Love's Fortune

by Laura Frantz

  Or might it be Papa? Through the hazy delirium of her fever, she’d prayed Papa would get word and come back. But there always seemed to be a delay.

  She made it to her bedchamber door and then the landing on jellied legs. A feminine voice reached her first. Aunt Ellie? Anger turned her tone almost unrecognizable. Light-headed, Wren sat down atop the highest step, gaze falling to the foyer. With the parlor door ajar she heard every heated word.

  “Why all the fuss, Elinor?” Andra’s placating was as jarring as Ellie’s anger. “You needn’t have come. Rowena simply has a slight fever—”

  “A slight fever is not how the servants described it. Have you even summoned the doctor?”

  “I’m prepared to if she worsens today. Personally I think it’s a simple case of nerves over the coming ball. This morning her maid said—”

  “Her maid? Have you not seen her for yourself?”

  “Rowena was sleeping, and I thought it prudent not to disturb her.”

  The abrupt clanging of a bell brought a maid scurrying, the butler on her heels. Ellie’s voice rose again. “Send for the doctor immediately.” The door barely closed before the argument resumed. “The blame is yours alone for whatever is ailing her, Andra. It’s no secret you’ve been drilling her—nearly starving and bullying her—for the season. If Miss Criss was here, I’d have her dismissed. Once Ansel gets word of what you’ve done—”

  “What I’ve done?” The exasperation in Andra’s tone suggested she’d thrown her hands into the air. “I’ve done nothing without Rowena’s consent. She’s not a child who needs her father. She’s five and twenty—it’s past time for her to secure a husband and do her part.”

  “Her part? Does that include rescuing Bennett from his bouts of extravagance and shoring up the Ballantyne fortune? Such conniving would certainly sicken and send me to bed.”

  “I know nothing of such nonsense.” Andra’s voice dropped nearly beyond hearing. “She’s simply to have a season as befits a Ballantyne. It’s as straightforward as that. We can only hope it’s far more successful than Izannah’s, which was and is still talked about as being a dismal failure.”

  Wren made it to the door, thrusting it open and bringing the heated exchange to a halt. Both aunts turned toward her in surprise. Caught in the haze of illness, she’d violated another ironclad rule. It is exceedingly improper to enter a room without knocking. She read the censure in Andra’s eyes. The loving concern in Ellie’s.

  She leaned into the nearest chair, her fingers clutching the smooth rococo back. “I’m . . . all right.” The lie slipped from her lips all too easily. She knew she looked anything but all right. Clad in a dressing gown carelessly tied at the waist, her uncombed hair hanging in tangles, her bare feet cold, she shouldn’t have come downstairs. But she had to stop their feuding.

  “Wren, we didn’t mean to disturb you.” Taking her elbow, Ellie guided her to a chair nearest the hearth and tugged on the bell cord. Her words were quiet but firm when a maid appeared. “Some soup and bread, and a hot toddy. I’d also like a bath drawn in Wren’s bedchamber, please.”

  Wren looked past the andirons into the fire as Andra began a stiff withdrawal. “Well, I can see I’m hardly needed. I suppose you’ll take Rowena to River Hill next. It seems you’re running an infirmary there of late.”

  “If she’ll agree to go, yes.” All the ire had washed from Ellie’s tone. “I’ll let you know what we decide.”

  The porcelain tub, filled nearly to the brim with steamy water and an abundance of rose-geranium soap, seemed to open the door to recovery. Loosely clad in a camisole, Wren sat by the fire while Aunt Ellie stood behind her and combed out her tangles.

  “What lush hair you have, Wren. So like your mother’s from what I remember.” Gently she tamed every strand, doing what Mim normally did. But Andra had Mim busy elsewhere, and Wren was glad of Ellie’s company.

  A tray was brought in bearing the requested soup and bread and a hot drink. Handing her the cup, Ellie smiled. “This is the judge’s secret remedy for whatever ails us—honey, lemon, hot water, and a wee smirr of Turlock whiskey.”

