Love's Fortune

by Laura Frantz

  Hiding her relief, Izannah bent and kissed Elspeth’s wrinkled cheek, showing her out. The maid waited in the corridor, biding her time with a bit of knitting. Izannah shut the door after them and returned to Wren while Mama spoke in quiet tones with Grandmother.

  “I apologize for Elspeth.”

  Wren simply smiled. “She’s the great-aunt you told me about. The one who doesn’t make as much trouble as she used to.”

  “Sometimes I wonder. Her tongue still seems sharp as a rapier.”

  “I’ve never met anybody like her.”

  “Pray you never will.” Izannah reached for a tea cake, hungry again after so long a night. “How are you faring at New Hope? Isn’t Mama’s old room quaint?” At Wren’s nod, she said quietly, “Grandmother is fond of keeping things as they used to be. Other than the new wing, the old house is quite the antique.”

  “Papa said it has changed little in time.” Wren sat back, teacup in hand. “New Hope’s beautiful, but I miss Kentucky and long to get back there.”

  “Oh?” Izannah masked her surprise. There’d been no talk of returning to Kentucky, not that she knew of. Uncle Ansel had even confided to Daddy his plans to build a home on acreage west of New Hope. Obviously Wren didn’t know, and Izannah wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

  Her comely cousin seemed to be unaware of a great many things, Izannah realized, the least of which was Wren’s inexplicable hold on James Sackett’s heart.

  9

  When sorrows come, they come not as single spies, but in battalions!

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  More than seventy years of weather and the sun’s glare had bleached the old building white, but James felt more at home in the place the Ballantyne legacy had begun than the ornate Water Street offices across the way. Silas had turned over his old domain to James the week before, key and all, humble as it was. Jutting out over the levee on an aged sliver of dock, the place was easily overlooked, dwarfed by piles of freight and an army of men working under the Ballantynes’ renowned Irish hull builder, Anthony Dunlevy.

  James couldn’t help but contrast the hum of activity to the eves he sat alone with a lantern, charting the crossings and laying out the courses by compass, the levee cat winding round his boots, the night wind sighing through the drafty boards. During daylight hours, little peace was to be had at the height of the shipping season. The door’s rusty hinges required constant oiling as it swung to and fro, drawing complaints, but James wouldn’t replace it. He liked the look of that door. Solid. Stalwart. Steadfast. Unlike his shifting circumstances.

  Leaning back in a chair in need of repair, he looked upward to a battered shelf. There Silas had driven a hand-forged nail, a reminder that the Almighty, crucified but risen, was always near at hand. It had been the guiding force of Silas’s long life. Never had James needed the reminder so much as now.

  Looking out the window, he took in the Rowena lying at landing with a score of other vessels, but it was the Belle of Pittsburgh being bedecked like a bride that held him. Men scoured her decks with mops and wash buckets, while inside the grand salon artists were at work painting panels of each stateroom door with scenic vistas in oils. All at Bennett’s urging. As it was now Thursday, the honeymoon sailing was only two days away.

  The frivolity jarred sourly with James’s task and Silas’s warning words to him that morning. There was much at stake. So much that James’s skin grew clammy from a sudden chill, though his shirt was sweat-damp in places.

  The door groaned open. James failed to hear his cub pilot’s approach, though there was no ignoring the bearish shadow filling the doorway.

  “S-Sackett, s-sir?” George Ealer’s stutter was more pronounced in his alarm. “There’s b-been a t-telegram from d-downriver.” He approached the desk, looking dazed. “B-Bennett’s mad as a b-bull.”

  Standing, James reached out a hand and clamped Ealer’s slumped shoulder as if to give him anchor. “Slow down and tell it to me straight.”

  Ealer swallowed hard. “It happened s-six o’clock this m-morning north of S-Ship Island, about thirty m-miles below M-Memphis—”

  “The City of Pittsburgh?” The latest and swiftest addition to the Ballantyne line? The nod of Ealer’s head was enough. James felt a sinking to his boots.

  “The s-striker and s-second engineer had the watch in the engine r-room. The s-second m-mate had the watch on d-deck . . .”

  All inferior crew and cargo save one. Trevor Bixby had been at the wheel. Ealer shuddered and tried to finish. James wanted to shake the labored words out of him.

  “Four b-boilers exploded.”

  Lord, no.

  “They’ve t-taken B-Bixby to the nearest m-maritime hospital.”

  James blinked back the stinging wetness clouding his vision. “Any other survivors?”

  Ealer gave a shake of his shaggy head. “B-Bennett’s on his way here. I w-wanted to w-warn you.”

  “Go to the Monongahela House and tell Captain Dean I’ll meet him there for supper instead of the noon meal.” James glanced out the window, feeling he’d not eat for a week, and faced another unappetizing prospect.

  Bennett was crossing the street, flanked by several minions and attorneys. Leaving out the back door, Ealer made his escape.

  When Bennett stepped into the old office without his entourage, the air turned oppressively still. “I suppose you’ve heard the news.”

  “Yes, just,” James said.

  The tick of the wall clock swelled in the silence. Bennett turned toward a shelf of ledgers, each bearing the name of every Ballantyne packet in the line. “How much was she insured for?”

  How much? The words held the force of a fist. All the breath left him. A crew lay dead and a pilot lay dying. Not just any pilot but one of the best in the line—

  “I said how much was the City of Pittsburgh insured for?”

  Still, James gave no answer. His fingers clenched around an iron paperweight atop the cluttered desk. What was Bennett’s creed?

