by Laura Frantz
“Sister, after eighty-some years, one would think you’d learn to mind your tongue.” Grandmother sighed with rare exasperation and gestured to the scones. “Here, have another.”
“If you’re trying to keep me quiet, it can’t be done. Cooped up as I’ve been with my mousy maid and nurse, I’m starved for gossip.” Elspeth’s brows peaked as a bell tinkled above the tearoom’s entrance. More customers entered through the front door, adding to the friendly chaos of the room, providing a blessed distraction.
Izannah cast Mama a pleading look and prayed for a turn in conversation.
“As I was saying . . .” Mama swallowed a sip of tea, heeding her look. “We’ve much to plan for Christmas. Everyone agrees all festivities should be at New Hope given Da’s health. The doctors have given us leave to have a small celebration . . .”
Izannah tasted her scone, barely listening. Malachi trespassed into her every thought, making her feel anxious and giddy by turns. She wondered if he and James had had time to talk further or if the shallow conversation that ruled the season prevented it. She hadn’t seen James to ask. He’d been lodging solely at the Monongahela House, hardly ever coming to River Hill. Lately she saw James as seldom as Wren.
“I’ve missed you, cousin,” Izannah said, wishing it was just the two of them and they had time for girlish talk. “You look tired, and you’re all too quiet.”
Wren’s expression was oddly blank. “The masquerade ball kept us up till the wee small hours.”
“Ah, the masquerade. The midpoint of the season. Soon the social whirl will be over.” Izannah’s tone was consoling as she poured more tea. “It’s simply a winter diversion. Pittsburgh’s preoccupation with itself.”
Wren looked to her lap. “I’ll be glad to have it end.”
There was patent resignation in her tone, something Izannah understood all too well. Expectations were high, the pressure intense. If Wren favored James, she was in a bind indeed, to say nothing of James’s dilemma.
“Is there no man you fancy?” As soon as she’d mouthed the careless question, Izannah bit her tongue. “I thought perhaps . . .”
“Maybe in time,” Wren replied. “I feel a bit smothered by it all.”
Izannah nodded. Smothered was certainly how she’d felt in the thick of Pittsburgh society, the pursuit of a husband paramount. Perhaps her own season wouldn’t have been so dreary if Malachi had been there . . . if she hadn’t bolted in the middle of it . . . if Alice Mellon hadn’t been such a thorn. Oh, to rewind time like a clock and right the mistakes she’d made. Did Malachi ever think the same? Or was he so satisfied with life he had no regrets?
Turning toward the window, she took in the falling snow dressing the sooty outlines of the nearest buildings in shining white.
Like the bride she wanted to be.
The next day the snow was still falling, filling in the carriage tracks of the doctors as they came and went attending to Grandfather, finally calling a halt to a holiday function. Andra was annoyed, but Wren felt unfettered joy. After shutting the gown she was to wear in the wardrobe, she spent the morning reading A Christmas Carol aloud to Grandfather before lunching with Grandmother. When the clock struck one, she hurried downstairs to the music room. Free at last. As her fingers closed about the porcelain doorknob, a voice from behind made her pause.
“Hello, cousin.”
Dismay doused her expectation. Bennett?
“A word with you please, Rowena.” The unrelieved black of his garments lent him the severity of an undertaker. Suddenly Charlotte seemed to stand between them, a palpable, ghostly presence as they entered the music room and Bennett shut the door.
“I’ve been following you in the press as the season progresses.” Looking askance at the violins lying on a near table, he took a chair by the glowing hearth. “There is talk about your beautiful gowns, your exquisite violin, your dancing skills and admirers, but precious little of substance.”
She picked up her beloved Nightingale. “I suppose you mean a serious suitor.”
“I do. The season is half finished, after all.” When she said nothing, he folded his arms across his chest, his bearing nonchalant but his manner tense. “I’m beginning to fear you’ll do as Izannah did and quit your season. Or follow through till the bitter end with nothing to show for it.”
A tingling embarrassment stole over her at such bluntness. Bitter end was certainly the right wording. The thought of abandoning the season dogged her day and night. Setting down the Nightingale, she began to rosin her bow, unwilling to spar with him over something as intimate as marriage.
