by Laura Frantz
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.”
12
Delight and danger grow on one stalk.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
James turned over atop the big bed, the linens growing taut about his restless limbs. Sweat slicked his brow despite the open window as the late summer heat pressed in. At midnight the Monongahela House was quiet aside from the muffled snores of George Ealer across the hall, a habit as persistent as his stutter.
Throwing off the covers, James swung bare feet to the floor. He was often up nights, assisting fugitives in the endless labyrinth of underground tunnels that served as the hotel’s escape network. Like River Hill, the staff was mostly free blacks devoted to the abolitionist cause, helping runaways off Ballantyne boats or those who’d come into the city on their own seeking refuge. Tonight there’d been little activity. All was calm but for the storm inside him.
Steeling himself, he looked beneath the bed, hooking a leather strap with his thumb and giving a tug. The small chest scraped against the planked floor, loud as Ealer’s snoring. He fumbled with the lock, a prayer rising in his heart, and raised the heavy lid. Scant light danced across old, tattered things. Remnants of another life. After all these years, Georgiana Hardesty’s citrus scent still seemed to linger, as unforgiving as her memory.
At the trunk’s bottom lay an embroidered scarf, tattered love letters sent downriver to New Orleans, and a silver token with their initials entwined. On the flip side were the engraved, almost mocking words . . .
When this you see remember me.
He lingered on a locket, its glass face imprisoning strands of inky hair that had once caught on his callused fingers.
Sad remnants, all. He’d kept them reluctantly, mostly as a means to guard his heart. Painful as it was, he needed the reminder to ground him anew. He needed the reminder of what Bennett had done in a fit of rage over some forgotten business matter. Riding hard on the heels of that bitter memory was Rowena Ballantyne.
On a near table was the dried rose she’d given him, alongside Charlotte Ashburton’s note. It lay open, a reproach to his timing, his tendency to tread too carefully. Never would he have believed he’d have a death on his hands. Or that Wren would blame him for it.
When she’d come to the levee hours before and he’d faced her across his desk, the tug of desire he’d first felt in the pilothouse resurfaced, flowing strong and invisible as a river current beneath their heated interaction. He’d not meant to be so stubborn, but he’d wanted to cover his conflicted feelings, his outright dismay at her leav
ing, as best he could. It hadn’t helped that her father had asked him to keep an eye on her, as if she was as willful as a spring colt and needed careful handling.
Wren was no refined Pittsburgh belle, yet she was the first woman who’d turned his head—and his heart—since Georgiana. But for all her humility and homespun charm, she was a Ballantyne. Far beyond his reach. A first cousin to Bennett and subject to his scheming.
Resurrecting Georgiana Hardesty was far more likely than a liaison with Silas’s granddaughter. Remembering that was all the grounding he needed.
The inhabitants of River Hill had wasted no time in adorning the newest arrival with every feminine furbelow and gewgaw they could find. Wren felt a sudden melting as wide blue eyes looked up at her, a plump, pink hand brushing the lace of her bodice. Clad in an embroidered linen gown and cap, Chloe Rose Turlock was already a beauty, the apple of everyone’s eye.
Izannah reached out and touched a flawless cheek. “I can hardly steal her away from Daddy. Even the boys think she’s naught but a wee fairy.”
Ellie smiled. “It was the same when you were born. No one cared a whit you weren’t a boy.”
“Daddy’s finally had his fill of sons,” Izannah said with a sigh. “Now that Wren is here, we’ll both help with Chloe till you’re well again.”
Wren warmed at being included. Aunt Ellie did look in need of tender care, pale as she was and still abed. The fever had left her, but the birth had been a difficult one and she was confined mostly to her room.
“I’m feeling stronger by the day,” she reassured them, her smile as sunny as Grandmother’s own. “Soon we’ll be able to take the carriage out and have a picnic and savor an Indian summer. For now Wren will stay with us till things settle down.”
Settle down? Would they ever? Charlotte’s death was being investigated, the wedding gifts returned. But all that seemed distant here at River Hill. Since arriving the day before, Wren was almost able to forget James Sackett’s maddening refusal and her soreness over missing Molly. Izannah did her best to amuse her, showing her about the old house and relating bits of family history.
“The boys have the run of the second floor, but up here on high it’s just us two.”
Wren was delighted with the privacy of Izannah’s third-floor bedchamber adjoining her own, both replete with twin sleigh beds and chintz upholstery. Everything smelled of fresh flowers, with double-hung windows overlooking the gardens below.
Opening a small door, Izannah motioned Wren up steep, winding steps. “I’ve been wanting to show you my secret place.”
The cupola? Much like at New Hope, the panorama stretched from the eastern mountains to the three rivers. All was blue and sun-drenched and calm. A stack of books lay in the window seat, a testament to Izannah’s favorite pastime.
Wren leaned into the sill, savoring the view. “Reminds me of the pilothouse aboard the Rowena.”
Izannah turned toward her, eyes wide. “James let you come up by the wheel?”
“I was feeling poorly. It was during the midnight watch—”
“The midnight watch? The most hazardous of them all?”
Her startled reply sent Wren scrambling. If she’d ever doubted her cousin’s feeling for James Sackett, she doubted no longer. “No harm was done. I wasn’t there overlong. The captain came and I went back to my cabin.”
“I’ve never been on a steamer except when a boat lays at landing.” The wistfulness in Izannah’s tone couldn’t be ignored. “And even then I’ve never been invited to the pilothouse.”
“Mr. Sackett was less than obliging yesterday,” she confessed, putting to rest any privileges Izannah may have imagined. “He wouldn’t let me see Molly home.”
