Before the Scarlet Dawn (35 page)

“Care for her well, Mrs. Hart. And whatever she needs, I shall provide,” he said.

“Yes, sir. But let us hope she is not a gypsy that will rob us. You should be more cautious.”

“I cannot help it. She seems a lost soul who has been through much.”

When Eliza came around the top of the stairs to a long hallway, she glanced over the railing to see him standing downstairs. He looked up at her, concerned. Their eyes met. He hesitated a moment and then stepped away.

Sunlight poured through filmy curtains and alighted on Eliza’s face. The warmth, the sensation of light, woke her. Mrs. Hart sat in a spindle chair near the fire. Her hands were busy with a pair of knitting needles, and she paused in her work to look over at Eliza.

“Well, you are awake at last.”

“How long have I slept?”

“Two days. You were bone weary when you came to us. It’s a miracle Mr. Brennan found you, else you would have caught your death of cold and died out there. We had a biting rain, you see, and the wind had been howling all day. Not fit for man or beast. But Mr. Brennan takes his daily walk in all kinds of weather. I can’t say how surprised I was when he rushed through the front door with you in his arms, dripping wet and looking like a vagabond.”

She went on knitting. Eliza tried to absorb all she had said. “Whose house is this?”

“Mr. Brennan’s, of course. Don’t you know Fairview?”

Eliza shook her head. “No.”

“It belonged to his cousin, George Brennan, whom I served for many years. He passed on, God rest his soul, and Mr. Brennan inherited the estate. And a good thing, too, having had no real home of his own.”

A moment, and she set the needles and wool on her lap. “He has suffered much in his life, and has had losses no one should. But I shall not tell you of them. If he wants you to know, then he’ll tell you all about it. I will say that Fairview has been a haven for him. It has been a house that draws the wayward, the lost, and the brokenhearted. Like you, miss. You were lost, and now you’re found.”

Mrs. Hart wiggled her head, as if to indicate she had seen many a stranger come and go. The door opened, and in stepped Mr. Brennan. “Leave us, Mrs. Hart, if you please.”

After Mrs. Hart had gathered her knitting basket and shut the door, Mr. Brennan took hold of the chair and drew it up to the bedside. Eliza pulled the covers up closer to her chin.

“I take it the rest you’ve had has improved you.” He cleared his throat. “If you wish to tell me your story, I will listen. I am not judge or jury. I only wish to help you, if you will let me.”

His kindness warmed her. The expression in his eyes was unlike Hayward’s. His were stern, aloof, and often stoic, whereas this man had a light within his eyes that came from his soul, an unearthly brightness that burned deep, not for her as a woman, but for her as a fellow human being. It seemed to Eliza that Brennan looked upon, or rather sought her heart— her true self.

“Someone has hurt you,” he said. “I can tell your pain is great. That is why you ran away. Am I right?”

“My pain is my own, sir. I will not burden you or anyone else with it.”

“Well, I’ll have Mrs. Hart bring you up a tray. You must be very hungry.” He stood to leave.

“Please, do not go. I take back what I said. Let me talk to you now. And when I am finished, if you wish me gone, I shall go immediately. But first call your wife, so I may speak to her first.”

Sorrow suddenly flinched over his face. “I have no wife— not now. It’s been many years ago. She died.”

“I am sorry. I should not have asked . . .”

“A fire took her, one night three years ago. We had a fierce storm. Lightning struck the roof and ignited it. I tried to save her and our little girl, but I failed. My son and I are what is left of our little family.”

“How terrible. I know how it feels to lose someone, but not in that way. Is that the reason for your . . . ?”

He nodded. “Scars? Ugly, are they not? They have been my cross to bear and a constant reminder of that awful night every time I look in the mirror or see my reflection in a window. As for Emily, I know she waits for me in Heaven. God has given me a great deal of comfort in that knowledge.”

Eliza regarded Mr. Brennan. Indeed, his life had been tragic. To lose the one you love and a child in such a way would have caused her to go out of her mind. She wondered how he had survived such excruciating pain. Barely was she able to carry the grief of losing Ilene, and then her separation from Darcy.

He sat still and looked down at his clasped hands. She noticed he still wore his wedding band.

“You speak of Heaven. I wish you had left me to die. My parents and my child are there.”

Brennan frowned and lifted her away from the pillows by her shoulders. “Do not ever wish for that, even when you miss them. Life is a gift, no matter what you have been through. And think of the others who would be hurt by your death. Wishing for it is a selfish thing.”

She gazed into his troubled eyes, saw the gentle nature of the man as well as the pain he lived with. Her eyes filled, and she gasped. “I am just so . . . alone.” She fell against his shoulder, and he allowed her to cry. When she realized a stranger held her, she pulled away and briskly wiped her face dry.

“You must tell me who you are. You understand, don’t you?” He stood and went to the door. “I will be downstairs in my study.”

After the latch on the door had clicked shut and his footfalls had faded away, she climbed from the bed and dressed. Yes. She would tell him. She had to tell someone.

32

T
he door to Mr. Brennan’s study stood open a few inches, enough for Eliza to see him at his desk working and to know she was welcomed. He wore spectacles, and when he sensed her presence, he looked up from the books before him, pulled off his glasses, and stood.

“Please. Come inside.” He stepped away from his desk. “You might find it a bit austere in here, but I haven’t had . . . there is no . . .”

