Shiloh Page 3

  “Yes, Da,” Catriona said. “No thanks to you!”

  “Who d’ye think made sure the man’s wee book was in Shelby’s last shipment from New York?” Mister Robert’s crinkling blue eyes ruined his attempt at sternness. He rubbed a hand behind his neck, where hair like Catriona’s, russet brown, was clubbed. “Off home wi’ ye now. I’m sure Lily’s waiting on something in Seona’s basket.”

  “Lily works too hard. I waged an absolute campaign prying Seona from their sewing to try out our new muslins on such a fine spring day.”

  “Spring?” Seona peered through window glass at clouds scudding above smoking chimneys. From the moment they stepped outside, she had regretted being talked into wearing their new spring attire instead of waiting another fortnight for the season to arrive. The gowns were made of fine muslin, fitted in back, loose to the ankles in front, gathered by drawstrings at the neck and high waistline, sashed with colorful bands. Seona had suggested they wear their cloaks.

  “And ruin the effect?” Catriona had argued. Instead they wore short jackets with fitted sleeves—called spencers—leaving their legs beneath the thin gowns and their shifts to prickle in gooseflesh with the slightest puff of breeze, dispelling the joy of being outside not bundled in woolens.

  That was Catriona, always rushing ahead, her eagerness as catching as the ague.

  Seona pretended to shiver, though a grated fire warmed the shop. “In Carolina we’d call this the dead of winter.”

  Chuckling at her remark, Mister Robert returned to the rear of the shop, from which other male voices arose, one in unbridled laughter. Not Mister Robert’s. Surely not his firstborn’s. Seona hadn’t heard Ned Cameron laugh since Christmastide.

  Catriona was back to her poem. “Listen to its end, Seona.

  “‘Where Nature’s ancient forest grow,

  And mingled laurel never fades,

  My heart is fix’d;—and I must go

  To die among my native shades.’

  He spoke, and to the western springs,

  (His gown discharg’d, his money spent)

  His blanket tied with yellow strings,

  The shepherd of the forest went.

  Returning to the rural reign

  The Indians welcom’d him with joy;

  The council took him home again,

  And bless’d the copper-coloured boy.”

  Catriona sighed. “I wish I could see them, these Indians on the frontier—buy a horse and head west, like Ian did years ago. ‘And bless’d the copper-coloured boy,’” she quoted as two men emerged from the shop’s rear portion.

  Ned Cameron, a younger version of his daddy in looks, moved as if an ox yoke spanned his shoulders. He met Seona’s gaze with blue eyes older than his eight-and-twenty years. Grief-shadowed eyes. He and Penny, his wife, had lost both their little boys to a fever that swept through the city in midwinter. While Seona thanked the Almighty for sparing Gabriel, it pained her to see Ned putting one foot afore the other, doing what he must to carry on.

  In stark contrast to Ned, the second man moved with a jaunty step as he passed through the counter’s opening. A well-dressed and prosperous man, Morgan Shelby was of an age with Ned, though not as tall and darker of hair, which he wore cropped and brushed toward his temples in the new fashion some men were adopting.

  Catriona curtsied, favoring the man with a smile. “I didn’t expect you in Boston along with your shipment of books, Mr. Shelby. Did your winter sojourn to the southern ports prosper?”

  Morgan Shelby doffed his tall-crowned hat in a sweeping bow. “I confess I’ve quite forgotten what I did this winter past, so astonished am I at overhearing you profess a yearning interest in le bon sauvage.”

  Catriona’s eyes sparkled. “I’m sure I had no intention of astonishing.”

  “Yet I must know, does this interest in Indians have to do with the two lovely creatures who have taken up residence in your home?” Mr. Shelby spared Seona a sweeping look that ended in an appreciative nod—and a bubble of panic in Seona’s throat.

  Flirtation, that sort of talk was called. Catriona clearly relished it, but such attention left Seona off-footed, like speaking to a person wearing a mask.

  As Catriona made a clever remark that answered Mr. Shelby’s question without really answering it at all, Seona’s gaze sought Ned, leaning against the counter, watching them. The faint line between his brows, permanently etched there now, deepened.

  “May I?” Morgan Shelby took the book from Catriona’s hands. He studied the verses she had found fascinating, dark brows dancing over hazel eyes. “The fellow makes them sound untamable. Or is that the allure? Miss Cameron, you shock me.”

