The Fur Trader’s Lady (Ladies of the Wilderness #1)

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“ Y ou’re safe in here, lass,” Reid told the frightened woman, wanting to reassure her. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Lady Charlotte tugged her dirty shawl tighter around her body and stared beyond Reid to the door. He’d seen that look before when he’d taken two young Chippewa children into his fur post after their parents had been killed by intoxicated voyageurs.

The children had huddled against the back wall of his living quarters, staying with him until they could be transferred to the district manager. Each movement or noise had made them jump no matter how many times Reid assured them they were safe. He had tried to communicate that he meant them no harm, but they escaped in the middle of the night and were found frozen to death a few days later. Had they trusted him, they would probably still be alive.

Trying to push aside the memory of the haunting fear he’d seen in the children’s eyes, Reid placed his hands on the frail shoulders of the young woman. When she finally met his gaze, he saw intelligence and honesty behind the terror. “I will keep you safe. You have my word—for your sake and for Stephen’s.”

She looked deep into his eyes, and he knew she was gauging whether she could trust him.

“Stay here and dinna try to run. It will only make things worse.” He had to bend to look her eye to eye. “Do you hear me, lass?”

Her nod was the only answer she offered.

Ushering Mrs. Mallarme out of the room, Reid followed and spoke low. “Did you say anything about her to the man?”

“Mr. Dorsey answered the door. He saw I was coming up the stairs and asked me to tell you.”

“Did Dorsey mention Lady Charlotte?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Reid hoped not. It would be easier to protect the lass if he could feign ignorance. “Quietly draw a bath for Lady Charlotte and find her something clean to wear as you launder her other things.”

Mrs. Mallarme’s mouth puckered with disapproval. “And where do you think I’ll find something for her to wear? Surely, you don’t expect me to give her my own clothes or go into your mother’s room and ask for hers.”

A headache began to build behind Reid’s eyes, which didn’t bode well for traveling on the morrow. When a headache came upon him, it could take days for it to subside, and only rest and darkness eased the pain.

“Just do as I say,” he said a bit too sharply to the housekeeper, rubbing his temples.

Reid left Mrs. Mallarme and walked down the flight of stairs into the foyer. The butler, Mr. Dorsey, met him at the bottom.

“A Mr. Roger Rutherford is here to see you, sir.” Dorsey gave a slight bow. “I showed him into your library.”

Reid drew close to the butler and spoke just as quietly as before. “Did he ask about the girl?”

“He only asked for you, sir.”

“I don’t want you to mention the girl to anyone—not even my mother.”

Mr. Dorsey nodded. “Of course.”

Reid paused for a moment to try to ease the pounding in his head, then opened the door into the library. An impeccably dressed man stood near the fireplace, his back to the door. The contrast between this well-dressed gentleman and the poor wretch cowering upstairs was jarring.

Rutherford turned and smiled, stepping across the room, his hand outstretched. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. McCoy. I’m Roger Rutherford.”

Reid shook the man’s hand. He was much older than Reid expected, with graying hair at the temples and age lining the creases at the side of his eyes. He exuded manners to a fault and walked with the practiced movements of a man trying to impress.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Rutherford?”

Rutherford clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward. “I’m terribly sorry to drag you into my family troubles, but I have come looking for my dear cousin, Lady Charlotte Fairfax. She has gone missing, and I have reason to believe she might come here. Perhaps you’ve seen her? She’s about this tall”—he held his hand up to his shoulder height—“with curly auburn hair and dark brown eyes.”

Frowning, Reid indicated one of the chairs near the fireplace. Moving leisurely and deliberately, he took a seat in another. “What makes you think she would come here?”

Rutherford sat with an easy air, as if he had no cares in the world—yet his eyes were restless and shrewd. He took in the room, even as he gave his attention to Reid. “My cousin is . . . eccentric. She has been difficult, often running away, telling wild stories about her life, claiming I have mistreated her.” His words were pained—and clearly rehearsed. “She was never the same once her parents died, though I have done my best to care for her. I fear for her safety.”

Reid sat quietly, his hands on the armrests, showing no emotion at the man’s statement.

