30

They truly love who show their love.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Addie took the little maple carving from James’s outstretched hand, delight filling her upturned face. “A cat? Just like the one I’ve been wishing for?” Pets weren’t allowed at the orphanage, but that didn’t stop the children from wanting them.

“Wait, there’s more,” he said, reaching in his waistcoat pocket again.

“Two kittens?” Her mouth formed an O of astonishment before she flung her arms around him. “Oh, if I were all grown up I’d marry you!”

Looking on, the orphanage director smiled. “You’ve a devotee for life, Mr. Sackett. Now come along, Adelaide. Time for afternoon lessons.”

“May I play a tune first?” Returning the wooden figurines to James’s hand for safekeeping, she reached for a small violin on a near table. “Mozart’s ‘Little Star.’”

A few screeches and discordant notes later, she gave him a curtsey and he applauded. “Miss Ballantyne’s doing, no doubt.”

“I had another lesson yesterday,” she said, taking the cat and kittens back again and hugging the violin to her chest.

Mrs. Sheffield glanced at the open door. “Ah, Mr. Cameron. Adelaide’s violin playing is quite a draw. Won’t you come in?”

Malachi entered, looking like a bear in his heavy greatcoat, hat in hand. “I was hoping to have a word with Mr. Sackett now that the board meeting is over.”

“Of course. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll leave you gentlemen alone.” With a smile, she went out, Addie in her wake.

For the first time he could ever recall, James was sorry his old friend had caught up with him.

“You’re a hard man to pin down, James.”

“The board meeting was a good place to start, Malachi.” He forced a smile, his affability wearing thin. “Now seems a good time to thank you for your endowment.”

“You can thank Rowena Ballantyne. She’s the one who made me aware of the need for a new dining room and dormitory. I’ll be glad to do whatever I can.”

So this had to do with Wren, then. “Thanks to her prompting and your generosity, we’ll be able to build beyond that.” The understatement nicked him. He was still dazed by the donated amount, the largest in the orphanage’s history.

Malachi gestured to some chairs nearest the hearth. “Have a few minutes?”

With a reluctant nod, James took a seat. Malachi’s extraordinary generosity hinged on something, he felt certain. Some new commitment to Wren and the cause she cherished.

Malachi sat down opposite, his gaze roaming the plain paneled walls. “Although the matter of a bride is nearly settled, I’m still in need of a freight agent.”

James shot him an apologetic look, the word bride tearing at his forced calm. “I owe you an answer.” He’d delayed long enough, wanting to gauge where Malachi’s ambitions would take him. Since there was little doubt Wren was a part of that picture, James had no recourse but to bow out. “I’m afraid I’m in no position to accept, given the situation I’m in.”

Malachi’s eyes clouded. “The trouble downriver, I take it.”

More Wren, James couldn’t say, surprised Malachi knew of Madder. Leaning forward, he added a scoop of coal to the waning fire and made no reply.

“You need to leave Pittsburgh, James. Staying on, taking part in the season like you’ve been, makes you too easy a target. When I stopped at the boatyard yesterday, Ealer told me you aren’t in the same place more than five minutes, as you feel you’re being followed.”

“Ealer exaggerates.”

“He’s concerned for you, as I am. I could put you on the next train to Philadelphia once you reach Lancaster. My townhouse is at your disposal in the city. You could lay low for a time and then assume your duties there as freight agent.”

“It’s tempting, I’ll grant you that.”

Malachi rubbed his brow, jaw firming, as if prepared to make some concession. “I’m aware Silas has you busy with Ballantyne interests and has even talked to you of California. It’s a long way around Cape Horn to the West, to safety, but it’s a good offer as it stands.”

“That door is closed.”

“Closed? Why?”

“I believe there’s going to be a fight and I need to stay and enlist.”

Surprise creased his friend’s bearded face. “Would you really go to war?”

“We’re already at war, Malachi.”

