by Laura Frantz
And Silas? She was like a sister to him. He’d simply spoken out of concern and affection. Still, this free speaking hurt her, as did the matter of Naomi and her babe. Their story haunted, trailing after her day and night. She felt a gnawing need to know what happened to Sir Jamie and Naomi’s child but dared not ask. Only within the pages of her journal did she spill out her muddled feelings . . .
“Eden Rose, don’t stand there staring!”
The vicious snap of Elspeth’s voice returned her to the steamy kitchen and Jon’s wailing and her own soapy hands.
“The babe is crying, and Mama has gone to York. Do something!”
Elspeth stood at the trestle table, punching down a mound of dough with both fists. Since she and Silas had returned from yesterday’s Sabbath service, Elspeth had been in a high temper. Wary, Eden gave her wide berth. But now, with Mama missing, they’d been thrust together and it was Elspeth giving orders.
“Hurry and test the oven, then tend to Jon!”
Abandoning the dishes she’d been scrubbing, Eden went to the hearth, held her hand in the beehive oven, and counted to ten to test the heat before hurrying to her parents’ bedchamber. When she leaned over Jon’s cradle, he quieted, his plump face breaking into a sunny smile. Her heart twisted.
“Oh, wee one, you are such a sweet babe.”
His tiny hand brushed her cheek as she lifted him and nuzzled his milk-scented neck, the linen of his swaddling smelling of dried lavender from her garden. Moving past Thomas asleep on the trundle bed, she glanced out the window. The March day held such spring-like warmth she was pulled to the front door. Closing it quietly, she walked through new grass toward the kitchen garden, gaze drifting across the zigzag fence of the pasture where the wheat and flax fields awaited seed. In years past Papa had traded planting and plowing for ironwork so that he could continue to man the smithy. This year he was relying on Silas instead.
Turning a corner, she was startled to find Silas standing at the edge of her herb bed, shovel in hand. The cold earth had been hand-turned and needed but half a day of stone picking to ready it for seed. ’Twas a task she’d always seen to till blisters spotted her palms. Had he done this for her? Gratitude welled inside her and she smiled her thanks. They’d not spoken in so long she felt suddenly tongue-tied.
Leaning on his shovel, he raked calloused fingers through his hair and glanced at Jon, answering her question before she’d even asked it. “The day is too fine to be confined to the forge.”
Immediately she sensed something amiss. Had he and Papa had words? His features held a telling restlessness, and he was looking west again, as he so often did. It made her melancholy, as if he couldn’t attend to the beauty at hand, and it was everywhere. All around them the land was slowly coming to life beneath the strengthening sun, its brightness dotted with wisps of clouds. Mares’ tails, Grandpa Gallatin had called them, galloping across the delft-blue sky.
“I’ll spend but one spring in this place,” he said.
But one? Eden looked at him, her perplexity swelling. All the loose ends of late now came together at his words. Was this why Elspeth was so fractious? Had the matter of marriage been broached and shot down? Jon gave a little cry, and she shifted him in her arms, aware of his hunger but hesitant to feed him just yet.
“Are you leaving? Earlier than October?” The need to know raised a great lump in her throat. “Where are you going?”
His shovel struck dirt again. “I’ll tell you where I’m going, Eden, if you’ll tell me where you’re going.”
She took a step back, surprised by the keen light in his eyes, as if they shared some secret. Did he know about Philadelphia? She felt a whisper of alarm. How could he?
“I—I must see to Jon.” With that, she spun away, hurrying to the house. As her hand touched the kitchen door, she was startled by the rasp of Papa’s voice as he came out of the smithy.
“Silas! I must speak with you.”
The gruff words bespoke a heated confrontation. She’d not heard such ire in her father’s voice since he’d sparred with the last apprentice. Except George White had never stood up to the master. She sensed Silas had, and now Papa was defensive as a wounded bear.
Silas leaned the shovel against the wattle fence and began walking toward the smithy, his every step rife with resistance. Aye, something had indeed transpired. And it boded ill for them all. Her dread deepened when her father slammed the smithy’s side door.
