Dawn at Emberwilde (10 page)

It was a sobering—and personal—contemplation.

Colin's own parents and siblings had died when he was two in a fire on their nearby estate, leaving him alone in the world. But unlike this child, his abandonment had not been by choice. Fortunately, his aunt Lydia and uncle Richard opened their home to him. His cousins, Henry and William, had become like brothers to him. The family loved him. Taught him. Cared for him. Treated him as their own.

This poor child may never have the same good fortune.

He approached the cottage gate, taking a moment to study the modest dwelling. The thatched roof and white exterior were burned into his memory. He could call every detail to mind at any time, from the beams that ran across the front to the shutters that flanked the window.

This was a visit he made nearly every day. Ever since his uncle died three years prior, either Colin or his cousin Henry would visit daily to see to the home's maintenance and assist his aunt with tasks that she or her aging staff could not tend to themselves. She had invited both men to live with her at Lockert, but William's widow, Miranda, already lived there with her son, Charles, and Colin and Henry kept odd hours.

Colin opened the gate and passed through, careful not to let the basket hit the stone sidewall. The sound of laughter rang from the cottage's far yard, then a black-haired boy came running around the corner.

“Uncle Colin!”

Charles flew with all the energy his small frame could muster. “I didn't know you were coming so early!”

Colin could not help the laugh that escaped him as the boy rushed him, his curly hair flopping about his face as he ran, his cheeks flushed pink. How the boy reminded Colin of William when he had been a boy. Dark hair, laughing eyes, and a smattering of freckles.

“What's in the basket?” Charles asked, stopping abruptly a few
feet away, but then he quickly changed his own subject. “Have you come to take me fishing?”

Colin adjusted the basket in his hands. “I wish I could, but not today.”

The boy pouted. “But why not? It isn't raining, and Mother never lets me go alone. Not ever.”

Colin was about to respond when a feminine voice interrupted.

“Who's there, Charles?”

The voice, familiar as it was, still had the power to stop him in his path, derail his mind of whatever it was previously focused on.

There, in the threshold, stood William's widow, Miranda Galloway.

She was every bit as lovely as she had ever been. The sun's white morning light highlighted her glossy black hair, and her eyebrow arched with an air of entitled amusement. Even in her practical dress of pale blue and a woven apron, she managed to present herself as attractive.

He held eye contact with Miranda for but a second before turning his attention back to Charles and rustling his fingers through the boy's hair.

This was the time of the visits he always lamented. One would have thought the span of nearly a decade sufficient time to erase poignant feelings and emotions.
Time may help the mind erase past wrongs; the heart is another matter entirely,
he thought.

Miranda swept toward him in the cottage courtyard, bringing with her the scent of lavender—a sickening-sweet scent that she had worn since adolescence.

A scent he had grown to despise.

“Colin,” Miranda exclaimed, as if his presence were a wonder as opposed to an everyday occurrence. “What a pleasure. We weren't expecting you this morning.”

“I had a bit of an unexpected surprise. Is my aunt at home?”

“How intriguing. Of course she is here. She is in the kitchen with Cook discussing the day's meals.” Her gaze fell on the basket. “So you've a surprise, do you?”

Without invitation she leaned toward it and pulled back the cloth. “A baby! How lovely! Wherever did it come from?”

He drew his breath in preparation to respond, but to his relief, his aunt appeared on the front threshold, her timing, as usual, impeccable.

She crossed the yard, wiping her hands on her apron. “Colin, you're early! I saw you from the window.” She stepped forward, but then stopped when she saw the baby. Instead of sharing in her daughter-in-law's amusement, she drew her eyebrows together in concern. “Merciful heavens. Another one?”

Colin nodded, pulling the blanket back farther. “She was left at the Holden farm last night.”

Aunt Lydia frowned. “Such a pity. And such a beautiful babe too.”

She reached for the baby and lifted her from the basket with the ease of a longtime mother, and she clicked her tongue in a soothing manner and gently rocked the child from side to side.

With her presence, the tension in Colin's shoulders subsided. He could deal with hoodlums and vagabonds all day long, but babies were beyond him.