  Success at any cost and hang the consequences.

  Bennett swung toward him, expression thick with hostility. “I want you to find out and send word to me at Ballantyne Hall. I don’t have time for mundane matters.” His gaze swept the room as if searching for answers before he went out, slamming the door in his wake.

  Fingering the heavy paperweight, James wanted to draw back and hurl it after him, aggravated the oak door would take the blow. But it didn’t dint his desire that it knock some common decency into Bennett instead.

  In the flicker of gaslight, Captain Dean’s face was the color of his linen napkin. “Bixby was a God-fearing man, James. Take comfort in that.”

  Was. Throat too tight to reply, James stared at the elaborate menu and tried to focus. But all that filled his head was the thought of his friend and fellow pilot severely scalded, his body packed in linseed oil and cotton, dying in a strange hospital far downriver.

  “You know the lifespan of a steamboat is but three to five years. It’s a dangerous business. That’s why we’re paid like kings.”

  “If there’d been a first-rate crew aboard, it wouldn’t have happened.” James kept his voice low, his eyes on the menu. “I warned Bennett more than once . . .” His voice faded. Dean didn’t need the reminder of Bennett’s oversight and excess. He’d witnessed it firsthand. Bennett seemed to leave a trail of it in his wake, scrimping on safety and crew while indulging in wild financial schemes, all to get ahead of the Camerons and the railroad.

  “It reminds me of the time you were blown up around Madrid Bend near Memphis, right into the river from the wheel. That was no substandard crew but faulty equipment—and you came away without a scratch.” Dean took a swallow of water. “Besides, none of it can be chalked up to the affairs of men. The Lord himself ordains a man’s day of birth and death. Bixby said so himself.”

  “I was there when he said it.” James found no comfort in the memory. “But I’ll not dismiss the matter so easily. There’s a pat
tern beginning of shoddy crew and careless handling, perhaps the intentional destruction of boats to collect insurance money.”

  “That’s a heavy charge, James.”

  “I wouldn’t voice it unless I thought it was sound.”

  “The Ballantyne line has the finest safety record on the river.”

  “Times are changing. As soon as Bennett is in charge and Silas steps down—”

  “Silas has no intention of stepping down.” Dean chuckled humorlessly. “Dying, perhaps, but not stepping down.”

  Dying, aye. James eyed Dean intently. No one else had witnessed the incident with Silas in the boatyard office that day. He’d told no one, nor had Silas. But the incident had shaken James to the core. Somehow, in years past, he’d ignored the signs of Silas’s aging, dreading the day he’d no longer be with them. Pittsburgh wouldn’t be the same, nor would he.

  A waiter hovered, serving Turlock whiskey in crystal shot glasses. “A round of drinks for you gentlemen, compliments of the Sullivan party.”

  James looked across the crowded dining room and nodded to the foremost Ballantyne attorney obviously commiserating with them over the City of Pittsburgh’s demise. Though he rarely drank, tonight whiskey was the only thing he could stomach.

  At least Bixby hadn’t had a wife and children. Rivermen tended to be a lonesome breed, always on the water with no place to call home. He wasn’t sure about the rest of the crew. It was no small miracle there’d been no passengers, only cargo. He’d try to take comfort from that.

  “You’re not considering leaving the line, I hope.” Dean’s hands shook slightly as he lit a cigar. “If you do you’ll send a red flag from here to New Orleans that something is amiss, and our competitors will have a heyday.”

  This James couldn’t deny. He stayed silent, gaze roaming the plush room restlessly. Tonight the heavy blue decor seemed almost funereal, the room too dark.

  “Now more than ever, insurance rates on cargo are adjusted by the caliber of the boat.” There was a heated warning in Dean’s stern words, a reminder they were the river’s elite. “Nothing is more important than the reputation of captain and pilot.”

  “I have too much loyalty to Silas and Eden Ballantyne to resign right now.”

  Dean gave a nod, his relief apparent. “There are few if any pilots who would or could transport the freight you do.” He returned to the menu with renewed interest. “We sail in two days’ time. Once Bennett and his bride disembark in New Orleans, we can proceed as usual.”

  James took a slow drink, the liquor leaving a fiery trail. “There’s another matter.” He reached for the note in his breast pocket, weighing the wisdom of doing so. But when he let go of the paper, it seemed a burden lifted along with it. “I received this yesterday.”

  “Another matter indeed.” Dean was looking at the note as if it was arsenic. “I suppose this came from the bride?”

  “Who seems intent on returning to Boston.”

  “You’ve not replied?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If you do and Bennett gets wind of it . . .”

  “I need to help her.”

  “Help her?” Dean’s brows knotted like rope. “The nuptials are two days away. All the legalities have been taken care of—”

  “All the legalities will be null and void if there’s no ceremony,” James replied.

  “Let’s hope it’s a simple case of hysterics.”

  “Miss Ashburton seems entirely rational to me.”

  “Promise me you’ll stay out of the matter.” Dean’s calm was eroding, his color high. Reaching for the whiskey, he nearly knocked over his glass. “James, it’s a scandal in the making. There’s been many a skittish bride before the ceremony. If you—”

  His quiet vehemence faded as the mayor and his wife paused briefly at their table. “My condolences, gentlemen, on the loss of the City of Pittsburgh.”

  James gave a nod but said nothing. There was little to be done for Trevor Bixby and crew. But he could certainly help Charlotte Ashburton.

  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.

  OSCAR WILDE

  “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 bea
t 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.