Love's Reckoning (10 page)

Nestling Jon nearer, she drank in his flawless features. Oh, but he was a beautiful child—pale and plump, his alert blue eyes catching at her heart. Well-fed he was, if not wanted. To think that she, Eden Lee, might soon be in a place surrounded by such foundlings . . .

The thought wrung her heart. Babies left on doorsteps or in dark alleys. Unwanted. Unloved. Without father or mother. The stories the Greathouse sisters told her about
the foundling hospital haunted, invading her dreams at night and shadowing her by day.

Oh, Lord, hasten me to Philadelphia.

Lying on his bed in the inky darkness at the end of another long week, Silas willed his thoughts to stay quiet. But they were as unsettled as dust devils, stirred into a tempest by a great many things. Elspeth's flirting. Liege's gruffness. A forge that needed ten men, not two. A household in silent turmoil for reasons he couldn't account for . . .

Eden's absence.

“Where is she?” Liege had demanded prior to noonday dinner, staring at her empty chair as if he could conjure her up and place her there.

“She's out visiting,” Mrs. Lee murmured, taking a seat.

“I suppose she's consorting with that Quaker widow again.” Liege glared at Mrs. Lee, countenance livid. “Let me guess, the Greathouses are gone and she's taken it upon herself to go comforting the tenants in their stead.”

“She had a basket to deliver to Widow Baker. Some buns for the McAfee children—”

“Baskets and buns, indeed.” Elspeth looked up from arranging her napkin in her lap, a smug smile twisting her lips. “She's been skulking about so lately, I suspect she has a lover out there somewh—”

“Elspeth Ann!”

It was the first time Silas had ever heard Mrs. Lee speak above a whisper. The table stilled, all eyes fixed on Elspeth, who didn't so much as flinch or blush, though she did lower her voice a tad. “'Tis the truth, Mama. Best keep an eye on Eden. These mercy missions of hers are occurring far too often. I wouldn't be surprised if she does have a suitor among Hope Rising's tenants.”

Silas swallowed down a retort in Eden's defense. At the far end of the table, Liege said nothing and simply surveyed the overflowing dishes before yanking his chair out to sit down. An awkward moment passed as Silas waited for the prayer that wouldn't be uttered. The master was simply letting the rule of silence descend before reaching for the nearest serving dish.

Now, turning toward the flickering Franklin stove, Silas shifted on the feather tick, eyes closing then roaming the beams overhead restlessly. Though he'd once thought Eden meek, his opinion of her was altering. In her own quiet way she was defiant, risking her father's ire in an effort to be of service, with little sympathy from the rest of the household, just accusations and insinuations . . .

Losh! He might have been lying atop a bed of nails he was so aflocht.

Below he heard the gentle opening and closing of a door. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he waited. Would she come to him now? In the stairwell? Wanting to read Scripture with him? Extricating himself from the blankets, he swung his feet to the frigid floor and grabbed his breeches. The wool felt rough to his calloused hand, reminding him he needed a new pair. But the shirt she'd made him was downy soft and held her unmistakable fragrance—a subtle smirr of lavender. It set his senses afire for all the wrong reasons.

The garret door opened without protest—he'd oiled the hinges to ensure it would. But the stairwell was black as iron and held no hint of a welcoming candle. He expelled his breath, yet his chest clenched harder. Elspeth's words at table returned and nearly made him groan.

She's been skulking about so lately, I suspect she has a lover out there somewhere
.

Did she? Nae.

But Elspeth, with her flindriken ways? Aye.

 9 

Ask no questions and hear no lies.

English proverb

“Come now, daughters! 'Tis nearly time for the weaver and there's much to be done!” Mama's voice rang out with unusual vigor, her arms full of skeins of thread spun on Eden's beloved wheel, her careworn face alive with the anticipation of a skillfully wrought coverlet or tablecloth. Of all the chores and tasks they tended to, none was as welcome as the weaver's coming, at least to Louise Lee.

The previous autumn Eden had finished dyeing the hanks of wool that would be woven, hanging them from the garret rafters to dry. The dyeing shed behind the barn still reeked of indigo and butternut, but within a fortnight the laborious task was done, her hands and apron no longer stained.

'Twas February, Eden recalled with a little start, the month that signaled winter's end. Once the weaver arrived, they'd hear naught but the loud clacking of the loom, a giant beast of wood and rope that erupted endlessly when Mr. Lackey was in residence. Except Mr. Lackey, old and infirm, wasn't coming, but was sending his son, Isaac, in his stead.

Eden saw the light in Elspeth's eyes when Mama announced the news and told them to make ready, and her stomach gave a little flip of alarm. Her sister was bored—restless—and had recovered her feistiness. Eden feared it as she did her father's wrath. Though Elspeth was smitten with Silas, might she use the weaver to force Silas's hand? Stir up a bit of jealousy? She'd done such things before, pitting poor George White against one of the York men . . .

