Love's Fortune

by Laura Frantz

  “So far?” Dismay needled her anew. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, Wren. It’s important you stay behind to manage correspondence and settle accounts from any business in Kentucky. Besides, travel is often perilous and you didn’t fare well on the trip upriver. I’ll be relying on the stage and train and will try to return by Christmas.”

  Christmas? The promise rang hollow. She’d hoped to be home by then.

  “Your grandparents will be glad of your company.” He continued on in that calm, quiet way that was becoming more maddening by the minute. “And Ellie and Izannah are near at hand.”

  Not a word about Andra. Andra who didn’t want her. Who no doubt wished she’d go east too.

  “I’ve an interested party in the Cremonas in New York.”

  Emotion closed her throat and nearly kept her from speaking. “Not our Amatis. Not the Nightingale.”

  He looked at her as if surprised she would ask. “The Nightingale belongs to you, Wren. Always. But selling the rest of our collection might be the only way to gain the Guarneri your grandfather lost long ago.”

  She nodded. It was her dream as much as his. Lacing her fingers together, she prayed for calm. “I thought . . . maybe . . . you’d want to return to Kentucky.”

  Or give me your blessing to go home without you.

  “Ah yes, Kentucky. I’ve news on that score too.” His voice held an absent note as if he’d forgotten all about it. “I’ve recently received a letter from Selkirk. He wants to buy our land, continue the business, as he’s to wed.”

  “Selkirk?” She’d not known Selkirk had a sweetheart. Stunned, she stumbled for sure footing, for a grip on the past. “But Papa, that’s our life. Our livelihood.”

  “It was, Wren. Once.”

  “But you’re a craftsman, not a businessman.” Her frantic gaze held his. “You make music and instruments, not—”

  Not iron.

  She nearly spat out the word in disgust. Yet even as she thought it, she realized how foolish it was. Papa had no need of being a luthier in the Kentucky woods. He was a Ballantyne. Heir to a fortune. Anything else was deemed second best. Yet some foolish hope, stubborn as a weed, made her cling to the way things were. “You’d turn your back on everything like that? Like it never mattered? Or never was?”

  Pain clouded his eyes. “It matters to me. It always will. But it’s different without your mother. Kentucky became barren, no longer home. Returning to Pennsylvania means a new life for us both, with new opportunities and choices.”

  She fixed her eyes on a stained-glass window depicting a shepherd and lamb. Oh, but she felt like that lamb. Small. Bewildered. Was her Shepherd still leading? Did the Lord want her in this rocky place? If so, her spirit rebelled at every step. Mama’s death had brought about such change. Selkirk had moved on, as had Molly. Why couldn’t she? Bending her head, she gave in to her tears, ashamed Papa could see her so undone.

  “I blame myself for keeping you in Kentucky as long as I did and sheltering you from your rightful life here.” His arms went around her, comforting yet comfortless. “But there’s naught to be done now. We’re firmly planted in Pennsylvania. There’s no going back, only forward.”

  “But how will I manage without you, our music? I don’t know how I’ll fill my time—”

  “It would be a great pleasure to me if you’d use every opportunity presented to you, whatever that might be. Become familiar with Pittsburgh and your family. Be of help here or at River Hill. With that in mind, I’m placing you in your aunt Andra’s care, something she’s fully aware of and agreeable to.” At her sigh of protest he continued calmly. “I know you find her rather daunting, but you must realize she can be trusted. She’ll see that no harm comes to you. Make the most of my absence and your prospects. I’ll return ere long.”

  She stiffened, bracing herself for yet another sweeping change. Though she wanted to reassure him she would do as he wished, make him proud, pain left her with no promises.

  With every heartfelt word she felt the closing of a door, as solid as the stone chapel’s.

  14

  Sorrow is the mere rust of the soul. Activity will cleanse and brighten it.

  SAMUEL JOHNSON

  With her father away, Wren could count on two things. Tea with Grandmother and Mina Cameron every Tuesday, and a day spent at River Hill every Thursday. September had dawned, as crisp and colorful as an autumn leaf, ripening the apples in New Hope’s orchards and frosting the fields a brittle white. Tenants and servants were predicting a harsh winter, perhaps the worst western Pennsylvania had seen in half a century.

