Love's Reckoning Read Free

Greathouse girls had gone tofinishing school and become proper Philadelphia belles while David went to England, enrolling at a fancy school called Eton. Eden and Elspeth remained behind to manage the wear and tear of ordinary life in York County.
    Tucking the faded memories away, Eden focused on a redbird atop a shivering branch. She supposed she made a strange sight, standing forlornly by the pond. If the apprentice happened by, he’d think her fey—or a hopeless dreamer as Elspeth did. The thought spurred her down the tree-lined lane toward home, but as she went she was trailed by another, larger worry.
    Just whose husband would Silas Ballantyne be?
    Perhaps there was no need to fret. Perhaps he wouldn’t arrive but become lost in the woods between here and Philadelphia. Or become the third apprentice to run off before his time. Such ponderings made her almost dizzy, like she’d been skating in endless circles on the pond for too long, just as she’d done in childhood.
    When she was halfway across the icy meadow, snow began to fall, covering her worn cape with a lacy dusting. She felt a rush of wonder. Oh, let a snowfall dress the landscape like a bride! When the apprentice came, the only home she’d ever known would seem a magical place.
    Not misery.

 2 
    Much may be made of a Scotchman if he be caught young.
    Samuel Johnson
    The winter landscape was like an old man—or a poor one like himself, Silas Ballantyne decided. Full of sharp angles and bony barren places, never quite comfortable or at rest. But he was rich in spirit, he remembered, lest self-pity take root. He had some tools. A violin. A vision. And he’d traveled nearly fifty miles in two days, lacking but thirty more till he reached York County. If he pushed harder he’d be there on the morrow, but his gelding was acting a bit sore-footed, and then the snow came, at first fragile as a dusting of flour and then thick as goose feathers.
    Squinting through the twilight glare he saw a light in the distance—an answer to prayer. His stomach cramped at the aroma of wood smoke and baking bread. What he’d give for some bannocks and mutton stew. The memory of his Highland home sharpened and turned melancholy, so he thrust it aside and grappled for a gracious thought. The Lord givethand the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord. Tonight the Almighty seemed a giving God, and Silas uttered bethankit before seeing the colorful shingle flapping in the swelling wind.
    The Rising Sun Tavern. A far cry from the Man Full of Trouble Tavern he’d frequented on Spruce Street in Philadelphia. There he’d downed seared ham with raisin sauce and applejack each Sabbath, his one ample meal of the week. Here he smelled roast sweet potatoes and goose and something else he couldn’t name—or afford. A handbill had been nailed to the front door, which he perused tongue in cheek. Not all taverns were what they claimed to be—nor were people, he mused.
    Guests must be treated with kindness and cordiality, served wholesome food, and all beds, windows, crockery, and utensils to be kept in good order.
    Tired and tempted, he tied Horatio to the hitch rail in front and entered the large, smoke-filled public room to find it bursting, the rattle of dice at gaming tables sounding like dead men’s bones. Shoulders slightly bent with the weight of twin haversacks, rifle in hand, his first thought was to stable his horse.
    â€œHow goes it, stranger?” A voice boomed from behind a scarred counter, overriding the surrounding din.
    â€œWell enough,” Silas answered, turning that direction. “I’ve a lame horse to see about.”
    With a nod and a whistle, the apron-clad man summoned a servant and then bent to hear the lad whisper in his ear. He straightened with a scowl. “The stable’s nearly as full as the inn this snowy eve. What else will ye be needing?”
    â€œI’ve little coin