  Catriona raised her chin. “Tease as you will, Mr. Shelby. I shall not recant my liking for Freneau’s verses nor their subject. Whatever my reasons.”

  Mr. Shelby closed the book, returning it to Catriona. Seona looked down in time to see the tips of their fingers brush, then up to see pink spotting Catriona’s cheeks.

  Mr. Shelby radiated approval. “That’s the spirit. I’m of the opinion one’s likings, of verse or anything else, oughtn’t to be swayed by a breeze as trifling as a gentleman’s repartee.”

  Ned pushed off the counter and joined them, his attention on Seona and her basket. “Purchases for Lily?”

  She nodded. “Mama’s waiting on these pewter buttons to finish a pair of breeches. I should get them home.”

  The first time Lily altered a gown for Margaret Cameron, Ian’s mother, the quality of her work had drawn attention at Old North Church, where they attended meeting of a Sunday. Lily now had more bespoke work from Miss Margaret’s friends than she could keep pace with. Seona helped with the piecing and hemming so Lily could give attention to the detailing for which she had gained a steady custom.

  Ned straightened, drawing away. “I’ve work to finish, Shelby, but I’d appreciate your escorting Seona and Catriona home. Ye’re welcome to take supper with the family. I’ll be along with Da.”

  Catriona bounced on her toes. “Please do, Mr. Shelby!”

  Seona hid a frown at her enthusiasm. If grief had made Ned heavy as one of Boston’s ships riding low at anchor, it had made his sister a rudderless vessel in full sail, at the mercy of whatever wind blew. But who was she to judge? A body grieved how they grieved, and there was handsome Morgan Shelby, smiling in his fine clothes, saying it would be his pleasure to escort two lovely young misses through Boston’s North End and to share their table.

  “Catriona.” Ned’s voice stopped them on the threshold. “Freneau writes of subjects besides the heathen on our frontier. Try reading ‘To Sir Toby.’”

  Clutching her book of verse, Catriona turned back to her brother. “What’s that one about?”

  “Slaves,” Ned said, glancing at Seona. “And the men who own them.”

  Ned Cameron’s words bit sharper than the chill wind that cut through Seona’s gown as she and Catriona, each on an arm of Morgan Shelby, traversed the busy North End toward the Camerons’ home on Beachum Lane.

  Ian had warned her his reputation in Boston was tainted. In letters to his father, which Seona had carried north, he had finally told the truth about the incident that for years had strained relations with his kin. He had taken the blame for the improper advances of the wife of the cabinetmaker who held his indenture. The unhinged woman, desperate for the baby her marriage hadn’t produced, had tried to seduce Ian. Failing that, she had attacked him in a rage. Ian had given his word not to shame his master by telling the truth, never thinking the woman herself would spread it about, twisting the tale until Ian was made the villain, she the victim.

  Learning the truth might have changed Robert Cameron’s opinion of his youngest son, but Ned had found something else to hold against Ian: Seona and Gabriel and those Ian had held enslaved since Master Hugh’s death. Never mind it was Robert Cameron who had urged Ian to go to North Carolina and become his half brother’s heir in the first place.

  Family was like th
e sea hemming that port town, full of hidden currents and undertows. Even on the calm days—or so Seona had been warned. She hadn’t drummed up courage to more than stick a toe in the surf last summer, when it had been warm enough to countenance the notion.

  Summertime was hard to conjure here at the end of her second Boston winter. Despite the chilly breeze, gangs of youngsters played on the streets, some up to mischief. Others ran errands for whomever held their indentures. Men traveled afoot, bound for taverns or warehouses, women for the shops. Cart and carriage wheels rattled over cobblestones. A bell pealed from one of the many steeples piercing the sky.

  Catriona had taught her to find her way through Boston’s winding streets. At first the city’s bustle, especially in the crowded markets or the wharves where porters unloaded cargo from tall-masted ships and clerks argued over ledgers, had overwhelmed her senses. And that wasn’t even mentioning Boston’s stink. Between marshy mudflats, rotting fish, and hogs rooting in alleys, streets as ripe as Mountain Laurel’s privy had turned her stomach those first weeks. She had learned to watch her step on the narrow lanes.

