Page 9 of Charlotte

“I traveled with my sister,” Delly said, “but I am here as a bride. Not a companion. A bride.”

“Delly, hush.” Lottie leaned near her. “Don’t upset the apple cart. Please.”

“There is already a cart,” Delly said. “I am merely pointing out it lacks a wheel.”

The Bees took this in with the fascinated horror of women who had spent years arranging everyone’s affairs and had just been handed a fresh problem wrapped in a gray traveling dress.

Lottie risked a glance toward Mr. Peterson.

He was looking at her now.

Not Delly. Not the Bees. Her.

The look lasted only a moment before he turned his attention to the windows, but it was enough to put all of Lottie’s thoughts out of order. His eyes were darker than she had expected. Or perhaps the corner was poorly lit. Either way, the glance did not feel indifferent.

That was something.

Then Delly took out her notebook. Lottie’s stomach dropped harder than it had at the dock.

When Odelia Bellamy took out her notebook in public, reasonable people moved away as quickly as possible. However, no one moved because they weren’t yet privy to what her sister could do with paper and pencil.

Delly opened the book and lifted the pencil with a smile on her face.

“Can you tell me which unmarried men have steady work and which ones are seasonal hands likely to drift off by fall?” Delly asked. “Are there men who keep the Sabbath, and those only keeping it because people can see? What common injuries should a logger’s wife expect? Finally, because no household arrangement can be properly assessed without the question, do husbands in Wild Rose Ridge expect pie, and if so, how often?”

The parlor went quiet enough to hear the kettle sigh.

Mrs. Hanford pressed one hand to her bodice. “My dear girl. That is not how a young lady selects a husband.”

“It seems more reliable than sentiment,” Delly said. “Pie is not a trifling matter.”

Lottie looked at the ceiling and considered asking God whether sisters could be gently, temporarily silenced by Providence.

A brief laugh sounded near the doorway.

The man with the leather satchel from the dock stood there, cleaned up now, with the blood gone from his cuffs and his dark beard combed. Jebediah Simms, Delly had told her on the walk up. Camp man for blood and bones. Such as it was, and mostly blood.

His gaze rested on Delly’s notebook.

Lottie forgot, for a moment, to worry about Peterson. Delly turned toward Mr. Simms with the exact expression she used when a ledger refused to balance. Mr. Simms looked as though he might enjoy himself despite considerable effort not to.

Mrs. Schulte seized upon him with alarming speed.

“How fortunate you arrived, Mr. Simms. Miss Bellamy here needs a sensible husband.”

“I did not say I was in need,” Delly said. “I said I was conducting inquiries.”

Mr. Simms’s face went still, but not cold. “Then I wish you success with them.”

“Oh dear,” Lottie whispered.

Val, standing close enough to hear, smiled into her teacup. “Oh, yes. It boggles the mind, doesn’t it?”

Lottie looked from her sister to the camp healer and felt a strange little shift in the evening. Delly had come west to stand between Lottie and every danger. Yet here she was, notebook in hand, asking a large, bearded man how often he came home with blood on him.

This did not feel like protection. This felt like the beginning of its own disaster. Possibly a good one.

The Bees drew closer around Delly and Mr. Simms, and half the room did the same. Lottie might have listened if Mr. Peterson had not chosen that moment to step back toward the hall.