Love's Fortune Read Online Free PDF

away.”
    The next hour became a blur of voices and faces and first impressions.
    Uncle Peyton, Grandfather’s oldest son. Clutching an eagle-headed cane.
    His wife, Penelope. A pale ghost.
    Their son, Bennett, the Ballantyne heir. Tall. Tanned. Firm of voice.
    His fiancée, Charlotte. Pale. Slim as a willow switch. Silent.
    Charlotte’s parents were doing most of the talking, their northeastern nasal tones unsettling. Aunt Ellie and her brood were missing. She was nearing her confinement, someone whispered, and couldn’t hazard the short distance between River Hill and New Hope.
    “Mayhap we’ll see them on the morrow,” Papa said as if sensing Wren’s disappointment. “For now, feast your eyes on those old roses climbing the garden wall. They were planted in honor of your first birthday.”
    Wren was overwhelmed with buttery blooms the size of teacups and endless acres of flowers beyond. When she opened her mouth to ask if she could wander, Grandmother Eden appeared on the porch, leaning heavily on Grandfather’s arm. Little and bent, she reminded Wren of a dried rose, the first blush long faded. But her blue eyes were warm and lively, the clasp of her hand strong.
    “Rowena,” she said with a contented sigh. “Ansel’s little Wren.”
    “Morning, Granny.” Or was it afternoon? Wren’s reply sounded rusty. She’d hardly spoken all day.
    “We’ve settled you in the lavender room. ’Twas Ellie’s before she wed her Jack. You have a princely view of the garden and chapel.” She let go of Grandfather’s arm as he helped her into a wheeled wicker chair. “Your father is across from you. His bedchamber is just as he left it.”
    There was a telling poignancy to the words that touched Wren. So Grandfather wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting for them to come. Smiling self-consciously, Wren searched for some reply but failed to find it, her gaze trailing to a maid bringing round a tray of crystal glasses topped with sprigs of mint. Lemonade?
    “You must be weary from your journey.” Grandmotherleaned in with a whisper. “I’ll tell you a little secret. I never got a wink of sleep on a steamboat. Sometimes it seemed I’d travel from here to New Orleans wide-eyed the whole way, my stomach at sea. Thankfully you came upriver to us with nary a mishap, in part because your grandfather arranged for James Sackett to be at the wheel.”
    “I met Mr. Sackett.” Her tongue was finally loosed. “He’s . . . right fine.” Somehow right fine seemed too humble a phrase for a handsome pilot with a silver lapel pin.
    Andra was hovering with the persistence of a hummingbird, infusing the sultry air with a noticeable chill. “You mustn’t tire yourself, Mother, with too much talk.”
    “I mustn’t tire Wren, you mean,” Grandmother returned gently.
    “Wren?” Her aunt’s voice fell below the tenor of the men as they discussed business across the veranda. “ Wren might be permissible in the Kentucky woods, but here in Pennsylvania, Rowena is best.”
    “I doubt I’ll remember,” Grandmother said with a resigned chuckle. “She’s been Wren ever since her christening in the chapel—and in every letter her father wrote.”
    “Letters? Those were precious few.”
    “Perhaps. But each was special to me. I’ve saved them all.”
    Wren shrank beneath her aunt’s green gaze. Pondering their exchange, she took a sip of lemonade from the heavy, sweating glass, feeling she might choke from its sourness. One swallow and the glass slipped free of her grasp, splashing her skirts and shoes and drawing every eye. With an ungracious clunk, it rolled rudely across the porch and came to rest at Bennett Ballantyne’s feet. He flung her a half-amused, half-aggravated glance as a maid sprang forward to right the mess, a look of dismay on her florid face.
    Grandmother leaned nearer and squeezed Wren’s limp hand as the conversation swirling round them resumed. “Why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll show you