by Laura Frantz
Reaching for the sugar bowl, Izannah wondered if Malachi took his tea sweet or plain, and felt her face flame. “Would you have me be untruthful?”
“Never. I simply meant that there are ways of saying things, softening things, to cast them in a gentler light. You might have said, ‘No one at present’ or ‘No one has yet spoken for me.’”
“I lack your tact, Mama.”
“You lack nothing, my dear. My guess is Malachi appreciates such plain speaking. Admires it even.”
“Perhaps.” She passed Chloe a crumb of a ginger biscuit and was rewarded with a toothy smile. “I dared to hope, when he came back this winter, that we might meet up again and further our friendship. But he’s entirely too busy with the season.”
“Do you love Malachi, Izannah?”
The gentle question stopped her cold. “I . . .” She broke Mama’s gaze, tempted to dismiss her feelings as girlish infatuation. But the truth was she’d never stopped holding him close in her head and heart and wishing he’d return to Pittsburgh. Nor had she ever stopped praying, nearly wearing a hole in heaven with her petitions. “I do care for him. I have for a very long time. But I don’t want to make too much of it.”
“Perhaps he cares for you too, and only needs a little encouragement.”
Izannah fell silent, beset by another worry. She couldn’t confess her certainty that Wren was in love with James and somehow Malachi was mixed up in that. Mama would be beside herself if she knew James’s painful quandary. Though he’d said nothing to Izannah about his feelings for Wren, she sensed his ferocious struggle as the season progressed.
“I’ve been praying ever since you were small that the Lord would bless you with a husband and home of your own. We’ll keep praying, trusting in His faultless timing if that is His best for you. The Lord is never too early—or too late.”
Izannah brushed the moisture from her eyes with a quick hand. Her mother’s faith that all would turn out for the best touched her but left her ruminating.
Would her heart be broken in the process?
Wren had grown fond of New Hope’s breakfast room with its butter-yellow walls and rich aromas. The promise of coffee always met her when she set foot in the foyer, the temptation of ham and biscuits a reminder of home.
“Good morning, Wren.” As usual, Grandmother greeted her, beckoning her into the bright room with a wave of her hand.
“Morning,” she echoed as every eye turned toward her.
Everyone sat in their usual places—Grandmother and Grandfather at one end of the table, she and Andra in the middle, Papa’s place yawning empty. Until today. For the moment James occupied Papa’s empty chair, his eyes on her as she entered.
James downstairs? Why?
His fever had returned the day after Christmas, giving rise to fresh fears and half-frantic prayers. With the doctors and nurse hovering again, she’d not had opportunity to go to him, though she kept vigil in the cupola when she could.
Five days had passed since their heated embrace Christmas night, and not once had they crossed paths. But it hardly mattered. He was the first man to ever hold her. Kiss her. He’d left his mark on her as plain as if he’d made her his by any other means, even marriage. Could he sense he consumed her every waking thought? She could hardly breathe for thinking of him. She couldn’t even sleep.
This morning he was every inch the old James in black superfine cloth and snowy cravat, the Ballantyne lapel pin winking at her. The unruly hair she’d raked her fingers through was sleek and combed, not wildly unkempt. He was on the mend. At their very table. And hiding his discomfiture far better than she.
She choked down a bite of biscuit, thankful the men were talking business, their resonant voices strong and decisive as black coffee. A far cry from the throaty timbre whispered in her ear. Thinking it, she nearly shut her eyes. The storm of longing inside her was swirling again, stirred into a tempest by the mere memory of his touch.
“Rowena, you’re to continue the season with James after all.” Andra’s clipped announcement slipped in beneath the tenor of the men’s voices. “He’s much improved and wants to finish as your escort.”
Wren felt a qualm. “But the doctors . . . his fever . . .”
“The doctors have given him leave to resume his duties, barring a final examination. Even his nurse has returned to the hospital as of this morning. We’re very thankful James was able to join us for breakfast.” Andra consulted the watch pinned to her bodice. “This afternoon we have a final fitting for your ball gown. Saturday will be here all too soon.”
