by Laura Frantz
James was not the fiddler Wren was, but he could hold his own, his bowing bold and decisive where hers was more intricate and delicate. Not once did he stumble, ending the joyous piece with a self-effacing smile and a little trill. The room burst into applause—even the boys were clapping and hooting—as he returned the violin to its case. This time it was Wren’s gaze that trailed after him, a telling delight on her flushed face.
If a heart could be won or lost in the span of seconds, it had happened right before Izannah’s eyes. Her cousin may not have been taken with James before, but all that had altered. Now she could hardly look away from him. Had anyone else noticed?
The case clock struck ten, and she turned her attention to the cake as it was brought in atop a wheeled cart. As it rumbled past, Tremper swiped at the icing with a quick finger as murmurs of appreciation replaced the infectious music. Smiling, Izannah served the confection piece by piece, cutting an especially generous slice for Grandfather, who was so fond of sweets.
He stood by her, eyes alight with undimmed enjoyment of the moment. “A stack cake, you say? If so, a worthy one.”
His gnarled hands reached for the offering . . . faltered. The china dish fell from his grip, shattering as it struck the hard floor, he crumpling after it.
With a cry Izannah dropped to her knees beside him, all thoughts of Malachi driven from her mind. James was there beside her, kneeling, attending to Silas, the concern in his face fanning her fears. Through it all came Mama’s voice, broken yet calm, and Daddy’s heated order to summon the doctor.
Four hours. Had she truly been shut away in the music room all afternoon? The place had become her refuge in the week following Grandfather’s collapse, just as it had after Charlotte’s passing. Fiddle in hand, Wren was almost able to forget Papa was gone and most everyone remained at River Hill. The doctors said Grandfather could not be moved, so Grandmother stayed at his side, turning New Hope tense and empty. Just Wren and Andra and too many servants padded about the big house, awaiting word from River Hill. Every other day they visited, but it was blessedly brief as the doctors enforced quiet. The rambunctious Turlock boys and their tutors had been banished to Broad Oak, the home of Uncle Wade, who was seldom there.
As she played she kept turning the events of the birthday celebration over in her mind, sifting through them till only the barest gleanings remained. James’s late arrival. Izannah’s high flush. Their time together in the foyer exchanging heartfelt talk. He shed his fierce reserve with Izannah, but that was as it should be. They made a comely couple, so intent on each other. Like the turtledoves that nested beneath her Cane Run eave.
Thinking it, she felt a bit odd, even old. More at odds with everything around her. Why was it, in all her five and twenty years, that love had never worked its way into her heart? Might it be because Cane Run only boasted fifty souls? And there’d been a famine of suitors? Being unwed had never fretted her till now.
She shut her eyes, unable to dislodge the image of him as he’d faced her across the crowded parlor. How handsome he’d looked even travel worn, his hair windblown, his ruddy features stung by the cold. When he’d picked up a violin and played . . . her mind had somersaulted to keep up with him, to come to terms with his playing, to deny him entry into her heart when he didn’t belong there. Charlotte sprang to mind, reinforcing the distance between them.
She was so hungry for what she’d lost, she reckoned that was the cause of his appeal. She simply missed playing with Selkirk and Papa. Missed the music they’d made in the firefly-studded darkness as night gathered in. Missed Molly’s clapping and the foot-tapping of those who came by and joined in. To say nothing of missing Mama . . .
She looked down at her fingers, stiff and slightly achy from playing so long. Making music here was a lonesome thing. The thick walls of the music room cocooned her, and it seemed Andra had forgotten all about her. For that she was thankful. Mim brought a tray to her room at mealtimes, keeping her apprised of any goings-on, including her aunt’s whereabouts.
Wiping the Nightingale free of rosin, she tucked it in its case before straightening the sheet music on the mahogany stand. There were other matters at hand besides her fiddling. She needed to write to Molly and congratulate Selkirk on his coming marriage. Take stock of their Kentucky accounts in Papa’s absence. Pen him a letter.
