She straightened her shoulders and focused her eyes on the somber-faced clergyman.
One of her new gowns had arrived the previous day, just in time for the service and her first true introduction to Northrop. Pale green sprigged muslin adorned her frame. Netting covered the bodice, and tiny white flowers graced the hemline.
There was no denying the clothing’s beauty, but even after a couple of days of new attire, Isabel still felt odd wearing something besides her black gown. Today she was in different petticoats. Different stays. She wore stockings made of elegant pink silk instead of rough gray cotton. Dainty—and wholly impractical—white satin slippers hugged her feet instead of the black boots she was accustomed to. Her hair was different too. Burns had spent the better part of an hour twisting, braiding, and pinning.
She lowered her gaze for a moment to Lizzie, who was seated beside her. Lizzie, too, was in a new gown of blue muslin, with tidy white stockings and matching blue slippers. Instead of a tight braid, her hair hung down her back nearly to her waist. She looked every bit the young lady.
Isabel tried to focus on the sermon, but curiosity surged through her. So many new faces were around her. But some seemed to draw her curiosity more than others.
She cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. In the pews near the back sat the foundling home children. She had visited the home twice since her initial visit to read to the younger ones, and both she and Lizzie had become acquainted with several of the younger girls. There were probably twenty children present, varying in age from roughly five years to fifteen. They were sitting quietly and still, a testament to their discipline, and in the pew in front of them, Mr. Bradford. During the quiet, still moments he had occupied her mind over the past several days.
Isabel stole another glance as discreetly as she could. Mr. Bradford’s light eyes were straight ahead, and the collar of his coat of black wool rose high on his neck. A sliver of sunlight cut through the stained-glass window, painting him in a bluish light. His hair was neatly trimmed and close to his head, and his face was clean-shaven save for the side whiskers that framed his cheekbones.
A strange flutter danced within her. She had not known him long, but in her interactions with him he had proved kind and gentle. Observant and careful. The argument she overheard between her aunt and uncle regarding her future was never far from her thoughts. As little as a month ago she would have thought of marriage as an unattainable dream. But maybe. Just maybe . . .
As she turned around slowly, her eye landed on another man—Mr. Galloway. As she looked a little more closely, she noticed bruising under his eye. Had he been hit? Judging by their past interactions, he was more reserved and solemn than Mr. Bradford, but the discoloration marring his face made her think otherwise. He had seemed so kind when she met him in the garden. Could her uncle honestly mean for her to marry a man who was prone to physical altercations?
He was a handsome man, to be sure. His features were much darker than Mr. Bradford’s, his expression more secretive. Her aunt’s warning rang in her head: Mr. Galloway is precisely the sort of man who is nothing as he seems.
Mr. Galloway, she noted, was seated at the edge of a pew, and next to him sat a black-haired boy who was probably around Lizzie’s age. On the other side of the boy sat a woman with black hair, pale skin, and charcoal eyes. She wondered who they were. For he clearly had no wife, otherwise his name would not have come up as a suitable partner. But what explanation could there be?
At the conclusion of the service, most everyone followed the rector as he exited the nave, pausing to greet him and thank him for the sermon.
Aunt Margaret placed her hand on Isabel’s back and nudged her toward the older man. “It pleases me to introduce you to my niece, Miss Isabel Creston. Isabel is my sister’s child.”
At the mention of Isabel’s mother, the rector’s eyebrows rose. “Can there be any doubt of the relation? She is the very likeness of her mother, God rest her soul.”
Isabel did not know why it should surprise her that others knew of her mother. “You knew her?”
“I did, indeed. I’ve been the rector here for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I remember your mother around your age. And who is this?” The rector bent down to look at Lizzie.
Isabel opened her mouth to respond, but her aunt beat her to it. “This is Miss Elizabeth Creston, Miss Creston’s younger sister.”
Lizzie pleased her aunt with a pretty little curtsy and a smile, just as she had been taught.
“Both these ladies will be staying at Emberwilde for the time being,” added Aunt Margaret.