  The concoction was strong but not unpleasant, and Wren sipped it slowly. “I can’t thank you enough for coming.”

  Ellie took a seat opposite, drawing her shawl closer about her. “I’m only sorry I didn’t arrive sooner.”

  “Is there any . . . change?”

  “No.” Her blue eyes glinted with emotion. “Your grandfather is very old and very tired. I think he may still be here because we don’t want to let him go.”

  Wren understood. It had been the same with Mama at the last, holding on for Wren’s sake, even Papa’s, if not her own. “I don’t want to keep you long from River Hill. Chloe needs you—and Granny.”

  “And you, Wren? I’d like to take you home with me.”

  The gracious offer felt like a lifeline, but one she couldn’t grab hold of. “I wish I could go with you.” Wren set down her empty cup, the last of the toddy stealing through her in a warm rush. “But I need to stay and see this through.”

  “The season, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Sure as I’ll ever be.”

  Ellie nodded, her lovely face holding a dozen different emotions. “James will be there for you—and Mim—at every turn, every function. We’ll be praying for you behind the scenes. Perhaps, with the Lord’s leading, you’ll find someone you care for deeply.”

  The romantic notion seemed more fairy tale. Wren’s only concern was that she push past her dread to tomorrow night.

  “We’ll wait for the doctor’s word on whether or not you should attend the opening ball.” Ellie looked toward the open dressing room door, where Grandmother’s gown hung in restored splendor. “As it stands now, I’m tempted to keep you home, at least for the ball. But we’ll pray about matters and see what tomorrow brings.”

  Home. Such an elusive word. In some respects Wren felt as much an orphan as James Sackett.

  “How is she?”

  The question was asked before James had put thought behind it. He’d been waiting for word of Wren all morning and had finally gone riding despite the wet weather, just returning to the stables as Ellie’s coach pulled beneath the porte cochere.

  As he helped her step down, her gaze held his, and for a moment it seemed she saw straight to his heart. “Come inside out of the cold, James, and we’ll talk in the judge’s study.”

  A servant took their wraps, ushering them into the empty foyer. All appeared the same as when Ellie had left three hours prior but for Chloe. She could be heard fussing from on high, no doubt waiting to be fed, but they continued on down the hall.

  Ellie closed the study door and held her hands out to the leaping fire. “Wren is still ill but determined to go through with her debut.”

  He nearly groaned. Determined was not what he wished for. He’d rather she be expectant. Willing. Though he didn’t blame her for balking. “It’s not too late to call off the whole affair.”

  She looked at him again, as if sensing his reluctance. “How are you feeling about being her escort?”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to ensure she has a successful season.” Tension wound inside him tight as a steel spring as he realized he was being less than honest about his own involvement. “If I sense she’s unwell at the Mellons’ ball, I’ll make our regrets and return her to New Hope.”

  “It’s not just the state of her health that concerns me,” Ellie confessed. Taking a seat in the judge’s chair, she spoke in that gently candid way she had. “My fear is that she’s entering a world where things are not what they seem. Wren is very trusting—naïve. She may fall in love with the first man who pays her any attention, never imagining that there are those who will court her for far less noble reasons. If it weren’t for you, James, I’d insist she forego the season altogether.”

  “There are a few good men—” he began.

  “Very few,
I’m afraid.’

  “Not all are fortune hunters is what I’m saying.”

  “I want you to keep me apprised as the season progresses. We owe it to Ansel especially. If anything should go awry . . .” The anxiety in Ellie’s eyes heightened his own. “If you sense she’s foundering or overwhelmed, we’ll put an end to this no matter what others might say.”

  “You have my word.”

  At his reassurance she brightened. “We’ll pray there’s someone just right for her, someone who loves her for who she is aside from the Ballantyne name and fortune.” She reached for a discarded shawl on a near chair and draped it round her shoulders as Chloe’s cries reached a crescendo. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed upstairs.”

  “I’ll be at the levee.”

  At the door she turned round, her expression soft. “I trust you implicitly, James. Our Wren is in your capable hands.”