3 October, 1850
Dear Papa,
You come to mind often on these glorious autumn days as I remember it is your favorite season. With the turning of the leaves I think of how time, and change, is unstoppable. I wish I could take back what I said to you at the last—my tears and too-hasty words. I want you not to worry about my being here without you. I want you to be proud of me.
I am trying to use my time wisely and well, learning to ride sidesaddle and seeing the sights of Pittsburgh with Aunt Andra. My music continues to be a great joy to me. Sadly, Grandfather is very ill at River Hill. I pray he will be himself again by the time you return. But I am learning nothing is sure. Nothing is set in stone even though I wish it to be . . .
She left off, fighting melancholy. She’d continue after supper and send a servant to post it on the morrow. Perhaps by then there would be better news about Grandfather.
Leaving the music room, she found the foyer empty of all but voices. They drifted past the parlor door, which was slightly ajar. Andra’s voice always carried, but at the moment it was Mina Cameron Wren heard.
“She has none of the taint of the scandal. She’s an outsider. Fresh. Unsullied. Her debut will divert Pittsburgh society from the tragedy. She’ll simply arrive on the scene unexpectedly and woo everyone with her novelty and her violin.”
Andra’s reply was slow in coming. “I’m unsure, Mina . . .”
“Come now, Andra, it’s a splendid idea. Rowena is certainly entitled to a debut. She won’t have had such an opportunity in Kentucky.”
“But the season begins all too soon.” Andra’s voice held a wary bite. “The Mellons are opening with a winter ball the first of November.”
“You have a month. That’s surely adequate.”
“One month? I’m afraid six months wouldn’t be adequate. You don’t seem to understand all that is at stake. Rowena is entirely too rough spun.”
“Such things can be remedied, surely,” Mina continued, unconcerned. “Take her complexion, for instance. If she goes about without a bonnet as you claim, she simply must learn to cover up. And if her Kentucky accent marks her as underbred, she’s entitled to elocution lessons.”
“Really, Mina, those are the least of our worries. Rowena also has the very unsavory habit of wearing every emotion on her sleeve. She even greets and converses with the servants.”
Mina chortled. “My heavens, Andra, no one comes into this world with impeccable manners. All that is easily managed in light of a little training. There are a great many etiquette manuals to move her from rusticity to gentility. And my good friend Catherine Criss may well be available to help. She gives a splendid polish to all the best girls from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh. I’m sure she’d drop everything if she knew a Ballantyne debut was in the offing.”
“Less than a month . . .” Andra still sounded dubious. “If Miss Criss can assist, I’d feel better about our efforts, though I’d be lying if I said I had high hopes. At five and twenty my niece may well be beyond redemption.”
Wren took a step back, reeling from the distaste in Andra’s tone. So she was rough spun. Underbred. Common. A rustic. In need of polish. If eavesdropping was a sin, she’d earned her punishment in spades.
“She’ll need an escort, of course.” Mina sounded as if they’d been weeks in the planning. “Usually the father or a brother serves, but since Ansel is away, a trusted family friend will do.”
Andra’s voice lightened. “That is the only bright spot, I’m afraid. There is someone who might be willing . . .”
Wren turned away, nearly tripping in her haste to escape their scheming. Up the stairs she went, feeling
as ungraceful as a Kentucky colt, confirming all they’d just said. She didn’t pause for breath till she’d reached the cupola and shut herself away. Today no rain splashed the pane or lightning lit the sky. The cold glass wrapped around her, sunlight gilding a spider’s web above her head.
She’d never before heard of a social season, a debut. She supposed it involved a little dancing like a frolic, just more proper. But an escort? Whoever he was, she prayed the gentleman would be wise enough to bow out of such unbridled foolishness.
She couldn’t imagine who Aunt Andra would choose.
17
There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.
MARK TWAIN
The early October sun was setting, lulling the levee to sleep. Looking up from the ledgers that had held him captive all day, James noted the time before studying the numbers in a far column. His concerns about the Ballantyne line were well founded. Though they’d transported lucrative cargo like lead, Indian annuities, soldiers, and heavy industrial equipment for the bulk of the year, they’d taken quite a loss given the sinking of the City of Pittsburgh.
