Love's Reckoning

by Laura Frantz

  He shrugged. “I have you and Sebastian. A fine supper. Conversation. What need have I of a bride?”

  Sighing, she placed bony elbows on the table and stared him down. “There should be more for you, my friend. Time is of the essence. Though today you walk tall and strong in the dark along Water Street, tomorrow . . .” She hunched her shoulders, a furrow lining her brow.

  “You’re uneasy about the whiskey boys,” he finished for her.

  “Oui, more than uneasy. I have heard things . . .”

  Taking a sip of cider, Silas looked from her to the window, as if expecting a rock to hurl past the pristine, Philadelphia-made glass. “Such as?”

  She leaned nearer, her eyes pale as agates. “Since Judge O’Hara appointed you to the Allegheny Court, there has been bad blood between you and the Turlocks, no?”

  “Aye,” he said quietly, “they bear me a grudge for every fine and jailing.” The animosity the clan bore him was an ongoing concern, but as a jurist he took his oath seriously and insisted on order. “’Tis common knowledge they’ve been found guilty of each assault and battery charge against them, all involving whiskey. If the Turlocks kept to farming and distilling and no collieshangie—”

  “Collieshangie?”

  “Brawling and quarreling,” he said without missing a beat, “then they’d not come before the court, and we’d have no reason to fear walking along Water Street or otherwise.”

  “Word is they saw you supping with one of the tax collectors at this very table a few nights ago. There is talk they feel you support the tax on whiskey.”

  “They have faulty memories, then. ’Twas I who introduced a resolution against the tax to begin with.” Tired, temper rising, he swallowed some cold cider as if it could cool his ire. “The Turlocks can well afford the excise. ’Tis the poor farmers and distillers I worry about, which was the reason for that shared supper.”

  Jean Marie turned her troubled profile toward the window, and Silas sensed what she wouldn’t say. Though the “whiskey boys,” as the Turlocks and their supporters were called, had only tarred and feathered tax collectors thus far, threats of doing greater violence now swirled thick as the mud that lined Pittsburgh’s streets. His gaze fell to the headline splashed across the Gazette’s front page: Fire Damages Mercer Mercantile.

  He pushed it aside. “I’d rather talk bricks—and brides.”

  She smiled, revealing a silver-capped tooth. “Very well, then. The judge’s daughter has just ridden out to see your new property, no? The future home of all those bricks?”

  “Has she now?”

  Jean Marie rolled her eyes. “Why is it that you always answer my questions with a question, Silas Ballantyne?”

  “Do I?”

  Sighing, she went to the kitchen and returned with an urn of coffee and pitcher of cream. “Lest I forget, the judge sent this round earlier.” She plucked a folded paper from her pocket and passed it to him, curiosity edging her thin features.

  Smoothing it out atop the scarred tabletop, Silas took a reluctant look at the fine Italianate hand.

  A reminder, my friend—dinner party at eight o’clock, Saturday eve, at River Hill. Dancing to follow. Isabel is home and anxious to see you. Hugh

  The note was a not-so-subtle reminder that he’d forgotten the judge’s last party, buried as he’d been in sawdust and cordage. Fresh from the frenetic launching of the sloop Western Endeavor, he’d only wanted a quiet room and a week’s sleep. This time he had no ready excuses.

  He glanced at the open kitchen door, where a stoop-shouldered Indian woman was scrubbing pots at a stone sink, and gave Jean Marie a quick wink. “Thank Mamie for the fine supper. I’ll not be here tomorrow eve but at River Hill.”

  Pushing back his chair, he tucked the newspaper and note beneath one arm, weariness and worry dogging his every step.

  35

  Never think that God’s delays are God’s denials.

  Comte De Buffon

  Lately Eden’s small office looked and felt more like a jail cell. Sparsely furnished and smelling of disinfectant, it had one saving grace—the sole window overlooking the physic garden below. During the scorching Philadelphia summers, she opened the casement wide, ignoring the buzz of insects, hoping for a welcome breeze. On a good day she was rewarded with the heady smell of herbs and gauzy memories of her York garden, not the wharf with its pungent whirl of oakum and brine.

