Chapter 7
Charlotte awoke to the clanging of pots below, wishing she could pull the blanket over her head and go back to sleep. She didn’t relish the thought of eating in a room of rough men, dodging questions and curious looks.
Mrs. Norris’s strident voice called the house to breakfast, and Charlotte flung back the covers, tucked in her shirt, and searched her small bag for her comb. She eyed the fur cap. It would certainly be odd to wear such a hat indoors, but how else would she cover her hair and hide her face?
Charlotte whirled about at the sound of steps on the ladder. A moment later, Mrs. Norris came into view. “You’re up, are you?” She clambered into the room and stood, lips pursed, studying Charlotte as though she didn’t know what to do with her. “You bring a gown?”
The question took Charlotte aback. “No, I . . .”
“Then you’d best put this on.” She held out a drab brown gown and a plain linen shift and petticoat.
“Go on,” she urged when Charlotte made no move to take it.
“I reckon you think it’s not fine enough, but beggars can’t be choosers.
” Her voice lowered still further. “You’ll fool nobody in this light. Especially with that hair of yours.”
Charlotte wanted to protest, but she saw the logic of Mrs. Norris’s words. Besides, she was far from town. Unlikely she’d be recognized.
Mrs. Norris moved as if to descend the ladder and Charlotte realized she might not get another chance to speak to the woman alone. “Wait.”
Mrs. Norris stopped and returned her attention to Charlotte, her brows drawn together. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you could help me with something?”
The woman’s expression turned wary. “And what’s that?
” Her tone was anything but encouraging, but Charlotte couldn’t let an unfriendly face deter her.
Her mission was too important. Besides, Mrs. Norris’s mistrust was understandable.
She ran a business with transitory patrons who’d take advantage of a woman in charge if they could.
Her hard demeanor made it clear she was no fool, but Charlotte suspected there was a softer side to her. Not warm, perhaps, but at least just.
Charlotte pulled the map from her pocket. “I’m on my way to the Nassagaweya tract. My brother has a homestead there.” She unfolded the map and traced the hand-drawn route with her finger. “But my mare has thrown a shoe. I need to stop at the smithy on the way. Could you show me where to find him?”
Mrs. Norris’s forehead creased in concern as she studied the map. “You’re heading there? On your own?”
Charlotte gave her a steady look. “It’s only twenty miles to my brother’s homestead from here.
I’m a competent horsewoman.” Charlotte kept her voice mild.
She appreciated the woman’s concern, but this wasn’t a pleasure trip.
“And Scarlett, my mare, is as fleet-footed as they come,” she added, nodding in the direction of the stables.
“But the next smithy is thirty miles further north. You’d have to go clear to Holland Landing and back.” The innkeeper crossed her arms, looking like she’d settled in for a good debate. “Or go back to Toronto.” The woman’s voice left little doubt as to which option she recommended.
“Thirty miles?” The words sent a chill through Charlotte. “I see.” How would Scarlett fare unshod over such a distance? She swallowed, a sick feeling in her stomach. She’d come too far to turn back now, and the stakes were too high for failure. There had to be another way.
Perhaps there was another horse she could hire. Scarlett could stay here until she returned. She refused to worry about how she’d pay for that. Once she got to Simon’s, everything would sort itself out.
Mrs. Norris climbed down, her frown the only sign of her disapproval. Charlotte stepped into the borrowed clothes and smoothed the rough fabric.
The dress was loose with a high rounded neck and buttons up the front.
An apron cinched in the oversized waist. She’d never worn homespun before nor a dress without a corset, not since she was a child.
It was warm, if a bit scratchy. She stretched.
Comfortable, too. She looked down at herself.
She’d certainly pass for a woman of the bush now.
At the bottom of the ladder, she turned to face the room.
Two men sat at the table, waiting for their breakfast, though she saw at a glance that neither was Joshua Robertson.
Had he changed his mind about Mrs. Norris’s?
She was oddly put out at the thought, as though he’d abandoned her.
Which was ridiculous, of course, when she was the one who’d said she didn’t need his help.
The two men at the table were middle-aged, but that seemed the only trait they shared. One, tall and thin, was in the trousers and shirt of a farmer, while the other, short and round, wore an ill-fitting wool suit, his sparse gray hair curling around the perfect bald circle on the dome of his head.
