by Laura Frantz
Ellie sank down in her seat, wondering if Jack would accompany them. But it was Mrs. Malarkey who appeared instead, a tray in hand. “I thought you’d like a spot of tea.” She uncovered a plate, her tone turning a touch prideful. “I’ve made some scones, my mother’s recipe. The peach preserves are from the orchard here—what’s left of it.”
Thanking her, Ellie gave her attention to the garden, where the worm digging was in progress. Mrs. Malarkey poured the steaming tea and left Ellie to sample a scone. Her teeth almost rattled at first bite. Hard as lead. Afraid of offending, Ellie pocketed the scone and tasted a spoonful of very sour jam just as Jack reappeared with the promised pole. He cast a grim glance at the tray.
“The tea is very good.” Ellie took a second sip, sputtering as he reached into the basket and tossed the last scone to Ben’s dog. Her gaze darted to the door. “Jack, please . . . Mrs. Malarkey might see.”
“That’s the trouble, Ellie. She can’t. You might well be poisoned eating these. For all I know she used plaster for flour.”
Laughter bubbled in her throat, easing her anxiety at having him so near. “Well, don’t poison poor Max.”
But Max was looking askance at the scone and then ran off to bury it beneath a far oak, tail wagging. Jack took the chair opposite Ellie, lowering his spectacles and examining a hook and string. For a wisp of a second he looked like the boy she remembered. Focused. Intense. Strikingly handsome. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought they’d share a veranda, a light moment. The sticks and stones of childhood passed away . . . or had given way to more mature, precarious matters.
She still didn’t trust Jack Turlock.
His sudden reversal puzzled her. He’d been adamant about refusing Chloe’s schooling at first. Why the change? Could it be because he wanted to learn more about her? Because he suspected her family of hiding slaves? His family’s slaves? Thinking it, she felt suddenly foolish, as if he’d somehow ensnared her without her knowing.
She sipped her tea, trying to dismiss her suspicions, eyes on the decrepit garden beyond the low brick wall, imagining it as it once was fifty years before. The pride of Pittsburgh. “Tell me about Ben. Chloe seems very fond of him.”
He continued to examine the length of string, pausing to tie a knot. “Ben belongs to Broad Oak.”
Belongs. The word cut deep, pointed as the shining fish hook. Adam and Ulie belonged to Broad Oak too. Broken and battered, Adam might never speak normally again, all because of an overseer’s cruelty. While he healed, Andra had begun teaching Ulie to read. Literacy was a powerful weapon, she said. A free, literate ex-slave was a force to be reckoned with.
She kept her voice light, disguising the challenge beneath. “Might Ben like to learn to—”
“No, Ellie. I know where you’re going with this and it’s not a good idea.”
Disappointment doused her hopes—and fueled her angst over Adam. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to press the issue. Jack might think she had abolitionist leanings. Place her family in more danger.
“Ben is only here for the summer, as I’m in need of an extra hand. He’s confined to the stables.”
She withdrew reluctantly. “Tell me about River Hill then.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Its history. I’m interested for Chloe’s sake.”
He glanced up, and his intensity seemed to banish all pretense. “Your family’s part in its history, you mean.”
She traced the delicate contours of her teacup with a finger, offering him a slightly sheepish smile. She always felt he was one step ahead of her. Was that borne of his being worldly?
He continued examining the rod. “The land was bought before the Revolution. The house was built in 1777 of local brick, the same as Fort Pitt. My grandfather was an officer there. He hired John Bartram and Sons of Philadelphia to design the garden for his bride, my grandmother.”
Romantic, Ellie thought, a bit wistful it had fallen into disrepair. The Bartrams were noted botanists, renowned in Philadelphia and elsewhere. If they’d left their mark here, it was truly a tragedy the garden had turned to weeds.
“She died when my mother was born.” Jack spoke without a trace of emotion, as if reciting rote facts, not family history. “My grandfather never remarried, just turned his attention to Pittsburgh and raising Isabel.” He set the rod aside and looked toward the garden. “Your father used to come here often.”
“He said River Hill’s library is the finest anywhere.”
