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

by Laura Frantz

  The door to the study yawned open, as if her father was expecting her. Ellie slipped inside, marveling that the scent of leather, books, and bergamot was as timeworn as her surroundings. Everything bespoke security and comfort and peace, the very things that had eluded her of late. A lone candelabrum flickered across a Gaelic Bible open on the large desk, gilding a worn page. One glance about the large room told her he’d stepped out.

  “Ellie.” The door clicked closed, and she turned toward him, warmed by the welcome in his voice. “I had to mind the light.”

  She nodded, wondering if, come morning, the attic would be full again. Taking the stool near his desk, she watched as he opened a box, withdrew his favorite pipe, and packed it full of tobacco crumbles. He glanced up at her before he lit the bowl. “D’ye mind?”

  “Nae, I find it cantie enough,” she replied, lapsing into the little Scots she knew.

  He grinned, so boyish it seemed he was rewarding her with a rare glimpse of the lad he’d been. “More cantie than ugsome?”

  She nodded. Drawing her feet up on the stool’s edge, she wrapped her arms around her legs and the voluminous folds of her linen skirt, feeling like a little girl again. “I wish I could speak Gaelic like you.”

  “’Tis ne’er too late to learn.” He drew hard on his pipe and leaned back in his chair, studying her through skirls of smoke. “I’ve been thinking hard of Scotlain. The Highlands. Mayhap I’ll go home again.”

  She felt a little start. Home wasn’t here, then, but the place of his birth. The realization left her slightly misty-eyed. Sometimes her beloved father seemed a mystery. The past—Scotland, his life before Pittsburgh—seemed to belong to someone else, a stranger. Growing up in the cocoon of New Hope, she’d not thought to ask many questions. Till now the world seemed to begin and end at its gates.

  “Mayhap I’ll go with you,” she ventured.

  He looked hard at her as if weighing her response. “’Tis a hard crossing. Eight weeks in a wooden tub with no guarantee you’ll ever get there.”

  “You did it once.”

  “I was in good company. ’Twas the eve of the Revolution. Scots were coming to the colonies in droves.”

  “Why Scotland after so long?”

  “I’ve kin there—a nephew.” Seeing her confusion, he added, “My sister Naomi’s son.”

  “I have a Scottish cousin?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. All of a sudden he seemed to have as many family secrets as Mama.

  “He lives on the duke of Atholl’s estate and is a relative of the Murray clan. The Ballantynes were tenants long ago. You ken my father—your grandfather—was fiddler and composer to the duke.” His gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the study windows before returning to her. “But I’ve no wish to dredge up the past. I’d rather talk about you.”

  “Me?” She felt a little start, nearly forgetting the letter in her pocket.

  “You’re rarely awake this time of night. You and your mother keep early hours.”

  “I’m glad Mama’s abed.” She glanced toward the empty desk across the carpeted floor, thinking how disturbed Mama would be if she knew of the post. “There’s something I need to show you.” Reluctant, she passed him Andra’s letter, wishing she had something else to share instead.

  Setting his pipe aside, he read it thoughtfully, passing a hand over his eyes and murmuring in Gaelic when done. Oh, that she understood more of his native tongue!

  “When did you receive this?”

  “Just yesterday. I showed it to Ansel and he told me to come to you.”

  “A wise decision.” She detected a bite of disapproval in his tone, though he never spoke disparagingly of any of his children. “Andra’s willfulness often gets in the way of her reason.”

  She gave a little sigh. “She’ll be vexed that I told you.”

  He pocketed the letter. “I’d be more vexed if you did not.”

  “Who do you think might be coming from York?”

  He took up his smoking pipe again but looked as if he’d lost all pleasure in it. “It can be none other than Elspeth, your mother’s half sister.”

  “Half?” Shock pinched her. “But I thought—”

  “They did not share the same father.”

  “Mama’s father was not a blacksmith?”

  “Nae, he was landed gentry—one of Philadelphia’s benefactors and the laird of York County.”

  “But . . .” She stared at him as all the implications came crashing down, tumbling her every assumption.

