Love's Fortune (4 page)

Wren was overwhelmed with buttery blooms the size of teacups and endless acres of flowers beyond. When she opened her mouth to ask if she could wander, Grandmother Eden appeared on the porch, leaning heavily on Grandfather’s arm. Little and bent, she reminded Wren of a dried rose, the first blush long faded. But her blue eyes were warm and lively, the clasp of her hand strong.

“Rowena,” she said with a contented sigh. “Ansel’s little Wren.”

“Morning, Granny.” Or was it afternoon? Wren’s reply sounded rusty. She’d hardly spoken all day.

“We’ve settled you in the lavender room. ’Twas Ellie’s before she wed her Jack. You have a princely view of the garden and chapel.” She let go of Grandfather’s arm as he helped her into a wheeled wicker chair. “Your father is across from you. His bedchamber is just as he left it.”

There was a telling poignancy to the words that touched Wren. So Grandfather wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting for them to come. Smiling self-consciously, Wren searched for some reply but failed to find it, her gaze trailing to a maid bringing round a tray of crystal glasses topped with sprigs of mint. Lemonade?

“You must be weary from your journey.” Grandmother
leaned in with a whisper. “I’ll tell you a little secret. I never got a wink of sleep on a steamboat. Sometimes it seemed I’d travel from here to New Orleans wide-eyed the whole way, my stomach at sea. Thankfully you came upriver to us with nary a mishap, in part because your grandfather arranged for James Sackett to be at the wheel.”

“I met Mr. Sackett.” Her tongue was finally loosed. “He’s . . . right fine.” Somehow
right fine
seemed too humble a phrase for a handsome pilot with a silver lapel pin.

Andra was hovering with the persistence of a hummingbird, infusing the sultry air with a noticeable chill. “You mustn’t tire yourself, Mother, with too much talk.”

“I mustn’t tire Wren, you mean,” Grandmother returned gently.

“Wren?” Her aunt’s voice fell below the tenor of the men as they discussed business across the veranda. “
Wren
might be permissible in the Kentucky woods, but here in Pennsylvania,
Rowena
is best.”

“I doubt I’ll remember,” Grandmother said with a resigned chuckle. “She’s been Wren ever since her christening in the chapel—and in every letter her father wrote.”

“Letters? Those were precious few.”

“Perhaps. But each was special to me. I’ve saved them all.”

Wren shrank beneath her aunt’s green gaze. Pondering their exchange, she took a sip of lemonade from the heavy, sweating glass, feeling she might choke from its sourness. One swallow and the glass slipped free of her grasp, splashing her skirts and shoes and drawing every eye. With an ungracious clunk, it rolled rudely across the porch and came to rest at Bennett Ballantyne’s feet. He flung her a half-amused, half-aggravated glance as a maid sprang forward to right the mess, a look of dismay on her florid face.

Grandmother leaned nearer and squeezed Wren’s limp hand as the conversation swirling round them resumed. “Why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll show you your room?”

Mumbling an apology, Wren followed on the heels of a maid, Papa and Grandmother close behind. The feminine bower that was to be hers was little more than a blur of pale purple, window curtains cast about in a wildly unsettled breeze.

A mantel clock chimed as the door closed after them. Two in the afternoon? Wren was midnight weary. Molly was missing, unable to help her with her dress. Unmindful of her lemonade-stained skirts and the corset that pinched her with unrelenting fury, she fell facedown on the bed and went to sleep.

5

Never marry but for love; but see that thou lovest what is lovely.

W
ILLIAM
P
ENN

Hours later, Wren awoke in a strange bed but had little memory of how she’d gotten there. Somehow, in the sleepy, humid hours following their arrival, Molly had divested Wren of her soiled dress. Now clad in a cotton nightgown, Wren roused, skin damp from the room’s sultriness. The cobwebs in her head were gone, the clumsy mishap of the afternoon forgotten. An open window nearest a corner fireplace lured her with its teasing breeze. She leaned into the deep sill, ears taut. A mockingbird’s song rent the air—and then a cry.

She hadn’t been dreaming. Someone
was
weeping. She feared it was Molly. Molly couldn’t speak but she could cry. Was she missing Kentucky too?

