by Laura Frantz
Moments before, to her astonishment, someone had asked if she was one of Jemma’s Philadelphia friends. She’d hardly recognized herself when she’d stood before the looking glass, nor could she blame Elspeth for staring at her from across the room. Even at a distance, she read blatant envy in her sister’s eyes. Slipping behind the nearby potted palm brought little relief from her sister’s ongoing scrutiny.
“Here’s your fan,” Jemma said, handing her one of painted silk. “You look . . . overcome, Eden. Are you too tightly laced?”
Truly, she was. Margaret had even broken a bodkin when binding her in Jemma’s French stays. “I . . .” she began, extending the fan to cool her flushed face. “People are staring—”
“Elspeth is staring, you mean. Well, let her. It’s her fault you’re so lovely in lilac. She stole your yellow silk.” Jemma’s fan fluttered with unbridled enthusiasm. “David and I will lead the first dance, but he’s told me you’re to be his second. Which would you like? A reel? An allemande? Something a bit more sedate like the minuet?”
“’Tis been so long since I’ve danced, I’m unsure.” The half truth nearly made her wince. She’d danced with Silas in the barn but a fortnight before . . .
Jemma snapped her fan shut, eyes on Elspeth. “I’ll go ask Mr. Ballantyne which he prefers. ’Tis his music we’ll be dancing to, after all.”
Silas began tuning his instrument, occasionally looking up to keep apace of the growing crowd. Across the gleaming parquet floor, David Greathouse was stationed at the ballroom’s double doors, greeting his tenants and other York folk while his cousin sliced through the throng in Silas’s direction. Wearing sapphire silk, Jemma was hard to miss, and her arrival at the small stage upon which Silas stood was creating a stir. It served as a cue that the dancing would soon begin. Guests slowly began to clear the ballroom floor, though their excited chatter never lessened.
“Good evening, Mr. Ballantyne.” Jemma’s forthright manner had endeared her to Silas in the short time he’d known her. She smiled up at him and seemed to ease the social chasm that separated them. “My cousin and I would like to lead out with ‘Sir Roger de Coverly.’ Is that familiar to you?”
He felt a striking relief. “Aye,” he answered. It was the tune most preferred by the Americans, much like a Scots reel, and he knew it well enough.
She toyed with her fan as it dangled from her wrist, her round face luminous in the light of the lusters. “David will partner with Eden Lee after that. Have you a second tune in mind?”
Turning, he conferred with the other musicians, a ragtag lot of York men in their modest best. “The minuet,” he told her, “in three-quarter time.”
“Very well,” Jemma said, looking pleased. “After that you may play whatever you wish—or take requests.”
She turned away, leaving him to draw his bow across each string, judging the sweetness of the tone. The black dress coat Margaret had lent him lay across the back of his chair, mayhap one of the master’s own. It was too confining for fiddling, and though the room was cold, he’d soon grow warm in his shirtsleeves. A trickle of perspiration brought on by apprehension coursed down his back, reminding him he had no wish to be here among these people, as musician or tradesman or otherwise.
He watched Jemma walk past Elspeth with nary a nod as she stood to one side of the stage. Noticed, too, the tightening of Elspeth’s features at the snub. Observing it, Silas felt a swell of sympathy for her. What, he wondered, made one daughter desirable and the other an outcast? That the residents of Hope Rising favored Eden was apparent. He didn’t blame them. Her simplicity, her generous spirit, tugged at his own head and heart when he let it.
At the center of the ballroom, Greathouse was making a toast to the workers and to a successful ice harvest. Though they’d not gotten the coveted three tons, the icehouses were full and there was plenty of cold punch and the requisite syllabub to be had—a necessity for the long night ahead. ’Twas but eight o’clock. The laird wanted the dancing to go on till dawn. There’d be a few brief breaks spanning those hours and a light supper at midnight. Though a far cry from the duke of Atholl’s assemblies, the gathering was impressive for York County. Americans had big ambitions, Silas mused. Now that the war was won, he guessed there was little to stop them.
