7 

To speak kindly does not hurt the tongue.

English proverb

’Twas First Day, as Margaret Hunter called the Sabbath, the most favored day by far. Papa wouldn’t let Eden go to church, but he had fewer qualms about her going to Hope Rising, though he complained mightily when she did. This January morn, the snow was spitting again and Eden debated whether to walk or ride Sparrow, her mare. ’Twas important she return the books Jemma Greathouse had lent her and check on the tenants.

All morning she’d flown through her necessary chores, thankfully kept to a minimum on this day of rest. As she hurried down the lane, conspicuous as a cardinal in the felted wool cape Jemma had given her, she tossed a look back at the garret, thinking she heard the twang of a fiddle. Her imagination, surely. Silas wouldn’t play with Papa and the new babe in the house. He’d been reading but an hour before when she’d trudged up to the garret with a bundle of wood.

He’d met her on the landing, book in hand, surprising her just as he had when he’d forgotten his haversack. This time he took the wood, a rebuke in his jade eyes. “From now on I’ll fetch my own wood.”

“But—”

“I ken where the woodpile is.”

“Papa—”

“I’ll deal with your father. Besides, I’m handier than you with an ax.”

Heat rushed to her face, and she looked down at her hurt hand. The cut from the ax was not deep but had bled profusely and was still tender. Slipping it behind her back, she tried not to wince as he watched her. Light from the open garret door spilled down and dispelled the early morning dimness, highlighting the handsome, lean lines of his bearded face. She read impatience there . . . and something else. A distinct wariness.

“Good Sabbath, Miss Lee.”

The words were clipped, like the closing of a door. She sensed he wanted to be rid of her, that the wood was but a ruse. She took a step back, disappointment quenching the small hope in her heart that they might be friends. She wasn’t even sure he was what she hoped him to be—a believer—though he bowed his head at meals, same as she.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, “to trouble you.”

With that she began backing down the steps. It took an eternity to reach bottom—would he not shut the door on her humiliation? Being rebuffed was not new. Papa and Elspeth were masters at it. Why would this be any different? Yet somehow, without her consent, Silas Ballantyne mattered. And when he did shut the door—soundly—her eyes filled with tears.

Silas began crossing out the days on the crude calendar he’d made in his journal. Meticulous by nature, he made note of the hours he kept, the iron he worked, even the vagaries of weather.

14 January, Friday—Snow. Thirteen and a half hours labor. Wagon and carriage hardware for York.

15 January, Saturday—Weather clear and cold. Twelve and a quarter hours labor. Seven wagon rims. Two cranes. One lock.

16 January, Sabbath—Fasted. Prayed. Spent the forenoon reading Scripture.

Rebuffed Eden Lee.

He hadn’t penned the last three words—there was no need. The hurt in her eyes was engraved in his head and heart more indelibly than ink. He’d merely meant to save her a task or two by refusing the wood. Nae, that was a lie—he’d meant to erect a wall. He wanted nothing from the Lees but a fulfilled contract, an end to a too-long apprenticeship. Best establish the boundaries from the first. Still, he regretted his rudeness—and the haunting feeling that Eden Lee was in need of an ally and ’twas Elspeth he should be chary of instead.

The next day, as if to make up for his behavior, he began to split all the wood for the household, making sure she never lacked. ’Twas quite a turnaround. Since his arrival the month before, he’d hardly looked up from his work and paid so little attention to his surroundings he nearly failed to make note of the weather. He came when called for meals, spoke only when spoken to, and spent Sabbaths alone in his room. Yet the time dragged on. His temper grew as jagged as the blade that lined his boot. He felt lifeless, joyless, weary. Who’d have thought it was his beard that would make him go begging?

’Twas Eden’s habit to split and stack wood following the noonday meal, just as it was her task to feed the house fires. When her ax and wedge went missing, she felt a flicker of alarm, only to find Silas in the woodshed behind the kitchen, his breath pluming in the raw cold, his chopping meting out a steady rhythm. Though she hovered between thanking him and avoiding him, the latter won out. She tarried beneath an eave, waiting for his return to the forge, but he showed no signs of stopping. Would he stack the wood to the very rafters? Needing to return to the kitchen, she gave him nary a glance to and from the well till he stepped directly in her path.

“I need no wood from you,” he said, eyes grave. “But I do need your help with a razor.”

“A razor?” she said, surprised. “There are razors enough in York.”

