Chapter 18
Charlotte curled up in Simon’s bed under a coarse wool blanket. The rough linen of the pillow was a far cry from Mama’s threadbare sheets, washed so often they had the patina of fine silk. The bedding smelled clean, though. How had he learned to do laundry?
She’d always taken care of Simon. She’d thought he needed her as much as she needed him. But Simon was faring well in the bush without her. Thriving, even.
Now she faced the very real likelihood that she’d go back to the city alone. Care for Papa, do her best to protect Edenbrook. It felt . . . uncertain. Terrifying.
Charlotte had tried so hard to be brave. To keep Simon and Papa safe and happy at Edenbrook. Everything had fallen apart.
Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed,
for I am thy God, and will still give thee aid.
Be not dismayed. How could she be otherwise, when her careful plans lay in ruins?
Sometime later she heard two sets of steps entering the cabin and the hushed movements of Simon and Joshua bedding down before the fire. At least Simon let him inside for the night. Eventually she must have slept, for she awoke in the dim light of dawn to a deserted cabin.
Her throat tightened. Had Joshua left without bidding her farewell? Surely not. He wouldn’t go without assuring himself of his payment.
Charlotte tossed back her blanket, refusing to dwell on the strange comfort of this thought.
She’d barely managed to shake the wrinkles from her skirts when a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called, smoothing the untidy wisps of hair that had escaped her low bun.
Simon would hardly knock at his own door. It must be Joshua.
But the face that peeked around the door was one she’d never seen before. A girl of ten or twelve with two black braids popped her head into the room for a moment before disappearing. “She’s here!” she called.
Charlotte swung the door open. Her eyes widened at the world outside. A fresh coating of snow covered the muddy yard and rested heavy on the tree limbs. Sam Foster bent low to gather a handful of snow and launched it at the girl, who ran squealing into the cabin.
“You must be Sam’s sister.” Charlotte smiled. The excitement rolling off the girl was contagious.
“I’m Emmy.” The girl advanced into the room, not waiting for her brother. “Are you ready?”
“Ready?” Charlotte queried.
The little girl ignored her question. Instead, she looked around the cabin, finally grabbing Charlotte’s heavy wool coat from where it hung by the door. She looked at Charlotte doubtfully. “Is this yours?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yes. But I don’t understand—”
Emmy held out the coat to Charlotte with a philosophical shrug. “Looks like a boy’s coat to me. I reckon it’ll be warm, though.”
Sam’s head poked around the door. “Is she ready?”
Emmy grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the door. “Ready.”
Charlotte dug her heels in. “Now wait a moment. Where am I going?”
“Mother invited you to our place.” Sam gestured in impatience. “C’mon. It’s not far if we take the shortcut through the woods.”
“What about Simon?”
Emmy looked up. “He’ll be there. He always walks over for breakfast after morning chores.” She gave Charlotte a winsome smile.
Charlotte shrugged into her coat and followed the children out the door. It was hard to turn down the children’s eager entreaties, but still she hesitated. There was no trace of the men outside, but Joshua’s wagon stood in the yard. Charlotte exhaled. Of course he hadn’t left yet.
“Where are they?” she asked the children after poking her head into the barn. The stalls were empty.
Sam shrugged. “Probably took the horses to the stream to drink. It’s not frozen over yet, and it beats hauling water.” He tucked his hand through her other arm, and Charlotte found herself propelled down a narrow footpath through the woods.
“We even made you a pie.” Emmy squeezed Charlotte’s arm in anticipation.
“We didn’t make it,” Sam said. “Mother did.”
“I helped. Who do you think picked the berries?”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, stepping in before the exchange could escalate into a full-fledged argument. “What kind?”
“Blueberry,” Sam said with appreciation. “My favorite.”
“Blueberry pie at this time of year?” Charlotte had expected apple or custard. Blueberries were a rare treat in the city, even when they were in season.
Emmy nodded. “We dried them last summer. Mother said we were saving them for an occasion.” She looked Charlotte over and beamed. “Simon’s sister visiting is surely the most exciting thing that’s happened for months.” She skipped a few steps, tugging Charlotte along with her.
Soon a fine log home came into view, two stories tall with delicate smoke trailing from a large stone chimney.
It was three times the size of Simon’s cabin, with a wide front porch and two gleaming windows.
The front door opened before Charlotte had even reached the steps.
A woman stood in the doorway, beaming in welcome.
