Before the Scarlet Dawn (37 page)

As she listened to him speak, she envied his courage. If only she could be more like him, full of faith and vigor, not afraid to show his face in public. He refused to hide his scars. She wore hers on her sleeve.

“You are not ashamed to be seen with me?”

Surprised, he raised his brows. “Are you ashamed to be seen with a man so grossly disfigured?”

Eliza shook her head. “I do not see you in that way at all.”

“Then, there you have it.” And he stood and walked out of the room smiling.

The morning of the fair, Eliza tried to ease her worries of meeting anyone from her past. The years away would have made people forget her face. The possibility of anyone recognizing her was slim at best.

Nevertheless, she wore a wide-brimmed hat to shadow her face from curious eyes. She wore her hair up, allowing a few dark spirals to hang over her shoulder. Dressed in fawn linsey, without lace or ribbon, she took on the appearance of modesty and simplicity, which she believed Mr. Brennan would approve of.

They traveled into the meadows not more than a mile from Fairview. The road was cluttered with people from the farms and hamlets, some on foot, others in carts and wagons, with a few gentry riding in carriages. Sunshine beamed down through the trees from a cloudless blue sky, and Eliza tilted her head up to feel it pour over her. Then she looked over at Mr. Brennan and Ethan beside her. Indeed, they were a Godsend, but neither could abate the loneliness she felt for Darcy and the grief for Ilene—nor the anguish over losing Hayward.

Scattered throughout the field, artisans pitched awnings and set up their wares. Farmers stalled cows, sheep, pigs, chickens, and geese for sale. The breeze blew fragrant with the scents of freshly baked goods and bundles of lavender and sage.

As Eliza walked with Fiona, behind Mr. Brennan and son, she paused each time someone spoke to him, hanging back, until he’d turn and introduce her as his son’s governess, in case any rumors had begun to circulate after Mrs. Hart’s dismissal. She would curtsy short or nod, the brim of her hat shading her face and her violet eyes down. So far, so good, she thought. Not a single person even showed a hint of recognition.

Mr. Brennan went with Ethan to look at horses, while Eliza and Fiona chatted with the village lacemaker, who was proud to show off her latest collars. Next, they spoke with a potter over a display of porridge bowls. She looked through the crowd for Brennan. On a rise of ground several yards away, he stood next to a stall of fine chestnut ponies and was speaking with the seller. Ethan weaved in and out beneath the rope that held the horses back, and Fiona let out a moan.

“They will step on him, I just know it.” And she hurried up the slope, calling out to him to take heed of the horses. Eliza watched Fiona take Ethan by the hand and in her gentle way lead him from danger.
She treats him in the same loving way she treated Darcy. I wonder if she realizes how deeply I miss my girl.

The sun heated up the balmy day, and Eliza, a bit faint from the warmth, stepped away to stand beneath the shade of an oak tree. Children played and rolled on the grass. She watched them with an aching heart and thought of Darcy doing the same with her cousins so far away.
Darcy
—Eliza remembered her smile, her bright eyes, and how musically the word
Mama
tripped over her tongue. No one could see that she prayed in silence for her little girl, prayed that God would reunite them someday.

She wondered what Hayward had told Darcy. Her memory drifted back to that awful day when she lay sick and longing for death, when she heard him say she was going to pay for her sins, and that if Darcy did the same as her mother, she too would perish in the same manner.

It caused tears to rise, and she blinked them back. Had he told Darcy her mother would never return? She had hoped he would be kind enough to read out her letters to Darcy, but she believed Fiona when she told her he discarded each and every one.
I will ask her and insist she not spare my feelings, Lord. And if Hayward has been so cruel as to tell Darcy these things, shield her somehow from his bitter words.

When she gathered her skirts and stepped away, someone grasped her wrist from behind. She twisted back and came face to face with Langbourne. All the blood suddenly rushed from her face and she felt pale and chilled when their eyes met. Shocked, she lowered her head to keep him from seeing her face. He did not move, and she heard him draw in a long and labored breath.

“Eliza?” His grip loosened and he let her go.

“Let me pass, sir. I must join my party.” She proceeded past him. But he moved in front of her.

“Look at me.” When she did not comply, he placed his riding crop beneath her chin and lifted her face. “It is true. I wasn’t sure when I first saw you. But now to look into your eyes again after so many years, I know it is you, Eliza.”

Her pulse raced and she trembled while forced to look at him. He had grown older, the lines on his face deeper, a hint of gray at his temples. Yet his expression held the same mix of pain and pleasure at beholding her.

She smacked the riding crop away. “You are mistaken.”

“I would know you anywhere, having burned your image into my mind. I did not expect to ever see you again.”

Persistent, he stepped closer, and she moved back. “I am amazed. I must say, for all these years you have not grown older. You are still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.” Then he laughed. “But what courage you must have learned living in the wilderness.”

“You mock me, sir.”

“Do I? You do not see it as a form of flattery?”

“I do not.”

“I would say you should.”

“I suppose you have learned everything, and that by now I am considered an outcast. So why should you even speak to me?”

He looked through the crowd. “So where is Hayward?”

“He did not write to his mother?”

“Not that I know of. Where is he? Did his dream in America fail?”

“He is not here.”

Looking surprised, Langbourne gasped. “Why not?” She did not answer. “Ah, I see. He sent you back without him. I knew it would not last.”

