by Laura Frantz
Lord, please give me the words.
She was waiting not in the foyer but on the porch, slightly pale beneath her straw hat, her vibrant hair spiraling down, reminding him of the girl she’d once been. When he helped her into the carriage, he sensed her uneasiness—mayhap her reluctance—and dread sank like lead in his belly. He snapped the reins and the team shot forward in a swirl of dust, obscuring them from the stares of onlookers who tarried in the street or gawked out windows.
“Where are we going?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Home,” he replied.
Home.
When he said it—firmly yet gently—Eden’s fingers unclenched from her fan. He didn’t mean Jean Marie’s boardinghouse, surely. He was well beyond the outskirts of Pittsburgh now, going the opposite direction. Palms damp with anxiety beneath her snug gloves, she turned her eyes to the low clouds riding the horizon, gray with rain. Wooed by his nearness and the beauty unfolding all around them, she wished their destination was as far away as Philadelphia.
The Allegheny glided by on their left for several silent miles, faithful as a chaperone, its blue eye unblinking. When they turned away from it, the carriage slowed, flattening waist-high grasses and wildflowers before rolling to a gentle stop. From her perch on the edge of her seat, Eden spied a vast clearing and then a mountain of bricks. Several enormous shade trees were standing among a great many stumps, and she took in the timbered beginnings of a sizeable house.
She tore her gaze away as Silas’s hands spanned her waist and lowered her to the ground, lingering. Trying to get her bearings, she put a hand to her hat as the wind threatened to tear it free. Silas was looking down at her the way he once had, returning her to a spring day in a wet woods when he’d untied her bonnet strings and first kissed her.
Oh, Lord, to go back and regain what was lost . . .
His voice was low and sure, easing her. “I’ve had the land but six months. The bricks are from Fort Pitt, enough to build a house, dependencies.” They walked around the framework, and she looked up at two-story timbers backed by blue sky. “I’ve a fine carpenter and bricklayer who’ve agreed to build in exchange for a boat.”
“’Tis beautiful—all of it. The river view . . .” She left off, overcome.
“I’ve decided to call it New Hope.”
The name struck a chord deep inside her. New Hope. Not Ballantyne Hall or some Scottish title. It had special significance for him . . . for her, if only for a moment. Her hopes rose, then tumbled. There was no going back. As much as she’d like to turn the tide of years, too much had changed.
His hand was on her elbow now, leading her across a plank that spanned a trickle of creek and a tangle of water lilies. Shade soon enveloped them, and the rustle of a thousand leaves distracted her before she set eyes on the treasure half hidden in the trees.
A small chapel?
Made of stone set in clay, it was framed by oaks and elms, so new it was missing a door and windows. A squirrel stood sentinel on a sill, scampering away at their footfalls. She wanted to sigh with delight. She wanted to cry. ’Twas a perfect place to pray . . . or wed . . . or christen a baby. She let herself imagine ivy hugging the outer walls and flowers sprinkled along its foundation in glorious, heavenly hues.
When he took her inside, she found it cool, the stone and shade holding the July heat at bay. An old bench invited her to sit, so she did, eyes roaming the empty interior as he took a seat beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, they faced forward, and she realized with a little start she’d left her fan in the carriage. Without it she felt at loose ends, as if it were an anchor in her internal storm. Entwining her fingers in her lap, she groped for something to say and came up woefully short.
“Eden, I want to know what happened after I left York.”
Her breathing thinned. Oh, why had she agreed to come? “I . . .” Tears stung her eyes. The silence turned excruciating. Nothing, she realized, was as burdensome as a secret.
“What is said here stays here, ye ken.” His voice was calm, even gentle. Yet she sensed an undercurrent of tension in his tone.
Lord, where to begin?