  This afternoon her gaze drifted to the wall clock, slightly askew, and the hospital rules framed and posted by the door. No profaneness. No spitting on the floor. No running. No removing the foundlings from hospital grounds. As the clock struck the hour, she took a seat at her desk, thumbing through a stack of paperwork till she found what could no longer be pushed aside—the latest endowment from David Greathouse. Tomorrow she’d present it at the board meeting, pasting on a pleased smile as her colleagues nodded and expressed their gratitude. Though his patronage nauseated her, the funds were always needed and put to good use.

  In the past they’d been able to build a new wing and summer kitchen, a second garden and small chapel. The latter she’d quietly dedicated to Jon, the cornerstone half hidden beneath a willow tree reminiscent of the one that shaded his grave in York. Thankfully only Beatrice had set foot inside the chapel, surveying everything with the cool detachment of a queen granting her subjects a rare visit.

  Looking up from the letter of endowment, Eden took a deep breath. Over the years she’d grown used to her brick-and-mortar prison. Within its walls she felt safe. Cocooned. Insulated from the past. But today the sunlight frolicking outside her window seemed to issue a subtle invitation. Pushing down the urge to leave work early and take a carriage to Bartram’s Gardens or Solomon’s Book Shoppe, she made note of the hour. Half past three.

  Time for tea.

  Eden rounded a corner, sensitive to the wails of infants echoing down the corridors, eyes drawn to the painting in the tiled foyer of Christ blessing the little children. The enormous oil never failed to move her. Perhaps she simply needed a painting or two to brighten her office, remind her of her mission—or she was in need of a holiday as the board had recently suggested. Aside from a brief illness, she’d not taken time away since she’d first set foot in Philadelphia.

  Knocking on the director’s door, she was greeted by a woman’s familiar voice and saw a tea party already in progress by a far window, Stephen Elliot presiding. Eden felt a start of surprise. The board president—at tea?

  “Oh my,” Eden said with a sheepish smile. “Am I intruding? I apologize—”

  “Don’t fret, Eden. ’Tis only tea, not a board meeting. Stephen has come early to discuss something with me—and thee.” Constance Darby gave her a lingering glance that held a hint of warning.

  Be obliging, the look seemed to say. Don’t be too surprised.

  Eden looked from the woman whose counsel she always heeded to the spritely, gray-headed man she so respected, and still felt a prickle of alarm. Stephen Elliot got to his feet, clasping Eden’s hands warmly as was his custom, his smile so infectious she found herself smiling back despite her wariness.

  “Miss Lee, I simply have an interesting proposal. ’Tis spring, after all, a time to look forward and be thinking of our foundlings’ futures.”

  “Has there been a change in plans?” she asked. “Are you not going to Boston?”

  “No, not Boston. The foundling hospital there is flourishing and has no need of my direction at present. I’ve another destination in mind.” He pulled out a chair and seated her before resuming his own seat. “A fortnight ago, an old friend from my Dartmouth days sent me a letter. He’s one of Pittsburgh’s founders and is in need of apprentices. Since we have a great many twelve-year-old-boys at present, I feel his request serves us well. Why don’t we apprentice these lads to the tradesmen of Pittsburgh? There are a few girls awaiting placement who could also be of service. There’s no rule that says we’re to keep them in Philadelphia. And if there was,” he said with a ben
evolent twinkle in his eyes, “I’d overturn it.”

  And well he could, Eden thought, as he was the wealthiest man in the city. Though not a Quaker, Stephen Elliot was a leading philanthropist and had made extensive bequests to many charitable institutions, including their own. Rarely had he steered them wrong.

  “We must get approval from Dr. Rush, of course, and the rest of the board,” Constance added. “But I foresee no problems there.”

  “No, it’s a capital plan. I wish I’d thought of it myself.” He stirred a heaping spoonful of sugar into his tea, eyes returning to Eden. “So sure was I of everyone’s approval, I took the liberty of writing my friend straightaway and confirming our arrival in mid-June.”

  Our. The tiny word sent a chill clear through her. Her fingers brushed the curved handle of her teacup, but she didn’t raise it to her lips. “What have I to do with this, Mr. Elliot?”

