Shiloh

by Lori Benton

  “I’d offer you a sizable tract, fit for farming or grazing, at half the price of the land around Cooperstown—if you’re willing to claim the acreage near one of the villages I’m establishing in Herkimer County, in the Adirondack foothills. There would be opportunity to ply your cabinetmaking craft as well.”

  Ian’s heart leapt at the offer, despite the barrier of unknowns preventing his grasping it. He took a breath, let it out in a long exhale.

  “What say you?” Cooper prompted, certain he had set the hook.

  He nearly had. “I’m intrigued by the offer, sir. And very much tempted to give ye an aye this minute. But there are matters in Boston which require my attention before I decide where I mean to settle.” He would make no rash decisions. Not this time. “I’m a father, ye see.”

  If the man was disappointed, he concealed it. “Being a father several times over myself, I understand. I didn’t immediately remove my own family to the frontier, though they’re settled now in Cooperstown. Does a wife await you in Boston?”

  The answer to that was more complicated than Ian could possibly explain. “My wife died back in Carolina, birthing our son, whom I buried with her.”

  Cooper heaved himself to his feet and reached for the decanter. “You’ve my sincerest sympathies for your loss, Mr. Cameron. I see now why you’ve chosen to uproot yourself again.”

  He refilled his glass. Ian proffered his. “Hold on to it for a moment,” Cooper said before Ian could take a swallow. The congressman crossed to a writing table provided for the inn’s guests, took up a quill, uncorked an inkpot, and scratched several lines across a half sheet of foolscap.

  Ian stood as Cooper held out the page. He took it and skimmed it—poorly written, badly spelled, blazingly clear: Up to Six hundrud & fortey Ackers of pryme Farmland . . . a Town Lot in which to set up a Joyner’s Shoppe . . . exact Locayshun and Terms of Payement to be determun’d . . .

  “‘Upon the down payment of a shilling,’” Ian finished reading aloud, raising his stunned gaze to Cooper. “D’ye mean that, sir?”

  “Heartily I do,” Cooper said.

  Ian read it again, noting the offer was dated but unsigned.

  “The innkeeper may witness our signatures, ere we retire,” Cooper said.

  Ian was momentarily lost for how to refuse such generosity—or whether he should. In that brief space John Reynold’s words came to him. God will make the way for you, Ian. He’s gone before you, preparing that path. Be ready to be surprised by His goodness.

  “I’m mindful my small service to ye today is in no wise equal to its reward, and I wish I could give ye an answer now. I simply cannot.” He made, reluctantly, to return the agreement, but Cooper raised a hand.

  “I’ll sign it, regardless. Keep it in your possession to remind you your options for a future aren’t limited to Boston. If ever the time is right, come to Cooperstown. Present the note to me at the Manor House—or to my agent, Kent, should I be attending Congress. The offer stands—for as long as I have land to sell. Now, let us drink to it.”

  They raised their glasses, Ian with a heart pierced by wonder, the sense of possibilities opening wide. Yet doubt remained to worry at its edges. If New York was the path prepared for him, how would Seona and Gabriel figure into it?

  7

  BOSTON

  July 1796

  Catriona and Morgan Shelby, cozy as two peas, sat on a bench outside a bookseller’s shop—not her daddy’s. A book lay open on Catriona’s lap. Mr. Shelby put a finger on the page, leaned in, said something that brought forth laughter. From behind the fruit vendor’s stall, where she had stopped to purchase peaches for Miss Margaret, Seona stared, disbelieving her eyes.

  Twice since the evening Ned joined the family at table, accompanied by Mr. Shelby, Seona had asked Ian’s sister whether the man was still in Boston. Twice Catriona said she hadn’t the faintest idea.

  The pair had carried on a lively conversation with the elder Camerons through that supper. Seona had eaten in silence, aware of small feet thumping abovestairs, where Lily supped in peace, watching Gabriel. Ned’s strain had been evident. Seona doubted his presence at table, or his acknowledgment of what everyone knew, had changed anything. Penny had fled her grief, her home, her husband. Ned was still miserable. Soon as manners allowed, Seona had retreated to the scullery before going up to put Gabriel to bed.

  Ned caught her as she started up the stairs.

