Dawn at Emberwilde (20 page)

In the pause between his words, she noted how she liked the sound of her name on his lips.

In an effort to hide the feelings beginning to well within her, she prompted him, finding herself genuinely interested in what he had to say. “I do hope the boys who saw that man in the woods are feeling calmer. I was quite concerned for them when we quitted the home the day of my first visit.”

Mr. Bradford expelled a little laugh. “
Thought
they saw a man in the woods. I thank you for your concern, Miss Creston. But I assure you, all is well.”

“Do you not believe them?”

“It is not that, Miss Creston. I am sure they saw something, or at least they think they did.” He lowered his eyes and leaned forward, as if taking her into confidence. “Have you heard yet about the legends surrounding the forest?”

Isabel cut her eyes toward her aunt, who was engaged in conversation with her husband. “While my family has not made mention of it, I have heard the stories. A story, anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I am sure you have.”

“Are any of the stories true? About the gypsies, I mean?”

He laughed a laugh so contagious she could not help but smile.

“Some are true, perhaps, but more likely they are myths and nothing more. I am sure you are well acquainted with that, especially since one of the legends surrounds your own mother.”

Isabel sobered, then frowned. His statement seemed so odd, so out of place, that surely he had misspoken. “My own mother?”

He straightened, and the smile on his face waned. “Of course. Your mother.”

He blinked at her and nodded, as if expecting her to understand his meaning. But as the two locked eyes, her heart began to race. She shook her head as if to shake off the confusion. “I'm sure I don't understand.”

He rolled his lips together and drummed his long fingers on his knee. “Forgive me. I only said what I thought you knew, or would at least remember, the . . .” His voice faded. “I have misspoken.”

She reached out her hand as if to calm a frightened child. “No, no.” She cast a glance over at her aunt, whose eyes were fixed firmly on her. She lowered her voice.

“Please,” she urged. “Tell me what you know of my mother. I have very few memories of her, and if you have news to share, I would be most interested and willing to hear it.”

He stared at her, shocked. He spoke hesitantly, as if every word he uttered might overstep a boundary. “Perhaps I have it wrong, for I was but a boy when she died. But there was a rumor that your mother fell ill after spending the day riding in the forest. That is one of the stories, that the ghosts of the gypsies will cause illness and certain death to those who go into the forest. Not everyone, of course, just ones with . . . with . . .”

The strangest sensation pierced Isabel's heart. Could this man know something about her mother that she did not? But no, her father had been quite plain in his explanation of her mother's death.
She may not remember much about her father, but she did recall his explanation with great clarity.

“No, you are mistaken, sir. Quite mistaken. My mother died of a fever. In London.” She said the words slowly, as if to test her memory and convince herself of the credibility thereof.

But what would have given him such a thought?

Heat crept up her bodice, flushing her face and quickening her pulse. She glanced at her aunt, whose expression was concerned.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Forgive me. Clearly I was mistaken.”

His smile was kind, and she expelled her breath with a forced smile. Yet even with his easy manner, she was not sure he believed her. He was appeasing her. She would get to the bottom of this, and it was not his fault. Besides, the last thing she wanted to do was make enemies with this kind young man who seemed so bent on getting to know her.

Chapter Nineteen

A
fter the church service, Colin spent the afternoon at Lockert Cottage.

Over the years, it had become a tradition that every Sabbath both Colin and Henry would return to the family home for a meal. Sunday afternoon was the one time of the week his aunt's servants were given leave from their duties, so the meal usually was comprised of cold meats and cheeses and other previously prepared items. It was often simple fare, but that did not matter. It was still the best meal Colin would eat all week.

Despite Miranda's presence, it was also the one time of the week he could relax. He enjoyed his aunt's and cousin's company. It was a moment to slip back to a simpler time when he could laugh and feel at home.

But tonight he felt restless, for talk of Emberwilde and the Ellison family dominated the conversation.

It could not be helped, he supposed. Rumors had been circulating about Miss Creston since the day she arrived at Emberwilde, and today was the first day that many people, including his cousin and Miranda, had seen her.

Before returning to the boardinghouse, Colin had made it his habit to see to the stables and outbuildings to ensure everything was in good repair. His aunt's manservant was aging, and for peace of mind, Colin would assess any needs.

Tonight was no different.

He stepped out again into the cool, damp night and headed toward the small stable.

Water from the previous days' rain still pooled in the low areas of the yard. His aunt's dog ran to join him and nudged his bare hand with his wet nose.

Since his aunt lived so close to town, she did not keep a horse, but the stable was home to a cow and a handful of chickens and pigs.

The wooden structure appeared sound and the animals within it content, but wind had disrupted a pile of early hay, so he grabbed the broom to tidy up before he left.

But then movement at the stable entrance caught his attention.

His breath suspended.

Miranda.

She had been unusually quiet this evening, as if hesitant to take part in the discussions of their newcomer, but now she stood in the stable doorway, leaning against the rough casing. Her long, lustrous hair was loose over her shoulders, with the exception of the bits around her face that were tied back in a loose ribbon. She was a lovely woman, with soft eyes and gentle features.

But the expression in her eyes concerned him.

He always tried to avoid being alone with her. Their past was well known throughout the town, and he would not give the gossipmongers any fodder to latch onto. Their history was a book best left closed, despite how time had changed the circumstances.

He returned the broom to the side and prepared to leave. The task could be finished at another time.

“You shouldn't be out here,” he said as she crossed the threshold. “You'll catch cold.”

She shrugged, her shawl loose on her shoulders, and ignored his suggestion. “I was worried about you. Your eye looks awful. What happened?”