Lord, help him . . . protect him, please.
“Nae.” Raising his hammer, Silas resumed his work as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “I came here to fulfill a contract, not take a wife.”
Across from him Liege stood, hands on hips, face reddening. “Lay your hammer down, man, and speak reason. You well know ’tis tradition for an apprentice to marry into the master’s family. ’Tis not a country custom. They do it oft enough in Philadelphia.”
Silas gave the pike a heavy blow. “Tradition does not dictate my actions. ’Tis business between us, no more.” He thrust the white-hot metal into the cooling trough, and a fierce sizzle filled the room.
Liege threw up his hands. “Is it a common Scots trait to be blind and unreasonable—and immune to a woman’s charms?” His aggravated voice carried to the far rafters. “There are a great many men who’d gladly have my eldest daughter.”
“Then why is she not wed?”
Liege swiped at his damp brow and stepped away from the forge’s fire. “No one has suited her till now. ’Tis you she favors. Being sharp-minded, she knows what such a pairing means. This will all be yours—and Elspeth’s. Business has tripled since your coming. I’ve scarce the ledgers to keep up. Soon you’ll find yourself with enough coin to do as you please, go where you please. One day the Ballantyne name will be spoken of from here to Philadelphia.”
Silas shook his head. “Men do not grow rich forging iron in small smithies.”
“Who’s to say we cannot?” Liege erupted with a sudden cackle, his mood shifting. “Your purse is only as big as your dream.”
“I’ll not wed your oldest daughter,” Silas said again, “bonny though she may be.”
“May be? You’re a blind man! She is bonny! Are you betrothed, then? Intended for another?”
“Nae.”
“Then why such caution?” Liege brought his hand to bear on the nearest table. “Speak, man! Speak!”
Silas fell silent, inspecting his work, refusing to answer. He could sense Liege’s simmering was reaching a slow boil, and he prayed for patience, refusing to become embroiled in the scheme. But the master was not letting up this morning.
Liege circled the forge, his voice low and barbed. “You may sing a different tune when I terminate your contract.”
“Then you shall have no apprentice or wedding,” Silas replied, striking a clamorous blow to the pike as if to punctuate his words.
“Leave off your hammering and listen to me.” Liege faced him, tearing off his apron. “If you’ll not have Elspeth, how about Eden?”
The question was so mercenary, so coldly stated, Silas nearly flinched. His grip tightened on his hammer till his knuckles whitened. “So you do not care who I wed, just that I take one of them to wife?”
A loud banging on the smithy door spared him Liege’s answer. Silas resumed his work, lost in a deluge of unwanted desires as the master turned away. Every hammer blow was a bit harder and high-toned. He bent the iron mercilessly, wishing he could do the same with his emotions. But it seemed Eden stood at his elbow, shadowing him, strengthening their tie.
When, he wondered moodily, had he lost his heart to her?
The snowy day he’d seen her dancing down the lane? The night she’d snuck into the stairwell and brought him both razor and shirt? When Greathouse claimed her for a dance?
God forgive him, but he couldn’t dislodge the memory of her in her purple gown, the small perfection of her waist, the lush lines of all the rest of her. Countless times in his dreams he’d pre
ssed his mouth to hers, felt the silk of her skin against his work-worn fingers.
She haunted him.
He’d come here not wanting any entanglements, had meant to simply bide his time and go. But lately, despite his prayers and precautions, all his carefully constructed defenses had come crashing down. In the weeks since the ice harvest, he’d ached to hear her in the stairwell, but she hadn’t come. He’d even entertained the foolish notion of wedding her and taking her west, the place she clearly had no desire to go. And now, Liege Lee had put temptation in his path and he found it nearly irresistible.
“I’ll give you a month to make up your mind,” Liege spat at him.
Silas turned round, the sledge slack in his hand, schooling his expression against the force of the ultimatum. The forge was empty now save the two of them. Liege had sent the farmer on his way.
“’Tis Elspeth or Eden,” Liege said. “Or you’ll be without a trade—and a roof o’er your head.”