“Here you are!” she exclaimed, pulling Charlotte inside. She clasped Charlotte’s hands in welcome. “I’m Susy Foster.” She scanned Charlotte’s face, her eyes seeming to miss nothing. “Simon’s sister, as I live and breathe.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but return her smile. Dressed in a simple brown woolen gown covered by the soft folds of a deep-red apron, the woman exuded warmth and comfort. She was shorter than Charlotte, with a few strands of gray in her smooth, dark hair.
“We’re so happy you’ve come.” She gestured to the table. “Please, have a seat. You’ll need something warm after that cold walk.” The woman bustled to the hearth, stirred up the embers, and added another log before swinging the kettle over the fire.
Charlotte nodded, scooting her chair closer to the warmth of the hearth. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Foster fired off instructions that had Sam and Emmy trotting to hang up Charlotte’s coat and bring her a steaming cup of tea. Charlotte took a moment to study her surroundings.
Cheery flowered curtains hung at the windows, the fabric matching the cushions of the wide rocking chairs that flanked the hearth.
Under one window was a fine oak desk and bookcase filled with well-worn leather volumes.
The log walls of this cabin had been plastered over and were hung with several striking watercolors that caught Charlotte’s attention.
One was a bright, sparkling lake surrounded by towering trees in vivid shades of green.
The bush in summer, she guessed. The other painting was completely different, a dark, windswept meadow, its monotony broken only by a crumbling stone wall.
“My husband is a bit of an artist,” Mrs. Foster said from behind her.
Charlotte started. “They’re lovely.”
“That one is painted from memory,” she said of the meadow.
“Near his home county, back in England.” She turned.
“I’m partial to this one.” She gestured to the lake scene.
“It’s a favorite spot of ours in the summer.
Sometimes we spend the whole day there. No place on earth more beautiful, or so I tell Mr. Foster. ” She smiled fondly.
Something twisted in Charlotte. Envy, perhaps. Had she any happy memories like this with her family? A place where she and Simon, Mama and Papa had been happy together? She couldn’t think of one.
“Sam Foster, you stop right there.” Mrs. Foster’s attention swung to her son, who stood at the kitchen counter, knife in hand, poised above a golden pie.
“I’m only slicing it. For after breakfast.”
Emmy paused in the act of setting the table. “Mother said it was for Charlotte and Simon to take home for their supper.”
Mrs. Foster gave a brisk nod. “That I did.”
Sam lowered the knife, shoulders slumping. “Wish I could have some.” His voice was mournful, his eyes still glued to the pie.
Charlotte understood the hint. “Simon and I can’t possibly eat all that. It looks so delicious, couldn’t we all have a piece while we wait?”
“Well, this is a special day.” Mrs. Foster turned a severe look on Sam. “Mind, only one piece.”
Sam nodded eagerly and brought the pie to the table and Emmy served them each a slice.
“It’s delicious,” Charlotte said after the first taste. The berries were dark and rich, the pastry just as light as it looked. She took another bite, savoring the flavor and trying to place it. “There’s something else. Did you mix it with another berry?”
Emmy shook her head. “No. Just blueberries, maple sugar, and a little butter and flour. That’s it.”
“Maple sugar?”
“Aye,” Sam said. “We collect the sap in the spring and cook it down into sugar.” He turned to his sister and took a swipe at her shoulder. “See, I did help make the pie. I helped with the sugaring off this year.”
Charlotte had heard of maple sugar. People in the bush didn’t have the luxury of buying sugar at the store.
She remembered what Joshua said about the rough bush roads and the difficulty of reaching the market.
What a challenging life the Fosters had chosen in the bush.
And yet . . . she glanced at the painting of the lake scene, only now noticing the shadowy figures in the foreground.
A boy fishing, a girl picking berries. It was impossible to tell the expression on their faces, yet the painting exuded joy in a way the meadow scene, dark and melancholy, did not.
Mrs. Foster took a seat across from Charlotte, her face red from exertion and the heat of the fire. Her dress was simple homespun, her hands calloused from work, yet she didn’t look beaten down by hardship. Her home was as warm and welcoming as any room at Edenbrook.
“Well, everything’s ready. Just waiting for the men to come in.” She raised her voice. “Emmy, Sam, start preparing your lessons for today. I’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”
“Lessons?” Charlotte asked as the children reluctantly headed upstairs. “Is there a school hereabouts?”