by Laura Frantz
“There’s nothing the matter with Izannah.” Tears smeared Wren’s vision at the slight. “She’ll make some man a blessed wife—”
Andra banished the hope with a dismissive hand. “I doubt that will ever happen. Izannah is past the first flush of youth, as are you. And given the dreadful situation over the Ashburton affair, you simply must finish well and avoid all scandal.”
Wren lowered her head. She felt she was face-to-face with Bennett again, full of ire and ambition. “If finishing well means marrying a man I don’t want to, while the one I care about is lying abed injured—”
“Rowena!” Andra stood so abruptly she set the china rattling atop the table. “You will do what is expected of you as a Ballantyne and as befits your family, however unpalatable it seems. You’re in our world now, and there’s a great deal more at stake than your petty preferences and feelings. The sooner you realize that fact, the better off you’ll be.”
With that she left the room, moving at a girl’s pace in her fury, the fragrance of her heavy cologne lingering.
Now, hours later, the heat of their exchange was almost forgotten by the sight of James emerging from the coach. Beneath his stark white shirt bloomed a crimson stain that seemed to spread before her eyes. One arm was splinted, his right leg encased in bandages. Each agonized step had to be managed by the waiting servants. A doctor and nurse followed close behind, assisting with a waiting stretcher.
When they entered the house and faded from view, Wren measured their progress by sound. She heard the servants struggling a bit with the stretcher on the stairs, pausing on the landing to ask James how he was faring, then proceeding onward to the next floor. Why they’d placed him so high when he was in such sad shape was a riddle. Surely a downstairs room would be better. Long minutes of commotion followed as he was settled and the servants dispersed.
Mim returned to the chilly cupola, face dark as a thundercloud. “He’s to have his own nurse, doctors’ orders. But he’s got some right terrible wounds that need more tending than any nurse can manage, even a bonny one.”
Having immersed herself belowstairs baking gingerbread, cutting snowflakes from tissue paper, and arranging fresh cedar boughs and holly brought in by sleigh, Wren hadn’t seen James since his arrival three days prior. As the doctors came and went, Grandmother and Grandfather visited him at intervals, but not Andra or Wren.
“It’s highly improper for a woman to enter a man’s bedchamber unless it’s that of her husband,” Andra had told her when she’d passed Wren on the stairs.
“I’m merely going to the cupola,” Wren replied. She often went there to pray and ponder, leaving the door open so the warm air from the house would fill the cold space.
She wouldn’t admit it afforded her more than just a view of the snowy landscape but also a tiny glimpse of their patient’s progress. A door would open or close. James’s voice would creep out. Sometimes the nurse’s muted tones would intertwine with the doctor’s deep baritone. Often there was a worrying silence.
By the fifth day Wren could stand it no longer. As dusk drew a curtain over the land, she waited till the nurse went below to have her supper and the doctor had come and gone. Andra, thankfully, was calling at Ballantyne Hall in the sleigh despite the snow.
On tiptoe, alert to every creak in the planked floor, Wren went toward the closed door like a moth to candle flame. No knock. No announcement. Just a brazen turn of the handle. Woodsmoke and medicine stormed her senses.
And then a gruff, “Who’s there?”
She felt a qualm. Had James been sleeping? Or was he drugged? She shut the door, then wished she’d left it open, if only to offset the gloom of the room. Hurrying to a window, she pushed aside a heavy drape. “The snow is falling again. It’s so beautiful I wanted to share it with you.”
“Wren?”
She turned, leaving the drapes open to better see his face, hoping he couldn’t read the dismay in hers. He was so bruised and battered it was pure punishment to look at him. Her hand shot out, covering his outstretched fingers atop the coverlet. He felt warm to the touch—too warm—like Grandfather had been too cold. It seemed right to hold on to him, to hands that had brought her upriver and helped her navigate the perilous social season and would have seen her finished, but for this.
“Jamie.” Her voice held so much. Hurt at seeing his hurt. Hope he’d soon heal. The warm, inexplicable joy she felt in his presence.