  “There’s good reason you’ve not met your mother’s sister. When they were young, your mother and Elspeth were at odds. Elspeth was . . .” He hesitated, clearly flummoxed. “I have no words for it. I doubt she’d be any different today, unless God Himself has got hold of her. Once, when your mother and I were newly wedded, she came here. Your mother was expecting Peyton. I sensed Elspeth would make trouble as she was wont to do, so I sent her packing.”

  “She’s not been back since?”

  “Nae. But I expect she’s on her way. As I said before, you were wise to give me the letter.” He drew on his pipe again, drawing a close to the unsettling conversation. “Now, who are you going to partner with at the ball?”

  The ball. She’d almost forgotten Madame was coming in the morning for a final fitting.

  “Your auld father should have the first dance, ye ken.”

  “You’ll always be first, Da.”

  His keen gaze held hers and sent her flushing. “Till your beloved woos and wins you, aye?”

  Your beloved.

  All at once Jack, the guest list, her wayward emotions, came rushing back with his simple, guileless words. She was glad the dimness hid her high color and he couldn’t sense the sudden pulsing of her heart.

  Jack. Her beloved.

  Oh, Da, if you only knew . . .

  But something told her he did.

  24

  No man is a hero to his valet.

  ENGLISH PROVERB

  He was hopeless, Jack decided, at English country dances. His mind ran in straight lines, so at odds with the intricate steps and required turns. He had better luck with the waltz, still seen as scandalous in many circles but coming into fashion, so the dancing master said. Jack felt a measure of relief, then wondered if the waltz would be allowed at New Hope’s gala.

  Monsieur Boucher applauded his efforts then shrugged. “My advice, Monsieur Turlock, is to hug the wall till the waltz begins. The Scotch reel and mazurka are simply too complicated for a man of your experience. But the waltz—ah!” Boucher winked at Chloe as the music began again. “Within its close embrace, your brother may shine.”

  Jack doubted it. He didn’t plan on dancing but would hug the wall, as Boucher so succinctly put it, the whole night through. This was all for Chloe’s sake anyway. He was simply acting as her escort. Come what may, he planned to get through the evening with gritted teeth, alert to an escape as soon as possible.

  “Like my dress, Jack?” Chloe was pirouetting before him in a swirl of lace and lilac silk, gotten on her recent trip to the seamstress with Mrs. Malarkey.

  “Aye,” he said quietly, thoughts trailing to what Ellie would be wearing. It was her ball, after all. An occasion to announce her engagement, he felt certain. Silas Ballantyne’s terse words of days before returned in force.

  I’ll gladly purchase River Hill for whatever it is you’re asking . . . as a wedding gift for my daughter.

  The unexpected words had broadsided him like a wayward skiff, and he’d yet to shake off his surprise. Who had won Ellie’s tender heart? In hindsight he wished he’d asked outright, but he’d felt tongue-tied as a boy, unworthy of so intimate a question.

  Standing with Silas at the edge of the field, he’d been cast back to their last meeting—to the swearing and retching and stench of the jail, and the startling sight of Silas’s tall shadow moving among the iron bars. It had been anything but a holy moment. It had been hell. Yet Silas had talked to him. Given him a Bible
. Prayed for him.

  “Jack, I found some old pearls in Ma’s jewelry box. Mind if I wear them to the ball?”

  Chloe pulled him back to the present, pirouetting again. He gave an absent nod and left the ballroom, returning to his study as Mrs. Malarkey saw the fiddler and dancing master out. Wanting to be alone, he cast a last glance at his sister now taking the stairs two at a time to her room.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t decide on a worthy suitor. Was it an Ormsby? A Denny or Neville? Maybe a Herron? Taking a Pittsburgh Directory from a bookcase, he scanned the ranks of prominent citizens, all from founding families, finding himself on the list below his father and Wade. Whiskey magnates. At the bottom of the column, adjusted according to assets, were the Camerons. Farmers and landowners.

  A dim memory kindled.

  The Ballantynes and Camerons were close friends and had ever been. Not so the Camerons and Turlocks. Ever since they’d faced off at Rogue’s Creek as children, he and Daniel had shared a mutual dislike for each other despite being the same age. Their hostility shadowed him now, along with a disturbing realization.

