Page 6 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)
Chapter Three
A northwesterly wind blew against Arran’s face as he stood in the lookout tower on the corner of the stockade and watched the dozen canoes approach Fort Douglas.
Guards were on duty around the clock and one of them had alerted Arran about the approaching colonists.
He had left his office, where he’d been writing yet another letter to Lord Selkirk, and now waited for the advancing brigade.
Overhead, the sky was gray and thick with the threat of snow.
The temperature had dropped in the past few hours, portending an early season snowstorm.
Arran had not wanted to move to their winter quarters until the new batch of settlers had arrived, but now that they were in Assiniboia, they could make plans to head south to Pembina.
The seventy-mile journey would not be met with excitement from the new colonists who had been traveling for the past four months, but it could not be helped.
The buffalo wintered on the plains near Pembina, providing much-needed meat for the long, cold months.
“Semple will be with these people,” James said as he entered the lookout tower and stood beside Arran. “Do you ken the man?”
“Only by reputation.” Arran had heard enough about Robert Semple to know the man was brash, overconfident, and impatient.
He was an American who had served as an army captain for the British during the American war for independence.
Now retired, he was known for his upright character and bulldog courage.
He would not only be the governor of Assiniboia but would be in charge of all sixty posts in the Hudson’s Bay Company.
His authority, unlike Macdonell’s, would not come into question.
Rupert’s Land, which was the whole of the Hudson Bay drainage basin, had been granted to the Hudson’s Bay Company by a Royal Charter from King Charles II in 1670.
The North West Company men, based out of Montreal with headquarters on the northern end of Lake Superior, were, in every sense of the word, trespassing on land belonging to the Hudson’s Bay Company.
But they disregarded the 140-year-old Royal Charter and treated the land as their own.
This had led to constant battles and bloodshed.
The recent conflict within the Red River Colony had brought years of trouble to a festering head.
“Come.” Arran set his musket on his shoulder and climbed down the ladder to the fort yard. “Let’s welcome our new governor and neighbors properly.”
James followed Arran out of the east gate and down the path to the riverbank.
Several settlers had come from their homes in Colony Gardens to meet the canoes, while mixed-race children and visiting Saulteaux Indians had gathered on the opposite side of the river to watch in quiet curiosity.
No doubt news of their impending arrival had already made its way to Duncan Cameron’s cohorts in Qu’Appelle.
No doubt they were hopeful that the settlement was dead.
More colonists meant it was gaining strength again.
The voyageurs jumped from the light-weight canoes and into the water before the boats could touch the shore and ruin the thin birchbark that covered the outside.
Inside the vessels, the colonists sat on the supplies and personal items that had been brought with them across the ocean, rivers and lakes.
For many of them, everything they owned and held dear was in the boat with them.
“Welcome to Assiniboia,” Arran called to the colonists, his gaze roaming over the weary-looking group. Robert Semple was an easy man to identify, sitting proud and confident in the lead canoe.
The others were dressed in their Highland plaids, worn and soiled from the long trip.
One exhausted face after the other turned to look in Arran’s and James’s direction.
Arran tried to meet each gaze with a welcoming nod, but his attention snagged on a woman who stood out among the peasants from Kildonan.
She sat straight and proper, her brown dress made of high-quality material. The spencer jacket she wore looked completely impractical and out of place, though it was no match for the frivolous bonnet on her dark brown curls.
But it was the face under the bonnet, with the beautiful brown eyes and familiar curvature of the mouth, that caused his heart to gallop out of control.
Every shred of self-composure and authority Arran MacLean had felt walking toward the riverbank fled at the sight of Lady Eleanor Brooke.
He stared at her, fearing he may have lost his mind. Was it truly her? But how? Why?
Almost as an afterthought, his mind took notice of the baby she wore in a sling on her front—and the self-possessed Englishman sitting close by her side—and then his shock turned from confusion to unreasonable anger and envy.
“Arran?” James asked, watching him closely. “Are you well?”
Even under battle, Arran had not felt this unsure of himself. What was Eleanor doing in Assiniboia? Had she come with a husband and baby? How could she be so thoughtless or foolish?