He looked up at her, pain glazing his eyes. “It hurts . . . to breathe. Otherwise . . . I’d talk.”
She nodded in understanding, remembering his broken ribs, and gave him a small smile. “You know I talk enough for the both of us.”
“I like the sound of your voice . . . always have.”
Her gaze wandered to the bottle of laudanum on the near table. A dreaded thing, it reminded her of Mama’s loss. The strong scent was uncomfortably familiar, the effects frightening. It seemed to have loosened his tongue and lent a directness to his gaze that had been missing before. Beneath his intensity, she felt feverish herself.
Spying a basin of water, she bent and wrung out a cloth, then settled carefully on the edge of the bed. His eyes closed as she smoothed his brow and the high lines of his cheekbones. She was nearer to touching his dark hair than she’d ever been. It feathered back on the pillow in wild disarray, begging for a brush . . . her hungry touch.
His eyes flicked open, catching her long, unguarded look. Startled, she ran the cloth over his bristled jaw, wondering if the nurse was tending to his beard.
Just how bad could a bewhiskered kiss be?
Face hot, she shut the stray thought away, blaming Mim.
“What . . . day . . . is . . . it?” The words unwound slowly, punctuated with pain.
Her heart fisted. “December twentieth.”
“I don’t . . . remember much.”
“About the accident, you mean?”
“I only recall . . . leaving the boatyard . . .”
“Your mind will likely clear in time,” she said softly. “All that matters is you’re here now, safe and sound.”
“I’m neither safe . . . nor sound.” He managed a lopsided smile. “But I am . . . content.”
His words were mumbled, so unlike the articulate James she knew. The laudanum, likely. She let herself look at him, filling every crevice of her needy heart and head with him, seeking some reassurance he’d soon be well. She leaned nearer, unable to keep her distance. She felt herself slipping . . . falling. Wanting to lean in and brush her lips to his.
Oh, Jamie.
His eyes were on her, lingering, searching. Her heart seemed to stop when he took her hand. At the brush of his lips to her fingers, her stomach gave way. Shaken, she shut her eyes lest he see the longing buried deep. Could he sense she wanted to lie down beside him, never to leave him? Body to body, heart to heart, soul to soul?
The click of a door brought the tender moment to an end. At the foot of the bed stood the nurse, full of surprise and caution. “You mustn’t tire our patient, Miss Ballantyne.”
Face hot, Wren rose from the bed, but James kept hold of her hand.
“There’s nothing tiring . . . about Miss Ballantyne.”
The utterance exacted a high price. Wren detected a wince with every word.
“I’ll go now,” she said softly, with a last look at him as he released her. “I merely wanted to see how Mr. Sackett is faring.”
The door shut firmly behind her, barring her return. But the memory they’d just made was locked in place.
31
It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of.
WILLA CATHER
Malachi entered New Hope’s parlor, unsure whether to be amazed or amused. In a far corner stood an evergreen, its fragrant tip spiraling to the ceiling, myriad branches adorned with strings of beads and candles. Tissue snowflakes hung here and there, and a wax angel with spun-glass wings crowned the top. He’d seen cut
trees for sale in the city square but had given them little thought.
Rowena appeared just ahead of the sated revelers in the dining room, surprising him. Delighting him. He gestured to the tree. “Is this a Kentucky custom?”
She smiled. “A German one, so Granny says. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert have brought it into fashion.”
“I’m only familiar with mistletoe . . . and you’re standing right under it.”
She looked up, pink touching her cheeks. He took a step nearer, thinking it still not close enough. Although she’d sat beside him at supper, he’d been distracted by the large gathering, wishing for more privacy. At last he’d gotten his wish. For the moment they were alone. Rowena was standing in an almost providential position. The heirloom ring hidden in his breast pocket prompted him to make a bold move. He’d thought of little else through course after course of Christmas dinner, the certainty that John King Ewing and Aaron French were equally enamored of her spurring him on.