“I do not wish to speak of it. I must go.”

She took a step, and he stopped her again. “I strove to rid myself of every memory of you, Eliza. But I never could. Would that not be the ultimate revenge: to win you, to marry you, and let Hayward know of it?”

She bit her lower lip. “I cannot listen to you. Let me go. Or I shall call out.”

He looked in the direction of her eyes. “To Mr. Brennan?”

“I am his son’s governess.”

“Indeed? What a dull life it must be. Hayward separates from you, and you come back here and live as a servant? Are you not in the least ashamed?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Brennan kindly offered me a position, and I took it. I cannot starve.”

“If you had wedded me instead of Hayward, you would not be in danger of ever starving.” Langbourne’s smug expression vanished. “Allow me to end all this, Eliza. My offer still stands. You are married still, but you can come and live with me.”

“As your mistress!” She snatched her hand away when he reached for it. “You think I would accept such an offer?”

“I think you will as you have time to think about it. You can find me at Havendale. It is mine, you know. The old gentleman passed, and as he promised, he left all his estate to me. I’m a wealthy man. Think on it, Eliza.”

“I will not give it a moment’s thought.”

“You are not considering an affair with Brennan, are you? He is much too old, ugly, and, as I hear, committed to Christ morally. He’d throw you out if you made an attempt to tempt him.”

“He is all you say. A good man, unlike you. Mr. Brennan is more a father to me than anything.”

“Then I’m sure he would appreciate my offer to you.”

He gave her an arrogant bow, held her eyes a moment, and stepped away. A group of women had gathered nearby and fixed their eyes on her. Mrs. Hart stood among them, her stare sour. What had her gossipy tongue reported to them? Had they heard the conversation between Eliza and Langbourne? Or had they stood there observing this unexpected meeting?

She glanced away, then walked from beneath the tree and out into the sunshine. Just then, someone called out, “Strumpet! Letch!” Then a wad of mud struck her in the face.

Cold and wet, the mire trickled down her bruised cheek to her throat and onto the edge of her bodice. Stunned and hurt, Eliza lifted her hand and wiped the mud away. Tears pooled in her eyes, and through her blurred vision, she saw Mr. Brennan and Fiona hurry toward her. When they reached her, Brennan put his arm around her, not as a lover would, but as would a shepherd, guarding his sheep.

“Such a disgrace, the lot of you. You dare pick up the first stone and throw it at her? Are you so righteous you have no sin of your own to prevent you?” The women looked at him, shamefaced. But Mrs. Hart raised her chin in defiance.

Brennan set Eliza behind him. “You there, Mrs. Brown, cast the next one. And what about you, Mrs. Garforth? Go on, all of you, pick up more mud and throw it at her, and at me as well. I am not without blame or sin.”

“You have done wrong, Mr. Brennan,” one woman cried. “That woman is married, cast off by her husband, and you have her under your roof teaching your son.”

“You know nothing about her,” he said.

“We’ve all heard why she’s come here. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Hart?” Mrs. Brown turned to the expelled housekeeper.

Brennan drew himself up. “If it were a sin on my part to bring her in out of the cold, to give her food and warmth, to show kindness for one whose heart is broken, then so be it. But mind what you say, for it may come back on you sevenfold.”

A man of considerable stature stepped beside the women and glared. Then he looked over at Brennan and his charges. “Good day to you, Mr. Brennan.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Hart.”

“ ’Tis fine material, this is, for a sermon, I’d say. And you could include it with a lecture on
thou shalt not steal.
” Hart—a hardworking carpenter and a man of good reputation— scowled down at his wife. His heavy, dark brows compressed above his sharp brown eyes as he placed his hands on his wife’s petite shoulders.

Mrs. Hart went red in the face. “You take their side?”

“I do, woman. You’ve no right throwing mud at that lady or speaking so low to Mr. Brennan. If you do it again, you’ll be down in it. Now go home.”

Soon the crowd dispersed. Brennan handed Eliza his handkerchief, and she patted it over her soiled cheek. “It is all over, Eliza,” he said. “Let us, too, go home.”

He took her by the hand and led her to the wagon, where he helped her and Fiona up alongside Ethan. He had bought a small brown pony for Ethan, and had hitched him to the rear so as to lead him home.

Ethan tugged on his father’s sleeve. “Can’t I ride him home, Papa?”

“Not without a saddle, my son. It is important to be secure in all things.”

Fiona rattled away about “those women getting their just deserts, the meddling no-goods.” But it was Hayward’s words that came back to haunt Eliza.
Your reputation has preceded you.

35

W
hen they arrived back at Fairview, the windows stood open to a dusky sunset and the curtains stirred in a bittersweet breeze. Upon entering the foyer, with all the shades and hues of a day that was drawing swiftly to a close, she excused herself to Mr. Brennan, went up the staircase to her room, shut the door, and turned the brass key in the lock.

She tugged on the ribbon beneath her chin, pulled it loose, removed her hat, and tossed it onto the chair. In the looking glass, she saw the red-clay stain on her gown and the streaks on her cheek and throat.

The pitcher on the table had enough water left to wash off the dirt and the stains, and she poured it into the blue and white china bowl. She dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it, and ran it over her skin. Her hands shook with each stroke. If only she could wash away the stains on her soul, especially the ones others knew about, and be someone else.