by Laura Frantz
“Sweeter now that he’s supping on more than milk. Mama’s trying to wean him as he tires her so.”
Margaret tucked a ginger biscuit into one of Jon’s dimpled hands. He turned it over, such a study of contemplation they both laughed. “He seems to be a deep thinker,” Margaret mused with a chuckle. “At least where his stomach is concerned.”
Eden took a sip of tea, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grimace. “Margaret, are you brewing something new?”
The question was followed by Margaret’s knowing nod. “Thee are in need of some headache powders, Eden. I can see it in thy eyes.”
Medicinal tea? “’Tis kind of you.” She forced herself to take a second sip. “Now that the harvest is nearly over and the larder is full, I’m sure I’ll mend.”
Despite Eden’s hopeful words, Margaret’s expression indicated doubt. “I asked David to go to the apothecary on his recent trip to Philadelphia. He consulted Dr. Rush, who prescribed the powders.”
Eden thanked her, eyes on Jon as he gnawed his biscuit. “Actually, my mind isn’t on my own malady but someone else’s.” She took a breath. “I’m worried about Mama.”
The sudden surprise in Margaret’s countenance nearly stole her courage. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but she felt an overwhelming need to know, to settle matters in her mind, before leaving home for good. “Since the fire, Mama hasn’t been herself. Actually, before the fire, she and Papa had words about the past. I know you and Mama used to be friends. I remember her coming to Hope Rising when I was small. I thought . . . perhaps you’d know what the trouble was back then.”
The silence stretched long and uncomfortable. “’Twas long ago, Eden. I scarcely recall it.” Margaret looked down at Jon, her expression strained. “The Lord desires us to dwell on what is pure and lovely and of good report, does He not?”
“Yes,” Eden echoed, dismayed. Within Margaret’s carefully couched words was her answer. Whatever Mama had been a part of, ’twas not pure or lovely or of good report. Curiosity and confusion welled inside her, only whetting her need to know a hundredfold. Yet further questions seemed to stick in her throat.
Forcing a smile, Margaret gave a bounce to the babe on her knees. “Let’s speak of other things—like the changes coming to thy household. Is it true the gunsmith’s son is often there?”
Eden sipped the unpleasant tea, finding it far less galling than this subject. “Papa wants someone to take Silas’s place once he leaves.”
She nodded. “David says he is bound for the West—Fort Pitt. York is not to his liking.”
“He feels the Lord leading him into the wilderness,” she said carefully, eyes averted. “I wish him well, wherever he goes.”
The clock struck three, and Margaret waited till it finished chiming to say quietly, “I must admit I had once hoped . . . that thee and Silas . . .”
Eden set down her cup with a clatter. “I’d best be going. Jon is in need of a nap.” She brushed ginger crumbs from his chin and hoisted him on her hip. He looked about with a satisfied smile, waving a wee hand and lightening the somber mood. “Please thank Master David for the headache powders.”
She stepped out into the bright but fading glory of late summer, fearing she’d hurt Margaret by being so abrupt, wishing she’d not discussed Mama but had confided about Silas instead. The burden of secrets seemed heavy as lead. Elspeth wasn’t the only one hiding things. Mama and even Margaret had secrets all their own.
Three weeks. The time left in York County rode Silas like a burr. Giles Esh was coming round more often now, tarrying at the shop as if it was already his, garnering more attention from Elspeth, given that it was she who worked by his side. For that he was thankful. He couldn’t ask Eden how she managed to elude Giles, nor could he inquire about the dark circles beneath her eyes and the telling leanness of her willowy form. A dozen pairs of eyes seemed to be on them all the time.
She’s unwell, something whispered inside him, checking his anticipation. What if she was unable to go west? He set the dire thought aside repeatedly, doggedly preparing for their departure. Though they’d only whispered about it in passing, the first leg of their journey would be marked with a wedding. Pastor McCheyne had joyfully agreed to marry them, waiving the usual banns. It was an old colonial custom, he’d said, in need of changing. They’d need only a license.
On their wedding night, they’d lodge at Ferry Tavern, the last civilized outpost Silas knew of before passing over the mountains. He had enough coin to keep them well fed every league of their journey, if not a roof over their heads. Fort Pitt was still a dream, but one now within his grasp. With Eden beside him, the great distance would fade to mere inches . . .