“Well, then, I am glad to greet you. Any relation of the Hayworth family is most welcome here.”
Her aunt ushered them to a group of older ladies at the edge of the church’s small cemetery, and Isabel prepared for yet another round of introductions.
She was ready to return to Emberwilde. Her new slippers were uncomfortable, and the dress, though elegantly and fashionably cut, prevented her from moving freely. The sun was growing warm, and its light poked through the delicately woven straw of her bonnet.
She wrapped her gloved fingers around Lizzie’s, but the child was growing impatient. The service had been much longer than the ones they attended in Fellsworth. Isabel tried to pay attention to the conversation, but the child’s tugging distracted her.
“Look at the ducklings! Look, Isabel!”
Isabel shushed her.
But Lizzie had no interest in being silenced.
“May I go see the ducklings? Oh, please!” Lizzie pointed at a wooden fence separating the drive from a nearby pasture.
Isabel wanted the child to stay close to her, but how long could she keep her calm? She herself was itching to be free.
Perhaps a few moments doing something such as looking at ducklings would help calm the child.
Aunt Margaret would never approve of such a childish distraction.
Then again, her aunt would never approve of a scene either.
“Yes, you may,” Isabel consented, albeit against her better judgment. “Do not touch them, and mind the mud and the carriages. Your shoes are new. And do not run.”
Isabel had managed to pack a number of instructions into a quick whisper, and she watched as Lizzie crossed the small path, her steps controlled and dainty.
Isabel wished she could escape these conversations too, but with a sigh she turned back to the group of ladies she was preparing to meet. She smiled and nodded and was as pleasant as she could be, and for several moments, all seemed to be going quite well. She turned to ask her aunt a question and noticed her aunt was no longer a part of the conversation.
Concerned, she looked around and spotted her aunt speaking with Mr. Bradford. Her aunt’s gestures were rigid and quick, and her round face was flushed, as if she was angry. Mr. Bradford’s arms were crossed over his chest, and he was scanning the remaining parishioners. Something seemed amiss. Were they arguing? Isabel glanced over her other shoulder, seeking her uncle. Yes, she had witnessed more than one argument between her aunt and uncle, but they loved each other, she was certain, and if there was a problem, Uncle Charles would no doubt rush to his wife’s aid.
Then a commotion distracted her. A horse whinnied sharp and high, and then a squeal sliced the reverent silence.
Isabel whirled toward the panicked sound.
Horror shot through her as she beheld Lizzie lying flat on the ground next to a horse. Her heart squeezed and then seemed to stop at the sight, only to resume beating at a painfully fast pace.
Propriety forgotten, Isabel dropped her reticule, gathered her skirts, and ran over to her sister’s still form as best she could in the thin slippers.
Mr. Galloway was also running to her from the opposite direction. He reached Lizzie first and dropped to his knees beside her.
Isabel pushed forward. Her feet simply would not move fast enough in the ridiculous slippers. Mr. Galloway was speaking to Lizzie. He touched her arm, bending it as if to see if it was broken.
By the time Isabel reached Lizzie, Lizzie was sitting up. Dirt marred her dress and stockings, but she was talking and even smiled.
Regret and relief ran rampant within Isabel. She should have made Lizzie stay closer. She should have made her stay by her side. At least she was moving.
Isabel knelt next to her sister.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
Lizzie sniffed. “That horse bumped into me, and it scared the ducklings away.”
Isabel shot a glance over at the big brown animal, which now stood still, his hindquarters twitching and his tail swatting. She gave her head a sharp shake. “I told you to stay away from the carriages, I—”
“I just wanted to see the ducks,” defended Lizzie, her big eyes wide.
“Are you injured? What hurts?” Isabel could not get her own thoughts out fast enough. She looked to Mr. Galloway, as if seeking answers. “Mr. Galloway. Did you see what happened?”
Still on bent knee, he met her gaze fully. “I did. A dog ran past and spooked the horse. He skittered, but I do not think he hurt her, only scared her. Then she fell.”
