Chapter 32
Though Charlotte expected Ballantine, the knock at the door still made her start. She composed her features and stifled the urge to jump out of her chair.
“Mr. Ballantine’s here, Miss Charlotte,” Fulton said from the door.
“Show him in.” Smoothing her dress, she eyed the worn gray fabric with regret. It was the closest thing to mourning she had.
To Charlotte’s surprise, Fulton returned to usher two men into the study.
Ballantine came first, his step light and his smile more open than Charlotte had ever seen it.
The man who followed was a stranger to Charlotte, and much younger than Ballantine, with only a faint sprinkling of gray in his brown hair.
He wore a dark wool suit and held a beaver hat.
A man of some means, then, though he lacked the confident swagger of a businessman.
“How are you holding up, my dear?” Ballantine reached out as though he might embrace her but ended up patting her shoulder.
Charlotte paused. How was she? She was a heaving mass of hope and sorrow, fear and love. How could she put that into words? “I’m as well as may be expected.”
“I apologize for our delay getting out here. Fool rebels burned the bridge. Had to wait until a temporary one could be put in.” Ballantine gestured to the man at his side. “May I introduce my lawyer? James Kinney.”
The man bowed courteously. “My condolences for the loss of your father, Miss Carruthers.” There was compassion in his eyes as they met hers.
Charlotte nodded her acknowledgment, distracted by the glimpse of the leather portfolio in the lawyer’s hands. Her heart raced.
The will.
Fulton entered with the tea tray, rousing her from her gloom and forcing her to call upon all of Mama’s teaching. “Please, have a seat while I prepare the tea. What news do you bring of the rebellion?”
“It’s over, thank God, and they’re on the run. McNab’s militia marched up Yonge Street and burned Montgomery’s to the ground.”
Charlotte swallowed, imagining bustling Montgomery’s Tavern a smoking pile of ash and ruin.
Behind her, Ballantine cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything of Simon?”
The pot in her hand wobbled. A splash of tea missed the cup and landed on the tray. “Simon?” She repeated her brother’s name as though he wasn’t in her thoughts every moment. “No. No word.” She turned to hand him his cup.
He nodded, as though her answer had only confirmed what he knew. He met the lawyer’s eyes, and a silent message passed between them.
A new, alarming thought took hold. “Have you had word? He wasn’t . . .” Injured. Captured. Killed. Each option was more terrible than the last.
“We imagine he fled, Miss Carruthers,” the lawyer said, his voice calm and deep. Steadying.
“Fled.” She repeated the word with a sigh of relief and passed the lawyer his tea. “Fled where?”
“To America, most likely.”
Her stomach dipped. “But why would he—”
Ballantine waved an impatient hand. “Simon’s whereabouts are unimportant, as long as he keeps his distance from you.
” At her murmur of protest, he continued.
“That fool Mackenzie kept a list. All his supporters, their places of residence.” He shook his head.
“Irresponsible thing to do . . . especially if you allow the list to fall into the hands of the law.”
“You have a list of all the rebels?” Her heart sank. She’d hoped, against every sign, that Simon had had a change of heart and returned to his homestead. But if his name was on this list—
“We don’t have it,” the lawyer interjected, his expression somber. “The governor does.”
A new weakness entered her limbs. She’d sustained herself with the belief that Simon would return. At the lawyer’s words, the last shard of hope vanished. Her shoulders sagged. “You know for certain Simon’s name is there?”
Ballantine looked for confirmation to James Kinney, who nodded grimly. “They published the list, and every man on it is a target.”
“Then I suppose I must be thankful he’s likely fled.
” At least he was safe. But if the governor had proof he was a traitor, he’d never be able to come home and Edenbrook would be left in limbo.
Just what Deacon Cole hoped for. Charlotte reached into her pocket and pulled out Simon’s letter.
It was her last hope now. “Don’t forget the letter. ”
Ballantine shook his head. “I doubt the contents of a private letter can stand up against a legal will. Am I correct, Kinney?”
Mr. Kinney held up a staying hand. “Let’s read the will first. Then we can see what’s to be done.” He finished his tea and returned the cup to its saucer with careful precision.
Charlotte inhaled, though it did nothing to calm her racing heart. How could she prepare for news that would change her life forever?
Unfolding the leather case, Mr. Kinney pulled out a slender document and read aloud.
The first lines were as she expected. Papa’s clothing and pocket watch to the faithful Fulton.
His sword and military medals to his son, along with the homestead in Nassagaweya.