Now, with Bennett forging ahead with the building of his brag boat and importing another hull builder from Scotland, expenses were mounting. All the more with Silas lying ill at River Hill. Word was Bennett had even begun announcing that James would pilot the new packet when it was finished in spring, claiming the trek upriver could be made from New Orleans to Pittsburgh in nineteen hours, an unheard-of feat. But perhaps it didn’t matter. With Silas cutting Bennett off from any new business and predicting the demise of the steamboat trade, Bennett would likely go down with a sinking ship. And if war erupted over the slavery issue, the rivers would be closed to traffic . . .
James sat back, the creak of Silas’s old chair a reminder it needed replacing. In the corner, George Ealer was examining the latest passenger lists by the fast-fading light, brow knit in concentration. He stirred and shot James a quick glance. “Are you s-staying at R-River H-Hill or the M-Monongahela House?”
“The Mon.” James knew Ealer didn’t care where he lodged. It was his roundabout way of asking about Silas.
“N-no change?” Ealer asked.
“Nay.”
For fourteen days Silas had been bedridden, his collapse at River Hill all too public. The doctors were murmuring about his heart, but in truth he was a very old man and they couldn’t be sure. James’s own chest ached if he dwelled on it, so he distracted himself with year-end accounts, determined to finish tallying the season.
Setting the manifest aside, Ealer ambled to the front window, hands in his pockets. “W-what will h-happen if h-he dies?”
James hesitated. “He’ll have made a will and we’ll find out then.”
Ealer’s emotional nod was followed by a grimace. “B-blast!” He returned to his corner, burying his nose in his paperwork. “B-Bennett’s on his way.”
James stood, searching for calm but finding none. The only time Bennett left his ornate Water Street offices was when he wanted something. Stoic, he faced the door, preparing for another confrontation. Or word that Silas had died. He’d not thought ahead to this particular moment—who would deliver the bitter news. His spirit rebelled that it might be Bennett.
As usual, Bennett walked in without knocking, not bothering to close the door despite the chill. A log rolled forward in the corner stove, a robust thud in the too-still office.
“You’re excused, Ealer.” Bennett’s curt tone sent the lad scurrying out the back.
James gave no greeting, gaze fixed on the line of packets lying at landing beyond the south-facing windows. If he’d ever wanted to be back on the river, it was now. Warily he looked to Bennett.
Bennett faced him across the desk, his cold features impassive, giving no hint of what was to come. He swept the small office with a dismissive glance. “This is a rather humble place for the man now in charge of the feted Ballantyne-Cameron alliance.”
“So be it.” The curt answer irritated Bennett, James sensed, as did the fact he had coveted the position himself.
“I’d expected you to move across the street into the unoccupied office next to Grandfather’s by now.”
James said nothing.
The silence turned excruciating. With Charlotte’s passing and Bennett’s finances draining, James detected a hint of desperation beneath his usual arrogance.
“Since you’re in the Ballantynes’ employ, I’m in need of your services. It’s a matter of great importance to the family.”
James’s wariness spiked. The family was always Bennett’s trump card—and James’s point of weakness.
“Cousin Rowena is to have a season.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully as if to make sure there’d be no misunderstanding. “Beginning with the Mellons’ ball. It’s imperative that she find a suitable husband before the season ends.” Bennett was unblinking in his audacity. “And by suitable I mean a Ewing or a Schoonmaker or a Cameron.”
James stiffened. Other than the Ballantynes, these were the three most influential families in Pittsburgh.
“Of course, she’s in need of an escort with her father away. Everyone agrees that should be you.”
Everyone. James doubted that meant more than him and Andra. “What does her father have to say about the matter?”
“Very little given his absence. Arrangements are already in place. With your connections, James, your popularity and reputation, your impeccable pedigree”—the last word was laden with sarcasm—“I’m sure Rowena will meet with every success.”
Marriage—or else. The stakes were high indeed. James’s thoughts swung to Wren, who was no doubt unsuspecting and unwilling. And no match for what Bennett had in mind. “I’ll not be privy to such a mercenary plan.”
