Jack wasn’t certain where Gretna Green was but he knew to ride north and trusted he would find his way as they came closer to Scotland. His main concern was to throw anyone who possibly followed their trail off the scent.
Charlene was game for whatever he suggested. Her concern was mastering sitting astride a horse. The animal chosen for her was docile enough but her lack of riding experience began to show. They did not make the progress traveling Jack would have liked.
After following the Post Road for several hours, Jack began taking country lanes and riding across fallow fields. It would take longer to reach their destination but he felt they were safer. He had the uncanny feeling that Gavin knew what they were about.
There was little conversation between them. In the beginning the road had been busy and it had been wise for Charlene to be silent lest someone detect the lad riding with him was a lass. Now that the path they took was free of traffic, she was tired and, in truth, so was he. Soon, they must either change horses or find a place to rest. They also needed food. He’d purchased some cheese and two mugs of ale mid-morning but that had only sharpened his appetite. Gavin’s men had not been concerned about feeding him during his stay in the storeroom.
He’d also purchased a lap rug for Charlene to wear around her shoulders. A blanket would have been better but beggars on the road could not be choosers. The cold didn’t affect him that much but she felt the chill. However, after hours of riding, she tried to fold the rug and place it between her seat and the hard saddle. It was not an effective solution. Only rest would help both of them.
When they reached a good-sized village, Jack inquired if there was someone about who let rooms to travelers for the night. He was directed to the tidy cottage of the Widow Fitzwilliam.
Dismounting and handing his reins to Charlene, he knocked on the widow’s door.
“Who is there?” a pert voice said from the side of the house. A rotund, energetic woman with smoky brown hair under her hooded cloak came around the corner to see who stood at her front door. She held a basket of feed, and was followed by a clucking peep of brown chickens anxious for her to finish her task.
Jack removed his hat. “I’m told you have a room you can give us for the night.”
“I might. Who are you?”
“I’m Jack Whitridge and this is my”—he had to think fast—“nephew, Charles Blanchard.”
Charlene did not remove her hat but kept her distance by the horses and bowed subserviently to the widow.
“I see.” The widow looked Jack up and down. She was a shrewd one. He doubted much escaped her. He was glad his boots weren’t run down at the heels.
Apparently she was satisfied with what she saw. “Twenty shillings a night and that includes a meal and something to break your fast—”
“That would be excellent,” Jack said, scarcely believing his luck, but she held up her free hand to let him know there was more.
“For that price, I will be expecting a favor of you, Mr.Whitridge. A tree fell in my garden. I need the wood chopped and stacked.”
“I am happy to do whatever you wish,” he said. “The boy is tired—”
“No, I’m not,” Charlene called. “I can help.”
She’d gruffed up her voice a bit and for that Jack was thankful—still, he was not pleased to be countermanded, especially when he was trying to protect her.
Then again, Charlene was not a hothouse flower who let others do her bidding. She would make a great success of it in Boston.
So he didn’t argue but respected her enough to believe she knew her own mind.
“There you have it, we both work,” he said. “Let us settle our horses and we will see to your tree.”
“I own a shelter in the back next to my henhouse that will house your horses if you wish to put them up.”
“May I hobble them to graze?”
“Whatever you like if you take care of the tree for me. Are you partial to chicken for your supper?”
The way his stomach rumbled just at the suggestion answered her question. She laughed. “Let me show you the tree.”
The tree wasn’t actually that difficult a project. It was only fifteen feet tall and a little less than two foot in diameter, but it had landed across her garden and she couldn’t have cut it alone.
“The roots were rotted,” she explained. “Fell last night and, while my neighbors are always happy to help, this will be one less problem for all of us, thanks to you.”
Jack truly didn’t need Charlene’s help but she picked up the wood he cut and split, stacking it where the widow indicated. The chickens clucked around their feet and offered suggestions. The widow came to her back door from time to time to check their progress. The smell of a good stew kept Jack working.
Within an hour, it was almost dark and he was done. If he and Charlene had not been tired before, they were now.
