“Listen to me.” Her aunt’s words clipped her own, and she looked Isabel square in the eyes. “Believe me when I say that this is the very best opportunity for you at the moment. You’ve no dowry, need I remind you. We just have to wait for him to make a move on the matter. Now this conversation is over.”
Her aunt bustled from the room with more energy and enthusiasm than Isabel thought possible.
Once her aunt was gone, Isabel dropped back in the settee, pushing her forgotten needlework to the side.
Constance, who had been a quiet bystander to the interaction, leaned forward. “Do not be upset, Isabel. Please.”
“I am not upset,” lied Isabel. “It is just that I do not wish to disappoint her, and yet I do not know how it will be possible for me to make her happy.”
“And what makes you think you will disappoint her? You are putting far too much pressure on yourself. Mr. Bradford will be fond of you. He is fond of you. How could he not be?”
“You misunderstand me.” Isabel attempted to clarify. “I’ve no desire to marry right now, or anytime soon.”
A little expression of amusement crossed Constance’s face, then when she realized her cousin was not joining in the joke, she sobered. “You cannot mean that.”
Isabel fixed her eyes on her cousin. “No, I am in earnest.”
“But why?”
“I do not even know Mr. Bradford. I only know what has been told to me.”
“And is that not enough?” Constance rose to her feet. “It is true. If you do not have romantic feelings for Mr. Bradford, do not fret. They shall come. At times like this we must trust those who love us and have more experience than we do. Consider me. Left to my own devices, I would have accepted the first suitor who came along. But Mother had a much better perspective than I. I turned down the first suitor and now enjoy a much more advantageous match.”
Isabel picked up her sewing again. She did not expect Constance to understand, for this was the very situation that Constance had been preparing for her entire life. To make a match. To marry. To grasp security.
When Isabel did not respond, her cousin spoke again. “At least promise this: do not close your heart to the idea of it. I do not mean to be cruel or inconsiderate, but it is the future we must think of, and the sooner we settle the details of our future, the better it will be.”
“How can that be better?”
“Life is uncertain, Isabel. Our circumstances today may not be our circumstances tomorrow.”
Isabel nodded. Did she not know that to be true? For just several months ago she never would have imagined herself away from the school and living in such luxury. But nor would she have imagined contemplating the idea of marrying a man she barely knew to secure her future.
“I know very little about Mr. Bradford,” Isabel said. “I do not know if he prefers the color blue to the color green. If he takes sugar in his tea. I do not even know his age.”
“None of these things are important.”
“Not important?” Isabel almost choked on the words.
“I do not mean to be callous. But your situation is, well, tempestuous. You are, of course, secure at the moment. My family is your family. As long as they are living, you will never be alone. But that is just it. No one is promised tomorrow. Not a single one. So it is best that we live to protect ourselves. Have I upset you?”
“No, it is only that you must understand: I grew up fully intending to become a governess. That was my purpose, my goal. I would prefer to not be dependent upon anyone.”
“We would all like to think that, I suspect, but the truth is that we are both dependent upon others.” Her smile was kind. “Consider my Mr. Nichols, my own fiancé. He does love me, I think. At least I hope. And it is lovely that we enjoy each other’s company. But even if I did not, I would still marry him. Mother worked very hard to secure a match that would provide for me through all my years on this earth. But I am not dull-witted. If something were to happen to my dowry—if the estate were to go bankrupt or if Father would pass away, for example—the relationship would likely be severed. It is the one source of my anxiety. How I wish the wedding date were already here so I could put all such concerns behind me.”
An emotion streaked through Isabel. Was it sadness? Disbelief? She was not sure, but Constance, her confident, prepared cousin, seemed unusually vulnerable as the admission slipped from her lips.
Isabel was not sure what her response should be. Perhaps a lifetime with little had caused her to expect little. Few possessions or resources. Minimal help from those around her. The idea of marrying for survival was not new—it was imbedded in stories and newspapers. But her own cousin?
Constance spoke. “Just promise me that you will not do or say anything that will commit you permanently one way or the other.”
“Very well. But then you must promise me you will not leave me alone with Mr. Bradford tonight.”
Constance sobered. “That I cannot promise.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not agree with you in this instance.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The date of the dinner—along with the long-awaited Mr. Nichols—arrived.
As requested by her aunt, Isabel dressed in the green gown that glittered in the candlelight with her every movement. Even six months ago she would have coveted this dress and the small emerald drop necklace that encircled her neck, matching the emerald tiara that sat atop her hair.
Today she felt a little ridiculous when she considered the cost and extravagance of this dress. For not a mile away stood a modest foundling home where children were in need of books, clothes, and even food. Near her were women in such need that they would be willing to leave their babies on doorsteps, hoping that a stranger could provide for them better than they could themselves.
She frowned when she considered the number of things that could have been acquired with the funds used to purchase this gown.
As her thoughts turned to the needs of the children at the foundling home, she considered Mr. Bradford. It was impossible not to, for the two were bound together. He was always so impeccably dressed, with the finest waistcoats and most fashionable boots. But his wardrobe, stylish as it was, could not be inexpensive. Why would he choose to spend funds on such luxuries when so much was needed?