And then there was Silas, God rest him. He’d appeared at Christmas dinner and half the man he’d been, leaving little doubt the ailing patriarch was on borrowed time. When he died, Rowena would move beyond his reach for a year or better . . .
He took her hand, so small it was nearly lost in his. She looked down, seeming a bit startled, and then Mina’s voice sounded in the foyer, stealing the moment. On her heels were the Turlock brothers, all ten of them, followed by Izannah, her baby sister in arm.
Rowena welcomed them in while he stood silently by, more out of sorts by the minute. If Ansel was here, he’d ask him for her hand. Putting the question to Silas had crossed his mind, but he and Silas usually only talked business, nothing as personal as matrimony.
“So, Malachi, what’s this I’m hearing about the takeover of the Central in the East?” Bennett sidled up to him, offering a cigar.
He declined with a wave of his hand, preferring his pipe. “It’s hardly worth mentioning. I simply needed to merge two subsidiary lines.”
“Word is you’re ready to break ground for a railroad station within Pittsburgh’s city limits. A bit ambitious, wouldn’t you say, given there’s no track laid past Lancaster Turnpike?”
“There will be by next year, terminating on the north side of the Allegheny River,” he replied easily. “We’ll have shortened the trip between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia to a mere fifteen hours as well.”
“Fifteen? An admirable feat . . .”
Malachi watched Rowena discreetly as Bennett rambled on, intent on business when it was, for once, the farthest thing from Malachi’s mind.
James had been right. He needed a woman who made him forget about work. He’d finally found her. The next merger he wanted to make was a matrimonial one, and as quickly as possible, or the Pennsylvania might suffer from his preoccupation. A shipboard honeymoon while en route to Scotland was what he had in mind. He couldn’t be away from European interests and investors any longer.
Rowena was talking with Izannah now, and he couldn’t help but notice their differences. While Rowena barely reached his shoulder, Izannah was nearly his equal in height, as willowy and curvaceous as a marble sculpture he’d once seen in Italy. Since the schoolroom her hair had always reminded him of butterscotch, only darkening slightly over time. He couldn’t recall the color of her eyes. She smiled and spoke in that poised, charming way she had as she passed Rowena the baby.
Though he had little experience with children, he could see Rowena would make a good mother. Being so natural and unaffected herself, she was kissing the babe and making over her as if the child were her own. As he looked on, the cavern that grief had carved deep inside him began to fill. A wife would love him to wholeness again, he was certain, chase every dark shadow of sorrow and regret away.
In a few moments Rowena left the room, no doubt looking for Ellie, as the baby was starting to fuss. Izannah stood alone by the Christmas tree, fingering a glass ornament. The gifts at her feet, wrapped with colorful paper and string, reminded him of the little package she’d given him long ago at their chance meeting on the levee. He still had the finely made Taber pipe and pipe case, though the costly maccaboy tobacco was long gone.
Did she even remember?
Curious, he started across the parlor, intent on finding out.
Izannah had dreamed of this moment for years. Somehow meeting up with Malachi at Christmas made it all the more magical. At his approach she felt a bit light-headed, breathing in the bracing scent of pine and bayberry candle wax as if it could steady her. A jumble of their childhood encounters came rushing back, causing her to wonder what he remembered and what he didn’t. He’d always been larger than life to her back then. Even now he was taller than she recalled and fuller in the face and chest, hardly the lanky boy of old.
Bennett had monopolized him most of the evening, but now, with a noisy game going on in the adjoining parlor, they found themselves alone. Suddenly bereft of words, she was glad when he spoke first.
“Did you get everything you hoped for this Christmas, Miss Turlock?”
She turned from the sparkling tree and met his steady gaze. “Come, Malachi, you’re not in Mrs. Mellon’s ballroom,” she chided gently. “I’m merely Izannah of old. And no, I didn’t get everything I wanted.”
“A pity.” He eyed her pensively and reached out to finger a fragrant branch. “I didn’t either.”
“There’s always next year, I suppose.”
“Next year I’ll likely be in Edinburgh.”