Slipping out the door, Wren padded down the stairs, intent on the veranda. Andra had corrected her when she’d said
porch
, as if the word was too plain. Shivers puckered her
bare skin at the thought of meeting up with her very proper aunt, but not a soul was in sight. The big house was more kindly without her tonight.

Beneath her feet the floorboards were smooth, the wet mess she’d made earlier set to rights. It took a few minutes to get her bearings, but once at the edge of the garden, she felt for the latch on the ornate gate. Its answering creak set her teeth on edge.

The weeping she’d heard had given way to cricket calls and the low cooing of a dove. For several moments Wren sorted out shadows. Farther down the bricked path she spied a slim silhouette hunched over on a bench. Not Molly. Bennett’s bride-to-be? Befuddled, she couldn’t recall the woman’s name. She’d been easily overlooked in the haze of Wren’s arrival.

Should she intrude? Speak? Wren took a careful step, and the woman snapped to attention, clearly startled.

“Please—it’s only me. Wren.”

The full moon shone down, bright as a lantern, calling out the alarm in the woman’s expression. “Bennett’s cousin?” Despite the heat, the bride wore an elaborate dressing gown, slippers on her feet. “I thought you were called Rowena.”

“I’m not sure what I’m to be called.” Mindful of Andra’s dislike of a simple
Wren
, she trod cautiously
.
“You’re welcome to use either.”

“You seem more a stranger here than a Ballantyne.”

Did she? Looking down, Wren smoothed her wrinkled nightgown, almost ashamed of its plainness. “I hardly know my kin. We rarely come upriver from Kentucky. You’re from Boston?” Isn’t that what Grandfather had said? Something about a Boston shipping heiress? “I don’t recollect your name.”

“I’m Charlotte Ashburton of Boston, yes.”

“You’re a long ways from home, then, same as me.” Feeling a twist of sympathy, Wren sought some common ground. “You must miss it.”

“I do miss Boston, everything about it.” The hushed words were almost swallowed by the splashing of a near fountain. “Pittsburgh is so dark. All that coal dust. The pastor who’s to marry us says they’ll have to wrap me in a sheet to get me to the church or my wedding gown will be blackened.”

Wren drew in a sultry breath of honeysuckle as if to clear her mind of the memory. The pall of the city was all too easy to recall. “Why not marry right here in the garden?”

“I’d hoped to wed in New Hope’s chapel.” Charlotte gestured beyond a yew hedge to a stone wall. “But Bennett says it’s too small. He wants more guests. A lavish gala.”

Wren listened without comment. Kentucky customs seemed so uncomplicated. The weddings she knew were always simple, delightful, with a lively frolic of fiddling and feasting.

“The ceremony is only a few days away.” Resignation weighted Charlotte’s words. “Everything has been decided.”

Studying her, Wren let go of her assumptions. She’d expected a happy bride, a willing bride. “You don’t want to marry?”

Though respectfully spoken, it was a bold question, unfit for polite company, or so the bride’s expression told her. “The match was arranged two years ago. After Bennett met my father at a business function.”

“So your father is more of a mind to marry him than you are.” The ticklish matter struck Wren as mildly amusing.

“My father wed my mother by arrangement, and my grandfather my grandmother. It’s how my family has always done things.”

“Back home I’ve never heard of such. People marry for
love and little else.” Wren slipped onto the bench, mindful of Charlotte’s lace handkerchief between them. “So if everything’s been decided, and it’s how your family has always done things, why are you so . . .
dowie
?”

The Scots word was not lost on Charlotte. “Sad?”

Wren fixed her gaze on the chapel wall. “It’s none of my business, truly. But sometimes a body needs to unburden themselves.”

A brief pause. “You’ll say nothing to the Ballantynes?”

“I’m no tale-bearer, if that’s what you mean.”

Charlotte balled the handkerchief in a fist, her words coming slow and soft. “There’s someone else . . . someone other than Bennett.”

“Someone else?” Wren looked at her. “Back in Boston?”

Charlotte glanced toward the house as if fearful their voices would carry. “Christian is a clerk in my father’s shipping office. We met by accident last year. He’s a good man—a respectable man—though my family feels he’s beneath me.”