“You’d not pay the commutation fee and have someone serve in your stead?”

“And give in to Madder and those like him? Never.” He wouldn’t say he’d already been approached by government officials anticipating the need for pilots of gunboat fleets on the Mississippi. He’d devoted a decade to helping fugitives find freedom. Would he relent in the most important battle of them all? “My responsibilities lie here in Pittsburgh with the Ballantynes and the line.”

Malachi stared at him. “Don’t delude yourself, James.”

“I wouldn’t call loyalty delusional.”

“You well know what I mean. As far as the Ballantyne line goes, even Silas is diversifying. He’s well aware of how matters stand in business, industry. The railroads will soon be the death of the river, as sure as there is a God in Israel. We’re simply too fast, too efficient—”

“Don’t.” The low utterance severed Malachi’s words midsentence. Something inside James broke, went still. “I know what’s coming. And I know what’s to be lost.”

Wren, foremost.

Pulling himself to his feet, he went out.

Christmas was bearing down on them, and Wren’s thoughts and prayers centered on one thing. Her father. All she wanted was for him to come home. Despite the heavy snows and impassable roads farther north, she refused to give up hope, even when Andra scoffed at her.

“I’m afraid the Pennsylvania Railroad is at a standstill, so Mina tells me. No one will be coming or going this Christmas in such weather.”

A foot of fresh snow had fallen since the night of the ball, and Wren resisted the urge to pull on her mittens and go outside. With Andra fussing she would catch cold, Wren, sheepskin around her shoulders, contented herself with the view from the cupola. Unbidden, the winter landscape brought to mind a dozen cherished things. The humble tang of woodsmoke. Roiling kettles of hot cider. The brittle snap of branches on long walks through the woods.

Her heart squeezed tight. She had lost her beloved home, but she still had her memories. They couldn’t be bought or sold or bartered. They stayed locked inside her, as warm and enduring as the winter was fleeting and chill.

Her gaze glanced off the distant rooftops of Cameron House and River Hill. But it was the Monongahela House to the west she sought, the skyline smudged with soot and smoke.

Her heated words with James the night of the ball spun round her head in an unforgiving circle. She’d only meant to speak on Izannah’s behalf, wake him up to her cousin’s feelings for him. But she’d gone too far and come upon a wall. James’s attentions had shrunk to a word or two the rest of the evening, and once again he’d taken his own coach at evening’s end, securing an outrider to see them home in his stead.

“Mr. James is in a high temper,” Mim had murmured at his departure. Her questioning eyes sought Wren’s as if seeking explanation, but Wren was too miserable to reply.

In the hours since, she’d considered penning him a note, holding on to half a hope he would come by and she could mend that too-honest moment. Perhaps he was still mourning Georgiana. Perhaps he didn’t care for Izannah as she cared for him. Lately Wren had sensed an unusual restlessness in Izannah, a preoccupation that left Wren wondering. Might she be growing weary of waiting for James? Wanting an engagement or some sign of his affection? Perhaps they’d had a lovers’ quarrel. Wren didn’t dare ask. Love was a chancy endeavor, best left to two hearts and the Lord.

She leaned forward, her warm breath misting the icy glass. A lone rider cut a dark streak across the snow to the west of New Hope. Who would be out on such a rumballiach day, as Papa liked to say? Standing, she bumped her head against the cupola’s hanging lantern, setting it swinging in her haste.

Dusk was closing in, making it difficult to determine just who raced up the drive, slinging snow beneath the horse’s hooves. When recognition finally stirred, Wren’s pulse picked up in rhythm.

George Ealer, come to tell of James.

Between the thickness of the study door and George Ealer’s emotional stuttering, Wren could only grasp the barest details. Accident. Mercy Hospital. Yesterday. Listening, she pushed past all protocol and entered the study without knocking. Ealer’s slim, boyish back was to her as he stood before Grandfather, hat twisted in his hands. Grandmother sat by the fire, a tangle of knitting in her lap. Wren went to her, upended by the alarm on her face.