  Daniel was perfect for Ellie. Handsome. Pious. Clever. Temperate. Of good family and reputation. And he was fighting his way to the top just as Silas Ballantyne had done, starting with an apprenticeship at Ballantyne Glassworks, then touring eastern factories before returning to Pittsburgh, the papers said.

  It could be no one else.

  Taking a chair, Jack tunneled a hand through his hair and fought the recurring wish that he was someone other than who he was. Someone respectable. Sought after. Then Ellie could be his. He’d not have to let go of River Hill. Together they could settle down and have a family. The sale of his estate was made more poignant knowing Ellie would find the happiness here that had eluded him.

  With a man he hated.

  A soft tap at the door ended his musings, and he thrust the directory into a drawer. Solomon entered at his call, hat in his gnarled hands, ebony face shining. “Mornin’, sir.”

  “Morning, Sol,” he replied, struck by the man’s perpetual good humor.

  “I’m about to run those errands of yours in town. Ten o’ the clock. But I remembered you wanted to see me first.”

  “You’re always on time, though I don’t know how you do it minus a watch.”

  “When you’re as old as dirt, you have a clock right here.” He tapped on his chest, his grin widening.

  Chuckling, Jack gestured to a chair, inviting him to sit. “Any more activity down by the water?”

  He took a seat. “Not since I fed them strangers that catfish and directed ’em upriver.”

  To New Hope, no doubt. He’d let Sol handle everything, not wanting to involve himself or send for Dr. Brunot. The matter was resolved. So why did he feel he’d shoved the burden onto someone else? Though the incident had passed quietly enough, he sensed, now at summer’s peak, that more runaways would come. What then?

  “I’m thinking of sealing off the tunnel,” he said abruptly. “At the river’s entrance.”

  Sol nodded thoughtfully. “Whatever you think best, sir.”

  “I don’t have time to traffic in runaways.” Before the words left his mouth, he felt a bite of rebuke. Did Brunot or Ballantyne have time? Nay. Dismissing the thought, he returned to the matter he’d wanted to discuss in the first place. “Just so you know . . . River Hill is for sale.”

  Sol was regarding him intently, his cheerful demeanor dimming.

  “I plan on asking the Ballantynes to let you stay on as a condition of the sale, out of respect for the agreement you had with my grandfather.”

  Sol brightened. “So the Ballantynes are to own this place?”

  “A daughter and her future husband, apparently.”

  “Miz Ellie, I take it?” He gave a low whistle. “That sounds just fine. But what about you, sir?”

  Could Sol sense his reluctance? His distress? “I’m going west to Missouri and beyond on my father’s business.” Suddenly the manservant’s future seemed more secure than his own. “I doubt I’ll be back.”

  The dark eyes seemed shadowed now. “When you leavin’?”

  “October at the latest. I need to start ahead of the weather. The rivers freeze early west of here, as you know.”

  “That’s a far piece to go. I always hoped—” He seemed flustered before forging on. “Master Hugh hoped you’d settle down and have a family to call your own.”

  A stitch of guilt added to Jack’s misery. “I’m glad he’s not here to see it. He had enough heartbreak over my mother.”

  “Say no more, sir.”

  “There’s another matter . . .” Jack cleared his throat and stood. “I could use your services as valet.”

  “Valet?”

  “For one night, anyway.”

  A grin pulled at the corners of Sol’s mouth. “I ain’t so old that I forgot how to tie a cravat. When you be wantin’ me?”

  “Saturday night. I have to go to New Hope.”

  His grin broadened. “You get to go, you mean.”

  “Have to or get to, I’m going,” Jack replied. “When you’re in town today, maybe you can pick up anything you think I might need that night.”

  “Um . . . like a clothes brush or some hair pomade?”

  Jack winced at the thought. “Something like that.”

  Jack studied himself in the full-length mirror of his bedchamber, a rare indulgence, and tried not to grimace, feeling the rush of time as the mantel clock ticked against him. Sol, somewhat of a perfectionist, seemed paralyzingly slow as he tied Jack’s cravat into a knot that rivaled the one in his throat. Despite the tailor’s strangeness, William Davenport had turned out a remarkably handsome suit.