“Mr. MacLean?” Robert Semple stepped out of the canoe and onto a large, solid rock, much like the first pilgrim had at Plymouth Rock nearly two hundred years before. “I’m Governor Semple.”
It took every bit of strength Arran could muster to turn his gaze—and thoughts—to the new governor. He stretched out his hand to Semple and sized him up in one glance. The man was tall and commanding, his red hair turning gray with age. He shook Arran’s hand with a firm grip.
“I’ve heard good things about your leadership of the colony,” Semple said. “I’m eager to see the place for myself and get settled into my quarters.”
“Aye.” It was all Arran could manage to say as Eleanor was assisted from her canoe by the gentleman who had been seated beside her. Arran felt like a simpleton as he stared, dumbstruck, at her approach.
“I think you’ll be pleased to hear we’ve brought a minister and a teacher with us,” the governor continued, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “Perhaps the colony will be civilized now that the British have arrived.” He laughed at his own joke, though no one joined him.
Eleanor’s gaze was hooded as she walked slowly over the uneven ground, one hand on the baby’s back and the other wrapped around the minister’s elbow.
She did not look at Arran again until she came to stop beside Governor Semple.
When she did, Arran feared his heart would stop at the sight of her warm, steady gaze.
He’d never thought to see her beautiful eyes again, though his dreams had been haunted by them for years.
“Mr. MacLean, may I present the Reverend William West,” Semple said.
Eleanor had married a minister? He’d been certain she’d marry an earl or viscount.
How had she ended up with a minister—especially one coming to Assiniboia—the land she had claimed to be too frightened to settle with Arran?
Was her love for this man worth the risks inherent in colonizing a new land?
Something she had been unwilling to do for Arran?
The very thought made Arran’s muscles tense as he lifted his chin.
“How do you do?” Reverend West asked as he extended his hand to Arran.
Whatever shred of decency Arran had left, he used to shake West’s hand, though he could not find the wherewithal to welcome him to Assiniboia.
Reverend West put his hand under Eleanor’s elbow. “And may I present Lady Eleanor Brooke, our new teacher.”
Eleanor’s mouth parted momentarily, as if she wanted to speak, but she closed her lips again and simply looked at Arran, a thousand emotions passing through her expressive eyes.
“The lady and I have a previous acquaintance,” Arran said in a thick, rough voice, hoping not to betray his true feelings.
James looked sharply at Arran, but Arran could not muster the strength to introduce Eleanor to his friend and mentor.
“How nice,” Semple said while West frowned, apparently surprised at the news.
“And the babe?” Arran asked, finding it hard to make sense of what was happening.
“My child,” West said in a tight voice. “My wife, Anne, was taken from us on our voyage here.”
“I-I’m caring for Miriam,” Eleanor finally said. “Anne was a dear friend of mine.”
He’d forgotten how melodic her voice sounded to his ears.
A torrent of memories and emotions rushed back to his mind and heart, almost knocking him over with the force of them.
He had spent hours listening to her in the gardens at St. Mary’s Isle—would have spent the rest of his life listening to her if she had agreed.
So, she wasn’t married to the minister—and the babe was not her own.
But there were so many other questions warring within him.
Why was she here? What had she been thinking—what had Selkirk or Semple been thinking to allow her to come?
They should know, better than most, that this was no place for a woman of noble birth, coddled and protected from life’s hardships.
She lacked the experience and fortitude of the Scottish Highlanders standing all around her.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Arran managed to say to the minister.
Grief hung heavily around Mr. West as he looked beyond the small group toward Fort Douglas. Though Arran had not lost a wife to death, he understood the pain West felt at losing the woman he loved.
But now here she stood, alive and lovelier than his aching heart had remembered. It was almost more than he could bear.
“If you’ll show us to our quarters,” Semple said, “I think we’re all ready to find our beds.”
“Aye.” Arran was the deputy-governor. He had a responsibility to all these new arrivals—even if his world had just been turned on its side. “We have room within the stockade for the settlers to pitch their tents.” He absently motioned toward the fort.
“I would like the Reverend and Lady Eleanor to sleep in a house, if possible,” Semple said. “I’ve heard the governor’s house is quite large.”
“Aye.”