  As they turned the corner onto Beachum Lane and were met by a gusting breeze, Catriona peered past Mr. Shelby, laughing through chattering teeth. “Fine, Seona. You may say I told you so. I’m utterly frozen!”

  “But ’tis the soul amenable to taking risks,” Mr. Shelby said before Seona could reply, amusement warming his mannered voice, “not the one who shrinks from them, that is bound in the end to prosper.”

  Aglow with Mr. Shelby’s praise, Catriona exclaimed on the teasing bursts of sunshine and would spring never truly arrive? Seona wondered if she knew how smitten she behaved. Mr. Shelby drank it up, seeming nigh as smitten in return.

  That puzzled Seona. After their first business deal, a shipment of marbling dye offered at a lower price than the Camerons had ever paid, proved satisfactory, Morgan Shelby had struck up a friendship with Ned Cameron. Judging by the cut of his coat and what Seona knew of him—a graduate of the College of New Jersey, son of a New York merchant who had made his fortune during the war, with business dealings now in every major seaboard city—Morgan Shelby seemed above the station of a bookbinder’s daughter.

  All men are created equal. These Bostonians claimed to think so. At least the white ones. Was she still thinking like a slave, doubting Mr. Shelby’s attentions because he had more wealth than the Camerons? Still they seemed of different worlds.

  Like Ian and me. Only now Ian lives in mine. I live in his. With a son to raise and no husband to shelter us.

  “Mama . . . Mama, loo-tis!”

  Mama, look at this. Flaxen curls flopping, Gabriel came trotting along the crushed-shell path behind the brick-and-timber house on Beachum Lane, clutching what he found. Seona had watched him hunker over whatever it was, knowing by and by he would come with small fingers opening, offering up his treasure: a crumpled feather, remnant of the redbird pair that nested in the apple tree overhanging the fence from the next garden over. As sunlight broke through clouds overhead, she knelt to admire it.

  “So pretty, baby.” She pulled him close, snug in his woolens, and twirled the feather under his chin.

  Gabriel giggled, then squirmed, spying something new of interest. A striped cat had appeared as if by magic atop the fence pales, having leapt up from the other side.

  Seona let him go, straightening to search the boughs in case the cat was on the hunt. Sure enough—a flash of scarlet. The redbirds had survived another winter.

  Spying Gabriel, the cat leapt back down from whence it came.

  Sun, birds, her boy at play—all conspired to make it feel like spring had come after all. It was almost warm enough to set up to paint, now she was cloaked proper. She knew better. An hour’s time could bring rain. Even snow. Northern spring was the worst tease.

  “Are ye wishing ye were painting?”

  Seona turned. Ned Cameron, topped with a round-crowned hat, stood at the corner of the house where an alley gave access to the shed that housed Mister Robert’s saddle horse and the laying hens. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

  “Unca Ned!” Gabriel came at an unsteady gallop, stumbling as he reached his uncle. Before he could fall, Ned swooped him off his feet, a long-practiced maneuver that made an ache twist in Seona’s chest.

  Ned’s hat had fallen forward to perch on the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes. “Where did that wee nephew of mine get to?” When Gabriel pushed the hat brim up, his uncle smiled. “There ye are!”

  “Wobbie! Eddie!”

  Ned’s smile tightened as Gabriel bounced in his arms. “No, lad. Just me.”

  Lower lip pouted, Gabriel pressed his brow to his uncle’s shoulder. Seona moved to retrieve him. “He doesn’t understand.”

  Ned shifted away. “I ken that. It’s all right.”

  Gabriel seemed content, so Seona let him be. “Is Miss Penny come for the evening?”

  Ned avoided her gaze. “What have ye been about today, wee mannie?” he asked Gabriel, who babbled a stream of words even Seona only half understood. “Oh, aye?” his uncle asked when her boy paused. “Had a busy time of it, I gather.”

  Gabriel fell to fingering the buttons on his uncle’s coat. At last Ned caught Seona’s eye. “Penny’s to home. She bade me go without her.”

  Though Ned and Penelope Cameron lived but a few streets over, Seona hadn’t laid eyes on Ned’s wife since the January day they saw the boys buried, up on Copp’s Hill. While Ned managed to go through the motions of living with the loss of his sons, Penny had succumbed to a lasting melancholy and would not leave their house or receive visitors.