  23

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

  JANE AUSTEN

  The bedchamber smelled of new wood and pristine paint, not the leather and Florida Water he was used to. As he stood in front of a massive looking glass, Malachi’s cold fingers found the new linen of his stock soft as lamb’s wool as he attempted a proper knot. Behind him the fire crackled merrily in the grate, the rain danced on the newly shingled roof above his head, and his spirits rose with every tick of the mantel clock.

  Tonight I might well meet my bride.

  The thought had him half smiling at his reflection as if testing his appeal, something he’d never considered seriously till now. What did women find pleasing? He was simply a railroad baron who reeked of stocks and bonds and loans. Cameron men were notoriously industrious, not charming. He was no match for James Sackett with his gallant good looks and sophistication.

  A knock at the door turned him round, and he gave a gruff greeting, sure it was Ellis. But Mina thrust open the door instead, satisfaction on her face at the sight of him in full evening dress, the gold solitaire cuff links she’d given him flashing in the firelight.

  “You look surprised to see me,” she said, shutting the door after her.

  “It’s not every day a man’s aunt appears in his bedchamber.”

  “Where else was I to go? Yours is the only working hearth in this hulk of a house. And what a roaring fire it is!” She took a look around. “Splendid furnishings. Straight from Philadelphia, did you say? I see you’re making this into your sitting room and office too.”

  “Just until the other fireplaces are finished.”

  “Where is Ellis?”

  “Probably lost.”

  She laughed. “I nearly was. This place is echoing. You really must have a butler and a housekeeper.”

  “When I’m wed I will.”

  “Ah, welcome words.” She was practically glowing. “I can hardly wait to hear how you fare tonight. The ball begins at what—eight? You mustn’t be late. The Mellons like their guests to be on time. And you must make allowances for coaches getting stuck in the mud. The weather is frightful.”

  “That didn’t stop you.”

  She smiled and looked down at her sodden boots. “I’ve finally moved into the gatehouse—a mere stone’s throw away. Your grandfather wanted to come, but I insisted he stay by the fire. Having Silas Ballantyne abed is tragedy enough.”

  The mention dimmed Malachi’s enthusiasm a notch. Somehow it seemed wrong to dance and make merry when a good man lay dying. He turned back to the mirror, reminded of his father. If Mina was thinking the same, she gave no evidence of it, moving to a window as if looking for his waiting coach.

  “Word is Silas wants to be buried in Scotland,” she finally said.

  His hands stilled on his cravat. He understood the desire. The Camerons had a long history there, as did the Ballantynes. Though Pittsburgh had many merits, Scotland had a hold like no other. “Scots roots go deep.”

  “I suppose . . .” She pulled away from the window long enough to circle him. “Let me have a last look at you.” Snatching up a clothes brush, she smoothed away a speck of lint on his coat sleeve. “Let’s not speak of morbid things on such a promising night.”

  “Actually, dwelling on mortality makes me even more eager to win a bride.”

  Her brown gaze held a warning. “Just don’t let impatience deprive you of the proper wife. The proper mother of your children.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “I’d be a fool if I said yes, Malachi. You’re quite capable of choosing for yourself, provided I approve of the final selection.”

  He slid a hand through his freshly washed hair, setting it awry and making her grimace. “You make wife hunting sound so . . . heartless.”

  “It can be nothing else with so much at stake. You’re not a common tradesman who can marry some local lass at will. You’re choosing the future mistress of Cameron House, the wife of the owner of the Pennsylvania Railroad, not to mention that grand townhouse of yours in Edinburgh.”

  “Sometimes I wish I was a mere roustabout on the levee who only cared about his pay and his supper.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! That mere roustabout might say the same of you. The grass is always greener, remember.” Reaching up, she made a quick pass over his unruly hair before he stepped away from her.

  “Wish me luck.” The words were more flippant than he intended. Luck had little to do with it. Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the LORD . . .

  He firmly believed in Providence, the God who made marriage, the originator of romance. For the first time in his life he wanted to fall headlong into it, wallow in something other than grief and regret. Since talking with James at Lake Lanark, he’d been pondering. Praying. He wanted a fuller life, a richer, shared life, with the hope of children to come.