“Wren, you were going to leave us?” There was hurt in the words—and something akin to disbelief. “Do you dislike it here so much?”
“Well, I . . .” The thought of traipsing up the winding, leaf-littered lane toward Cane Run moved her in ways she had no words for. But it was more James Sackett calling her Wren at the last that she couldn’t drive from her mind.
“James was wise to say no. Losing you after all that has happened . . .” Izannah sighed and touched her sleeve. “Let’s speak of other things, like your pretty dress. Those Louisville seamstresses are as accomplished as any we have in Pittsburgh.”
Wren looked down at the confection of linen and lace and smoothed a flounce, trying to master her dismay. “This is Charlotte’s, not mine.”
“Charlotte’s? You don’t mean . . .” Dismay dawned in Izannah’s silvery eyes. “Is Aunt Andra insisting you wear the trousseau? Oh, Wren . . .” She turned back to the glass, the lines of worry about her eyes more telling in the light. “Whatever is she thinking?”
With a lift of her shoulders, Wren thought to dismiss the matter. “Truth be told, I can’t stop thinking of Charlotte no matter if I’m clad in her dresses or not.”
Izannah sighed. “I can think of little else either.” She touched her forehead as if getting one of the headaches she was prone to. “The papers are already full of the news, though with Grandfather’s connections, the accounts are kinder than they could be.”
Wren hadn’t reckoned with the scandal that was bound to ensue. Back home there’d been no paper but plenty of tittle-tattle. In Pittsburgh and Boston there would be an abundance of both, especially with two prominent families involved. She prayed the matter would be dealt with fairly, the turn of events favorable.
“We should go below,” Izannah finally said, taking a last look out the glass.
The sun was setting now, the smells of supper and the clink of china carrying to the cupola’s far reaches. Wren’s restless gaze stretched to a sunburned pasture where Izannah’s brothers rode on horseback, two sheepdogs in tow. The sight of little Tremper atop a pony eased Wren’s sorrow. She longed to be out of doors with them, glorying in the start of fall like she’d done at home. Autumn had always been her favorite season.
From somewhere on the second floor, Chloe’s persistent wail reminded her of why she’d come. Turning, she started down the steps, eager to be of help. “I need to earn my keep.”
“I’ll see to the boys, then, and get them ready for supper.” Izannah tried to smile, but the worry in her eyes remained.
“You’re a marked man, James.”
Though he knew it was true, hearing the fact spoken aloud in confirmation raised the very hair on the back of James’s neck. Just south of Memphis now, past Island 37, he and Captain Dean stood amid the grease and sparks of the engine room. The sweltering heat of late August ratcheted up the temperature in the bowels of the Belle of Pittsburgh as the engines were fired with pitch.
Dean began to fill his pipe, nonchalant though his tone was taut. “My suspicion is Silas wants you off the river come October.”
Off the river? Even the thought made James chafe. More of Pittsburgh meant more of Bennett and matters beyond James’s control. A sort of landlocked prison sentence. The river had always been his refuge.
“Things are becoming so tense over the slavery issue, many are predicting outright war.” Dean looked at him long and hard. “Silas has asked us to consider a suitable replacement for Trevor Bixby, God rest him. We need another abolitionist pilot who’s not afraid to do some slave running in your stead.”
“I know the man. I’ll arrange for a meeting when we get to Natchez.”
Dean gave a nod. “Once we’re there we need to be on guard about John Madder and his cronies. They’ve been known to book passage on steamers heading north.” Pipe smoke whitened the close space between them. “There’s growing suspicion the City of Pittsburgh was somehow sabotaged by Madder and made to mimic a boiler explosion.”
James looked at him, incredulity overriding grief. “We’ll likely never know.”
“Not without a confession. Word is Madder is none too happy you informed authorities of his slave-stealing ring between Natchez and New Orleans and he’s vowed to make more trouble.”
“So
Silas wants me lying in port under wages.”
“Just for the winter. The hope is one of Madder’s band will betray him and he’ll be charged with horse stealing and counterfeiting or some of the lesser crimes he’s known for.” Dean reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a paper, and passed it to James. “Matters are becoming more serious—and far more public—than you might think.”
James scanned the bold newsprint, somewhat amused at the flamboyant wording. Journalists these days grasped at anything to sell a story.
The life and adventures of John Madder, the Great Western Land Pirate, and a catalogue of the names of his 455 Mystic Clan followers and their conspiracy regarding the destruction of James Sackett, the young Pennsylvania river pilot who detected him.
“Who prints this trash?”
“The yellow-jacket press,” Dean replied.
Fisting it, James tossed the pamphlet into an open furnace. “I need to relieve McCormick.”
“I’ll retire for the night then.”
James took the stairs to the hurricane deck slightly ahead of schedule. Arriving late violated pilot protocol. He’d never been tardy, though he’d seen officers refuse to speak to each other for the breach. Maritime custom was strict, and he had no intention of letting the grim news about Madder slow his steps.
A harvest moon rode the river to the south, orange as a pumpkin, the swirling water black as a cat. McCormick greeted him and stepped away from the wheel. James pulled on leather gloves while the off-watch pilot apprised him of river conditions, lighting a cigar as he did so.
Listening, James was alert to the tendrils of fog that crept in from both sides of the Mississippi and promised a tense night. Much could be gauged by the season, the mood of the river, even the temperature.
Through the mist came an occasional glimmer of light like a firefly from some dwelling near shore. Lately he’d noticed such places more than he used to, even craved the refuge they promised. His River Row cottage seemed cramped. The Monongahela House too echoing. The ornate New Orleans quarters that served the gentlemen of the navigation laughably grand.