  Molly had been gone three weeks. The Rowena and Belle of Pittsburgh were again in port, their great bulk lining the Monongahela levee, their pilothouses empty. If James Sackett was back in town, Wren didn’t know. The newspapers had made no mention of his return aside from a few printed cards of praise when he’d first docked, focusing instead on the belated inquest that quietly filled a small, mournful column in all the Pittsburgh papers.

  On 23 August, an inquest was held at Pittsburgh, before R Lowry, Coroner, in view of the body of Miss Charlotte Ashburton, aged 23, who on the 22nd had fallen down a flight of steps at the Allegheny County estate of Peyton Ballantyne, Esq., of which she died. Verdict—accidental death.

  Wren read the ruling in the privacy of her bedchamber, her tears spattering the newsprint. Charlotte’s brief life amounted to little more than a few dismissive lines while Bennett’s future beckoned bright. Somehow the matter seemed unfair . . . unfinished.

  Hearing a footfall in the hall, she balled up the paper and fed it to the bedchamber fire.

  Mim entered through the dressing room door, eyeing the leaping flames with a knowing eye. “Ye ken the ill-scrappit news, looks like.” Depositing an armful of clean petticoats and camisoles in the mahogany wardrobe, she clucked her tongue. “My, but yer a soft soul to be so moved.”

  “It’s all blown over then.”

  “Nae. Mr. Bennett might have escaped the inquest, but he’s out o’ luck securing a bonny bride.” Hands on hips, Mim studied her. “I hope ye dinna mind if I speak so freely. Yer more outlander than kin here, seems to me.”

  This Wren couldn’t deny. Truth was she rather liked Mim’s confidences. Armed with them she felt less vulnerable. Better prepared to face whatever was coming. Though the Ballantynes might be silent on a given matter, the large staff never ceased its tattling. Kinfolk were employed by all the big houses owned by the Ballantynes, Camerons, and Turlocks, and secrets flew between them, sometimes for coin.

  “My brother’s head groom at Ballantyne Hall, and I’ve a cousin who’s in the kitchen at Cameron House. So I hear all the blether.” Mim regarded Wren with a mixture of sympathy and affection. “And the blether this morn is that yer to go out with yer aunt. And ye’d best look sharp while doing it.”

  “Out with Andra?” The very thought turned Wren cold. “Why?”

  “She never said. I have an hour to get you ready. We’ll need something warm, as there’s a nip in the air.”

  “Granny isn’t coming?”

  “Yer granny’s at the Orphan Home. I’m afraid Miss Andra has ye all to herself.” Turning her back, she began rummaging through Charlotte’s dresses. “Something dark should do. But not black. We dinna want to advertise the family’s misfortune.”

  Wren bit her tongue as Mim picked an elaborate gown with too many flounces. An appalling purple, it was made of silk brocade with garish tufts of black lace on the wide skirts. Mim shot her a dismayed glance. “I ken what yer thinking, but there’s no help for it.”

  “At least leave my hair plain.”

  “A chignon will do—and a bonnet too.” Uncapping a hatbox, Mim held up a straw creation with silk violets riding the brim. “Ye’ll need gloves, a shawl, and parasol.”

  And patience.

  Wren’s mind traveled to her attic room, where she’d dressed without thought or a maid, even Molly. What had happened to her old work clothe
s? Her two Sabbath-best dresses? She’d meant to talk to Papa about a new wardrobe, but he’d left so quickly she’d left it undone.

  “Dinna look so fash,” Mim consoled her. “Yer aunt isna a bad sort. Prickly as a thistle, mayhap, but she’s always had the Ballantynes’ best interests at heart.”

  Wren sat down at the dressing table, thinking Mim wise beyond her years. The Ballantynes’ best interests were just what worried her.

  Steep hills rose around Pittsburgh, cradling the city and its three rivers as if fearful all that water might spill out and the stranglehold of industry would cease. Wren tried not to look long at the Monongahela levee, frantically busy at midmorning as the Ballantyne barouche cut across Water Street. Smart and efficient, their coachman soon took them beyond the crush of the waterfront and across a long, low bridge strung with wires, out of the city’s haze if not above the clatter and hammer of countless mills and factories.