Across from them Grandmother was listening and nodding. “When Malachi was here at Christmas, he mentioned the Jenny Lind concert. Pittsburgh is readying for her arrival this Wednesday, and she’ll be staying at the Monongahela House, the papers say.”
In the tumult of the last few days, the event had slipped Wren’s mind. Now it brought fresh dread.
“James is relieved of escorting you that night, though Mim will attend you.” Clearly, every detail had been taken care of. Andra looked more satisfied than Wren had ever seen her. “Mistress Endicott has almost finished your fur cape. The opera house can be quite chill, though you’ll be ensconced in a private box.”
The masculine voices had hushed. The coffee Wren swallowed too hastily burned her tongue.
“We’re so proud of you, my dear.” Grandmother’s tone was as warm and enveloping as an embrace. “If only your father was here to share in your happiness.”
Happiness? Since she’d come to Pennsylvania, her days and nights had held challenges and miseries she’d never known. Till James had taken her in his arms, she wasn’t sure she could go another step. Yet here they sat beaming at her as if she’d won some sort of prize.
“Your father should return soon.” Grandfather stood, hesitating a moment as he always did, as if unsure of his bearings. “He sent a telegram yesterday to say he’d left Philadelphia. Apparently he’s recovering from the influenza there and spent the holidays alone. Thankfully he’s much improved and able to travel.”
Wren’s heart barely lifted at the news. So much was happening. One never knew what life would lay hold of next. She stared at her plate, all too conscious of James at table’s end.
Passing behind her, Grandfather placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Ansel will return in the Camerons’ private car to the end of the line in Lancaster, thanks to Malachi’s generosity. But after that he must take the stage. I’ll be glad of the day the Pennsylvania runs into Pittsburgh.”
“I agree.” Andra frowned and motioned the maid for more tea. “The stage is becoming so antiquated. Much like packets.”
There was a stilted pause. Wren raised her eyes to Andra, weary of her perpetual sourness. She felt a sudden burning to reprimand her aunt, but Grandfather spoke, resignation in his tone. “One day we’ll say the same of the railroad, hard as it is to envision. Time has a way of pressing on and keeping us all humble.”
James stayed silent, and Wren ached to look at him. His way of life hung in the balance, yet here they were talking concerts and fur capes and private railcars as if it didn’t matter.
Reaching for his walking stick, Grandfather started for the door, Grandmother at his side. “I’ll be in my study.”
Quietly James excused himself, leaving her alone with Andra.
“Aren’t you hungry this morning, Rowena?”
Wren looked at her mostly untouched breakfast, her cold egg and forbidden biscuit, feeling she’d never be hungry again. “I believe I’ll go to my room till the fitting.”
“Don’t be late.” With that, Andra left out a side door without another word.
Gathering courage, Wren quit the breakfast room and crossed the foyer, her gaze on the wide stairs soaring upward. Though his progress was slow, James had made it to the landing. Unsure of what she’d say, she gripped the banister as she followed after him, waiting till he’d reached the third floor and they had some measure of privacy.
“Jamie.”
He stopped, back to her. Would he not turn round? The stubborn set of his shoulders gave a warning. At last he faced her.
“You’re still not well. I know you’re not.” She held out a hand to him, and it seemed she was holding out her heart. “You don’t have to escort me any longer. We can be free of all that. I never wanted a season. I just want to be yours—”
A door shut below. Andra? Wren tore her gaze from his to look down, but it was merely a maid crossing from parlor to dining room. When she looked back at him again, the softness in his face had vanished. He didn’t move. Didn’t take her outstretched hand. It fell limply to her side like a broken bridge he wouldn’t cross.
“You need to forget about us, Wren.” His voice was low but stiff with resolve. “We need to have this finished—your season, this business with Malachi.”
