Love's Fortune (9 page)

Molly stepped beneath a shaded eave with their belongings while Wren went inside, still clutching her fiddle case. The interior was as still and silent as the levee was chaotic. James Sackett sat behind an old, scarred desk, head bent. A clock on the wall ticked a tense four times. Departure was within an hour. She felt a wide relief. Almost home.

“Mr. Sackett . . .”

He looked up and met her tentative gaze with his own, green and solid.

“I want to return to Kentucky.”

Stoic, he stood and looked down at her, making her feel no bigger than the mosquito buzzing round her head. “I don’t remember seeing your name on the passenger list, Miss Ballantyne.”

Squaring her shoulders, she drew herself to her full height, all five feet of it. “Molly’s a mite fearful. She shouldn’t be traveling alone.”

He looked past her as if spying Molly waiting just outside. “Your maid will be in the company of other passengers. She’s been assigned a single cabin.”

Had she? Such a generous arrangement was unheard of for free blacks like Molly. Most were kept to the lower decks along with the cargo. “There’s bound to be room for me too.”

“The
Belle of Pittsburgh
is heavily laden this trip.”

Heavily laden? When the
Rowena
had been all but empty when they’d come upriver? She glanced at the wall clock again, aware time was against her.

His face held an intensity she didn’t like. “Does your father know you’re here?”

She stared at him. Did he think she was still a child, under Papa’s thumb? “I’m a woman grown, Mr. Sackett, and hardly need my father’s permission—or yours.” She kept her voice calm, not wanting to rile him . . . as if she could. “As Silas Ballantyne’s kin, it stands to reason I should have passage on any boat that bears his name.”

“All that aside, I seem to remember you wanting off the packet more than you wanted on it, Miss Ballantyne.”

“You don’t understand.” She swallowed, her temper rising along with his obvious reluctance. “I can’t stay here any longer. Pittsburgh is so dark. It’s nigh impossible to see, to get a clear breath. New Hope’s little better. There are servants
everywhere—watching, whispering. I can’t touch things lest I break them or say a word lest I misspeak.”

He studied her, his expression guaranteeing she’d get no farther than the dock, no matter what reasons she pelted him with. “I can’t sanction your going downriver. But I can arrange for a rig to return you to New Hope.”

“Mr. Sackett, please . . .” She raised a hand to her brow, wishing she could shed her hot bonnet. Her desperation doubled at the sound of a boat’s whistle. “Would you give me no more help than you gave”—her voice cracked—“poor Charlotte?”

Something raced through his eyes, but he stayed steadfast. “We’re talking about you, Miss Ballantyne. Not Miss Ashburton.” Coming out from behind the desk, he shrank the distance between them, making her want to take a step back. “Say I let you aboard, and within five minutes of leaving the landing—when most accidents occur—you lose your life? That happened just yesterday to the
City of Pittsburgh
’s pilot and crew
.
What would your father and grandfather say to me then?”

She looked away, stung. She’d not heard of the
City
of Pittsburgh
. All she could think of was Charlotte.

“I wish I had better news for you, Miss Ballantyne. I wish traveling by packet was safe. Or that you liked Pittsburgh and didn’t have to come here nearly begging—”

It was the most roundabout refusal she’d ever heard. Whirling, she clutched her violin case and made for the open door, stumbling as her toe caught on the raised sill. Out she went into coal dust and foul air, only to find Molly making her way to the loading platform, escorted by a clerk. The
Belle of Pittsburgh
’s huge smokestacks were already pluming, the huge steamer shuddering along the levee, ready to embark.

Behind her James Sackett’s tall shadow darkened the doorframe. “Wren . . .”

She plunged into the crowd, baggage in hand, numb and disbelieving. He hadn’t called her Miss Ballantyne or Rowena. He’d called her Wren. But it in no way lessened the sting of his refusal. Or the fact she had no money and no means to return her to New Hope.

Tugging his hat lower, Malachi Cameron fixed his gaze on the winding road ahead. He’d nearly made it. Though his Edinburgh-tailored suit was wrinkled from a long railway journey piggybacked by the stage, he blinked sleep-deprived eyes and looked homeward, expectant. Cameron House was a few miles more, tucked in the bend between New Hope and Broad Oak. Impatience set in as his driver suddenly slowed his pace, the new barouche kicking up less dust as it rolled cautiously over ruts and rocks.

To the right of the road was a woman. Small of stature. Luggage in hand. Her hair was spilling down like gold ribbon beneath her straw bonnet. Clad in a summery dress dotted with blue flowers, she was all curves and bends, her full skirts swaying gently as she walked. Nearly derailing him.

This
was a reminder of why he’d come back to Pittsburgh. How long had it been since he’d exchanged words with anyone but a railroad hand? He’d nearly given up on polite conversation, feminine company. Courtesy demanded he stop. Speak.