  “The city is still recovering from the devastating fire of ’45.” Andra’s voice rose above the din as she sat opposite Wren, dressed in deep gray. Her plumed bonnet with its veil of black lace was another reminder of Charlotte’s passing. “Your grandfather donated a great deal toward the rebuilding effort, along with other industrialists. Two of our mills were lost but have been rebuilt outside the city. I thought it time to show you the full range of Ballantyne interests today. But we need to be atop Coal Hill to see them all properly.”

  The touch of pride in her tone couldn’t be overlooked, and Wren felt a faint spark of interest. But would they ever make it up the rutted road? Their driver seemed unconcerned, hat brim pulled nearly to the end of his bulbous nose, the matching horses moving at an unbroken gait.

  Wren looked beyond the wide brim of her bonnet, gladness filling her as sunlight fell across the carriage’s leather interior. “Is Grandfather partial to certain . . . business?”

  Andra’s mouth softened in a near smile. “He’s pleased with whatever is making the most return on investment. That just happens to be the iron mills at present, though the glassworks are second to none.”

  They crested the steep hill, a feat that made Pittsburgh look impossibly small if just as blackened. Wren followed the line of Andra’s pointed finger toward the heart of the city teeming with people and vehicles of all description. “Over there are the ironworks, the largest and most productive in Pittsburgh, with your father now firmly at the helm. Directly below, occupying the entire Monongahela waterfront, is the Ballantyne shipbuilding and packet trade.”

  Wren looked down at the crowded levee reluctantly, trying not to think of James Sackett. Failing.

  “Just across Water Street is the glassworks and factory housing, along with the mercantile and warehouses. Father owns a great deal of other real estate in the city, of course, and is always considering other options. He’s continually diversifying and is even considering extending the Ballantynes’ reach to California now that it’s become the thirty-first state.”

  Wren listened, trying to take it all in. Failing on that score too. The sweep of Andra’s gloved hand never seemed to lessen.

  “Lest you think it is all business for the Ballantynes, over there on Mill Street is the apprenticeship library Father had built beside the new Men’s Academy. Farther up Grant’s Hill is the Orphan Home.”

  Wren could barely make out the outline of the orphanage atop the far hill through the haze. “Granny is there today, Mim said.”

  “Yes, the orphanage is your grandmother’s foremost concern.” Andra settled back against the seat as the driver began the descent downhill, a far easier feat than the uphill climb. “She founded it years ago when she came from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh and married your grandfather.”

  Within half an hour they were back inside the city, traversing a street bordered by shade trees fronting the river. But the peaceful avenue was soon forgotten as the barouche’s rapid pace plunged them into a rabbit’s warren of dark streets and alleys full of ragtag children and roaming animals. Here the stench rivaled the smoke and left Wren glad of the handkerchief Mim had insisted she bring. Andra looked straight ahead, her own perfumed hankie to her nose, as if the smell was a nuisance easily dealt with.

  A pack of boys started after them as they drove past, palms open and begging, voices carrying on a foul wind. Andra barely gave them a glance. “They’re nearly of age to be employed. Likely their families work at the mills.”

  “But they’re so . . . small.” The children of Cane Run flashed to mind, most of them barefoot and as lightly clad. But they’d had fresh air, the run of field and forest, unlike these bedraggled urchins of the streets.

  “Small, yes, but employable,” Andra said. “Our workers are paid a higher wage and have shorter working hours than any in the city. No labor disputes or trouble with the trade unions either. There’s also a private infirmary for whatever ails them.”

  The particulars meant little to Wren. All she knew was that Grandfather was wildly successful, the Ballantyne name renowned. All this industry somehow mattered to Andra, who hoped it would mean something to her.

  Toward noon they passed beyond high pine gates bearing bold black lettering: Ballantyne Cotton Works. A guard waved them on, tipping his hat and watching them pass. Made of brick, the immense mill hugged the north shore of the Allegheny River, acrid smoke pouring from tall smokestacks. In the shadow of the mill were blackened tenements, their starkness broken by lines of laundry strung from doors and windows and the earthy reek of cabbage.

  “The unmarried factory girls live here, as it’s safer and more convenient to the workplace.” Andra put away her hankie as the carriage rolled to a stop. “The married folk live in row houses beyond the gates.”

