by Laura Frantz
Looking on, Ellie felt a burst of sympathy for her aunt. She wanted to believe Elspeth, but her aunt’s response had sallied forth all too easily, as if she’d anticipated such an encounter and had prepared a pretty speech. She’d certainly dressed prettily. Clad in a sheer sapphire gown with black embellishments, she looked more a lady of the manor than a York smithy. Ellie found this cause for worry.
Seated beside Elspeth, Peyton spoke more kindly than she had ever heard him. “I’ll be glad to show our aunt about the city and keep her duly entertained when I’m not at the mercantile.”
Elspeth gave him a small, appreciative smile. “I promise I’ll be of little trouble.”
“I can come into Pittsburgh whenever you’re in need of company,” Andra reassured her. “With Ellie home, I have more leisure time than I used to. And I dearly love to shop.”
Ansel maintained a thoughtful silence, and as much as Ellie wanted to be of help, any offer of hospitality seemed out of place. She had only to look at Mama and be struck dumb. Seated beside Da, their mother kept her eyes on her lap, her gloved hands interlaced, a study of serenity. But Ellie sensed the roiling turmoil beneath—the hurts and losses of years past, buried deep but never forgotten.
Now, recalling every syllable of that painful exchange, she wished Da had confronted Elspeth in private. But perhaps a more public, memorable meeting was needed. It had certainly put Ellie on guard.
The afternoon wore on within the secure confines of her classroom as she and her students sewed by the open windows. Four o’clock found her intent on a particularly challenging piece of French embroidery while her students chattered and made ready to leave.
“Miles Davies is coming to collect me.” Alice Denny began folding up her handwork, giving a quick glance outside. “’Tis my favorite part of the week, as he always insists we go below for a confection before he takes me home.”
Ellie glanced up with a smile. “I think the sweet shop is a bigger draw than my day school. There are only four of you now. I’m considering stopping lessons this winter and resuming in spring.”
“Oh, you mustn’t stop!” Ruth said. All three girls turned toward Ellie, faces lit with alarm. “Winters here are dreadfully dull, and only Alice has a suitor. Whatever will we do with all our time?”
“Whatever, indeed!” Alice stood and put on her bonnet, tying the chin ribbons firmly in place. “I saw you dancing with Jonathan Stiles more than once at the Ballantyne ball. That must mean something.”
“Something? He’s a friend of my brother’s and was simply doing him a favor.”
“You’re very young,” Davina added with the mature condescension of a seventeen-year-old. “At fifteen I had my head more full of books than boys.”
“Well, I’ll soon be sixteen,” Ruth replied with a lift of her chin. “And I must say Mr. Davies is much more entertaining than any book I’ve ever read. Besides, he’s going to inherit his father’s ironworks, which Papa says is a worthy accomplishment.”
“Ironworks, indeed! I don’t give a fig about his occupation, and I doubt you do either.” A mischievous light shone in Alice’s eyes. “The important question to ask about any man is . . . has he kissed you?”
Their high-pitched giggling stole away Ruth’s answer as Ellie saw them off. She returned to her needlework, not looking up again till long after she’d bid them goodbye. The light shifted and the room was growing dark, reminding her that Ansel would soon come to take her home . . . or Daniel.
Lately Daniel had been the shadow who darkened the doorway, especially on the days Chloe came for lessons. Ellie hadn’t missed the questions in Chloe’s eyes, nor the sadness of her expression when he appeared. Though young, she possessed the Turlock astuteness and well knew what Daniel Cameron was about. But to her credit, she hadn’t said a word.
Has he kissed you?
In the lengthening silence, Alice’s probing question seemed to linger as if meant for her instead. Not since their shared awkwardness in the garden had Daniel kissed her again. She tried to imagine it a second time. More heartfelt. Less bumbling. Perhaps even . . . passionate.
Her needle stilled. The tedious embroidery before her eyes turned to midnight-blue broadcloth and callused hands, rumpled hair and hard shoulders. In the heated traces of her imagination, it wasn’t Daniel who pressed his mouth to hers . . .