  He wouldn’t settle for anything less.

  “Oh, cousin . . .” In the hushed dressing room, Izannah seemed so overcome that Wren suspected something was amiss.

  Looking down at the Spitalfields silk gown, Wren smoothed a pleat with gloved hands and searched for some flaw before she met Izannah’s eye.

  “The gown is exquisite . . . You’re exquisite. Like candy in a confectionery.”

  Till now Mim hadn’t said a word, busy as she’d been with every button and hook. She stood back, taking Wren in from the top of her head to the toes of her slippers. “Oh, aye! Yer going to set the heather on fire, ye are!”

  Wren smiled, the flutter inside her never settling as the clock crept nearer eight. Raising a careful hand, she touched the curls Mim had so carefully arranged and stole a last look in the cheval glass.

  Encircling her neck and wrists were Grandmother’s heirloom pearls. Imbued with a honeyed hue, they complemented the silk of her gown with its overlay of tulle and lace. She looked like—what had Izannah said?—candy in a confectionery. She smelled of something called Honeysuckle Rose from Yardley of London. Even her shoes with their tiny silk rosettes seemed too lovely to touch the ground.

  “Yer aunt and Miss Criss are waiting below in the parlor.” Mim expelled a breath and fetched Wren’s fan off the dressing table. “And the curtain coach has been brought round.”

  Wren looked longingly at the bed, feeling so worn out from the ordeal of dressing she didn’t know how she’d make it to the hall. “Would you . . . pray with me?”

  Izannah reached for her with such emotion Wren was certain she was thinking of James and wishing she could go in her place. “You’re in good hands, Wren. Just rely on your able escort and Mim.”

  They bowed their heads, each murmuring an earnest prayer and a hurried amen before a timid knock sounded. A maid stood on the threshold, a long, slender box in her arms. “For Miss Rowena,” she said.

  When Wren looked at her blankly, Izannah went forward. “Is there a note?”

  “Nary a one,” the maid said apologetically.

  Izannah passed the box to
Wren. Bewildered, she opened the lid and uncovered a profusion of fresh roses. “Summer roses . . . in November?” She bent her head, breathing in their sweet fragrance. Beneath the roses rested a jeweler’s case. Couched in white satin was a tiny silver vase with a mother-of-pearl handle.

  “A tussie-mussie,” Mim said, wonder in her tone. “And a bonny one at that.”

  Wren stared at the gift, unsure of what to make of it. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “It’s also called a posey holder,” Izannah told her. “You can hold it in hand or wear it pinned to your bodice while dancing.” With a confidence and ease denied Wren, Izannah filled the vaselike container with a few of the roses. “According to The Language of Flowers, pink roses symbolize passion.”

  “Och, passion! Ye’ve an admirer already!” Mim crowed as Izannah pressed the gift into Wren’s hand. “And ye’ve nae yet set foot from the house!”

  “A generous gift.” Wren tried to smile, not wanting to spoil their excitement.

  Izannah squeezed her hand. “Wren, you’re not still ill, are you? Mightn’t it be better if you were to send your regrets tonight?”

  “And waste all my hard work?” Mim gave a mock growl. “Nae on yer life.”

  “I’m ready.” The reassuring words rang hollow. Taking a step in her snug, never-worn slippers, Wren focused on the bedchamber door.

  “I wish your father was here.” Izannah spoke what was on Wren’s heart. “I don’t think he’d recognize you dressed as you are. A true lady.”

  She smiled, though the mention of Papa made her more melancholy. He’d never seemed so far away. She sensed his displeasure even at a distance, recalled every syllable of his tersely worded letter. But for the moment it was more James who filled her thoughts. She mustn’t misstep, mustn’t embarrass him in any way . . .

  “We’d best make haste downstairs or ye’ll be late,” Mim reminded her.

  Wren readied herself for the inspection to come, but once she was in the parlor, neither Miss Criss nor Andra could find a flaw.