by Laura Frantz
Oh, Papa, I’m trying to become a lady. But I never reckoned with the time and care it would take.
Tears fell on the paper as she looked down, her warm breath pluming like a white feather and obscuring his heavy print. Biting her lip to stay her emotions, she drank in his heartfelt words like a tonic for her ongoing angst.
Dearest Wren,
I trust this finds you well and content. I hope you are not missing me as much as I am missing you, hearth, and home. Recently James Sackett sent me a letter, assuring me you are holding your own admirably in the midst of the busy social season. I can well imagine all that is before you but feel reassured knowing he is by your side.
She stopped reading, warmed by James’s thoughtfulness. He, too, was a gentleman in all the little ways that mattered.
When I return home I’d like to spend some time together, just you and I, away from the rush of the city and the confines of New Hope. There’s a charming little town south of Pittsburgh where we could rest together for a few days, you from the season and me from business. We have much to discuss that our brief correspondence cannot convey.
Please write to me again when you can. I carry your letters with me at all times, and reread them at every opportunity.
Your loving papa
She bent her head and prayed. For him to come home. For courage to take the next step.
For her uncertain future.
This time there were no blush roses from some mysterious benefactor, their fragrance heady and sweet, but a fancy box tied with blue ribbon, delivered by an anonymous servant slightly red-faced from the cold.
“First flowers and now this!” Mim examined the gift with a sort of bemused wonder. “Cadbury of England, makers to the Queen and Prince of Wales!”
Wren lifted the lid, exposing long fingers of chocolate in delicate ruffled papers. Immediately she held the offering out to Mim.
One bite and Mim’s smile widened with delight. “Och! Fruit-flavored centers! I’ve never tasted the like. Now what are ye doing tying it back up again? Ye’re nae having one? Even in secret?”
Wren looked at the box, a bit sick. “I want to share it with James.”
Mim’s eyes flared wider. “Mr. James? Why would ye?”
“He likes chocolates, Izannah said. And it’s a small way to thank him for seeing me through the season.”
Mim looked askance at her. “What if it’s a Cameron who’s sending ye such?”
“Mr. Cameron doesn’t seem the type.” Malachi, for all his merits, seemed to have a more practical than poetic bent.
“Ye canna be sure o’ that.” Mim looked crestfallen. “I think he’d be a wee bit afflocht if he were to find his candy wi’ James Sackett.”
Pondering this, Wren set aside the chocolates and reached for her crook. Whoever the mysterious giver was, he had a generous heart and wouldn’t begrudge her being generous in return, would he?
“Ye look like ye belong in the Highlands, dressed as ye are.” Mim began tying Wren’s floral sash, arranging the silken bluebells and heather into place over her petticoat of lamb’s wool. “A proper Scottish lass, to be sure. Except the poor shepherds would be following ye aboot and neglecting their sheep!”
Wren smiled. Scotland kept coming to mind more and more, a sort of refuge amid the storm of the season. Papa had told her it resembled Kentucky, particularly the Highlands where Grandfather had his estate.
“Well, we’re off to the masquerade. Ye only lack yer mask.” Handing it over, Mim led the way from dressing room to parlor, where Andra waited below.
“There’s been a change in plans,” Andra announced when she saw them, looking no more pleased with Wren’s humble outfit than she’d been at first.
No James? One quick glance about the room confirmed he was missing. Since the Ewings’ tea, the prospect of seeing him again had been Wren’s one solace. Now her anticipation reared up and mocked her. Had she embarrassed him to the point he no longer wanted to be her escort? Was it just as Alice had said and—
“James is to meet you at the Bidwell mansion. I’ve just received word he’ll be delayed, no doubt on account of the weather.” Her eyes narrowed and took in the box of chocolates in Mim’s embrace. “Is that part of Rowena’s costume?”
“Aye, it is,” Mim replied, chin tipping up. “A good night to ye, mem. I trust ye’ll be abed when we return.”
At Andra’s curt nod, they went out into a world dusted white. Once in the coach, Wren knotted her gloved hands, misery twisting inside her. James wasn’t here because he didn’t want to be. He was ashamed of her, her rusticity, her music . . .