“Aye,” he said, looking contrite. “But I’ve no time to go there.”

“I thought . . .” She hesitated, trying to picture him without the heavy shadow across his cheeks and chin. “I thought you always wore it so.”

“Nae, I lost my shaving kit coming here.”

“And you want me to go to York?”

“Mayhap. I’ve coin enough.” His eyes sharpened as he studied her. “Surely there’s some task you can attend to there. You look in need of a brush, some hairpins yourself.”

She nearly squirmed at his blunt assessment. Putting a hand to her wayward mane, she touched a loose spiral as it fell to her waist. Somehow, in the midst of milking and tending the animals that morning, she’d lost her hair ribbon. She began to back up, forgetting her wood, feeling hot as the fire she would soon stoke.

Amusement rode his features. “I’ve ne’er seen a lass so aflocht.”

Aflocht? Her brow furrowed. Flustered? Excited? Harried? That was certainly how she felt in his presence. “I’m going to fetch you a razor,” she whispered. “But first I must tend to my hair.”

His solemn mouth quirked in a half-smile. He was teasing, then. She felt a swelling relief.

“Mind your wood,” he told her gruffly, settling a load of oak in her arms before returning to the smithy.

She watched him go, fascination gnawing a hole inside her. One moment he was friendly, the next aloof. There were two Silas Ballantynes, and she never knew which she’d encounter—though she knew which she liked best.

Now, pondering their exchange of days before, she mulled his request for a razor. Likely he thought she’d forgotten. She wanted to help, but she’d not go to York. She hadn’t been to the village in two years or better. Papa was unpopular there, and Elspeth’s antics gave rise to gossip. Eden had witnessed the cold stares of the shopkeepers, felt the snubs of village women despite her best efforts to be friendly. Nay, she’d not go to York, not even for Silas, though she did feel she owed him for minding her wood.

Drawing back her hood, she let a few swirling snowflakes light on her hair and face as she walked. The gate to Hope Rising was but half a mile. No wagon or horse had passed this way for some time to turn the snow to slush and mud. All was pure. Sabbath-holy. With most of the tenants hunkered down for the winter and the Greathouses in the city, the grand old house was lonesome indeed.

She could smell the tea cakes Margaret Hunter made, their spicy scent swept along by the breath of the wind. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. A pinch of allspice. Her stomach cramped in anticipation. She was running now despite the snow-slick lane, free of her burdens for an hour, perhaps two. Margaret’s beloved quarters were by the kitchen garden and consisted of a little brick cottage with a gabled roof, much like Hope Rising, only in miniature.

When small, she and David and the Greathouse girls had had a heyday here. The surrounding woods, the ivy-drenched dovecote, the icehouse, chill and echoing, had been their playground. Mama had brought cheese and honey to Hope Rising then, taking tea with Margaret Hunter, for they were the best of friends. Strangely, Elspeth was missing from these memories. She’d been helping Papa in the smithy, Eden guessed. She rarely came then, or now.

As she knocked on the familiar door, Eden recalled her awe at the great house as a child. Over time it had shrunk in size and become what it was—a small, English-style manor, somewhat fading in its grandeur. How many years had she stood here like this, waiting for Margaret to answer? Not many more, if she had her way. Mere weeks, perhaps, till she’d see Philadelphia.

“Lord be praised! I didn’t think to see thee this Sabbath, Eden. Not with all the doings at thy place.” Squinting from the snow’s glare, spectacles perched primly on her nose, Margaret Hunter opened the door wide, gray silken skirts rustling. Eden’s eye was drawn to the chatelaine attached to her bodice, its delicate silver chains dangling with various keys, tiny scissors, and a pocket watch. Margaret was pragmatic, if nothing else.

“I smelled thy cakes clear down the lane,” Eden teased. “A blizzard couldn’t have kept me away.”

“Come in,” Margaret said with a flurry of her hand. “Shed thy boots and we’ll take our tea by the fire. I want to hear about the new babe. Thee certainly have a busy household of late.”

Eden nodded, her high mood plummeting at the mention of little Jon. “The babe is named after Grandfather Gallatin. He’s a wee, sweet thing.”

“Whom does he favor? Thy mother or thy father?”

Neither.

Avoiding Margaret’s eyes, she kept her tone light. “His hair is fair, if he has hair at all, and his eyes are blue.”

