Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (18 page)

“Did they hurt you?”

“They frightened me, but little else.”

“I wondered at the bruise on your chin.” He leaned nearer, his callused fingers grazing her cheek. Apprehension and anger were etched around his eyes, marring his beloved face. “You’ve ne’er seen these men before?”

“They were all masked. No voice was familiar to me, though one knew my name.” She covered his large hand with her own as it cupped her cheek. “Once they rode on, I made it to River Hill. When I arrived, Jack Turlock sent for Dr. Brunot and Ansel.” Tears stung her eyes at his obvious disquiet. “I’m sorry, Da. I’ll not ride out alone again.”

“Nae, we’ll keep you here at home for a time. Your mother has need of you, especially with your sister in York. I want you near at hand.” His eyes glittered as his hand fell away. “I have a confession of my own. Things are not as they were when you left for finishing school four years ago.” Studying her, he leaned back in his chair. “By now you must know of the situation in the attic.”

She nodded, thinking how empty it was without Adam and Ulie and the baby.

“It’s likely those men who waylaid you are professional bounty hunters. Now that summer is here, more runaways will come, as will slave catchers and their ilk.”

“How is it the one man knew my name?”

“They ken the Ballantyne name and suspect New Hope is a safe haven. I don’t want to trouble you with the details. Just help as you can when the attic is full, and say nothing to anyone outside these walls. For now bid me good night. You’re in need of some sleep to put the roses back in your cheeks.”

He started to say more then stood, bringing her to her feet
and enclosing her in his hard arms. For a few seconds she was struck with the power of his presence, the unspoken feeling between them. His thankfulness to be home, to find her safe, was profound, even palpable. As was hers.

The cupola remained dark that night.

 18 

The more we knew of freedom the more we desired it.

A
USTIN
S
TEWARD
,
FORMER
SLAVE

“Miss Ellie won’t be teaching for a fortnight but will remain at home.” Chloe thrust a piece of paper Jack’s way, pleasure and worry mingling on her flushed face. “Do you think she’ll ever come back here?”

“Nay.” He took the note, thinking how every elegant slant and dip of Ellie’s pen was so like her. “Her mother and father have just returned from New Orleans. They likely want an end to her teaching.”

Though he hadn’t seen the steamer’s arrival himself, word of Silas and Eden’s homecoming had spread through Pittsburgh like the fire of 1812. The
Elinor
had docked, and in the darkest alleys and gin rooms, the rumor was that she’d carried a dozen slaves nearer freedom, a notable feat given that at every landfall, steamboats were searched for stowaways. The fugitives had since been spirited north to sympathetic Quaker settlements or hidden among Pittsburgh’s free black population, or so he’d heard.

Chloe’s expression darkened and grew desperate. “Are you going to bribe them to let Miss Ellie come back here by fixing their chaise?”

“The Ballantynes are immune to bribes,” he said, passing back the paper. “I’m having it repaired, but not for the reason you think.”

Chloe pocketed the paper, looking decidedly more disheveled in Ellie’s absence. “Could it be because you find her pretty—or want to kiss her?”

“Chloe Isabel . . .” The words were more growl. He inclined his head toward the study door, her signal to exit. “I’ve no time to talk, nor do you. Where are the books she gave you? Have you even opened them?”

She nodded, trying to look dutiful but failing. “She asked me to read a chapter of Scripture every day. You see, there are thirty-one chapters of Proverbs in the Bible and thirty-one days in most months—”

“Aye,” he said, in no mood for her babbling. “You’d best get started then.”

“Miss Ellie was hoping you might supervise . . . read them with me. See? It says so right here.” She dug out the paper again and tried to pass it back to him, but he waved it away.

“I’ve other matters to take care of.”

“I suppose you do.” Her chin jutted stubbornly, reminding him of Wade, smoky eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. “We have some slaves here you claim are Pa’s, but I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

His jaw tensed. “That’s none of your business.”

