Dawn at Emberwilde

by Sarah E. Ladd

  The candid interaction between her aunt and her sister weighed heavily on Isabel’s heart.

  Lizzie looked to Isabel. “May I be excused?”

  Isabel nodded and moved back to the dressing table.

  At Fellsworth, she could not have imagined leaving her sister for the evening. It was just not the way things were done.

  But here, it was. They both had to adjust to the idea. It was the price they were paying for security. A small price.

  Burns returned to the room, and Isabel sat still to have her hair dressed. The lady’s maid took great care in brushing her hair, braiding it, and weaving silver strands through the end. It was curled. Pinned. Fresh flowers were tucked in the comb, and Isabel found the scent of the blooms sickeningly sweet.

  At length, her hair was done. She was not recognizable.

  Constance stepped behind her and hooked a delicate silver necklace around her neck. On the jewelry hung an amethyst pendant.

  Isabel had never worn silver, much less a jewel.

  When Burns was out of earshot, Constance leaned close to Isabel. “Mr. Bradford will not be able to keep his eyes off you tonight.”

  Isabel knew the words were intended as a compliment, but they felt more like an omen.

  Every care was taken to keep the ladies’ gowns clean and dry on the way to the Atwells’. The velvet cape draped upon Isabel’s shoulders was far too heavy for such a warm evening, but she wore it at her aunt’s insistence, lest her gown become soiled.

  She felt almost ill as the carriage rumbled over the Benton Bridge and through the village. Uncle Charles had stayed behind at Emberwilde with a sore throat, leaving the ladies to attend the event without him. Isabel felt his absence, for her uncle had a calming effect on his wife. Without him, her behavior could be unpredictable.

  The damp heat, combined with the motion and her nerves, made it hard to breathe. And she knew why. Mr. Bradford was to be at the dinner tonight. Her family’s expectations were becoming increasingly clear. Part of her was excited to see him again, but another part of her was cautious. For even though Mr. Bradford was charming, she found that her thoughts had been turning to Mr. Galloway as of late. Their interaction in the forest had been pressed into her memory and burned more brightly than any encounter she had shared with Mr. Bradford. She did not know if it was the solemn blueness of his eyes or the safe feeling of being in his presence, but as much as she tried to deny the fact, it was Mr. Galloway who had begun to capture her imagination during the quiet times of the day. She wondered if he would be present at the Atwells’ dinner.

  She tried to shift her thoughts and focus on the scenery flashing past—the church. A graveyard. A small row of cottages.

  Constance spoke, breaking the silence. “The Atwells are one of the most influential families in the area.”

  Aunt Margaret added, “Their estate, Hetford Abbey, is not nearly as large as Emberwilde.”

  “Indeed not,” agreed Constance. “But given the limited social opportunities for our situation, they will do, plus their daughter is a dear friend of mine. I am sure she will adore you, Isabel.”

  Isabel nodded and lifted the cape’s hood away from her neck to allow some air in.

  “Heddeston Park, the estate where our grandfather lived while he was alive, neighbors Hetford Abbey to the west,” Constance said.

  The reference to her grandfather piqued Isabel’s attention. Only a few times during her stay at Emberwilde had she heard reference to her grandfather. She could not help but wonder what the members of her extended family had been like. Had they been fair-headed like she was, and had they been feisty like her mother? Or had they been more like Aunt Margaret, set in her traditional ways?

  “Heddeston Park?” Isabel asked with a frown, trying to remember any details she may have heard about it since her arrival.

  “Yes, you are correct. Mother mentioned it to you, do you recall? Where your mother’s portrait hung all those years.”

  “ ’Tis a shame, for it’s hardly worth mentioning now,” said Aunt Margaret. She folded her hands in her lap and looked out the window. “Abandoned. A ruin.”

  “A ruin indeed!” Constance laughed. “Really, Mother. A bit neglected, perhaps, but not a ruin.”

  Isabel spied her opportunity to learn more. “Is that the home where you and my mother grew up?”

  “It is, the very one.”

  “It is one of the oldest homes in the area,” Constance added.

