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bride?”
    “Charlotte is a shipping heiress. Apparently Bennett likes boats. The Ashburtons arrived last week and are staying at New Hope and Ballantyne Hall.”
    “Sounds a bit crowded.” Papa turned toward a window, where the sooty Pittsburgh skyline was fading from view.
    “Since we’ve added a new wing, there’s plenty of room for all.” Grandfather steered the conversation in another direction. “As for floating teakettles, the honeymoon voyage will be aboard our newest steamer, the Belle of Pittsburgh .”
    Papa sat back, hat resting on his knees. “How many packets are in the Ballantyne line?”
    “Twenty-four at present, though some are so old they’re hardly river worthy.”
    “I’ve heard of plans to build a floating palace, a showboat. Are you moving more toward passengers than cargo?”
    “Not if I can help it. Cargo is always the better choice and less risky when something goes awry.”
    “Mother said you’ve begun to invest heavily in the railroad . . .”
    Wren left them to their business, the gentle swaying of the coach nearly rocking her to sleep. As she leaned into a sunbeam falling through an open window, her soul lightened. No humble cabins or split-rail fences met her eye, just river and rolling hills. Soon the horses were turning, passing through open iron gates and gliding up a gently sloping hill fronting the river.
    She’d been expecting something different, something far from what she knew, yet she still felt a start of surprise at the palatial brick house straddling the river bluff like an aging king holding court. New Hope was a grand dove-gray, old but well kept, dressed with sparkling glass and sweeping porches and fluted columns. An eight-paned cupola crowned the wide gambrel roof. She caught the diamond glitter of a fountain beyond yew hedges and bricked walls. People were wandering about, some sporting top hats and parasols. The wedding party? Curiosity seeped into her, crowding out resistance.
    Was Papa glad to be back? Had Mama ever longed to be here?
    Amid a small storm of dust, a groom helped her alight from the coach onto a mounting block. Near at hand was an unsmiling man in fancy dress who ushered them into the mansion. Molly followed close behind, her eyes still as wide as Wren’s own.
    The breezy foyer held a soaring staircase, a profusion of peonies in silver bowls on an immense sideboard. Servants were lined up from front door to back, their posture soldier-stiff, eyes forward, all dressed in navy and white. Wren felt a breathless bewilderment. There were as many servants as the steamboat had deckhands.
    Someone was coming down the stairs, someone who seemed a part of all the polish, her gown the deep orange of a wildlily. Andra? Wren couldn’t recall much about her save she was Papa’s older sister.
    “Rowena?” Appraising jade eyes peered out of a lightly lined face. Her figure was trim as a girl’s, her fair hair the exact shade of Wren’s own. Pearls draped her lace bodice, countless creamy rows matching the drops at her ears. “I’m your aunt Andra.”
    Wren opened her arms to embrace her and met nothing but air. Her aunt had moved on to her father with a starched, “Welcome back to New Hope, Ansel.”
    Papa returned her tight smile. “Good to see you again, Andra.”
    Grandfather gestured upstairs. “Your mother is resting, though she wanted me to rouse her as soon as you arrived.”
    The butler—was that what Andra called him?—was introducing them to servants, who curtsied or bowed at his bidding. Papa clasped hands with a few of them he’d obviously known since boyhood, their faces creasing with fleeting smiles as he called them by name.
    With a wave of her hand, Aunt Andra led her beyond the sweeping staircase toward a rear door. “If you’ll come out onto the veranda for refreshments, the servants will bring your belongings to your rooms. Of course, you must meet our guests, the Ashburtons of Boston. The wedding is but a few days