  The mill supervisor met them, taking them into the largest building and up a flight of steps to a gallery overlooking hundreds of spindles and looms. Here the clack and rumble of machinery was deafening. Wren focused on the women and girls swarming the mill’s wooden floor. Sweat beaded every face, hands never idle. A few glanced up at them, clearly curious, and Wren felt the deep chasm that separated them. But for her name, the happenstance of her birth, she might have been among them.

  “Some of the girls are from the Orphan Home. When they come of age, they’re given a choice of working in a factory like this one or being in service at a private residence. Everyone has a job. A purpose.” Andra skimmed the mill floor with a sweeping glance before returning to her. “Even you, Rowena.”

  Wren tried not to frown as the steely words dissolved in the whirr of machinery, cotton fluff flying through the air like snow.

  Andra’s voice held steady. “You bear the Ballantyne name. You’re privy to the Ballantyne fortune. With it comes privilege—and responsibility. You’re in Pittsburgh now, firmly planted in our world, and must find your place.”

  Wren sought a proper reply, anything to ease the strain between them, but came up short. She didn’t understand why Andra had brought her here except that Andra was trying to make a point she wanted no part of.

  Touching her arm, Andra gestured to a near door, her voice raised against the onslaught of machinery. “I’ll take you to the Orphan Home next. If your grandmother is there, you can accompany her back to New Hope, as I’ve some calls to make.”

  Relieved, Wren followed her out, their dresses and capes dotted with flecks of cotton, Andra’s words burned into her brain. Beneath a polluted autumn sky, she took a last look at the sprawling factory with its No Trespassing signs and inhospitable fences and wanted to lift a hand and block it. But it loomed too large, too proud, edging out other, kinder memories of Indian-summer days spent gathering nuts and making apple butter, tending leafy bonfires, and going barefoot a final time till spring.

  These beloved things seemed to belong to someone else, to another woman in another time and place. She’d already begun to look back on Cane Run as if it was nothing more than a story in a dusty, hastily shelved book. Almost a fairy tale.

  Her thoughts reeled and her heart wr
enched.

  Papa seemed a world away, Kentucky even farther.

  The Lord more distant still.

  The voices of children and the lively sight of them playing in the enclosed orphanage yard lightened Wren’s spirits, as did news that Grandmother was indeed there, somewhere.

  The director greeted her warmly as Andra made her exit. “Mrs. Ballantyne might be anywhere in the Orphan Home but is likely in the nursery with the infants. You may wait in the visitors’ area if you like or go outside on the green till I locate her.”

  Craving fresh air, Wren pushed open a near door, grateful the Orphan Home had been built on a hill outside the city. A crushed stone path led to a lone oak, a wooden swing suspended from one lofty branch. Afflicted with coal dust, the tree was no longer a stalwart green but a sad gray like most of the trees within the city limits, its leaves the same stunted shade.

  Mindful of her wide skirts, Wren sat down carefully in the swing and gave a small push with her foot. At the first glide came a giggle. A curly head popped out from behind the tree’s withered trunk, the toothless grin wide and welcoming. “I never saw a lady swing before.”

  Wren smiled back at her. “I’m hardly a lady.”

  “You’re dressed as such.” The child touched her own plain frock, smoothing out a wrinkle before peering intently at Wren’s bonnet. “Are those flowers real?”

  Plucking a silk lilac from the brim, Wren held it out. “They’re pretend.”

  Taking it, the girl tucked it in a buttonhole. “I like it nearly as well as what Jamie gave me.” Looking down, she withdrew something from her pocket and held it aloft. Nested in her palm was a tiny carved bird. “He says it’s a wren.”

  “Oh?” Wren touched a wooden wing, so well-crafted it returned her to Selkirk and the violin shop. “Your little bird looks so real it could sing.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” she replied. “There aren’t many birds or trees here.”

  Had she never heard a bird sing? Wren nearly sighed at the thought. Pursing her lips, she let out a cheerful, trilling imitation, the song rising in pitch with a rapid cascade of notes. Making birdcalls had been as much a part of her upbringing as making fiddles, though Papa and Selkirk were far better at it than she.