Dawn at Emberwilde

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Why would someone from the Holden farm want to speak with him?

  The image of James Holden flashed in his mind. The short man with thinning gray hair and a round belly was a most capable fellow. A stolen chicken or missing cow was the likeliest reason the farmer would contact the magistrate. But at this hour of the day?

  He called back through the closed door. “Be right down.”

  As he reached for his buckskin breeches slung over the back of a nearby chair, he could hear Mrs. Daugherty muttering on the other side of the door.

  Colin, too, muttered under his breath, not so much bemoaning the earliness of the hour as the impatience of his sharp-tongued landlady. No doubt Mrs. Daugherty’s razor-edged voice and intense knocking had woken the four other gentlemen who boarded here, including Henry, his own cousin, who let the room on the other side of his wall. Eventually, her footsteps retreated down the hall.

  The previous day’s conversation with Ellison echoed in his mind. Perhaps it was time to give more consideration to restoring his property and moving away from the boardinghouse. But with his heavy responsibilities as a solicitor and magistrate, it made little sense to move so far out of town.

  He straightened, tucked his shirt into his trousers, and pulled his heavy black riding boots over his stockings. Before going out he paused to check the small looking glass hanging next to his door. Anyone calling at this hour, regardless of the reason, would have to accept his hasty dress as good enough.

  Colin punched his arm through the sleeve of his coat, unlocked his door, and swung it open.

  The scent of salty ham and baking bread met him in the hall—a familiar morning scent. He made his way down a stairwell so narrow his shoulders nearly brushed either side as he descended.

  Cool air rushed him as he reached the bottom. The half door to the kitchen garden stood ajar, and windows were high in their sashes, letting the early morning’s cool, fresh air into the low-ceilinged room. He filled his lungs with it before turning the corner.

  There, just inside the main door, stood Mrs. Daugherty. Next to her stood a young girl with her arms around a woven basket.

  Colin forced a smile to his face. “Good morning, Mrs. Daugherty, Miss Holden. How can I be of service?”

  Thin arms folded over her chest, Mrs. Daugherty jerked her head in the girl’s direction. “This young lady would like a moment of your time.”

  At second glance, Colin recognized the girl as Becky Holden, the farmer’s eldest daughter. He was not good at judging the age of children, but she looked like she might be eleven or twelve. A roughly fashioned cape of gray felt was around her shoulders, and her hair was pulled into two tight plaits that fell down her back.

  Becky cut her eyes toward Mrs. Daugherty, as if seeking approval, before turning her attention fully to Colin. Her voice was thin, almost a whisper. “We found her at our farm this morning.”

  He was about to ask her to repeat herself when the girl thrust the basket toward him. He reached out and touched the blanket covering the basket’s contents.

  There, tucked beneath the blanket, was a baby. Judging by the color of its skin and its size, it was brand new to this world.

  He jerked his hand back. He didn’t know the first thing about babies, and the last thing he wanted to do was disrupt it. But at his motion, the infant’s eyes flew open, and this was followed by a wail, feisty and angry. The child’s face deepened to crimson in mere seconds and a tiny fist flailed into the air.

  The girl shoved the basket toward Colin. “It was on the doorstep. Our hired hand found her there when he went to tend the sheep.”

  Colin scrambled to keep the child from clattering to the floor. Once he had control over the basket, he held it to his chest, the baby wailing even louder.

  The girl’s face blanched and tears gathered in her eyes. She inched backward, and her eyes grew wide. “Mother said to bring her to you. She said we don’t want any trouble and that you would know what to do.”

  As magistrate, Colin felt responsible for seeing to the orphans, widows, and the poor. The number of abandoned infants had increased over the past year or so, ever since Northrop’s foundling home had declared that they would accept any child into their care. Word had spread through the neighboring villages, and now, every so often an unwanted child would be left in some conspicuous place. Several months ago a baby had been left on the vicar’s stairs, and about a year ago one had been left at the inn. They were rarely left at the foundling home itself, because of the large gate surrounding it.