Lizzie reclined across the bed, watching as Burns finished dressing Isabel’s hair.
“You look like a princess.” Lizzie rolled to her belly and rested her chin in her hands.
If Miss Smith had been in the room, she would have reprimanded Lizzie for such unladylike posture. But Isabel enjoyed this rare moment with her sister.
“Can’t I go? Please, I will be on my best behavior.”
Isabel moved to the bed and sat next to Lizzie. “You know you can’t.”
Lizzie sighed in disgust and flopped to her back. “I know, I know. I will never be grown up enough to do anything fun.”
Isabel smiled. “You will be an adult faster than you know. You are already becoming a young lady.”
“But it is so boring here.” Lizzie toyed with the hem of her pinafore. “Do you miss Fellsworth? I do.”
Melancholy tugged. Yes, she did miss Fellsworth and the people there. But she could not verbalize that sentiment to Lizzie. “Perhaps you are forgetting how fortunate we are. Need I remind you of your beautiful new gowns? Of Caesar? We have so much to be thankful for.”
“I know, but I miss my friends,” lamented Lizzie. “I had fun playing with the girls at the foundling home, but now Aunt Margaret and Miss Smith will not let me go there anymore. It isn’t fair.”
Isabel smoothed her fingers along her sister’s hair, which was splayed over the bed.
And then a shout echoed from the distance, followed by a high-pitched rant.
Isabel startled, and Lizzie jumped from the bed and ran to the door. The child flung the door open and stuck her head out in the hall.
Curious, Isabel followed her. “Wait here,” sh
e instructed Lizzie, and without giving her a chance to respond, she stepped down the corridor.
The tirade continued, but it was so muffled Isabel could not make out the words. She came around the corner, and there stood her aunt and uncle in the hall. Aunt Margaret was already dressed for the dinner in a gown of deep sapphire blue. Pearls encircled her neck, and her pale hair was swept atop her head.
As soon as they noticed her, they stopped arguing.
Feeling horribly intrusive, Isabel withdrew. “I-I’m sorry. I did not mean to interrupt. Is everything all right?”
“All right?” shrieked her aunt. “Of course it is not all right. For your uncle has invited the Galloway men to the party tonight. To my dinner!”
Isabel pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows sympathetically in her uncle’s direction. But his eyes were fixed on his wife.
At last her uncle spoke. “Now, Margaret, calm yourself. They have been assisting me with a project for a while now, and they have done me a great service. I spoke with Mr. Colin Galloway on the matter, and he was going to pass the invitation to his cousin. It is too late to send word otherwise. Besides, I enjoy their company.”
“Enjoy their company!” Aunt Margaret shot back. “That man led your only son to the battlefield, and you say you enjoy his company?”
“That is not fair, Margaret,” combatted Uncle Charles. “You know it.”
A tear trickled down her aunt’s cheek, and her red lips trembled. “I demand you retract the invitation.”
Her uncle’s voice was firm but unwavering. “I will not. I am master of Emberwilde, and if I would like to invite a guest to dinner, then I shall do so.”
Isabel backed away. This was not her conversation, and she should not be listening to an argument between a husband and wife. But as she turned around to retreat, she could not deny the fluttering of her heart.
So Mr. Galloway was coming to the dinner.
She hated to see her aunt—or anyone, for that matter—so upset.
The arguing resumed, but as she returned to her chamber, the words grew muffled.
A gradual sense of optimism swelled within her. Perhaps this dinner would not be as unpleasant as she had thought. Her dread began to melt away, and a smile tugged her lips.
What a difference a few moments could make. For now, anticipation bloomed. She did not dread the dinner anymore.
No, she did not dread it at all.
When the hour for the meal arrived, Isabel took the servants’ stairs down to the main floor. Guests were already starting to arrive, and sounds of laughter and chatter floated to meet her. As she rounded the corner, it became clear this was to be a gathering very different from the Atwells’. No farmers or tradesmen were in attendance, only those individuals and families deemed worthy by her aunt.
Even though Isabel looked the part in her smart new gown, she could not help but feel slightly out of place. Her confidence wavered as her slippers tapped each step. The guests had gathered in the drawing room, and as she approached, Isabel scanned the room for familiar faces. But something in the foyer caught her eye.
It was her aunt and Mr. Bradford.
Isabel cast a glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching her, and could not resist pausing in the hallway long enough to hear.
Her aunt and Mr. Bradford were leaning in toward one another, but they seemed to be arguing. It reminded her of the morning at church, when she had spotted them engaged in what appeared to be a quarrel.
She held her breath in an effort to hear above the conversations leaking from the drawing room.
She could barely make out her aunt’s words above the chatter. “We are running out of time.”
“But this is quite a diversion from the plan. I’m not sure I—”
She winced as his words were muffled. What could they possibly be running out of time for?
The next snippet of the conversation came from her aunt. “I know what I know, and I am not afraid to push the matter further. Our arrangement is such that—”
Again, the words were covered.
Isabel leaned forward and ever so slightly around the corner, hoping to get another glimpse of their faces. Perhaps by doing so she could either read their words or gauge their demeanors. But as she did, Mr. Bradford looked back, and his eyes landed on her.
