by Laura Frantz
Mistress Endicott turned toward Wren. “I stayed true to the eighteenth-century design while embellishing with the choicest Rose Point lace from Brussels. The skirts have been cut away at the waist to retain the polonaise lines and allow for dancing. The finished alteration is far more fetching than I’d imagined. All that remains is the fitting.”
Everyone seemed to hold a collective breath as the assistants divested Wren of her day dress. Her throat knotted as Grandmother’s gown rustled and slipped into place, turning the moment more poignant.
Lord, let all this fuss be worthwhile.
The shining cheval glass was reassurance the remade gown was equal to any occasion. Clad so, Wren felt nearly like a bride, her skin turning pink from so many admiring glances, many of which had only been critical before. Even Mim looked a bit overcome at the transformation.
What would it be like entering a strange ballroom on James’s arm? Privy to a great many appraising gazes? The prospect tore away her joy over Grandmother’s generosity. She feared she’d faint just like Mim had warned. Fall facedown in her soup in a roomful of strangers.
From the doorway a maid’s voice broke through the silence. “Your father has taken a turn, Miss Andra, and you’re needed at River Hill.”
The slightest hesitation—and then Andra left the room. No one said a word, but it was obvious what each was thinking. The beautiful silk gown might soon return to the trunk in the attic, exchanged for mourning instead.
Malachi eyed the stone and glass orangery situated behind the nearly finished hulk of Cameron House. The detailed plans in his hands made little sense. He was a railroad man, not an architect, and had thought building a home would be as straightforward as laying track. Apparently that was not the case. The entire operation was being held up by a shipment of Italian marble. Every mantel in the twenty-five-room mansion was made of a different kind—and it seemed every marble sculptor in Italy had gone on strike.
Beside him, the lead architect squinted into the gloom of midafternoon, apology in his bearded face. “Every mantelpiece is grand in scale, and each caryatid is varied. The carvers insist on selecting each Carrara block so that no unsightly veins show. Such workmanship takes time, Mr. Cameron, as befits the Italian Renaissance design.”
Malachi nodded, not caring about such things, ruing he’d let the builders have so much sway. Bending his head, he scanned the plans once more as cold rain snuck past his upturned collar and wet his neck. All his hopes for seeing the house finished, and finished in a timely fashion, fled.
“You need a wife worthy of such a house.”
He turned toward his aunt’s familiar voice, ire in his tone. “I need a finished house with hearths intact before winter sets in. I’ll not freeze my bride to death.”
Mina merely chuckled and opened her parasol against the damp. “Why not occupy the orangery? Look at all those plants!” Together they looked toward exotic lemon trees, oleanders from the Carolinas, and sago palms from the West Indies behind thick glass. “I’ve not seen so imposing a structure since I was last in London.”
Rolling up the plans in his hands, Malachi started away from the sound of sawing and hammering. “I’m in need of a walk.”
“I’ll join you.” Linking arms with him, she gave him her most engaging smile. “And how is my favorite nephew?”
“Your only nephew.”
“Which is why we must get you settled soon. I need great-nephews and great-nieces. We need to fill this grand house of yours with a family. Life and laughter.”
He scowled. “I’m tempted to leave for Edinburgh on the morrow. If I return in spring, maybe this monstrosity will be complete.”
“Stuff and nonsense! Edinburgh is out of the question, at least without a bride in tow.” She smiled again, making light of his complaint. “I’ve come to discuss your tailor.”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “My tailor?”
“I want to make sure you have the requisite number of cravats, tailcoats, and trousers needed for the season. All in the most desirable colors. The garments sent over from town this morning seem . . . lacking.”
“This is Pittsburgh, remember. Not Philadelphia. Nor London.”
She patted his arm. “I have such high hopes for you, Malachi. Are you sure your valet will arrive in time for the Mellons’ opening ball?”
He hesitated, doubting he had the patience to make it through the first event. “As far as getting dressed, I’m nearing thirty and can manage with or without Ellis. He’s mainly an assistant. A personal secretary. All that railroad correspondence gets out of hand.”