“The forge is quite busy today, and your father has no time for the animals.” Mama studied both her daughters as if weighing her options. “'Twould be best if you, Eden, minded the barn while Elspeth prepares the weaving room.”

It was a task Elspeth often usurped, knowing how Eden loved to make ready. Hiding her disappointment, Eden turned away but didn't miss the smirk on Elspeth's face. Though Mama was still giving her sister light duties, Eden didn't mind. She found solace in the barn and the earthiness of every crevice and corner—the welcome nickering of the horses, the lowing of the cows, the silly antics of the half-wild cats. Let Elspeth gloat all she liked. Soon Eden would be leaving for a greater work, a more meaningful existence.

She went out the back door, shivering in the cold despite her cape and heaviest wool dress. The heavy snow of more than a month ago—the one that had ushered Silas into their lives—had melted, making a muddy mess of the normally neat farmyard. To reach the barn she had to pass by the smithy. Its front door was open wide, and several unfamiliar horses were hitched to the railing just beyond. Busy, indeed.

“Eden!” Papa's voice rang out amidst the incessant hammering inside, hardly audible above the din that had cost him much of his hearing by middle age.

She came closer till she stood in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the smoky light within. Papa was near the bellows with
several York merchants while Silas stood at the forge, heating an iron bar. Seizing it with his tongs, he swung the glowing rectangle across the chisel before cutting it neatly in half with two hammer blows. Eden flinched and felt her mouth go slack. She'd witnessed such countless times, but never had Papa made such short work of it. Yet he was, she reminded herself, aging and gout-ridden, whereas Silas was hale, hearty . . .

And so handsome it hurt.

Seemingly unaware of her, he began to hammer the hot iron into the necessary shape, his attention fixed on his task, the forge's fire turning his hair damp at the temples. He wore an old linen shirt, not the new one she'd made him, and a leather apron hugged his waist. The look of his worn wool breeches and scuffed boots tugged at her, a reminder that all his worldly possessions had fit into two small, if heavy, haversacks. Every lean, muscular line of him drew her notice, but it was the smudge of coal dust on his cheek that rent her heart. It turned him boyish. A bit vulnerable. More a victim of Papa's scheming.

Truly, Silas looked strangely out of place in their humble shop. Just why this was so Eden didn't know, yet across the hay-strewn space she sensed he didn't want to be here, that while his hands bent iron, his heart and soul were far away. And she felt a desperate need to know where his thoughts took him, for she'd so often felt the same, confined to this stifling place.

Papa, still in conversation with the men, reached out and pulled the iron ring of the bellows that fed the flames. The great brick fire pit glowed a deep burnt orange, so intense she felt its heat clear to the door. When small, she'd been terrified of the bellows. Big as an ox and fashioned from its hide, the bellows expelled air like some hungry, half-crazed beast. She fancied she felt the breath of it even now and shied from the exploding sparks.

Casting a glance her way, Papa raised his voice. “Daughter, bring Half-Penny in to shoe. Silas will meet you in the back.”

Hiding her surprise, she nodded, wishing she could run back to the house and mind her hair. She'd not even brushed it this morning, just bundled it like a shock of wheat and tied it with a blue ribbon. A riot of tangles it was, spilling to the small of her back, red as the forge's fire. Since Silas had rebuked her, she'd been more mindful of how she looked. But today, busy as he was, he'd likely not notice.

Into the barn she went, past the plow that was Papa's pride, breathing in the scent of the hay stacked nearly to the rafters. Conscious of her task, she hurried toward the far stall, humming a little tune to calm her nerves. Horatio and Sparrow eyed her sleepily when she passed. She stopped at a barrel and filled a nosebag with oats. Half-Penny snorted when she slipped a bridle over his head, as if he knew what she had in mind.

“You're to have some new shoes,” she announced, looking down at her own mud-spattered boots and thinking of the dainty calamanco slippers Jemma had been wearing when she last saw her. Rather,
trying
to think of shoes, anything other than the man awaiting her back at the smithy. Leading Half-Penny out of the barn, she glanced up and saw Elspeth watching from the weaving room window. Her stern countenance reminded her of her unwelcome mission.

There must be someone else. I want you to find out.

Turning away, Eden rounded the smithy's rear wall and sank ankle-deep in mud, her short skirt hem dragging and darkening to a murky brown. At least Elspeth couldn't see her now.

“Eden.” With a nod of his head, Silas greeted her, wiping the sweat from his brow with a rolled-up shirt sleeve. His forearms, even in winter, seemed tan, so well-sculpted and thickly corded she became distracted and forgot to return a greeting. The hands that took hold of the bridle seemed to
belong to someone far older, not a man of thirty or less. And then there were his thumbs . . . Sorrow wet her eyes, made her bite her lip to ground herself.

