Love's Fortune by Laura Frantz

just yesterday to the City of Pittsburgh ’s pilot and crew . What would your father and grandfather say to me then?”
    She looked away, stung. She’d not heard of the City of Pittsburgh . All she could think of was Charlotte.
    “I wish I had better news for you, Miss Ballantyne. I wish traveling by packet was safe. Or that you liked Pittsburgh and didn’t have to come here nearly begging—”
    It was the most roundabout refusal she’d ever heard. Whirling, she clutched her violin case and made for the open door, stumbling as her toe caught on the raised sill. Out she went into coal dust and foul air, only to find Molly making her way to the loading platform, escorted by a clerk. The Belle of Pittsburgh ’s huge smokestacks were already pluming, the huge steamer shuddering along the levee, ready to embark.
    Behind her James Sackett’s tall shadow darkened the doorframe. “Wren . . .”
    She plunged into the crowd, baggage in hand, numb and disbelieving. He hadn’t called her Miss Ballantyne or Rowena. He’d called her Wren. But it in no way lessened the sting of his refusal. Or the fact she had no money and no means to return her to New Hope.

    Tugging his hat lower, Malachi Cameron fixed his gaze on the winding road ahead. He’d nearly made it. Though his Edinburgh-tailored suit was wrinkled from a long railway journey piggybacked by the stage, he blinked sleep-deprived eyes and looked homeward, expectant. Cameron House was a few miles more, tucked in the bend between New Hope and Broad Oak. Impatience set in as his driver suddenly slowed his pace, the new barouche kicking up less dust as it rolled cautiously over ruts and rocks.
    To the right of the road was a woman. Small of stature. Luggage in hand. Her hair was spilling down like gold ribbon beneath her straw bonnet. Clad in a summery dress dotted with blue flowers, she was all curves and bends, her full skirts swaying gently as she walked. Nearly derailing him.
    This was a reminder of why he’d come back to Pittsburgh. How long had it been since he’d exchanged words with anyone but a railroad hand? He’d nearly given up on polite conversation, feminine company. Courtesy demanded he stop. Speak.
    Ho there.
    No, that would never do. He’d do well to remember his city manners.
    She kept on just a few steps ahead of him, never looking back. Coaxing him into a game of cat and mouse. From the slump of her shoulders, she seemed as weary as he.
    Pardon me, miss . . .

11
    In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.
    H ENRY W ADSWORTH L ONGFELLOW
    Fiddle case in one hand, valise in the other, Wren walked out the Allegheny Road toward New Hope. She heard the Belle of Pittsburgh ’s distinct whistle at her back as it took Molly downriver, all her hopes along with it. She wouldn’t turn round and watch it depart. Overcome with humiliation and homesickness, she stirred the dust with her steps, her tumbled thoughts circling round her aching head.
    He’d called her Wren.
    She couldn’t call him James. Nor did she want to. That was Izannah’s privilege.
    She hadn’t even had the sense to say she was sorry for the loss of the City of Pittsburgh , even when he was clearly reeling from it. How would it be to climb to the pilothouse knowing a fellow pilot had gone to his death doing the same? Still, it was Charlotte who stayed uppermost in her mind, herdesperate predicament unheeded. She had only to think of that to dismiss James Sackett.
    She walked on till her fingers ached from her stubborn hold on her baggage and her dress hem was a grungy brown. A lone wagon lumbered past but no refined rig. She gave silent thanks. If Andra or any of her Ballantyne kin were to see her, she’d be undone . . .
    The sun sank beyond the treetops, throwing a golden blanket across the burnt, late-summer grass. Stopping, she knelt and drank from a trickle of creek beneath an old bridge, her parched throat aching from an emotional