Love's Fortune (8 page)

He rode hard toward River Hill out Braddock’s Road, weighing his options with every step. The wedding was two days away. Arrangements could be made quietly for Charlotte to take a stage to Philadelphia and then a train from there to Boston. All he needed to do was send Malachi Cameron a message and the matter would be handled discreetly. Or plans could be made for travel on a packet to New Orleans and then up the coast with her lady’s maid, allowing ample time for the furor to die down.

Or he could do nothing.

The latter clawed at his conscience. Charlotte Ashburton obviously didn’t love Bennett Ballantyne. She was nothing but a pawn in a business deal, allowing Bennett to shore up the Ballantyne fortune and recover his losses. At Charlotte’s expense.

He reined his horse toward River Hill’s scrolled iron gates and slowed to a walk. The big house’s facade was welcoming, but no laughter or commotion shook the stillness. Odd. By now the boys would have spied him coming along the drive, shouting and screeching a welcome. Unless . . .

Something must have happened in the hours since he’d left River Hill. Still numb from the news about the explosion, he veered toward River Row, steeling himself against the second loss of the day.

A stony-faced groom met him and he dismounted, walking the rest of the way. Before he’d passed the giant oak shading his cottage, Izannah appeared in his path. Tears wet her lashes, and he saw the echo of her mother in her. For once she was wordless, her expression telegraphing the terrible news.

Lord, no. Not Ellie too.

“James . . . this afternoon . . .” Her voice broke. He started to raise a hand to spare her the telling, but she rushed on, stunning him. “It’s Charlotte—she’s dead. Something terrible happened with Bennett at the lake.”

His mind reeled and stumbled. Ellie . . . the baby. Safe. Sound. Charlotte . . . dead. Regret like a weeping rain washed over him. The note in his pocket suddenly carried the heft of an anchor.

“We’re not sure what went wrong, but everyone at New Hope is quite shaken. I can only imagine how Charlotte’s family feels.” She sought her handkerchief, a sigh shuddering through her. “Daddy rode to Ballantyne Hall with Grandfather half an hour ago. Mama doesn’t know yet. Daddy won’t tell her as she’s so weak.”

His voice was wooden. “And the baby?”

A spark of relief rode her damp features. “Big as a barrel and a girl at that. Her name is Chloe.”

The ordeal of a funeral—two of them—stole his joy over Ellie’s safe delivery.

“I suppose you’re still going to New Orleans.” The lament in her tone was plain. Izannah had never liked his leaving, even when she was small and his apprenticeship required it.

“I return in two weeks.” Slowly the facts took hold and rearranged his carefully made plans. The wedding journey had been an attractive cover for an increasingly dangerous cargo. If Izannah knew the particulars, she didn’t let on.

“I wish . . .” She paused, eyes glittering again. “I wish you weren’t leaving at such a tragic time.”

He could only imagine the scene at Ballantyne Hall. His thoughts were roiling, his emotions were roiling. The boat—had it capsized? How? There’d been no wind. Bennett was an accomplished swimmer and sailor . . .

Izannah looked away from him, gaze fastening on the upper reaches of the house. “I’d best see to Mama and the baby.”

He gave a nod, looking at her without focus, his mind on Bixby and Charlotte.

She turned back to him. “Don’t forget to say goodbye before you go, James. Promise?”

“Yes.” Yet he had forgotten—more times than he could count. One never knew when a parting would turn final.

But he was simply no good at goodbyes.

10

The very essence of romance is uncertainty.

O
SCAR
W
ILDE

“Have a seat, Wren.” Papa’s low voice reached out to her. The chair he offered blurred before her eyes. The news they’d just heard beat in her brain like a taunting drum.

Charlotte dead. Dead. Dead.

She did as he bade and sat, clutching the fragile arms of the upholstered chair so tightly it seemed they would snap. “It’s so—hot.” Her voice frayed as she picked at the high collar of her dress, loosening a button. Her too-tight corset she could do little about.

Never had she so needed her music. Slow Scottish airs and the richer, deeper laments. From the time she’d reached her father’s knee, she’d had a fiddle in hand and had leaned on it in joy and in sorrow. When Mama died, she’d mourned through her music. When words, circumstances, failed her, the music never did.

“I’ll fetch something to drink,” he said.