“Och, the snow! We’ll be nigh frozen by the time we get there! ’Tis the weather that’s keeping Mr. James away, to be sure.” Mim’s reassurances fell flat in a coach all too empty of him. “But he’ll likely be there waiting for ye . . . along with Mr. Malachi.”
Bending over the washbasin, James splashed cold water on his bearded face and dried off with a towel. The Monongahela House mirror reflected tense features above a flawless cravat, reminding him to hide his unease in the hours ahead. He’d sent a note to New Hope, saying he’d be arriving separately, hoping Wren would understand and Andra would attribute it to the weather. Now wary and watching his back, he could no longer accompany her in the coach. If someone meant him harm, she’d be safer riding without him.
A second telegram had come from Dean that afternoon, no less alarming than the first.
Madder’s men reported to be en route to Pittsburgh before rivers freeze. Feel we’re being followed in New Orleans. Trouble abounds. Watch your back.
There was no need to read it twice. Like Georgiana Hardesty’s rejection, this second warning was burned into his consciousness like a brand.
He took the back alleys of Pittsburgh to the Bidwell mansion, his driver—a fellow abolitionist and free Negro—as chary as he. Lights from the east-end estate illuminated a long line of rigs on the drive. Snow was drifting down, whipped about like chaff in the wind. The biting chill snaked past his heavy cape to his leather shoes and then was forgotten when he saw Wren.
She turned his way, something indefinable filling her lovely face. It held his heart still, that look. In that instant it seemed no one else existed in the crowded, elegant entry. In her simple shepherdess costume, she looked all too vulnerable . . . all too beautiful.
Her voice reached out to him. “Jamie, are you . . . all right?”
He took a breath, the way she said his name making his heart spin like a top. “Never better,” he murmured, wanting to take the worry from her eyes. He looked away from her as Mim disappeared upstairs with their wraps and a box bound with blue ribbon.
Seeing his questioning look, she gave him a pensive half smile. “I’ve brought you chocolates . . . to thank you for taking such care of me.”
He stilled. “I need no recompense, Wren.” Was that what she thought? That this was difficult for him?
Her smile faded, assuring him it was so. Taking her hand, he led her into a small, secluded alcove. “Do you honestly believe this is hard for me? To be with you?”
“I . . .” She looked up at him, her damp eyes confirming it. “Yes.”
He felt his belly clamp, knowing no matter what he said to the contrary, she wouldn’t believe him. He couldn’t tell her that she’d laid hold of his heart the moment she’d stepped into the pilothouse months before. He couldn’t prove to her how he truly felt about her by taking her in his arms. He couldn’t even speak.
She reached up a small, gloved hand and touched his jaw. “You needn’t say a thing, Jamie.”
“Wren, I—”
She turned her back to him. “Please . . . just tie on my mask.”
He did what she asked but his fingers fumbled, catching on the silk of her hair. He shut his eyes against the warmth of her, her familiar floral scent. Desire pulled at him and nearly made him groan. Still fumbling, he finally tied the mask into place.
She turned to face him. Thank him. Saying nothing, he off
ered her his arm, and they started for the ballroom down an unfamiliar hall. He felt like a yawl, taking the lead and hunting for the best water, testing depth and danger, having her follow in his wake. At every event she was drawing more attention, more admiring glances, and tonight was no exception.
Though the mood was one of frivolity and amiability as guests moved about in disguise, the undercurrent of showmanship and one-upmanship prevailed. Most people he easily recognized, but some were more enigmatic. Warriors. Indian chiefs. Medieval damsels. At least here in a roomful of people so familiar he knew them masked or unmasked, he felt somewhat safe. But it was a false security, ending the moment he left the Bidwells.
They stood on the cusp of the milling crowd, and he sensed Wren’s continued disquiet. To their left stood Alice Mellon dressed in Egyptian costume alongside her escort, who looked to be some sort of Arctic explorer. Sir John Ross, perhaps. Or the ill-fated John Franklin.
“Mr. Sackett, not in costume tonight, I see?” Alice’s voice always grated, her nearsighted eyes giving her a perpetual squint. “Not even that of famed river pilot?”