“Once James is stable, he needs to come here. Till then a guard needs to be posted outside his hospital room.” Grandfather leaned forward, his leather chair creaking as he took up a pen. “I’ll send word to Dr. Moss that James is to be moved as soon as possible, no matter what the patient says.”

Ealer nodded, relief easing his stutter. “Thank you, s-sir. I’ll be by his s-side till then.”

Grandmother gripped Wren’s hand. Squeezed tight. But the gentle gesture was lost as Wren caught sight of Grandfather’s unsteady hands uncapping a bottle of ink. Obviously shaken by the news, he was unmistakably ashen. Still far from well, he pushed himself despite the doctors’ cautions and had been working at his desk since dawn.

“There’s been an accident along the levee,” Grandmother told her in a low tone. “James was crossing Water Street yesterday at dusk when he fell on the ice into a coach’s path.”

“Is he badly hurt?” Her quiet query turned Ealer round.

“Some ribs are broken, perhaps a bone or two.” Grandmother sighed, resuming her knitting with gnarled hands. “The hospital’s sure to be overrun with visitors once the news spreads. Since James knows so many in Pittsburgh, he won’t get a moment’s rest lest he comes here.”

The pat answer failed to satisfy. Wren sank down on the sofa beside her. “But River Hill is closer—”

“I’m afraid River Hill won’t do, dear. Not with all those boys trying to wrestle with James in the condition he’s in. Besides, Ellie’s household needs to return to normal after serving as a hospital to us of late.”

This Wren couldn’t deny. New Hope was quiet as a graveyard in comparison. But what would Izannah say to find James beneath their roof? An opportunity for love to bloom had been lost, though Izannah was coming for Christmas, at least. And James, despite sending his regrets, would now be here too. As would Malachi.

“We’ll try to return him to being fit as a fiddle while he’s with us. The staff adores James and will see to his every comfort. Your grandfather can play chess with him. You can read to him and pass the time with your violin. And I’ll keep unnecessary visitors at bay.”

Grandmother hadn’t mentioned Andra. No telling what her aunt would make of the arrangement.

Or James himself.

The next day the curtain coach moved through the snow at an excruciatingly slow pace, as if it was a hearse. From the cupola Wren watched them come, another prayer rising in her heart. Mim had followed her upstairs, looking in on the maids who were preparing the third-floor bedchamber for James’s arrival. A robust fire gleamed behind the copper fireback, and the bedcovers were already turned down atop the immense four-poster. Imagining James as an invalid was hard to do.

“He’s worse than they’re saying.” In the quiet, Mim’s whisper sent a cold finger of alarm down Wren’s spine. “There’s far more than broken ribs to fret about. The doctors make mention of a gash in his leg and blood poisoning setting in.”

Wren took her eyes off the driveway. “Blood poisoning?”

“Hospital staff didn’t want him to leave, but Mr. Silas insisted. He’ll get better care here, he will, and needs every bit o’ it from the sound o’ things.”

Every detail brought new worries. Blood poisoning was as fearful as typhoid or cholera. In Kentucky Wren had known several who’d lost a limb or their very lives to such. The prospect turned her to ice.

“Ye’ll have to do your part to keep him here and amuse him some,” Mim said, echoing Grandmother’s wishes. “Play yer fiddle. Read to him like ye did when yer grandfather was abed. Learn to play chess.”

“I’ll leave the chess playing to Grandfather.”

“Maybe ye can get Mr. James to shave his beard.”

“I like his beard,” Wren blurted, surprising herself. His new look had grown on her over time.

“Ye might change yer tune if he was to kiss ye.” An impish smile stole across Mim’s face. “My Malcolm nearly rubs my skin raw betimes.”

“Och!” Wren mimicked, hiding her embarrassment by turning back to the cupola glass. “Surely there’s some pleasure in it.”