  In the apple tree, the redbirds trilled. Harsher came the keening of gulls, wheeling over rooftops. The sun went behind a cloud, taking with it its warmth.

  “You meant Ian, didn’t you?” Seona blurted. “What you said about that poem in Catriona’s book. The one about slaves.”

  “I did.”

  Ned had never made secret what he thought of his younger brother, but Seona rarely knew what to say in the face of his disdain. She had papers telling the world she and her mama were free, but speaking up boldly to a man like Ned Cameron wasn’t something they could tell her how to do. Her heart thumped simply asking, “Why?”

  Ned’s eyes hardened. “Tell me, Seona. Did he do what he did to ye against your will?”

  Shock gave way to anger, loosening her tongue. “Don’t you know your brother at all?”

  “Well enough, I daresay.”

  Gabriel looked up from the coat buttons, then put his hands to either side of his uncle’s mouth and patted, as if to mold it back into the smile that had greeted him.

  Ned’s mouth trembled. He slid Gabriel to his feet and straightened. “I spoke too bluntly. It’s only . . . to have done what he did, then married one of Uncle’s stepdaughters and sent his son away. I cannot fathom it. Or excuse it.”

  Pity stabbed through Seona’s anger. Still, Ned couldn’t know how it had been with her and Ian, and poor Miss Judith caught in the middle of it all. “It wasn’t what you’re thinking. Ian never—”

  Behind Ned’s back the scullery door opened. Seona’s mama stepped out onto the paving stones, where they boiled laundry on fine days. “Seona,” Lily called. “Mister Robert asked to speak to ye afore supper. Evening, Ned.”

  Seeming relieved at the interruption, Ned took Gabriel, clutching at his knees, into his arms again. “Lily . . . good eve.”

  Mystified by the summons, Seona stepped past them.

  Lily searched her face as she drew near. “He’s in his study.”

  Living so close with Scottish folk had deepened her mama’s faint lilt, but something else made Seona hesitate. Below sleek black hair pinned under a cap, Lily’s features were composed, yet something troubled her dark eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  Instead of answering, Lily strode into the yard. “It’s time this boy was tidied for supper.” She reached for her grandson. “Come here, b
aby.”

  “Ganny!” Gabriel leaned out to be taken. Ned gave him over.

  Seona lingered on the threshold, uncertain, until Lily reached past her for the scullery door. “Go on. Mister Robert’s waiting on ye.”

  “Come in, Seona.” Robert Cameron rose from feeding the fire sheltered by a blue-painted mantel. “Dinna shut the door. This willna take long.”

  Seona took the seat he indicated, a finely wrought upholstered chair, match to the one behind his writing table. Clasping her hands in her lap as Ian’s daddy took his seat, she heard laughter from the parlor, where Ned must have joined his sister and Mr. Shelby. “Yes, sir?”

  Mister Robert smiled, deepening the lines beside his eyes. “Ye and Lily—and Gabriel—may I presume ye’ve found Boston to your liking?”

  They had had nowhere else but Boston to go, set loose from slavery. Seona knew they were fortunate there had been any place at all outside North Carolina. Ian’s parents were her kin too, if distant. She had grown fond of them. She felt toward Catriona like she might a younger sister. They had a roof over their heads. Food in their bellies. What was Mister Robert thinking, searching her face with his gaze, asking her such a question?

  “You and Miss Margaret have been every sort of kind. Mama and I are thankful for everything you’ve done for us.”

  “Which I’ve never doubted,” Ian’s daddy replied, warmth in his words. “Ye’re a part of our family, Seona. That willna change no matter your answer to what I’m about to propose.” He shifted in the chair, clearing his throat. “In point of fact . . . Margaret and I wish to make the connection between us more secure.”

  “Secure?” Seona echoed. The only way she knew for that to happen was impossible now. Ian had married Judith Bell, and that was that.

  But Mister Robert was nodding. “We wish to claim ye, to make ye ours—ye and our grandson. By adoption.”

  Seona felt the chair holding her up, heard the crackle of the fire, saw the paneled walls surrounding her reflecting back its glow, yet that one word—claim—had sent her mind spinning. She shook her head, wrestling down her shock. “You want to adopt us? What about Ian? Gabriel is his son. And what would I become . . . my own baby’s sister?”