Numb, she watched him go. Why hadn’t he simply tugged on the bell cord and summoned a servant? Perhaps he couldn’t get used to having someone do everything in his stead or rued the lack of privacy at so emotional a moment. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need something to drink. She needed Charlotte. She needed to scrub the ugly news, delivered by a grim-faced servant minutes before, from her head like wash on a washboard.

I’m
sorry to inform you there’s been an accident at
Ballantyne Hall. Miss Ashburton is dead.

Grandmother had turned ashen. Even Aunt Andra had given a startled cry. Upstairs now, they’d hidden themselves in their bedchambers, leaving her with Papa below. The house, so full of the bustle and excitement of wedding activity since their arrival earlier that week, had turned into a tomb.

Her bleary gaze traced the unfamiliar contours of the room, desperate for a distraction. Grandfather’s study had the look and feel of a museum. Antiquities lined countless bookshelves, and the furnishings were from another century. Everything smelled of leather and pipe smoke and bergamot. Like the pilothouse. The reminder of James Sackett turned her stomach. Charlotte had sent him a note. A cry for help from her very soul.

And he had not heeded it.

Molly returned with a tea tray, her own dark features shuttered. Papa followed, taking a seat behind Grandfather’s desk. The weary blue of his eyes tugged at her, the line of his mouth drawn taut as a bow string.

Papa, it’s time to return to Kentucky.

Instead she said carefully, “Where are our violins?”

“In the music room,” he replied, his gaze never leaving the window.

She passed into the foyer, sure one sip of tea would sicken her. All the rooms on the first floor were open, the twin parlors overflowing with wedding gifts. Charlotte’s chair was pulled out from the desk as if awaiting her, the thank-you notes in a tidy stack.

Woodenly, Wren’s steps led her to the closed door in back of the stairs. Turning the porcelain knob, she stepped into the room she’d only heard about but never seen. A rich Delft blue and cream, it exuded elegance. When Papa had left New Hope years before and Aunt Ellie had taken her harp to River Hill, this beautiful room was all but abandoned, a maid said.

In the faint light sneaking past heavy shutters, the Cremona violins lay on a long table. A harpsichord was hidden by a dustcover, mahogany music stands huddled in one corner. Here there was sanctuary. Peace.

Home
, her heart said.

Early the next morning, Papa called her into the parlor and told her the news. Molly was to return to Kentucky on the very boat meant for Bennett and his bride. Charlotte’s maid was to replace her. Wren read the panic in Molly’s eyes, felt the grip of her bony fingers. Slightly superstitious, Molly looked like she might come apart. The
Belle of Pittsburgh
was nothing but a ghost ship.

“You’ll be all right, Molly,” Wren reassured her, sinking lower with every word. “The trip isn’t far. You’ll soon be home. Besides, Papa promised your kin he wouldn’t keep you here long, and Jonas is surely missing you.” At the mention of her little nephew, Molly dried her eyes but still looked mournful. Though she couldn’t speak, Wren knew her heart.

I wish you could go
with me.

When Molly disappeared to pack her things, Charlotte’s maid began to go about the bedchamber, straightening and tidying as she went. “My name’s Mariam, Miss Rowena. But you can call me Mim.” Coming to the large wardrobe, she opened it wide. “Yer aunt Andra has sent your Louisville dresses to the orphanage. The wedding trousseau is to take their place.”

Wren stared at the empty wardrobe, shed of all her Louisville clothes. The sight set her heart to pounding. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—don anything of Charlotte’s. Though she wasn’t superstitious, she was chary of some things, and wearing a grave-bound woman’s dresses was one of them.

A look of apology engulfed Mim’s face. “Miss Charlotte never wore them, if it’s any comfort. ’Twould be a frightful loss if they were to go to waste. The Ashburtons dinna want them. They’ve just left for Boston.”

Wren sat in the nearest chair, her wide skirts brushing a small table and sending a figurine to the carpeted floor. Fighting tears, she murmured a Gaelic epithet beneath her breath.

Mim spun round, astonishment on her ruddy face. “Ye have the Gaelic?”

“I do.”

At that, Mim abandoned English altogether. “I’m sorry, Miss Rowena. I don’t dare cross Miss Andra. She’s in such a stew about what’s happened.”

“Please, call me Wren.” Unsure of Mim or her loyalty to Andra, she felt her way cautiously. “I know you’re simply doing as you’re told. Trying to make the best of it.”