She swallowed past the frightful ache in her throat. He deserved some answer, at least. “After you left for Fort Pitt, I took ill again. Margaret Hunter nursed me back to health.” Her voice was flat, as unemotional as she could make it. She wouldn’t tell him about the snow, the frostbite, how she’d nearly lost her life. It no longer seemed to matter. “When I was well, the Greathouse girls—Anne and Beatrice—returned to Hope Rising to mourn Jemma.” David, thankfully, had stayed in Philadelphia. She’d not seen him again. “Before you came to York as an apprentice, there had been a plan in place for me to work at the foundling hospital. Bea and Anne urged me to return to the city with them, so I did.”
He looked down at the stone floor. “What of Giles Esh?”
Giles. She’d nearly forgotten all about him. “That came to naught. I told Papa—” Nay, she’d not call him that ever again, for he was not. “I told Liege that he hadn’t the authority to make me marry, as he wasn’t my father.”
She sensed Silas’s surprise. How she’d summoned the courage to confront Liege was a mystery, but by then she’d known she wasn’t carrying David’s child and Philadelphia seemed the only option. In an eruption of volcanic proportions, he’d all but thrown her out of the smithy, calling her—and Mama—names she’d never before heard. ’Twas a memory time would not erase. Even now her skin warmed at the humiliation.
After a lengthy pause, Silas said, “So you went to Philadelphia . . .”
“Yes. I—I couldn’t stay with the Greathouses, so arrangements were made for me with the Elliots.”
She could sense Silas’s mind churning along with his emotions and braced herself for the inevitable question. Why didn’t you stay with the Greathouses? Fearing it, she plunged ahead. “I took a position at the hospital working with the infants there. Mr. Elliot is on the board—he’s the hospital’s most generous benefactor. My lodgings are on Fourth and Walnut Street now, near enough to walk to work . . .”
She was rambling, trying to skirt the heart—and dire hurt—of the matter, hoping he’d be satisfied and she could return to the hotel. But he reached over and took her hand, tethering her, shocking her. The feel of his fingers, roughened by years of toil yet still warm and familiar, sent a shiver clear through her.
“I sent you a letter.”
Her head came up. A letter?
Every angle of his face was thoughtful, as if he was trying to put together the missing pieces of the past. “After I came to Fort Pitt, I wanted to write, make sure you were settled. The post was addressed to Margaret Hunter, though I didn’t expect a reply.”
“I received no letter.” Disappointment coursed through her. Had it been lost? Misplaced? Forgotten? Margaret was not one to be careless. “If I had, I would’ve written.”
“Would you have?” The doubt in his tone tore at her heart.
Their eyes met. His were tender but clouded with confusion. Anguish flooded her from head to toe. She’d loved him then—she loved him still. Yet he didn’t believe her. Why should he? She’d given him no reason to think she was anything but fickle, unfaithful . . .
She glanced at a tiny bird sitting on the windowsill, daring to sing. Her eyes glazed with tears.
“Eden, you’re not a woman of half measures. When you love, you love with your whole heart.” His voice fell a notch. “Something happened to make you turn from me at the last. I would know what it is.”
The chapel was too quiet. The bird had stopped its song. She could only hear the frantic rhythm of her pain-bound heart. “After Jon died, I—I didn’t know my own mind. Nothing made sense—I was frightened, confused. When you found me at the inn—” Her voice broke.
“At the Traveler’s Rest?”
She nodded and nearly flinched. Glimmers of that terrible time began pelting her like hailstones. David’s rum-laden scent. His rough hands. How he�
�d laughed when she cried afterward. She couldn’t chase the shame of it away, though she’d spent years trying. Nor could she speak of it now.
Lord, nay!
Tearing her hand from his, she darted across the tiny chapel on trembling legs, intent on the carriage. Rain spattered down, surprising her as she cleared the doorway. She was running, heedless, tripping over rocks and roots, the rising wind keening through the trees like a dirge. Behind her came a steady footfall, loud as thunder to her ears. Silas caught up with her and spun her around.
His hands framed her shaking shoulders. “Eden, nothing you say will make me love you any less.” The passion in his face begged her to believe him. “Nothing.”
