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

by Laura Frantz

  “There may be trouble at Broad Oak,” Mama told her, ringing for tea.

  “May be? It sounds like the place has blown up!” She drew her quilt closer. “I imagine Wade is to blame. We can no longer lay the trouble at Jack’s door—”

  Mama silenced her with a look, expression grim. Ellie pretended not to notice but moved to an east window, her back to them. Smoke was rising, billowing and gray. A shiver ran through her. Broad Oak . . . burning? An acrid smell seemed to sneak through the window cracks, whispering of something momentous. Ash was scattering across sodden fields. Silvery-white against the cold landscape, it resembled blowing snow. Whatever had happened, she was glad Chloe was spared the calamity.

  “We had a visitor in church today—Mina and Daniel’s cousin Penelope.” Mama steered the conversation in a safer direction. “She seems a lovely girl. Peyton seems to think so especially.”

  Andra raised an eyebrow. “Peyton? I’m glad you didn’t say Ansel. What a strange love triangle that would be.”

  “I still have hopes for Ansel and Mina,” Mama murmured, taking up her embroidery hoop.

  “I recall the last time Penelope was here. Peyton seemed so befuddled he could hardly tie his cravat.” Andra sneezed into her handkerchief. “I’ll admit a wedding would be a fine thing after so melancholy a winter.”

  “Come, Ellie, and join us.” Mama patted the sofa invitingly, luring her away from the window.

  Ellie smelled the peppermint tea from several feet away and tried to look appreciatively at the tray crowded with tiny sandwiches and tea cakes that Mari had set down.

  “Speaking of relatives . . .” Andra posed the perilous question as she sipped from a delicate cup. “I suppose you didn’t see Aunt Elspeth in town today?”

  “No, but I did see Alec Duncan.” Mama began pouring tea for Ellie. “He sends his regrets that you’re ill and hopes you’ll be well enough to attend the Nevilles’ winter ball. Apparently you promised to do that some time ago.”

  Andra’s wan color turned dusky. “And is Mr. Duncan quite well?”

  “Miss Sylvia Denny seems to think so.”

  Ellie almost smiled at Mama’s subtlety. Reaching for her teacup, she startled as another explosion rocked the room. The amber liquid spilled and pooled in her saucer, steaming and sweet.

  “Like cannon fire,” Mama said, her eyes drifting to a window. “We’ll soon know the cause of it. Your father and Peyton should be back soon, or so I hope.”

  The afternoon stretched long and anxious. Ellie resumed her vigil by the window, the first to hear heavy footfalls at dusk. In the light of the sconce illuminating the foyer, her father’s eyes were weary. Even Peyton was strangely silent. They gathered in the study after being pulled from the far corners of the house, Mamie and the maids among them.

  “The biggest of the Turlock warehouses has burned,” her father told them. “No one is sure how the fire started, but a great deal of damage was done by exploding casks. The distillery and outbuildings—and the house—were spared. There’s a river of whiskey surrounding the place, but thankfully no loss of life.”

  “Perhaps one of their runaways started the fire.” Peyton shrugged off his coat and handed his top hat to a chalky-faced Gwyn. “Their overseer, Marcum, is as hard a man as I’ve ever met. I’ll not forget what he did to Adam and Ulie. It’s hard to have sympathetic pangs for any of them at Broad Oak.”

  Supper was served, but few had an appetite and conversation was meager at best. Afterward Andra entertained them on the pianoforte while Ellie looked absently at her harp. She’d not played a note since Jack’s passing. There seemed to be little music in her soul that sorrow hadn’t crowded out.

  “Come, Ellie, play for us.” Her father was regarding her thoughtfully, his eyes kind.

  She took a seat at his bidding, fingers poised on the strings, trying to dredge up a melody from memory. But lately her thoughts were so muddled she struggled to recall the simplest things.

  “D’ye want me to accompany you?” he asked.

  She looked up in surprise. “Yes . . . please.”

  He went to a case and selected one of the violins in their collection, a Bergonzi from Italy. Its varnish glinted a pleasing crimson in the candlelight. Tightening the bow, he turned back to her. “Bach’s Adagio?”