They trudged up the sodden hill toward antique iron fencing, leaving deep imprints in the glistening grass. The newest gravestone drew his eye—and strengthened his resolve to see the season through. His father’s name, Daniel Cameron, was chiseled in granite, 1793–1849. Beside him lay his mother, gone so long he hardly remembered her, her epitaph so weathered it wasn’t visible. He made a mental note to have a new gravestone set.
His father had been right. What was life without children, some sort of lasting legacy? It was time—past time—to settle down before another inch of track splayed west.
Mina let go of his arm, perhaps to give him privacy, and he forged ahead. He hadn’t been back since the burial, and his feelings were still raw. He could forgive his father for dying. What he couldn’t forgive—or forget—was letting him down so grievously.
Regret wove its way across his chest, and he swung round, facing the deep valley he’d been born in. Just below on the main road lay Cameron Farm, little more than a humble heap of stone. Dwarfed by the nearly completed Cameron House on the hill, it would soon be leased to the farm manager. Mina and his grandfather would move into the new gatehouse while he and the future Mrs. Cameron would try to warm themselves by the marble fireplaces that needed finishing.
Lord, help me find a willing bride.
He felt so capable in some respects, and so hopelessly over his head in others. Railroad mergers and cutthroat competitors and the rise and fall of stocks seemed child’s play in light of courtship. Marriage. The coming season.
He glanced at his aunt, thinking how shocked she’d be if she knew the dearth of his experience. Aside from an adolescent infatuation with Izannah Turlock, he’d always been obsessed with trains. Nothing so practical as matrimony. Warmth crept up his neck like a Highland scarf as he remembered a brief, awkward liaison with an Edinburgh actress.
His thoughts cut to James Sackett. Smooth, amiable, never undone. His constant milling with society as he plied the upper and lower Mississippi and his engagement years before had given him an edge. And then Miss Hardesty had up and died, shocking Pittsburgh and sending James into a well of despair. He sometimes thought his old friend hadn’t recovered still.
“Everything will be sublime,” Mina was saying, drawing abreast of him and twirling her dripping parasol like it was spring instead of late fall. “All that stubborn Carrara marble is easily managed, as are Ellis’s eventual return and your choice of a bride.” Handing him the parasol, she opened her reticule and extracted a copy of the Gazette, gesturing to a bevy of typeset beauties on the society page, each drawn in cameo. “This is the cream of the coming season, though there are sure to be a few surprises. Not all the debutantes have been listed. Rumor is there are nearly three dozen in the wings. Ripe. Polished. Waiting.”
He nearly groaned. She spoke of them like fruit. His for the taking. Anxious to change the subject, he pulled a letter from his pocket. “This came for you earlier today . . . from someone by the name of Ballantyne.”
Her eyes widened, and he caught a hint of pleasure in their depths. So she did have feelings for the man, even after all these years. Reaching out a gloved hand, she stole the post away from him. In her excitement she appeared years younger, a becoming flush invading her powdered cheeks.
“This leaves me wondering more about the state of your heart than mine,” he murmured.
“Merely a let
ter from an old friend. ’Tis all it’s ever been.”
“Ansel Ballantyne strikes me as far too busy to waste pen and ink on trivial pursuits.”
Her half smile faded. “Years ago he broke my heart by leaving Pittsburgh and marrying Sarah Nancarrow. I’ve never quite recovered.”
“Perhaps this letter will do the trick.”
She gave a slight shrug and drew her shawl closer against the cold. “He’s a lonely man. And I’m a lonely woman. Far too old for any romantic nonsense.”
Her words tugged at his heart, the wind his coattails. Unlike Mina, he was still somewhat young. Of sound mind and resources. A worthy groom. But time promised to tick on to eternity and leave him lacking if he didn’t tend it well.
All around them the wind keened, shifting his thoughts to Edinburgh again. He usually wintered there, snug in his Regent Street townhouse with an old sheepdog and a faithful servant or two. He’d been content till last winter when the quiet began to eat away at him. His bed was too big. His house too echoing. He roamed about the city restlessly. In the shops they’d begun calling him the Scots-American eccentric . . .