Shifting in his chair by the window, he breathed in the scent of hot cider and cinnamon, strong and sweet. It threaded through the winter parlor, the very essence of autumn. For a moment he was cast back to the unending orchards of Blair Castle with their gnarled, low-hanging branches bursting with aldermans and lemon queens and lass o’Bowries. A far cry from the American varieties Liege touted. Still, he’d made note of those apples in his journal, for his and Eden’s orchard years hence. Newtown pippins and Roxbury russets and winesaps, to name but a few.
“Would you care for some cider, Silas?”
Mrs. Lee was at his elbow with a steaming mug. He took it, murmuring his thanks, aware of the scrape of Liege’s cane across the plank floor as he made his way down the hall to bed. ’Twas only eight. Elspeth sat sewing across from Eden by the hearth. The bairns were asleep.
He checked the impulse to follow Liege and tell him he would be taking Eden with him. Best not do so till the very day. He was less troubled about Liege’s response than Elspeth’s. Their leaving was bound to turn explosive, as she was wranglesome as a keg of powder. He’d not provoke her till Eden was well beyond her vindictive reach. As it was, she lingered nearby every waking minute as if determined they not be left alone together, as if hoping she might somehow win his affection in the end. Even now she was staring at him openly, her voice low.
“Mama, I’m going upstairs. I’m feeling poorly.”
Silas detected the falseness in her tone before she’d even risen from her chair. He didn’t look at her. He swallowed some cider, his eyes on the low flames licking the kettle in the hearth’s ashes. If she was ill, it likely had to do with running amok. Two nights prior he’d seen her slipping through the trees behind the barn to meet someone, somewhere. His heart had lurched. Her hair had been unbound much like Eden’s, as if Elspeth meant to trick him into thinking it was she instead.
Nae, his Eden would not play him false.
Even now she was looking at him, sewing forgotten in her lap, a spark of hope in her expression, as if daring to think they might be left alone. He set his book aside and glanced at Mrs. Lee. Quietly, as if adhering to some prearranged plan, she withdrew out the same door Elspeth had passed through minutes before and shut it softly behind her.
For a moment neither he nor Eden moved, then he tugged the curtain closed, eyes returning to the door before resting on her. He ached to touch her, to breathe in her soft scent unhindered. No bairns. No overbearing father. No volatile sister. In mere days they would be left alone to experience the mystery . . . and they shall be one flesh. As he thought it, his heart seemed about to burst its banks. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper on which he’d penned a particular Scripture—a promise to carry them through the dwindling days.
I will betroth thee unto me forever.
“Silas . . .” Eden stood across the room, the candlelight calling out all the unforgettable details he loved—the clear depths of her blue eyes, the irrepressible warmth of her expression, every fire-threaded strand of her hair.
He left his chair and went to her, tucked the paper in her palm, and was rewarded with her soft smile. When his hands cupped her shoulders, he nearly shuddered from his need of her. “Soon I’ll not have to bid you good night.” His lips grazed the soft curve of her ear as he bent his head,
half-forgetting to listen, to be alert. “You’ll be by my side . . . forever.”
“Forever,” she whispered, “is hardly long enough.”
Yet even as she said it, he knew how frightening it must be for her to leave the only home she’d ever known—and her mother, Thomas, and Jon. She’d not even been as far as Philadelphia.
She rested her head against his chest. “I’m almost ready. I’ve packed my things . . .”
“Am I to haul your dower chest o’er the Alleghenies, then?” he asked with a smile, not caring if he had to.
“Just one old saddlebag—and me—atop Sparrow.” Tilting her head to one side, she looked up at him, tempting him to do more than simply rest his hands on her shoulders.
“Upon my soul, Eden.” His throat tightened. He nearly couldn’t speak. “You tie a man in knots . . .”
“Then kiss me and be done with it, Silas.” She was all seriousness now, eyes dark with purpose. She placed her hands upon the broad level of his shoulders, surprising him. He kissed her then—or mayhap she kissed him. Their mingled desire nearly brought him to his knees. To counter it, he widened his stance and held her a bit less hungrily, his back to the door.