“All babies have blue eyes, seems to me, though I had none of my own. And his lungs—are they strong?”

Eden withheld a yawn. “He sleeps all day and howls all night. I’m afraid none of us, including the apprentice, are getting much sleep.” Though he’d never complained, she’d noticed the weary lines in Silas’s face and feared what they meant. He needed all his wits to face her father in the smithy. Sending up a silent prayer on his behalf, she peeled off her cape and sat in her usual chair, spreading her skirts about her so her damp hem would dry.

“He’s new to the world yet,” Margaret said. “Likely he’ll adjust to life outside the womb in time.”

As she poured tea, Eden swept the plaster walls in a glance, eyeing the new window coverings she’d not noticed last time. The red checks dressed up the small parlor and gave it a summery feel, far preferable to the black window dressing that signified Margaret’s extended mourning. She’d been widowed two years.

“So thy apprentice has come.”

At her wording, Eden nearly winced. She looked down at her steaming tea, forgetting to take cream and sugar. “His name is Silas Ballantyne—and he’s Elspeth’s, not mine.”

Now what had made her say that? she wondered. And why was there a note of lament in her voice?

Kind, amber eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “So thy father is going to hold with tradition and arrange the marriage? Between thy sister and this Silas?”

“Papa is very determined.” Eden reached for a tea cake still warm in the basket. “Elspeth is aware of the situation. I fear the apprentice is not. He’s been here but a month. There’s been no courting as of yet. Elspeth is recuperating.”

“Ah yes, the besetting illness.” Sitting back in her chair, Margaret looked more somber than Eden had ever seen her. “And what if the apprentice favors thee and not thy sister?”

“I . . .” She hadn’t considered this. Why would he? Elspeth was the comely one, the clever one. “Well, Elspeth is the eldest . . .”

And Elspeth always gets her way.

“Do thee favor anyone, dear Eden?”

“Me?” Suddenly the fire seemed too warm. The tea burnt her tongue. “Nay,” she sputtered and nearly choked, the tea cake finally going down. “I simply feel sorry for apprentices bound by tradition.”

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. “Where does this young man hail from?”

“Scotland.” She struggled beneath Margaret’s gaze, afraid she’d given the wrong impression. Did Margaret think she was smitten? Coveting Silas as her own? Best pick her words carefully. “He’s been in America since before the war. But he rarely speaks of it. He’s simply a poor tradesman.” Though he has a fine fiddle . . . a gun . . . some leather-bound books. Bending low, Eden searched in her basket as if groping for safer ground. “I’m anxious to learn how the tenants are faring. And I’ve brought you some cheese curds and a little something I made.”

As Margaret exclaimed over the offerings, Eden arranged her sewing discreetly on her lap. Usually she brought handwork—a bit of embroidery or lace to bestow on Margaret or leave for one of the tenants, some sachet from the rose petals and lavender harvested from her garden. Something feminine—not this.

“What are thee working on today?” Margaret’s brows peaked in curiosity. “A man’s shirt?”

“Yes,” Eden confessed. “Papa owes the apprentice a set of clothes per his contract. I lack but one sleeve.” Truly, Silas was in dire need of a new shirt—and a shave. His entreaty by the woodpile returned to her, made the heat climb to her cheeks again as she bespoke her strange request. “Might you have a . . . razor?”

Margaret looked up from her steaming cup, surprise enlivening her plain features. “Is that in thy contract too?”

“Nay.” Eden gave her a sheepish half-smile. “But Silas is sorely in need of such.”

“Well then, I seem to remember that my Miles had a shaving kit.”

“Please, I didn’t mean—”

“Now, Eden, what need of a razor has he in heaven?” At this, she disappeared into a bedchamber, returning with far more than Eden had hoped for. “The blade stands a good sharpening, but all seems to be in order.”

The Sheffield steel kit was encased in leather and bore a brush, a straight razor, and a small mirror. Gratitude suffused every part of her. “Bethankit,” she uttered without forethought.

“Bethankit?” Margaret adjusted her spectacles, a slow smile dawning. “What means thee?”

“I—I think it means thank you but I’m not sure.” Slipping the shaving kit into her basket, Eden resumed sewing, the needle’s point grazing her palm and making her grimace. “’Tis something the apprentice says at meals. He says little, actually, so ’tis easily remembered.”