Bennett’s stare was rocky. “Have you forgotten what happened with Georgiana Hardesty, James? I wonder if you’d be more agreeable to the arrangement if all Pittsburgh was to know you’re nothing but the woods colt son of Wade Turlock and his doxy at Teague’s Tavern.”
The ground seemed to cut from under him. James leaned into the desk, palms flat against the scarred wood. “If you breathe another word of what is hearsay and not fact—”
“Hearsay is enough for people to cut you, shun you, or refuse to be ferried about by a Turlock bastard.” Looking down at the desk, he picked up a Baccarat paperweight and turned it over in a gloved hand. “Once Rowena makes a suitable match, you’ll be free to do as you please. I’ll reward you handsomely and ask nothing more of you.”
Reward him? Bribe him? The furious pounding of James’s pulse seemed to rival a packet’s engine. “What does Miss Ballantyne think about your arrangement?”
“It doesn’t matter. She bears the family name and will do her duty.” Turning his back, Bennett started to walk out, hesitating as his hand gripped the doorknob. “Your first engagement is the first of November at the Mellons’ ball.”
The door slammed shut. James fixed his eye on a shipping calendar pinned to a far wall. Twenty-three days.
God help him.
God help Wren.
Wren stood stone still as Catherine Criss walked round her, her expression a strange medley of disdain and admiration. Andra, Mistress Endicott, and the seamstresses looked on from a near settee.
“There are a few attributes in her favor. Given Rowena’s small stature, she is a pocket Venus, quite popular in genteel circles, though she’s a tad fleshy about the waist.” Miss Criss’s thin, elongated features and clipped British accent reminded Wren of sharpened scissors. “Lovely complexion if somewhat . . . weathered. Good posture. Her hair is a fetching shade of caramel, but her eyes are so light a green they’re unremarkable.”
Reaching for Wren’s hands, she turned them over, palms upraised. “Absolutely atrocious! I’ve never seen so many calluses. Gloves are to be worn at all times during the season except when they’re removed at dinner. As for her voice . . .” Miss Criss let go of her and turned bac
k to Andra. “We don’t have sufficient time to modify her speech, so I’ll attempt to modulate her tone so that her dialect is less distinct. Thankfully her teeth aren’t crooked but straight and white.”
Wren’s head spun from their blunt assessment. Was she little more than a brood mare at auction? After several more minutes she ground her teeth, torn between being obliging or mule-stubborn, and thought longingly of the music room.
Andra let out an audible breath. “The dancing master and seamstresses are expected tomorrow afternoon—the corsetiere also.”
“Very well.” Miss Criss was examining Wren again as if anxious to find another flaw. “Her hands are to be soaked in buttermilk nightly. And nothing sweet is to pass her lips. From this day forward she’s to eat nothing but egg, broth, and bread.”
So they were to starve her? If anything, Miss Criss was even more insufferable than Andra. But at least she was to have her own wardrobe. No more parading around in Charlotte’s clothes, where every brush of fabric against her skin was a mournful reminder. Yet even this was fraught with peril. Not one seamstress but two—and three assistants—were on hand, for Mistress Endicott could not concoct a gown worthy of a Mellon ball, nor an entire trousseau, in so short a time without reinforcements.
“Her debut gown must be off-white—of the richest silk taffeta with a great many ruffles.” Their combined voices resembled buzzing bees, discussing her as if she wasn’t present. Except to prod and poke her with a measuring tape, they ignored her altogether. “And she must have a French corset, which can be tightly laced—”
“Nay!” The heated word burst out unbidden, drawing every eye. Andra looked at Wren, appalled, as Miss Criss’s mouth bunched into a tight knot. Feeling outnumbered, Wren looked down at Godey’s Lady’s Book, far more interested in the printed sheet music than the hand-tinted fashion plates. “Not long ago Grandmother showed me her old dresses in the attic. They’re beautiful, all of them. She told me I could wear them, remake them. Surely that would save time and expense.”