Just below, Elspeth was looking at him, and he gave her a slight smile. He hadn’t seen Eden but felt responsible for them both, as Liege had made it abundantly clear he was. Come the wee hours, he’d have to escort them home. A glance at a door opening to a balcony told him snow was still tumbling down. It would be a cold, bright walk and they’d need no lantern light.
Positioning his violin, he nodded at his fellow fiddlers and started the count before he struck the reel’s opening chord. The rhythm was so infectious he could see a hundred heads nodding and feet tapping about the large room. Every strained muscle, every bit of weariness from the day-long harvest, began to recede as he played.
A great many couples joined David and Jemma for the long, rousing reel, their fancy dress a brilliant kaleidoscope of color. Though Silas was more intent on the music than the dancers, he looked up the precise moment Eden took the floor. A freshet of heat that had nothing to do with his exuberant fiddling shot through him.
Greathouse was gazing down at her, making her seem as small as a doll in a dress that was more flower than garment. Silk buttons held her skirts aloft for the dancing, revealing a richly quilted petticoat and kid slippers. Pearl combs were set like a crown atop her head, sweeping back her fiery hair in faultless curls rather than sending it plummeting unfashionably down her back. Out of drab wool, she was transformed. Not a blacksmith’s daughter. Nor a girl-of-all-work. A rare beauty.
As he looked on, a stitch of concern lanced him. Is that your intent, lass? To make the laird fall in love with you?
His bow seemed unsteady. He forced himself to look away, to pay attention to the intricacies of the minuet and naught else. Pages of music were spread on the ornate mahogany stand before him—Corelli, Handel, Haydn, the Earl of Kelly—but he couldn’t read a note. Her image seemed burned in his brain, and he doubted even Scots whiskey could dislodge it. ’Twas a relief to move on to the English country dances and quadrilles. When he looked up again, she was lost in the crowd, but he had little time to lament the fact. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elspeth leaving out a side door.
He finished the set and excused himself, exchanging his fiddle for his coat. It seemed an age before he’d navigated the crowd and gained the door Elspeth had just exited. The veranda outside was slick; he had to cross with care to where she was standing. Snowflakes lay on her hair and shoulders like a gossamer scarf, and her back was to the ballroom in rigid defiance.
He draped the coat over her shivering shoulders and worked to keep his tone even. “Why are you not dancing?”
“Why?” She looked up at him, tearstains frozen on her face. “Because no one asks.”
“How can they when you’re standing out here in the cold?”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m here or there, not when Eden is the favored one.”
There was a petulant tone to her words he didn’t like, though he understood her hurt. “I ken what it’s like to play second fiddle to someone. To be overlooked. Ignored.”
“You?” Her expression was disbelieving.
“I’m naught but a poor apprentice who was but a poor fiddler’s son before that.”
“But your father was in the duke of Atholl’s employ—”
“For a few shillings per engagement. Not enough to feed a family or keep his land, what little there was of it.” He paused, feeling the weight of those lean years roll over him, wanting to move past them rather than resurrect them. “There will always be servants and masters, the favored and unfavored. Hold your head up and rise above it.”
“’Tis hard to do with a sister who is always flaunting her favors.” She faced him, the fire of jealousy in her eyes. “Did you see the dress she has on?”
&
nbsp; Aye, to his everlasting regret. “’Tis not my concern, nor yours. Come back into the ballroom.”
“But—”
“I have to return to playing.”
She stiffened, tugging his coat closer about her shoulders. “You promised me a dance.”
Impatience needled him. Och, but she was a handful and a half. “Aye, I did, but I’ll not do so on a frozen porch and risk our necks.”
Turning away, he went back into the ballroom. She followed none too meekly, though she did return his coat to the stage. Only ten o’clock. The night would be long indeed. Withholding a groan, he reached for his fiddle. At least where he was going there’d be none of this foolishness. He had to endure but a few more months of the Lees.
Eden noted the moment Elspeth left the ballroom and felt keenly the instant Silas went after her. Jemma’s chattering turned shrill in her ear, and the pastry she was eating became mush in her mouth. Without the force and skill of Silas’s playing, his presence, the middling musicians seemed like wax figures upon the stage. She felt a glowing pride in his abilities and then pointed alarm when he disappeared.