A sudden whim assailed his conscience. Perhaps he could circumvent the social season altogether and call on Izannah like James had urged. The prospect of escaping—nay, eloping—to Scotland was so tempting he felt a rush of fresh resolve.
And stark fear.
What would her response be if he rode to River Hill out of the blue and asked to court her? What if she refused him like her mother, Ellie, had refused his father? Moreover, what would her father, the judge, make of the arrangement?
He was certain of one thing. Mina wouldn’t approve.
I have such high hopes for you.
And they didn’t include settling for a Turlock.
20
If with love thy heart has burned;
If thy love is unreturned;
Hide thy grief within thy breast,
Though it tear thee unexpressed.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Izannah couldn’t stop crying. Opposite her in the hall stood James, hat in hand, having just come from Pittsburgh. Chloe was clutched to her bodice, and Izannah’s tears were spotting the babe’s lacy cap and gown. Only a few months old, her tiny sister was too young to be much moved by the events unfolding around them. She’d never know the man who had struggled to forge a legacy and lived his life so well, never recall the warmth of his smile or the godly wisdom he’d imparted.
“Here, let me take her.” Discarding his hat on a settee, James reached for Chloe.
She went willingly, her plump arms open wide. Izannah didn’t miss her little sigh of pleasure or the adoring way she looked up at him. When he bent his head and brushed his shadowed cheek to Chloe’s in a rare show of tenderness, Izannah shut her eyes tight.
Oh, James. You need a home. A baby to call your own.
Chloe chortled, lifting the sadness, and James almost smiled. Biting her lip, Izannah dug for her handkerchief, its lavender scent soothing. When she looked up again, her gaze filled with Uncle Wade. Dismay gained a solid foothold. Nearly as tall as Daddy but more intimidating, he walked down the gaslit hall toward them, an easy indifference in his step, Bennett just behind.
Thick as thieves, the two of them. Wade’s weakness for gambling and racehorses and other nefarious pursuits had ensnared Bennett since he’d come of age. As usual, Wade’s clothing was flamboyant, but Bennett had dressed the part, his deep mourning for Charlotte sufficing for Grandfather too.
No greetings were exchanged. Wade shunned James as much as he favored Bennett. Though it was no secret James and Bennett had never found common ground, Izannah wished for a few cordial words, at least, as they all stood there together and waited for the worst.
Finally James’s voice cut into the silence. “The doctors are with Silas now.”
Bennett slid past Wade, taking first place by the closed bedchamber door. “Father was so stricken when he heard the latest news, Mother had to summon the doctor to Ballantyne Hall to attend to him.”
Izannah nearly groaned aloud. Uncle Peyton might not outlive Grandfather by much, weakened by the last typhoid epidemic as he’d been. But she was most concerned about Grandmother. So fragile. So devoted. Grandfather had been the center of her world since their humble beginnings in York County all those years before.
Chloe gave a little cry, drawing Wade’s eye. He frowned and lit a cigar by the wall sconce, replacing the glass globe a bit clumsily. Smoke filled the space between them, obscuring Izannah’s view as more footsteps sounded down the hall. Elspeth and her aging maid appeared on the landing, winded from the slow climb upstairs. Izannah braced herself for whatever her great-aunt had to say, the storminess of Elspeth’s expression giving a warning.
“Whatever in the world is taking so long? It’s like the man has nine lives.” Elspeth leaned into her cane with a heavy sigh. “I’ve nearly worn a path to your door, I’ve come so many times.”
Wade smirked. “If you’d had the grace to succumb first, you might have spared yourself the trouble.”
“I have no intention of dying.” Elspeth pursed her lips and stared at the closed door. “Not till I see Izannah and Bennett wed. And then there’s Wren’s debut, which might fall to pieces if Silas has his day.” Her gaze narrowed and took in Wade. “What say you we go below and have a tonic?”
Blowing smoke, Wade ignored her, fixing his eye on James as if seeing him for the first time. “So, Sackett, what’s keeping you from New Orleans this winter?”
“Pittsburgh business,” James said, meeting Wade’s rocky stare.
