Before the Scarlet Dawn (7 page)

“Wait,” said Fiona in a low voice. “You cannot be too sure. Ask who it is first. It could be robbers.”

Wise words, Eliza agreed. “Who is there?” she called out. “What is it you want?”

“A messenger, ma’am, from Mr. Hayward Morgan.”

Setting the candle down, Eliza drew back the bolt and peered outside. On the doorstep stood the boy who had taken her horse the day she went to Havendale.

“Sorry to wake you. But he says it’s important, and waits in his carriage to speak to you.”

“Tell Mr. Morgan I shall meet with him.”

“Eliza?” said Fiona.

“Shh. Mr. Hayward has come all this way in the middle of the night, and it would be discourteous of me to send him away.”

With a nod, the boy hurried back to the carriage, where he leaned up and spoke through the window. Eliza snatched her cloak off the hook and swung it over her shoulders. Fiona looked worried. “Do not be anxious for me,” Eliza said. “Wait here by the door.”

She paused on the threshold to gather her courage and to calm the swift beating of her heart. Had he come to tell her he had changed his mind and wanted her? It had to be. Why else would a man go to such trouble so late at night? Eager, she stepped outside, with her hands hoisting her gown away from the dirt in the road. She walked past the horses to the carriage door. The boy opened it and moved aside.

Hayward held out a petitionary hand. “Will you sit inside with me a moment so we may speak?” This time his voice lacked condescension; it held a tone that said he hoped she would follow his request. “We must speak alone, you and I.”

He is taking me away to America with him.
She lifted her chin. “I am already prepared to leave upon your father’s demand. Has he sent you to rush me out earlier than requested.”

His eyes glowed in the moonlight when he leaned forward. “Come inside and I will explain.”

Eliza took Hayward’s hand, climbed in, and sat opposite him. Darkness lay within the compartment, but still she could make out his eyes, and then his face, as the light from the coach lamps slipped through the window.

She drew back her hood, allowing her ebony locks to gently fall forward. She saw the sudden warm glimmer in his eyes and knew there would be no prejudice on his part or hindrance to what he had to say.

“Ever since the day you came to Havendale and offered to leave with me, my mind has not let go of it.”

His description of her proposal chafed her. “I offered to leave with you only as your wife. If you have come to suggest something different, you are wasting your time.”

Hayward drew back, looking stunned. “I have not forgotten your exact words, madam. I understood you meant marriage. I have fought the idea, but I must confess to you that I admire, dare I say adore you, though it has been from afar these years.”

Somewhat jubilant at his confession, Eliza held back, uncertain whether to believe him or not. This time she decided not to be so anxious. “I see. For years, you say?”

“Yes. I never imagined telling you, but I left you standing in the hall alone. I was very rude to you. No woman has ever stood up to me as you did. Nor has one made as much sense.”

“And you came all this way in the middle of the night to tell me this?”

“There is more to why I have come. That was just the preamble.”

“The rest?”

“I am leaving Havendale—tonight. I will be aboard a ship bound for America within the week. I am never coming back.”

Never?
The very word pricked her. “That is a pity. You have only been back such a short while. But it comes as no surprise to me. You made it clear you would be leaving. And so you should, now that you have land and . . .”

He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “Eliza, stop talking.”

The silence grew taut, and she wished she could turn into his arms. But she moved to the door and held out her hand. “I wish you well. Goodbye.”

The second she put her hand on the latch to open the door, Hayward clapped his hand over hers and pulled her close. “Not goodbye. Not if you meant what you said before.”

The warmth of his hand in hers and his nearness to her caused her breath to quicken. “I do not lie. I meant every word.”

His eyes locked onto hers. “For love alone?”

She lowered her gaze. “You may not understand, but it is true.”

“But I do not feel as you do. I have no idea what it means to be in love, the way women describe it. I can love you for your beauty, for your passion for life, but a man does not feel as deeply as a woman.”

He does not know, Lord, that what he says is wrong. Show him, please, what love means.

“So despite that, will you have me as I am, Eliza, and come away with me? I think it would solve both our problems.”

Her mouth parted, but she could not get the words out.

“It will be a difficult life at first—far different from here,” he said. “I am willing to accept you as my wife, if you are willing to accept the kind of life I offer you and make no demands on me in the way of lavish living. Though I have money, I must be frugal.”

She lifted her eyes, her conviction growing stronger. “I am willing. I am convinced of my course.”

“There is something else you need to know before saying yes. My father will denounce me when he learns I have married you.”

“But the banns will be posted and he will know beforehand.”

“Not if we leave tonight and go to Gretna Green.”

“Scotland?”

“It will be a long journey. But we can marry without the restrictions of English laws.”

“In God’s eyes?”

“In God’s eyes . . . Once, I would have agreed with my father that you are not a suitable wife for me due to your class, but then you have come back to haunt my thoughts day and night. Among all the women I have known, I have not met one with your determination or courage.”

“I thank you for the compliment. But your mother? I cannot help but think of the heartbreak this will cause her, the pain of being separated from you. She is acquainted with such, I believe.”

“Ah, I see. You are thinking of my half brother leaving England to seek his fortune. Though I seriously doubt he shall find it as a botanist.”

“With you gone, your mother will have no one.”

“Indeed, she will be grieved that I follow in Will’s footsteps. But time will mend her sorrow. She has practically forgotten her firstborn . . . She will forget me as well.”

Bewildered that this could happen, Eliza said, “I cannot hurt her.”

He drew her close. “You are hurting no one.”

“Then promise you will try to make things right with your father. You must ease their disappointment somehow.”

