Love's Fortune (11 page)

James looked at him, incredulity overriding grief. “We’ll likely never know.”

“Not without a confession. Word is Madder is none too happy you informed authorities of his slave-stealing ring between Natchez and New Orleans and he’s vowed to make more trouble.”

“So Silas wants me lying in port under wages.”

“Just for the winter. The hope is one of Madder’s band will betray him and he’ll be charged with horse stealing and counterfeiting or some of the lesser crimes he’s known for.” Dean reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a paper, and passed it to James. “Matters are becoming more serious—and far more public—than you might think.”

James scanned the bold newsprint, somewhat amused at the flamboyant wording. Journalists these days grasped at anything to sell a story.

The life and adventures of John Madder, the Great Western Land Pirate, and a catalogue of the names of his 455 Mystic Clan followers and their conspiracy regarding the destruction of James Sackett, the young Pennsylvania river pilot who detected him.

“Who prints this trash?”

“The yellow-jacket press,” Dean replied.

Fisting it, James tossed the pamphlet into an open furnace. “I need to relieve McCormick.”

“I’ll retire for the night then.”

James took the stairs to the hurricane deck slightly ahead of schedule. Arriving late violated pilot protocol. He’d never been tardy, though he’d seen officers refuse to speak to each other for the breach. Maritime custom was strict, and he had no intention of letting the grim news about Madder slow his steps.

A harvest moon rode the river to the south, orange as a pumpkin, the swirling water black as a cat. McCormick greeted him and stepped away from the wheel. James pulled on leather gloves while the off-watch pilot apprised him of river conditions, lighting a cigar as he did so.

Listening, James was alert to the tendrils of fog that crept in from both sides of the Mississippi and promised a tense night. Much could be gauged by the season, the mood of the river, even the temperature.

Through the mist came an occasional glimmer of light like a firefly from some dwelling near shore. Lately he’d noticed such places more than he used to, even craved the refuge they promised. His River Row cottage seemed cramped. The Monongahela House too echoing. The ornate New Orleans quarters that served the gentlemen of the navigation laughably grand.

Home. He’d never had one. Never expected to want one. Why did it hold any appeal now? Pushing aside his odd musings, he tried to drive all but the river from his mind. Yet other matters would not relent. Thoughts of Wren Ballantyne kept bobbing like corks to the surface of his conscience, outdistancing Madder and his Mystic Conspiracy by a mile.

Wren . . . Wren . . . Wren.

Somehow his infatuation with this backwoods woman had snuck up on him without his consent. And left him wishing it was anyone else instead.

Ballantyne Hall was newer and grander than either River Hill or New Hope, almost shimmery in its splendor, an orangery under construction in the extensive gardens at the rear. Wren got down from the carriage as a light rain began to fall and entered a marble foyer and ornate dining room, where Papa wrapped her in his firm, tobacco-laden embrace.

Since arriving in Pittsburgh two weeks prior, they’d hardly had a moment alone, and now they were again surrounded on all sides, a dozen eyes on them. The closeness they’d once
shared as father and daughter seemed a memory. Circumstances and Ballantyne business had pushed them apart. Still, he appeared glad to see her. And once again she was thankful Mim had intercepted her note before he’d read the depths of her discontent.

Her wary gaze fixed on Bennett through the spray of roses and ivy running the length of the table as he sat opposite her. Clad in unrelieved black down to his inky cravat, he drove Charlotte’s memory home. This was why they’d come. To pay their respects, so Izannah said. With her cousin on one side of her and Papa on the other, Wren was better able to navigate the maze of silverware and French dishes.

Unlike the relaxed, laughter-sated meals at River Hill, conversation here was stiffly polite, and politics and business ruled the day. Wren felt a strange tension pulse in the air. Everyone was mindful they should have been celebrating a wedding, not mourning someone’s passing. Seated at one end of the table, Grandfather kept the conversation from stalling with his usual aplomb, though it was muted tonight, out of respect for Charlotte, surely.

They waded through course after course, sampling salmon en croûte and steamed vegetables and thick custard served with rich, black New Orleans coffee.

“Wren, I was thinking you and Ansel might play for us. A slow air, perhaps, or a lament.” Grandmother was looking at her, hope in her faded blue eyes.

Wren met her father’s gaze in question.

“I’ve brought two of the Cremona violins,” he told her.

Had he? She hardly felt like playing. Aware of everyone’s eyes on them, she simply nodded and followed him into an adjoining room, its French doors open to the garden. Soon all had assembled—the judge and Izannah, Bennett and his
parents. On a near sofa sat Grandfather and Grandmother, Aunt Andra to one side.