“She believes herself in love with the cook’s son, Stephen Corning,” Rutherford continued. “When her parents died, she sent him a letter and convinced him that she was in danger. When she went missing several weeks ago, I knew exactly where to look.”

Reid frowned. “And why do you think she’d come here looking for Mr. Corning?”

“A letter arrived from Mr. Corning just before she left London. After she was gone, I found it in her room. It indicated that you owed him a debt and might be willing to help her get to him.”

His words proved Lady Charlotte’s story about Stephen was true—but was Rutherford the evil guardian she claimed? Or was she simply a distraught woman mourning the loss of her parents and the sudden change in her situation?

Reid couldn’t take the risk by handing her over to him. “I am sorry, Mr. Rutherford. I’m afraid I canna help.”

Rutherford’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”

There was no reason to continue the conversation. No matter what Lady Charlotte’s reasons were for getting to Stephen, she had been given permission to claim Stephen’s debt—a debt Reid would honor with his very life. He stood to indicate the interview was over and waited for Rutherford to rise from his chair.

Rutherford took his time standing. “I will be staying at the Montreal House, near the wharf.” His cheek muscle twitched as he stared at Reid. “If you change your mind and you choose to help me, I can guarantee you will be compensated.”

Reid had no time for men like Rutherford, especially on a day like today. He strode to the foyer and called for Mr. Dorsey.

The butler appeared almost immediately with Rutherford’s hat and coat, which the other man took with practiced ease.

“How is your mother faring?” Rutherford asked as he put on his coat. “I would hate to hear she isn’t well.”

Reid froze as he walked across the foyer to the front door.

“It must cause you great distress to leave her in Montreal, all alone, and only return to her every three years.” Rutherford slipped on his hat, but he glared at Reid. “It would be a shame if harm befell her while you were away”—a sneer curled his lips—“repaying your debt.”

“What do you ken of my mother?”

“I told you. Stephen sent a letter to Charlotte telling her to come here. It was full of very useful information.”

Mrs. Mallarme entered the foyer at that moment, two steaming buckets of water in her hands. She stopped short, her eyes growing wide at the sight of Mr. Rutherford. “Beg your pardon,” she said as she hurried past them up the stairs, casting worried glances behind her.

Rutherford’s shrewd gaze followed her.

“’Tis time for Mr. Rutherford to leave.” Reid nodded to Mr. Dorsey. “Please see him out.”

“I warn you, McCoy.” Rutherford didn’t move when Mr. Dorsey approached. “I will find Charlotte, and when I do, anyone who tries to get in my way will regret his actions.”

The list of atrocities Reid had witnessed in the fur trade had hardened him against men like Rutherford, even if he was a threat. Murder, abduction, scalping, gunfire—and worse.

Reid’s heart raced with the force of his anger at the evil he had witnessed and those who perpetrated it—men like Rutherford. “Mr. Dorsey, our guest is leaving. Now.”

Rutherford didn’t wait for Mr. Dorsey to haul him out. He left the house without another word.

Reid slammed the door behind him. He detested men who stooped to make threats—and hated the guilt he felt at leaving his mother behind while Rutherford’s warning still lingered in the air.

Closing his eyes, he tried to rub away the pain. What choice did he have? He had to return to the interior, which meant he’d have to hire someone to guard his mother and servants until the threat passed.

“Reid?” His mother shrieked as she rushed from her room and gripped the railing, staring down at him. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. She sagged in relief when she saw him. “I thought you left me.”

He climbed the stairs two at a time and went to her. Putting his hand on the small of her back, he led her into her bedchamber. “I won’t leave until morning, Mam. I told you that earlier.”

She gripped his arm and allowed him to help her back into bed. Her white hair was in disarray, and she still wore her pink morning gown, though it was now evening. “But your faither . . .”

He nodded his understanding. “I ken.”

“He left me, Reid, just like you leave me.”

“But I come back, every three years.”

She lay in bed, still clinging to his arms. “He came back every three years too—until—”

“I’m not Faither.” The force of his statement made him pause. Would he ever forgive his father for abandoning them?

Kneeling by the bed, Reid took her hands into his, and tried to smile, though the mention of his father made the muscles of his jaw tighten. He moved the hair out of her face and spoke in a soothing voice. “I will return.”