  Colin set the basket on the table gingerly and blew the air from his lungs.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Galloway,” exclaimed Mrs. Daugherty, taking the baby from the basket and cradling it in her arms. “She’ll not bite. ’Tis but a babe, and you are acting as if you have never seen one.”

  Colin cleared his throat and regained his composure. He looked to Becky, who was kneading the edge of her cape with her fingers. “Tell your father I’ll be by his farm this afternoon.”

  “Oh, but he hasn’t done anything!” Becky’s dark eyes widened, and her head shook slowly from side to side. “The baby was just there, it was just—”

  “I know he’s done nothing wrong,” clarified Colin, attempting to alleviate the girl’s anxiety. “I need to speak with him just the same.”

  Becky nodded, stepped backward, and ran out through the door.

  “Tsk.” Mrs. Daugherty rocked the baby from side to side as she turned to watch the girl’s retreating form. “You can go out to the Holden farm all ye like, but you know as certain as the sky is blue that he won’t know nothing. You ought to keep regular hours, Mr. Galloway. That way folks would stop coming here like they do. I run a boardinghouse. Not an office.”

  Mrs. Daugherty always feigned annoyance when Northrop’s residents would visit the boardinghouse seeking assistance, but Colin knew her fascination with gossip. Because he lived here, she was often the first in town to know what was happening with her neighbors, and she liked it that way.

  A landlady like her was both a blessing and a curse.

  She clicked her tongue. “You must find a way to put an end to this before we have more babies than we know what to do with. If people think that they can bring all their unwanted babes to Northrop, then we’ll find ourselves in real trouble.”

  It was true, Colin knew, but what could be done at the moment? “I will take the baby to the foundling home this morning.”

  “You’d best hurry then. Poor thing’s probably half-starved already.” Mrs. Daugherty returned the baby to the basket, inciting yet another cry. “Been a long time since I cared for a wee babe like that, but I do know babes are hungry all the time.”

  He pressed his lips together in contemplation as he looked at the tiny wriggling figure.

  The perfect light eyelashes. The tiny hand that waved in the air.

  So very young.

  So very innocent.

  Mrs. Daugherty turned to leave, and Colin opened his mouth to stop her. The idea of being alone with the baby unnerved him. But then his cousin Henry came lumbering down the steps, awakened no doubt by either their landlady’s incessant pounding or the baby’s shrill cry.

  “What in blazes is that?” Henry grumbled, his hair in disarray and his face creased with sleep lines.

  Colin stepped aside so that Henry could see the basket, and the child released another wail.

  Henry wrinkled his nose. “Cute little thing. Where’d it come from?”

  “The Holden girl just brought it,” Colin explained. “Said it was left on their doorstep.”

  Henry leaned over the basket, his neck cloth hanging undone around his throat. “Hmm. Any note or anything?”

  Colin assessed the basket. Normally no note accompanied these abandoned children, but he ought to check. The baby fit tightly in the basket. He felt around the thin blanket to see if he could find anything.

  “Egad,” exclaimed Henry, an amused expression brightening his sleepy face. “
Just pick it up and look.”

  Colin set his lips in a firm line. He reached into the basket, tucked his hand beneath the baby’s head and body, and lifted. The baby let out a mighty wail, one so loud it rivaled the cries he had heard on the battlefield.

  He held the child out in front of him, angling it uncomfortably.

  “Quick,” Colin called to Henry and nodded to the basket. “Look in there. Is there a note?”

  Henry lifted the blanket and shifted the small cloth at the bottom of the basket. “No, nothing.”

  Colin looked at the baby in his hands. “I suppose it’s best to take it to Bradford at once. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  “Best stop by and see if Mother will go with you. You know how she adores children and the sort, and besides, she will know what to do about the crying. I’d go with you, but I am due out this morning at Heddeston Park. Meeting with the steward. It seems they are getting close to identifying the heir, and I have offered to work with their solicitor to finalize the details as soon as possible. I’ll fill you in later when you come into the office.”