Oh, Lord, let it not happen again. Please . . .
Fixing her eye on the door they’d both exited, she felt her heartbeat quicken. Had it been almost a year since Elspeth had coerced David into a secluded corner and disgraced herself? Everyone at Hope Rising knew she’d tried to seduce him, beginning with that bold kiss. A sickening trepidation crept over Eden at the memory. Would her sister now do the same with Silas? Murmuring she needed some air, she began pushing her way through the crowd toward the dreaded door. One man, then two, barred her way and begged her to dance.
“No, thank you . . . not right now, thank you.”
Her voice held desperation. Long seconds ticked by in a sort of agony. Though she fixed her gaze on the nearest window, she could see little for the darkness outside. Suppose she found them in an embrace? The barest thought of it left her shaking. She was nearly to the door when it opened a bit forcefully. Silas entered, head down in a bid to be discreet, perhaps. Seconds later her sister followed, draped in fine broadcloth. The thought that Silas had set it about her sister’s shoulders rubbed her raw.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Eden?”
She looked up into the flushed face of the gunsmith’s son. Slowly they joined the press of dancers scuffing the newly laid floor as Silas took the stage and struck a cotillion. One partner . . . two . . . four. The evening passed in a sort of haze, leaving her thirsty and flushed, the distillation of sweat and spirits swirling like the couples all around her.
As the clock chimed eleven, Silas stood before her. He bent low over her hand in invitation and she curtsied, feeling a bit dazed as a Scots reel was struck. He’d claimed her in private. Would he now claim her publicly? This was no barn dance. She felt the heat of his hands through the silk of her gown as he clasped her waist.
The intensity of his gaze shook her, dark with passion and purpose and things unspoken. She couldn’t look away . . . couldn’t think. It might have been but the two of them, their pairing was so consuming, pushing everyone else to the far corners of the room. Her tumbled feelings left her breathless, and she could no longer shove aside a daunting realization.
Elspeth was not the only one smitten with a poor Scots apprentice.
’Twas snowing again. The purity of the morning solaced Silas somewhat, seemed a balm for his brooding. Though Hope Rising’s revelry had ended at four o’clock, he’d gotten little sleep. The hour he’d lain down he’d done naught but stare at the garret rafters, thoughts of Eden keeping him awake. At first light he’d traipsed through knee-deep snow to the barn, hoping to cool his thoughts as he readied the horses and sleigh to return to Hope Rising.
Greathouse had insisted he take the sisters home in his colonial cutter, though Silas suspected it was Eden he was most mindful of. The certainty had come to him slowly, crystallizing the moment the laird had led her onto the dance floor. Watching them, Silas was violently catapulted back to the past—to the eve of his sister’s staining. ’Twas at a tenants’ ball the duke’s son had claimed Naomi Ballantyne for a dance. Too bonny by half—and utterly naïve—she’d succumbed to that reel with Jamie Murray. And far more.
His hands worked the leather harness with its bells and brass trim in rough bursts, belying his turmoil. The matching grays bumped about in their stalls as if sensing his disquiet. As he prepared to hitch them to the sleigh—so new that wax still adhered to the runners—he heard the whine of the barn door as it opened. Liege? No one had been astir when he’d passed through the house minutes before. ’Twas the Sabbath, after all.
He kept working—fastening, buckling, tightening—aware that he wasn’t alone. But he hardly expected Eden to be the one watching. Not when she’d fallen asleep in the sleigh and he’d shaken her awake, thinking he’d have to carry her up the stairs.
“Silas?”
His efforts stilled. What, he wondered, did she call Greathouse when alone with him?
“What are you doing at this hour?” Her gentle question held a touching concern. Why, then, did it feel like salt upon a wound?
“Come now, Eden,” he echoed tersely, not looking up, the harness frigid in his hands. “What does it look like?”
“You’re returning the sleigh. That I can see.” She came closer, surprising him. The force of his voice all but ordered her out of the barn.
Letting go of the leather trappings, he faced her. But it was Naomi he saw, so bonny and blithesome, her eyes a vivid lichen-green.
Her voice was soft. “You’re upset.”