Wren hesitated. The pecking order among fancy folk was quickly coming clear. “Do you love him?” The honest question seemed the only thing that mattered.

“I do love him. And he loves me. Just yesterday a letter came. He asked me to marry him. He thinks we can make a life together. But first I must find a way home.”

Wren studied her, feeling she’d stumbled into a hornet’s nest. Would Bennett’s bride . . . bolt? All the way to Boston?

“I’m considering asking the pilot who’s to take us on our wedding journey.” Charlotte’s words were hurried, her tone more hopeful. “One of the maids told me he’s trustworthy and might help.”

James Sackett? Wren’s mind raced to keep up with the details. Reaching out, she squeezed Charlotte’s soft hand,
unsure what she was communicating. Sympathy, foremost—and surprise that James Sackett and a maid were somehow involved. “Can I help?”

“Say nothing about this—”

Charlotte’s low words were severed by the creaking of the gate. The glow of a lamp cut across the bricked path in back of them. Andra. “What on earth are you two doing at such an hour? And in such dishabille? What if the servants see you?”

Wren crossed her arms, hugging them to her bosom. Her bare feet and thin shift, nearly transparent from so many washings, seemed to draw her aunt’s unwavering eye.

Charlotte stood behind her, voice shaky. “I couldn’t sleep.”

There was a lengthy pause. Could her aunt sense Charlotte’s misery? Had she overheard her plan to return to Boston?

“’Tis wedding jitters, little else.” Andra held the lantern higher as if calling out all their secrets. “You need your rest. Tomorrow you’ll have a final fitting for your wedding dress and finish packing for your journey to New Orleans. As for you, Rowena, we’ll need to arrange for a dressmaker. I’ve looked through your wardrobe and it’s far too rustic for Pittsburgh. You’re in need of a suitable gown for the wedding especially.” She paused, her tone brooking no argument. “And you simply must have some new nightclothes.”

Taking Charlotte by the arm, Andra escorted her toward the house, which, in light of Charlotte’s confession, seemed more prison.

If not for Andra, Wren suspected she and Charlotte might have talked till dawn. There’d been a marked urgency, a sense of panic, about the bride that led Wren to believe she might be missing come breakfast. The wedding was set for Saturday morn.

Time yet to flee to Boston.

6

Things are seldom what they seem.

P
ROVERB

In his grip the carving knife was nearly as familiar as the pilothouse wheel with its rich inlay work, the wood smooth and warm. A mound of wood shavings lay at James’s feet, and every so often a southerly breeze would stir them into a tempest, scattering their sweet fragrance.

“Morning, James.” Jack Turlock lifted his hat as he passed by, intent on the house. The scent of the judge’s pipe smoke was swept along on the wind. River Hill in late August always smelled of damask roses and maccaboy tobacco.

“Morning, Judge.”

Usually the master of River Hill paused to talk, but this morning his long stride never lessened. James missed the judge’s company. River travel required pilots to reside mostly at the Monongahela House in Pittsburgh, though it was his familiar River Hill cottage he craved. It had been his respite since he’d come of age.

James returned to his task, the tiny figure in his palm taking
shape, an echo of the heron he’d seen when shearing the riverbank in shoal water. All along the porch rail were tiny animals resembling a small circus, the morning light calling out the variations in wood and design.

“If you keep carving, James Sackett, there’ll soon be more animals than children in the Orphan Home.”

He looked up, squinting into blinding sunlight that framed the young woman before him from head to toe.

Izannah Turlock hovered on his porch stoop, clutching a fresh copy of the
Pittsburgh Gazette
. “Now that you’re on land for more than five minutes, I thought you’d like to see all the cards printed for you in the paper.”

He resumed carving, intent on the tiny wing taking shape beneath his practiced hand.

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your popularity appears to be in jeopardy. Last week there were a total of ten cards for you on the society page. This week’s tally is a mere six. But one of them is from my uncle Ansel, thanking you for a safe and scenic trip.” She set the paper on the railing beside him, turned so he could see the printed accolades. “Why didn’t you mention you were bringing my long-lost relatives upriver?”

“I didn’t know I was.” He recalled all too easily his keen surprise the moment they’d stepped aboard. “Not till Louisville.”