  “Bide a moment, Seona?” Poised on the landing midway, she looked down at Ian’s brother, looking up at her, hands clenched at his sides as he nodded toward the dining room, where the others’ voices could be heard. “It was ye, I take it, brought this about? Ye went to my house today?”

  His bitter tone made her flinch. He clearly knew nothing of Catriona and Mr. Shelby’s scheming. Maybe she should have given them away, but just then all she saw was an unhappy white man, accusing her. All she felt was unreasoning fear.

  “Mama and I were worried. We’re all worried.”

  “Penny will be back.” A wall candle’s flickering light caught what his eyes couldn’t hide. Doubt. Despair.

  “Will she?”

  Ned’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t drive her away. Not like Ian did ye.”

  The mention of Ian caught her off guard. Drive her away? She swallowed and said, “I won’t speak of Ian. Not if all you mean to do is run him down.”

  Ned came closer. The toe of his shoe bumped the bottom step, making her jump. “Tell me at least if ye’ve word from him. Da wrote him months ago. Does he not even care about his son?”

  “He cares,” Seona said in reflex, like warding off a raised hand. “And no, I haven’t. Now . . . I’ll bid you good night.”

  Morgan Shelby called to Ned. He answered, saying no more to her, but she felt his gaze as she ascended the stairs.

  Later, with Gabriel asleep and her mama gone down to help put the kitchen to bed, she extinguished her candle and, in her shift, sat by the open window of their upstairs room enjoying the cooling twilight. Fear had leached away, leaving her to realize it was grief—mostly—that had prompted Ned’s bitter words. Does he not even care about his son?

  Though Ian’s brother was the last person she would admit it to, of late that very question had nudged its way into her thoughts. There might be any number of reasons why they hadn’t heard from Ian. Letters got delayed. Went astray. God forbid something’s happened to prevent his writing at all . . .

  Sounds of Ned and Mr. Shelby leaving the house by the back garden, talking low, broke that train of thought. Her window overlooked the alley between the houses, so she caught some of their conversation when their voices rose.

  “Supping together is one thing, but I’ll not trust ye again.”

  “Come, Ned. If you would only see reason . . .”

  Seona shook her head, thinking it was Morgan Shelby’s turn to fall under the lash of Ned’s tongue, for meddling in his affairs, but though their voices had sunk, she caught a few more of Ned’s words that made her think they spoke not of Penny, but something else—overpromised . . . under-delivered . . . the cost . . .

  “You’ve not told him yet?” Mr. Shelby cut in, relief sharp in his voice.

  “Ye wouldn’t have sat at his table tonight had I done so! But I must.”

  “All right, Ned. Just grant me a little more time . . .”

  They had moved off, their footsteps on the crushed-shell path drowning their talk. That was the last Seona had seen or heard of Morgan Shelby until now, out buying the peaches Miss Margaret had forgotten to mention to Catriona when she sent her daughter out to the butcher’s. An errand that had flown from Catriona’s mind?

  Seona debated what to do. Step from behind the stall, march up to Ian’s sister, tell her she was needed at home? Pretend she’d seen nothing?

  Before she could make up her mind, Morgan Shelby stood, reaching for the book, offering Catriona his other hand. She took it to rise, then let him tuck hers under his arm. Seona’s heart th
umped, thinking she was about to be spied, but the pair strolled the other way.

  Tempted to trail them, Seona forced herself to purchase the peaches, then made a beeline for the house on Beachum Lane.

  Pink-cheeked and glowing, Catriona swept into her room, spied Seona seated on the bench at the bed’s foot, and whipped a book—the one she had been reading with Morgan Shelby—behind her back. “Seona! Have you been waiting on me?”

  Seona gripped a handful of petticoat, bracing herself. “I have.”

  Catriona crossed to the dressing table and slid the book beneath a crumpled fichu, then sat to unpin her hat. “I said I’d be visiting some while.”

  “The butcher, you mean?”

  “What?” Catriona frowned at her reflection. “Oh . . . right. Mam sent me to pick up a leg of lamb. I didn’t forget. Silly me, I wasn’t visiting today. I’m just distracted.”