“I plan to tell Malachi—”
“There’s no future to be had with me. You need to let go of anything that happened between us that night.” His eyes held hers, driving his harsh words home. “The hour was late. The doctor had given me laudanum.”
“Laudanum?” Stunned, she took a step back. Did Christmas night mean nothing to him, then? She wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t take his cold words to heart. Tears strained her voice, but she pressed on. “It wasn’t laudanum that held me close or whispered tender things or kissed me till I couldn’t breathe. It was you, James Sackett.”
Another door closed. Andra started up the stairs.
“Remember your place, Miss Ballantyne.” Turning away, he cast the rebuke over his shoulder like a scattering of crumbs and shut his door.
Wren’s ball gown took up half the curtain coach, leaving Mim to sit with James on the opposite seat. Countless yards of watered silk separated them, but it was the moody silence lurking like an unwelcome guest that was most apparent. Their stairwell confrontation of five days past was all too fresh, all too sore.
Since then James took meals in his room or worked on Ballantyne business behind closed doors, occasionally playing a round of chess with Grandfather. Wren kept mostly to the music room or made calls with Andra, sometimes entertaining visitors at New Hope. But tonight there was no avoiding the ball that thrust them together again, James’s stony presence reminding her of his bitter rejection.
A sudden bump thrust her forward, causing her to nearly knock knees with him. He looked at her as if to ascertain she was all right before lifting the shutter a crack. As if her presence was a detested thing, her honeysuckle-rose scent too cloying.
Mim said not a word, sharp eyes shining in the darkness.
Another grand foyer. Hundreds of melting candles. The same stiff faces. James wondered if Wren’s distaste for society was rubbing off on him. As the season wore on, the arrogance and excess seemed to escalate, each event trumping the last in terms of ostentation and display. Everything rang hollow. Futile. Empty.
When Mim retreated upstairs with their wraps, Wren looked after her as if she’d lost her last friend. Left alone with her, he took care to fix his attention elsewhere. She appeared equally determined to do the same, studying the parquet floor or incoming guests, anything but him.
He fisted his hands behind his back, fighting an overwhelming weariness. Wren was right. He still wasn’t well. Beneath his pristine clothes, his injuries were concealed but still ached with his every move, requiring his utmost concentration to stay stoic. The fever had never left him, turning his color ruddy and making him feel oddly disembodied, a flimsy shadow of himself. But he was more worried about Wren. With every step toward the teeming ballroom, her pace seemed to slow. Next he knew she’d come to a stop. He tensed in anticipation as her gloved fingers fell from his arm.
“I . . .” she began slowly.
He studied her and felt a wrench that he’d not noticed how pale she was. “You need to sit down.”
Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a small chamber in full view of the ballroom as the butler’s announcement of Malachi Cameron intruded. Resignation lined her features—and mild panic. He sensed Malachi’s attentions were both flattering and unnerving, that she was torn between affection and fear, smothered by the admiration of too many men and sinking under the weight of her family’s wishes.
Or trying to recover from his heartless words to her on the landing.
“You’re not yourself,” he said. “I’ll call for the coach.”
“No . . . I’ll see this through.”
Their hostess appeared, inquiring if all was well. With a polite nod, he made excuses. Wren took out her fan, waving it with such vigor he felt its cooling draft from three feet away. But she still looked so fragile he tried to gauge what might follow. Fainting. A quick exit.
Malachi was across the way, eyes on the anteroom despite his talking with some business associates, obviously having scanned the crowd for Wren. Resistance rose inside James like a wall. Though Malachi was the best choice, the Ballantynes’ choice, James was a long way from making peace with it.
Once again his thoughts cut to Izannah. Had Malachi not given her a second thought, even after James’s urging at Lake Lanark? They were a near-perfect pairing. Izannah could easily handle the demands of his very public life. And she was woman enough to make him forget those demands out of the public eye. But he was closing in on Wren instead.
Wren moved past him with a brush of her wide skirts to stand on the cusp of the ballroom.