  “You, my dear Miss Lee, are to act as chaperone and accompany the girls. I’ll oversee the boys. There won’t be more than a dozen children total.”

  “But—” The word escaped her lips before she’d put thought behind it. She tried to soften her reluctance with a smile. “I—I’ve not traveled beyond the outskirts of Philadelphia since coming here. And Fort Pi—Pittsburgh is so far.”

  “Precisely,” he said with a smile, “which is why your name kept coming to mind as I was pondering the trip and praying. A change of scene will be good for us all. I’ll fund the excursion myself, of course. All expenses will be paid, including a suitable wardrobe for both you and the children.”

  No more drab Quaker gray.

  She met his eyes, a bit disbelieving. Though the words lodged like splinters inside her, how could she say no? It was this man who had taken her in when she’d first arrived in Philadelphia, a mere foundling herself, lost and bewildered as she’d been. Beatrice had made the introductions after Eden refused to stay in the Greathouses’ townhouse. Not once had he or his wife, Harriet, delved into her past. They’d simply welcomed her with open arms, treating her like a daughter. Never had they asked anything of her.

  Till now.

  Still, half a dozen empty excuses leapt to mind, none of which had held the slightest appeal till this very moment. I must attend a reception for President Washington on behalf of the hospital. Accompany Dr. Rush and his wife to Chestnut Street Theater. Be on hand when the hot-air balloon is launched from Robert Morris’s garden . . .

  “But what of Harriet?” Eden kept her voice even, masking her disquiet. “She almost always accompanies you on these trips.”

  “I’m afraid Harriet has promised our niece a debut and is already neck-deep in the social season, starting with the Binghams’ ball. You received an invitation, no doubt?”

  “Yes, but . . .” It went without saying she wouldn’t attend. She shunned society whenever she could, and always had.

  “Say you will, Eden.” His eyes—so kind and entreating—held hers. She felt herself give way. “I can think of no one better suited for the trip. The girls adore you—you’ll put them at their ease and give them a proper introduction into Pittsburgh society.”

  “Society?” The word nearly made her smile. “Surely there’s little of that to be had on the frontier.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Lee. Pittsburgh just might surprise you.”

  Withholding a sigh, Eden took a sip of tea. Now even Constance looked a bit dubious as she passed round a plate of scones. “Aren’t circumstances in the West a bit . . . tentative at present? I remember hearing about a brewing rebellion involving not tea and taxes but whiskey and taxes.”

  Mr. Elliot gave a decisive shake of his head. “The newspapers paint a torrid picture of Pittsburgh, depicting it as a hotbed of rebellion. Don’t believe a word of it. Congress has reduced the tax on whiskey, and my friend the judge maintains law and order.” He took a letter from his waistcoat and scanned it thoughtfully. “There are several thousand inhabitants in Allegheny County and a number of tradesmen in need of apprentices. Let’s see . . . a saddler, a blacksmith, a boatwright, a gunsmith, several merchants . . .”

  “Where will thy party be staying?” Constance asked.

  “We’ll lodge at the Black Bear Hotel, though my old friend has graciously opened his home to us as well.” Passing the paper to her, he took out a pocket calendar. “Travel by stage should take three weeks. Once we arrive, we’ll get the children settled and stay on to oversee a smooth transition. I foresee spending the summer in Pittsburgh and returning to Philadelphia by September.”

  Eden sat straight-backed in her chair, her mouth dry despite the delicious tea. They were waiting for her to say something—to accept—but the words seemed to stick in her throat.

  Mr. Elliot leaned nearer. “Miss Lee, I truly believe you’ll enjoy the West—”

  “I—nay—” She was on her feet but didn’t remember standing, was only cognizant of the closeness of the room, her sudden breathlessness. The past seemed to be pressing in on her all at once from every direction. Just yesterday she’d had a letter from Elspeth. Elspeth! Who’d informed her she was coming to the city to visit after nary a word for years. “Please, I—”

  “Eden, are thee unwell?” Constance rose abruptly, reaching out a hand in concern.

  With a shake of her head, Eden made it to the hall, mumbling some excuse before fleeing to the physic garden beyond the nearest door. The scent of sun-warmed earth and perennials in their spring infancy surrounded her like old friends, releasing their perfume beneath her feet. Soon the grounds would burst into full bloom, only she’d not be here to see it. If she went west—nay!

