Chapter 10
Charlotte wasted no time once she was alone, peeling off her sodden skirts and pulling on her only change of clothes, Simon’s trousers. Dry and warm, she breathed a sigh of relief. Joshua was right. She did feel better.
She shoved the table closer to the fire and used it as a makeshift rack to spread out her heavy skirts to dry. Then there was nothing left to do but sit and wait and worry. An unfamiliar state of affairs, for at Edenbrook there were always more tasks than time in the day.
Gazing into the fire, she pondered the mystery of Joshua Robertson.
At first, she’d judged him a man like her father or Deacon Cole.
Overbearing and certain he knew what was best for her.
Then he’d described walnut trees, his voice breathless with wonder.
He’d recounted the tragic story of the Collins family, his eyes soft with emotion.
He could carve grace and power from a simple block of wood.
She didn’t understand him, not entirely, but she . . . liked him.
What could make a man turn his back on his little brother and set off into the wilderness alone? The parallels with Simon didn’t escape her notice. If she could understand Joshua Robertson, she might come a step closer to understanding her brother.
A tap at the door made her jump.
“Can I come in?” Joshua raised his voice over the pounding rain.
Charlotte rushed to open the door for him, glimpsing the dark shapes of the trees behind him, bent from the wind and driving rain.
He nodded his thanks and dropped another crate of supplies by the door before removing his dripping coat and hat. Charlotte watched in silence as he rummaged in the crate for a rope and strung it across the room. A clothesline, perhaps?
Then he hoisted the oilcloth over the rope and his plan became clear.
She grabbed an end and pulled it in the opposite direction, creating a makeshift wall.
On one side, the glow of the hearth, a chair, and the table with all her apparel spread out and steaming.
On the other side, a pile of dusty straw.
He came around the oilcloth and paused in front of the hearth, taking in her dry clothes. “I see you took my advice.”
The thanks shriveled on her lips at his curt tone, and she contented herself with a nod. His attention drifted behind her to the piles of drying clothes on the table. His eyes widened and a flush started up his neck.
A glance revealed the cause of his discomfort. The shift and petticoat, out in plain view. Oh, heavens. She felt her face heat. Should she scoop it up and shove it under her skirt, or would it be better to pretend she hadn’t noticed?
He ducked behind the blanket, out of sight of her and her undergarments. Out of reach of the fire.
“Won’t you be cold back there?”
“I’m used to it.” His answer was short.
Sorry, Mr. Robertson, if the sight of my clothing offends your sensibilities.
She heard the sound of rummaging and then a wool blanket came sailing over the oilcloth to land right in the middle of her unmentionables.
“Try to get some sleep,” he mumbled.
Charlotte woke to a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently. Her eyes popped open to see Joshua looking down at her. Frowning. First, he told her to sleep, and now he was annoyed she had? There was no pleasing the man.
His hand on her shoulder stopped her from rising. “Sleep more. I just wanted to tell you I’m going out to check the road. There’s another marsh ahead.”
Another marsh. She remembered slogging through the muck. After a night of rain, it would be even worse.
“Don’t look so,” he said, his voice rough. “It might not be as bad as we fear.”
It might be worse. Neither of them said the words aloud, but she knew it, nonetheless. He moved to the door, donning his hat and coat once again.
“How long will you be?” She hated the uncertainty in her voice. When had she started thinking of Joshua Robertson as her protector?
“A few hours, I expect.” He moved to the hearth and added more logs to the fire. “You’re safe.” His eyes were steady, intent, as though he’d read the worry in her voice and wanted to set her mind at ease.
Charlotte nodded. She didn’t like that he seemed to be able to read her thoughts, but she appreciated his reassurance. If Joshua Robertson said she was safe, she was.
Sleep eluded her after he left. The lumpy straw of her makeshift bed poked through the blanket. Worries made her toss and turn. What if they couldn’t continue today? What if they didn’t find Simon?
Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed,
for I am thy God, and will still give thee aid.
How often had Fulton, his voice deep and crackling, sung these words while he mucked stalls or bent over their wispy field of wheat? She repeated the lines softly to herself. Help me to fear not. And, please, give me aid.
Through the window, she watched as the sky lightened and the pounding rain shifted to a patter, then stopped altogether.