“Some, aye.” With a chuckle, Mim hurried down the steps, taking all forced merriment with her.

The coach was nearly to the front steps now. Wren put a hand to her tight throat, her hopeful spirits tumbling to her feet. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake free of her confrontation with Andra at breakfast.

“If he’s badly injured, James won’t be able to finish the season. But that’s of little concern in the long run,” Andra had announced matter-of-factly. “We’ll simply arrange for another escort. Your father may even return in time to take James’s place.”

“I can’t imagine stepping out with anyone but James,” Wren countered. As much as she loved her father, it was James’s presence she craved. Somehow he’d worked himself into her heart, her every thought, both in society and out of it. He was her constant friend. “Seems like we should wait till he’s well again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rowena. James himself will tell you that the only acceptable way out of your debut is illness, mourning, or the announcement of your engagement.”

Feeling stubborn, she said, “Izannah stopped outright.”

Andra all but rolled her eyes. “Quitting the season like Izannah did exacts a high price. She’s now considered tainted, something of a social outcast. The Turlocks, being rogues to begin with, only add to that impression, Judge Jack’s reputation aside.”

“There’s nothing the matter with Izannah.” Tears smeared Wren’s vision at the slight. “She’ll make some man a blessed wife—”

Andra banished the hope with a dismissive hand. “I doubt that will ever happen. Izannah is past the first flush of youth, as are you. And given the dreadful situation over the Ashburton affair, you simply must finish well and avoid all scandal.”

Wren lowered her head. She felt she was face-to-face with Bennett again, full of ire and ambition. “If finishing well means marrying a man I don’t want to, while the one I care about is lying abed injured—”

“Rowena!” Andra stood so abruptly she set the china rattling atop the table. “You will do what is expected of you as a Ballantyne and as befits your family, however unpalatable it seems. You’re in our world now, and there’s a great deal more at stake than your petty preferences and feelings. The sooner you realize that fact, the better off you’ll be.”

With that she left the room, moving at a girl’s pace in her fury, the fragrance of her heavy cologne lingering.

Now, hours later, the heat of their exchange was almost forgotten by the sight of James emerging from the coach. Beneath his stark white shirt bloomed a crimson stain that seemed to spread before her eyes. One arm was splinted, his right leg encased in bandages. Each agonized step had to be managed by the waiting servants. A doctor and nurse followed close behind, assisting with a waiting stretcher.

When they entered the house and faded from view, Wren measured their progress by sound. She heard the servants struggling a bit with the stretcher on the stairs, pausing on the landing to ask James how he was faring, then proceeding onward to the next floor. Why they’d placed him so high when he was in such sad shape was a riddle. Surely a downstairs room would be better. Long minutes of commotion followed as he was settled and the servants dispersed.

Mim returned to the chilly cupola, face dark as a thundercloud. “He’s to have his own nurse, doctors’ orders. But he’s got some right terrible wounds that need more tending than any nurse can manage, even a bonny one.”

Having immersed herself belowstairs baking gingerbread, cutting snowflakes from tissue paper, and arranging fresh cedar boughs and holly brought in by sleigh, Wren hadn’t seen James since his arrival three days prior. As the doctors came and went, Grandmother and Grandfather visited him at intervals, but not Andra or Wren.

“It’s highly improper for a woman to enter a man’s bedchamber unless it’s that of her husband,” Andra had told her when she’d passed Wren on the stairs.

“I’m merely going to the cupola,” Wren replied. She often went there to pray and ponder, leaving the door open so the warm air from the house would fill the cold space.

She wouldn’t admit it afforded her more than just a view of the snowy landscape but also a tiny glimpse of their patient’s progress. A door would open or close. James’s voice would creep out. Sometimes the nurse’s muted tones would intertwine with the doctor’s deep baritone. Often there was a worrying silence.

By the fifth day Wren could stand it no longer. As dusk drew a curtain over the land, she waited till the nurse went below to have her supper and the doctor had come and gone. Andra, thankfully, was calling at Ballantyne Hall in the sleigh despite the snow.