She studied him, a curious light in her eyes. “I want you to tell me all about her.”

“Her?”

“Cousin Rowena, of course.” When he hesitated, her voice frayed with exasperation. “Come now, James. Just this once I wish you’d open up about your passengers. I don’t care that you’ve freighted presidents and princes and Indian chiefs up and down the Mississippi. I only want to know about my Kentucky cousin. Other than Bennett, she’s the only one I have.”

“You’ll meet her soon enough.”

Taking a stool opposite, she leaned forward, her smoky eyes intent. “Will I?”

He gave a nod, thoughts still crowded from the trip and the fact he’d nearly clipped the steering oar of a trading scow en route.

“Is she . . . pretty?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t notice.”

“James Sackett!”

He stopped carving, knowing she’d not leave till she’d wrested from him what she wanted. “Her eyes are like sea foam . . . her hair is the color of hemp rope.”

Izannah sighed. “Sometimes I think you’re more poet than pilot, James.”

He set the knife aside. “She barely comes to my shoulder.”

“How would you know? Was she standing that close?”

Yes, much
too close.
His mind roamed backward, remembering. Trying not to. “She handles a fiddle like I pilot a boat.”

“So she’s musical then, like the Ballantynes—and the Nancarrows in England.”

“Not unlike.”

“I’ve heard her mother was the talk of London in her day. She’s bound to be lovely if she’s anything like her.” A haunted look stole away her curiosity. “It must be hard losing one’s mother.”

He didn’t remember. He couldn’t recall his own. “How are things at the house?”

She looked toward the faded brick facade. “Daddy’s canceled a court hearing to stay close to home. He’s afraid Mama will need him as soon as he lifts his gavel, same as last time. She’s threatening to ride over and see Ansel and Rowena at New Hope.”

“They’ll likely come here first.”

“I hope so.” She watched as he set the heron aside. “I’m afraid we’ll not make it to the wedding with Mama like she is.”

The silence stretched long, sweetened by a warbler’s call.

He reached for a small, unfinished dog. “I’ll be at the levee myself.”

“You know you’re expected to attend, James—but I doubt anyone less than Grandfather could make you appear.”

Wishing an end to the conversation, he set his jaw, though his knife slipped a tad. The tiny dog lost a paw.

“Bennett’s not still badgering you, is he?” she whispered.

The peaceful morning soured. “It’s nothing you need worry about.”

She leaned nearer. “I
am
worried. I’ve overheard Mama and Daddy talking about Bennett and his extravagance, his gambling in stocks and land speculation—”

“Ease off, Izannah.”

“But it’s true! Bennett will likely bring the Ballantynes to ruin if he keeps on—”

“Izannah.”

She quieted at the soft steel of his tone. He wasn’t given to such talk, even within the family. It accomplished little and set feelings on fire. Sensing someone near, he looked past the porch to neat rows of cottages identical to his own, occupied by River Hill’s large staff of servants.

A boyish voice broke over them as it hailed from the front veranda. “Izzy? Mama needs you!”

Nathaniel? James squinted into blinding sunlight. He sounded just like his twin, John Henry. There were so many boys and James was gone so often he could no longer distinguish between them.

Izannah stood. “Promise you’ll come for supper tonight, James. I’ve asked Cook to make your favorite.” She moved
away with a swish of her wide skirts before he gave answer. “Promise?”

“Six o’clock,” he said in affirmation, wondering if he’d be the only guest.

Wren stood before a full-length mirror of cheval glass, Molly tugging at her corset strings, looks of consternation on both their faces.
The
desired waist size is seventeen inches
. The Louisville dressmaker’s remark now mocked her. Her waist was a generous five inches wider if cinched tightly. Too many years of eating cat’s head biscuits and gravy were to blame, Molly’s grim expression seemed to say.

Wren ground her teeth as the last bit of air was forced from her lungs. “Pure suffocation.”

With every yank of the corset strings came fresh resolve. Soon she’d be back home in her plain dresses and aprons, far from finery and disapproving aunts, whether she had Papa’s blessing or not. She’d hang her crinoline in the barn or make a cage of it for chickens. All that Pittsburgh steel and linen thread shouldn’t go to waste.

