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

by Laura Frantz

  “And what did you tell him in response?”

  “That I never killed no man before. That I don’t know nothin’ ’bout shootin’ nobody. Slaves ain’t allowed guns.”

  “But Ballantyne kept insisting you harm Dr. Brunot?”

  “Yes, sir. He said he’d bring my wife and children upriver if I killed him. But I was afraid, so I told the sheriff.”

  “Did Ballantyne tell you why he wanted you to do this violence? A long-standing grudge, perhaps? Some other matter?”

  The man’s ebony eyes shone. “He said the doctor was trying to hurt slaves like me, not help ’em. That Brunot was posin’ as one of them abolitionists but was really a slave catcher in disguise. Ballantyne feared Brunot would turn him in—”

  “That’s a lie!” A shout sounded from the gallery, firm and full of heat. It rolled to the far corners of the courtroom, drawing every ear and eye. “Silas Ballantyne neither armed this man nor killed Dr. Brunot. Henry Turlock did both.”

  Feeling ice-cold to her toes, Ellie braced herself for the fight to come. Jack stood looking down at them, face tight with fury, eyes fastened on Henry, who’d come to his feet. With a little cry, Isabel bent her head and leaned into Wade, stricken as much by the sight of the son she’d thought dead as by his damning accusations, surely.

  “Henry Turlock is the murderer of Theo Brunot, just as he was the murderer of Cyrus O’Leary eighteen years ago, in my very presence. They share the same grave.”

  Henry stood, swayed. The court was in an uproar now, the din rising above the judge’s pounding gavel. A door slammed shut, and Ellie caught a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye. Elspeth? Her aunt was rushing to the front of the courtroom like a woman possessed, to the very box her father sat within. Would she harm him? In defense of Henry?

  Chest rising and falling beneath her cape, Elspeth swung round and faced the court. “Silas Ballantyne is indeed innocent of all charges. And this man, Mose”—she gestured toward the stunned witness—“is a free Negro who’s been threatened with slavery by Henry Turlock if he fails to accuse Silas Ballantyne. Not only he himself but his wife and six children.”

  Ellie’s focus veered between Jack still in the gallery and her aunt. Elspeth needed no theatrical stage upon which to perform. She was at her finest in a cold courtroom filled to the brim with astonished onlookers.

  “Mose is a free man, bullied by authorities in Pittsburgh like you.” She stabbed a finger toward the sheriff. “And you.” She gestured to another man. “And the three of you.” She cast a dismissive hand at a trio of aldermen before turning toward the judge.

  Ellie watched her father’s gaze cut to Henry Turlock, whose rugged features had turned a frightening crimson. Isabel sank back onto the bench, the brim of her bonnet concealing her face, while Wade—

  “Nay!” Ellie leapt to her feet as Wade withdrew a pistol from beneath his greatcoat, resolve hardening his every feature. But the thunder of the gun’s discharge snuffed her cry of warning.

  Smoke powdered the air, and Da was jarred backward by the impact. Ellie felt herself sinking, her legs giving way, as Wade aimed a second pistol at Elspeth. With a strangled cry, Jack leapt from the gallery like something feral and knocked Wade to the courtroom floor.

  Aldermen swarmed forward to restore order, Reverend Herron in their wake. Benumbed, Ellie watched as Peyton began catapulting over benches toward the front of the room, past hysterical women and frowning men, not caring who he pummeled to reach their father. Next to her, Ansel and Andra hovered protectively around their shaken mother.

  Relief sang through Ellie. Though her father clutched his shoulder and blood was turning his coat scarlet-black, he did not appear seriously injured. The bullet meant for Elspeth had lodged in the judge’s bench.

  As for Jack . . .

  He was looking at her across the teeming room, his relief as potent as his smile.

  36

  Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

  EMILY BRONTË

  “You ken what the Scots say about marrying in January.” Andra’s voice dropped to a distressed mumble as she buttoned the back of Ellie’s gown. “We’ll all catch our deaths in the chapel today.”

  “Only a few guests have been invited to the short ceremony. Far more will come to River Hill for the wedding breakfast and reception.” Ellie took a deep breath to quell the flutter inside her, thinking of all they’d had to do in the fortnight since the courtroom fracas. River Hill had been turned on end in preparation and come to new life.