He came alongside her, looking out at the swelling crowd, wondering how they’d make it through the night. “Remember, Miss Ballantyne, you can have any eligible man in the room.”
“Any man?” She swished her fan, her voice thin and tired when it had been so full of life before. “Even you, Mr. Sackett?”
Dull anguish ground inside him. He wanted to reason with her. Tell her what her aunt Ellie had said. Wren is very trusting—naïve. She may fall in love with the first man who pays her any attention. Unwittingly, that man had been him. Wren was simply infatuated and that would fade in time. He prayed his own feelings would fall in line as well.
Half a dozen eager men encircled her, intent on her dance card, Malachi among them.
When the time came for their opening waltz, James felt like a puppet on a string, wanting to tear himself free. But a hundred eyes were on them as the first notes were struck. Embracing her, one hand resting at her waist and the other clasping her gloved fingers, he tried to ignore the intimate feel and scent of her, but it was a bitter fight and he was fast losing ground.
If Malachi—or society—suspected anything between them, Wren’s future would be ruined and James would make an enemy.
He didn’t need another.
33
Riches should be admitted into our houses, but not into our hearts; we may take them into our possession, but not into our affections.
PIERRE CHARRON
Wren stepped down from the mounting block as a groom gathered the reins and led her mare away. Restless, she’d been out on another ride, the frigid night giving way to a rosy sunrise, the peaceful sight easing the raw places inside her. Papa would be home soon, or so she hoped. Spring would come. Maybe in time she would right herself.
Slipping in the servants’ entrance, she trod the narrow hall past the butler’s pantry and kitchen, peeking in a side room that usually held a gathering of white-aproned maids. This January morning the servants’ backs were to her as they huddled around a small table, heads bent, unmindful of her presence. She stood in the doorway, hoping to see Mim but getting an earful instead.
“So it’s true what they’re sayin’!” The Irish lilt of the oldest maid, Fiona, struck like a chime in the still air. “He’s got himself in deep water indeed!”
A rustle of papers followed. “He’s bound to be sorry, as it was him who picked John Gunniston to run the river in his place. Looks like there’s trouble from New Orleans to Pittsburgh now. If there’s going to be a war, I wish they’d do it proper and nae pick off people here a
nd there like a bunch of heathens!”
Mim?
Wren cleared her throat, not wanting to give the impression she was eavesdropping, and every maid spun round. Their somberness rebounded in a bright greeting. “Morning, Miss Wren!”
“Morning, Fiona, Betsy . . .” She greeted them all by name, envying their simple companionship. “I just wanted to ask if someone had time to sew the missing buttons on my cape for the concert.” She tried to smile, a bit ashamed asking for help with so simple a task, but Andra insisted all work be done by the servants.
“Oh, aye, I was just coming upstairs to do that very thing,” Mim said, breaking from their tight knot.
“No hurry, Mim.” Turning, Wren retreated, leaving them to their talk.
The servants followed the season faithfully in the Pittsburgh press, those who could read sharing with those who couldn’t. From the sound of it, something else besides the usual society news had made the headlines this morn.
Deep water . . . run the river . . . war.
She stopped walking, the fragments of conversation coming clear.
James?
Spying the door to the morning room ajar, she slipped in, searching for the Pittsburgh Gazette. But the table was bare, only the aroma of coffee lingering. The little breakfast she’d eaten churned uneasily inside her.
Once upstairs, she began removing her riding habit, cold fingers fumbling with the mother-of-pearl buttons as her thoughts made fearful leaps. She’d last seen James a week prior when they’d parted without a word after the ball. He’d taken a separate coach to the Monongahela House. Was he in some sort of trouble?
“Miss Wren, I’ve brought needle and thread.” Mim’s forced cheerfulness made her more tense.
“The cape hardly matters, Mim,” she said in Gaelic. “What’s all this about James?”
Frowning, Mim disappeared from the room, returning minutes later with the Gazette. “Ye might as well know since yer by his side nearly night and day.”