  She nodded. ’Twas a beautiful, soothing piece, a favorite of theirs, one she knew by heart. They began in perfect accord. She was relieved he hadn’t asked her to repeat the sonata from the ball. As she thought it, long-denied images of Chloe and Jack rushed in with such bittersweet clarity her fingers slipped from the strings. Though she bit her lip till it nearly bled, all her self-possession crumbled and she couldn’t regain her place.

  Getting up from her seat, she mumbled an apology and fled the room, wishing she could escape her heartache as easily. But it followed hard on her heels, as sure a presence as her worried mother, who came up the stairs after her.

  33

  The look of love alarms because ’tis filled with fire.

  WILLIAM BLAKE

  On Christmas Eve morn, New Hope awoke to a foot of snow. Ellie lay awake in the predawn hush, remembering Mama’s plan to deliver gifts to tenants and staff before settling in for a special supper and family devotions at twilight. The gifts they’d readied for Sol and Ben waited near the hearth. Books and sweetmeats, wool scarves and mittens. It would be a sad time for them without Jack and Chloe. She wanted to bring them a little cheer if she could, and perhaps be cheered in return.

  When Mama and Andra hadn’t returned by early afternoon, a second, smaller sleigh was brought round, its bells and brass trim tinkling and glistening as the runners slid to a silent halt at New Hope’s entrance. Ansel helped her onto the seat, arranging her lap robe and checking to see if a foot warmer of hot coals was beneath her feet.

  “You’ll make a fine husband one day, being so solicitous.” She pressed a kiss to his ruddy cheek, touched by his concern. “I’m off to River Hill. I want to thank Solomon for his kindness to me, leave a little something for Ben.”

  His eyes held hers in question. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, I have an escort and won’t be long,” she reassured him. “I’ll be back before you mind the light.” She cast a glance upward to the snow-shrouded dome. Now that the attic had emptied, the cupola would shine again. Never was there a better time for hope and Christlike kindness than at Christmastide.

  The sleigh was far faster than the coach, borne along by a surefooted horse that seemed glad to be free of the stables. Few were out on such a day. The snow, shaking down lightly when she’d left, was tumbling so fiercely by the time they neared River Hill she considered turning back. Her spirits fell to find the gates closed, but the groom soon had them open, then shut them again in their wake.

  Everything was a glistening, blinding swirl of white. Even if Sol wasn’t here but at Broad Oak, she was glad she’d come. She wanted to look on the old house a final time. Frame it in her head and heart and bid it goodbye. Make peace with all that might have been. It would soon pass into other hands—just whose, she didn’t know. She envied them.

  As the sleigh neared the stables, she spied Sol outside in the courtyard with another black man she’d never met. Surprise lit Sol’s aging features, and he gestured for her groom to pull beneath the porte cochere. “Miz Ellie? That you?” He came closer. “Nigh froze to death, I fear.”

  “Not quite,” she said, though her smile felt locked in place. “’Tis good to see you again, Sol. I was worried with all the trouble at Broad Oak.”

  “We be fine—me and Ben and Sally—though the ash and smoke over there is still smolderin’ somethin’ fierce.”

  She reached down, feeling for the gifts beneath her lap robe. “I wanted to wish you all a blessed Christmas.” She passed the packages to him, moved by the shine in his eyes. “And I wanted to see River Hill again.”

  He nodded in understanding, then squinted at the sky. “Why don’t you come inside
a few minutes and still your shakin’? Have some tea? By the time you warm yourself, the snow might ease. Your poor horse could use some oats before you go out again.”

  At her nod, her groom made for the shelter of the stables, and she followed Sol down a shoveled path past brittle lilacs wreathed in snow.

  “There’s a fine fire in the study. I’ve been going through some papers and belongings for Broad Oak, trying to set things in order for Mister Henry.” The confidence was almost apologetic, spoken in a whisper. “Miz Malarkey quit her post, so it’s been somewhat lonesome. Just me and the stable hands, mostly.”

  Once inside the foyer, she faltered. Jack’s presence, his beloved, masculine scent, seemed to pervade every inch. Tears gathered in her eyes, yet Sol seemed so pleased to have company she didn’t have the heart to deny him.