Hands unsteady, Wren tightened her bow and applied rosin to the strings, wishing she was in New Hope’s music room, where no one came to listen except Grandmother . . . or perhaps in Malachi Cameron’s carriage with only him and his driver her audience.

Papa struck the opening chord. She followed his lead reluctantly. Oh, why had he picked so complicated a lament? She was all thumbs, aware of Bennett’s rapt attention never leaving her for the entire excruciating piece. Hamstrung by awkwardness, her heart meting out a stilted rhythm of its own, she tried to smile at their polite applause.

“Play another,” Uncle Peyton urged, turning to Papa. “It reminds me of the early days when you and Ellie used to keep us up half the night.”

Wren chose a less complicated air, hoping to offset the gloom of the room. But she had little heart for playing, worn down as she was.

At last more drinks were served and they put their instruments away. Taking a glass of lemon ice, Wren was cast back to that first day when she’d had the spill on New Hope’s porch and Bennett had leveled her with a look.

Now, standing with his back to them by the French doors, he was taller and broader of shoulder than she remembered, and despite the trouble that shadowed him, he exuded polish and strength and that canny quality owned by all the Ballantynes.

No match for gentle Charlotte.

Nearly wincing at the thought, she fastened her gaze on a bed of autumn asters edging the veranda, startled when he came to stand beside her. “You play very well, cousin. Better than any I’ve heard in Pittsburgh, perhaps anywhere.”

The compliment raised her color a notch. She didn’t doubt his sincerity. She just sensed he was parsimonious with his praise. “I can take little credit, being both Ballantyne and Nancarrow.”

“Have you given any thought to going on stage? Performing?” His weary eyes narrowed, the sleepless lines beneath less pronounced. “A lucrative calling could be yours, especially given the Nightingale’s reputation.”

“Really, Bennett, don’t be so gauche.” Izannah passed by and whispered her rebuke before moving on to Grandmother, her fan aflutter.

Wren made no comment. Her music wasn’t something that could be bought. It sprang from her very soul like the gift it was. To be given as freely as it came.

He filled the uneasy silence. “I play the cello . . . on occasion.”

“Oh?” She resisted the urge to look about the music room till she spied it. Was he accomplished or simply dallying? Bennett, she sensed, didn’t dally at anything.

“The violin and cello get on very well together.” His voice dropped to an inviting timbre. “So might we.”

She read purpose in the words. Some plan. Yet they seemed to be dancing around what mattered most of all. She took a steadying breath. “I’m sorry . . . about Charlotte.”

The surprise on his tanned features was quickly reined in. “As am I.” He fell silent and Wren sensed he’d say no more. But he continued on in the same low vein, surprising her. “Everything was all right . . . and then it wasn’t.” His jaw tensed. “She seemed strangely upset. She wasn’t paying close attention to where she walked. The steps leading to the boathouse are steep . . . I tried to catch her when she slipped. But I—it was too late.”

Too late.
Had Charlotte told him she was leaving and some sort of struggle ensued? Had he been angry enough to harm her? Try as she might, Wren couldn’t wash Charlotte’s words from her mind.

He was
so angry I thought he might strike me.

A gentle touch to her sleeve drew her away. “Time to go, cousin.” Izannah gave her a small smile but had nary a word more, or even a glance, for Bennett. “Daddy doesn’t want to be too long away from Mama, and it’s growing late.”

Taking a last look at the garden, Wren wrestled with a morbid desire to glimpse the lake and make peace with Charlotte’s passing. But there was no peace in her heart. And the haunted look on Bennett’s face assured her there’d be none.

13

Hope is grief’s best music.

A
NONYMOUS

In the privacy of Izannah’s bedchamber, a tea table between them, Izannah pushed aside a stack of newspapers with a sigh. “A few paltry lines about James . . . and far too much about Bennett.”

Wren glanced at the boldest headline, breath held.

I
NQUEST
TO
B
E
M
ADE
P
UBLIC
IN
D
EATH
OF
S
HIPPING
H
EIRESS
.

“Why would there be news of Mr. Sackett?” Wren broached the question carefully, unsure if talk of river pilots was any safer than that of inquests. Yet Izannah always managed to turn the conversation James’s way. Further proof of her affections, surely.

Izannah looked over the edge of her porcelain teacup, its delicate rim edged with roses. “There’s rumor of a race between crack boats.”

“Crack boats?”

“The fastest boats in the fleet and their premier pilots,
which would be the Ballantynes’
Philadelphia
and the Vanderbilts’
North Star
. James holds the record for speed on both the upper and lower Mississippi. Everyone from Pittsburgh to Louisville and beyond will be watching.”