“You can’t improve on a dress coat and cravat, Miss Mellon,” he replied.
Wren looked to Alice. Spoke kindly. But Alice’s chilly gaze traveled past her as if she wasn’t present before moving on.
Cut.
James felt Wren wilt. Step back. A tremor of fury shot through him at the slight. But the act of cutting someone was within the rules of society, and there was little to be done without making more of a scene. It was left to him to redeem the situation. Though he moved Wren away from Alice’s rigid back, he could do little about the onlookers or keep it from the papers come morning.
He ground his back teeth, wanting to yank the ground out from under Alice Mellon. “Pay no attention, Wren.”
She simply nodded, stoic, though he sensed her battle for composure. Facing the colorful crowd, she said, “I want you to tell me who’s in need of a wife.”
He hesitated, wishing he’d misheard, grappling with what she asked of him.
She scanned the room, fresh resolve in her features. “Who is that portly man by the hearth? The one dressed like a bull fighter.”
“Edgar Jay Allen? He’s founder of the Pennsylvania Telegraph Company.” Throat dry, he measured his words, the distaste of what he had to do increasingly bitter. “A graduate of Yale, he’s a close friend of Bennett’s. Fond of jellied eels and whist. Word is he stays up all night, then retires at breakfast and doesn’t get up again till supper.”
“And the tall Viking by the potted palm in the corner?”
“Americus Hutton, vice president of Peoples National Bank. Widowed with six children.”
“He’s more in need of a mother than a wife, then.” Her expression turned more pensive. “And the fair-haired knight over there?”
“Duncan McCord, owner of the wholesale hatters McCord and Company. Friend of the Ballantynes and benefactor of the orphanage. He’s suffering a broken engagement to a woman from Savannah.” The mention brought Georgiana to mind. Oddly, it lacked the burn of before. “I know firsthand because I piloted him up and down the Mississippi during their courtship.”
Her gaze drifted to the entrance. “And the man just coming in?”
“The Highlander in the Cameron plaid? You well know, Wren.”
“In truth, I-I don’t.” The lament in her tone set his pulse to pounding. “We’ve simply danced a few times, had some small conversations. I know little about his past . . . why he’s here.”
He watched as Malachi’s gaze swung their way. “The Camerons made their fortune in glass thirty years ago. Malachi left manufacturing to work as freight agent for a rival railroad, investing in various ventures, including iron and oil. He’s now sole owner of the Pennsylvania.”
“Is he in need of a wife?”
He hesitated, thinking of Izannah. The hammering tightness in his chest nearly denied him answer. “There’s not another man in the room more worthy of a bride.”
“High praise, Jamie.”
He felt her eyes on him again, questioning, assessing. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at her. “Malachi is nearly like a brother to me. His father wanted to marry your aunt Ellie years ago, but she wed Jack Turlock instead. Daniel Cameron apprenticed with the Ballantynes and eventually took over the glassworks. But Malachi had other ideas. Like locomotives.”
“Aunt Andra said he’s rarely in Pittsburgh.”
“He’s only here for the winter. Most of his time is spent in Philadelphia or abroad.”
“The papers say he’s the catch of the season.”
“No, Wren . . .” Dare he say it? “You are.”
She sighed. “Is that why Alice Mellon just cut me?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why Malachi Cameron is coming toward us?”
“Likely.”
The dancing was about to begin. At Malachi’s approach, something else wove its way through James’s soul, tying a tight knot of resignation and regret. The Camerons and the railroads were encroaching on all levels, personal and private, a reminder that his days on the river were at an end. Though Wren had never been his, losing her cut deeper still. Yet he had little choice but to stay stoic and watch the drama unfold as his friend drew near.
“Miss Ballantyne.”
Tonight Malachi seemed to have stepped out of the mists of Culloden. Kilted and wearing the Cameron plaid, he was drawing more than Wren’s notice.
“A Scotsman, come to claim a dance?” There was a beguiling lilt in her voice, a warm light in her eyes that turned James further on end.
“If you’ll dance with a Highlander, aye,” Malachi said, never taking his eyes off her.