  “And in terrible disrepair,” Aunt Margaret repeated. “Worthless. It’s nowhere near as large as Hetford Abbey. And Hetford doesn’t begin to compare to Emberwilde.”

  “It is not as large,” said Constance, “but it is beautiful, and it is home to Drannen Gardens, well known as one of the loveliest rose gardens in all of Surrey. The weather is far too unpleasant for you to see it tonight, but perhaps another day when the weather is fine we can show it to you.”

  Aunt Margaret frowned.

  “I should like that very much.” Isabel could feel her energy returning. “But it stands empty now?”

  “Yes, which is such a pity,” mourned Aunt Margaret. “My father’s solicitor is in contact with the heir, but no one has lived there these many years.”

  Isabel struggled to keep her seat when the carriage hit a rut. “And who is the heir?”

  “No one you know,” said Aunt Margaret.

  “A distant cousin,” confirmed Constance. “You know how such estates are. They are very complicated.”

  Isabel remained quiet. No, she did not know how these things went. Not firsthand, anyway.

  But she was curious. Her mother’s home.

  She felt as if she should see it.

  “I wonder—” she began to ask.

  “Isabel,” Aunt Margaret said, much more loudly than necessary in the confines of the carriage, “I do think we should speak with Mrs. Atwell tonight about making a contribution to your efforts at the foundling home. I think she will be most interested in the efforts you and Mr. Bradford are planning, and surely she will want to support them.”

  Isabel blinked. “Y-yes, Aunt. If you think it best. Provided Mr. Bradford agrees.”

  Aunt Margaret pressed her lips into a firm line before speaking. “He need not agree.”

  Despite the rain and wind, Isabel and the Ellisons were dry when they arrived at Hetford Abbey. Large torches lit the gate, their flames lurching in the harsh elements.

  At her aunt’s bidding, Isabel returned her hood to her hair. Her excitement compounded as she saw other carriages line the drive.

  “So many people!” she exclaimed, impressed by the grandeur.

  “Oh, my dear, this is but a small gathering. I do wish we could limit this to only the people suitable for your acquaintance. But then again, it is not our gathering, is it? The Atwells are far too lenient, I believe, when it comes to their guest list.”

  Isabel looked at the house in awe. No, it was not nearly as large as Emberwilde, but it was elegant. Constructed of red brick, the home rose several stories high. Large windows blinked with warm light. A wide white portico supported by four evenly spaced columns welcomed guests, and a grand staircase ushered them inside.

  For a moment, Isabel’s amazement relieved some of her distress: her concerns for Lizzie, her loneliness for her friends at Fellsworth, her worries over her future. For at the moment, she felt excitement bubble up in her.

  Isabel followed her aunt and cousin up the grand staircase. Torchlight flickered on the gathered carriages and footmen. She followed her cousin, taking great care to make sure her behaviors and actions matched Constance’s.

  “Merciful heavens, is this Miss Creston?”

  Isabel resisted the urge to shrink back as a woman stepped forward and took her cheeks in her hands. “Oh, I would know you anywhere!”

  Her aunt motioned toward Isabel. “Mrs. Atwell, may I present my niece, Miss Isabel Creston. Isabel, this is Mrs. Atwell.”

  Before Isabel could respond, the woman
reached forward and embraced her. “You are the very image of your mother. Oh, how I do miss her! You are most welcome here, Miss Creston. Most welcome.”

  After the woman released her and more introductions were made, Isabel followed her cousin to the parlor. She met several people. The Wassons. The Tilden family. She met the Atwells’ daughter, Anne, who was Constance’s dear friend. Everything was sparkle and beauty, wealth and extravagance. But then, to her aunt’s point, there were several guests in plainer clothing. Isabel felt at turns both out of place and at ease. All around her, people chatted and laughed, and her nerves swirled and danced within her.

  When Mr. Bradford was announced, her heart fluttered as wildly as any schoolgirl’s. Now that she was here, the nerves she had experienced in the carriage were shifting to feelings of anticipation. She allowed herself to get caught up in the evening’s extravagance and excitement.

