Chapter 4
Charlotte eased herself into the saddle.
The cold wasn’t so bad, not in a pair of Simon’s warmest breeches and engulfed in his long wool greatcoat.
She hadn’t borrowed his clothes in years, not since she’d played Little John to Simon’s Robin Hood in the woods behind Edenbrook. Their very own Sherwood Forest.
“It ought to be me who goes,” Fulton fretted at Scarlett’s head.
She ignored his protest. He’d tried to dissuade her for the better part of the morning, even as he helped her prepare for the journey. With his unwieldy leg and plagued by rheumatism, Fulton wouldn’t manage the ride any better than Papa.
“Who would take care of Papa?” She tried for a smile, but there was an undertone of hurt in her words she couldn’t mask. Papa expected Charlotte to bring his tea and keep the house tidy, but he rarely trusted her with more. “Besides, it’s clear and dry. I can make good time.”
Charlotte kept her tone light, masking the turmoil churning in her stomach.
The possibilities for disaster were endless, and she forced her attention back to reassuring Fulton.
“I’ll be halfway there when I stop at . .
.” She glanced down at the hastily drawn map in her hand, the one she’d sketched from Papa’s journals and Fulton’s recollections of journeys north. “At Mrs. Norris’s Inn, right?”
“Aye, that’s the one. Good woman, Mrs. Norris. She’ll keep an eye on you. Mind you see to Scarlett yourself. Don’t trust those stable boys.”
Charlotte nodded.
“I won’t stop until I get to the inn. It’s a perfect plan.” Charlotte infused as much confidence as she could muster into her voice, hoping he couldn’t hear the fear underneath.
This journey would be her farthest from home.
She sneaked another glance at the map and tried to still her racing heart.
Head north. There was only one road, so she’d hardly get lost. At Mrs. Norris’s, she’d ask for directions to Simon’s tract.
From what Fulton could remember, the land grant was a day’s ride from the inn.
Fulton sighed. “No sense trying to stop you once your mind is made up, is there?” He released his hold on the bridle and stepped back. “Just like your mother, God rest her soul. Bound and determined to make this place an English manor, she was.”
His words gave Charlotte courage. Take care of your brother, my love. Mama’s hand, cold as ice, had gripped Charlotte’s smaller one with surprising strength for one so weak. I know I can count on you.
A day didn’t go by when she didn’t hear the words and let them fill her with purpose. When she doubted her path, when Papa was stubborn and Simon avoided her questions, she remembered that promise she’d made to Mama, sent up a prayer, straightened her shoulders, and got to work.
“You don’t have to do this,” Fulton said, his voice suddenly urgent.
“But I promised—”
“I know what you promised.” He gave a dismissive swipe of his hand, his voice sharper than she’d ever heard it.
“You’ve been a dutiful daughter and sister.
Done everything you could for them.” He stepped closer, his hands twisting at his sides as though he had something else to say.
“Maybe it’s time to think about your future. ”
“My future?” Charlotte swallowed. “My future is here, tending to Edenbrook. I promised Mama that I’d do everything to protect our home. Simon’s inheritance.”
“Your mama was a fine lady. I’ll be the first to say it.” Fulton hesitated.
And Charlotte dressed like a boy and planned to ride through the wilderness alone. Mama would have been horrified. “I wish I could be like her.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears. Thick with longing.
Fulton put a gentle hand on Scarlett’s withers, steadying the horse and Charlotte’s heart. “But you’re not just like her.”
She swallowed against the rush of regret clogging her throat. “I know. But I’m trying to do better. If I can just convince Simon—”
“That’s not what I mean, lass. You’re a different woman from your mother, that’s all. Could be God has something different planned for you.”
“What . . . what does that mean?” Something different. The words filled her with a strange surge of emotion that left her restless.
“It ain’t my place to say, Miss Charlotte, but I reckon you’re happiest when you’re up and doing. Can’t see you spending your day in needlework is all.”
Charlotte snorted. “I never have time for needlework.”
Fulton fidgeted with the reins in a rare display of nerves.
“You’d best be off, then. I figure you’ll arrive by supper tonight.
Plenty of time to rest. You’ll make it to Simon before nightfall tomorrow.
” He looked up, his expression suddenly severe.
“No stops along the way, mind. Don’t talk to anyone.
You haven’t seen much of the world, my girl.
Not everyone has good intentions.” He looked her over with a critical eye.
“And no one who comes within five feet of you will ever believe you’re a boy.