James looked away as he bowed over her hand. For all her naïveté, Wren was becoming more nimble in society and far more alluring than she knew.
“I’m afraid to refuse you,” she said coyly, eyes on his scabbard.
He chuckled. “I’ve no quarrel with a little shepherdess. My sword is blunt, you see. Your crook is more threatening.”
Reaching for her dance card, Malachi penciled in his initials as the opening waltz was struck. More men waited behind him, stealing precious seconds from their waltz. James stood by her side, contemplating what was to come.
The night would be a long one indeed.
28
The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved—loved for ourselves or rather in spite of ourselves.
VICTOR HUGO
The sun slanting off newly fallen snow gave the tearoom with its expansive windows and crystal chandelier the brilliance of a ballroom. Feeling housebound, Izannah had suggested the outing to Prim’s in the heart of Pittsburgh, realizing all too late her Kentucky cousin wasn’t in need of another outing. Wren sat next to her in a quiet corner, looking quite pale against the cherry-red upholstery and English floral wallpaper.
They were having a celebration of sorts, rejoicing over Grandfather’s return to New Hope and Peyton’s own improved health and Wren’s successful debut. Thus far she was the reigning belle, the papers proclaiming her popularity day to day, though no mention had been made of her favoring any particular suitor.
“We have much to be thankful for,” Mama said, Elspeth and Grandmother on either side of her. “We’re only missing Andra.”
Elspeth made a wry face as she unfolded her napkin. “Let Andra look after Silas for once. Though she’s so vinegary it will likely send him to his sickbed again.”
“Da doesn’t countenance Andra’s moods and never has,” Mama returned quietly, too gracious to say Andra’s vinegary nature was likely bestowed by none other than Elspeth herself. “He’s in good hands, as is she.”
“Let’s talk of Christmas instead.” Grandmother looked at Wren expectantly. “We’ve always celebrated at New Hope, and it will be a joy to have you with us—and your father if he arrives home in time.”
“I pray he will,” Wren said.
Izannah n
odded, excitement kindling at the mere mention of Yuletide. “The better question is what does your calendar hold for December, Wren? Not too many gala affairs, I hope.”
“Just a holiday tea and a ball, then the season comes to a hush till the new year.”
“I’m glad of that. You’re in need of a rest from all that society.” Grandmother smiled and sat back as a white-aproned serving girl came round, enveloping them in the unmistakable fragrance of Grey’s Tea.
“I’ve been remembering Christmases past when Ansel and I were at home and the Camerons would celebrate with us.” Mama seemed lost in a cloud of nostalgia. “I wonder if we shouldn’t revive that tradition.”
Izannah felt a start of surprise. Was Mama trying to do a little matchmaking? Izannah had not spoken of Malachi or her feelings to anyone. Secrecy was always safer in a large family. If she was found out, her brothers would tease her endlessly. And then there was Great-Aunt Elspeth . . .
“We mustn’t forget James,” Grandmother added. “He usually winters in New Orleans and celebrates the holidays with Captain Dean and other gentlemen of the navigation.”
Izannah glanced Wren’s way, wishing she could read her thoughts. Perhaps she’d only imagined a spark between her and James. She’d assumed James would join them for the holidays. But Malachi? It was more than her hopeful heart could hold.
Elspeth harrumphed in protest. “I’ve been hoping for some announcement of an engagement by Christmas. Every morning my maid reads me the social column without fail. The papers link Rowena with a great many admirers. We’re on pins and needles awaiting her choice. I don’t suppose she’ll end up with a Cameron. That Malachi is rich as Croesus—”
“Auntie, please.” The steel in Mama’s tone forbade further talk.
“Well, someone should snag him. Rowena doesn’t want to end up like me or Izannah.”
“Izannah is still hopeful of a home and family,” Mama countered quietly.
“Oh my, really?” Elspeth’s expression indicated doubt. “Even after a failed season?”
Izannah took a bite of pastry, swallowing down warm, hasty words. Anything she said in reply would simply dig a deeper hole. Though Mama and Grandmother always rose to defend her, the hurt of her circumstances lingered.