  Mr. Bradford looked around the room as if searching. Heat rushed to her cheeks when his gaze landed on her, for she had been caught staring. But his reaction calmed her. A smile tugged at his lips, and he offered a bow, their eye contact never breaking.

  He greeted Mrs. Atwell, then crossed the room to her.

  He bowed to Isabel’s aunt. “Mrs. Ellison.” Then he turned to Constance and Isabel. “Miss Ellison, Miss Creston.”

  Her head swam with all of the expectations placed upon her. The glowing candles around her were making her warm, or maybe it was Mr. Bradford’s proximity. She could feel his own warmth through her gown’s gauzy sleeve. The heat in her cheeks would not dissipate.

  It felt foreign to stand next to a man, yet pleasant. She tried to forget the thought she had of Mr. Galloway in the carriage ride over and focus on Mr. Bradford. After all, his manner was so easy, so effortless, so perfect. And he was so attentive to her.

  Aunt Margaret and Constance excused themselves, feigning the need to speak with a lady across the room.

  It was a contrived move clearly intended to leave Isabel and Mr. Bradford alone.

  But it was not as awkward as she had thought it would be, for in truth, she was growing more comfortable in his company. How could she not? And since her family deemed him safe and appropriate, why shouldn’t she?

  “I fear I owe you an apology, Mr. Bradford.”

  “Oh? I cannot imagine you doing anything for which you would need to apologize.”

  “You are too kind, but I must.” She fidgeted with the bracelet at her wrist. “For you see, you were right. About the Emberwilde Forest and my mother.”

  He seemed to sober at the mention of her mother. His smile faded, and he cleared his throat. He cast a glance over to her aunt before speaking. “You must believe me, had I known you were unaware of the situation, I would never have said a word.”

  She drew a deep breath and met his gaze. “No, you were well within your rights to bring it up. It is right that I should know the truth about my mother’s passing.”

  “How is it that you had no knowledge of it?”

  “I suppose my father thought it best to withhold the details.”

  “Regardless, I am still sorry to have been the one to tell you.”

  A loud laugh came from the foyer, and Isabel angled herself to see past Bradford.

  Coming through the door was Mr. Colin Galloway. Her heart sank, though, when she noticed a beautiful, raven-haired woman on his arm.

  And Mr. Bradford seemed to slip to the back of her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Colin stepped into Hetford Abbey’s foyer, fully—and uncomfortably—aware of the possessive hold Miranda had on his arm.

  He had arrived at this dinner with his aunt, Henry, and Miranda. As they exited the carriage, Henry assisted his aunt, and he assisted Miranda.

  Ever since he arrived at Lockert Cottage earlier that evening, Miranda had acted as if their conversation in the stable never took place. Quite the opposite was true. She was bright and poised, and yes, he had offered her his arm to assist her, but she now clung to him with assertive confidence.

  With a toss of his head he shook his hair from his face, and with his free hand he raked his fingers through the locks. He would not be rude to his cousin’s widow, but until he more fully knew his heart, he would not give her reason to hope for more.

  Within moments, however, one of Miranda’s friends called her away, and he was left to observe the room on his own. Dinners at the Atwells’ were always interesting, for the guest list never failed to include a wide range of people. Many familiar faces were in attendance, from landowners to tradesmen. It was a remarkable social mix, the sort of mix that he found most entertaining.

  In truth, however, he had come to see just one person in particular.

  Henry stepped next to him and folded his arms over his chest. “Sure is an improvement over the boardinghouse.”

  Colin could not disagree. He scanned the room as they moved from the foyer to the front parlor, seeking Ellison. He patted the found timepiece in his pocket and hoped to share it with Ellison that night, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Colin’s growing suspicions about Ellison’s potential involvement in the smuggling disturbed him. He knew a man’s moral fiber could be tested when faced with true hardship, but he did not want to think his old friend had succumbed.

  His attention shifted to a much more pleasant topic, Miss Creston. The blemish on her cheek seemed to be gone, and the smile had returned to her face. He had hoped to speak with her as well, but it would be trickier to have a conversation with her here than at the forest’s edge.

