The Heiress and the Woodsman

Chapter 1

Charlotte inhaled, the scent of hay and horse invading her senses and calming her spirit.

Holding the lantern aloft, she trod the worn dirt hall, past empty stalls with nameplates painted in careful letters.

Apollo. Demeter. Once they’d been her father’s pride and joy, shipped from England so he could build his stable and his fortune in Upper Canada.

She stopped at the largest, which had once housed Zeus, the huge stallion he’d ridden into battle at Waterloo.

It was Scarlett’s stall now.

The horse stretched out her velvety muzzle and nickered an eager welcome.

“Sorry, my love.” Charlotte ran her hand up Scarlett’s petal-soft cheek to scratch the tiny dip behind her ear.

“No saddle today.” November’s short days and icy rain curtailed the long afternoon rides that were their chief entertainment.

Quiet moments in the stable or a quick jaunt to the market on Saturdays were all they had now to break the monotony of the days.

Scarlett nudged Charlotte and paced to the side of her stall, looking for Tuck, her lifelong friend. The mare still wasn’t used to being in the stable alone, and her eyes seemed to beg Charlotte to bring him back.

“I know,” Charlotte whispered. She leaned forward, resting her crossed arms on the stall, and let the wave of worry and loneliness wash over her. “I miss them, too.”

“Company, Miss Charlotte.” Fulton’s quiet voice at the door made her jump.

She turned to face the older man. “Company?” The word was so unexpected, she repeated it to be sure she’d heard correctly. Since Papa’s investments had failed along with his health, visitors from the city had been few.

“Aye. Mr. Ballantine is here.”

Charlotte ran to the door, all thoughts of comforting Scarlett forgotten. It must be important for her father’s old friend to make the hour-long trip from the city on a day like this. “Where is he?”

“I showed him to the study. Then I came to fetch you straightaway.”

“Thank you, Fulton.” She sent him a grateful look. If it had been up to Papa, Ballantine might have come and gone, and she’d have been none the wiser.

Hitching up her skirts, she dashed across the muddy yard, leaving Fulton to follow as fast as his wooden leg permitted. Papa had written a letter to beg Ballantine’s help. Perhaps his inquiries had finally borne fruit. Perhaps there was news of Simon.

She burst through the back door into the kitchen.

Her favorite room, though she had no time to bask in the warm glow of the fire or share a pot of tea with Fulton while he listened patiently to her plans for Edenbrook.

She tore off her shawl and apron and poured water into the basin for a quick wash.

Smoothing back her hair, Charlotte glanced down at her worn gown with a frown.

Mama would have disapproved of the smudges around the cuffs.

There is no greater indication of gentility than a tidy toilette.

If she took the time to change now, she might miss Mr. Ballantine and be dependent on what news she could eke out of Papa. This dress would have to do.

Decision made, she followed the sound of male voices to Papa’s study and slipped through the door.

Warmth enveloped her, a stark contrast to the dark, icy hall.

In this room, time stood still. The furniture gleamed from careful polishing that smoothed away the nicks and scratches.

Book-lined shelves and thick velvet wall hangings surrounded Papa like cotton wool, protecting him from the reality outside its doors.

Her father didn’t look up as she entered, but his shoulders, usually slumped with exhaustion, were straight. Thank goodness Fulton had convinced him to shave and don his waistcoat and cravat this morning. Since Simon left, he’d taken to sitting in his dressing gown all day.

Mr. Ballantine stood in front of the fire, his gaze on Papa’s ornate dress sword mounted above the mantel.

At the sound of her entrance, he turned and bent his form in a courtly bow.

Nearing sixty, he was still a tall, imposing man, though the deep lines across his brow hinted that his life hadn’t been easy, despite his financial success.

She curtsied, biting her lip to contain the questions that would have bubbled out. A young lady never initiates conversation.

“Charlotte, my dear.” Mr. Ballantine patted her hand.

“You grow lovelier every time I see you.” He glanced at Papa.

“You must be turning the young men away.” He chuckled at his jest and Charlotte summoned a weak smile, though they all knew no suitors would call on poor Charlotte Carruthers.

“She’s the very image of Elizabeth, wouldn’t you say, Charles? ”

Charlotte’s attention snapped to her father.

Papa never talked about Mama. Maybe he’d say things to Ballantine he wouldn’t say to her.

She had Mama’s chestnut hair and brown eyes.