  “You look mighty fine, sir,” Sol said, standing back to admire his work. “Your grandfather the judge would be proud. ‘Splendid,’ he’d say.”

  Jack merely nodded. He was unspeakably nervous. For a few seconds he eyed the basin beneath his bed, reserved for one of his rare binges. He felt nearly as sick. His heart was galloping about his chest so wildly he had sweat stains beneath the arms of his pristine shirt—and he hadn’t yet donned his swallowtail coat or danced a step. Down the hall, Chloe’s occasional howls added to his discomfort.

  “What the devil is happening next door?”

  “Aw, just Miz Malarkey torturin’ your poor sister with some curlin’ tongs.” Sol helped him into his coat and began brushing it free of any lint. “Reminds me of the time the judge and Miss Isabel were turnin’ out for a town ball. She made as much noise as Miss Chloe here but come out of it with a shine.” He chuckled. “You remember when you was a boy ’bout ten and went with the judge to that reception for the president?”

  “Aye,” Jack said reluctantly. He’d eaten too much marzipan and gotten sick. “I recollect I threw up on the judge’s shoes.”

  Sol grinned. “Yeah, but you still managed to shake ol’ Jefferson’s hand.”

  At the slamming of a door below, Jack almost groaned. He knew it was Wade from all the commotion.

  Tucking the clothes brush away, Sol circled Jack. “You expectin’ company, sir?”

  “None that I know of.” He could hear Chloe clashing with her older brother on the landing, giving him what for and sounding like their mother.

  “I’ll not make you late to your little party. I just want to see Jack.” With that, Wade stepped into the room, a look of outright astonishment on his face. “Blast, but you’re a dandy!”

  “Don’t start,” Jack warned.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Out.”

  “Out?” The surly echo underscored Jack’s determination to keep their destination a secret. Wade wasn’t above raising a ruckus at New Hope, uninvited or no. Jack went ice-cold at the thought.

  He could smell Wade’s intoxication from five feet away and sensed there’d be no easy exit. Squaring his shoulders beneath the snug lines of his new coat, he said far more calmly than he felt, “State your business and be q
uick about it.”

  But Wade simply collapsed into a chair, legs splayed long enough to trip Sol as he came back into the bedchamber from the dressing room. A silver chain dangled from one ebony hand, glinting in the candlelight. Sol passed the intricately engraved timepiece to Jack, who wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

  “For your waistcoat pocket.” Sol started across the room with nary a glance at Wade. “Ben’s brought the carriage round when you be ready, sir.”

  “Sir?” Wade mocked, watching him go. “That’s the most impudent Negro I’ve ever met.” Looking agitated, he stood, tottering a bit. “The judge ruined Sol, giving him free papers like he did, and here’s proof. Too big-breeched even to greet me.”

  Nerves shot, Jack grabbed hold of the back of Wade’s shirt, intent on seeing him out. Chloe appeared in the doorway just then, her vexed expression at odds with her pretty dress, her hair a halo of curls. “We can’t be late, not to New—” The words died on her lips as she realized her mistake.

  Wade’s gaze sharpened. “New Hope? What’s happening there?”

  A hint of desperation crossed Chloe’s face as she looked to Jack.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Jack said, eyes on Wade. “And whatever you have to say can wait till tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow I want you to attend that horse auction in Washington County with me. Maybe do a little betting on a side race.” Wade jerked free of Jack’s grip and started for the hall. “Guess I’ll have to go to Teague’s by myself tonight and tell Janey you’re stepping out on her. She’s suspected as much, the way you’ve been shunning town.”

  Chloe opened her mouth—to bicker, no doubt—but Jack silenced her with a look. No sense prolonging Wade’s stay with an argument. As it was, the clock struck half past eight, resounding to the far corners as they came down the stairs. The ball had begun and they were now late. As Jack thought it, Wade stumbled and careened into the walnut banister, the only impediment that kept him from falling headlong into the foyer below. Chloe’s eyes flared as Jack righted him and steered him straight.