  “Some hot tea will take the chill away, and then you can go on home again.”

  He excused himself to go to the kitchen, shutting the door to the study so the warmth of the room wouldn’t lessen. She was thankful he’d not taken her to the blue parlor, where the memories were so thick and sweet they’d likely overwhelm her. As it was, she fought against fresh heartache when faced with the room Jack had used the most.

  Here his fishing rods were visible, angled against a paneled wall. His spectacles—had he forgotten them?—lay atop a ledger. And his books, so many of them—who would read and treasure them now?

  Lord, help. She shut her eyes, clinging to the tiny scrap of faith that things would be better in time.

  Beyond the nearest window, snow layered a deep sill, and a tiny redbird perched like a bit of holiday whimsy. It began to sing, easing her a bit. Careful to avoid Jack’s desk, she sought a chair by the fire and listened for Sol’s footfalls. He seemed to be taking a long time.

  The warmth of the hearth . . . one too many sleepless nights . . . the deep shadows of the room lulled her. Eyes closed, she surrendered to the welcome haze of sleep.

  “Ellie, love.”

  The words seemed to come from a great distance. Was she dreaming? Someone had hold of her hand. Coming slowly awake, she focused on the firelit silhouette of a man kneeling in front of her. Broad of shoulder. Head slightly bent.

  Her whole world shifted and gave way.

  Jack.

  In the turmoil of the two months since the flatboat’s sinking, his memory of her had become muted. Now her nearness stole Jack’s breath. The sight of her, so vulnerable in sleep, so fragile-looking in the largeness of his Windsor chair, wrenched his heart. Her head was bowed like a broken flower stem, as if her fur-lined bonnet was too heavy, her gloved hands folded in her lap. He was reminded of how fragile life was, how everything could sway and slip away at the slightest instant.

  He’d not wanted to scare the wits out of her, but there was no way around it when she’d thought him dead. And so he came back to her as gently as he could. On bended knee. By the light of the fire. Taking hold of her hand.

  “Ellie, love.”

  Her eyes met his, brilliantly blue and disbelieving. Afraid. Reaching out ever so slowly, she touched his bristled jaw as if to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Jack?”

  Throat tight, he caught her fingers in his own, tugging off her glove and planting a kiss on her palm. “Aye, Ellie. I’ve come back—but I couldn’t tell you.”

  The pain etched across her face cut him. “But I thought—the keelboat’s sinking—”

  “It happened, just like the papers said.” He looked away from her, still haunted. Even the memory of the wind and the waves was terrifying. “I should have died that day on the river. Only two of us survived.” Somehow he’d slept through the start of the midnight storm that fateful eve. Failed to hear the frantic activity outside his cabin, the call to abandon ship. Unbelievably, he’d just slept, unaware of the storm and the bitter irony of it all.

  He’d been sleeping through the storm his whole life.

  When he’d finally come awake, it had nearly been too late. He’d grabbed the black oarsman flailing nearest him in the raging water and begun a desperate swim to the ice-encrusted shore.

  “It was my second warning. The first was in the woods last spring, when a tree almost crushed me along the turnpike.” He swallowed hard, amazed at the clarity of hindsight. “A man only has so many chances.”

  She looked stunned, clearly trying to grasp all that he’d told her. “How did you come so far? You must have lost everything in the sinking—”

  “We relied on the goodness of strangers along the way, sought refuge at farms and other places. I told no one who I was. Only you and Sol—and the slave I saved from drowning—know I’m alive.”

  “The man I saw with Solomon at the stables? No one else?”

  “Dead men arouse no suspicions. And that’s how it has to remain.”

  Her eyes registered alarm. “Are you involved with what’s happened at Broad Oak, then? The fire? The runaways?”

  “Aye, I’ll not lie to you. I forged free papers for all those at Broad Oak willing to run and set fire to the warehouse. Sol acts as my eyes and ears during daylight hours, and I move after dark.”

  “But—why?”

  For a moment he couldn’t speak, his anguish was so fresh. “Chloe haunts me day and night. The very hour she died, my father and Wade were drunk in town, and my mother pleaded a headache and locked herself in her room. Only Sally sat with Chloe till the end.”