“Are you going to take her to the foundling home?” Aunt Lydia asked, adjusting the child in her arms.

He shrugged. “I see no other option.”

“She needs to eat. And no doubt her clothing could stand to be changed. Why, she is in nothing but rags! This will not do.”

“Would you care to accompany me to the home? I think she prefers your arms to this basket.”

“Of course she does. What child likes to be in a basket? Why,
the idea! And yes, I shall accompany you.” She turned to Miranda. “You can go over the menu with Martha, right? I won't be long. I will get my cape and be back presently.”

His aunt put the child in Colin's arms. Initially he stiffened, but for the first time, as he held the child, she did not protest.

The tension in his arms began to slacken, and he let the baby rest against the wool fabric of his coat.

Miranda cut her chocolate eyes to him. “I must say, you appear very natural with a child in your arms.”

He did not meet her gaze. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the wee babe's head.

Perhaps Miranda could dismiss the history that separated them and could pretend as if the betrayal had never happened.

He could not.

“If you would be so kind, please tell my aunt I will wait for her by the gate.”

He saw the flash of disappointment on Miranda's face before he turned to the road. He knew what she wanted—to erase the cloak of time.

But what she should not forget was that he knew her too well.

Chapter Nine

T
he following morning Aunt Margaret remained true to her word—the ladies of Emberwilde embarked for a short journey to the foundling home. Isabel had hoped for a quiet day to allow her and Lizzie to get their bearings in the sprawling house, but perhaps it was best not to have too much time for solitary contemplations.

If she were honest, the thought of encountering Mr. Bradford once more intrigued her. Their interactions the previous day had been limited, but something in his manner put her at ease. Instead of allowing her mind to be engulfed in some of the heavier thoughts pressing her, she resolved to enjoy the morning.

Once in the carriage, Isabel sat next to Lizzie and across from Constance. They were waiting on Aunt Margaret, who was engaged in a conversation with the housekeeper.

As they waited, Constance leaned forward as if taking Isabel into confidence. “Mother is quite proud of the foundling home and the endeavors associated therein, as you will see. She devotes a great deal of her spare time to it. It is quite close. The building is on Emberwilde's property. Mother and Father donated the use of the building to the cause, and they continue to provide a great deal of financial support. Of course, Mr. Bradford is responsible for the institution, but he relies on Mother's expertise.”

Isabel fidgeted with the cuff of her gown and looked back at Emberwilde, wondering what expertise her aunt could have with a foundling home. After all, her aunt was a privileged woman, and had been since the day she was born.

Her cousin continued. “Mother pours a great deal of consideration into it. Especially now that I have a successful match, I think it is a way she manages to occupy her time. Without it I think she would be driven to distraction.”

“That is very kind of her to spend her time in such a fashion,” noted Isabel.

“She did say that she is most interested in your take on the facility. After all, did you not come from a situation similar to a foundling home?”

Isabel cast a glance down at Lizzie to see if she was listening to the conversation, but her sister's attentions were fixed on a horse being led across the yard. She looked back to Constance. “No. Not exactly. We were at a school.”

“I see.” Constance leaned back and adjusted the white glove on her hand in a manner that suggested she did not see the difference.

In this new, opulent world that now surrounded her, it would be nice to return to something more humble, more like what she was used to, even if for a short visit. Emberwilde was beautiful, but Isabel had been there only one morning and was already wondering how she was going to pass the long afternoon hours. Perhaps with the foundling home in such close proximity she could offer her assistance in some way.

At length Aunt Margaret joined them. Obvious care had been taken in her preparations. She was dressed in a gown of pristine brocade the color of cornflowers and trimmed in gold beadwork. A white fichu was tucked into the bodice and framed her neck elegantly. An ornate bonnet with flowers and feathers covered her silver curls. As Isabel was assessing her aunt's gown, she could sense her aunt assessing her own black dress. The corners of her aunt's mouth turned downward.

