Love's Fortune (31 page)

James stayed silent, and Wren ached to look at him. His way of life hung in the balance, yet here they were talking concerts and fur capes and private railcars as if it didn’t matter.

Reaching for his walking stick, Grandfather started for the door, Grandmother at his side. “I’ll be in my study.”

Quietly James excused himself, leaving her alone with Andra.

“Aren’t you hungry this morning, Rowena?”

Wren looked at her mostly untouched breakfast, her cold egg and forbidden biscuit, feeling she’d never be hungry again. “I believe I’ll go to my room till the fitting.”

“Don’t be late.” With that, Andra left out a side door without another word.

Gathering courage, Wren quit the breakfast room and crossed the foyer, her gaze on the wide stairs soaring upward. Though his progress was slow, James had made it to the landing. Unsure of what she’d say, she gripped the banister as she followed after him, waiting till he’d reached the third floor and they had some measure of privacy.

“Jamie.”

He stopped, back to her. Would he not turn round? The stubborn set of his shoulders gave a warning. At last he faced her.

“You’re still not well. I know you’re not.” She held out a
hand to him, and it seemed she was holding out her heart. “You don’t have to escort me any longer. We can be free of all that. I never wanted a season. I just want to be yours—”

A door shut below. Andra? Wren tore her gaze from his to look down, but it was merely a maid crossing from parlor to dining room. When she looked back at him again, the softness in his face had vanished. He didn’t move. Didn’t take her outstretched hand. It fell limply to her side like a broken bridge he wouldn’t cross.

“You need to forget about us, Wren.” His voice was low but stiff with resolve. “We need to have this finished—your season, this business with Malachi.”

“I plan to tell Malachi—”

“There’s no future to be had with me. You need to let go of anything that happened between us that night.” His eyes held hers, driving his harsh words home. “The hour was late. The doctor had given me laudanum.”

“Laudanum?” Stunned, she took a step back. Did Christmas night mean nothing to him, then? She wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t take his cold words to heart. Tears strained her voice, but she pressed on. “It wasn’t laudanum that held me close or whispered tender things or kissed me till I couldn’t breathe. It was you, James Sackett.”

Another door closed. Andra started up the stairs.

“Remember your place, Miss Ballantyne.” Turning away, he cast the rebuke over his shoulder like a scattering of crumbs and shut his door.

Wren’s ball gown took up half the curtain coach, leaving Mim to sit with James on the opposite seat. Countless yards of watered silk separated them, but it was the moody silence
lurking like an unwelcome guest that was most apparent. Their stairwell confrontation of five days past was all too fresh, all too sore.

Since then James took meals in his room or worked on Ballantyne business behind closed doors, occasionally playing a round of chess with Grandfather. Wren kept mostly to the music room or made calls with Andra, sometimes entertaining visitors at New Hope. But tonight there was no avoiding the ball that thrust them together again, James’s stony presence reminding her of his bitter rejection.

A sudden bump thrust her forward, causing her to nearly knock knees with him. He looked at her as if to ascertain she was all right before lifting the shutter a crack. As if her presence was a detested thing, her honeysuckle-rose scent too cloying.

Mim said not a word, sharp eyes shining in the darkness.

Another grand foyer. Hundreds of melting candles. The same stiff faces. James wondered if Wren’s distaste for society was rubbing off on him. As the season wore on, the arrogance and excess seemed to escalate, each event trumping the last in terms of ostentation and display. Everything rang hollow. Futile. Empty.

When Mim retreated upstairs with their wraps, Wren looked after her as if she’d lost her last friend. Left alone with her, he took care to fix his attention elsewhere. She appeared equally determined to do the same, studying the parquet floor or incoming guests, anything but him.

He fisted his hands behind his back, fighting an overwhelming weariness. Wren was right. He still wasn’t well. Beneath his pristine clothes, his injuries were concealed but still ached
with his every move, requiring his utmost concentration to stay stoic. The fever had never left him, turning his color ruddy and making him feel oddly disembodied, a flimsy shadow of himself. But he was more worried about Wren. With every step toward the teeming ballroom, her pace seemed to slow. Next he knew she’d come to a stop. He tensed in anticipation as her gloved fingers fell from his arm.