Mim heaved a sigh. “
Och
, the best of it. It will take time, ye ken. The servants are all abuzz with the dire news. Then there are the papers, sure to announce it like a trumpet blast come morn. Mr. Bennett will be bound in black for six months
or better. And the Ballantynes are such fine folk too. Yer dear granny brought me to New Hope years ago when my kin died and I came to be at the Orphan Home.”

Wren stared at the glib little maid, sorting through her torrent of Gaelic. She could hardly keep up with her. “The Orphan Home?”

“It’s in Pittsburgh and chock-full of bairns. Yer granny goes as often as she can. But yer Aunt Andra . . .” She screwed up her face. “Nivver!”

“But I thought you came with Char—” Wren stumbled over the name, changing course. “I thought you were from Boston.”

“Nae, I’ve never been to Boston. Miss Andra gave me over to Miss Charlotte when she arrived. Her own maid died on the way here. From fever.”

The whole affair had been ill-fated from the beginning. Saying no more, Wren excused herself and went in search of Molly, unwilling to part with her just yet.

And still smoldering over the matter of Charlotte’s dresses.

“Och!”
With one swift look, Mim took in the overstuffed valise and fiddle case Wren clutched in the heated August foyer. “Yer doing what?”

“I’m going into Pittsburgh to see Molly off.” Wren’s whisper fell flat as she uttered the half-truth. Could Mim see through her pretense? The maid seemed as canny as she was glib.

“Yer not thinking about running off like Miss Charlotte?” When Wren stayed silent, Mim’s eyes grew wide. “
Losh!
Ye are! I ken just from the look o’ ye.”

Reaching into her poke, Wren pulled out a coin, enclosing
it in Mim’s hand, though the money held the taint of a bribe. “To thank you.”

“I’d rather have ye than a sovereign any day o’ the week.” Mim’s eyes were glinting again. “What will yer poor da say when he finds ye gone?”

But Wren was already heading for the front door where a carriage waited to take Molly to the levee, haste in her step. If she had any qualms about leaving the lushness of rural Allegheny County, or that she’d simply left a note for her father and grandparents, all regret faded as they descended into the smoke and soot of Pittsburgh. Hot as Hades and just as crowded, the levee resembled a carnival gone wild. Looking on, Molly withered like a sun-parched leaf.

Perspiration beaded Wren’s brow as the sun slanted below the brim of her straw bonnet. She wore the sole Louisville dress Andra had overlooked and Mim had rescued, a blessedly cool sprigged muslin with a background of tiny blue flowers. But its newness almost chafed her skin, and Charlotte’s impractical leather slippers were a trifle tight.

“I’m coming with you, Molly, but I have to see about passage first.”

Bolstered by Molly’s smile, Wren crossed the expanse of mud and boardwalk, intent on any packet bound for Louisville. Freight and chalkboards were at every turn, guarded by cigar-smoking men who sang out ever-changing rates of cargo. Wren breathed in the stench of river water and livestock pens alongside more fragrant hogsheads of tobacco and molasses and coffee.

Lord, help us get home.

At the water’s edge near the stage planks, a deckhand stood guard, shouting orders and epithets with practiced ease
.
Flanked by the imposing
Belle of Pittsburgh
and the
Aleck
Scott
, Wren’s namesake appeared almost dainty despite the tonnage being loaded.

Desperate for a deckhand’s attention, she realized it wasn’t the notice she wanted. A gust of wind lifted her hem, and a dozen men turned her way. She struggled to keep her composure and modesty intact, her skirts down as she spoke to the nearest roustabout. “I need passage to Louisville with my maid.”

He spat into the levee mud and scowled. “Do I look like a ticket taker?”

“I don’t know anything about a ticket.” Her shout rose above the din. “Last time I simply walked aboard. I’m Silas Ballantyne’s granddaughter—”

“Well, why didn’t ye say so?” He whisked a battered cap off his head and refrained from spitting again. “Ye’ll have to talk to Sackett. He’s in that office yonder.”

Her spirits sank. Following his pointed finger, she saw a battered building fronting the levee, windows and door open wide. Taking Molly’s arm, she started up the muddy incline to the office, avoiding sweating, cursing rivermen all the way. A small ramp ushered them above the melee to the entrance, where a weathered sign proclaiming Ballantyne Boatworks swung wildly in the wind.