Her heart sank with each sentence that didn’t mention her.
Would she be completely forgotten? Her father might have assumed that Simon would always provide for her, but had he never considered her likely fate if something happened to her brother?
How completely alone and penniless Charlotte would be?
She bit her lip, refusing to give in to the sickening loss. She would survive. She had to.
“And to my daughter, Charlotte Carruthers, I bequeath my estate, Edenbrook, and all associated furniture and livestock.”
Charlotte’s head jerked up, scarcely believing the words. Papa had left Edenbrook to her?
“Pardon me?” Ballantine asked. The shock on his face spoke for itself. He’d had no idea of Papa’s plans.
Mr. Kinney ignored the interruption. “So ends the reading of the last will and testament of Major Charles Carruthers.” He folded the document, his face impassive.
“Come, James, you must give us some explanation,” Ballantine sputtered. “This is quite unexpected. Quite . . . unorthodox.”
“There’s no explanation required. A man can will his estate to whomever he chooses.”
And Papa had chosen her. Charlotte sat, still and shocked, unable to comprehend what it meant. Edenbrook belonged to her. Tears filled her eyes. She wasn’t homeless. Papa hadn’t forgotten her.
“Well, my dear, it looks like your father provided for you.” Ballantine cleared his throat and patted her shoulder. She looked up to see a misting of tears in his eyes. “You’re quite the heiress.”
“But he always seemed so . . .” She bit her lip. Distant. Disappointed.
“He didn’t always treat you as he should have.” He grimaced. “Awfully hard on your brother, too. I’m glad he realized the error of his ways.” A bittersweet smile curled his lips. “I’m glad I did as well.”
“But what about Simon?” Now that the initial shock was over, the implications became clear.
“What about him?”
“If he doesn’t inherit Edenbrook, everyone will wonder why . . . They’ll know . . .” She broke off. She owed it to her parents to keep their secrets.
Before Ballantine could answer, a boy darted through the door and up to Ballantine’s side. Charlotte looked at the child in surprise. There was something familiar about the boy.
Ballantine shook his head in disapproval. “I told you to wait in the carriage.”
“Aye, but it’s been an awful long time. Took to wondering if I could have a look round the stables?”
Ballantine’s expression softened. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt, eh, James?”
The boy turned to the lawyer. “I could check on Duchess for you.”
Mr. Kinney tousled the boy’s mop of red curls with an affectionate smile. “As long as you ask permission.” He jerked his head in Charlotte’s direction.
Charlotte’s curiosity grew. The bond between the three seemed stronger than business would dictate.
Her gaze moved to the boy hovering before her, and she realized in an instant why he looked so familiar.
It was the boy who’d helped her at Montgomery’s Tavern.
But how had he come to be here, to all appearances in Ballantine’s employ?
“Miss, could I visit the stables?” The boy winced as Ballantine cleared his throat. “Please?” he added, with a guilty look at Ballantine.
“Of course. Perhaps you’d like to go through the kitchen on the way. Fulton makes an excellent toast and jam. Come, let me show you.”
The boy’s eyes brightened, and she led him to the hallway. “I remember you,” she murmured as soon as they were out of earshot of the men in the study.
The boy sent her a glance under his lashes that neither confirmed nor denied her statement.
“You work for Mr. Ballantine?”
He ducked his head. “Aye.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, then seemed to remember his manners, jerking them out to hang loosely at his sides.
“I hope Mr. Ballantine appreciates what a brave lad he has working for him.” She smiled. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for me at Montgomery’s Tavern.”
“’Twas nothing, miss.” He shrugged, a hint of red appearing in his cheeks.
“I must admit, I’m curious. How did you come to work for Mr. Ballantine? I thought you were among the rebels?”
“Not a bit,” he said with indignation. “I were there on special business for Mr. Kinney.” He sealed his lips as though he’d already said too much.
“Ah, I see.” A long moment of silence followed, and she realized the boy had no intention of telling her more. She gestured through the doorway. “The kitchen is just through there.”
James Kinney rose as she returned to the study. “My apologies, Miss Carruthers, but I must take my leave or risk being late to supper.”
Ballantine snorted and consulted his pocket watch. “At four in the afternoon?”
Mr. Kinney flushed. “Yes, well, I—”
“Oh, go on with you,” Ballantine said with a slap on his shoulder. “I was a newlywed, too, once upon a time.”
Mr. Kinney gave a bashful grin that hinted at his devotion, and Charlotte felt a stab of envy. She thought of Joshua. What would it be like to have him eager to return to her?