“I . . .” she began slowly.

He studied her and felt a wrench that he’d not noticed how pale she was. “You need to sit down.”

Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a small chamber in full view of the ballroom as the butler’s announcement of Malachi Cameron intruded. Resignation lined her features—and mild panic. He sensed Malachi’s attentions were both flattering and unnerving, that she was torn between affection and fear, smothered by the admiration of too many men and sinking under the weight of her family’s wishes.

Or trying to recover from his heartless words to her on the landing.

“You’re not yourself,” he said. “I’ll call for the coach.”

“No . . . I’ll see this through.”

Their hostess appeared, inquiring if all was well. With a polite nod, he made excuses. Wren took out her fan, waving it with such vigor he felt its cooling draft from three feet away. But she still looked so fragile he tried to gauge what might follow. Fainting. A quick exit.

Malachi was across the way, eyes on the anteroom despite his talking with some business associates, obviously having scanned the crowd for Wren. Resistance rose inside James like a wall. Though Malachi was the best choice, the Ballantynes’ choice, James was a long way from making peace with it.

Once again his thoughts cut to Izannah. Had Malachi
not given her a second thought, even after James’s urging at Lake Lanark? They were a near-perfect pairing. Izannah could easily handle the demands of his very public life. And she was woman enough to make him forget those demands out of the public eye. But he was closing in on Wren instead.

Wren moved past him with a brush of her wide skirts to stand on the cusp of the ballroom.

He came alongside her, looking out at the swelling crowd, wondering how they’d make it through the night. “Remember, Miss Ballantyne, you can have any eligible man in the room.”

“Any man?” She swished her fan, her voice thin and tired when it had been so full of life before. “Even you, Mr. Sackett?”

Dull anguish ground inside him. He wanted to reason with her. Tell her what her aunt Ellie had said.
Wren is very
trusting—naïve. She may fall in love with the first
man who pays her any attention.
Unwittingly, that man had been him. Wren was simply infatuated and that would fade in time. He prayed his own feelings would fall in line as well.

Half a dozen eager men encircled her, intent on her dance card, Malachi among them.

When the time came for their opening waltz, James felt like a puppet on a string, wanting to tear himself free. But a hundred eyes were on them as the first notes were struck. Embracing her, one hand resting at her waist and the other clasping her gloved fingers, he tried to ignore the intimate feel and scent of her, but it was a bitter fight and he was fast losing ground.

If Malachi—or society—suspected anything between them, Wren’s future would be ruined and James would make an enemy.

He didn’t need another.

33

Riches should be admitted into our houses, but not into our hearts; we may take them into our possession, but not into our affections.

P
IERRE
C
HARRON

Wren stepped down from the mounting block as a groom gathered the reins and led her mare away. Restless, she’d been out on another ride, the frigid night giving way to a rosy sunrise, the peaceful sight easing the raw places inside her. Papa would be home soon, or so she hoped. Spring would come. Maybe in time she would right herself.

Slipping in the servants’ entrance, she trod the narrow hall past the butler’s pantry and kitchen, peeking in a side room that usually held a gathering of white-aproned maids. This January morning the servants’ backs were to her as they huddled around a small table, heads bent, unmindful of her presence. She stood in the doorway, hoping to see Mim but getting an earful instead.

“So it’s true what they’re sayin’!” The Irish lilt of the oldest maid, Fiona, struck like a chime in the still air. “He’s got himself in deep water indeed!”

A rustle of papers followed. “He’s bound to be sorry, as it was him who picked John Gunniston to run the river in his place. Looks like there’s trouble from New Orleans to Pittsburgh now. If there’s going to be a war, I wish they’d do it proper and nae pick off people here and there like a bunch of heathens!”

Mim?

Wren cleared her throat, not wanting to give the impression she was eavesdropping, and every maid spun round. Their somberness rebounded in a bright greeting. “Morning, Miss Wren!”

“Morning, Fiona, Betsy . . .” She greeted them all by name, envying their simple companionship. “I just wanted to ask if someone had time to sew the missing buttons on my cape for the concert.” She tried to smile, a bit ashamed asking for help with so simple a task, but Andra insisted all work be done by the servants.

“Oh, aye, I was just coming upstairs to do that very thing,” Mim said, breaking from their tight knot.