18
But, oh! What mighty magician can assuage a woman’s envy?
George Granville, Lord Lansdowne
Elspeth looked up from her sewing, eyes on Eden, who mended across the parlor, one foot absently rocking Jon’s cradle. The tender sight set her teeth on edge but was less annoying without Silas there. She’d caught him looking at Eden on more than one occasion of late—or fancied he did. But tonight he’d absented himself and gone straight to the garret room after supper, thus sparing her any further suspicions.
“There’s a fever going round,” Mama lamented, watching Silas depart with a worried cast to her features. “His color is a bit high.”
Threading her needle, Elspeth listened to his tread upon the stair. “Last night he came in well past midnight from playing at another frolic. ’Tis a wonder he can swing a hammer like he does.”
Still, she sensed his absence was another matter entirely. Papa had forced the issue of marriage, and Silas had balked. It could be nothing else. Though she’d sensed a confrontation coming, she’d feared Silas’s response. She sensed his resistance in the stubborn set of his shoulders, the unyielding line of his jaw. The way he wouldn’t look at her.
Papa, you might well have gambled and lost.
Never had she met a man who’d not given in to her. Therefore the fault couldn’t be hers but his. Silas was as cold as stone. Granted, winning him had merely been a game at first. She’d simply wanted him to take notice, to look at her with the light of wanting in his eyes, and then it was she who’d succumbed. The long, hard-muscled length of him, the beguiling glint in his green eyes, the uncanny way he mastered every task, had turned him tempting as lemon tart to her hungry eyes.
Now, her gaze drifting to Eden, a shattering thought accosted her. Might he desire Eden instead? Lately the two of them seemed thrust together at every turn. She’d spied them at the edge of the garden, in the barn, by the woodpile. Having curried the Greathouses’ favor, would Eden now steal Silas too?
Mama’s voice sounded from a corner of the room. “Elspeth, let me examine your stitching.”
Elspeth tried to smile and be obliging lest Mama sense her sour mood. But Mama rarely rebuked her. Even when she’d disgraced them all by bearing an illegitimate child, Mama had stayed silent. Elspeth glanced at the door, wishing Silas back, praying Papa would stay in the smithy with the ledgers. ’Twas just she, Mama, and Eden tonight. The children were abed.
Getting up, she took the pillowslip she’d been working on to her mother, who clucked in approval at the tedious embroidery. “Your dower chest is nearly full.”
Aye, overflowing. Lately she’d snuck a few of Eden’s linens to add to her own. The embroidered E in scarlet thread was easily exchanged, and Eden, weak-willed as she was, wouldn’t attempt to take them back even if she discovered the theft. Still, a sliver of guilt pricked her. Hadn’t the last Sabbath sermon been clear enough?
Thou shalt not steal.
Well, lightning hadn’t struck her for her sins thus far, and she’d done much worse.
The next morning Papa summoned them to the winter parlor. Silas was at the forge—Eden could hear the reassuring ring of his hammer beyond thickly timbered walls. The sound steadied her a bit, though her porridge churned uneasily in her stomach. As Mama cleared the breakfast dishes away in the dining room, Papa stood by the fire, a black sternness on his narrow face. His gaze shifted from her to Elspeth as they stood before him shoulder to shoulder, heads down like two schoolgirls about to get a scolding.
Though Elspeth was rarely skittish, Eden sensed a telling nervousness about her sister that fueled her own angst. Had this meeting to do with Silas? Since they’d last spoken at the edge of the garden three days past and he’d been so troubled, Eden felt on tenterhooks. And now Papa’s close perusal left her a bit breathless.
“Things have taken a turn with Silas,” he said in low tones. “Be ready to wed by month’s end.”
Slowly Eden looked up. His hard eyes fastened on her and didn’t let go. He spoke not to Elspeth, who wanted to wed . . . but her. A cold hand clutched her heart. She groped for words, but no sound came.