  Her mind raced to come up with a suitable replacement. Sinking down atop a stone bench, her skirts swirling around her, she tried to calm her tangled thoughts.

  Lord, help . . . please.

  When the name finally came, she expelled a relieved breath.

  Hannah Penn.

  The Morris mansion was extravagant in the extreme, yet the Philadelphia elite and a great many Friends gathered there whenever its doors were open, stuffed into one of its marble drawing rooms like cargo in a ship’s hold. Tonight was no exception. Eden breathed a prayer of thanks for the cool evening air, wanting to escape as soon as she could. Surrounded by liveried servants, she took a seat at the back of the grand room, watching the guests flow past in a parade of jewels and rich fabrics, hoping to catch sight of Hannah Penn.

  With a flick of her wrist, she snapped open her sandalwood fan, praying silently as her gaze roamed the room’s candlelit interior.

  Please, Lord, let me find Hannah before the music starts.

  Since leaving York County, not once had she attended a musical soiree. But tonight, a bit desperate, unable to rest till she’d stilled the tempest inside her, she had little choice. Her wary gaze returned to the musicians on the dais again and again, dismissing every instrument in the large ensemble till she came to the violins. The musicians were tuning their fine instruments just as Silas used to, yet it seemed they tore at her heartstrings instead.

  I will not cry.

  Tears lined her lashes, only to be dried by the frantic fluttering of her fan. For years she’d carefully schooled her emotions. If loosed now, what a torrent that would be! The last time she’d wept was at his leaving, when she’d discovered his tracks in the snow. An eternity past . . .

  “Miss Lee.”

  The masculine voice loomed from behind. She pretended not to hear. She mustn’t be distracted from her mission. But it came again, ever nearer. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

  ’Twas Robert Morris’s oldest son, Andrew, just returned from London and resplendent in the latest fashion—trousers, not breeches, a lily affixed to his frock coat. Eden thought of the lemon trees in the Morris greenhouse from which the fragrant flower had surely been taken. Just before he’d left for England, Andrew had sent a basket of lemons and lilies to her rooms at the boardinghouse. Their mingled fragrance—one so pungent and the other so sweet—had given her a h
eadache despite her fondness for them.

  “Very lovely,” he repeated.

  “Thank you,” she said with a self-conscious smile, gaze falling to her lap. He meant her gown, surely. Though a bit outdated, the heavy silk was the hue of honey, the bodice and sleeves a confection of Irish lace. It had been one of Jemma’s favorites.

  “You seem to be looking for someone. I was hoping it might be me.”

  His gentlemanly phrasing tugged at her, and she stood, if only to be polite. “’Tis good to see you on American soil again, Andrew, but in truth I’m seeking Hannah Penn.”

  Her voice fell away as the chatter rose around them, and she rued his obvious disappointment. Extending his arm, he led her down a candlelit corridor to Hannah’s side before bowing and returning to the drawing room.

  “Eden Lee? What on earth?” Hannah’s eyes widened. The gentleman beside her excused himself, as if expecting their need of a private tête-à-tête.

  “’Tis me, not a ghost,” Eden said to make light of her surprise.

  “Why, thee are pale as one. I haven’t seen thee at a social function for . . . forever.”

  “I’ve come to ask a favor.” Nay, a favor it was not. Eden groped for the right words and came up woefully short.

  “If thee are wanting someone to teach the foundling girls embroidery—needlework—I’ll be happy to help.”

  “Nay.” The opening strains of the program—Haydn—threaded through the warm foyer, which had suddenly begun to empty. Eden seized the moment. “I remember some months ago you spoke of going west—to Pittsburgh—to visit a relation . . .” The rest of her request poured forth, Eden hoping she didn’t sound as foolish as she felt.

  Hannah’s fair features clouded. “I wish I could go in thy stead, Eden, but my Pittsburgh relation has passed away, and—” She waved her fan at a distant figure, leaning in to whisper in Eden’s ear, “’Tis no time to be leaving the city, my friend. I’m practically betrothed.”