His face was flushed, his eyebrows drawn together. It was the most frustrated she had ever seen him. But then, as he realized it was her, his jaw slackened, and he raked his fingers through his hair.
Isabel stood her ground, despite the fact that everything in her screamed to leave the space at once.
Mr. Bradford murmured something to Aunt Margaret and then approached Isabel with determined steps.
Something was wrong, she could feel it in her very core, but she forced a sweet smile to her face, covering her suspicions with the prettiest smile she could muster. “My goodness, Mr. Bradford. Is everything all right? You and Aunt Margaret seem to be engaged in quite the conversation.”
Without a look back at Aunt Margaret, he flashed a smile at Isabel. “Oh, it is nothing that concerns you, Miss Creston.”
He drew closer to her and offered his arm. “You know how your aunt can be at times. I have vexed her, I’m afraid. But do not fret. Her grievance with me will not last.”
She placed her hand on his extended arm and allowed him to lead her into the drawing room, pretending not to notice his altered demeanor.
Shortly before dinner, Isabel was introduced to Constance’s Mr. Nichols. He arrived very late, to the irritation of both her cousin and aunt, but at least he arrived. He did not look at all like Isabel had expected. Constance spoke of him with such high praise, but he was a rather plain man who could be no taller than Constance herself. He was portly, with dark hair and eyes and a rather severe countenance. Two of his friends had unexpectedly accompanied him for the visit. To Constance’s evident disappointment, Mr. Nichols seemed more interested in his companions than in her.
Once settled in the chair she was to occupy for dinner, Isabel sipped from a crystal glass. She was, not surprisingly, seated next to Mr. Bradford, but his mood seemed more somber than normal. She assessed the faces around the table.
The Atwells were seated across from her. The Wassons were in attendance, and the vicar and his wife. And of course, Colin and Henry Galloway were both present, to her aunt’s chagrin. To Isabel’s dismay, however, she was seated as far away from the Galloways as possible.
During dinner Mr. Bradford attempted to keep her engaged in conversation, but Isabel was distracted. She could not shake the heavy sensation that pressed upon her after seeing her aunt argue with Mr. Bradford, nor could she keep herself from watching her cousin. Constance was seated next to her intended. Isabel felt sad for her, for the beauty’s cheeks were pale and she appeared a little frightened. Mr. Nichols talked with the friends who had accompanied him and paid little attention to his betrothed. Isabel thought of Constance’s nonchalant words—her fiancé did not love her. Not yet.
She could not help but compare Mr. Nichols’s actions to those of Mr. Bradford. At this point, her family considered Mr. Bradford a good match for her, and there could be little doubt that he was attracted to her. And whereas Mr. Nichols ignored his fiancé, Mr. Bradford was most attentive. But the more she was in his presence, and the more she observed how he interacted with others, the more doubts began to surface. Something about him seemed disingenuous.
She leaned forward and looked down the table. There, toward the end, was Mr. Galloway. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat when she realized that she would much prefer to sit next to the magistrate.
After dinner, the women retreated to the drawing room, but Isabel escaped to the Blue Parlor, a lesser-used room that was off her uncle’s study. She was certain she would not be disturbed there, and she needed a few moments of breathing room.
It was dark in this chamber. Quiet. No fire blazed in the grate, nor had the servants lit any of the candles
. She made her way to the settee on the far wall and sat down. Since she was alone, there was no need to keep her spine poker straight and her chin tilted elegantly into the air. She leaned against the supple cushions and relaxed as much as her stays would allow. The only care she took was to not wrinkle her gown, but she indulged in several deep breaths.
She had intended to stay only for a few moments, but she soon lost sense of the time that had passed. The sound of a voice made her bolt upright. Ready to retreat if necessary, she stood and listened for the source of the sound.
She soon realized it came from the other side of the door that connected the Blue Parlor to her uncle’s library. She recognized the voices of her uncle and Mr. Galloway. She suspended her breath and listened.
“All the contraband has been removed from the tunnels. Every last cask.”
“I am glad to hear it. It’s good to finally be rid of it. I thank you for your assistance in this matter, Galloway.”
“I am not sure it is quite time to thank me yet, Ellison.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we were clearing the cavern, we came upon an abandoned wagon. Either we scared someone off, or it is being held there for future use.”
Her uncle’s whisper was strained. “Surely they would not be so daft as to continue to track through my land, knowing they’ve been discovered.”
“It’s not quite that simple. These smuggling rings can be powerful and complicated. In all honesty, they do not care about you or the possible ramifications of discovery. All they care about is selling their wares, and once their routes have been established, they do not give them up easily. McKinney has noted two men in particular who have been at the inn a great deal as of late. I myself encountered them several nights ago and have further reason to believe that they are involved. One of the men is quite recognizable. His left hand is missing. I am beginning to suspect that the foundling home is somehow involved as well.”
Isabel’s heart thudded in her chest. He was talking about the man who had threatened her! And the foundling home. She should not be listening. There were too many secrets going on within this house. Too many things she did not need to know; nay, did not want to know.
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