“Why didn’t he want to come home?” Her eyes pleaded for an answer. “Why did he choose to stay—” Her voice broke. “With her?”

Reid didn’t have answers for his mother. The only thing he knew was that instead of his father returning home fifteen years ago when he retired from the fur trade, Sean McCoy had chosen to stay in the interior with his Indian wife and children with no explanation to his legal wife and child. The betrayal had destroyed Reid’s mother. But he wouldn’t let it destroy him.

He had joined the North West Company to prove to himself, and to his father, that he could be a fur trader and a man of integrity—unlike his father. When Sean McCoy had heard that Reid joined the North West Company, he invited Reid to his home, but Reid wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing his son grown and prosperous. Instead, he chose to focus his energy on providing for his mother and pushing his father’s memory as far away as possible.

“I promise to return, Mam.”

She closed her eyes and finally nodded. “You havna taken a country wife, like your faither?”

“No.”

“Promise me you willna.”

“I willna take a country wife.” Though he’d been pressured several times to marry the daughter of an influential chief to secure the trade, he had declined. He wanted nothing to bind him to the interior and nothing to prevent him from returning to Montreal when he retired. “When I become a shareholder, I will have a stake in the company, and it will allow me to retire comfortably just a few years after. We’ll finally have peace.”

Her breathing began to even out, and her grip on his hands loosened. After a day of crying, she finally fell asleep.

Reid bent forward and placed his forehead on their clasped hands, whispering a prayer of protection for his mother while he was away. He hated leaving. Hated the emotional toll it took on her, but he couldn’t give up everything he’d worked these past fifteen years to secure. He wanted to become a shareholder if for no other reason than to give his mother the peace and joy she deserved.

Leaving her bedchamber, he closed her door softly and stood in the upper hall across from Lady Charlotte’s room. The faint sound of trickling bathwater met his ears—yet it did nothing to dispel his headache. He had paperwork to put in order before he left in the morning—and now he would also need to find a guard for his mother.

When his gaze landed on the front door, the thought of Roger Rutherford filled his chest with fire. The man would be relentless in his pursuit, of that Reid was certain. The lass wouldn’t be safe in Montreal or on the voyage to Grand Portage. She wouldn’t be safe until she and Stephen were married.

Reid gripped the railing. Not only was he honor bound to protect the lass because of his promise to Stephen, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave her unprotected. The only option he had was to take her with him, dressed as an assistant clerk. When they arrived at the Rendezvous in Grand Portage, he would hand her over to Stephen and be done with her.

If anyone discovered she was a woman between Montreal and Grand Portage on the shores of Lake Superior, Reid would lose all chance of becoming a shareholder—but it was a chance he would have to take. Stephen Corning had saved his life. The least he could do was reunite him with his fiancée.

In the morning, Lady Charlotte would need to transform into a fifteen-year-old boy. It wouldn’t be easy, but—if it be God’s will—then they might have a chance.

Charlotte awoke with a start. The room was dark, and for a moment, she couldn’t recall where she was. Her heart hammered as she gripped the covers and scanned the room. Bits and pieces of the previous night returned to her conscious mind. The warm bath, the sweet fragrance of lavender soap, the soft sheets on the feather-tick mattress. A full belly.

She’d found Mr. McCoy.

Easing back into the mattress, she looked toward the window. A slice of daylight rimmed the far horizon, and for the first time in weeks, it didn’t dip and sway with the motion of a ship. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so comfortable or felt this safe. She feared that the moment she stepped foot outside the bed, reality would crash back and she’d have to run again.

If only she could stay here forever.

But thoughts of Roger forced her from her bed. Pushing aside the covers, she left the warmth. When her feet touched the cold floor, a shiver ran up the length of her spine. Would it be light enough to look out the window and see if the house was being watched?

Charlotte tiptoed across the wide room and stood behind the drapery to peek at the snow-covered lawn. The world was blanketed in pure white crystals. They lay on the dark branches of the trees, the rooftops of the neighboring homes, and the ridge of the stone fence circling the property. Nothing stirred in the frozen scene, except the wisps of smoke curling from the chimneys along the road leading down to the riverfront. As far as she could see from up on the hill, Montreal spread out before her like a sleeping giant ready to stir.