  Brushing at the wrinkles in her petticoat, Seona stood. “I know. I saw you. Outside that bookseller’s shop.”

  Beneath her hat’s wide brim, Catriona’s expression was guarded. Several replies slid across her eyes as she removed the hat before she said, “Seona, I . . . I wasn’t entirely truthful with you.”

  “Today, you mean? Or those other times you said you hadn’t seen Mr. Shelby?”

  Catriona lunged off her seat and shut the room’s door, then swung to face Seona. “I never said I hadn’t seen Mr. Shelby. I said I didn’t know whether he’d returned to New York. He doesn’t inform me of all his doings, so it was true . . . when you asked.”

  Ignoring this skating on the knife-edge of honesty, Seona asked, “This isn’t the first you’ve met?”

  Catriona crossed to the bench, gripped Seona’s hand, and urged her to sit again. “I’ll tell you, but you must keep it between us. Today was the third time. But he’s not courting me,” she added when Seona frowned. “We’re friends.”

  “Friends who meet in secret with no . . .” The word she wanted escaped her. “With no one looking on?”

  “No chaperone?” Catriona released her hand to gesture toward the window. “Only the entire North End—including you, apparently. Don’t make more of this than is needful.”

  “I don’t know what’s needful, but you ought to tell Miss Margaret about it. Or your daddy.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Catriona rose to pace the room, reminding Seona piercingly of Ian, who did the same when agitated. “Ned and Mr. Shelby had a falling-out. Over business—paper, marbling ink, something. Ned got impatient with a delay in the supply and cut ties with Mr. Shelby. Won’t even speak to him now. Mr. Shelby has put considerable capital into expanding his family’s business into Boston. Ned and Da aren’t the only ones at risk.”

  The impassioned concern for the man troubled Seona, but at least the half-heard argument below her window weeks ago made sense now.

  “Mr. Shelby’s father worked hard after the war to build their family’s fortune,” Catriona was saying. “Now he’s ill. Mr. Shelby says this sort of disruption will prove injurious to the business and, he fears, to his father’s fragile health. If only Ned could have shown a bit of grace. But then you know about that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?” Seona asked.

  “I heard my brother, that night he came to supper—pressing you about Ian.” Tears gathered in Catriona’s eyes. “He gets a notion in his stubborn head and won’t let it go. Not his resentment of Ian. Not this situation with Mr. Shelby. Even Penny! He probably did drive her away, whatever he says!”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth as a sob burst forth.

  This is grief talking. And no wonder. Her nephews’ deaths. Ned’s distancing. Penny’s abandonment. Seona knew how grief could pile on grief and muddle a mind. Or a heart. She stood, snatched a handkerchief from the dressing table, and drew Ian’s sister back to the bench.

  Catriona wiped her nose, sniffling. “Oh, Seona, why must things change? I miss Ian and Penny, the boys. Even stubborn Ned. And Mr. Shelby has been so . . .”

  “So what?” Seona asked warily.

  “Attentive,” Catriona admitted. “He’s charming—and so well-read. He seems to find me of interest.”

  “You are. But the man needs to have a talk with Mister Robert if he wants to spend his charm on you. Doesn’t he?” While still uncertain of the social rules among these northern folk, Seona knew she had hit this nail square when Catriona colored pink.

  “I doubt I’ll see him again,” she said as her gaze slid away. “Not if Ned’s pigheadedness runs true to form.”

  Ned’s pigheadedness did run true to form. So did Catriona’s, but nearly a fortnight passed before Seona had an inkling of what had, despite her cautioning, been going on. The truth came to light on a day when a summer rain set in after Ian’s sister left the house. Seona had meant to accompany her on an errand and a call on a friend until she saw Lily had more bespoke work than was manageable. She stayed to help with the sewing.

  The upstairs room was stuffy and warm. Rain plinked against the window glass, dimming the light. They lit a beeswax candle apiece to better see their stitches, still a luxury Seona appreciated. Around midday Margaret Cameron came upstairs, asking if Seona knew where Catriona had meant to go besides running her errand to a confectioner’s shop.

  “She meant to call on a friend,” Seona said, schooling her face not to show the suspicion that leapt instantly to mind.