When the door flew open with the creak of a rusty hinge, he nearly cursed his folly. The telling surprise on Eden’s face foretold the worst. His hands fell away as he turned toward the intrusion. Elspeth crossed the threshold, stiff and defiant, fists clenched at her sides. Silas held her gaze, rebuking her with a look for her rude entry, while Eden gathered up her sewing and left through the kitchen.
He expected Elspeth to speak, to poison the room with the spite contorting her fair features. A dozen retorts were on his tongue if she did. God forgive him, but the sight of her turned his stomach. When she spun on her heel to follow Eden up the stair—to berate her in private, no doubt—he started after her, only to be checked by a startling thought.
Love your enemies . . . Pray for those who persecute you.
Every ounce of his will rebelled at the unmistakable prompt. Nae, this command was simply too much.
Eden braced herself for the onslaught of Elspeth’s wrath, well aware she was on her heels as they climbed the stairs to their room. The silence was rife with withheld secrets, of smoldering passion and thwarted hopes. For a fleeting moment Eden felt a glimmer of compassion for her sister, and then it was smothered by fear. Elspeth was so volatile one never knew which way she’d strike—nor how deep. Before Silas’s coming, any trouble had simply arisen over a coveted chore or dress, not a man. Not Silas Ballantyne.
The stakes were far too high.
Eden began to undress with trembling hands, trying to school her distress. All was now laid bare. She and Silas had been caught in each other’s arms. Their love was secret no longer. Lord have mercy! What a tremendous ruckus Elspeth might raise!
Yet as the silence lengthened and turned less threatening, a slow realization dawned. Elspeth was afraid of Silas. And that fear, for once, kept her from lashing out.
Turning back the bedcovers, Eden slipped between cool linen sheets, hearing Elspeth do the same in the darkness. Truly, what were Elspeth’s malicious words and venomous glances to her now? Once she left York County, she’d likely never see her sister again.
28
When nature gave us tears, she gave us leave to weep.
Benjamin Franklin
Sixteen days. The old black saddlebag bearing a small padlock was buried in the barn loft, full of an assortment of needed things. Two handkerchiefs embroidered EB. Three pairs of worsted stockings with garters. An extra linen shift. Two petticoats. One dimity nightgown, never worn, with ribbon trim.
A wedding gown.
Eden’s fingers had caressed the fabric, wonder bubbling up inside her. Made of chintz, it was the color of spring grass, the petticoat embroidered with tiny pink flowers and a winding vine. Buried in an ancient trunk, it had been smuggled to the barn and rolled into the saddlebag, terribly wrinkled but undeniably lovely.
“’Twould please me greatly to know that you’ll be wed in the dress that brought me such happiness,” Mama had told her in hushed tones. Hugging the lovely gown to her chest, Eden marveled that Mama had ever been young or carefree. “I once wore it to a dance where I met the man I wanted to marry.” Mama seemed on the verge of telling her more before fading to generalities. “One’s first love is often the finest—the most enduring.”
Yes. This was how she felt about Silas—and why it was a punishment to be apart. The last Scripture he’d penned returned to her with such poignancy it brought a pang tender as any wound. I will betroth thee unto me forever. She kept it close, tucked in her bodice, hidden and heartfelt.
Now, standing before the kitchen hearth, she tried to envision the home they would have. ’Twas the first time in days she’d had a spare, silent moment. Mama had gone to York with Papa. Thomas and Jon were asleep down the hall. Elspeth, she guessed, was working on the ledgers. A steady stream of business kept the smithy doors open even though the weather had turned cooler—mostly farmers in need of repairs of plows and tools after the harvest. The tentative ring of a hammer assured her it wasn’t Silas at the forge but Giles.
A sudden simmering returned her to the stew that needed tending. It rimmed the kettle’s edge in angry bubbles, a roiling brew of chicken and potatoes, onions and thyme. Behind her a door groaned open, and she turned to see a bleary-eyed Thomas, thumb in his mouth. Giving the stew a stir, she dropped down in a near chair and held out her arms to him. He responded with a sleepy smile she tried to commit to memory. Her throat tightened. When—if—she saw him again, he’d be more boy than baby. He climbed onto her lap, looking about in question.