Taking a sip of tea, Margaret watched her ply tiny, even stitches. “This Scotsman, despite being a man of few words, seems to have made quite an impression.”

Eden feared it was a lasting one. “He’s different than any man I’ve met. Granted, I’ve not met many . . .” She was rambling now, trying to put into words the impossible. Quiet Margaret, given to confidences, had a quality that drew Eden out, made her confess things she dared not give voice to anywhere else. Things that Elspeth would laugh at and Mama had no time for. “I think,” she ventured, exposing the hope in her heart, “that he may be a believer.”

“A believer?” Across from her, Margaret poured more tea—rich oolong, banished during the war, and only recently returned to York. “Thee must bring Silas to Hope Rising some Sabbath. I’d like to meet him.”

The pleasure Eden felt at the invitation lasted but a second. Could she? Without throwing the whole household into a spin? He was Elspeth’s intended, not hers. All would look askance at the invitation, even Silas himself. She was never quite sure of him. He ignored her most times, rebuked her for bringing him wood, loaned her books, then waylaid her and begged a razor . . .

Examining the banded collar, she tied off a length of thread, wondering if Margaret was lonely and seeking company, thus the invitation. But loneliness, she knew, was an elusive notion. Wasn’t she more lonesome in the midst of her busy household than anywhere else on earth?

“’Tis quiet here without the Greathouses,” Eden murmured, hoping to change the current of conversation.

Margaret moved the lamp closer. “David will be back soon for the ice harvest, and then ’twill be spring. He and Dennis Hastings, the new overseer, are expecting a large flock of sheep. Now that the war’s won, the English cannot restrict wool as they once did. Then there’s all the plowing and planting to see about. I’ll be airing out the house shortly and making ready for the girls’ return.”

The news buoyed Eden’s spirits. She missed the Greathouses when they were away, especially Jemma, though it was Beatrice, the eldest sister, who’d taken part in Eden’s scheme. Not even Margaret knew what they were planning. Eden felt a sudden qualm, but now was hardly the time to be confiding anything. Best wait till the plan was firmly in place. Margaret would be pleased, if surprised, to learn her destination involved the Society of Friends.

For an hour or better they talked in low tones, sipping their tea and sewing. Intent on finishing the shirt, her back to the window, Eden was unaware that it was snowing harder, the sky darkening like dusk instead of noon. The pealing of distant church bells made her finish her stitching with haste.

“Thank you for the tea—and company,” she said. “Perhaps the weather will clear next First Day and we can visit the tenants.”

With that, she fairly flew down the cold lane, the snow obscuring her view of the meadow and pond. Turning, she took a last hungry look, but her gaze caught on the small, stone church atop the hill. It overlooked Hope Rising like a sentinel, a beacon. Here dissenters gathered to worship as they wished, without the Church of England’s interference.

She knew little about them but wanted to join them—wanted to sing their songs and hymns and have her soul stirred by their preaching. Listening to the bells each Sabbath was poor recompense. Even now her heart twisted with longing as she heard the echo of their music and imagined how the church might look crowded with worshipers.

As the last bell sounded, Eden turned down the humble lane toward home, trying to shrug aside the sadness that descended each and every Sabbath as she did so, preparing herself for whatever upheaval awaited inside.

Thank You, Lord, that Hope Rising is a rest for me, and You’ve provided both shaving kit and shirt.

She reminded him of a sith—a fairy—Silas thought, not so much in looks but in manner. Nae, he didn’t believe in such, but he’d been so long steeped in Scots lore he knew the signs. In her scarlet cape, with her hair spilling down and touched by snow, he stood spellbound near the garret window as she came down the winding lane. With a basket on her arm, she seemed to dance rather than walk. The music of the kirk bells sounding in the distance only lent enchantment to the scene.

Sitting down on the bed lest she look up and see his gawking, he ran a hand over his beard and rebuked himself for feeling elf-shot. Watching her, wondering where she’d been and if she’d remembered his razor, he fought the tight feeling in his chest, almost believing he’d succumbed to the sickness thought to be caused by fairies. It didn’t help that she hadn’t minded her hair like he’d prompted. With it unpinned, every tress a silken tangle, she all but begged to be paid attention to.

He could hear the careful closing of the front door, sense her soft tread on the landing. The house was suddenly still. Even the babe had stopped crying. With every step she took, his pulse seemed to climb along with her. And then he heard . . . nothing. Was she trying to tiptoe? Avoid him? The thought turned him sick inside. He’d seen how she sidestepped everyone in the household as if avoiding a blow. And he’d been as guilty, wanting a wall between himself and all the Lees, brusque with her as he could be.

