Free Love's Fortune by Laura Frantz

could thaw.
    Undaunted, Grandmother smiled up at Wren. “We’ll leave for River Hill after luncheon then.”
    Wren stole a glance at Charlotte. Still pale. Still at war within. And obviously full of dread at the coming afternoon.

    Izannah stood at the window of the bedchamber, feeling like a wrung-out rag. The cloud of dust on the long drive roused her, and she pressed her forehead against the glass pane. Grandmother? A second figure sat beside her in the handsome barouche. Not Aunt Andra. Andra rarely came. Mama was always a bit sad at her absence—and Papa sullen. Yet little could dim Izannah’s joy that the endless night had passed.
    Across the room Mama lay sleeping, the babe bundled in her arm, the maids going about on tiptoe as they tidied the bedchamber. In the adjoining dressing room, the tardy midwife dozed in a rocking chair, snoring softly. Thankfully one of the tutors had taken the boys fishing, so everyone was spared their wild tumbling and talk.
    Turning back to the window, Izannah watched Rowena step down from the carriage and pause to admire the roses. In that instance it seemed James stood near, his low voice in her ear.
    Her eyes are like sea foam . . . her hair is the color of hemp rope . . . She barely comes to my shoulder . . . She handles a fiddle like I pilot a boat.
    Izannah thought of all he hadn’t said.
    She’s brown as a berry. Her hands are callused. She speaks with a backwoods drawl.
    Pushing away from the pane, she smoothed her wrinkled skirts, wishing she had time to change. Mama was stirring now, and the babe gave a little cry like a kitten’s mewl, bringing Daddy round. His eyes were red-rimmed from a sleepless night, his jaw unshaven, but his relief was as potent as her own, though they both knew the danger hadn’t passed. Mama had a slight fever. And the babe was so large Izannah had gasped when the midwife had first placed the infant in her waiting arms.
    “Her name is Chloe,” Daddy had said at the sight of his second daughter.
    “Chloe,” Izannah echoed, moved by the sudden glimmer in his and Mama’s eyes. Once Papa had had a sister named Chloe, dear to him and Mama both. Izannah struggled to hide her dismay, wishing for a less melancholy name. But Chloe it was.
    Now, hours later, she supposed all that mattered was that Mama be well again. She sent up a quick prayer, preparing for a visit. “Grandmother and Rowena are here. Shall I ring for tea?”
    Mama brightened. “Yes, of course. Bring the chairs nearer the bed. And the tea table, if you please.” She put a hand to her plaited hair. “You’ve taken care of everything, Izannah, even my favorite bed jacket.”
    “You look beautiful, Mama.”
    “Yes, she does, though I can hardly believe it after she’sbeen up all night.” Great-Aunt Elspeth stood at the doorway to the bedchamber, lips pursed as the judge went past. “Please tell me it’s not another boy. A girl would be a fitting finish to all this endless procreation.”
    The maid leaned in and whispered something, but Elspeth simply chortled and moved into the room’s center, her cane leading. “Martha reminds me I must behave or your father has threatened to send for my nurse . . . and a straitjacket.”
    “Would you like to hold Chloe?” Izannah gestured to a chair, knowing the answer before she asked.
    “Ah, a girl! No baby holding, thank you. But I would like some tea.” Despite her advanced age, Elspeth was dressed and pressed to perfection, showing little sign of the onerous malady that plagued her. One didn’t discuss the French pox in polite company.
    Grandmother and Rowena soon joined them, gathering round and making such a fuss over the new arrival that introductions were nearly forgotten.
    Eventually Elspeth’s inquisitive gaze settled on Wren in the chair opposite, her eyes alive with interest. “And who might you be?”
    “I’m Wren Ballantyne, Ansel’s daughter.”
    “Ansel’s daughter?” Her eyes rounded. “So the