Chapter 26
Charlotte set her cup down, reeling from Fulton’s revelation. She felt as though she stood on a cliff’s edge, about to tumble into an unknown world with no one to break her fall.
At first it was impossible to reconcile what Fulton told her with her memories of Mama, the graceful gentlewoman she’d striven to emulate all her life.
But the more she mulled it over, the more she recognized the missing piece that solved the puzzle of her family.
Papa’s harsh criticism of Simon, his anger with Mama, his withdrawal from the social life of the city.
She returned to Papa’s side, hoping he could answer her mounting questions, hoping there’d been some change for the better.
There hadn’t.
Fulton limped into the room and placed another cup of tea at her elbow. “Mayhap you should sleep a bit, Miss Charlotte.”
She shook her head. “You said he might wake. I want to be here if he . . . says anything.”
Fulton nodded, knowing there was unfinished business between them. The deep, roiling anger she’d stuffed down for so long threatened to bubble over. The hurt of a daughter overlooked and silenced. The sting of lies told and secrets kept.
“Charlotte?”
Her father’s raspy voice startled her awake sometime later. She snapped to attention. “I’m here.” She placed her hand over his on top of the bedsheets.
He turned his head in her direction, slowly, as though the action pained him, but for once, his forehead wasn’t wrinkled in irritation.
His gaze was warm. Loving, even. “Need to tell you . . .” He broke off as a cough rattled his chest. She rose to offer water, but he waved her back into her chair, pressing his lips together until the cough subsided.
“I haven’t done right by Simon, and I haven’t done right by you, Charlotte.
” His gaze sharpened, his voice stronger now.
“I’ve asked God for forgiveness. It’s time I asked for yours.
I kept you here, working your fingers to the bone.
Your mother—” Emotion clogged his voice.
“Your mother wanted more for you. I . . . I’m sorry. ”
Charlotte’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. She’d expected her father to instruct her on what she needed to do for Edenbrook, or rail against Simon. That he might regret what had passed between them had never crossed her mind.
“You’re a good girl, Charlotte. Better than I deserve.” He raised his hand and cupped her cheek. “Your mother would have been so proud of you.”
His words were a balm, soothing years of hurt and worry. Tears filled her eyes and clogged her throat. “Papa, I . . .”
“It’s time for you to start your life,” he said. “And it’s time for me to see Elizabeth again.”
Charlotte didn’t know what she would have done without Fulton. He stood by her side as Papa breathed his last. He reached out and closed Papa’s eyes. Then he led her down to the kitchen and shoved a hot cup of tea into her icy fingers.
“Sit now. You need a moment.”
The sight of Mama’s old teapot roused her to her duty. “I can’t. I must prepare . . .” Sorrow clogged her throat. Ten years ago, she washed and prepared Mama for her burial. Now she must do the same for Papa.
Fulton’s firm hand guided her into a chair. “No need for that, Miss Charlotte. I’ll get the master ready. It’s only fitting.”
The old man had tears in his eyes. Charlotte set her tea on the table. “Oh, Fulton.” Before he could protest or step away, she wrapped her arms around his wiry form and buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling the comforting smell of tobacco and horses.
“There, there.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “The master never did like carrying on. You rest now and drink your tea. Later on, I’ll ride over to the Hensens’,” he added, with a gesture in the direction of their nearest neighbor, “and ask their boy to take word to Reverend Grimes.”
She straightened, nodding her agreement and collapsing into a chair, her limbs shaky with fatigue and shock. Nursing her tea, she stared into the fire. Mama, Papa, Simon, Scarlett. All gone. What was she to do now?
Reverend Grimes came the next morning with two burly men. They buried Papa next to Mama on the gentle slope behind Edenbrook.
The service was brief, Fulton and Charlotte the only mourners. With the province in an uproar, there was no time to plan a proper service and observe the mourning rites that should have been Papa’s due.
Rebels were said to be gathering north of the city, the reverend explained.
Every loyal man was engaged in militia training or tied tight to the governor’s side.
Even the reverend stayed only long enough to utter a prayer over the grave and assure Charlotte he’d check in on her “when all this unpleasantness subsides.”
Charlotte spent the rest of the day in the stable, avoiding Edenbrook’s empty rooms. They seemed to mock her now. All she’d wanted was her family here, together. Now she and Fulton were the only ones left.
I wish Joshua were here.
She smothered the thought. Joshua Robertson was long gone with her twenty pounds in his pocket. Wishing for him was as hopeless as wishing the past undone.
Joshua knew he ought to saddle Bess and head to his homestead where he belonged, but he found an unending stream of excuses to keep him in the city.