“Elinor.”
She looked up reluctantly. How she longed to hear a simple “Ellie.” She willed herself to smile, to take note of the little details she found appealing. Daniel’s thoughtful gaze. His keen mind. His good name. Elinor Cameron did sound proper. Respectable. Possible.
She stood and greeted him. “You have news, obviously. Good news.” He’d never looked so pleased.
“I wanted to share it with you first.” He removed his hat and twirled it in his hands, eyes alight. “I’ve just received word I’ve been awarded the first pressed glass patent in America.”
“Oh, Daniel!” She smiled, mirroring his delight, though she’d long been expecting it. “You—and my father—must be thrilled.” Turning, she caught up her bonnet. “We should celebrate, then. ’Tis not every day one patents something.”
“Your father has reserved a room at Benedict’s for supper tomorrow night.” Taking her elbow, he escorted her out and down the steps. “To commemorate the occasion, we’re sending the president a three-hundred-piece set of engraved glass tableware, along with an invitation to come and tour the factory.”
“President Monroe? Here in Pittsburgh?”
“There’s more.” He ushered her beyond the confectionery into bright sunlight. “We have a plan to import skilled glassmakers from Scotland and Ireland. Your father will pay the cost of their crossing and has agreed to supply free coal to heat their homes as incentive.”
Ellie looked past the boatyard and glittering Monongahela to the steep wooded precipice called Coal Hill that housed the Ballantyne mining operation. “Where will they live?”
“I’ll show you.” Turning left, they walked down Water Street, the waning sun on their backs. The huge glassworks was in plain sight, the windowpanes in its thick walls an undeniable advertisement. Behind this were a great many unoccupied lots, all Ballantyne owned. “Though the expense will be great, we hope to have houses and small gardens built for the artisans and their families right here.”
Her eyes roamed the grassy property that stretched along the street seemingly without end. She couldn’t quite grasp it—the outlay, the commitment of the workers to come so far. But her father had never forgotten his humble beginnings and sought to give other immigrants a solid start. Though he’d had a few business mishaps, most everything he undertook was a success. This would likely prove profitable as well.
“’Tis a promising beginning, Daniel. I’ll pray all goes as planned.”
He nodded, waiting for a passing wagon before leading her across the street to the livery where his carriage was stabled. In moments they were settled atop the upholstered seat, leaving the smoke and fervor of town far behind.
“We’ve quite a bit of daylight yet. I asked your father if he’d mind if I took you to the house site. The foundation has finally been laid. It might be a good time to have a look.”
A glance at the flawless blue horizon confirmed his words, and she ignored her reluctance. “I’m sorry I’ve not been out to see the work yet. With all the rain . . .”
“The rain? All your gentleman callers, most likely.” His smile was thin. “Peyton told me that New Hope’s been overrun since the ball.”
This she couldn’t deny, though she wished Peyton had stayed silent. “I—I’ve not encouraged any of them.”
“You’ve not encouraged me,” he replied ruefully.
His bluntness made her squirm. She had to push past her dismay to answer. “I’m not one to be bold, Daniel. I like things to develop naturally, not feel . . . forced.”
“Do you feel forced, then?”
Misery locked her throat and stole away her rep
ly.
I feel . . . nothing.
His hands tightened on the reins. “I simply want to know if there’s anyone else. I’d hoped, to be honest, to announce more than the patent at Benedict’s tomorrow night.”
Fixing her eyes on the fading foliage along the dusty road, she felt a sinking she couldn’t deny. Did Daniel genuinely view her as little more than a business decision, a partnership not unlike the one he’d just forged with her father? If so, her yearning heart craved far more than he was capable of.
“There’s no one else, Daniel.” She didn’t lie. Jack was as far from her reach as the North Star. She was simply guilty of a regrettable infatuation that would fade in time. “I simply want to be certain of so lasting a commitment.”
“I’ll take you home, then.”
The lovely afternoon turned joyless. They rode in prickly silence all the way to New Hope, Daniel staring straight ahead, his high mood a memory. Alighting from the carriage, she said goodbye, but he simply escorted her to the porch and took his leave without another word.