If Roger hid in this idyllic scene, she could not see him.

Another chill ran up her spine at the thought of him. Would she ever know a day when she did not fear his appearance?

A knock at the door made her jump. “Lass?”

Mr. McCoy.

Charlotte still wore the oversized nightgown Mrs. Mallarme had loaned her the night before. A quick perusal of the room told her that her other clothes were nowhere to be found. She grabbed a blanket off the bed and pulled it onto her shoulders as she walked to the door. “Yes?”

“I must speak with you.”

“Can it wait a moment?” Even though he’d seen her at her worst yesterday, the thought of the handsome fur trader witnessing her in the hideous nightgown made her blush.

“It canna wait.” His voice held no patience for debate. “Will you open the door?”

“I’m not properly dressed.”

There was a short pause, and then his voice was lower than before. “If you plan to come with me, being improperly dressed will be the least of your worries.”

He would take her to Stephen? Hope flared in her chest as she flung the door open and found him standing in the dark hallway holding a pile of clothing.

Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed past her and tossed everything onto the bed. “Mrs. Mallarme went next door and bought some clothes from the gardener’s son. They’ll have to do until I can get your allotment from the company. You’ll also find a pair of boots and some shears in the pile.”

Charlotte held the blanket tight around her shoulders, her fisted hands resting on her chest. “Shears?”

Mr. McCoy finally turned to look at her. His gaze caught on her hair, which was unbound and falling around her shoulders in a curtain of lavender-scented, auburn curls. The muscles in his cheek worked a bit before he spoke. “It’ll be a shame to see you lose those bonnie locks.”

Her hand came up and she touched a curl, dread tightening her stomach. “Lose my hair?”

He stood at least a foot taller than her, his attractive face drawn into serious lines. “I am willing to take you into the interior, but only if you are willing to do exactly as I say. If anyone suspects you are a woman—for even a moment—we will both lose everything.” His dark brown eyes held no room for discussion. “You will cut your hair, wear these clothes, and change your name. You will change how you walk, talk, and eat. Everything you’ve learned as a lady must be forgotten. The men in my employ willna think twice to spit, swear, or defecate in your presence—and you will not bat an eyelash. Do you understand?”

Swallowing hard, she tried to keep the revulsion from showing on her face. But if the alternative was marrying Roger, she would do what he said.

“I understand.”

“It will take us at least six weeks to get to Grand Portage,” he continued with the same stern voice. “You will be cold, tired, and sore. And then you will be hot, tired, and sore. You will be expected to do your job like everyone else. I willna go easy on you. We paddle for twelve hours a day, portage many miles, and sleep on the earth at night. No one will help you.” He stared hard at her. If he was trying to dissuade her from going, he would be disappointed. He didn’t know what it had been like to live with Roger the past two years.

“You’ll be bit by mosquitoes, stung by wasps, burnt by the sun, pelted by hail, and soaked by the rain.” His voice held little emotion. “You’ll meet Indians along the way, and some of their customs will alarm you at best—horrify you at worst. You will see bloodshed, drunkenness, and disease.” He stopped again, but she didn’t move a muscle, afraid he might have second thoughts. “If you survive until Grand Portage and you marry Stephen, it will be in secret with a priest. You will be forced to return the same way you came. If Stephen canna persuade his superiors to let him forfeit his contract, you will return to Montreal without protection. If any of the men who take you back discover you are a woman, you’ll be at their mercy.”

A dozen thoughts assailed her, and common sense tried to prevail in her mind, but she could not risk a marriage to Roger. She would deal with whatever came, one step at a time. What other option did she have?

He waited for her response, but she didn’t give one.

“Do you still plan to come?”

The blanket Charlotte wore did little to ward off the cold in the room. Her skin was covered in gooseflesh, and her teeth had started to chatter, but she straightened her shoulders with resolve. She would either arrive at Grand Portage to marry Stephen, or she would die trying. Either way, she could not remain in Montreal or go back to England.

“I do.”

He studied her for a moment and shook his head. “I’m probably a fool, but I canna leave you here.”

“Thank you,” she whispered and bowed her head, so she didn’t have to look into his dark eyes. She hated begging him to take her. If she wasn’t desperate, she would never dream of asking him to risk everything for her.