Bess needed rest. Henry might change his mind.
Charlotte might . . . need him. When he left Toronto, he’d leave behind every hope of happiness he’d nurtured. He didn’t want to face that. Not yet.
So he lingered around the stable at Cooper’s Inn, hoping for another chance to speak to Henry, but the boy had disappeared.
“Comes and goes as he likes, that one,” the groom told him with a disgusted shake of his head. “Ol’ Rawley don’t half know what goes on, let me tell you.”
Joshua retreated before his questions landed Henry in hot water, but not before he checked the windowsill. The wolf was gone. He wanted to believe Henry had it now. He had to believe it.
“You done with that?” The serving maid gestured to Joshua’s congealing bowl of stew.
He picked up his spoon. “No, I’ll finish it.”
The habit of eating everything in front of him, uncertain where his next meal would come from, was too ingrained to give up.
Besides, the fare at Cooper’s Inn was better than most. No wonder Henry wanted to stay.
Bowing his head, he said a quick prayer and took a bite of the stew, wishing he had the heart to enjoy it.
He’d been so focused on his plans to build a home for Henry that he’d never even considered failure.
He’d forged ahead, determined to mold the events and people in his life to fit his plans.
A group of men arrived, crowding the common room.
There was a restless energy about them that caught Joshua’s attention.
They were too well-dressed to be disgruntled farmers off to support Mackenzie’s rebellion.
Militia, then? They were in high spirits, and conversation flowed around him, a raucous blanket of sound that isolated Joshua with his unhappy thoughts.
Then a name captured his attention. Carruthers.
Joshua sat at the end of the long table, pretending interest in his stew while his ears strained to catch any hint of their business.
“Old Major Carruthers? Haven’t seen him in years.” A grizzled man across from Joshua took a swig of ale.
“Aye. Bit the bullet I heard,” his neighbor replied. “Not in the papers yet, of course. Hastings had it straight from Reverend Grimes.”
Joshua couldn’t suppress his quick intake of breath. Charlotte’s father dead, so soon after she returned? His heart ached for her.
“Don’t imagine there’ll be a big funeral, not with . . .” The older man shot a meaningful look around the table, his gaze coming to rest on Joshua. His eyes narrowed as though assessing where Joshua’s loyalties lay. “. . . all that’s going on.”
Joshua forced his gaze back to his bowl. The men’s conversation moved on, leaving Joshua with a host of fresh worries. Charlotte’s father was the only family she had left. How would she manage his loss so soon after the bitter disappointment of leaving her brother in the bush?
She’d be an easy target for Deacon Cole.
Joshua half rose as if he would go to her before he remembered Charlotte had dismissed him from her life. He had no right to protect her.
“What’s got you so worked up, mate?” The rough voice roused Joshua from his grim reflections. He turned to observe the man beside him, his ruddy face lit in a good-natured grin.
“I’m all right.” Joshua forced himself to take a bite of his lukewarm stew.
The man snorted and eyed him over the rim of his cup. “Woman trouble, eh?”
“What? No, of course not.” Joshua dropped his spoon with a clatter. Were his thoughts so transparent?
The man laughed heartily and clapped a hand on Joshua’s shoulder. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Happens to the best of us.” There was an open, curious look on the man’s face that invited confidences, and Joshua felt a fleeting wish to unburden himself to this stranger.
“Not to me,” he said instead.
“A word of advice, lad. If you’ve found a good woman, don’t let her go.” The somber look in the man’s eyes belied his jovial tone.
“She was never mine to begin with.” Joshua bit his lip.
“Ah, so you haven’t told her how you feel.” The man shook his head. “What are you waiting for? Life’s too short to let love pass you by.”
The lonely days and nights ahead in his cabin stretched before Joshua like a nightmare. He’d thought he’d find companionship with Henry. But what if God had led him on a different path?
Traveling through the woods with Charlotte had been a revelation. He’d told her things he’d never told another soul. Belonging curled around them like a blanket, comforting and protective.
He wanted that feeling every day. He wanted Charlotte.
Of course, he had no intention of confessing his lovelorn state to the man beside him, no matter how friendly he seemed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, pushing away his bowl.
The men left soon afterwards, full of Mrs. Cooper’s fine stew and the fire of conviction.
Joshua had heard enough of their plans to guess they would join the militia intent on protecting the city from invading rebels.
He wondered how Simon fared. Had he avoided Deacon Cole and his men?
Was he even now among the rebels organizing at Montgomery’s Tavern?
Mostly, though, he thought of Charlotte. She’d lost so much. Her father, her brother, now perhaps her home. If only he had the means to set things right.