“Aye, and there he met my mother . . . who was no match for yours.”
She heard a hint of bitterness in his tone and sensed they hovered on shaky ground. “My parents seldom speak of the past.”
“Mine seldom speak of anything else. My mother, anyway.”
Ellie finished her tea as a dozen questions clamored for answers. Did Isabel have regrets? Did Henry? For a few fleeting seconds, Jack had thrown open a window on the Turlocks’ turmoil before it slammed shut again, his features stoic.
He stood and handed her the fine birch rod as Chloe and Ben came round with a pail of worms.
Chloe eyed the transaction, slack-jawed. “You’re letting Ell—Miss Ballantyne use your prized pole?”
“A lady should always have the best of everything, aye?”
Still, Chloe gaped. “Are you going to hook her worms too?”
“Nay, Ben is.” Again that charming, disarming smile. “But any fish she catches are mine. Understood?”
Ellie stepped off the veranda. “You have my word.” She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare.
Lest Jack Turlock reel her in.
11
They speak of my drinking, but never think of my thirst.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
The scent of the contents of the largest Turlock storehouse, a quarter-mile long and two stories high, wafted thick and rich on the warm June wind. The tang of spirits emanating from hundreds of charred oak barrels met Jack long before he’d reached the door that seemed more like the dark, cool entrance to a cave. As a boy he’d had a profound fear of this place, afraid the barrels stored on their sides in ricks would shift and fall and he’d drown in a whiskey bath. The stuff even had a fragrance he didn’t find palatable. Though Wade could down it like water, Jack had never acquired a taste for it, much to their father’s chagrin.
Much had changed since those early days. The Turlock clan had come to America a hundred years before, rich from illicit distilling and smuggling in Ireland. They’d possessed a mere hundred acres of land but a hundred thousand in capital, most of it ill-gotten. His father, quick-witted no matter his faults, had eventually installed grain-handling equipment that could do the work of thirty men. The endeavor was a huge risk but one that had paid off in spades, shutting down the competition clear to Kentucky, where their greatest rivals operated on a smaller scale.
Remembering, Jack took in the swiftly changing landscape, marveling that each time he came, something new seemed to be in evidence. The present operation was a village in itself with the four-story malt house, drying kilns, saw and gristmill, and more. The cooperage where oak casks, staves, and hoops were turned out had recently been enlarged, and they’d had to bring up more slaves from Kentucky to manage the livestock fattened off the copious mash.
He’d ridden to Broad Oak that morning on the pretense of examining the still newly arrived from the British Isles—a behemoth containing ten tons of copper that would allow them to make greater quantities of whiskey at considerably less cost. It gleamed like a jewel on its bed of limestone, no worse for wear despite its long journey, already being petted and fretted over by Wade and master distiller Josiah Kilgore. They didn’t look up at his approach, engrossed in examining every seam, tube, and rivet like a father might a newborn child.
Eyeing the huge contraption, Jack tried to summon some enthusiasm, but his interests lay at the start of the distilling process, not its end. Cultivating the finest corn and rye and experimenting with new varieties of grain fasci
nated him as much as it bored Wade. At least they weren’t coveting the same things. Wade was firmly fixed as heir, and Jack was glad to be second in command. He could do as he pleased while his brother was tethered to Broad Oak. Forever.
Wade swung round, his bloodshot eyes raking Jack in a glance. One arm was in a sling. From another brawl? “So, Jack, think she’s worth her weight in gold?”
“I’ll answer that once you’ve put her through her paces.”
“We’ll soon be swimming in whiskey.” Wade’s boast fell flat as Kilgore pointed out a dent in the copper tubing. Deeming it a minor flaw, Wade returned his attention to Jack. “Our estimation is that we’ll soon be averaging fifteen hundred gallons per day, depending on the availability of grain.”
“We should glean the first wheat in early July, barring bad weather. Ninety or so bushels to the acre.” His gaze held Wade’s. “But I’ve come to discuss other matters. Like what you were doing at Teague’s the other night with Peyton Ballantyne.”
Wade’s sudden smirk was confirmation that the liaison boded ill. “I may have found a chink in the Ballantyne armor. Peyton seems willing to ship some whiskey if the price is right.”