Molly sighed and draped a gown over Wren’s head, easing it into place and smoothing countless rows of ruffles with hurried hands. They were running late. A carriage waited outside New Hope’s ornate front door, ready to whisk them to River Hill. She could hear Papa apologize for their tardiness in the foyer.

“The coachman hardly needs an apology, Ansel.” Andra’s voice had the unique ability to carry throughout the immense house and chill Wren to the bone. With the door slightly ajar and nearest the stair landing, she heard every word. “Are people not prompt in Kentucky?”

“Not prompt, but polite,” he returned, holding on to his good humor despite Andra’s needling.

Finished with hooking her dress, Molly gestured to Wren’s hair. Tousled beyond repair, it fell in pale disarray down her back. With a quick hand, Molly twisted and turned the length of it into a bun at the nape of her neck, teasing out a few tendrils to frame her face. Gone was the plain, familiar braid that had marked her since childhood. The glass reflected a solemn, green-eyed stranger.

When at last she came down the stairs, Aunt Andra was nowhere in sight. “I’m sorry, Papa, for being tardy.”

He smiled as they went out to the waiting carriage. “One can’t be late when arriving unexpectedly.”

She tried to smile back at him. “So we’re a . . . surprise?”

“Things are less formal at River Hill than here. With ten sons running about . . .” He leaned back on the carriage seat, studying her again as if trying to reconcile the daughter she’d been with the one who sat opposite him. “Molly has done wonders with your hair and dress. I wish your mother . . .”

Wren’s heart squeezed as he looked away.
I wish too, Papa.
She searched for words of comfort, but there was little to be had dwelling on the past. As the miles swept by in a green haze, she tried to focus as he pointed out a few grand houses behind forbidding gates.

“See that drive lined with trees? That’s Broad Oak, the home of Wade Turlock, brother to your uncle Jack who married your aunt Ellie.”

“Wade isn’t wed?”

“Not to my knowledge. He’s as much a bachelor as Andra is a spinster.” His gaze traveled to a distant chimney puffing smoke. “Beyond that bend is Cameron Farm, where the Cameron clan lives—two of them, anyway. The heir, a young man by the name of Malachi, is often away, as he’s the owner of the Pennsylvania Railroad.”

She looked in the direction he pointed but couldn’t see past a thick copse of trees.

“Over there we have Ballantyne Hall, where Peyton resides with his wife and son.” Papa gestured across the road to yet another long lane. “You met them when we arrived at New Hope.”

Imposing iron gates rose up amid the tall late summer grass. Ballantyne Hall was where Bennett lived . . . where Charlotte would live, if she lasted. Wren took a deep breath and prayed till the tightness inside her unwound. The sound of happy shouting soon chased any melancholy from her mind as the carriage rolled past half a dozen exuberant boyish faces. Aunt Ellie’s brood?

“Do you know any of them?” she asked.

“No,” he said, regret in his gaze. “I only remember Izannah.”

They slowed to a stop before wide stone steps much like New Hope’s. Behind a tangle of roses and lilacs was a grand brick house just as imposing.

A perspiring, breathless lad of about twelve flung open the coach door. “Uncle Ansel? Cousin Rowena? We thought it might be you, as you’re in Grandfather’s coach.” He helped her down, then shook hands with Papa as the other boys looked on, shy but smiling. “You’re just in time for supper.”

“And you would be?” Papa queried with a smile.

“Nathaniel. My twin’s John Henry.” He lined up the smaller boys with the efficiency of a soldier surveying his troops. “And here you have Nicholas, Danson, Clayton, and Tremper.”

The smallest Turlock—Tremper—tucked a grubby hand in Wren’s. “You’re pretty, like my sister.” He spoke with a lisp, his gray eyes earnest. “Did you come to see the baby?”

“The baby’s not been born yet,” Nathaniel reminded him.

Wren smiled and squeezed Tremper’s hand. “I’ve come to see everybody.”

Nathaniel motioned them toward a brick walk as the coachman drove on toward the porte cochere. “Our older brothers are missing. Grant and Niel are away attending university in New York. Alexander and Eben are abroad hunting at Grandfather’s estate in Scotland.”