On tiptoe, alert to every creak in the planked floor, Wren went toward the closed door like a moth to candle flame. No knock. No announcement. Just a brazen turn of the handle. Woodsmoke and medicine stormed her senses.

And then a gruff, “Who’s there?”

She felt a qualm. Had James been sleeping? Or was he drugged? She shut the door, then wished she’d left it open, if only to offset the gloom of the room. Hurrying to a window, she pushed aside a heavy drape. “The snow is falling again. It’s so beautiful I wanted to share it with you.”

“Wren?”

She turned, leaving the drapes open to better see his face, hoping he couldn’t read the dismay in hers. He was so bruised and battered it was pure punishment to look at him. Her hand shot out, covering his outstretched fingers atop the coverlet. He felt warm to the touch—too warm—like Grandfather had been too cold. It seemed right to hold on to him, to hands that had brought her upriver and helped her navigate the perilous social season and would have seen her finished, but for this.

“Jamie.” Her voice held so much. Hurt at seeing his hurt. Hope he’d soon heal. The warm, inexplicable joy she felt in his presence.

He looked up at her, pain glazing his eyes. “It hurts . . . to breathe. Otherwise . . . I’d talk.”

She nodded in understanding, remembering his broken ribs, and gave him a small smile. “You know I talk enough for the both of us.”

“I like the sound of your voice . . . always have.”

Her gaze wandered to the bottle of laudanum on the near table. A dreaded thing, it reminded her of Mama’s loss. The strong scent was uncomfortably familiar, the effects frightening. It seemed to have loosened his tongue and lent a directness to his gaze that had been missing before. Beneath his intensity, she felt feverish herself.

Spying a basin of water, she bent and wrung out a cloth, then settled carefully on the edge of the bed. His eyes closed as she smoothed his brow and the high lines of his cheekbones. She was nearer to touching his dark hair than she’d ever been. It feathered back on the pillow in wild disarray, begging for a brush . . . her hungry touch.

His eyes flicked open, catching her long, unguarded look. Startled, she ran the cloth over his bristled jaw, wondering if the nurse was tending to his beard.

Just how bad could a bewhiskered kiss be?

Face hot, she shut the stray thought away, blaming Mim.

“What . . . day . . . is . . . it?” The words unwound slowly, punctuated with pain.

Her heart fisted. “December twentieth.”

“I don’t . . . remember much.”

“About the accident, you mean?”

“I only recall . . . leaving the boatyard . . .”

“Your mind will likely clear in time,” she said softly. “All that matters is you’re here now, safe and sound.”

“I’m neither safe . . . nor sound.” He managed a lopsided smile. “But I am . . . content.”

His words were mumbled, so unlike the articulate James she knew. The laudanum, likely. She let herself look at him, filling every crevice of her needy heart and head with him, seeking some reassurance he’d soon be well. She leaned nearer, unable to keep her distance. She felt herself slipping . . . falling. Wanting to lean in and brush her lips to his.

Oh, Jamie.

His eyes were on her, lingering, searching. Her heart seemed to stop when he took her hand. At the brush of his lips to her fingers, her stomach gave way. Shaken, she shut her eyes lest he see the longing buried deep. Could he sense she wanted to lie down beside him, never to leave him? Body to body, heart to heart, soul to soul?

The click of a door brought the tender moment to an end. At the foot of the bed stood the nurse, full of surprise and caution. “You mustn’t tire our patient, Miss Ballantyne.”

Face hot, Wren rose from the bed, but James kept hold of her hand.

“There’s nothing tiring . . . about Miss Ballantyne.”

The utterance exacted a high price. Wren detected a wince with every word.

“I’ll go now,” she said softly, with a last look at him as he released her. “I merely wanted to see how Mr. Sackett is faring.”

The door shut firmly behind her, barring her return. But the memory they’d just made was locked in place.