“What do people call you—besides Charlotte?”

“My lady,” she replied meekly.

He scoffed. “That’ll never do. Do you have a pet name?”

“My parents called me Lottie.” Just the thought of her parents, both gone so quickly, filled her with grief. If they hadn’t died, none of this would have happened.

“That willna do either.” He crossed his arms and looked her over from head to toe. “Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“From now on you’ll be Charlie Crawford, assistant clerk in the North West Company.”

“What will be my duties?”

“You’ll learn as you go, but your main job will be to keep track of the inventory in my canoes. If you were a full-time clerk in the interior, you’d be responsible for transactions and record-keeping, as well as maintaining a daily diary for the shareholders. But you won’t need to worry about those things, since you’ll be in Stephen’s care by then.” He nodded, as if his perusal of her was satisfactory. “I’ll take you to the main office before we leave for Grand Portage and write up your contract. There you’ll be given your allotted clothing and other supplies to assist me on the journey to the Rendezvous.”

“Why Crawford?”

“My mither’s maiden name.” He moved around her toward the door. “Be ready to go in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes to turn herself into a boy? It used to take her lady’s maid at least an hour to complete her toilette.

But she wasn’t a lady anymore—at least, she wouldn’t be again for a long time.

After Mr. McCoy left her room, Charlotte stepped over to the bed and looked down at the shears. They gleamed in the growing light, taunting her. Once she cut her hair, there would be no going back.

But what was there to go back to?

Picking up the shears, she went to the vanity and took a seat in front of the mirror. Her hair had always been her crowning beauty. Thick, curly, and auburn, it drew compliments wherever she went. But no matter what she had to do, getting to Stephen would be worth the sacrifice.

She took a lock of hair and drew the shears up to her head. She would wear it as long as Mr. McCoy and tie it back in a queue. Without thinking twice, she snipped the blades together and her ringlet fell to the ground.

A sob scratched at her throat, but she wouldn’t let it escape. She had already shed far too many tears since leaving Blissfield Manor, and she was done with self-pity and pride. Her life and her inheritance depended on her playing the part of a boy, so she would do it with all her heart.

In no time, clumps of her thick hair lay in piles on the floor. After tying the remainder back with a black ribbon, she didn’t even take the time to look at her reflection in the mirror. If she did, she might start to feel sorry for herself, and she had no room for that today. Instead, she went to the bed and studied the clothes.

Weeks of illness had made her painfully thin, but it hadn’t diminished her female curves. If anything, it heightened them. She took a strip of linen that Mrs. Mallarme had had the forethought to provide and bound it around her chest. Then she pulled the white shirt over her head, securing the top buttons close to her chin. The sleeves were too long, so she rolled them up to her wrists and then put on the brown vest and coat. The trousers were also too big, but there was a belt in the pile, which she cinched tight around her waist. She placed the brown tweed hat, which matched the coat, onto her head. It was also too big, but it would do well to cover her hair. Finally, she pulled on the pair of woolen socks and laced up the boots that were oversized.

When she finally had the courage to look into the mirror, she stared at her reflection much longer than she’d planned. The transformation was complete. She looked like a boy and nothing like the proper young lady she had worked her whole life to perfect.

The tears came without warning.

Would she ever feel beautiful again? She hated herself for being vain when she was about to embark on the most dangerous journey of her life. But she hadn’t seen Stephen in almost five years, and the last thing she wanted was to appear to him for the first time looking like an ugly, undernourished boy.

A fit of coughs took her by surprise, and she bent over with the force of them. Her throat felt raw, and her chest burned, but she couldn’t reveal that she felt ill. Mr. McCoy might change his mind.

Wiping the tears that had come to her eyes with the force of her cough, she took several deep breaths and opened the door. Nothing in the room belonged to her, so she left everything where it was and went into the hallway. The house was quiet as her large boots flopped against the wooden stairs.

“Charlie?” Mr. McCoy entered the foyer through a door at the back of the room. He was dressed like a gentleman, with tan breeches, a white shirt, and a dark blue waistcoat with tails. His tall black boots looked like they had recently been shined, and his face had been shaved. In his hand he carried a top hat, while a black coat was draped over his arm. When he caught sight of her, he paused.