Jack schooled his surprise. Their own father had tried to finagle such a deal for years, but Silas Ballantyne wanted nothing to do with their lucrative enterprise, so they’d been forced to rely on less desirable transport instead. “While his father is away, you mean. Without Silas’s consent.”
“I told him we’d pay double, that we’re simply shipping grain to garrisons and fulfilling army contracts. Once the papers are drawn up, there’ll be no way for them to back out or reconsider.” Wade glanced at the cooperage, where a great many empty barrels were being loaded onto a wagon. “Now with greater quantities of whiskey being made, we’ll be relying more on river travel instead of sending over land like we’ve been.”
“You know the courts will back Ballantyne if he finds you lied and wants out of the contract.”
Wade’s grin turned sly. “Maybe, but I’m willing to risk it. We’ll soon have an attractive cover with Ballantyne backing. It’ll make your mission all the easier when you go west.”
There was no denying this. The frontier was their future, their fortune. Be it over land, by boat, or by rail, Turlock whiskey would one day cover the entire continent, their father boasted. It hadn’t hurt that Lewis and Clark had taken a hefty supply of Turlock spirits with them on their trek west, thus making a way.
“I’m simply looking to the horizon, Jack. Trade with New Orleans has never been better, and soon the West will be the same. The government can’t restrict the sale or distribution of spirits forever. There’s simply too much demand.”
“If we aren’t shut down first, you mean.”
Wade shrugged. “Let the authorities nose around all they like. I’m not above a little intimidation, nor is Pa.”
Nay, not the notorious Turlock clan, who had a history of burning down buildings in Pittsburgh and tarring and feathering its citizens. And worse. Jack passed a heavy hand over his whiskers. Though their guilt had never been proven, suspicions still lingered. He wasn’t proud his father and grandfather were the instigators of Pennsylvania’s Whiskey Rebellion the century before, nor was he oblivious to the fact Henry Turlock’s name still inspired fear in the most stalwart of men.
Except Silas Ballantyne.
When Jack and Wade had been jailed for brawling and public drunkenness and their father had come round posting bail and making veiled threats, Silas, the temporary undersheriff at the time, had not so much as flinched.
Wade pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long sip. “Speaking of intimidation, what’s this I hear about a bounty hunter being flung against a wall?”
Jack shrugged. “The search is off.”
“I don’t remember calling it off.” Wade was studying him, his smug mood shifting. “I paid the bounty. It expires when the job is done.”
“The McTavishes were murmuring about the Ballantynes. Considering something stupid.” The very mention turned Jack cold right there in the warm June sunlight. Bounty hunters and slave catchers were known for their brutality, and it wasn’t limited to the prey they caught. He fixed his gaze on the small pot stills that Broad Oak’s slaves tended beneath a wooden awning, the women’s heads bound with bright kerchiefs, the bare-chested men slick with sweat from the steam of the distillation.
Wade shrugged. “I’d hate for a McTavish to get in the way of a deal with Peyton Ballantyne. Maybe it’s better those slaves stay missing after all.”
Jack nearly sighed with relief, glad Wade didn’t press him for particulars. He had no wish to label the Ballantynes abolitionists. He refused to even mention Ellie’s name. Lovely, intriguing Ellie. Who would soon tire of Chloe and move on to other things. The memory of the fish she’d caught with Chloe and Ben almost made him smile. Though she’d reeled in two praiseworthy catfish, she refused to touch them, handing them to Jack in a bucket, her dainty nose wrinkled.
He’d fought down the inclination to ask her to stay for supper. He, Chloe, and Ben had built a fire on the riverbank and cooked the fish as dusk crowded in, only returning to the house when a sliver of moon denied them enough light to linger. Even then in the privacy of his study, buried in ink and ledgers, Jack felt his thoughts repeatedly go astray, as hard to rein in as wild horses.
Ellie. The jewel of her father’s heart.
And now . . . his.