His anger cooled in light of her tenderness. “I’ve no quarrel with you, Eden.”
“Oh?” She stepped closer. “Then why is there such fire in your eyes . . . your voice?”
Once his sister had asked him the same. They’d stood a few paces apart in a sheep barn as he was choosing ewes from a pen of yearlings. Only he’d been but a bumbling boy and had no answer. But now . . .
“I’m not upset with you, Eden, but Greathouse.”
“Master David?”
“Aye.”
“Has he done you some harm?”
“Nae . . . though he may.”
“Though he may?” Her tone, her expression, was rife with disbelief. David could do no wrong, she seemed to say, and he, Silas Ballantyne, could do no right. “What mean you?”
Taking a measured breath, he tried to push past emotion to sound reason, but the heat of his temper had the upper hand. “What d’ye know of life, Eden? Men?”
She flushed. “I—David is but a neighbor, a friend. He’s . . .”
“He’s a man. And I fear he’ll take advantage of your charms.”
“My . . . charms?” Confusion marred her features. “You must be imagining things—”
“Wheesht, Eden!” He ran a hand over his jaw, done with her naïveté. “I am not a blind man! I’ve seen the way he looks at you—”
“What?” She flushed a deeper rose. “David doesn’t—couldn’t—care for me—couldn’t love me—”
“I said naught about love, ye ken.” His Scots was so thick, so passionate, he doubted she got the gist of it. But the stricken look on her face assured him she did. Yet she was innocent of all this, he remembered. Untried. Untouched. Unlike Elspeth. She deserved some explanation for his outburst. He gentled his tone, glad for the duskiness of the barn. “At home—in Scotlain—I watched the duke’s son make sport with my sister. I’ll not stay silent and see the same happen with you and Hope Rising’s heir.”
Turning away, she stood with slumped shoulders. He could sense her shock, her working through all the shameful implications. Likely no man had ever spoken to her so bluntly. But what choice did he have? He resumed his work, only to be caught short by her quiet question.
“You have a sister?”
“Had, Eden.” His chest grew heavy, his thoughts muddy. “She died in childbed, bearing Sir Jamie’s son.”
The silen
ce lengthened and then she came nearer, her fingers touching the loose sleeve of the shirt she’d made him. “What was her name?”
Her name . . . The gentle question brought about a shattering ache. He’d not spoken it in years. “Naomi.”
“’Tis beautiful.”
“’Tis biblical. Like yours . . . mine.” He met her eyes. He couldn’t help it. There seemed to be an invisible cord that bound them, forged in the secrecy of the stairwell, keen and heartfelt. A tear spotted her cheek, sliding to her chin. He ached to brush it away, but the sudden mist in his own eyes caught him off guard. “I care for you like a sister, Eden. I do not want you hurt.”
Her eyes shone in the shadows. She swallowed hard and let go of his sleeve. “I’m sorry for your loss, Silas. For all of them. ’Tis one too many.”
She was remembering his family, Scotland, as he was, and his warning about Greathouse seemed to be lost in a cloud of melancholy. He’d learned not to dwell on the past. He’d not thought to mention it now.
“Take care, ye ken,” he told her, returning them to the matter at hand. “If he should ever hurt you, lay a hand on you—”
“Silas, please.” Alarm framed her lovely features. “Think no more of it.”
She turned away, and he feared she wouldn’t heed his warning. The allure of Hope Rising was too great. And her trust in David Greathouse was too deep. She was, like Naomi, so utterly and breathtakingly naïve. The thought of a man making free with her modesty, destroying her beauty and innocence in a swirl of lust, twisted his gut into a fierce knot.
God help her . . .
God help me.
17
That which is escaped now is pain to come.
Samuel Johnson
Though more than a month had passed since Silas had spoken so plainly to her in the barn, Eden’s cheeks still burned at the memory. She avoided both him and David, her whole world upended by his strong words, before deciding his warning was simply clouded by the pain of his past. David was but a childhood friend. Not once had he behaved in anything but a gentlemanly fashion. Even lately, when she’d sensed something stirring beneath the surface of their long-standing friendship, his manner was as careful and deferential as Silas’s own.