  She looked at her lap, tears streaming down her face.

  “And then there’s Brunot.”

  Her head came up, her damp gaze searching. “Dr. Brunot?”

  He let go of her hand. He’d already said too much. Chloe’s loss alone clawed at him. Coupled with the doctor’s, it caused the rage churning inside him to burn bright, hardening him and turning him into his father. Ruthless. Cunning. Relentless. Not the new man in Christ he had become. Not at peace but at war. He stood, stepping away from her as she got to her feet.

  “Jack, please. You’re not only destroying Broad Oak . . . what you hate . . . you’re destroying yourself. I beg of you—”

  “Go home, Ellie. Go back to your safe, sane life. I’m naught but a Turlock with the Turlock taint, and it’s all I’ll ever be.”

  “That’s a lie!” She faced him, fury framing her features. “You may bear the Turlock name, but Christ has made a different way for you—you’re to walk as He walked. You lose nothing by being quiet and leaving all to Him. Don’t dishonor Him or Chloe’s memory—” She broke off, stumbling over the beloved name. “Don’t destroy my love for you. I’ll gladly be your wife, bear your children, stand by you. But I can do none of those things if you’re de—”

  “Dead, Ellie? I’m glad you have no illusions about how this will play out.”

  “And you would choose that over a full life? A blessed life?” Her gaze held his. “Then mayhap you’re not the man I thought you were. The man I told my father I wanted to marry.”

  He went completely still. “You told him? About us?”

  “I needn’t have said a thing. Somehow he knew, as all wise fathers do.”

  “And will you tell him about today? Finding me alive and well?”

  “Alive? Yes. But not well. And I’ll not leave here till you promise you’ll do no more harm to Broad Oak or yourself.” She glanced out the window, more distraught than he’d ever seen her. “’Tis snowing harder, and my father and Ansel will soon come looking for me. What will you do then? You can’t hide forever.” She extended a hand to him entreatingly. “I don’t want to lose you again, Jack. I can’t bear it a second time. Burying Chloe was heartache enough.”

  Inwardly he reeled, her pleas chipping away at his resolve. He’d come back fully expecting to find her wed to Daniel Cameron. Instead she was here. Proving her love for him. Staying steadfast. He reached for her with the same desperation he’d felt in the icy water to stay afloat, holding her so close the rhythm of her racing pulse felt like his own.

  “Promise me, Jack.”

&
nbsp; He rested his cheek against the silk of her hair, and all the light seemed to leech from his soul. He could promise nothing. “It’s not safe for you to be here any longer, Ellie. There are things happening at Broad Oak and elsewhere you know nothing about.”

  He felt dazed. Bone weary. The days and nights since the sinking had been an endless blur. Kindle a candle at both ends and it will soon go out. The Irish saying returned to him, full of worry and warning. Stepping away from her, he opened a desk drawer and removed some papers and a small box, feeling time tick against him.

  Ellie watched his sure movements, marveling that while she couldn’t stop trembling, Jack showed an unnerving calm. Firelight gilded his hair and his winter-tanned features, calling out deep shadows of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.

  “If something should happen to me, if my father comes upon these papers, he’ll destroy them. I want you to take them to New Hope and keep them there.”

  Confused, the pain in her heart building, she took the documents, her reluctant gaze making out the lettering of a will and deed of property.

  “Your father approached me months ago about the sale of River Hill. I’d meant it for Chloe but have since made it out to him. I want it to be his—yours—if it can’t be mine.”

  She felt a strange resistance override her surprise. Her father had approached him? Why?

  River Hill means nothing to me without you. Though she tried to hold them back, her tears spotted the papers, making the ink blot and run.

  Laying the documents aside, he took something from his pocket.

  She spoke past the catch in her throat. “A posy ring?”

  “Aye, the one my grandfather the judge gave his bride.” He slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand, a near-perfect fit. The width and weight of it seemed to carry a promise. His voice was oddly rough, as if the words came hard for one unused to tender things. “With this ring, I’m asking you to be my bride. To live here and make a better life. A faith-filled life. To turn River Hill into what it once was—a place of beauty. And peace.”