Page 18 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)
Chapter Eight
A rran had quickly come to fear the silence more than the barking cough or the heart-rending cries from little Miriam.
When there was no sound coming from the room the baby shared with Eleanor and Nicolette, Arran’s neck and back became tense and his breathing grew shallow, trying to hear some sort of life from the wee bairn.
He and Eleanor had hardly spoken in the three days since the dance, but there was no need for words to know what she was thinking and feeling.
He saw it in the lines around her mouth, in the sleepless circles under her eyes, and the rumpled appearance of her clothing.
She was working night and day to keep the baby alive.
On the fourth afternoon, Arran sat at the desk in Semple’s empty room, writing in the journal where Lord Selkirk had asked him to record the daily activities of the colony. The house had grown silent—too silent—and he stopped the scribbling of his pen to lift his head and listen.
The house creaked and the wind rattled against the windows, but there were no other sounds to mark the existence of life. Setting his pen in the inkwell, he stood and walked into the common room, his ears intent on the closed door of Eleanor’s bedroom.
For a heartbeat, he waited, and then the door slowly opened. Eleanor appeared, just as exhausted as before. When she noticed him, she offered a small, sad smile, closing the door quietly behind her. “Miriam is finally asleep.”
Arran didn’t move. He appreciated these unexpected moments when he and Eleanor had a few minutes alone.
West had gone to the main hall earlier that day to perform two separate marriages between company men and their Indian wives.
The minister had found a reason to leave the house every day since Miriam became sick, and he stayed away until suppertime.
His lack of interest in his daughter was beginning to wear on Arran’s patience and goodwill.
The man left the entire care and responsibility of his daughter to Eleanor, though she had no obligation to the child or to him.
Eleanor went to the fireplace and picked up the poker. She started to adjust the wood to coax the flame to life, but a spark jumped out at her. She swatted at the ember on her skirt.
“Here.” He moved to her side and took the poker from her hands. “Sit,” he said, indicating a chair nearby. “Dinna concern yourself over the fire.”
She didn’t protest but lowered herself into the seat. Her hair, which was usually in its proper place, was drooping, with tendrils hanging in her face. He’d never seen her so out of sorts, or worried.
Arran put several more logs on the fire and moved the teapot over the flames to warm its contents. “When was the last time you ate?” he asked gently.
Eleanor stared into the flames, as if she didn’t hear him. “Fiona was here.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Two of her children are also ill.”
“Aye.” He had heard rumors that several of the children in the settlement had taken ill. He’d just recorded it in the daily journal.
“Miriam wouldn’t eat.” Eleanor’s words were slow and lackluster. “She’s listless and does not rouse when I pick her up.”
“What does Dr. Stewart advise?” The doctor had returned and bled Miriam for a second time just that morning. His mouth had been set in a grim line when he left.
Eleanor bit her bottom lip and shook her head. Her face pinched and tears began to course down her cheeks. “He says her breathing has worsened and there’s nothing more we can do.” She dropped her face into her hands as the sobs shook her body.
Pain tightened Arran’s chest as he went to her and drew her into his embrace.
She came willingly, weeping into his shoulder. “What will I do if I lose her?”
This was the very thing he had wanted to spare Eleanor when she’d arrived in Assiniboia. Death and disappointment were so much a part of their lives, it would be impossible for her to avoid it.
He held her tight, whispering comforting words against her hair. “The battle is not lost yet,” he said. “We will keep fighting until there’s no fight left in us.”
She sniffed and nodded, then pulled away from his embrace, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
A knock at the door tore Arran’s attention off Eleanor.
“I do not wish to see anyone,” she said.
He nodded, then waited until she reentered her room before he walked across the floor to answer the call.
Colin Robertson stood just outside the door. “Can I speak to you?”
Arran stepped aside to allow Colin to enter and then closed the door behind him.
“What news do you bring?” Arran asked, fearing there was more illness to report.
“A company man arrived from the post near Qu’Appelle today.
” Robertson’s voice held a dire warning.