  Colin nodded. He attempted to return the red-faced, angry baby to the basket but could not get the angle right.

  Yes, Aunt Lydia would know what to do.

  By some miracle, the baby fell asleep on the short walk from the boardinghouse to Lockert Cottage, his aunt’s home, which was situated on the outskirts of the village. With the baby quiet, it was actually a pleasant spring walk, despite the knot in the pit of his stomach caused by the fact that this little one had been left alone.

  It was a sobering—and personal—contemplation.

  Colin’s own parents and siblings had died when he was two in a fire on their nearby estate, leaving him alone in the world. But unlike this child, his abandonment had not been by choice. Fortunately, his aunt Lydia and uncle Richard opened their home to him. His cousins, Henry and William, had become like brothers to him. The family loved him. Taught him. Cared for him. Treated him as their own.

  This poor child may never have the same good fortune.

  He approached the cottage gate, taking a moment to study the modest dwelling. The thatched roof and white exterior were burned into his memory. He could call every detail to mind at any time, from the beams that ran across the front to the shutters that flanked the window.

  This was a visit he made nearly every day. Ever since his uncle died three years prior, either Colin or his cousin Henry would visit daily to see to the home’s maintenance and assist his aunt with tasks that she or her aging staff could not tend to themselves. She had invited both men to live with her at Lockert, but William’s widow, Miranda, already lived there with her son, Charles, and Colin and Henry kept odd hours.

  Colin opened the gate and passed through, careful not to let the basket hit the stone sidewall. The sound of laughter rang from the cottage’s far yard, then a black-haired boy came running around the corner.

  “Uncle Colin!”

  Charles flew with all the energy his small frame could muster. “I didn’t know you were coming so early!”

  Colin could not help the laugh that escaped him as the boy rushed him, his curly hair flopping about his face as he ran, his cheeks flushed pink. How the boy reminded Colin of William when he had been a boy. Dark hair, laughing eyes, and a smattering of freckles.

  “What’s in the basket?” Charles asked, stopping abruptly a few feet away, but then he quickly changed his own subject. “Have you come to take me fishing?”

  Colin adjusted the basket in his hands. “I wish I could, but not today.”

  The boy pouted. “But why not? It isn’t raining, and Mother never lets me go alone. Not ever.”

  Colin was about to respond when a feminine voice interrupted.

  “Who’s there, Charles?”

  The voice, familiar as it was, still had the power to stop him in his path, derail his mind of whatever it was previously focused on.

  There, in the threshold, stood William’s widow, Miranda Galloway.

  She was every bit as lovely as she had ever been. The sun’s white morning light highlighted her glossy black hair, and her eyebrow arched with an air of entitled amusement. Even in her practical dress of pale blue and a woven apron, she managed to present herself as attractive.

  He held eye contact with Miranda for but a second before turning his attention back to Charles and rustling his fingers through the boy’s hair.

  This was the time of the visits he always lamented. One would have thought the span of nearly a decade sufficient time to erase poignant feelings and emotions. Time may help the mind erase past wrongs; the heart is another matter entirely, he thought.

  Miranda swept toward him in the cottage courtyard, bringing with her the scent of lavender—a sickening-sweet scent that she had worn since adolescence.

  A scent he had grown to despise.

  “Colin,” Miranda exclaimed, as if his presence were a wonder as opposed to an everyday occurrence. “What a pleasure. We weren’t expecting you this morning.”

  “I had a bit of an unexpected surprise. Is my aunt at home?”

  “How intriguing. Of course she is here. She is in the kitchen with Cook discussing the day’s meals.” Her gaze fell on the basket. “So you’ve a surprise, do you?”

  Without invitation she leaned toward it and pulled back the cloth. “A baby! How lovely! Wherever did it come from?”