Once her aunt had settled into the carriage, she leaned forward and placed her hand on Isabel's arm. “Do not be uneasy about your
appearance, pet. For I have already sent word to the dressmaker to come to us as soon as possible to have you and your sister fitted for new gowns.”

The comment amused Isabel. “I am not uneasy, Aunt. I am quite comfortable with this attire.”

“But to be in such somber colors while not in mourning? It is not to be tolerated. You are far too young for such a hue. Youth deserves beauty, and in my humble opinion, a lady with your gentle complexion should be in soft colors.”

The ride to the foundling home was very short. In fact, it seemed silly that they went to the trouble of taking the carriage, for the building was just on the other side of the large iron gate that marked Emberwilde's main entrance. But her aunt had insisted upon the carriage, declaring that it was imperative that they enjoy their outing fresh and free from the effects of the day's hot sun.

As they traveled down the main drive, Isabel recognized the scenery from her and Lizzie's arrival. Unlike yesterday, the sun's glow fell on the landscape. The Emberwilde Forest was beautiful—dark and dense, full of lush greenery. It exuded a peaceful ambience that had Isabel wishing to explore the beauty. She had not given credit to Burns's story, which could be little more than a tall tale. And yet, she was somehow intrigued. Burns had mentioned that Aunt Margaret would not allow the nails to be removed from Isabel's chamber window. Surely her aunt did not fall prey to such nonsense, but Isabel decided to wait and inquire about it another time.

Once free of Emberwilde's front lawn, the forest lined the drive and the expansive curving road. They passed through the main iron gate, and just on the outside of the gate sat the foundling home.

Isabel had seen the home the previous day as they passed into Emberwilde but thought little of it. It was small yet charming. She guessed the building to be almost as old as Emberwilde Hall itself,
for it boasted the same gray stone and the same diagonally leaded windows present on the main house. A heavy wooden door with a black iron handle marked the main entrance.

As the carriage drew to a halt, butterflies fluttered within her. In all likelihood, Mr. Bradford's kindness stemmed from the fact that he was friends with the Ellisons, and not because he thought she was deserving. While at Fellsworth she rarely was introduced to new people, especially gentlemen, and the idea appealed to her. Now that the shock of the change was slowly dissipating, she was looking forward to finding a place in the society in which she now dwelled.

“Look, Isabel!” cried Lizzie, leaning toward the window. A bright smile lit her sister's face for the first time since their arrival. “There are children playing! There, beyond that gate.”

“Of course there are children, Elizabeth,” responded Aunt Margaret quickly. Terseness colored her formal tone. “This is, after all, a foundling home. But I must caution you, limit your excitement, for these children are not your equal, my dear.”

Isabel stiffened. The words flattened any excitement surrounding the visit. She and Lizzie had come from a school, yes, but it had been a school that would turn none away. None of the families came from wealth, and many of the children came from poverty. According to the values they had been taught, values that both she and Lizzie believed without wavering, all children were equal and deserved equal opportunity.

An expression of confusion crossed her sister's face, and Isabel placed her hand on Lizzie's arm.

Once the carriage was fully stopped, the women exited. The scent of roses wafted from a nearby garden, and the sunlight warmed Isabel's shoulders and back. Sounds of the children playing and laughing rose about the rustling of the nearby forest, a sound that Isabel decided was a positive mark for the home.

They were greeted at the main entrance by a young woman
in a white apron and cap. She said nothing, and Aunt Margaret pushed her way past the servant without acknowledging her. Isabel cringed at the brashness of the action, but Constance seemed unaware of any breach of etiquette. Isabel reached for Lizzie's hand as they passed through the door and into the narrow foyer, casting an apologetic glance toward the young woman.

From the foyer Isabel followed her aunt as she turned left through a door and stepped into a bright, cheery office. It was not an elegant room like those at Emberwilde. It was sparsely furnished, but tidy and clean. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and her boots trod a planked wooden floor. Several tall, narrow windows lined the front and side walls, and a broad fireplace of brick and stone was situated behind the oak desk surrounded by modest oak chairs. To the left of the desk was a closed door. Between the desk and the fireplace stood a tall, impressive man. Mr. Bradford.