“Mama will be back soon,” she told him, reaching for the cup of cider he’d left unfinished at noonday dinner. He drank it down and took the biscuit she offered, ambling off to play in the corner where his toy soldiers waited.
She listened for Jon while she made porridge, sweetening it with a smidgen of vanilla sugar, unable to check a smile. She well knew the way to the babe’s heart. He’d balked at plain porridge, making Mama despair till Eden tried the coveted sweetener, using a small sugar hammer to dislodge a chunk or two. Together they’d laughed at his eagerness to eat.
She wished Silas would come in and replenish her wood, kissing her on the back of the neck as he’d once done when no one was about. Though Elspeth had caught them together in the parlor the week before, they’d been particularly circumspect since. And her sister hadn’t said a word.
Eden looked up, her eyes trailing west. The sun was sliding toward the far horizon at midafternoon, orange and round as a pumpkin. Jon’s porridge sat in a little pot in the coals, but no sound came from down the hall. She eyed the corner clock, and her hands stilled.
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.
’Twas the verse Pastor McCheyne had read at last Sabbath’s service. Why would it return to her now? Checking the bread, she pushed the words aside, only to hear them echo again inside her. Thomas looked up as she moved toward the darkened hall. The door to her parents’ bedchamber gave way beneath her hand, and she entered, eyes fastening on the cradle to the left of the hearth. Stout as he was getting, the babe had nearly outgrown it.
The low fire pushed back the shadows, and she dropped to her knees, laying a hand on the cradle’s smooth side. “Jon?”
No flailing of arms in greeting or familiar chortle. Just . . . stillness. Surprised, she gathered him up, pressing her lips to his petal-soft cheek, avoiding his unblinking eyes. The cold weight of him when he’d been so warm and full of life but hours before . . .
“Jon? Jon! Nay!”
Pressing her mouth to his, she tried to give him breath—her breath. But panic, black as night, pushed her to the edge of a great, breathless abyss. Shaking, she placed him back in the cradle only to pick him up again, dizzy with despair.
Silas . . . Silas would know what to do.
Somehow her trembling legs carr
ied her to the smithy. Giles’s back was to her—some farmers were taking his attention just beyond the open doors. Elspeth was nowhere in sight. Backtracking, Eden burst into Silas’s room, Jon heavy in her arms, and found only emptiness. Haversacks and fiddle rested along one wall. Maps were spread open on a table anchored by lanterns. The bed’s thin counterpane was smooth.
Gone . . . again.
Tears rose and overflowed, and great sobs burned her throat. Returning to her parents’ room, she laid Jon lovingly in the cradle, tucking him in out of habit, her tears wetting his face. Unmindful of Thomas—of anything but the need to flee—she started down the linden lane at a near run, her heavy skirts weighting her all the way. Gold and crimson leaves crunched underfoot as she veered toward Margaret’s cottage, only to knock without an answer. Winded, choking on her tears, she stumbled up the brick walk to the house, hoping to find Margaret. But there was no response.
Torn, she paused in the courtyard and looked toward home, her thoughts cloudy as the sky above. When the Greathouse coach came barreling round a corner, she stood in its path as if rooted to the ground and was nearly run over. Wheels and hooves drew to a sudden halt amidst a storm of dust, and David’s tense face appeared through an open window.
“Eden, what is it?”
The concern lacing his voice only made her cry harder. Covering her face with her hands, her words came in tatters. “I—I’m here—to find Margaret.”
“Margaret is with Jemma, who’s unwell.” Clearly craving privacy, he cast a glance at the coachman high on his perch. Flinging open the door, David motioned her in.
She backed up. “Nay—I—”
His face flashed impatience. “Come, Eden. We’ve no time for delay.” With that he reached out and took hold of her arm, pulling her in and shutting the door soundly. Reluctant, she took the seat opposite, the scent of new leather and snuff embracing her.
“I’m on my way to Philadelphia for a physician,” David said. “But first you must tell me why you’re so upset.” She swallowed hard, groping for speech as he fumbled for his handkerchief, supplying the words she couldn’t. “There’s been more trouble at home, I take it.”