“Well? Are you going to send them back across the river and collect the bounty?”

When he hesitated, she looked hard at him, shock sprawled across her face. “You’re not going to . . .
help them
?”

Refusing to answer, he glanced out the window he’d left open to better see the front drive.

“Jack! You well know what the overseer does at Broad Oak when he thinks a slave is about to run. Even Pa says everyone who helps them should be chained and whipped right along with them. You could be arrested for Negro stealing—which means you’d be hung!”

His chair came down with a thud. “All the more reason to keep your mouth shut.” Shooting to his feet, he circled the desk and took her by the elbow, intent on the hall. “Here’s a proverb to chew on: ‘He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life.’”

“Dash, Jack! Do you always have an answer for everything?”

He slammed the door and locked it after her, running an agitated hand through his hair. If he ever felt in need of a spree at Teague’s, it was now. Uncertainty gnawed a deep hole in him, and his usual decisiveness turned to mush. His every instinct told him to move the fugitives to the attic, as having them on River Row was too risky. Yet Mrs. Malarkey was sure to become suspicious should he do so.

He remembered there was a secret stair, seldom used, accessed by a paneled door in the back wall of the second-floor landing. If worse came to worst, he could hide them there. How did Ellie’s family do such clandestine work? With so much at stake? Though sound reason told him to despise the risks they took, he felt a surge of admiration instead.

Looking toward the window again, he contemplated a threat far worse than Mrs. Malarkey. Maybe he should shut River Hill’s gate, though doing so seemed like a signpost advertising guilt.

He whirled at the sound of hoofbeats, a high whinny. Dr. Brunot? He was expected this afternoon, and it was nearing
one o’clock. Jack hoped the couple and their newborn could go with him in his carriage yet sensed the young mother was still too weak to move. While they remained at River Hill, he felt an impending sense of doom. His trepidation deepened when he heard Chloe call out a name in confirmation.

Wade.

He’d sooner deal with bounty hunters.

He left his study and tried to strike an indifferent pose as he stepped onto the veranda. Chloe waited on the steps, eyeing him ominously as Wade tied his horse to the hitching post a stone’s throw away. He swallowed down an admonishment for her to say nothing, nearly choking on the dust Wade had raised. If Dr. Brunot rode up next, what would he say? Sweat trickled down his back, more from his own turmoil than the heat, turning him cross as a bear.

“You look like Ma on a bad day,” Wade quipped when Jack gave no greeting, stepping round him and entering the foyer. “The least you could do is offer me a drink.”

“There’s plenty of water west of the house.”

Chuckling humorlessly, Wade began walking down the hall toward the study. “River water isn’t what I’m after.” Stopping at the liquor chest, he bent down and extracted the cologne Chloe had tried to ply Jack with. “Number Six? Isn’t that what the dandies at the gentleman’s club wear?” Clearly disgusted, he traded it for a bottle and glass.

Jack followed him into the study, shutting the door a bit too forcefully. “What do you want?”

“A drink first.” He downed the liquid in two gulps before facing Jack across the cluttered expanse of desk. “Pa and I have a plan.”

Jack felt a clutch of concern. The words, all too familiar, usually heralded some nefarious scheme, and he had no wish to become embroiled in any more than he was.

“But first a bit of good news.” Taking a seat, Wade propped his boots on a low table. “We finally shipped two hundred barrels of Turlock whiskey, disguised as molasses, on a Ballantyne steamer all the way to Louisville. All with Peyton Ballantyne’s approval. Before his daddy came home.”

The smugness of Wade’s expression rubbed Jack raw. “You’ll not get away with such now that Silas is back.”

Wade shrugged and refilled his glass. “The whiskey hardly matters, Jack. It’s more the dent in the Ballantyne armor. Peyton was most obliging, given he pocketed a hefty sum.”

Jack hid his surprise. “So what’s the plan?”

“Pa’s thinking of blending whiskey—”

“Rectifying?”