“Why do you address Eden, Papa? What is this ‘month’s end’ you speak of?” Elspeth’s tone turned a bit shrill, her chin quivering with suppressed emotion. “I beg to know what has happened with Silas—”
“Silence!” Papa clamped his pipe stem between discolored teeth, his words compressed but nonetheless forceful. “I’ve told Silas he’s to wed one of you by month’s end or he’ll be turned out, his contract terminated.”
“One of us?” Elspeth looked desperate, disbelieving. “You mean Eden, don’t you? You’re looking straight at her! Papa, how could you? I’ve told you for months now ’tis I who wish to wed him—” With a stamp of her foot, she burst into tears, turning Eden numb with embarrassment as she felt for a handkerchief.
“Keep a tame tongue in your head, Daughter! The choice is his to make, not mine. Circumstances have forced my hand. He seems intent on leaving York. I’ve proof.” He reached into the folds of his shirt and withdrew a letter.
The sight left Eden sick. Silas had given her that letter and a few pence to mail it a fortnight ago. Had Papa intercepted the post? She looked closer. This paper lacked Silas’s bold flourish and was to him, not from him. She watched in silent misery as Elspeth took the letter from his extended hand.
“’Tis from the factor of Fort Pitt. But why?” She opened it and scanned the contents, a smirk marring her tearstained features. “They have a position for him as blacksmith, and land as incentive? So he wants to go west into the wilderness? Likely he’ll be scalped by the savages first!”
She thrust the letter at Eden, who took it reluctantly, bringing it behind her back with a trembling hand. Had they noticed? Nay. They were too busy talking—plotting—their combined voices buzzing like angry bees in her ears. Thankfully, Mama came and asked for help with Thomas and Jon. Eden went gladly toward the sound of their wailing, pocketing the letter, still reeling from Papa’s pronouncement.
Had Silas stated his preference for her over Elspeth after Papa forced his hand? Was that why Papa’s eyes had pinned her and led to Elspeth’s storm of tears?
Oh, Silas, is it your wish to wed me? After saying I was naught but a sister?
Steps quickening, she burst through the door of her parents’ bedchamber, a maelstrom of emotions seething inside her. Thomas quieted as she made a beeline for the cradle and took Jon to the trundle bed. There she lay down with them both, hugging them to her grease-spackled dress.
Her heart was thumping wildly—her head seemed split in two. Though she tried to keep her thoughts in check, they leapt out of bounds repeatedly, stirring her imaginings in wild ways. What if she was to lie down not with these wee ones but with a husband . . . Silas? What if it was his breath she felt warm against her cheek? His hands entwined in her tousled hair? His child she carried?
The possibilities pierced her and made slush of her insides. Such intimate thoughts, never bef
ore pondered, were both frightening and . . . pleasing. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt hot tears trickle down her face onto the babes’ heads. Jon quieted as she cried harder, while Thomas patted her cheek with a gentle hand. The intercepted letter to Silas lay crumpled in her pocket, a jumble of ink and misbegotten dreams.
’Twas nearly midnight. Silas moved the twin tapers nearer till light gilded the dun-colored paper a rich gold. But he hardly needed the illumination. He’d studied the map of the disputed western lands of Pennsylvania till they seemed engraved upon his very soul. Blessed with a keen sense of direction, he knew if the map was flawed he’d still stay the course, even in the chilly thaw of spring, be it crossing swollen rivers or climbing greening ridges. He just hadn’t planned to be on his way west so soon.
One month.
One month to wed or head into the wilderness. Leaning back in his chair till it groaned beneath his weight, he crossed his arms, eyes on the Franklin stove. Since Liege had given his ultimatum, Silas had prayed and pondered the proper course, refusing to give in to either anger or despair, knowing the Lord could handle Liege Lee if he couldn’t. Till month’s end he’d continue to do what he’d come here to do—work iron. And wait.
Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which He will shew to you today . . . The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.
The words from Exodus seemed to shore up his soul, his confidence, in unexpected, needful ways. On their heels, his mother’s voice returned to him from a far-off place, bringing with it the memory of firelight and Scripture reading and doves cooing in the croft’s farthest reaches.