  Miss Margaret glanced at the rain-streaked window. “Which friend?”

  Lily looked up from her work. Gabriel ceased his play with a set of painted blocks strewn across the rug and grinned at his grandmother in the doorway.

  “She didn’t say,” Seona replied. “Likely she’s waiting on the rain to let up.”

  Miss Margaret left them to their work. The plinking of rain filled the room again. After a bit Lily asked, “Have ye a better guess where Catriona’s at than ye let on?”

  Gabriel abandoned his blocks to grip Seona’s skirt, whining like he used to when he wanted feeding. At just turned two, he had no more need of it but sometimes still suckled for comfort. Seona unpinned her bodice, settled her son warm and heavy in her lap, then looked across the room at her mama seated at the window, a half-embroidered petticoat draping her lap. “She may not be with a friend. A girlfriend, I mean.”

  “Morgan Shelby?”

  It was easy to forget how much her mama noticed. “I hope not.” She recounted the conversation overheard the night Ned and Mr. Shelby came to dinner and what Catriona told her since, about the business trouble.

  Gabriel had fallen asleep in her arms. She laid him in his little bed. Repinning her bodice, she murmured, “I always wonder was it the last time he’ll want that.”

  She turned to see Lily’s gaze softened. “Ye grew up fast, girl-baby. So will he.”

  “Too fast.” Seona looked at her sleeping boy, limbs sprawled, pale curls falling over his brow. She longed to see the boy he would make—and the man—even as she pined for the infant she once cradled in her arms. She studied his face, adoring every soft curve of bone and flesh. Hers. Ian’s.

  Would she never hear word from the man?

  The rain was letting up, the light growing brighter. They blew out the candles, thrifty by habit, and smiled at each other for doing it.

  “You give any thought to the three of us finding a place?” Lily asked.

  Before Seona could answer, they heard Catriona enter the house. “Watch him for a spell?” she asked with a glance at Gabriel. “I’ll come back and help. But first . . .”

  Lily nodded. “Aye. Go on.”

  It was worse than she had feared.

  “Seona, I told you—I’m merely attempting to mend things between him and Ned,” Catriona protested in a half whisper when Seona found her in the scullery, scrubbing carrots for a stew, and asked straight-out if she had sheltered somewhere with Mr. Shelby during the rain. “He tried again yesterday. Ned refused to see him.”

  Seona kept her voice low, aware of Miss Mar
garet clanging pots in the kitchen, just through the pantry. “How many times have you seen him?”

  “Twice more. Maybe three times.”

  Maybe nothing. “What is it you do together?”

  Catriona’s face flamed. “Nothing like what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “That I fancy myself in love with Morgan Shelby.” Catriona set the carrots on a board and reached for a drying cloth. “That I’ve done something I . . . oughtn’t to have done.”

  “Have you?”

  “Keep your voice down. And you’re one to ask with the evidence of what you did napping right upstairs.”

  Blood stung Seona’s cheeks. She opened her mouth but found nothing to say to the accusation. The scullery was stone-floored, windowless, but the yard door stood open, emitting a watery light. By it Seona watched Catriona’s face drain of its blush.

  “Aside from my brother,” she went on, voice shaking, “what experience have you of men to make you so suspicious of Mr. Shelby?”

  Like a collie fetching in stray sheep, Catriona’s question gathered in the vague suspicions Seona had harbored about Morgan Shelby and produced an answer: Gideon Pryce.

  “He reminds me of a man I knew in Carolina, who took what he wanted from whomever he willed—tried to take it from me.” Seona turned heel and left the scullery, heading for her evidence, asleep in his cradle bed.

  Never had Catriona thrown in her face what happened between her and Ian at Mountain Laurel. Never had she condemned.

  Lily took one look at her and didn’t probe, but after a few moments Seona put aside her stitching and made for the door, unable to leave things so with Catriona.

  She wasn’t in her room.

  Seona stood inside the door, thinking Ian’s sister surely had fallen in love with Morgan Shelby. At least infatuation. But was that wrong? Despite the man reminding her of Gideon Pryce, the situation couldn’t be as it was between herself and the master of Chesterfield Plantation—a mouse to his stalking cat. Catriona was no man’s slave.