“Oh?” she replied, unsurprised. “Do the Scots celebrate Christmas better than we Americans, then?”
“Not necessarily.” With a wink, he bent and picked up an ornament that had fallen to the carpet. “They’ve simply been doing it longer.” Handing it to her, he watched as she returned it to a near branch. “Though they do have some charming customs.”
“Let me guess . . .” She kept her voice light, belying the jitters inside her. “Yule logs, tartans, bagpipes, and the like.”
“Don’t forget the black bun and haggis.”
She smiled. “The Turlocks, being Irish, prefer holly wreaths, candles in every window, and plum pudding with brandy butter. Nothing quite as frightening as your haggis.”
He chuckled. “I must confess to liking haggis. That’s reason enough to return to Edinburgh. You have plans of your own after the holidays, I suppose.”
“Nothing so grand as Scotland, truly.” She tried to push the wistfulness from her tone. “I have my hands full at home with my brothers and baby sister.”
“A lively, happy household from what I’m told.”
Her eyes rose from the sprig of holly pinned to his coat to his thoughtful gaze. Now he was the one sounding wistful. “It is, and I’m thankful for it.”
He hesitated. “Do you ever want to . . . venture beyond Pittsburgh?”
“Yes.” She felt a tad breathless saying it. Could he read her discontent, her dreams for something more? “Till then I read voraciously, live vicariously.”
“A poor substitute for personal experience, Izannah.”
“Perhaps,” she countered, unsure of where the conversation was leading. “But women haven’t the freedom you men do. Unmarried women, anyway.”
“You said something similar when we met up at the levee long ago. Do you remember?”
She heated, glad he didn’t know just how close she’d kept the memory. “I do remember. But I cannot recall the little package I gave you.”
With a smile he reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a pipe. Surprising her. Making her melt.
Her lips parted. “You . . . kept it. All these years?”
“Finest pipe I’ve ever had. Though I think that has more to do with the giver than the gift.” He looked down to the patterned carpet at their feet. “To be honest, I came back here expecting you to be wed. Are you being courted? Is your heart not engaged?”
She gave a shake of her head, caught between embarrassment and excuses. “I have no suitor . . . n
one at all.”
There was a clumsy pause. He swallowed and looked like he’d stepped far beyond his ken. “I ask because . . . there was a time when I—we—”
At his odd stammering, she felt a desperate need to say something, soothe the sudden awkwardness, when a voice broke over them.
“Come along, you two. We’re in need of another pair for charades.” Mina stood in the doorway, luring them to follow with a wave of her fan. “Izannah’s brothers are stealing the show with their antics and simply must have some competition.”
“Very well.” Malachi took Izannah by the elbow in a manner that seemed all too reluctant and ushered her into the parlor.
At nearly midnight, Mim helped Wren undress in the shadows of the candlelit bedroom, always an onerous task so late. Her heavy velvet gown was finally shed and brushed and returned to the wardrobe, a great many pins pulled from her hair. Once the French corset was dealt with, the rest of her underpinnings were more easily managed and she could breathe again.
“I’ll finish up,” Wren said, sitting down at the dressing table in her chemise. “You look in need of bed.”
Mim stifled a yawn. “Dinna be fooled. With Boxing Day tomorrow and the servants’ ball at River Hill, I’m in fine fettle.” She unclasped the pearls about Wren’s neck and placed them in their silken case. “Yer looking a bit weary yerself.”
“I’m just sorry James is by his lonesome tonight.”
Their eyes met in the glass. “Keeping upstairs the whole time while everyone made merry below?” Mim grimaced as she removed Wren’s pearl earrings. “Dr. Moss forbade him any festivities or any company save his nurse.”
“I was hoping Izannah would be let upstairs.”
Mim’s hands stilled. “Why would ye be worrying about Miss Izannah?”
“Well, seems like James could have a caller, some cheer from those who mean the most.”
“Miss Izannah . . . and Mr. James?” Mim let out a throaty chuckle. “Ye ken the two of them are more than kin?”