Ho there.

No, that would never do. He’d do well to remember his city manners.

She kept on just a few steps ahead of him, never looking back. Coaxing him into a game of cat and mouse. From the slump of her shoulders, she seemed as weary as he.

Pardon me,
miss . . .

11

In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.

H
ENRY
W
ADSWORTH
L
ONGFELLOW

Fiddle case in one hand, valise in the other, Wren walked out the Allegheny Road toward New Hope. She heard the
Belle
of
Pittsburgh
’s distinct whistle at her back as it took Molly downriver, all her hopes along with it. She wouldn’t turn round and watch it depart. Overcome with humiliation and homesickness, she stirred the dust with her steps, her tumbled thoughts circling round her aching head.

He’d called her Wren.

She couldn’t call him James. Nor did she want to. That was Izannah’s privilege.

She hadn’t even had the sense to say she was sorry for the loss of the
City of Pittsburgh
, even when he was clearly reeling from it. How would it be to climb to the pilothouse knowing a fellow pilot had gone to his death doing the same? Still, it was Charlotte who stayed uppermost in her mind, her
desperate predicament unheeded. She had only to think of that to dismiss James Sackett.

She walked on till her fingers ached from her stubborn hold on her baggage and her dress hem was a grungy brown. A lone wagon lumbered past but no refined rig. She gave silent thanks. If Andra or any of her Ballantyne kin were to see her, she’d be undone . . .

The sun sank beyond the treetops, throwing a golden blanket across the burnt, late-summer grass. Stopping, she knelt and drank from a trickle of creek beneath an old bridge, her parched throat aching from an emotional lump of loss and fury. She couldn’t remember how far New Hope was. Couldn’t think beyond the next step. Sweat trickled down her back, turning her corset itchy.

When the jingle of a harness met her ears, she stepped aside, keeping her back to the swirling dust, her eyes fixed on a far road marker.

“Pardon me, miss. You look in need of a ride.”

Slowly she turned, took in a black-hatted man in a fancy carriage, and kept walking. It wasn’t like her to be so standoffish, but weariness had worn a hole in what few good manners she possessed.

“At least tell me where you’re headed.”

The concern in his tone touched her. A bit winded from going uphill, she managed a terse, “New Hope.”

“The Ballantyne estate?” He sounded slightly perplexed. “New Hope’s a few miles more . . . but the gloaming will soon overtake you.”

The gloaming.
A Scots word. Her feet slowed. If not for the blister rubbing her heel raw, she’d have held fast to her stubbornness.

With an agile leap, he jumped down from the carriage and
swept his hat from his head. A tumble of curls gave way, as arresting as the beard that marked his jaw. The rich ginger of his hair was the exact shade of the varnish in their violin shop, as if she’d taken a camel-hair brush and applied it. But it was the kindness in his hazel eyes that struck her.

“The Ballantynes are close friends of mine. I live down the road from them.” He held out a hand and, when she made no protest, relieved her of her bag, turning his broad back to her to secure it with his own luggage. “I doubt you want to part with your fiddle.”

Taking her by the elbow, he helped her into the open carriage. When her backside connected with the leather seat, she nearly sighed aloud in relief, willing her wide skirts to settle. Sitting opposite, he returned his hat to his head, and the vehicle rolled forward.

She was glad he hadn’t asked her name. Glad too that he knew a fiddle graced her case.

His smile was weary but warm. “I’m a patron of the arts myself and appreciate a good bow hand when time warrants.”

“Do you play?”

“Nary a note.” His expression was so glum she almost felt sorry for him.

“Are you of a mind to learn?”

He chuckled. “If the teacher wasn’t some bewhiskered, grumpy old coot, but you, I would.”

She smiled back at him.

“You’re not from here. Your speech is singularly Southern.”

“I’m from Kentucky.”

“A good many accomplished fiddlers down there.” He eyed her case. “Mind if I have a look?”

The expectant question would have cracked open the hardest heart. Setting the case in her lap, she unclasped it and took
out the Nightingale. In the fading sunlight she read stark appreciation in his eyes. It warmed her like the sun itself. Papa’s hard work securing it—all the years spent hunting it—seemed worth it right then.

Placing the violin on her shoulder, she shrugged aside any shyness, silently consecrating her music to her Maker as she always did. With a tap of her foot she struck the first note. Never had the Nightingale sounded so lively and high-spirited, resounding in the open air with an infectious rhythm, chasing away her homesickness and the dust of the road. She moved on to a serene piece next, partial to the haunting laments. Closing her eyes, she nearly forgot the subtle movement of the carriage and her dread at seeing Aunt Andra again.

When her bow slid off the strings, he clapped his gloved hands. “A Highland reel followed by a Lowland lament.”

She nodded. So he did know something about music. Fiddle music, anyway.

“Play another,” he murmured.