Now that she was certain her sister was all right, Isabel became aware of the crowd that had gathered. Embarrassment began to run high. This was not the sort of introduction she had hoped for.
Aunt Margaret arrived, flustered, her face florid from the exertion. “Oh, my dears! How did this happen? Are you all right? Oh, look at the mud!”
Isabel looked up, her arm around Lizzie’s shoulders. “She is fine. Just a little frightened, ’tis all.”
“Oh, well, that is a relief.” Her aunt looked around. “Well, this is a fine welcome to Northrop, I daresay. Whose horse is this?”
As her aunt continued expressing her outrage, Mr. Galloway straightened and extended his hand toward Isabel. It took Isabel a moment to realize he intended to help her to her feet.
Isabel looked at his gloved hand, and her aunt’s words of warning rang loudly in her head. But this man had helped her and shown her no wrong. She looked up at his face, resisting the urge to wince as she beheld his eye, and placed her hand in his. It was firm and steady as she leaned on it for support.
She muttered a word of gratitude to Mr. Galloway and bent to help Lizzie, but then, almost out of nowhere, Mr. Bradford pushed through, the volume of his voice high. “Please. Allow me.”
In a graceful movement, he knelt next to Lizzie, who was still seated on the ground. “There, there, child. All will be well.” He scooped Lizzie into his arms and looked toward Mr. Galloway. “Thank you, Galloway, but we can take it from here.”
Mr. Galloway pressed his lips together and nodded. Without a word, he stepped back.
Isabel wanted to thank him, but before she could, her aunt’s voice commandeered her attention.
“This is unacceptable. I demand to know who the owner of that beast is.”
Isabel caught Lizzie’s eye. The child’s expression had shifted from innocent defensiveness, and now her frown tugged downward. Her tiny chin trembled and she averted her eyes. Lizzie did not like the attention. Could Isabel blame her?
Constance stepped forward and looped her arm through Isabel’s. She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Come now, Isabel. What an ordeal this has been! We’d best hurry before Mother has a fit. I no longer fear for Lizzie, for she is fine as can be, and Mr. Bradford will see her to the carriage. But Mother gets so upset at these things, so it is prudent to hurry.”
Isabel allowed herself to be led to the carriage. As she did so, she shielded her eyes from the sun’s brightness and looked around her. A few people remained, chatting, but most of the church attendees had dispersed. She turned her head toward the village and finally spotted him. Mr. Galloway. For even though she only saw him from the back, there could be no mistaking him.
He was speaking with Uncle Charles. The men looked back toward the scene. No doubt Uncle Charles had sought out Mr. Galloway to learn the details of the event. Isabel was struck by how much faith and confidence her uncle put in the man. It just didn’t make sense. Why was her aunt so opposed to him? Was it truly because of Freddie, or was there something else she did not know?
Mr. Galloway’s aunt took his arm. The boy and woman who had sat next to him in church were several feet away, and another man trailed behind in close proximity.
The sight pinched her. Why, she was uncertain.
All that she knew was that everything was changing, and it was changing entirely too fast.
Her aunt hurried to her side and wrapped her arm around Isabel’s waist. Gone was any trace of vexation. Instead, she seemed almost pleased. “Thank goodness for Mr. Bradford!”
Isabel pivoted to look at the man who held Lizzie in his arms. Lizzie had wrapped her arm around his neck. The child’s awkward discomfort was fading.
Mr. Bradford caught Isabel’s eye, flashed a smile at her, and bowed as well as he could with the girl in his arms.
She did not respond. Only dipped a curtsy.
This was a world she did not understand.
Chapter Eighteen
Mr. Bradford accompanied the Ellison family to Emberwilde.
He did not ride with the ladies in their carriage. Instead, he and Mr. Ellison decided to walk, for the distance was not far.
“I am so glad that Mr. Bradford has decided to join us this afternoon,” chattered Constance as the carriage rumbled over the Benton Bridge. She scooted to the edge of the bench, leaning toward Isabel. “It was so kind of him to help Elizabeth!”