“I am not accustomed to a woman telling me what to do. But if it pleases you, I shall write to them and explain everything. But there is no guarantee things will change.”

“Well, at least you would have tried. I would have thought your father would be proud of the accomplishment you have made in America. Perhaps in time, he will be.” For a moment she looked deeply into his eyes. “You are certain, beyond all doubt, you want me as your wife? You will hold to me and no other for the rest of your life?”

“I am a man of my word, Eliza. I take seriously this matter of marrying you.” He gently kissed her cheek. Up to this point, she had been only hopeful, not fully persuaded—not until this expression of tender emotion.

“It is exciting to think of beginning a new life in a new land, is it not?”

Eliza smiled. “Yes.” She poked her head out. “We are leaving to marry, Fiona.”

Wide-eyed, Fiona quickly turned back inside the house. Moments later, and breathless from rushing about, she reappeared on the doorstep with their belongings in hand, dressed with a cloak of old gray wool over her shoulders. “Good thing we were already packed and ready to go, my girl. I hope I have not forgotten anything.”

“Quick, Fiona,” Hayward said, stepping out and striding to his horse. “If you intend to come with us, then close the door behind you and climb inside.”

7

T
he first scarlet glimmer of dawn crept over the treetops as Eliza opened her eyes. She had dreamt she was back at the vicarage, her father quietly preparing a sermon by the fire in his study. He looked at her over his steel spectacles and smiled, closed his books, and then walked from the room. She followed him, saying, “I am to be Hayward Morgan’s wife, Papa.” He turned with the Holy Scriptures tucked beneath his arm and smiled. Then the dream ended. She took comfort in it, that he would approve of her choice of husband.

Now that she was awake to the real world, her emotions surged within her—joy one moment, trepidation prickling over her skin the next. They had gone some distance, changing coaches, and making headway over the road northward. She stretched her limbs as best she could inside the cramped carriage. Sound asleep, Fiona’s head nodded against her chest in time with the horses’ quick steps and the roll of the wheels over roads both smooth and rough. She snored loudly, and Eliza stifled a laugh.

Hayward!
She peered out the window. He rode upon his horse toward the rear, and lifted his hand. She waved back and smiled lightly, her heart trembling in her breast. He must be weary, having been in the saddle all through those dark hours with only the moon and coach lamps to guide his mount over the lonely road north.

The sun brightened. The moon descended, and the day drew on. They crossed the River Sark on the toll road near to sunset. Candles burned in the windows, and a narrow walkway made of pebbles went from the road to Joseph Paisley’s marriage shop.

“I have no wedding clothes,” said Eliza, when Hayward dismounted and approached the coach door. “Does it disappoint you?”

“Not at all. You are beautiful as you are.”

The blush in Eliza’s cheeks deepened, and she gazed into his intent eyes. “Indeed, wedding clothes would have been a frivolous waste of money,” she said, hoping to please him. The gown she wore had been new by a few months, pretty, made of soft brown linen over a white chemise. And when she saw how he cast his eyes over her bodice as it peeked through her cloak, she knew he accepted her as she came to him.

She woke Fiona, and they stepped out into the pale morning light. Eliza held the hand Hayward offered. Her eyes followed the straight line of the path that led to an oaken door. “We shall not wed in a church?”

He leaned closer. “ ‘Where there are two or three gathered in my name, there I am in the midst of you.’ Remember?”

She nodded. With anticipation stirring within her, she watched him push open the door and step inside.

“I am doing the right thing, Fiona. Hayward and I belong together, and I will follow him wherever he may go.”

Fiona looped her arm through Eliza’s. “Mr. Morgan is a fortunate man to gain a wife who loves him as you do.”

“I am the one who is fortunate to have such a man. He is as strong as he is brave.”

“Do not discount your own bravery, my girl. Your willingness to leave England and live with him in an unknown land is more than most would ever agree to.”

“Yes, and you are just as courageous to come with me. Ah, but my heart trembles for him.”

“Why?”

“He has yet to feel the pangs of true love, nor the passion and devotion that comes with it.”

She watched him turn and hold his hand out to her. She lifted her skirts and hurried forward. The
priest
, as Joseph Paisley was called, greeted them warmly in a heavy Scottish accent. His wispy hair was brushed over his ears. A fleshy, large man, his collar hugged his ample neck. His eyes were large and misty, his cheeks ruddy.

He stood with his legs wide apart, his Anglican prayer book tucked beneath his beefy arm, his gaze upon Eliza as she walked inside. A petite woman came through a side door, dressed in a homespun gown of a shade matching her light russet hair, and stepped up beside the anvil that stood between Mr. Paisley and them.

“Who comes to murry?” said Paisley.

Hayward moved forward with Eliza. “Hayward Morgan of Havendale and Miss Eliza Bloome—Derbyshire.”

“Did ye come of yer own free will, Miss Bloome?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“And who is witness to this union?”

Fiona stepped from behind the couple. “I am, sir.”

Eliza placed her hand in Hayward’s, and he closed his fingers over hers. They were warm and strong, and unwilling to let go. The vows were read and repeated, and Paisley struck his anvil. “God be wi’ ye! Yer murried!”

Hayward turned Eliza to face him. With shining eyes, he looked down into hers, and placed his hands on each side of her face.

“Kiss h’r, man.” Paisley gave him a little nudge on his shoulder. “What are ye waitin’ fer?”

And so Hayward bent his head and tenderly kissed Eliza. No man had touched her lips before. He was the first, and she vowed he would be the last. For all her goodness and faith, could she ever conceive of breaking her vows?
Never.
Could she fall if he neglected her, hurt her, or failed to reach the heights of love?
Never
, she repeated in her mind.