28 

When nature gave us tears, she gave us leave to weep.

Benjamin Franklin

Sixteen days. The old black saddlebag bearing a small padlock was buried in the barn loft, full of an assortment of needed things. Two handkerchiefs embroidered EB. Three pairs of worsted stockings with garters. An extra linen shift. Two petticoats. One dimity nightgown, never worn, with ribbon trim.

A wedding gown.

Eden’s fingers had caressed the fabric, wonder bubbling up inside her. Made of chintz, it was the color of spring grass, the petticoat embroidered with tiny pink flowers and a winding vine. Buried in an ancient trunk, it had been smuggled to the barn and rolled into the saddlebag, terribly wrinkled but undeniably lovely.

“’Twould please me greatly to know that you’ll be wed in the dress that brought me such happiness,” Mama had told her in hushed tones. Hugging the lovely gown to her chest, Eden marveled that Mama had ever been young or carefree. “I once wore it to a dance where I met the man I wanted to marry.” Mama seemed on the verge of telling her more before fading to generalities. “One’s first love is often the finest—the most enduring.”

Yes. This was how she felt about Silas—and why it was a punishment to be apart. The last Scripture he’d penned returned to her with such poignancy it brought a pang tender as any wound. I will betroth thee unto me forever. She kept it close, tucked in her bodice, hidden and heartfelt.

Now, standing before the kitchen hearth, she tried to envision the home they would have. ’Twas the first time in days she’d had a spare, silent moment. Mama had gone to York with Papa. Thomas and Jon were asleep down the hall. Elspeth, she guessed, was working on the ledgers. A steady stream of business kept the smithy doors open even though the weather had turned cooler—mostly farmers in need of repairs of plows and tools after the harvest. The tentative ring of a hammer assured her it wasn’t Silas at the forge but Giles.

A sudden simmering returned her to the stew that needed tending. It rimmed the kettle’s edge in angry bubbles, a roiling brew of chicken and potatoes, onions and thyme. Behind her a door groaned open, and she turned to see a bleary-eyed Thomas, thumb in his mouth. Giving the stew a stir, she dropped down in a near chair and held out her arms to him. He responded with a sleepy smile she tried to commit to memory. Her throat tightened. When—if—she saw him again, he’d be more boy than baby. He climbed onto her lap, looking about in question.

“Mama will be back soon,” she told him, reaching for the cup of cider he’d left unfinished at noonday dinner. He drank it down and took the biscuit she offered, ambling off to play in the corner where his toy soldiers waited.

She listened for Jon while she made porridge, sweetening it with a smidgen of vanilla sugar, unable to check a smile. She well knew the way to the babe’s heart. He’d balked at plain porridge, making Mama despair till Eden tried the coveted sweetener, using a small sugar hammer to dislodge a chunk or two. Together they’d laughed at his eagerness to eat.

She wished Silas would come in and replenish her wood, kissing her on the back of the neck as he’d once done when no one was about. Though Elspeth had caught them together in the parlor the week before, they’d been particularly circumspect since. And her sister hadn’t said a word.

Eden looked up, her eyes trailing west. The sun was sliding toward the far horizon at midafternoon, orange and round as a pumpkin. Jon’s porridge sat in a little pot in the coals, but no sound came from down the hall. She eyed the corner clock, and her hands stilled.

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.

’Twas the verse Pastor McCheyne had read at last Sabbath’s service. Why would it return to her now? Checking the bread, she pushed the words aside, only to hear them echo again inside her. Thomas looked up as she moved toward the darkened hall. The door to her parents’ bedchamber gave way beneath her hand, and she entered, eyes fastening on the cradle to the left of the hearth. Stout as he was getting, the babe had nearly outgrown it.

The low fire pushed back the shadows, and she dropped to her knees, laying a hand on the cradle’s smooth side. “Jon?”

No flailing of arms in greeting or familiar chortle. Just . . . stillness. Surprised, she gathered him up, pressing her lips to his petal-soft cheek, avoiding his unblinking eyes. The cold weight of him when he’d been so warm and full of life but hours before . . .

“Jon? Jon! Nay!”

Pressing her mouth to his, she tried to give him breath—her breath. But panic, black as night, pushed her to the edge of a great, breathless abyss. Shaking, she placed him back in the cradle only to pick him up again, dizzy with despair.

Silas . . . Silas would know what to do.