“You are a Ballantyne . . . and you’ll do your duty.”
“Duty? A sad way to speak of such things.” She felt an almost perverse pleasure in crossing him. “I’m praying about matters, and I’ll do nothing without Papa’s blessing.”
“Your father and all piety aside, there must be someone who turns your head.”
“Someone? Just whom would you have me choose, Bennett?” She kept her voice low, but it in no way hid her aggravation. “The simpleton who steps on my toes repeatedly? The glutton who eats the most oysters? The scoundrel who pinches me as I pass?”
He let out a loud, ringing laugh. “Come, Rowena. It isn’t that bad, is it?”
“Bad hardly begins to describe it.” She tested a string, listening to the tone, fighting for calm. “Truth be told, I’m sick to death of being enslaved to fashion, hobnobbing with fancy folk so rule-bound and stiff you never get a true look at them. They peer right through me, never getting past my name, the Ballantyne fortune . . .”
His levity faded as he stood. “Then you need to find a man who cares about neither.”
Wishing an end to the conversation, she struck another note. Its insolent tone clung to the air, begging for confrontation. As she turned away, Bennett’s hand shot out and caught her arm. His fingers bit deep, sending her prized Tourte bow to the floor. Stunned, she looked down as he stepped on it with a booted foot, smashing the tip.
With a little cry she brought the Nightingale behind her back, out of his destructive reach. But he simply came nearer, taking her roughly by the shoulders and giving her a jarring shake. “I don’t care to have this conversation again, Rowena. You’re going to announce your engagement by the end of the season or there’ll be a steep price to pay, understand?”
“Understand?” She looked up at him, her words coming in a frenzied rush. “I understand what Charlotte had to endure by the lake that day. I understand why she was afraid of you. Nothing that afternoon was an accident—”
“Forget about Charlotte.” His fingers dug deeper. “I was cleared of all blame. The matter is closed. But your situation is still very much at play. And I want a satisfactory finish—”
A sudden knock overrode his harsh words, and he released her. At her feeble call the butler cracked open the door. “You have a visitor, Miss Ballantyne.”
Shaking, she cradled the Nightingale. “I’m afraid I’m . . .” She groped for the proper word, the pain of Bennett’s hands, his harshness, seared into her. “Indisposed.”
Bennett locked eyes with her, daring her to defy him.
The butler cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Ballantyne, but Mr. Cameron is not a man who is turned away lightly, especially in this weather.”
Malachi? She tucked her violin in its case, feeling backed into an impossible corner. “Please bring a hot toddy to the parlor, then. Mr. Cameron might be cold from his ride.”
The butler nodded and Bennett turned her way. “Finish it, Rowena. And finish it well.”
She hiked her chin and stepped round him like he was no more than a stick of furniture, glancing at her pale reflection in a near mirror in passing.
His cold, triumphant reflection shone back at her.
Still shaken but pinning the smile of the season in place, Wren breathed a quick prayer before she entered the parlor. Then and there, her spirit rebelling against Bennett’s deceit, she purposed to be any
thing but a sham. If Malachi Cameron was going to woo her, he would woo her for who she really was, not who she pretended to be. Pushing aside Bennett’s fury, she welcomed Malachi graciously, like she was in humble Kentucky, not pretentious Pittsburgh.
He captured her outstretched hands, his touch cold. Melting snow left his coat glistening and the strong lines of his face ruddy. “You’re not the same lass out of the ballroom, Miss Ballantyne.”
She looked down. He meant her dress, surely. Made of moss-colored wool, it lacked all the frills of the season. Even her hair was arranged in a humble chignon bereft of ribbon or combs. “I’m a simple woman who takes pleasure in simple things, Mr. Cameron.”
She thanked the maid as the steaming toddy was set on a near table between them. Pleasure shot through his eyes as he looked about the lovely room. “I’ve not been to New Hope in years, but I’ve never felt more welcome.”
“This is a gladsome house with Grandfather back.”
“How is he?”