He knew he could not avoid questions about his bruised eye
forever. He kept his gaze averted and moved a stool out of the pathway to set it against the wall. “An accident. It will heal.”

“An accident?” she said, a small laugh coloring her tone with disbelief. “Somehow I doubt that. More likely you are up to something, and I hope against hope that it is not dangerous.” Her words grew hesitant. “There was a time you would tell me about all your day's activities.”

Here, in the darkness, it would be easy to fall back into old habits, to allow himself to relax in her company and share the thoughts on his mind. But something within him that he did not fully understand prevented it. “It's nothing.”

She took a few steps farther into the building, her expression as nonchalant as if they were discussing the weather. “It was nice to meet Miss Creston today. I did not speak with her today, but you did. What happened with the horse? You did not tell us the whole story.”

Colin reached for his lantern and lifted it, then regretted doing so, for as the light fell on her, he was reminded of her beauty. Of past feelings for her. He forced his voice. “The horse was spooked and knocked the child over, but she is fine.”

Miranda leaned against the stall wall, her head cocked to the side. “You know, Miss Creston is as lovely as I had heard. Your aunt tells me that you have been in her company already.”

The statement seemed dangerous. As if he were being led down a path. It would be best for him to leave. He tipped his hat and began to walk past her. “I must go.”

Her voice was soft. “Colin. Wait.”

She reached out and grabbed his hand as he passed her, the very touch stopping him in his tracks.

The fact that she said his Christian name did not affect him so much as the manner in which she spoke it. The lilt that accented her voice—tender, hopeful—hinted that something much more
intimate existed between them. And for how many years had he longed for the touch of her hand in his? At times since William's death she had been forward, yes. But never had she been so bold as to seek him out. Alone. At night.

Miranda inched closer, and shadows blurred the details of her features. Her eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that seemed to freeze him to his spot.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“I made a mistake all those years ago. A terrible mistake,” she blurted, her voice rising in both pitch and volume.

He drew a sharp breath, his mind immediately attempting to map out the best course. This was the first time she had so openly referenced their past relationship. She had never mentioned it out loud, even though its presence was as imposing as if it had been an actual human.

“All that is in the past,” he said. “It is best forgotten.”

“Forgotten? Have you never made a mistake, Colin?” Her words were more a plea than a question, a desperate appeal.

Colin shook his head. It would be impossible to count the mistakes he had made over the years of his life. But now, for the first time, she was admitting blame for what had happened between them. Her betrayal, and his response, forever changed the course of his life.

He could feel her gaze on him, expectant. A sensation that once warmed him and filled him with hope now ate at him, infusing him with dread.

He grew uncomfortable and withdrew his hand from hers. “I must go.”

“Do not leave, Colin. Not yet. You did not answer my question.”

He stopped and looked at her. He knew his words sounded cold, and he had no wish to hurt her. But he also did not wish to leave her with any false hope. “What would you have me say?”

“I want you to say that you understand why I did what I did. That you forgive me.” She hesitated, then reached to touch the wool of his sleeve. “Aren't you lonely?”

Lonely? The years of living alone flashed before him. Even his one room at the boardinghouse. It was lonely. He did wish for a woman's touch and warmth to guard against the cold nights.

He did not care to see another human hurting, but he would not extend false hope. He could give in to her, and they probably could be happy together. But something in him was changing. Perhaps it was Ellison putting the idea in his head. Or perhaps it was the growing attraction he felt every time he encountered Miss Creston. His own feelings regarding the past and the future were changing. At length, he spoke. “You must know that time changes everything.”

“But I have not changed, Colin,” she protested. “Not really.”

“You are right,” he conceded. “Perhaps I am the one who has changed. Regardless, what is done is done. And in all actuality, it is probably all best left in the past.”

She lifted her hand to calm her hair blowing about her face. “I don't believe that you think that.”

They stared at each other in tense silence.

This was a conversation he had avoided for so long. And now that the words were being spoken, he did not know why it hadn't happened sooner.

He thought of Miss Creston. Even though they had spoken at a handful of formal meetings, his mind was creating new ideas, new dreams.

“I am sorry. I am,” he said, taking a step back. “But there can be no going back.”

Chapter Twenty

I
sabel sat in the music room, staring into the leaping flames, which were all too animated for the lateness of the hour and the heaviness of her heart.

Mr. Bradford had said nothing indecent. But his words clung like a damp shawl about her shoulders, weighing down her every thought and suffocating her mood.

Her memories of her mother were murky, but she was not prepared for stories about Anna Creston that contradicted the ones she had been told. And it was unnerving to think that someone outside the family might know more than she about the truth.

Isabel looked up as Aunt Margaret and Constance crossed the room toward her. It was amazing, really. Her cousin always appeared cheerful and perfectly polished. Even at this late hour, when the owls could be heard hooting from the forest, her cheeks glowed pink and bright, and her gown of green silk looked as fresh as if it had just been donned.

“Did you have a nice time this afternoon?” Constance's perky voice penetrated the silence. “It appeared that you and Mr. Bradford had a lovely conversation.”

“We did,” Isabel responded, and then, feeling the need to elaborate, she added, “He seems to be quite passionate about his work.”

Her aunt seated herself on the other side of the fireplace. “That is certain. He pours every bit of heart and soul into caring for those children.”

“Indeed,” Constance added. “I daresay he was taken with you
before he even met you, so often did he inquire after you in the days before his departure to Fellsworth. I fear Mr. Bradford will have a very difficult time shaking you from his thoughts.”

Now was the moment for Isabel to ask her question. “He did say something to me that was quite odd, though.”

“Oh? That is surprising,” Aunt Margaret exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest as if in shock. “Mr. Bradford is quite skilled at the art of conversation.”