The mention of Louisville brought a tug, but more from the memory of fleeing James Sackett’s office than homesickness. Wren eyed the newspapers absently, so unsettled about the coming inquest that the tea tasted bitter.

“I saw you talking with Bennett last night following supper.” Izannah took a ginger biscuit but seemed no hungrier than she. “After his outlandish idea that you take the stage.”

“I don’t know what to make of him,” Wren confessed, unable to shake free of their troubling conversation.

“Nobody knows what to make of Bennett Ballantyne.” Izannah studied her teacup without focus, as if weighing how much to say. “While everything on the surface looks very civil, there are things going on you know little about. Bennett needed Charlotte’s fortune and is in terrible straits.”

“But he’s the heir—”

“Yes, and he lives extravagantly, whittling away much of his inheritance in reckless pursuits. Grandfather maintains the bulk of control and is always diversifying, but the truth is he’s very old, and though he seems almost immortal, he isn’t. When he passes, his legacy will largely be Bennett’s. I shudder to think what will happen then.”

“Surely he’ll marry in time . . . find another bride.”

“Perhaps, but right now he’s in mourning, firmly out of the coming social season. And after what’s happened with Charlotte, I doubt any woman from Boston to New Orleans would want him.”

Wren struggled to give him the benefit of the doubt. “But if it was an accident . . .”

Izannah’s sharp gaze shot down the notion. “I fear it wasn’t. Even the servants are talking. It seems Bennett wanted to take Charlotte out on the lake, as he has a new skiff. There’s a steep set of stairs leading to the boathouse where she fell.” She looked to the newspapers. “One account says a maid heard them arguing.”

Wren shut her eyes. It was all too easy to ponder Charlotte pleading. Charlotte crying. Charlotte falling . . .

“Bennett’s fiery temper makes him suspect. He’s arrogant and argumentative to a fault.” Izannah’s normally pale features were pink with heat. “Don’t ever cross him. And never trust him. If he has anything to do with you, it’s because he wants to use you.”

Heated words. Harsh words. Wren sipped her tea, trying to come to grips with all that had happened.

“I’ll never forgive him for what he did to James . . .”

James again.
Wren braced herself for more, but Izannah’s words were snatched away by the opening of a door. Aunt Ellie came in, Chloe in arm, startling them both. With a deft move, Izannah slid the newspapers out of sight beneath the table and put on her brightest face. “Mama, you’re just in time for tea.”

Wren smiled and reached for Chloe, lightly clad on account of the heat. She wore a sheer muslin nightgown, her every roll and dimple on display. Smelling of talc and milk, she was a warm, weighty armful.

“I heard voices and thought I’d join you.” Ellie’s smile was so like Grandmother’s Wren wished she could be with them. “The boys are at lessons, your father in court.”

“Should you be on your feet so soon, Mama? Another few days abed is best, or so the midwife says.” Pouring her a cup of tea, Izannah added sugar and a generous splash of cream. “I should have Cook make you a full breakfast.”

“No need. Your father already had a tray brought up at dawn and stayed till I’d eaten every bite.”

“Oh? You missed a sumptuous supper at Ballantyne Hall. Uncle Peyton is quite proud of his new French chef.” Izannah’s forced cheer was worse than honest melancholy. “Wren entertained us afterward. Uncle Ansel said all that was needed was your harp.”

Ellie smiled. “We used to play together quite often in the old days. Before he went away to England and I married Jack.”

The mention of the old days brought a rush of tender things to mind. “Some of my dearest memories are of Mama playing her psaltery and Papa and me accompanying her on the fiddle,” Wren said.

Ellie’s blue gaze turned wistful. “Your mother was an accomplished musician in her own right. No one was surprised when she and your father met and fell in love.”

“I know so little about their courtship,” Wren confessed, craving Ellie’s side of the story. “Only that Papa decided to visit the Nancarrows in Cornwall because of their reputation as luthiers and collectors. Then he met Mama.”

Ellie nodded. “Unbeknownst to the rest of us, the two of them had struck a correspondence. We were beginning to think he’d never marry. No Pittsburgh girl appealed to him. When he left for England, I was heartbroken. We all were. But once he returned with a bride, all was well again. After that the three of you went to Kentucky.”

Wren fell silent. Till now she’d not realized the strangeness of it, how she who had been raised in quietness and simplicity had been thrust into an unfamiliar, lush world in reverse while her mother had left England to come to humble Cane Run. Mama had never complained once, not to Wren’s hearing. Yet the move must have cost her something. Family. Friends.
Refinements. And Papa’s limp must have always served as a reminder of the price of resuming their privileged life.