The latter rose like a gentleman as she approached the table, a jolly smile on his face. He bowed, his rotund form bobbing up and down like a rosy apple in a bucket of water. “Good morning, miss. Samuel Ogden at your service.”
“Good morning.” Charlotte couldn’t help but smile and nod, glad for the introduction. It would make her requests that much easier.
Mrs. Norris circled the table, plunking down bowls of gray porridge.
Far from being distracted by his breakfast, Mr. Ogden turned to Charlotte.
“Say, you wouldn’t be the owner of that dun mare in the stable, would you?
Dashed fine horse.” He leaned closer. “I’m quite a connoisseur of horseflesh, you see. ”
“Yes, she’s mine.” Charlotte picked up her spoon, suddenly plagued by a host of new worries.
Scarlett looked just like her dam. What if the man was familiar with Carruthers Stables?
Charlotte hadn’t been out in society, so it was doubtful he’d recognize her, but he might grow curious. Ask questions she’d have to deflect.
“You interested in selling? I’d be prepared to pay a fine price.” He withdrew a sack from his pocket, the action accompanied by the unmistakable jingle of coins. “You could take this today as a down payment. I’ll have the rest sent to you.”
Charlotte’s hand clenched around her spoon. “She’s not for sale.”
The man shrugged. “Ah, well, if you change your mind—”
“Samuel Ogden, you leave the young lady alone.” Mrs. Norris plunked a cup of coffee in front of him. “It’s always horses with you, isn’t it?”
The man’s cheeks turned red. “Now, Agnes, I told you I’d give it all up if you—”
“Enough of your nonsense.” Mrs. Norris cut him off with a frown. “Eat your breakfast.”
The man meekly turned his attention to his breakfast but not before giving Charlotte a conspiratorial wink. “Dash it, one of these days she’s going to say yes.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Are you heading north, Mr. Ogden?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance. This is as far north as I venture.” His eyes flitted to Mrs. Norris, busy at the hearth. “I’m off to the city after breakfast.” He gestured toward the farmer, who was intent on his porridge. “So is Bosley, here.”
The farmer looked up, gave a single, solemn nod, and turned his attention back to his porridge. Drat. She wouldn’t find a ride with these men.
The door opened, and a boy poked his head in, his wide eyes making Charlotte smile. The bright little lad who’d helped her with Scarlett last night. Her smile faded as another figure followed him into the room.
This man was tall, his broad shoulders encased in a familiar brown wool coat. Her gaze flew to his face. Joshua Robertson stared at her for a fleeting moment, his eyes roving over her as though he was assuring himself she was all right. Then he looked away.
“Well, Josh. You’re back, are you?” Mrs. Norris said to him, with a resigned good humor that was probably as close as she came to affection. “How’d you make out at market?”
He nodded a greeting. “Fine.” The word was clipped and cold, making Charlotte doubt the truth of it.
The innkeeper gestured to the table. “Sit down. I expected you back yesterday, though when you didn’t come for supper, I thought perhaps—”
“I was held up.” He didn’t look her way, but Charlotte felt the warmth crawl up her cheeks. At least he didn’t admit aloud that she was the reason for his delay. That was something to be thankful for.
“You could have sent word. I waited up half the night for you.” Mrs. Norris herded him toward the table as she scolded, and Charlotte wondered at the connection between them. He’d called her Mrs. Norris, so not family. But certainly more than a casual patron.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.
The innkeeper huffed. “Sit down and you’ll find out.”
He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but at this table, but Mrs. Norris gave him no choice. He eased into his chair and nodded a vague greeting. Mrs. Norris added a plop of porridge to his bowl, and he gave full attention to his breakfast.
“Robertson, haven’t seen you in months.” Mr. Ogden turned his attention to Joshua. “You given any thought to that offer I made you?” He leaned forward, his face animated. “He’s a beauty, I tell you. You won’t find another horse that fast from here to Montreal.”
Charlotte glanced at Joshua Robertson from under her lashes. He hadn’t struck her as the kind of man to wager on horses.
“Not interested, Ogden.” Joshua didn’t look up from his porridge. “I’ve no use for a racehorse in the bush.”
He lived in the bush. Like Simon. Charlotte took another bite of her breakfast, her curiosity piqued. What drove a man to strike out on his own in the wilderness? If she could understand him, she’d stand a chance at understanding her brother.