She gave up trying to sleep and rose to stoke the fire.
Mrs. Norris’s dress was dry, so she shed Simon’s clothes and put it on.
She wasn’t riding astride, so she had no need for trousers.
Charlotte took down their wall, coiling the rope and folding the oilcloth into a tidy pile on Joshua’s box. Where was he? They needed to get back on the road. She was contemplating a visit to Bess in the stable when she heard a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called. Why did he hesitate? “Mr. Robertson?”
She swung open the door. And froze.
Two children stood outside. They wore ragged pants and ill-fitting shoes that on closer inspection seemed held together with string and a prayer.
The oldest stepped forward and swept his overlong hair out of his eyes.
“Hello. We saw your smoke and figured someone was here.” At Charlotte’s continued silence, he gestured to the cabin. “Can we come in?”
Charlotte hesitated. She had no idea why these children would visit, but they seemed harmless enough. Besides, she was curious. Next to Joshua, these were the only inhabitants of the backwoods she’d met.
She stepped back to allow the children to enter.
The younger produced a sack and pulled out a bowl and then a pelt.
Soon, an odd assortment of articles was spread across the table.
An embroidered petticoat, a rudimentary carving of a beaver, a fine silver fox pelt.
Even a feather quill and empty inkwell were displayed for Charlotte’s perusal.
A particularly fine design caught her eye: a reticule with entwining leaves that unfurled to display a deep-red rose. Mama would have loved it.
Charlotte picked it up. “What beautiful handiwork.” She glanced doubtfully at the children’s grubby hands. “Did you make this?”
The older boy gave a scoffing laugh. “’Course not. Ma could sew real fine.” He studied her, his gaze meaningful, and Charlotte tried to figure out what the children intended with this display. Did they hope she would purchase something?
“They are lovely pieces. You must give your mother my compliments.”
“Can’t do that.”
Charlotte’s gaze snapped to the younger child.
“Ma died.”
Charlotte’s heart went out to them. No wonder they looked so bedraggled.
They didn’t seem overcome with emotion, though.
The youngest took the mention of the mother in stride, his gaze straying to the hearth.
He stared at the pot hanging over the fire with a singleness of purpose that surprised her. And then shamed her.
She’d forgotten even the basics of hospitality and hadn’t served the children anything to eat.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have any food.”
The children looked to the sacks in the corner. Joshua had brought them in last night and scooped their supper from the sack of oats. She’d examined them that morning and found the other to be full of flour.
The younger child walked over and patted the sacks as if to test their contents.
“That’s not mine,” she said hurriedly. “But I have some coin.” Though her funds were much depleted.
“We’re not here for handouts,” the older one said. “We’re here to trade.” He spread his arms wide to indicate the items on the table.
“All of this?” Charlotte was surprised. The careful handiwork was worth far more than two sacks of grain, she was sure of it.
Yet the children seemed eager, almost insistent on the trade.
Charlotte looked closer, noticing the hollow cheeks and rail-thin wrists.
The dull look in the younger child’s eyes.
These children weren’t interested in trading trinkets.
They were hungry. They didn’t have a Robin Hood to provide them with necessities, so they’d taken matters into their own hands.
Then the younger child coughed, a deep hacking sound that pierced Charlotte to her core.
Mama’s cough had rattled like that, harsh and uncontrollable.
Charlotte hadn’t much experience with children, but even she knew the child’s pallor wasn’t right.
She grabbed Joshua’s battered tin cup and filled it with water from a pail by the door.
The child sipped cautiously. By the time the coughing bout had subsided, Charlotte had made up her mind.
True, the flour and oats didn’t belong to her, but once she’d paid Joshua Robertson, he’d have enough to buy twenty sacks of grain. The children needed this food.
Joshua had slept a few hours the night before, but mostly he’d leaned against the rough log wall, listening to the crackle of the fire and the delicate sound of her breathing, wondering how he’d ended up here. And how he would keep her safe.
Now exhaustion dogged his steps as he headed back to the cabin.
The marsh was exactly as he’d feared. Swampy earth sucked his boots under with each step.
After half a mile of hard going, he turned back.
He knew all he needed to know. Hopefully she liked porridge because they wouldn’t be going anywhere today.