She remembered that much, though the lines and curves of Mama’s face had blended in her memory, leaving behind only the image of her smile.

Papa turned to Charlotte, ignoring the question. “Where is the tea tray? I’m sure Mr. Ballantine could do with a hot cup on an afternoon like this.”

Charlotte forced a smile, though her fingers clenched into fists in the folds of her skirt.

Papa didn’t want her here, but that was nothing new.

“Fulton is preparing it.” At least, she hoped he was, for there was no chance she’d miss this visit.

“I’m sure it will arrive any moment now.

” Papa’s lips pursed, and Charlotte lowered her eyes and chose a high-back chair, leaving Ballantine to resume his seat in the leather armchair across from Papa.

“I doubt I have time for tea today,” Ballantine said quickly, smoothing over the tension and drawing Papa’s attention back to himself.

“Militia meeting tonight. Pity you can’t join us, Charles.

You’d make quick work of those rebels.” He swiveled, winking at Charlotte.

“You don’t remember your father decked out in his regimentals. What a swordsman he was.”

An opening such as this would usually bring back a flood of reminiscences, but today, only one word caught Papa’s attention. “Rebels?” He straightened, the thick wool blanket slipping off his shoulders.

“Aye.” Ballantine shook his head in disgust. “We’ve heard of meetings north of the city.

Agitating for an elected assembly, of all things.

Imagine every riffraff in Upper Canada deciding the course of the colony.

The next thing you know, we’ll be signing a declaration like those traitors to the south. ”

Telltale red appeared on her father’s cheeks. Charlotte couldn’t let him digress into a rant about loyalty to the Crown, not when they still hadn’t heard if Ballantine had news of Simon.

“I’m sure our brave militia will stamp out any threats,” Charlotte said, hoping to redirect her father’s thoughts along more congenial lines. “They’re well trained. Papa said so himself the last time he visited the fort.”

“Oh, indeed. Nothing to fear, my dear.” Ballantine’s voice took on the patronizing tones of a kindly grandfather assuring a child there were no wolves in the forest. “I’m sure Cole will keep a close eye on everything up here.”

Charlotte recoiled at the mention of her neighbor Deacon Cole. “Oh, yes, he keeps a close eye on things.” Too close an eye.

Oblivious to her sarcasm, Ballantine clasped his hands and sent Charlotte a keen stare. “Young Simon’s not at home yet?”

“Ah . . . no.” Charlotte scrambled to make sense of the question.

Papa had written Ballantine weeks ago to inform him of Simon’s disappearance and beg for his help.

She’d posted the letter herself. Unless .

. . She looked at her father, but he avoided her gaze.

Unless he hadn’t told Ballantine the truth.

“I assumed Simon would be back from Montreal by now. The term ended a week ago.”

Charlotte stifled a gasp and tried to piece together the story Papa had fed Ballantine. Studying at McGill? It was laughable. Where would they ever get the money for that?

Ballantine looked between father and daughter, a trace of impatience crossing his face. “When do you expect him back?”

Her gaze flew to Papa. His expression was pained, almost pleading, and at once she understood. He didn’t want his former friends to know Simon had abandoned his family and his inheritance.

All these months, she’d assumed help was on the way, but he’d done nothing to find her brother.

Frustration bubbled in her gut, rising until she couldn’t hold back her questions.

Papa might care more about his reputation than Simon’s safety, but she did not.

Ballantine, of all people, should understand the flight of a rebellious child.

Rumors still circulated about the probable fate of his own daughter, who’d disappeared more than a decade ago.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Mr. Ballantine, about my brother. You see, he’s not—”

“Likely to be back for some time.” The sharp warning in her father’s voice silenced her as effectively as a hand over her mouth.

He might be an invalid now, but there was a time when he’d commanded men.

“You know Simon.” He focused his attention on Ballantine with a thin smile.

“Probably got waylaid by a falling leaf he wanted to sketch.”

Charlotte bit her lip, stifling the urge to defend Simon. She’d tried long enough to get her father to see his merits. Nothing would change now.

Ballantine looked from Charlotte to her father, as though he realized there was more to the story. “I came to talk with him about joining up,” he said finally. “Young men from all the finest families will head up the regiments.” He glanced at Papa. “Simon should be there.”

Even though they were no longer one of the finest families? The bitter question was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue, but she swallowed it back, her attention riveted by the look on Ballantine’s face.