“You are right, Constance,” Aunt Margaret added, a satisfied expression on her face, nestling Lizzie against her side. “The day would surely have been ruined if not for Mr. Bradford’s thoughtfulness.”
Isabel was not certain how Mr. Bradford’s actions saved the day, but she remained silent on the subject. She was unaccustomed to speaking so freely about the actions of gentlemen. Instead, she shifted the focus to Lizzie.
“Are you sure you are all right, Lizzie? Nothing hurts?”
Lizzie lifted her knee and exposed the torn stocking and the bit of blood beneath. “This does.”
Constance jumped in before Isabel could respond. “Oh, do not worry about that, dearest. Burns will be able to tend to that for you, and you will be good as new.”
“Mr. Bradford is a natural with children,” interjected Aunt Margaret, unwilling to allow the topic to drop. “Did you not see how he knew exactly what do to? Such selflessness is an attractive quality in any person.”
Isabel shifted to the side as the carriage hit a rut in the road. It was not abnormal for her aunt to speak favorably of Mr. Bradford, but she seemed to be singing his praises even louder than normal, which confused her, especially after what appeared to be a heated conversation between them in the churchyard. She saw an opportunity to learn more about him, and took advantage of it. “And is Mr. Bradford from Northrop?”
Her aunt continued. “He is. The home he grew up in is within a short ride. He and Freddie were friends, and he was often at Emberwilde. He even attended university with Freddie. He comes from a noble family, one of sterling reputation, despite the fact that they fell on financial difficulties. You would never guess it by the way he carries himself.”
Curious, Isabel tilted her head to the side. “Were his parents at church today?”
“No, they both died a few years back. He is all alone in the world, for he had no living brothers or sisters.”
Isabel leaned to catch a glimpse of Mr. Bradford, but the carriage had turned and the men were now out of sight. “How did he become the head of the foundling home?”
“His mother was always active helping the less fortunate, and I can only surmise that he followed her example. He was in a bad way after his parents died, so from the moment he came to us and inquired about letting the guesthouse for a foundling home, I could not say no. Such a visionary and such a heart for the less fortunate! He would be a prize for any young lady.”
Isabel’s cheeks f
lamed at the directness of her aunt’s words. She had wondered if and when her aunt would bring up the topic of marriage. Was this her way?
When they arrived at Emberwilde, Isabel saw to Lizzie’s injury, then joined the family on the lawn, where the servants had set up large open-sided tents and tables with food and drink. By the time she came down, her uncle and Mr. Bradford had joined them.
It was one of the first fine afternoons after a week of inhospitable weather. The sun glittered gold and yellow in the crisp afternoon sky, hanging cheerfully above the carpet of greening grass.
As she sat admiring the scenery, a deep voice sounded from behind her. “Might I join you?”
The question caught her off guard, and she turned to face Mr. Bradford.
But goodness, the man was even more handsome up close. The gentle breeze caught his thick hair and blew it about in a careless manner. His skin was fair and contrasted attractively against the curling locks, and his light chocolate eyes were more entrancing without the shadow from his hat’s brim.
A jolt raced through her as he sat next to her. Without her aunt and cousin nearby, she could relax a little, for whether by coincidence or by design, they were not standing over her shoulder to analyze every word. His manner was so carefree, his conversation so easy, that his natural calmness put her at ease.
She was admittedly awkward when it came to talking to men. She had watched Constance and noted a general grace about her conversation. How did she come to possess such an easy manner?
Mr. Bradford leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. His eyes met hers directly. “I hope you do not think this an odd admission, but I have been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you alone.”
Isabel’s heart thumped in her chest. “Oh?”
“Yes. I wanted to see how the reading sessions have been going at the school?”
“Very well. The children seem to enjoy them very much.”
“I am glad to hear it. The children sing your praises. And Miss Elizabeth’s, of course. So few people show them genuine kindness. Some of the children have had such difficult lives. Any bit of attention and care is appreciated by them.”
Dawn at Emberwilde Page 14