She looked up at him through a haze of rain as disbelief swept through her. “I—I was not fit to be your wife then. I’m not now.” The words were more sob than speech. “That night—at the tavern—David—”
His jaw clenched. “Did he—”
“Yes.” It was a grieved whisper, no more.
Eyes dark with pain, he pulled her against him, enfolding her so tightly in his arms it seemed he’d never let go. Nestled against his chest, she wept as she’d not done since his leaving.
“I—I feared I might be with child. Like Naomi.” She tried to frame the hated words, praying he would understand. “Marrying Giles Esh seemed the only way. When I found I wouldn’t be a mother, I went to Philadelphia instead.” Her voice broke anew. “All I wanted was for you to be happy, safe—to have a future like you planned. Far beyond York.”
His fingers stroked her hair. “You didn’t tell me what happened because you knew I would have killed him and suffered the consequences. So you stayed silent . . .”
The words rippled over her like the rain, soft and warm. He continued to hold her, and she grew so lost in him she hardly noticed when a ferocious gust of wind stole her hat and sent it scurrying across the clearing. She felt nearly weightless when he picked her up and returned her to the chapel. There he set her down on the threshold as thunder cracked like a rifle above their heads.
Spent, she stood under the stony eave and faced him. “I know about Judge O’Hara and Isabel, Silas.” Fresh sorrow welled in her heart as she prepared to give him up a second time. “I didn’t come here today to make a way for us. You’re truly free—of our betrothal, the taint of York—”
“Nae, Eden.” The tanned contours of his face grew more grieved. “I have no tie to the O’Haras. My place is with you, no matter the past. I love you as much now as I did then, though you might not believe it. I am yours. All I have is yours. My only concern”—his eyes glittered with a telling wetness—“is if you love me still.”
Did she? Had she not thought of him night and day these eight years past, longing for such a time as this? Wedding him in her most secret thoughts? Imagining holding his wee son or daughter? The vulnerability in his expression tore at her.
“I never stopped loving you, Silas.” She reached into her bodice and withdrew the Scripture he’d penned long ago. “Nor did I blame God for our parting. He’s proved Himself faithful in countless ways, but perhaps never so sweetly as returning me to you.”
He took the scrap of paper but made no move toward her. “D’ye forgive me, Eden? For leaving like I did? For being so angry that last day?”
“You’re not angry now,” she said softly. “And there’s been no talk of leaving.”
He simply stood silent as if locked in the wonder she herself felt. Was he hesitant to touch her again? Afraid doing so might bring back a bad memory? Nay, she was done with the past, beginning now.
Her fingertips brushed his coat sleeve, and she smiled through her tears. “I won’t break, Silas Ballantyne.”
“Nae . . . you Philadelphia belles are made of sterner stuff.” His arms went round her, his voice turning husky. “Eden Lee, you’re more beautiful to me now than you’ve ever been.”
She went weak inside, his tender words redeeming all they’d lost. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her mouth to his. His answering kiss wasn’t like the Silas she remembered but the man he’d become—bold and successful and certain yet riddled with unmistakable yearning. A river of pleasure, healing and heartfelt, seemed to spill over her at their closeness.
“Tomorrow we will wed,” he said, the joy in his face chasing away every shadow. “Here in the chapel . . . home.” He kissed her again, turning her a bit breathless. “Where will the next few years find us?”
“Only heaven knows,” she whispered, awed and humbled by the thought. “We’ll be here at New Hope, with our children, Lord willing.”
“Amen,” he said in a sort of benediction, kissing her again.
Epilogue
Beauty and folly are old companions.
Benjamin Franklin
As the coach rumbled into Pittsburgh, Elspeth pulled on her gloves and peered intently out the window, not wanting to miss the opportunity of finding Eden walking down some side street or shopping in the market district. ’Twas October, and the surrounding hills were aflame with vibrant color. Several weeks of travel had not dimmed her desire to come here, especially in light of all she’d learned while in Philadelphia. When she’d arrived in the city, expecting to see her sister, she’d succumbed to yellow fever instead. Gravely ill at the boardinghouse, she’d sent word to Dr. Rush. He came round quickly enough after she told him she was Eden’s kin. And he brought tidings she never expected to hear . . .