  His jaw clenched when he noticed who stood next to her.

  Bradford.

  Henry must have read Colin’s mind, for he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Seems Bradford is wasting no time. Word about town is that he is quite smitten with her.”

  Colin accepted a glass from a passing footman but did not drink from it. He turned away from the pair and surveyed the room. “Miss Creston is a beautiful woman. For all of Bradford’s faults, he is not a dimwitted man.”

  Henry followed suit and turned away as well. “Miss Creston is charming, to say the very least, but from what I have heard she hasn’t a farthing to her name. We both know Bradford is hardly a romantic. He would never marry a woman for her beauty alone. But if he is expecting her uncle to set her up with a dowry, he is sure to be disappointed.”

  Dinner was announced, and the guests began to shift. Henry’s words echoed within Colin. He had not considered Bradford from Henry’s perspective. He cast a suspicious glance back over his shoulder at Bradford, whose expression was light. Perhaps his intentions toward Miss Creston were honorable. Perhaps not. Time would tell.

  Isabel was surprised by the number of guests at the Atwells’ party.

  She was even more surprised by the dinner’s seating arrangements, for she was seated nowhere close to her aunt or cousin. No doubt the place settings had been carefully ordered so that family members could converse with other guests.

  But she had never expected to be situated between Mr. Bradford and Mr. Galloway.

  When her aunt had realized where her niece was to be sitting, she pulled Isabel aside. Her expression was severe, her tone direct. “Remember what we have discussed regarding these gentlemen, Isabel.”

  The words held a warning of sorts, but Isabel did her best to ignore her aunt’s overbearing instructions and simply enjoy her evening.

  She sipped from a crystal glass and assessed the faces around the table.

  Just down the table from her was the young woman who had arrived on Mr. Galloway’s arm. Her expression was pinched, and her lips were set in a fine line. Clearly, she was not happy about being seated so far from Mr. Galloway.

  Isabel straightened and actually found herself quite comfortable. However, the man to her left affected her in a much different way than the man to her right. Mr. Bradford praised her. Flattered her. Spoke eloquently and of lofty ideals. Mr. Galloway, on the other hand, was quiet, and she found his solemn nature int
riguing. Whereas there could be no doubt of Mr. Bradford’s esteem for her, she was not certain of Mr. Galloway’s opinion. After all, he had seen her running from the forest as if a banshee were at her heels. He had witnessed her fear over her sister riding a horse. He had endured her panic when she thought Lizzie injured.

  Whereas Mr. Bradford prattled on about nothing of importance, Mr. Galloway was silent, tall and straight in his chair. He smelled of cedarwood and the outdoors. She cast a nervous glance around the table, for she knew her aunt watched her every move.

  She studied the myriad of utensils surrounding her dishes. Normally, when faced with such an overwhelming ritual, she would simply follow her cousin’s actions. But at the moment Constance sat on the opposite side of Mr. Galloway, which made it quite difficult to see what she was doing.

  Isabel drew a breath and pitched forward slightly, attempting to nonchalantly peer past Mr. Galloway. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass herself, not with a gentleman at each elbow, nor did she want to appear rude by not partaking.

  So focused was she on her dilemma that she had not realized Mr. Galloway had ceased eating and leaned in toward her.

  “Do you need something, Miss Creston?”

  She froze. So Mr. Galloway had noticed her.

  She could not help but laugh in spite of herself. How silly, a grown woman trying to imitate the actions of another. “I fear I am about to expose one of my many faults to you, Mr. Galloway.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  She lowered her spoon. “You know I came from a very simple school. Dinners there were not nearly so complex. This silverware is lovely, do not misunderstand me, but I fear my education was geared more toward forming my moral convictions, and not so much which utensil to use when.”

  He smiled and lifted his napkin to the corner of his mouth. A good-natured chuckle emanated from him. “Is that all? If you are worried about what I think, then allow me to put your mind at ease. Believe me when I say the last thing I would notice about you is which utensil you are using.”