“No hurry, Mim.” Turning, Wren retreated, leaving them to their talk.

The servants followed the season faithfully in the Pittsburgh press, those who could read sharing with those who couldn’t. From the sound of it, something else besides the usual society news had made the headlines this morn.

Deep water . . . run the river . . . war.

She stopped walking, the fragments of conversation coming clear.

James?

Spying the door to the morning room ajar, she slipped in, searching for the
Pittsburgh Gazette
. But the table was bare, only the aroma of coffee lingering. The little breakfast she’d eaten churned uneasily inside her.

Once upstairs, she began removing her riding habit, cold fingers fumbling with the mother-of-pearl buttons as her thoughts made fearful leaps. She’d last seen James a week prior when they’d parted without a word after the ball. He’d taken a separate coach to the Monongahela House. Was he in some sort of trouble?

“Miss Wren, I’ve brought needle and thread.” Mim’s forced cheerfulness made her more tense.

“The cape hardly matters, Mim,” she said in Gaelic. “What’s all this about James?”

Frowning, Mim disappeared from the room, returning minutes later with the
Gazette.
“Ye might as well know since yer by his side nearly night and day.”

Wren took the paper in hand, steeling herself against the tide of ink.

M
URDER
D
OWNRIVER
ON
B
ALLANTYNE
L
INE
.

Mim expelled a rare sigh. “The river pilot who took Mr. James’s place was killed on the New Orleans levee just yesterday. A note was found on the body warning James he’d be next.”

A chill spilled over her. “But why?”

“James has been running slaves on Ballantyne boats for years—bringing ’em up from New Orleans and other parts to freedom. He takes such risks and has always come away unharmed, but now he’s the one being pursued. The coach accident that left him so wrecked was nae accident at all, ye ken.”

“Someone means James harm?”

“There’s a group called the Mystic Clan, the papers are
saying, who are murdering and wreaking havoc all along the lower Mississippi and are bent on James’s destruction.”

“What of Captain Dean?”

“He’s on his way upriver now, though he’ll have to come by land once in Cincinnati since the Ohio’s froze. But ye can bet he’ll be watching his back the whole way.”

Moving to the hearth, Wren fed the paper to the fire, the flames hot against her outstretched hand. James . . . her Jamie. Who’d never said a word about the trouble. Who’d hidden his involvement beneath his everlasting reserve and impeccable manners. She watched the newsprint curl and turn to ash, wishing it would somehow end the matter.

“At least he won’t be escorting ye tonight and drawing attention to himself.” Mim lifted Wren’s feathered hat from her head and returned it to the hatbox. “’Twill just be you, me, and Mr. Malachi at the concert . . .”

Wren listened as if from a distance. With Jenny Lind stealing headlines, Pittsburgh would be distracted from more ill-timed Ballantyne press, as Andra called it. Wren could just imagine the agonized turn of her aunt’s thoughts, her hopes that Wren would dazzle society by appearing for the first time in public with Malachi, an occasion sure to supplant any sordid news.

She sank down in the nearest chair, hot and cold by turns. “I don’t care about the concert, Mim. Not with James and the trouble he’s in.”

“Well, wet sheep dinna shrink, they just shake off the water.” Mim stood looking at her, hands on hips. “Ye dinna give in to misfortune. Ye get up and go on as the good Lord wills. Knowing James Sackett, he’ll do just that.”

“But someone clearly means him harm. Every time he sets foot on the street . . . acts as my escort . . .” The past was
rushing in, bringing home Papa’s predicament of long ago, the old injury that dogged his every step. “James needs to go somewhere safe, far beyond Pittsburgh, like Papa did.”

“Aye, that he does. But my guess is James will stay on and face what’s to come, including acting as yer escort and making light o’ the danger.”

Making light of the danger was exactly what Wren feared.

“We have the Royal Box,” Malachi told her as she entered the opera house on his arm.

“Seems fitting.” Wren paused, the commotion at their entry leaving her slightly wide-eyed. “I feel almost like royalty, given the crowd outside.”

The press of spectators around the theater was overwhelming, the reckless hack and omnibus drivers intimidating as they pushed their way past with whips and shouts. It was a blessed relief to step into the hushed, elegant foyer at last.