Somehow her trembling legs carried her to the smithy. Giles’s back was to her—some farmers were taking his attention just beyond the open doors. Elspeth was nowhere in sight. Backtracking, Eden burst into Silas’s room, Jon heavy in her arms, and found only emptiness. Haversacks and fiddle rested along one wall. Maps were spread open on a table anchored by lanterns. The bed’s thin counterpane was smooth.

Gone . . . again.

Tears rose and overflowed, and great sobs burned her throat. Returning to her parents’ room, she laid Jon lovingly in the cradle, tucking him in out of habit, her tears wetting his face. Unmindful of Thomas—of anything but the need to flee—she started down the linden lane at a near run, her heavy skirts weighting her all the way. Gold and crimson leaves crunched underfoot as she veered toward Margaret’s cottage, only to knock without an answer. Winded, choking on her tears, she stumbled up the brick walk to the house, hoping to find Margaret. But there was no response.

Torn, she paused in the courtyard and looked toward home, her thoughts cloudy as the sky above. When the Greathouse coach came barreling round a corner, she stood in its path as if rooted to the ground and was nearly run over. Wheels and hooves drew to a sudden halt amidst a storm of dust, and David’s tense face appeared through an open window.

“Eden, what is it?”

The concern lacing his voice only made her cry harder. Covering her face with her hands, her words came in tatters. “I—I’m here—to find Margaret.”

“Margaret is with Jemma, who’s unwell.” Clearly craving privacy, he cast a glance at the coachman high on his perch. Flinging open the door, David motioned her in.

She backed up. “Nay—I—”

His face flashed impatience. “Come, Eden. We’ve no time for delay.” With that he reached out and took hold of her arm, pulling her in and shutting the door soundly. Reluctant, she took the seat opposite, the scent of new leather and snuff embracing her.

“I’m on my way to Philadelphia for a physician,” David said. “But first you must tell me why you’re so upset.” She swallowed hard, groping for speech as he fumbled for his handkerchief, supplying the words she couldn’t. “There’s been more trouble at home, I take it.”

“’Tis Jon—I went to his cradle—I’d made him some porridge—he was sleeping overlong—” The image of him smiling and chewing on her bodice laces that very morning shredded her composure to ribbons. “H-he wouldn’t wake . . .”

“What do you mean? Is he . . . gone?” When she began to cry harder, he went silent then said quietly, “Eden, I’m sorry. I know how attached you were to the babe.”

With that he thumped on the upholstered ceiling with a tight fist. The coach began a slow roll forward, but Eden hardly noticed for her weeping. She was vaguely aware of the bergamot-laden handkerchief he pressed into her palm and the sudden shift as he left his seat to sit beside her. “When did this happen?”

“I—I just found him . . .”

“Was Jon ill, then? Did he have a fever like Jemma?”

She couldn’t answer, shaken by the shock mirrored on his solemn face. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—suggest Elspeth might have hurt Jon . . .

“Were your parents at home? Your sister?”

“Mama and Papa had gone to York. I—I don’t know about Elspeth.”

He swore under his breath. “First the fire . . . and now this?”

She nodded. ’Twas hard to even speak, as her thoughts swung from home to Hope Rising and then back again.

Depositing his hat on the seat, David heaved a sigh. “Jemma took ill yesterday. Margaret fears it may be a virulent fever.”

The dire words failed to penetrate Eden’s grief. She sat, fisting the hanky, feeling her heart shatter over and over. First Jon . . . and now Jemma?

“This requires Dr. Rush’s expertise. I don’t trust these York physicians. They’re fine for livestock, perhaps, not human beings.” He studied her, eyes dark with concern. “You look in need of more headache powders.”

She said nothing, craving fresh air. Turning her face to the window, she felt a start of alarm. They were well down the main road, moving at a brisk pace past low stone fences and unfamiliar meadows strewn with autumn leaves. She’d thought he was taking her home.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he waved aside her concerns. “You’re in no condition to go back, Eden. Who’s to say there won’t be more trouble waiting? You shall be safer with me.”

“But no one knows where I am.” She made a sudden move toward the door handle, but he intervened, sliding the lock into place.

“I’ll send word to your father at the inn ahead.” Drawing the coach window closed, he returned her to her seat with a brusque look. “With Jemma so ill, you can’t remain at Hope Rising. You’ll stay with Bea and Anne at the townhouse in Philadelphia till things settle down. I’m going to ask the county magistrate for an investigation into Jon’s death. The fire I could do little about. I may fare better with the babe.”

She shut her eyes as a fierce longing skewered her insides. It wasn’t Philadelphia or more headache powders she needed, but Silas.

Her betrothed.