Ellie paused on the landing as Andra’s voice rose from the foyer below. The two maids slipped past, silent as shadows, eyes downcast. Ellie knew little but their names, Mari and Gwyn. Twin sisters from Wales. Mama had rescued them from a tannery along the waterfront months earlier when they’d been orphaned at barely fifteen. Ellie couldn’t tell them apart, but Andra could, and her tone knotted with impatience as she addressed them.
“Mari, the silver needs polishing in the pantry this morning. Gwyn, you may spend the day mending and ironing linens.” She paused and consulted her list. “I have a feeling Mother and Father will arrive home at any moment, and we’d best be ready. I don’t want them to think we’ve been remiss.” Starting up the stairs, she looked back as if to ascertain they were moving in the right direction before focusing on Ellie. “Sister, we need to talk.”
In Andra’s hand was a letter. From Mama? Ellie felt a spark of excitement before the worried slant of Andra’s mouth snuffed it altogether. Had Chloe sent a second note? Her light step turned heavy. She’d still not told anyone where she was spending her Wednesdays. Andra rarely asked about lessons, preoccupied as she was and somewhat disapproving, so Ellie had stayed silent. No one knew she went to River Hill save the stable hands, and they, like all New Hope’s staff, were notoriously closemouthed. They simply took her there and returned her home four hours later.
As Andra’s bedchamber door clicked closed, Ellie breathed in her unmistakable essence. A rose-carnation scent pervaded every inch of the utterly feminine room, even saturating the anteroom where Andra now led her.
“We’ve a letter.” Andra lay the post down, turning it so Ellie could read the watermark. York, Pennsylvania. “’Tis marked urgent, and I think we should open it.”
“But it’s addressed to Mama—”
“And I’m acting in Mama’s stead.” Andra broke the seal with a swipe of a letter opener. Her expression was rapt—even hungry—as if some delicacy had been set before her and she couldn’t wait to devour it.
“Are you . . . sure?” Ellie hovered between expectancy and dread. Mama seldom mentioned York County. And letters rarely came from there.
“’Tis from Aunt Elspeth.” Andra sighed, scanning the page. “Grandmother Lee is failing and has asked Mama to come.”
“To York?”
“Yes, to York.” Andra set her chin in contemplation. “How unfortunate Mama isn’t here. I wonder . . .”
“You’re not considering going in her stead?”
“What an interesting thought! But how could I?
With runaways in the attic and a household to manage . . .” Her voice trailed away, yet Ellie could see the temptation had taken hold. “I’m certain I would get my questions answered there.”
“What do you mean?”
“My queries about Mama’s family. She’s not very forthcoming, I’m afraid. Just look.” Laying the letter aside, she gestured to her genealogical papers. “I’ve nearly completed Da’s side of the family, barring a trip to Scotland, but Mama’s . . .”
Ellie could see the empty places on the Lee register begging to be filled. “I sense Mama’s childhood was not a happy one. Why else would she stay silent?”
“All that aside, it’s important for these names and dates to be known. They’re our history—our heritage.”
“I’m not sure about you going to York.” Ellie’s voice was soft. “But that may be better than worrying Mama about it.”
Their eyes met and held, Ellie growing more alarmed by the minute. She could feel Andra’s mind spinning, calculating distance, coin, timing. “I could take the stage . . . be there in days. Perhaps it would be a comfort to Mama since she’s not here to do the same. Perhaps the Lord wants me to go in her stead.”
Ellie nearly rolled her eyes. Rarely did Andra invoke the Lord’s name unless it was her own will she wanted done. Suddenly even Ellie’s homecoming held providential purpose.
“You’re here now and can assume things in my absence—manage the household, continue teaching Ulie. I’ll convince Ansel not to light the cupola till I return.”
“Shouldn’t you consult Peyton first—”
“I doubt I’ll see Peyton to ask him.” Andra’s irritation returned. “He’s so burdened with business he forgets to come home.”
“Ansel says he’s taken rooms in town.”
“Rooms. I wonder. He’d not do such with Da here.” She took up the letter again, brow creased in question. “Haven’t you ever wondered what Aunt Elspeth looks like? Is like? Or Thomas, Mama’s younger brother, who inherited the smithy when Grandfather Lee died? And then there’s Grandmother Lee. You’re named after her, you know.”