“Better every day. Still smiling.”
“Silas is a remarkable man.” He gestured to a rosewood chair and sat opposite her, taking the toddy from the tray. “You’re looking at me rather intently, I must say.”
“I was thinking of the Cameron plaid.”
“My kilt? Were you expecting me to wear it again?” At her nod, he chuckled. “In Scotland, aye. Here, nay.”
“Do you really have a house in Edinburgh?”
Her query reeled him in like a fish on a lure. “Yes, an old Georgian one with a half-blind sheepdog, a crusty old cook, and an overgrown garden.”
“Oh?” She thought it sounded heavenly despite his woeful tone. “What more could you possibly want?”
A bride.
Their eyes met. There was no mistaking the answer. Her teeth caught on her bottom lip as his ruddy color rose. When he reached into his waistcoat pocket, her breathing stilled. Was he . . . did he mean to . . .
The flutter inside her subsided when he simply withdrew two tickets. “You’ve no doubt heard of the Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind.”
“Of course,” she replied, her smile resurfacing. “Papa has told me about her.”
“She’ll soon be taking the train from Philadelphia to perform here in Pittsburgh at the opera house come January. If you’ll agree to go with me, I’ll arrange for a private box.”
“I’ve never been in a . . . box.”
He chuckled again. His ready smile reminded her of Mina’s. “It’s nice as boxes go. Just you, me, your maid.”
Mim. Not James. James wouldn’t be needed if she took this next step. His duties were done. She hesitated, half sick as Malachi’s intentions came clear. Even James’s reassuring praise failed to ease her.
There’s not another man in the room more worthy of a bride.
“So you’ll accompany me?” he prodded, a beguiling light in his eye.
“I—well . . . yes,” she answered. She darted a look at the closed parlor door. Had Bennett ridden away or was he listening in the foyer?
“I’ve been wondering . . .” He looked to his toddy, his voice steely yet refined and becoming all too familiar. “Is there another suitor besides myself?”
Her gaze fell to her lap. “Just you, Mr. Cameron.”
Her faint reply seemed a sort of promise, bringing her one step nearer his embrace. If they’d been sitting closer, she thought he might have kissed her.
The door to her future had cracked open.
And felt so bittersweet.
29
The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one’s own.
WILLA CATHER
“What frock will ye be wearing to the opera house? Yer aunt and Miss Criss are set on the silver brocade for the holiday ball.” Mim’s hands were on her hips, her gaze ricocheting from Wren to the immense, open wardrobe. “If ye dinna mind my saying so, I’d pick the smoke-blue velvet trimmed in swansdown to see Miss Lind perform. Perfect for a winter’s night. Ye have the look of an angel in it, ye do. And ye’ve nae yet worn it once yet.”
Wren nodded absently. Talk of clothes and outings had become dull as old paint.
“We’ve a skating party to ready for come January. The seamstresses are nearly done with yer costume for that.” Examining a pair of gloves, Mim lapsed into Gaelic as she always did when talk took a personal turn. “Yer getting quite cozy with Mr. Malachi. Is it true he’s coming for Christmas dinner?”
“He and his kin,” Wren said, thinking of all Grandmother had told her.
“And James?” Mim’s tone was hopeful. She’d become so fond of James since the season began, Wren sometimes thought she was secretly smitten with him.
“He’s sent his regrets.” Even saying it came hard. Wren felt oddly hurt, if only for Izannah’s sake.
“His regrets?” Mim’s face darkened. “What’s a man like James Sackett to do with nae kith nor kin at Christmas—and Captain Dean downriver? Hole up at the Monongahela House?”
Wren lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe he means to have a little rest all by his lonesome.”
Mim shut the wardrobe doors with a sigh. “Yer in need of a rest yerself, though yer holding up well despite Miss Malice’s snubs and slights. I fear there’s more trouble ahead with her, to be sure. She made Miss Izannah miserable till she quit her season. I ken ye’ll nae quit, but ye can always end it and wed.” Mim studied her with fresh wonder. “Now wouldn’t that be grand? Mr. Malachi proposing at Christmastide!”