Mari met her at the door, taking her shawl and bonnet. “Your mother is in the garden, Miss Elinor. And your sister has gone out with your aunt, if you’re wondering.”
Ellie thanked her, craving the solace of the music room. The shutters were open, letting in light, the quiet promising peace. But for the mayhem in her heart. She sat down by her harp, wishing Ansel was near. After riffling through the music on the mahogany stand, she lingered on the piece they’d played at the ball. Near perfection, her father said afterward.
She’d been warmed by the enthusiastic applause that night, though in truth she only cared for one accolade. She’d looked up once while they played—a liberty that had nearly cost her her place—to find Jack listening as intently as Chloe. In that fleeting moment, her heart had overflowed, and she tucked the moment away to be savored in solitude.
Remembering, she let her fingers retrace each note, playing softly but no less poignantly, determined to ease her soreness over spoiling Daniel’s delight. She tried to think of mundane matters like what she’d wear to Benedict’s for the celebratory supper on the morrow.
But all she wanted was to return to River Hill.
When, Jack wondered, had Teague’s Tavern lost its appeal? Cicero moved past its battered façade, a shutter still askew from the storm of months before. At the hitch rail, he spied Wade’s stallion tethered alongside half a dozen other horses. Lately Jack preferred Benedict’s, a more genteel establishment at the heart of town, its aspect a pleasing green, the patrons reputable, the fare celebrated.
He’d not find such accommodations farther west, and this sharpened his appreciation as he took a table by a window with a view of the street. There’d been no supper waiting at home. Mrs. Malarkey was visiting her sister in Washington County, and he’d sent Chloe back to Broad Oak that very afternoon, Ben accompanying her. It was only he and Sol and a few stable hands now. River Hill seemed silent as a tomb.
“Mr. Turlock, sir.” A serving girl was at his elbow with a deferential smile, making him feel almost respectable. “What will you be wanting this evening? A meal or some ale?”
“A meal, if you will. Some cider.”
She drew a harried breath. “Supper might take a wee bit longer than usual.” Her tone was a touch apologetic. “We’ve a large party expected, and Cook has his hands full.”
“No matter,” Jack told her, meaning it. He had no desire to return to an empty house. His gaze halted for a brief instant on Dr. Brunot seated in a far corner. “Is the doctor dining alone, do you know?”
“Aye, that he is.” She looked Brunot’s way, concern darkening her plump face before she returned to the kitchen.
In the light of the sconce affixed above the table, the doctor looked undeniably haggard. Burdened. So at odds with the diners engaging in lively conversation all around him. Jack felt a tug of concern but shrugged it away as a pewter mug was set down in front of him.
He reached into his pocket and extracted a list of supplies he’d need for the journey west, some of which would be gotten at the Ballantyne mercantile. Though the keelboat he’d take wasn’t Ballantyne made, it would dock at the boatyard for cargo. He knew the captain well enough and trusted they’d make the six-hundred-mile journey from Pittsburgh to Louisville and then on to St. Louis in good time, barring snags, log jams, and the like.
Turning the paper over, he reviewed a crude map, wondering if he’d gotten all the details right. Once he began the trek up the Missouri River, he’d stay clear of Fort Osage, established years before to search vessels for illegal whiskey, and proceed on to Fort Lock. He’d already secured a trading license, allowing him to enter Indian territory with the agreed-upon eight hundred gallons of whiskey, but he’d need to post a bond that he’d not sell to the natives once there.
Despite all this, the boat’s deepest recesses would carry all the equipment necessary to build a distillery at the mouth of the Iowa River. Henry Turlock vehemently opposed any restrictions on the whiskey trade, operating as though none existed and expecting everyone else to fall in line. There was much at stake. The trek west would be a test of Jack’s powers of deception and double dealing.
I don’t care what you do just as long as you don’t get caught doing it.
Weighted by his father’s words, he looked out the window to street lamps burning brighter in the dusk, illuminating an impressive party on the tavern walk, the curb crowded with carriages. ’Twas Silas Ballantyne and family, a few close friends. Ellie.
