Chapter 3
“Where are my pistols?”
Charlotte froze outside Papa’s study. After her encounter with Deacon Cole, she’d rushed home, only stopping to settle Scarlett. Papa’s voice, high and frantic, brought her up short. Pistols?
“But sir, if you would only . . .” She’d rarely heard Fulton so harried.
Charlotte peeked through the crack in the door just as Papa tried to stand, a hand on the side table for support.
“Don’t just stand there, man! Fetch Charlotte.”
Would Papa finally turn to her for help? The budding hope was cut short at his next words.
“Tell her to press my uniform. And my sword must be cleaned as well.”
Charlotte tried to ignore the wave of disappointment. Papa saw her as nothing more than a glorified housemaid, and that wasn’t likely to change.
Fulton cleared his throat, a delicate quiver he used whenever he sought to sway his headstrong master. “Sir, you are in no shape to ride tonight in this cold.”
“Nonsense.” The word came out in a wheeze. Fulton’s voice didn’t have its usual soothing effect on Papa. “I haven’t time to rest. I’ve got to find that fool boy before Cole does.”
In the hall, Charlotte swallowed back the impotent anger as she’d done a hundred times before.
For months Papa hadn’t seemed to care what happened to Simon.
Now that his reputation was at stake, he’d move heaven and earth to find him, though he could scarcely stand, never mind ride across the colony in winter.
“You don’t even know where he is.” Fulton attempted a last protest.
Papa ignored him. “I searched my desk. The deed for the Nassagaweya tract is gone. He must—” His words were cut short by a dry, hacking cough, and he dropped into his chair. “Stubborn boy,” he said between wheezes. “He should have left well enough alone.”
Charlotte leaned against the doorframe and tried to make sense of Papa’s words. A deed? Papa had sold every asset to pay off their debt. At least, that’s what he’d told her. Nearly six months she’d waited and worried. Why hadn’t she thought to search Papa’s desk?
Papa planted his slippered feet on the floor and grasped the arms of the chair. He pushed himself to stand again and took a wobbly step forward. His body swayed, his arms reaching out for purchase and finding only air.
Charlotte rushed to his right side as Fulton jumped forward to support his left, catching him before he could topple to the floor.
“Papa, you must calm yourself. You’ll bring on one of your coughing fits. Please, sit down.”
“Sit?” Papa drew himself up, for a moment recalling the strong, brash man of her childhood.
“Our family accused of treason and you expect me to sit?” He swept aside her words with a wave of his hand.
“Make haste and ready my uniform, Charlotte.” He looked into the fire.
“Treason,” he muttered. “I knew the boy would grow up to be a discredit to me.” His voice rose.
“The Carruthers family has always been loyal to the king.”
A distraction was needed, and she was an expert at redirecting her father’s tirades. “Well, Papa, it’s Queen Victoria we must be loyal to now.”
He sat down, a frown on his face. “Queen. Bah. She’s too young for the throne. And a woman to boot.”
Charlotte pressed on, relieved to see her diversion seemed to work. “Queen Elizabeth ruled for . . . forty years, was it? Even you must admit she did a fine job.”
“Forty-four years.” Papa settled more comfortably in his chair and Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. “Aye, Queen Bess was a good one.”
“Perhaps our new queen will prove just as steadfast. It’s late, Papa,” Charlotte said in her most conciliatory tone. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough to decide what’s to be done. After a good night’s sleep. Come, I’ll fetch your tea.”
The bluster left Papa in a wave, leaving behind the frail husk of the man he’d once been. “Tea, yes.”
Fulton’s eyes met Charlotte’s over her father’s head in mutual understanding. They knew what needed to be done. Someone had to find Simon. But it wouldn’t be Papa.
Charlotte cornered Fulton in the kitchen as soon as Papa settled for the night. “I heard Papa say he had a deed and it’s missing now. What did he mean?”
Fulton pressed his lips together and made a show of stoking the fire.
She took a step closer, hands on hips. “Where is Simon?”
Fulton sighed and straightened. “Your father has a tract of land in the bush. An allotment.”
Charlotte shook her head in disbelief. Papa told her he’d sold his remaining allotments, sight unseen, to pay off the mortgage. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know.” He grimaced. “The master told me he sold it long ago. ’Twas only today I realized . . .” Poor Fulton couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Papa sent Simon there?”
Fulton shrugged. “Maybe Simon wanted to go.”