  He drew his breath in preparation to respond, but to his relief, his aunt appeared on the front threshold, her timing, as usual, impeccable.

  She crossed the yard, wiping her hands on her apron. “Colin, you’re early! I saw you from the window.” She stepped forward, but then stopped when she saw the baby. Instead of sharing in her daughter-in-law’s amusement, she drew her eyebrows together in concern. “Merciful heavens. Another one?”

  Colin nodded, pulling the blanket back farther. “She was left at the Holden farm last night.”

  Aunt Lydia frowned. “Such a pity. And such a beautiful babe too.”

  She reached for the baby and lifted her from the basket with the ease of a longtime mother, and she clicked her tongue in a soothing manner and gently rocked the child from side to side.

  With her presence, the tension in Colin’s shoulders subsided. He could deal with hoodlums and vagabonds all day long, but babies were beyond him.

  “Are you going to take her to the foundling home?” Aunt Lydia asked, adjusting the child in her arms.

  He shrugged. “I see no other option.”

  “She needs to eat. And no doubt her clothing could stand to be changed. Why, she is in nothing but rags! This will not do.”

  “Would you care to accompany me to the home? I think she prefers your arms to this basket.”

  “Of course she does. What child likes to be in a basket? Why, the idea! And yes, I shall accompany you.” She turned to Miranda. “You can go over the menu with Martha, right? I won’t be long. I will get my cape and be back presently.”

  His aunt put the child in Colin’s arms. Initially he stiffened, but for the first time, as he held the child, she did not protest.

  The tension in his arms began to slacken, and he let the baby rest against the wool fabric of his coat.

  Miranda cut her chocolate eyes to him. “I must say, you appear very natural with a child in your arms.”

  He did not meet her gaze. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the wee babe’s head.

  Perhaps Miranda could dismiss the history that separated them and could pretend as if the betrayal had never happened.

  He could not.

  “If you would be so kind, please tell my aunt I will wait for her by the gate.”

  He saw the flash of disappointment on Miranda’s face before he turned to the road. He knew what she wanted—to erase the cloak of time.

  But what she should not forget was that he knew her too well.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning Aunt Margaret remained true to her word—the ladies of Em
berwilde embarked for a short journey to the foundling home. Isabel had hoped for a quiet day to allow her and Lizzie to get their bearings in the sprawling house, but perhaps it was best not to have too much time for solitary contemplations.

  If she were honest, the thought of encountering Mr. Bradford once more intrigued her. Their interactions the previous day had been limited, but something in his manner put her at ease. Instead of allowing her mind to be engulfed in some of the heavier thoughts pressing her, she resolved to enjoy the morning.

  Once in the carriage, Isabel sat next to Lizzie and across from Constance. They were waiting on Aunt Margaret, who was engaged in a conversation with the housekeeper.

  As they waited, Constance leaned forward as if taking Isabel into confidence. “Mother is quite proud of the foundling home and the endeavors associated therein, as you will see. She devotes a great deal of her spare time to it. It is quite close. The building is on Emberwilde’s property. Mother and Father donated the use of the building to the cause, and they continue to provide a great deal of financial support. Of course, Mr. Bradford is responsible for the institution, but he relies on Mother’s expertise.”

  Isabel fidgeted with the cuff of her gown and looked back at Emberwilde, wondering what expertise her aunt could have with a foundling home. After all, her aunt was a privileged woman, and had been since the day she was born.

  Her cousin continued. “Mother pours a great deal of consideration into it. Especially now that I have a successful match, I think it is a way she manages to occupy her time. Without it I think she would be driven to distraction.”

  “That is very kind of her to spend her time in such a fashion,” noted Isabel.

  “She did say that she is most interested in your take on the facility. After all, did you not come from a situation similar to a foundling home?”

  Isabel cast a glance down at Lizzie to see if she was listening to the conversation, but her sister’s attentions were fixed on a horse being led across the yard. She looked back to Constance. “No. Not exactly. We were at a school.”