“We mustn’t dwell so much on the past,” Ellie’s voice cut in, gently steering them in another direction. “We must look to the future.”

The gentle words seemed to hold a promise—of brighter, better things to come.

If that could be had in Pennsylvania.

Wren’s two-week stay at River Hill came to a sudden end, severed by a terse note.

Wren,

Plans have changed. Return to New Hope as soon as possible.

Papa

Might Papa have decided to return home?

For just a moment she gave in to the joy of going back to the known and familiar. To the stone house and violin shop . . . her colorful garden and feather bed beneath the eave . . . Mama’s gravesite atop the mountain in back of the house. Remembrances swirled through her head, potent and sweet.

The carriage that had brought her to River Hill was waiting, ready to whisk her down a rutted road that was becoming uncomfortably familiar. When New Hope’s cupola came into view, she tried to prepare herself if Aunt Andra met her in the foyer, but only Mim appeared, taking her bonnet in welcome.

“Good to see you, Miss Ro—” Looking about, she finished with a whisper, “Miss
Wren
.”

A quick glance into twin parlors reassured Wren the wedding gifts were gone. Where to she didn’t know, nor would she ask. A bittersweet gladness filled her as Mim rambled on.

“Yer da is in the garden with a—er, guest. Yer granny is getting ready to have tea. I’m nae sure about Miss Andra.”

Relieved, Wren traveled the length of the foyer, bypassing the lure of the music room to reach the back of the house.

Mim hurried close behind. “Ye’ll be wanting to change first, ye ken.”

“Change? Why?”

“There’s a wee smudge on yer dress, and the hour calls for an afternoon gown. Even a tea gown will do. I’ve just the one.”

Twenty chiffon flounces and a generous splash of lavender water later, Wren returned downstairs and passed onto the rear veranda. The heat of the day intensified the flowers’ fragrance, filling the sultry air like potpourri. Standing beneath the shaded eave, she searched for her father amid acres of ornamental garden. It wasn’t like him to leisurely stroll on a workday. Her heart tripped as she imagined the reason.

Passing a splashing fountain, she finally found him. He was walking with a woman, fringed parasol in hand, her face hidden if not her form. They were deep in conversation, her gloved hand resting on his sleeve in a way that bespoke a troubling familiarity. Had Papa known her before? Years ago? Whoever she was, she was as different from Mama as daylight and dark. Buxom. Rather tall. Lively in manner. Mama seemed no more than a ghost in that moment, as faded and forgotten as an old portrait.

“Wren, you’ve come at last.” Papa’s voice reached out in welcome. “You’re just in time to meet Miss Mina Cameron.”

Miss?
She looked as old as Papa but was remarkably unlined. Her smile was warm, her grip on his arm never less
ening. She had the same unusual eyes as the man in the carriage—Malachi Cameron. Were they kin?

“I hope you don’t mind that I call you Wren. It’s delightful. Memorable. And you must call me Mina.”

Wren smiled and gave in to Papa’s embrace. “Mina is here to have tea with your grandmother,” he said. “You might want to join them, though I’d like a word with you first.”

With a squeeze to his arm, Mina left them. They continued on down a gravel path to the quaint, ivy-covered chapel Charlotte had favored. Wren felt a sudden qualm. Pushing open a creaking door that looked like it had been rescued from some crumbling castle, Papa stepped inside. Reluctant, she followed after him.

Stained-glass windows shot prisms of rainbow light against walls of stone. Everything looked and felt old. Hallowed. She softened, understanding why Charlotte had wanted to wed here. It had a charm undimmed by time. A worthy place to play a violin, promising a pleasing echo.

“I’ve always had a fondness for this chapel.” Papa shut the door behind them, hemming them in. “You were christened here, and here your aunt Ellie wed her Jack.”

Wren looked to the far rafters where a dove perched. The past seemed to rise up to meet her, filling in more missing pages of her family’s history. She sensed an unspoken wish in Papa’s words that she take her place and continue the legacy. She was all he had, his only hope for grandchildren. Pondering it, she took a seat, the wooden bench cold beneath her outspread hands.

He sat beside her, silent for a too-long moment. “You’re aware I’ve been working long hours at the ironworks. Business there is going to require considerable travel, more than I’d anticipated.”

She tensed, unsure of what was coming.

“I’m leaving for Philadelphia tomorrow and after that will go on to New York and Boston.”

“So far?” Dismay needled her anew. “I’ll go with you.”