“The Bois-Br?lés are gathering there in large numbers under the leadership of Cuthbert Grant. They are making plans to attack Assiniboia in the spring and have vowed to burn down Fort Douglas and drive off every settler, once and for all.”
The news was not surprising, though it was not what Arran had hoped to hear. The Bois- Br?lés saw the colony as a threat to their way of life and were just as determined as the North West Company to see them gone. “Has Duncan been a part of the plans?”
Colin nodded. “He went to Qu’Appelle after we left Fort Douglas and might be there still. He and Grant are working together.”
No doubt Duncan would return to his fort soon. His main responsibility was to gain the fur trade, with hopes of pushing the Hudson’s Bay Company out of the region and would not leave his post for long.
“There is other news,” Colin said.
Arran was almost afraid to ask. He crossed his arms and took a wider stance. “What have you heard?”
“There are rumors that Lord Selkirk was in New York earlier this fall, on his way to Assiniboia.”
“Selkirk is in North America?” Arran could hardly believe the news. If it was true, it was the best thing he’d heard in years.
“It’s only a rumor at this point. When was the last time you received word from him?”
“His last letter arrived with Governor Semple. It was dated from May of this year. He wrote from his home at St. Mary’s Isle and made no mention of planning a trip to Assiniboia.
” Though Lord Selkirk had founded the colony, he had never been to the Red River Valley himself.
The idea that he might be on his way was the first glimmer of hope Arran had felt in months.
But was it only a rumor, or was it fact?
And, if he was on his way, would he arrive in time to help?
Moreover, what might he do to stop Duncan and Cuthbert Grant that Arran had not already tried himself?
“Selkirk holds the deed to all the land along the entire Red River Valley,” Robertson said. “Though Duncan doesn’t want to admit the truth, he is a squatter and poacher on Selkirk’s land. If anyone can hold him accountable, it would be the earl.”
“Aye. If Selkirk can survive the journey.” Arran had long feared that the North West Company would find a way to assassinate Lord Selkirk and make it look like an accident.
If the founder of the colony died, the settlement would die with him.
“If he is in New York, he will probably wait until spring to make the journey to the colony.”
And, by then, it might be too late for him to help against the plans the Bois-Br?lés and Nor’westers were making to destroy the colony for good.
“When do you expect Semple to return?” Robertson asked.
“In a week or two. When he is back, we will make our own plan.”
Robertson nodded, his dark eyes squinting in thought. “We will need to remove Duncan.”
“Aye. It should have been done already. Semple shouldn’t have let him go when we had him.”
Both Arran and Robertson had agreed about what to do with Duncan Cameron, though Governor Semple had the final say.
“I wish we could apprehend Grant, as well,” Robertson added.
The man had made several threats but had not personally attacked the settlement.
He would be harder to apprehend and bring to trial.
Duncan, on the other hand, had a long list of transgressions against the colony.
“I’ll leave you,” Robertson said. “If you hear anything, let me know.”
Arran nodded and then showed the man out of the house. After closing the door behind him, Arran put another log on the fire and removed the steaming teakettle.
Miriam’s cries punctured the air.
Relief filled Arran at the sound. If the baby had enough energy to cry, then perhaps she was gaining strength again.
He could only hope.
Eleanor had slept in fits and starts since Miriam had become ill. Every move or sound the baby made had Eleanor on her feet to check on the tiny child.
Evening had set on the eighth day and Eleanor had insisted that Nicolette get some sleep.
The older woman had worked just as diligently as Eleanor to care for the baby and had spent the day washing the household laundry on top of her other chores.
When Nicolette refused to sleep, Eleanor had said she would stay awake to see to Miriam’s needs.
Darkness was descending much faster on the prairie as the winter grew long.
Inside the governor’s house, Eleanor was thankful for the crackle of the fire and the warm rubbaboo bubbling in the kettle hanging from the metal crane.
Arran had not yet returned from the barn where he’d gone to care for Tiberius, and William had been absent the entire day, though she did not know where he kept himself.