“I understand,” Eliza said. “But it is pleasant room. You have a magnificent view.” She crossed the room to a large bay window. Beyond it she admired the green fields dotted with sheep, and the line of thick forest in the distance. The sunlit blue sky hung cloudless.

“Indeed.” He joined her. Then he turned to her, and she to him. “Now, tell me who you are. I must call you by some name.”

She sat down in the window seat, her hands clasped. “My name is Eliza.”

He bowed short. “A lovely name. I had an aunt named Eliza. And what brought you to the fields near my house?”

“I was sent here.” She went on to explain. Eliza hung her head. “I had no idea my husband would do such a thing.”

“So you are abandoned here. You cannot go to his mother, for no doubt she will have nothing to do with you. But if you wish it, I shall write to her.”

“I am afraid that would do no good. But I thank you.” She looked at him as he stood in the light of the window. “Part of me wants to conceal my story. But if I could tell someone, it might help.” Though he was a stranger, she felt she could trust Mr. Brennan and that he would aid her in any way he could.

He sat in the chair across from her. “Where does your mother-in-law live?”

“Havendale.”

Instantly he lifted his hand away from his chin. “Havendale? I am familiar with that estate. I ministered there, at Saint Anthony’s.”

Shocked, Eliza felt her mouth drop open, and she gasped. “Then you are the clergyman who took my father’s place. He was Matthias Bloome.”

Equally surprised, Brennan scooted to the edge of his chair. “Yes. I came there after his passing. You were gone by then. I can hardly believe it.”

“And you, your wife, and five children came to live there with you. This is quite amazing, Mr. Brennan.”
Oh, his loss. Again he has been reminded. But where are the other four children?

“You were told wrong, Eliza. Emily and I arrived with two children—I left with one—my son. The vicarage was destroyed in the fire. We stayed briefly with a few kind parishioners, but then I received word that my cousin, George Brennan, had left his estate to me. I am raising my son here and God willing shall see him fully-grown. Although I have no pulpit to preach from, and have retired from the church, I am able to devote myself to my studies and to give aid to those in need— like you.”

Eliza shook her head. “I am so amazed I can hardly speak, sir.”

“It is a miracle, I would say.”

Eliza clenched her hands. He, a retired clergyman, should not have a person like her in his house. “I shall leave once you have heard my story.”

“You are free to go if you wish it. But I insist you stay until you are strong enough. Now, tell me about your life, dear girl. What brought you so much sorrow, and why did your husband cast you aside?”

She bent her head and stood silent. While she rallied her courage, Brennan stared at her intently. She then poured out the course of her life, from meeting Hayward on the moor; to her journey and life at River Run; about her dear Darcy, Ilene, Fiona, and Sarah; and then Halston and her
fall from grace.

Before he could prevent her, she collapsed back onto the window seat near where she had stood, and laid her head in her folded arms. Her whole frame trembled, and her tears were silent. He bade her rise, but she could not.

A few minutes went by, and then Eliza sat up and wiped her face with the back of her hand. Brennan stood at an arm’s distance, his face etched sharply with concern. “You need have no fear of being cast from this house. I shall pray the Lord gives you the peace you need.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Brennan. I did not mean to cry.”

“You miss those you love. It is understandable.”

“God has a right to punish me for what I have done.”

“And He has the right to forgive all of our sins, no matter how great or how small. Do you believe this?”

No one had asked her that before. “Yes . . . I think for the first time I do.”

“Then you must forgive yourself. I believe God has led you to Fairview for a purpose. Do not answer me now, but would you be willing to be a governess to my son? I had thought of sending him away to school, but I cannot bear the idea of him gone. I will pay you, of course, not much, but a bit for you to put by. And you will have food and lodging. And then . . . if we find a way whereby you may be with your daughter, you will have all you need to accomplish that.”

Brennan leaned toward her. “Ah, I see you are contemplating the offer. Perhaps you should meet my son.” The door drifted open, and a boy with straight brown hair poked his head around the corner. “Come in, Ethan. Meet our guest.”

Eliza thought him a handsome lad. His dark brown eyes looked straight into hers as he walked inside and stood near his father. He held out his hand and shook Eliza’s.

“This is my son, Ethan.” Brennan laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“How do you do, Ethan? You have a firm grip for a boy your age.”

“Thank you, Miss Eliza,” he said. “You were lost, and father found you?”

A quick glance at Mr. Brennan, and she smiled for the first time in many days. “It is true, Ethan. I had lost my way. But I think I may have found it again.”

33

D
ays turned into weeks, weeks into months. But the anguish of Hayward’s rejection and her separation from Darcy stayed with Eliza with every sweep of the clock’s hands. At night, with her head upon the pillow and her eyes fixed on the ceiling above her, she prayed fervently for them both—and for Fiona and Sarah. When dawn broke and light streamed through the window, she’d wake with an aching heart. But Ethan gave her solace, and she poured herself into her new role. Mr. Brennan promised to pay her fifteen pounds annum, which was all he could afford, along with a roof above her head for the rest of her natural life if she desired it.

Winter days were short. In the evenings, she joined Mr. Brennan and Ethan at the dinner table, and read to them by the fire afterwards until it was time for Ethan to go to bed. Then she would leave Mr. Brennan alone with his thoughts and memories. A deep friendship had formed between them, and soon she would sit with him for an hour or more and they would talk of various things.