Charlotte leaned forward. She’d grown up at Fulton’s side in the stables, and she knew when the man wasn’t telling her everything. “What happened the day Simon left?”
It had been a glorious spring day. She’d taken Scarlett out for a ride and tried to convince Simon to join her.
He’d claimed to be too busy with his drawings, but later she’d doubted his words.
There’d been a feverish glint to his eyes and a restlessness to his movements.
If only she’d paid closer attention. If only she’d stayed home that morning.
“He and your father had words. I heard it clear to the kitchen. Your father tried to get him to join up. The same battle they’d had for years.”
Charlotte nodded. Her father’s only wish—that Simon would take a military commission—was anathema to Simon. “But something must have happened.”
“The master never talked about it.” Fulton sighed. “Reckon your father thought he’d be back by now with his tail between his legs.”
Of course, Papa wanted to teach Simon a lesson. More fool he. “But he didn’t come back. And now Deacon Cole can make it look as though Simon’s joined the rebels.”
“Aye. He caught wind of Simon’s whereabouts. Crafty fox, that one. Threatened to bring his suspicions before the governor.” He shot her a knowing glance. “Unless . . .”
“Unless Papa sells Edenbrook.” Rage built in her and she paced the length of the kitchen. Fulton had heard rumors that the clay deposits on Cole’s property were running out. Edenbrook had the very same clay under its fields and orchards.
You must protect Edenbrook at all costs.
Mama had been so sick that day, she’d hardly enough breath to speak. But she’d gripped Charlotte’s hand and pulled her closer. This home is all Simon will have, Charlotte. Promise me you won’t let your father run this estate into the ground.
Dread pooled in Charlotte’s stomach. Cole only wanted the clay. He’d rip up the orchards and let the house fall to ruin. They’d end up in some dreary rented rooms in the city with no stable for Scarlett and Tuck. No orchard or bluebells.
She’d promised Mama she’d protect Simon’s birthright.
She couldn’t let Cole take it away.
“But it’s not true.” Her brother may have turned his back on her, but he’d never betray his country. Even as she said the words, the flicker of doubt that Ballantine had planted flamed to life. “Simon’s no traitor, is he?”
Fulton didn’t tell her she was a foolish lass in the brusque tones she’d always found comforting.
Instead, his expression grew soft and regretful, terrifying her more.
“Unlikely. But until he’s back here to defend the city, Cole will be free to spread whatever rumors he pleases.
You know your father.” He grimaced. “He’d do anything to keep his name free from scandal. ”
She put her hand over Fulton’s, his gnarled fingers rough and sturdy under her own. The two of them had kept Edenbrook standing for years.
“I’ll make it right, Fulton, I promise. I’ll bring Simon home.”
Joshua’s first sight of the neat clapboard inn loosened the tension in his chest. This must be the place.
Situated near the north road, it catered to farmers and merchants of modest means who sought a clean, respectable inn while they did business in the city.
A far cry from the crime and dirt of Irish Town.
He paused in the entry to admire the massive oak door, running a hand over the intricate molding that highlighted the natural elegance of the wood. Someday, he’d make a door like this. A fine house, too, that Henry could be proud of.
Removing his hat, he proceeded into a wide front hall with gleaming wood floors and pristine whitewashed walls. A tall, stern-faced woman approached. She took in his heavy homespun clothing and battered boots with a swift glance. “Common room is to the left.”
Joshua cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Mrs. Cooper.”
“I’m Mrs. Cooper. What’s your business?” Her eyes narrowed, reminding him of every pinched, suspicious face in Irish Town. Maybe Cooper’s Inn wasn’t such a different world after all.
The thought gave him courage. “I hear you have a stable boy working here. Henry Phelan.”
She took a step forward, chin jutting out. “What business is that of yours?”
He stifled his unease. Of course she’d be suspicious. He should have started with an explanation. “I’m his brother. I’m here to fetch him.”
Her expression grew more forbidding, two spots of red appearing on her cheeks. “Not a chance. I paid thirty pounds for that boy.” She swept her arm as though she would shoo Joshua out the door, but he held his ground.
“You bought him?” Joshua’s stomach lurched at the thought. “Last I heard, children weren’t for sale.”
Mrs. Cooper took a step back at the hostility in his voice. “I have the contract. Rescued him from the poorhouse, I did.” The woman quickly regrouped and went on the attack. “If you really are family, how did he end up there?”
Her words landed like a blow, striking his weak side. She was right. He never should have left Henry so vulnerable. “I . . . I was away. I didn’t know.”