He was one of the finest-looking men she’d ever met. Refined, yet rugged. Powerful, yet compassionate.

His eyes traveled the length of her, and it took every bit of self-control not to fidget or shy away from his bold stare. If she stood before Mr. McCoy in gown, how different this moment would be. She would be poised and confident, not uncertain and embarrassed.

He nodded and motioned for her to follow him. “Mrs. Mallarme has prepared our breakfast, but we’ll have to eat on the way to the main office. We are already late, and my men are waiting for me on the wharf.”

She didn’t say anything as she followed him into the kitchen. Mrs. Mallarme and the butler sat at the table, eating their breakfast. They both looked up when she entered.

“Mark my words,” Mrs. Mallarme said, holding a steaming cup in her hands. “She’ll make you regret your decision.”

“I would like to leave before Rutherford returns,” Mr. McCoy said to Charlotte, ignoring his housekeeper. “Take the sack of food there by the hearth and the pack by the door.” He pointed to the things she needed to grab.

She wanted to ask how far they would travel today, but she didn’t dare. The last thing she wanted was to annoy him.

“I said goodbye to my mither,” Mr. McCoy told the servants, his voice deep with sorrow. “Mr. Jenkins will be here soon to start his guard duties.”

“A waste o’ time and money, if you ask me,” Mrs. Mallarme said to the butler. “If the master just left Lady Charlotte in Montreal, his mother wouldn’t need protection.”

“That will be enough, Mrs. Mallarme.” Mr. McCoy exhaled. “I’ve made my decision.”

Guilt twisted Charlotte’s insides when she thought about the danger she was placing these strangers in—especially Mr. McCoy and his mother.

She turned away from Mrs. Mallarme’s cold stare and lifted the pack near the door. It was heavier than she expected, and she had a hard time putting it on her back.

“Here.” Mr. McCoy easily lifted it with one hand and helped her put the straps over her shoulders. When he noticed her grimace, he said, “You better get used to it. You’ll be toting a lot heavier packs in the coming days.”

She bit her lip to refrain from protesting.

Mrs. Mallarme sipped her beverage as she nodded a knowing glance at the butler.

Charlotte straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin high. “I can manage, Mr. McCoy.”

He grabbed his own pack, which was twice the size of hers, and slipped it over his shoulders. “Drop the mister and just call me McCoy—or Reid.” He opened the back door and glanced out. “Pull the brim of your hat low and step fast. We have much to accomplish this morn.”

The servants came to the door and waved goodbye to their employer. And though Charlotte hardly knew them and hadn’t been well received, a part of her felt melancholy leaving the safety and comfort of their warm kitchen behind.

Wagon ruts scarred the alley behind the McCoy home. The mud had not yet melted, and a fine layer of snow still covered the world around them.

“Rutherford might be watching,” Reid said quietly. “I want you to keep your head low and try not to walk like that.”

“Like what?”

He nodded toward her. “Like . . . well, like that.”

She frowned. “How am I walking?”

“Like you’re trying to balance a pile of books on your head—all stiff and proper. You need to walk like a man. Bend your shoulders forward and widen your stride—and stop swinging your hips.”

At the mention of her hips, her cheeks filled with heat. She had never watched herself walk before. Did her hips sway like he said?

Doing as Reid commanded, she adjusted her walk. It felt awkward and unnatural, but she would do whatever was necessary.

“I will watch for Rutherford and try to keep you covered. My men should have our canoes ready to go, since we were supposed to leave yesterday. Speak as little as possible and learn as much as you can. The less attention you draw, the better.”

Charlotte nodded in understanding. As she struggled to keep up with Reid, the exertion made her chest tighten. She tried to suppress the need to cough until her eyes watered and her lungs burned. Finally, she had to give in to her body’s demands.

Reid didn’t slow his pace to accommodate her condition. Instead, he reached out and slapped the pack on her back. The force of the contact made her stumble forward.

Her eyes grew wide, and she stopped. “Why did you do that?”

He turned to look at her as he continued to walk. He cocked his eyebrow but did not smile—though she saw the laughter in his eyes. “I said I was going to treat you like all my other men—and when they cough, I slap their back.”

She stared at him in disbelief—and then ran to catch up to him.