Why must everything pierce her heart?

With nary a glance at her, he moved the big horse into position, running a hand down its sleek, copper-colored back before he took a long look at its hooves. This was Elspeth's moment, Eden remembered. She had only to ask one bold question on her sister's behalf. 'Twas far easier to speak to a bent head than stare straight into his keen eyes, truly. Why then did she feel afraid?

“Silas.” She leaned nearer. “Do you . . .” She swallowed hard and felt she might choke. All her practiced words took flight. She couldn't . . . wouldn't . . . But she must.

“Why . . . are your thumbs branded?”

“Why?” His head came up, stark amusement in his eyes. “Wheest, Eden! What about, ‘Good morning, Silas,' or ‘I'd be pleased if you would shoe my horse,' but ‘Why are your thumbs branded?'”

Warmth shot through her—overwhelming, mortifying. She wanted to sink lower than the matted hay beneath her feet. Half-Penny was forgotten now as they faced each other. Asking about a sweetheart would have been far better!

Stricken, she watched him walk away. His broad back was to her now, his capable hands heating and reshaping the right size shoes at the forge. He returned and held Half-Penny's foreleg in place between his knees, fastening the hot shoe to the hoof wall before driving in the nails. Eden wrinkled her nose at the smoke, but the gelding's tail twitched nonchalantly. 'Twas a painless procedure, but one she'd never liked. All she could think of was her own tender feet.

“You—you don't have to answer.” Her whisper held abject apology.

He seemed not to hear, lost in his work. When he finally
spoke, his voice was low. “Soon after I came to Philadelphia, I joined the American Army as a courier and was taken captive by the British. An officer ordered me to clean his boots.” He let go of the hoof and looked down at his thumbs. “I refused.”

She stared at him blankly.

His gaze met hers. “'Tis a punishment the Crown metes out to common criminals, especially Scots. After six months they decided I was more use to them unshackled and set me to mending their muskets.” He paused, jaw hardening. “But lest you feel too sorry for me, my brothers fared far worse. Ewan died at the Battle of Stone Ferry. Roland was felled by fever before any hard fighting began.”

Pity nicked her. “What of your father and mother?”

“Not here . . . heaven.”

Alone, then. “I'm so . . . sorry.”

Sorry I asked. Sorry about your grievous losses. Sorry you are here in a situation more prison than apprenticeship.

“So, Eden . . .” As he secured the second shoe, he asked through the hammering and the smoke, “Why were you not at Sabbath dinner?”

Why, indeed. A bold question for a question, she guessed. There was no pretending she hadn't heard. His voice held a cadence as firm as the tool he wielded so well. Only she couldn't tell him she'd gotten a stomachache from one too many tea cakes. Or that the handsome sight of him that day had put fire to her heels and she'd fled . . .

“I was out visiting Hope Rising's tenants. Margaret, the housekeeper, likes me to accompany her. We visit those in need—the sick and grieving. I gave no thought to the hour, to dinner, and took cold.”

“I saw you out walking. I thought you'd gone to kirk.”

“Kirk?”

“Church.”

“I've never been to church,” she confessed.

He looked up again, the light of disbelief in his eyes. “No kirk?”

“Papa forbids it.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “He's a former Friend, you see. But he was read out of Meeting long ago. For dancing.”

“Your father was a Quaker?”

She reached out a hand, her palm brushing the rough wood of the stall as if to ground herself. Never had she spoken so freely with a man—except for David. Nor did she spill family secrets, though this particular tidbit had ceased being the gossip of York County long ago. “You're familiar with the Friends?”

“Aye, I rubbed shoulders with them oft enough in Philadelphia.”

Had he? Was he also familiar with the foundling hospital, then? Excitement flared inside her then sputtered. Philadelphia was such a large city, and the hospital, Bea had told her, was on the very outskirts, far from the domain of tradesmen in town. Besides, what interest would a blacksmith have with abandoned babies?

“So your father forbids you from going to Meeting?” His voice pursued her, brought her back to the smoke of the stall and his green eyes. “To the church on the hill?”

She glanced over her shoulder anxiously. “Papa's no fonder of Presbyterians than the Friends.”

Setting his tools aside, he looked down at her. “D'ye want to go, Eden?”

She felt a tremor of alarm. What did her wants have to do with it? Papa's word was law. She could only imagine the ruckus that would be raised if she traipsed up the hill. Still, Silas's steady gaze lured her. His invitation was so beguiling, so quietly and enticingly stated, she entertained the notion. Briefly.

He took up his hammer again. “I'm going to attend next Sabbath, should you want to go with me.”