” Fulton reached into his belt and pulled out his gleaming pistol. “You’d best take this.”
Charlotte stared, too surprised to respond. The pistol was Fulton’s prized possession, the weapon he’d been given as a reward for faithful service at Waterloo.
“Come now.” He shifted the weapon in his hand, making the polished wood handle gleam in the early morning light. “You know how to use it. You’re a good shot, too.”
She grasped the handle. She did know how to use it. She’d tagged along to Simon’s lessons until she was as proficient as her brother. More so, if she was honest. Simon had never liked handling weapons, but she’d taken satisfaction in bringing home a bird or hare to supplement their meals.
“Thank you, Fulton.” She tucked the gun into her saddlebag. “I’ll take good care of it.”
“I reckon you won’t need it. I hope you don’t.” He cleared his throat and took a step back. “But I feel a sight better knowing you’re armed.”
She pulled her hat lower and tucked her chin into the wool muffler she’d wound around her neck.
Her long, dark hair was braided and pinned tightly to her scalp under the hat.
Patting her coat pocket, she heard the reassuring crinkle of the map.
In less than a week, she’d return with Simon.
He’d take up his commission in the militia and lay the rumors to rest. Papa would go back to living in his memories.
Edenbrook would be safe from Deacon Cole’s threats.
With a sharp tug on the reins, she turned Scarlett west and crossed the log bridge over the Don River. An hour more at a fast trot and they were on Yonge Street, the long road that led north out of Toronto to the sparse settlements beyond.
On another day, she might have enjoyed the trip. Between thick stands of white pine and maple, she spied prosperous farms, their fields now bare from the harvest.
To her relief, the road was deserted. Most farmers had delivered their goods to market a month before and hunkered down for winter.
She stopped next to a small brook for lunch. Scarlett grazed while she ate the bread and cheese Fulton had packed for her, though a brisk wind deterred her from lingering. She still had miles to travel before she’d be safe for the night.
The sun was low in the sky when a wagon appeared in the distance, pulled by a plodding draft horse.
Charlotte frowned. She’d been fortunate so far to find the road so empty, but it seemed her good luck had run out.
She’d overtake the wagon in minutes. A boy—or, worse still, young woman—alone on horseback would draw attention, and she had no desire to field an old farmer’s nosy questions.
Head down, she pushed Scarlett up to a canter and prayed there were no unexpected ruts in the road.
If she moved quickly enough, she’d avoid the farmer’s prying eyes.
She should’ve known better.
Just after she’d passed the wagon, she heard the telltale clatter of a horseshoe and felt the dip in Scarlett’s gait. Drat. She’d thrown a shoe.
Charlotte pulled the mare to the side of the road and jumped down. There was a chance she was wrong. She could check the hoof and be back in the saddle before the wagon caught up with her.
But the hoof was bare. Tying Scarlett to a tree, she retraced her steps. No sense paying for a new horseshoe if the old one was usable. The thought of cost and payment had her mind whirring. It had been too long since she’d had Scarlett at the smithy. No wonder she’d thrown a shoe.
She spied the glint of metal on the road and picked up the shoe with a flush of relief. One expense saved. She stood, the shoe in her hand, in time to see the wagon pull abreast of her and come to a stop. Double drat. There was no avoiding the farmer now.
“Threw a shoe?” His voice was sympathetic. Every traveler was familiar with this inconvenience.
Charlotte kept her head down, hoping her face was hidden in her muffler. “Yessir.” She pitched her voice an octave lower and congratulated herself on the result, as the man didn’t seem to bat an eye.
“I reckon I could have a look,” he said, making her heart sink to her boots.
“Don’t want to trouble you,” she said in her new voice.
“It’s no trouble,” he answered, his eyes on Scarlett.
He was only trying to help, but she needed to be rid of him before he realized she wasn’t the boy she seemed. “I’m sure she’s fine—”
But he’d already flicked the reins and sent his horse trotting toward her mare. By the time she jogged up to them, he’d dismounted and lifted Scarlett’s bare hoof for a look.
She hovered at the edge of the wagon, peeking at the man from under her lashes. He was younger than she’d thought. His hat, tipped back, revealed a strong face, with high, slashing cheekbones and a solid jaw that looked as though nothing could move it.
She gave her head a shake. Was she so starved for society that she’d dwell on the first fresh face she saw? Forcing her attention back to her horse, she peered over his shoulder and noted with relief that Scarlett’s hoof seemed uninjured.