Malachi grimaced. “They’re a rude bunch, I’m afraid, gawking and shoving to see us, and we’re not even the main attraction.”

She caught her breath. “You’re one of them, Mr. Cameron. You and your Pennsylvania Railroad.”

He winked at her, his slow smile disarming. “They weren’t staring at me, Miss Ballantyne.”

Heat prickled her neck, her temperature rising along with her alarm, her concern for James overriding the novelty and excitement of the occasion. She was barely conscious of her dress, her jewels, Malachi’s lingering gaze. Andra had insisted she wear Grandmother’s sapphires. Though beautiful, they felt cold and heavy about her neck. Wren preferred the purity and simplicity of pearls but had let Andra have her way.

Up a carpeted staircase they went, past dozens of other polished ladies and gentlemen, following the attendant who unlocked their private box. Wren entered first, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. Someone had prepared well for their coming. Champagne. A silver bowl of red roses. Mother-of-pearl opera glasses beside a leather case.

Stepping to the front of the box, Wren felt a rush of awe. Countless eyes turned toward them as Malachi joined her at the balustrade. There was no denying Malachi Cameron was an attractive man. Sought after. Admired. Already a force to be reckoned with in the world of finance and industry.

He took her gloved hand and brought it to his lips and didn’t let go. There was possession in it . . . purpose. Fingers captive, she looked out on the other concertgoers in the huge, horseshoe-shaped hall. Each box and alcove contained a little drama all its own. Couples chattered and laughed gaily, sipping champagne and raising lorgnettes to better view the preperformance activity.

No one had a more sumptuous box, a more regal view. For the moment it seemed she was queen of a gilt and glitter kingdom. This was privilege. Power. She breathed in its heady fragrance. Tried to feel at home. She wasn’t a queen. But she could be one.

The box beside theirs was occupied by the Mellons and their friends. The nasal quality of Alice Mellon’s voice rose above the hubbub of the hall as she turned toward them with a wave of her ostrich feather fan.

“Good evening, Mr. Cameron.”

Without a word, Malachi looked to Wren, as if giving Alice time to acknowledge her too. Empty seconds ticked by, and then Malachi turned his back on the Mellon box.

Cut. By a Cameron.

Wren’s elation was short-lived as cold reality rushed in. What were the petty snubs of society when one’s life hung in the balance?

Jamie, Jamie.

She clung to his name, praying for his protection. Her every thought was consumed with his safety. Was Malachi aware of the situation? He showed nothing but pleasure at being alone with her. Mim was missing. The realization added to the turmoil roiling inside her.

With a smile Malachi looked skyward. “Old Drury may be an antique, but the acoustics are sound. Miss Lind, with her extraordinary vocal powers, may well raise the frescoed ceiling.”

Wren lifted her eyes to the ornate design overhead. With a touch to her arm, Malachi seated her and then himself, facing out on the ornate hall. In his hand was the program, all mixed recital pieces, some she knew by heart. Taking a steadying breath, she managed, “Which arrangement most appeals to you, Mr. Cameron?”

He glanced at the paper, his voice thoughtful. “Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March.’”

She felt her color rise at his very telling choice. “A truly beautiful arrangement.” Though she didn’t look up, she could feel his eyes on her. “I’m partial to Miss Lind’s celebrated ‘Bird Song’ for the violin.”

“That would be a rare Guarneri, the papers say.”

“Oh? I wish Papa was here.” Wistfulness crept into her tone. “He’s never stopped looking for the old Guarneri Grandfather sold long ago.”

“If it’s any comfort, your father should return any day.” Leaning back in his chair, he took a sip of champagne. “He’s made it as far as Lancaster by train, according to the telegram
I received yesterday. I’ll be glad to see him again, given matters with your grandfather.”

Malachi often mentioned Grandfather. Was he worried that she—all her Ballantyne kin—might be pitched headlong into mourning? If so, any engagement would be postponed for a year or better.

The heavy stage curtains parted. The music started. At the first notes, Malachi took her hand again, the program fluttering to the floor, forgotten. She shut her eyes as Miss Lind’s high, trilling soprano broke through the grand hall’s expectant hush. Andra seemed to intrude as well, her vehemence as fresh as yesterday.