He pulled open the garret door. She hovered five steps down, cheeks crimson from the cold, her unbound hair glistening with melted snow. Between them lay a leather case and a bundle of linen on a smooth step. He reached for it just as she did and felt the warmth of her fingers graze his hand.

“I—” she began.

“You—” he said in tandem.

“Remembered,” they finished together.

Holding the leather case in one hand, he unfurled the linen with the other, surprise riffling through him. Made in the prevailing style, the shirt was full cut, with a banded collar and dropped shoulders. He could see that the work was well done, the cloth fine. Spun on her own wheel, no doubt.

“The shaving kit is from Hope Rising. I made you the shirt, but I hurried so.” Her tone, her expression, were sweetly apologetic. “The stitching is not very fine.”

“Not fine?” His tone begged to differ. “I need nothing fancy.”

She looked down at her empty hands, to the cut that bore a rosy scar. “Papa was to give you a suit of clothes per the terms of your contract. I’ve not enough cloth to make a weskit or breeches. Not yet.”

“I need little, ye ken. Just a roof o’er my head and enough food to stem the gnaw of hunger.”

She brightened, reminding him of a child eager to please. “I could knit you a hat, some stockings. Our winters are very cold—”

“Nae.” As soon as he said it, he felt a tug of regret. Her lovely face grew pinched. Gentling his tone, he added, “You can ill afford more work.”

Her chin lifted. “’Tis my way to do such things. If it’s not your shirt I’ll be sewing or your stockings I’ll be knitting, ’twill be someone else’s.”

The softly spoken words put him in his place. “I’m in your debt.” He shifted in the doorway, suddenly at sea. “D’ye have need of anything? I could make you a ladle, some tongs for the kitchen. A cowbell or two.”

“Might you have another book?”

“How goes the Thomson?” he asked, remembering the poems he’d lent her.

She smiled, the dimple in her cheek deepening. “Fareweel, ye bughts, an’ all your ewes, / An’ fields whare bloomin’ heather grows.”

Her Scots was so charmingly mangled he couldn’t check a grin. “Here’s another you might like.” He stepped back into his room and produced a worn copy of brown leather. “I’ve but three more, other than the Buik.”

“The Buik?” she echoed, taking the offering.

“The Bible.”

Something so poignant passed over her face at his answer, he found himself nearly holding his breath. She asked quietly, “Might I have that instead?”

He hesitated. “You have no family Bible?”

The answer was in her eyes before it reached her lips. “Nay, no Bible . . . no Buik.”

He’d suspected the Lees had no Holy Writ, just as they said no prayers. And he sensed he’d erred in his asking, as she was turning the color of her red cape. “Mine is in Erse—Gaelic—or I’d give it to you straightaway.”

Her eyes filled with tears. His gut twisted. That she was thirsty for heavenly things, there could be no doubt. He’d oft felt the same so understood her need. Yet he had needs of his own. And he needed to distance himself, starting now . . .

“Might you . . . read it to me?” she queried.

Heat climbed up his neck. “’Tis a big book.”

She looked away and he saw her disappointment.

“Aye, I will,” he said. “But when—where?”

When she glanced up at him again, her face held a rare resolve. “Here in the stairwell. I don’t know when. Soon. For now I must see to noonday dinner.”

With that, she started down the steps. He watched her go, wanting to change his mind, call her back. The weight of what he’d just committed to, simple as it seemed, nearly made him groan. ’Twould be easier to simply attend kirk, he reasoned, thinking of the stone church atop the hill. He could see it now in the distance, had watched a few faithful congregants emerge despite the sullen weather a half hour before.

He wanted no complications, no romantic entanglements. If Elspeth had asked him, he would have questioned her motives. There was a slyness about her, a cunning, that was entirely absent in Eden. Aye, Eden was cut of a different cloth. With Eden, her hunger was for the Word, not him. Not time spent with him. And she was willing to risk her father’s ire—for ire it would surely be—to get the spiritual sustenance she craved. Who was Silas to deny her?

A snatch of a Gaelic Psalm wended its way through his tangled thoughts.

My God with His lovingkindness shall come to meet me at every corner.

Even in a stairwell.