“Call it what you like. All that’s required is combining small amounts of genuine rye with large quantities of cull spirits and labeling it as premium grade for a hefty profit. How does that sound?”

“Like thievery.”

“Exactly. We’re also considering using new instead of aged barrels for some of our own rye. The sutlers and Indians in Missouri territory won’t know the difference. Besides, you’ll have a hard time finding a cooper to turn out charred oak once you go west.”

Jack furrowed his brow, knowing that to argue would prolong Wade’s visit, and every minute he tarried spelled disaster. “Are you on your way to Broad Oak or town?”

“Town.”

“Then stop and see Benedick Kimber at the warehouse and put in an order for bottles. He needs notice today.”

“You aren’t coming?” Surprise washed Wade’s face, and his tone turned accusatory. “Janey told me you’ve not been at Teague’s for weeks.”

“So?”

“Blast, Jack! You’re rarely pleasant, but today you’re about as cordial as a river snake.”

Jack moved toward the door to hasten him out, then felt his color drain by degrees at the high-pitched wail of a newborn. Clear as crystal. Why hadn’t he thought to shut the window?

Wade lifted the bottle and made a show of pouring another shot. “One more swallow and I’ll be on my way.” He took Jack in over the edge of the glass. “You look in need of a drink yourself.” He passed him the whiskey bottle, a clear challenge in his gaze.

Sensing Wade wouldn’t leave till he complied, Jack took a short swig. The pit of his stomach caught fire when he swallowed. Tannin and vanilla lingered on his tongue, and he could taste the char of oak. The baby’s cries trilled higher. Did Wade not hear?

Dear God
. . .
silence the child.

The wailing stopped. Relief raced over him like rain. Setting the bottle down, he took a slow breath as he and Wade left the study.

On the veranda, Wade hesitated, his gaze restless, roaming. “Is it true what I heard about the youngest Ballantyne daughter? Some trouble on the back road between here and New Hope?”

The very mention turned Jack chill. The McTavishes had denied any wrongdoing, claiming the bounty was null and void. Only Jack didn’t believe them. He could only imagine what Wade would do if he knew the Ballantynes were sheltering Broad Oak’s slaves. “What about it?”

“Is Elinor Ballantyne the reason you nailed McTavish to a wall in town? And pulled a pistol on me?”

Jack swallowed hard. “No woman should be a part of this.”

Wade turned the full force of his gaze on Jack. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replied, turning away. “But I intend to find out.”

Shaken by Wade’s unexpected visit, Jack crossed the cobblestones, bypassing the stables to reach River Row. The one cottage he sought, the last of a dozen, had once been whitewashed, the trim a pleasing green. Now the roof and a corner of the porch were crumbling and choked with ivy, something he’d have to remedy prior to posting the sale. He’d hired a carpenter to mend the summer kitchen and springhouse, both storm damaged, and work was under way. River Row would be next.

The garden he could do little about. It was a green, weedy mess, all but the west corner where Ellie and Chloe had readied to plant. Shrugging off the hollowness he felt when he looked at it, he stepped onto the rickety porch and knocked on a worn door.

Silence.

Realizing a runaway wouldn’t answer, Jack cracked it open to find anxious eyes staring back at him. He started to say something to put the man at ease, then realized he didn’t even know his name. On a bed in the far corner lay the woman and baby, asleep. The rest of the runaways had been moved by Brunot, taken to yet another hiding place.

Letting himself in, Jack took a crude chair by the door. The whine of mosquitoes rose in the heat, and he batted one away before it landed. “Dr. Brunot should be here soon.” Though his throat felt dry as sand, he inclined his head toward the bed and asked, “How is she?”

“Some better, master—”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

The man nodded but still seemed wary. “I forget myself.
Trouble is . . .” He darted a glance about the small room as if trying to get his bearings. “I don’t even know where we be.”

“You’re in Pennsylvania, a supposedly free state. I don’t own slaves. I simply lease land to tenants.”