Leicester longwool sheep, the shaggy briards her father preferred moving amidst the flocks.
When she was small, they’d had a briard pup who’d thought her a lamb, herding her this way and that when she toddled about, and barking and trying to right her when she fell, much to everyone’s amusement. Da had always rescued her and carried her on his shoulders back then, tending his sheep as he’d done as a boy in Scotland.
She found him in a far meadow standing with his farm manager and a few tenant lads who minded the flock. His handsome features were seasoned by the sun, the set of his shoulders and line of his back as straight as the younger men alongside him. In the stark light of day, the edges of his russet hair were silvered, a detail that till now had escaped her notice. She felt a hitch of sadness at the passing of time.
Oh, Da, I’ve been away far too long.
She moved across the cropped grass in his direction, pausing to pick some milkweed, wishing she was little again and could run to him and feel the exhilaration of old, when he’d swing her up on his wide shoulders.
Why did he keep mostly to home when endless business awaited in town? No doubt the trouble she’d encountered had left him deeply shaken. And she was to blame . . .
When he swung round to face her, his eyes lit with such delight her melancholy vanished. “For a wee bit I took you for your mother, come to call me home.”
She smiled up at him beneath the brim of her wide straw hat, savoring the unintended compliment. “I was remembering when you used to carry me on your shoulders across this very meadow—and our old sheepdog would accompany us.”
“Och, Sebastian! Those were the days.” He linked arms with her. “I’d gladly turn the clock back if I could. Or move it forward.”
“Forward?”
“To tote my grandbairns round.” With a sly wink, he helped her across a low stone fence, righting her when she stumbled.
“Speaking of grandbairns . . .” She looked down at the petals in her hands, heat touching her cheeks. “I’d hoped you and Mama would have a few by now.”
“In time, mayhap,” he said matter-of-factly. “Some matters you have little control over. Love is one of them.”
She sensed his disappointment, and it matched her own. Was that why Mama spent so many hours at the orphan home in town? Had she given up on Peyton and Andra entirely? Even Ansel?
He eyed her with a telling intensity. “I ken you didn’t come all this way on so sweltrie a day to talk bairns and weddings.”
“I thought a walk might do me good. I’m feeling . . .” She softened the Scots word with a smile. “Pernickitie.”
“You want to return to teaching.”
She nodded, relieved to have it confessed. “I can still be of help at home in the mornings. And Andra should soon be back.”
“Very well.” He picked up a stone and skimmed it across the surface of a small pond they skirted. “There’s a vacant building on Race Street. Small and respectable. Or you can take the room over the confectionery near the boatyard. It has plenty of light, a sound floor for dancing lessons. Either place should suffice for a day school.”
“Truly?” ’Twas more than she’d hoped for. Casting aside her flowers, she threw her arms around him, too moved to speak.
He held her close. “We can go in this afternoon and look around. Take stock of what you’ll need.”
“I’ll ask Mama to come too.” Her delight reached so deep she couldn’t stop smiling. “Opening the school in town will be far easier than taking all my teaching supplies from place to place. And since all but one student lives in Pittsburgh,” she said, thinking of Chloe, “’twill be no trouble for them.”
They were heading the other direction now, toward the house. He was regarding her in that bemused way he had, as if trying to reconcile the little girl she’d once been with the grown creature who stood before him. She sensed he might even be thinking of Andra, who, with typical Scots stoicism, never gave way to such a frivolous emotional display.
Suddenly beset with misgivings, she pulled her hat free and used the brim to fan her flushed face. “Sometimes I feel I’ve rushed headlong into the day school with little thought or prayer. What is it you want for me? You and Mama?”
“We want you to follow the Almighty’s leading. Talk about what’s in your head and heart, just as you are now. A day school is a worthy endeavor. But your mother and I hope that someday you’ll want to settle down and know the joys we’ve had. ’Tis heaven’s best gift, ye ken. Leaving a legacy of family. Faith.”
Was he thinking of the Camerons? She ventured carefully, “Is it true what Mina said? Did Daniel come to you . . . ask about me?”
“He did.”
“And . . . ?” She stopped walking, on her tiptoes inwardly.
“It wasn’t what I’d hoped for.”
She met his eyes in question. “Did he not ask for my hand?”
“Aye. But not your heart.”
The regret in his eyes bruised her. He had such high hopes, wanted her to make a good match. Daniel had always seemed a fine choice. But now . . . They resumed walking, his words of minutes before returning with sudden poignancy.
Some matters you have little control over. Love is one of them.
She felt a flicker of insight. Oh, Da, you are right. You cannot make someone love you . . . nor can you predict who you’ll lose your heart to.
“Once I nearly wed a lass I did not love to gain a fortune faster than I did.” His voice was low and reflective. “But God Almighty intervened.”
She darted a look at him. Did he mean Jack and Chloe’s mother? Her heart tugged at life’s twists and turns, how entire futures sometimes hinged on the most unpredictable, unlikely things.
They were nearing the rear veranda now, and Ellie’s gaze settled on Mama sewing at one end of the wide porch. She was humming a hymn, unaware of their approach, pleasantly lost in her task. Everything about her bespoke grace . . . peace. She was the essence of a woman well loved.
Oh, Lord, please let me be like Mama.
Chloe held the ivory invitation in a hand soiled from digging worms, and her fingers seemed to shake. From excitement, Jack guessed.
“Look, Jack, your name is on it too! The Ballantynes are having a ball later this month—and we’re invited.” She dropped the elegantly sealed paper on his desk and leaned down to blow away the dirt, but the stubborn smudge remained. “Dash!”
He scanned the invitation, every engraved word fueling surprise—and fresh misery. Something was obviously afoot with the Ballantynes. Some pending announcement or celebration. Pushing his spectacles atop his head, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Invited and welcomed are two different things.”
Chloe stared at him in consternation. “What do you mean?”
Feigning indifference, he returned to the notice of sale he’d almost fi
nished. “We’re not going.”
“What?” Her protest was a strangled wail. Dirty hands forgotten, Chloe snatched up the summons from New Hope and held it to her heart, as pitiful a ploy as he’d ever seen. “I just have to see Miss Ellie again, Jack!”
“I’ll be heavy into the harvest come then, as will you. Everyone at River Hill is needed for the work, even Sol and Ben. No one is exempt.” He needn’t remind her that they, along with the tenants, were in the fields before dawn and often worked by moonlight to bring the harvest in. The prospect of a dance filled him with dread, the gleaning with elation. He would extract the thought of Ellie from his mind with the sweat of his brow and every swing of his scythe if it was the last thing he did.
“But Jack!” Her lower lip trembled. “One ball?”
Immune to her antics, he signed a document and moved on to the ledgers. “Another word and I’ll send you back to Broad Oak.”
She threw the invitation down and fled, slamming the study door behind her. Glad to be alone, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a letter, delivered that morning and addressed solely to him. For a moment he fought returning it to his pocket, sure Ellie had penned her goodbye, severing their tie.
Studying the familiar writing, he wanted to groan. How was it that the mere slant of her pen turned him inside out? He could no longer deny he missed her. Her lemon-lavender scent. The graceful way she moved across a room. The wistful way she regarded him. He even craved the sound of her voice.
With a sigh, he broke the indigo seal with a swipe of his thumb.
Dear Jack . . .
He leaned back in his chair, softening at her lack of formality. No “Mr. Turlock,” at least.
I’ll soon be opening a day school in Pittsburgh above the confectionery at the corner of First and Water Streets.