  “You might at least have waited till Da’s wound healed. He’s determined to play the Shaimit reel and might well reinjure himself fiddling so vigorously.”

  “I don’t think it’s the cold or Da’s condition that troubles you . . .” Ellie turned round and took her sister’s hands in her own. “But my groom.”

  Andra’s eyes were grieved. “I do wish you’d confided in me about him. Here I was thinking Jack had drowned and you’d eventually wed poor Daniel. Never in my wildest imaginings would you choose a Turlock, even if he did come back from the dead!” Slipping free of Ellie’s grasp, she reached for the wedding bonnet with a little sigh. The attached veil cascaded through her hands like a frothy waterfall, the rose point lace exquisite.

  “Jack is a fine man,” Ellie said softly. “And Da’s given his blessing.”

  “I ken you’d wed him, blessing or no.” Carefully Andra placed the bonnet on Ellie’s head and began tying the chin ribbons. “I must admit his heroics in the courtroom curried some favor, though I feared he’d break his neck jumping from the gallery like he did!”

  “Feared—or hoped?” Ellie teased gently.

  “No matter.” Andra’s eyes were a wash of green. “You’ll soon melt his heart, little sister. You’ve never looked so lovely.”

  “Nor has your groom ever looked so handsome.” Mama stood in the open doorway, a joyful smile aimed at both daughters, a lush bouquet in hand. “Jack is below with your father in the study. Elspeth and Isabel are keeping company with Reverend Herron’s wife in the parlor.”

  Ellie’s stomach somersaulted in surprise. “Well, wonders never cease!”

  Andra’s sly smile stole away her poignancy of moments before. “I’m sure that canary of mine is being duly entertained—or is providing some entertainment.”

  “Singing his heart out,” Mama confirmed, passing Ellie the bouquet.

  “Roses . . . in January?” Awed, she buried her face in the blooms, marveling at the sweet scent and rich hues. From deep crimson to pale pink, there were two dozen or more—and a sprig of white heather for luck.

  “You should see the chapel,” Andra said. “Filled to the brim with every hothouse flower in Allegheny County!”

  Ellie looked up at Mama. “I have you and Da to thank for that, I suppose.”

  “’Twas your father’s doing. As soon as the ceremony is over, they’ll be taken to your new home. Our wish is that you’ll make River Hill’s garden glorious again and the old place will be like it once was.” Her smile turned wistful. Opening a gloved hand, she revealed a cameo. “Isabel asked that I give you this.”

  In her palm nested a girl in dark ivory relief, her profile unmistakable within the elegant oval frame. On the reverse side, set in pink milk glass, was a lock of hair held in place by tiny pearls representing tears.

  Chloe.

  Ellie’s heart ached anew. Since she’d awakened that morning, her thoughts had been consumed as much by Chloe as Jack. She wanted Chloe here. She wanted her near. Chloe’s girlish hopes had brought about this day. She’d loved Jack deeply.

  “’Tis yours,” Mama told her. “Isabel wants you to have it. She seems quite . . . changed.”

  “With Henry and Wade both in jail, I don’t doubt it.” Andra’s brows arched as she fussed with a stray thread on Ellie’s skirt. “I’m surprised she’s even here.”

  “Jack insisted,” Ellie said softly. “And I agreed. Though she’ll only stay for
the ceremony.”

  “We’d best go below—’tis almost ten o’clock.” Taking her by the shoulders, Mama turned Ellie toward a full-length mirror. “I daresay you’re more beautiful in this gown than I was.”

  As delectable as a bride’s cake, the heirloom dress was white tulle over pale blue silk, the full skirts adorned with rose and ribbon embroidery, cascading to her ankles in shimmery splendor. Would Jack be pleased? She’d soon see the answer in his eyes.

  “I believe I’m ready.” Ellie stepped away from her reflection, her bouquet trembling slightly in her gloved hand.

  “Shall we pray?” Mama asked, as if sensing Ellie’s need.

  Joining hands, they bowed their heads, the silence sweet and expectant as the mantel clock chimed the wedding hour.