He focused on her alone, going cold at the sight of Daniel Cameron clutching her gloved arm. In the glare of lamplight, she looked every bit as lovely as she’d been at the ball, dressed just as finely in a blue gown, pearls in her dark, upswept hair. He found it nigh impossible to look away from her.
The Ballantynes were the expected party, then. He heard them enter the adjoining foyer and breathed easier when they disappeared into a private room in back. That it was a celebration of some sort there could be no doubt. The betrothal that wasn’t announced at the ball? Some business deal? Maybe another birthday?
He took another sip of cider as if to dampen his disquiet, hating the hunger he felt to be among them—to be one of them. For the first time since his father began pushing him west, he felt a sweeping relief he’d not have to stay on . . . and watch Ellie’s courtship play out before his very eyes. He was leaving even earlier than planned, and not a day too soon.
“Jack?” The voice at his elbow ended his musings. “Mind if I join you?”
He looked up into the familiar face of Dr. Brunot. At Jack’s nod, the doctor took a chair, pulled a pipe from his pocket, and lit it by the single taper at the table’s center. The flame flared brighter, drawing attention to deep bruises and a chilling laceration across his left cheek.
Jack felt a startling revulsion. “You look in need of some doctoring.”
Through the smoke, the weary eyes regarded him solemnly. “Unfortunately, these are only the injuries you can see.”
“Someone waylaid you on the road.” At Brunot’s nod, he continued, “Who?”
“You’re more likely to know the answer to that than I.”
Jack tensed and Brunot raised a hand as if to deflect his reproving look. “I don’t mean to implicate you. I’m just seeking answers.”
Feigning calm, Jack leaned back in his chair and took another drink, thoughts still full of Ellie.
The doctor drew hard on his pipe, casting a look about the room. “Opposition is growing fiercer toward those of us who help fugitives—more beatings, threats, torched homes and barns. As a result, save the Quakers, we’re losing support. Some have even become proslavery spies under threat. We no longer know who we can trust.”
“It’s a dangerous game.”
“Aye, and becoming more so.” Brunot kept his voice low. “There’s a group known as the Pittsburgh kidnapping ring made up of professional slave hunters, city constables, and lawyers who are abducting f
ree blacks and selling them south. Your father and brother are said to be among them.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jack told him, “but I know nothing about it.”
“I’m asking you to find out.”
Jack’s resistance climbed. He took another drink, wishing for something more bracing than cider. Just when he thought he was free of Allegheny County, the Turlock taint, something new surfaced. “What good will it do?”
“We need your help. The other night when I was waylaid on the road after making a medical call, these men—all masked—demanded I furnish them with the names of local abolitionists. They specifically wanted to know if Silas Ballantyne is involved. Word is they mean him harm and will stop at nothing to achieve their ends. I refused to give them what they wanted, thus the beating.”
“They mean to make an example of Ballantyne, then.”
“They mean to ruin him. Silas has his enemies—those who are jealous of his success and despise his benevolence, his antislavery views. Some pretend to be his friends who I suspect are part of this ring and would rejoice to see him brought low.”
“He’s aware of the trouble, I take it?”
“Aye, aware and steadfast. He won’t turn back.” Brunot leaned forward entreatingly. “Jack, you have connections we abolitionists lack. ’Tis imperative we know who we’re dealing with, who may be posing as antislavers but are spies instead.”
“You want me to learn what I can from my father and brother, ask around town.”
“They’d never suspect you.” His eyes shone with renewed vigor. “You’ve given them no reason to believe you’re sympathetic to our cause.”
None but putting a gun to Wade’s head and shoving a McTavish against a wall.
“I don’t know that sympathetic is the right word. As for Jarm and Cherry—” Jack hesitated, thinking back on the turn of events. “I had no choice but to take them in.”
“You had a choice, Jack.” Brunot’s gaze held firm. “You chose to help. That made you one of us, if only for a moment in time. You’ve told no one what you’ve done, nor exposed the rest of us.”