Eden had at last wed Silas Ballantyne.
The announcement had stunned her and impelled her to action within a heartbeat. The least she could do was come west and offer congratulations to the happy couple.
Couldn’t she?
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to The Providence Forum and Dr. Peter Lillback, renowned author, historian, and seminary president, for an unforgettable five-day walking tour of historic Philadelphia. I’ve never lived or breathed history so well—even in the heat of July! Hats off to Cheryl, Chris, Lori, and Steve for making every moment unforgettable.
Also, a million thanks to my college roommate, Heather, for being both tour guide and taxi during my stay in Pittsburgh, and for putting up with all my puttering around Fort Pitt. You are such a treasured friend!
My deepest gratitude to the staff at Revell, especially sales and marketing, for going above and beyond on my books, always. And to Cheryl Van Andel and the art team, including designer Brandon Hill, for providing the cover of my heart.
I’m so blessed to have my gifted agent, Janet Grant, and the like-minded folks at Chi Libris, from whom I learn so much.
To faithful readers everywhere who’ve embraced the stories of Lael, Morrow, Roxanna, and now Eden. You bless me more than I can say.
And lastly, I’m forever thankful to the Shepherd of my stories, who provides green pastures and still waters and the passion behind every book I write.
Take a sneak peek
at the next installment!
The Ballantyne Legacy, book 2, by Laura Frantz
Available Fall 2013
Prologue
Beauty and folly are old companions.
Benjamin Franklin
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
October 1793
“You’ve a visitor, sir. Just wanted to warn ye.” The young apprentice at the office door stood in the glare of autumn sunlight, the brilliant blue Monongahela waterfront behind him.
Silas Ballantyne thanked him and looked out the door he’d left open to see a woman stepping carefully around cordage . . . and seeming to court the stares of every boatman in her wake. What was it about Elspeth Lee that made even a lad of twelve take notice and feel a bite of warning? Silas could hardly believe it was she. He’d not seen her in years. And now the shadows of the past came rushing back with a vengeance, stirring up unwelcome emotions.
She stepped into his office without invitation and looked about with appraising blue eyes, her beauty undimmed by the passage of time. He gave no greeting. The tension swirled as
thick as the sawdust in the boatyard beyond the open door.
“Well, Silas,” she finally said, lifting her chin and meeting his grudging gaze. “I’ve come to see my sister and wish her well.”
Wish her well?
He felt a sweeping relief that he’d not wed this woman. The sweetness he’d had with Eden couldn’t be measured. Those sultry days following their July wedding had been the happiest he’d ever known. He’d not even gone to the boatyard at first. They’d kept to the bridal suite at the Black Bear Hotel as if to make up for all the time they’d been apart, emerging only for meals or to ride out to New Hope. Their house was half-finished now and would be done by the time Eden delivered their first child in April. But he wouldn’t tell Elspeth that.
“Eden is indisposed.” The words were clipped, curtailing conversation.
Her eyes flared. “Indisposed?”
He didn’t mean ill, he meant unwilling—yet she seized on the former. “My, Silas, you’re hard on a wife. ’Tis glad I am I didn’t become Mistress Ballantyne.” She looked about as if getting her bearings. “I suppose I shall bide my time here in Pittsburgh till she recovers and can have visitors—”
“Nae. You’ll be on your way.”
She assumed a surprised petulance, eyes sliding back to him. “That’s hardly the welcome I expected from my new brother-in-law.”
“You’ll get no greeting from me now or in future. But I’ll gladly pay your return passage back to York.” He took a slow breath. “And if there’s any harm done to Eden between now and then, any loss to my property or business, I won’t bother bringing you before the Allegheny Court. You’ll answer to me.”