Wren turned ice-cold at the thought.
The rolling Pennsylvania landscape, locked in winter, had a crystalline beauty as barren as Wren’s heart. How could one’s life be so full and yet so empty? So cluttered with things that didn’t satisfy? Seated sidesaddle atop her gentle mare, she wrestled with the future. Unbidden, a simple prayer her mother had often prayed kept coming to mind, a balm for her brooding. The earnest words floated out on a cloud of frozen breath into the icy air.
“For all that Thy love has yet in store for me, O God, I give Thee gracious thanks.”
Atop a gentle hill in back of New Hope’s farthest boundary line, she paused. Before her lay Cameron House, its stony presence dominating the heart of the valley, so new and grand the old outbuildings around it appeared flimsy as hatboxes. The scrolled iron gates and stone gatehouse, the long snaking drive to its wide front steps, reminded her of the painting of her mother’s family home in England, Nancarrow Hall.
She’d never seen so many chimneys in all her life. She lost count at twelve. Only one was puffing smoke. There was some trouble with the fireplaces, Mim said, delaying the house’s completion. Though beautiful, the place looked cold. Without heart.
Nae wonder he wants a bride, knocking around in such a big house all by hisself.
Drawing the hood of her cape closer, she pondered Mim’s words. Malachi needed children, a family. Hadn’t that been her heart’s cry since she was small? To have a family of her own, a quiverful like Aunt Ellie? Somehow, in the darkness since Mama’s passing, that desire had gotten lost. Wren sensed Izannah hoped for the same, though she never said so. Sometimes she seemed as tightly locked as James.
Reaching into the pocket of her cape, Wren touched the little wren, Papa’s letters folded beside it, now split at the seams they were so perused.
Papa had urged caution about the season. But Papa wasn’t here. And in his absence, she sensed Malachi wanted to cut to the chase and settle matters between them. Christmas was coming, and with it the proposal Mim had mentioned as sure as all the gifts and wassail and mistletoe of the season.
As she pondered it, a lone figure came out of the gatehouse and looked uphill, as intent on her as she was on him. Around his legs swarmed a melee of sniffing, barking dogs. English hounds.
Malachi.
With a quick burst, she reined her horse around and disappeared over the hill. She rode hard toward New Hope, one thought trailing.
Surely there was a music room in that
big house of his.
Or a promise there’d be one.
James waited in the lushly paneled foyer of the French mansion, unable to shake the feeling of being followed. The streets of Pittsburgh were mostly empty on a cold winter’s eve of all but stray dogs and beggars. Usually he shared a few coins as he passed, but tonight he kept the coach windows tightly shuttered as he’d hurried down Race Street to the French residence.
At the corner of 8th and Cherry, a second rig had appeared, matching their pace and following their every turn. He’d told his driver to take a circuitous route, hoping the vehicle trailing them was pure happenstance. But when the vehicle gained on them and seemed more their shadow before fading from sight at the mansion’s gates, James knew. He needed no telegram to convince him of a threat. He’d witnessed it firsthand.
Spending an evening with the Frenches was hardly reassuring. Though they assumed a polite facade, they were known to be proslavery with deep ties to anti-abolitionists in Pittsburgh and elsewhere. Word was they suspected his own leanings. Aware of the butler watching him, he withdrew a timepiece from his pocket. At half past eight, Wren was late.
More guests trickled in. The music started. The opening waltz—their waltz—quickly passed. His pulse beat in tempo to a rousing reel. Anxiety pulled at him and took his thoughts places he didn’t want to go. What if he wasn’t in danger but Wren was? What if, unable to get to him, his enemies sought her out? Rigid with alarm, he waited, eyes on the ornate front doors that refused to open.
When he could stand it no longer, he went back out into the night to find the curtain coach barreling up the drive. A cold wind struck him like the lash of a whip, wreaking havoc with his coattails and cravat. Ignoring the doorman, he hurried down the steps to meet Wren.
“I’m sorry,” she told him as she stepped down from the coach, as if sensing he’d been near frantic waiting. “We had some trouble along the way. Another coach nearly hit us at a crossing.”