  Jack stood at the front of the chapel, barely aware of the chill, overcome by a blessed intoxication that had naught to do with spirits. The heady scent of roses clung to the wintry air, and the stillness, save the hushed pattering of feet as guests arrived, felt holy. With Silas to his left and Reverend Herron to his right, he was in fine company. Even Peyton’s occasional appraising stare from a front pew rolled off him like river water.

  Clad in the suit he’d worn to the Ballantyne ball, Jack felt well-dressed, if a bit self-conscious. Sol had fussed over him endlessly that morning, whistling all the while, expressing his delight that everyone would descend on River Hill in the hours to come. Truly, the old house had never looked finer, and he had Sol and a great many hired help to thank when all was said and done.

  His gaze rose to the chapel rafters, set in place the century before. Winter light spilled through narrow stained-glass windows, and candles were a-shimmer on every stone ledge. Here Silas Ballantyne had wed Eden Lee and had every Ballantyne baby christened in the Scots tradition. Instead of feeling out of place, Jack had an inexplicable sense that he’d come home.

  His mother sat in a side pew, causing him a moment’s worry. He’d wanted her to come, hoping the day’s joy might ease her sadness. She met his eyes, her face half hidden beneath her darkly veiled bonnet, and he tried to smile past the tightness in his chest. Despite everything, she was his mother and he loved her. And in her own way, she cared for him.

  A sudden stirring at the door caused every head to turn. Ellie stood framed in a ray of winter sunlight, looking more like an angel than a bride. His heart picked up in rhythm as she glanced his way. Silas went forward to bring her to him, joining their hands as Ansel began a hallowed air at the back of the chapel. Ellie looked up at him, eyes luminous, the lovely cameo pinned to her bodice his undoing.

  He swallowed hard, felt the strengthening squeeze of her hand. The posy ring, gotten back from her the day before, was warm in his fist, the inscription circling round his head. Keep faith till death. And death it had nearly been. Twice.

  Reverend Herron’s tone was solemn yet warm with pleasure. “Do you, Sean Ciaran Turlock, take this woman, Elinor Louise Ballantyne, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  Jack felt a sudden bumbling at Ellie’s slight, questioning smile. In the excitement of the past few days, he’d forgotten to tell her that Sean was the Gaelic equivalent of Jack. “I do.”

  She echoed the words before they said the traditional Irish vow together. “By the power that Christ wrought from heaven, mayst thou love me. As the sun follows its course, mayst thou follow me. As light to the eye, as bread to the hungry, as joy to the heart, may thy presence be with me, oh one that I love, ’til death comes to part us asunder.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek. He longed to brush it away. Kiss it away. Maybe at the wedding breakfast, if there were more tears. Or tonight when they were alone. He felt befuddled as a schoolboy as he brushed back her lace veil to kiss her, contemplating what was to come. For now her nearness wrapped round his senses and made him wish the coming hours away.

  The traditional Scottish wedding psalm was sung, Silas’s deep voice ringing out in benediction. Reverend Herron kissed Ellie’s flushed cheek as guests clapped and nodded. “A Scots custom, if not an Irish one,” he said with a smile.

  Raising her ringed hand, Jack kissed the third finger where the posy rested, wishing with every fiber of his being that Chloe could see their happiness.

  But perhaps, somehow, she did.

  When the fiddling ceased and the last guest had gone home, Ellie found herself standing in the middle of Jack’s bedchamber—their bedchamber—listening for his footfalls. Alone in the unfamiliar, masculine room, she felt at sea. But for his distinctive clary-sage scent . . . the discarded swallowtail coat . . . the Bible atop the nightstand.

  Someone had drawn the shutters and curtains, lit a fine fire, and turned down the bedcovers. Countless flowers, looking as fresh as they had in the chapel that morning, adorned vases about the firelit room, their fading fragrance subtly sweet.

  Sitting down on a stool, she slipped off her shoes and wriggled her stocking-clad feet. Andra wasn’t there to help her undress and manage her many layers. She supposed she’d have to hire a lady’s maid. For now she had . . . Jack. He was leaning into the door frame, watching her, hands clasped behind his back as if faced with the temptation of treacle or marzipan.

  “Are you feeling homesick, Ellie?”

  She smiled at him. “I am home, Jack.”