“Business? My guess is that Madder and his Mystic Conspiracy have you holed up in port.” Wade’s brash voice seemed to thunder, and Izannah detected a hint of spirits. “All that infernal slave running is finally catching up with you, so my contacts down South say.”
Izannah blanched. The careless words hung between them like soiled rags on a wash line. James stayed stoic. Silent. For once she wished he’d lash out and cuff Wade like he deserved.
“What’s this about Madder?” Bennett waved away the smoke. “Madder who?”
Wade’s smug expression soured. “Apparently, Sackett’s stirred up some trouble downriver that may well follow him to Pittsburgh. The Southern papers are full of it—that and the news of his replacement pilot, a radical abolitionist by the name of John Gunniston.”
Bennett’s gaze flicked to James. “I’m not going to inherit any antislavery nonsense, is that understood? Not even a whisper of it. There’s a great deal at stake here, Rowena’s season foremost.” He paused, jaw rigid. “Need I remind you that more than a few of Pittsburgh’s leading lights oppose the abolitionist cause?”
At Chloe’s sudden cry, Izannah took her from James’s arms, digging for the silver rattle she’d pocketed, her heart flipping about her chest at Bennett’s insolence.
Bennett continued on, unchecked. “As for Madder, shut him up by any means—”
“Enough said.” James took a step back, ending the conversation.
Wade’s and Bennett’s stares seemed to bore a hole in his back as he withdrew.
Izannah caught the grieved green of James’s eyes as he turned away, fury building in her breast. “Shame on you!” she hissed when James was out of earshot. “If you two don’t behave like grown men, Daddy will horsewhip you both!”
In seconds the judge appeared, making her nearly giddy with relief. Fresh from court, Jack Turlock spoke in low tones with Andra and Wren, whom he’d escorted upstairs. Daddy was the only one who could manage Wade—and Elspeth, who was sitting on the settee, obviously having enjoyed their heated exchange as much as any tonic.
“My, my, so much drama! And we’ve not even been admitted to the inner sanctum yet.” She aimed another pointed look at the closed bedchamber door as if waiting for the next act to unfold.
Brushing past her, Izannah moved toward Wren, losing sight of James as he gave a nod to her father and took the stairs. Wren�
��s head turned, her attention riveted to James’s exit, confirming Izannah’s suspicion of some secret attraction.
Her cousin was pale. More slender than she remembered. Had it only been two Sundays ago they’d had lunch after Sabbath service?
What had Andra and Miss Criss done to her since?
“You came back.” The pleasure in Addie’s voice knew no bounds.
Smiling, Wren removed her hat and gloves and set them on a table at the orphanage entrance. “I hope to come every week, if I can find a few wee folk who want to play the fiddle with me.” Beside her, the Nightingale rested in its case, drawing Addie’s eye.
“Sometimes Jamie plays for us.” Her upturned face creased in a smile. “He says he squeaks, but I tell him it’s angels’ music.”
“Angels’ music. I like that. Does he give lessons?” She had no wish to tread on his territory if he did.
“No lessons.” Addie’s joyful expression turned pensive. “He’s away on the river too much for that.”
Wren extended her hand and they started down the hall. “Care to show me to the music room?”
With a nod, Addie led the way, surprising her with a second-floor nook made bright with wide windows and pale peach walls. Mrs. Sheffield, the director, was there to greet her, warm and welcoming as always.
“Miss Ballantyne, how good of you to come on such a chilly afternoon. The other children will be along shortly. For now we have six students interested in the violin, though that may increase.”
“Six sounds like a blessed start,” Wren said, adjusting to the notion she was in charge. “I’ve been by the Sign of the Harp, the music store on Third Street. The owner says he’ll deliver several quarter-sized fiddles next week, in advance of the lesson.” He’d been most obliging too, heartened by what he called her patronage. Though his instruments were no match for the Cremona violins Papa owned or the Guarneri Grandfather had lost, his work was of good quality.
“Please make yourself comfortable.” Mrs. Sheffield gestured to a chair surrounded by smaller stools. “Are you in need of a music stand? Anything at all?”