He was studying her with a sort of bemused confusion. Like she was no longer the disheveled young woman limping down the road but someone else entirely. For a few fleeting seconds she opened her heart to his admiration, enjoying his pleasure.

“You make me want to quit everything and pursue the violin,” he said when the music ended.

A flush that had little to do with the weather snuck over her. The man before her was young, likely unmarried. No more than thirty, she guessed. Yet the faint lines about his eyes bespoke a burden or two.

“But I’m afraid the railroad takes all my time,” he finished ruefully.

She eyed his suit, wondering if all railroad workers dressed
so well. “I’ve never before seen a train. I’ve only just set foot on a steamboat.”

“And how did you find it?”

She wrinkled her nose in answer and struck a discordant string that echoed her dislike.

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Big. Smoky. Noisy. I’m afraid trains are no better.”

“Is there one in Pittsburgh?” Perhaps a train could carry her home.

“One day there will be. Soon there’ll be rails from coast to coast once we find a sure way to manufacture steel and span the Mississippi.” He looked west as if envisioning something she couldn’t see. “I’ve been away from Pittsburgh for a long time, studying steel mills in the East and abroad, trying to find a way to get that done.”

“Did you?”

“Not yet,” he replied, his mood confident, unconcerned. “But I will.”

She couldn’t imagine it. She wasn’t even sure how far away the Mississippi was, but she was all too aware they were nearing New Hope’s imposing gates. As they turned down the tree-lined drive, she felt a hitch of regret as she tucked her fiddle away. She wanted to ask him to let her walk the remainder, but the driver, obviously familiar with the Ballantynes, was lumbering down a side lane . . . to the servants’ quarters.

A little well of delight bubbled up inside her. They thought she was the help. Not a Ballantyne. Not the granddaughter of one of the wealthiest men in Allegheny County, if not all Pennsylvania. The simplicity of it made her smile.

What would Aunt Andra think of that?

Mim met her near the stables, a look of astonishment on her freckled face. “
Losh
, Miss Wren! If yer aunt spies you coming down the servants’ lane borne along by a gentleman and his driver, there’ll be no sunrise tomorrow!”

Stepping into the shadows, Wren glanced at the big house. “I misdoubt Andra saw me, shut up in her room like she’s been.”

“Well, glad I am of that,” Mim breathed, hurrying her in a side entrance. “D’ye have any notion who was in that
braw
coach with ye?”

“He didn’t say.”

“
Och
, he doesna have to say! Everybody knows who Malachi Cameron is!”

Wren rolled the unfamiliar name over in her mind, offering up the paltry tidbit she was sure of. “I believe he works for the railroad.”

“
Wheest!
He
owns
the railroad—and more besides. His coming back to Pittsburgh is a bit o’ a surprise. He’s to be here for the social season, the servants at Cameron House say, in hopes to take a bride.”

Wren’s hold on her fiddle tightened. “Well, he’s handsome. And kind. He likes music. It shouldn’t take long.”

“It shouldna, nay.” Mim chuckled. “He’s also rich as cream cake. And downright canny. Malachi Cameron always gets what he wants. Simply put, he’s the best catch from here to Edinburgh.” Looking over her shoulder, she trod down the hall, whispering all the way. “Ye put me in quite a
fangle
running to town like ye did. I went and hid all the notes ye left for yer da and grandparents. Nae need to stir the pot ahead of time. I could have told ye James Sackett wouldna let ye aboard any packet.”

“I wish you would have.”
And spared me the trouble
.
“I thought I could sway him.”

“There’s few who can sway Mr. Sackett. He doesna own the line, but he owns who sails and who stays. Runs a tight ship, which is why he’s the lead pilot to begin with.”

“I’ll have to find another way home then.”

“Well, ye’d best delay. Word’s come from River Hill that yer needed there to help yer aunt Ellie. A groom’s readied the carriage with side lights, and I’ve finished packing yer bags.” She sighed upon saying it, eyes wary. “I’m afraid ye’ll just have to get used to wearing Charlotte’s clothes for now.”

The mere thought still rubbed her raw. Leaving Grandmother was another matter. Wren was nearly as fond of her as she was leery of Aunt Andra. If she had to stay on, even briefly, she wanted to be a blessing to her gracious granny. Maybe it was good Mim had hidden the notes and spared her unnecessary explanations.

With a finger to her lips, Mim motioned her up a back stair, past a quiet kitchen and butler’s pantry. “Thankfully the staff’s at supper below and no one is about. We’ll soon whisk you away to River Hill.”

“Are you coming?”

“Nae, I’ll have my hands full right here with yer granny and yer aunt.” Opening the bedchamber door, Mim ushered her in and began to brush the dust from her dress. “I’d make no mention of Malachi Cameron to anyone,” she whispered with a sudden wink. “Not that they’d believe you if you did.”