  With a look of relief, he shut the door, stirring the air so that the candle flame danced. He crossed slowly to where she sat, took her hands, and gently brought her to her feet. The top of her head grazed his clean-shaven jaw. “I’m sorry there’s to be no wedding journey, Ellie.”

  The regret in his tone bruised her. He meant till the trial was over. As a witness, he couldn’t leave the county till his father was sentenced. He’d only narrowly escaped prosecution himself, given the explosions at Broad Oak.

  She touched his cheek, thinking how little a honeymoon trip mattered. “We’ll stay snug at River Hill till spring. Then the rivers will be navigable again and we’ll take a steamer to New Orleans like we planned.”

  “On the Elinor.”

  “Indeed.” She began untying his cravat, the intimacy of the moment making her feel very married. “With you by my side, Da won’t deny me the dangerous pleasure.”

  Leaning in, he kissed the bare hollow of her shoulder. “He’s already talking of christening a boat for a grandchild.”

  “Oh?” She knew it to be true. Her father hadn’t stopped smiling all day. “’Twill be at least nine months till that happens.”

  His eyes were roguish. Merry. “I’d hate to disappoint him and be a day late.” Reaching out, he doused the candle flame with his fingertips before returning her to his warm embrace. He kissed her as he’d not done all day, though the strength of it told her he’d wanted to. Badly.

  “Ellie, love . . .”

  She softened like wax beneath his hands, every inch of her flushed with love and longing. She felt she’d come home. She was Jack Turlock’s bride. And tonight, at least, she never wanted to leave River Hill, wedding journey or otherwise.

  Epilogue

  Man’s yesterday may never be like his morrow.

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  The Elinor docked on a fair May night studded with starlight, its great bulk borne along on a stiff westerly breeze. Ellie stood at the hurricane deck railing, Jack by her side, their wedding journey of two months behind them. Though it had been the happiest time of her life, her hungry gaze scoured the moonlit dock for signs of her father and brothers. But only a few roustabouts scrambled to secure the mooring lines and ready the stage planks in the lantern-lit shadows.

  “Are you disappointed, Ellie, love?” Jack threaded his arms round her waist, his lips brushing the back of her neck where her chignon slipped free of its pins. “They’d not recognize you anyway.”

  She smiled at his teasing and remembered his gentle words the next morning when she arrived at New Hope and faced Andra in the foyer. Her sister circled her as if she were a museum specimen on exhibit, a look of wonder on her
face. “Are you feeling well, Elinor? You’re so . . . prodigiously big!”

  Peering down from the stair landing, the maids giggled. Ellie gave them an awkward smile, draping her hands over her expanding middle. “’Twas a secret till now,” she said, thinking how small her waist had been on her wedding day. “I’m more than four months along. I simply wasn’t showing when we left for New Orleans.”

  “Well, I didn’t think it was all that shrimp remoulade and crawfish bisque you’d been writing home about!” Andra motioned Ellie into the parlor, giving a backward glance at Mari and Gwyn and requesting tea. “We’re in need of some good news, aside from Peyton and Penelope’s betrothal, that is.”

  “So there’s to be another wedding?” Ellie raised her brows in surprise, her own glad news forgotten. “Truly?”

  “Supposedly, though our dear brother keeps postponing the date. Penelope is proving very patient.”

  “A postponement? Why?”

  Andra rolled her eyes. “Business, ye ken.”

  “But there’ll always be business.” Ellie took a seat, already feeling ungraceful with her added bulk. “Perhaps I can help move things along now that I’m home.”

  “Good luck.” Andra took a chair opposite, darting a look at the door as if impatient for tea. “Enough about weddings—or the lack. I’d much rather hear about your trip.”

  “Oh, New Orleans was wonderful. Jack is wonderful.” Feeling a nudge to her middle, Ellie placed a hand there. “I’ve brought gifts for everyone. Cashmere shawls for you and Mama, a Tourte le jeune bow for Ansel—”

  Andra’s pinched expression stopped her midsentence. “A great deal has happened since you’ve been gone. I hardly know where to begin.” Reluctance wove across her face, heightening Ellie’s alarm. “Da wanted to be the one to tell you. But he’s in town with no inkling you’re here, and Mama is meeting with the Ladies’ Aid Society.”