Dawn at Emberwilde (31 page)

Isabel smiled. “You will be an adult faster than you know. You are already becoming a young lady.”

“But it is so boring here.” Lizzie toyed with the hem of her pinafore. “Do you miss Fellsworth? I do.”

Melancholy tugged. Yes, she did miss Fellsworth and the people there. But she could not verbalize that sentiment to Lizzie. “Perhaps you are forgetting how fortunate we are. Need I remind you of your beautiful new gowns? Of Caesar? We have so much to be thankful for.”

“I know, but I miss my friends,” lamented Lizzie. “I had fun playing with the girls at the foundling home, but now Aunt Margaret and Miss Smith will not let me go there anymore. It isn't fair.”

Isabel smoothed her fingers along her sister's hair, which was splayed over the bed.

And then a shout echoed from the distance, followed by a high-pitched rant.

Isabel startled, and Lizzie jumped from the bed and ran to the door. The child flung the door open and stuck her head out in the hall.

Curious, Isabel followed her. “Wait here,” she instructed Lizzie, and without giving her a chance to respond, she stepped down the corridor.

The tirade continued, but it was so muffled Isabel could not make out the words. She came around the corner, and there stood
her aunt and uncle in the hall. Aunt Margaret was already dressed for the dinner in a gown of deep sapphire blue. Pearls encircled her neck, and her pale hair was swept atop her head.

As soon as they noticed her, they stopped arguing.

Feeling horribly intrusive, Isabel withdrew. “I-I'm sorry. I did not mean to interrupt. Is everything all right?”

“All right?” shrieked her aunt. “Of course it is not all right. For your uncle has invited the Galloway men to the party tonight. To
my
dinner!”

Isabel pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows sympathetically in her uncle's direction. But his eyes were fixed on his wife.

At last her uncle spoke. “Now, Margaret, calm yourself. They have been assisting me with a project for a while now, and they have done me a great service. I spoke with Mr. Colin Galloway on the matter, and he was going to pass the invitation to his cousin. It is too late to send word otherwise. Besides, I enjoy their company.”

“Enjoy their company!” Aunt Margaret shot back. “That man led your only son to the battlefield, and you say you enjoy his company?”

“That is not fair, Margaret,” combatted Uncle Charles. “You know it.”

A tear trickled down her aunt's cheek, and her red lips trembled. “I demand you retract the invitation.”

Her uncle's voice was firm but unwavering. “I will not. I am master of Emberwilde, and if I would like to invite a guest to dinner, then I shall do so.”

Isabel backed away. This was not her conversation, and she should not be listening to an argument between a husband and wife. But as she turned around to retreat, she could not deny the fluttering of her heart.

So Mr. Galloway was coming to the dinner.

She hated to see her aunt—or anyone, for that matter—so upset.

The arguing resumed, but as she returned to her chamber, the words grew muffled.

A gradual sense of optimism swelled within her. Perhaps this dinner would not be as unpleasant as she had thought. Her dread began to melt away, and a smile tugged her lips.

What a difference a few moments could make. For now, anticipation bloomed. She did not dread the dinner anymore.

No, she did not dread it at all.

When the hour for the meal arrived, Isabel took the servants' stairs down to the main floor. Guests were already starting to arrive, and sounds of laughter and chatter floated to meet her. As she rounded the corner, it became clear this was to be a gathering very different from the Atwells'. No farmers or tradesmen were in attendance, only those individuals and families deemed worthy by her aunt.

Even though Isabel looked the part in her smart new gown, she could not help but feel slightly out of place. Her confidence wavered as her slippers tapped each step. The guests had gathered in the drawing room, and as she approached, Isabel scanned the room for familiar faces. But something in the foyer caught her eye.

It was her aunt and Mr. Bradford.

Isabel cast a glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching her, and could not resist pausing in the hallway long enough to hear.

Her aunt and Mr. Bradford were leaning in toward one another, but they seemed to be arguing. It reminded her of the morning at church, when she had spotted them engaged in what appeared to be a quarrel.

She held her breath in an effort to hear above the conversations leaking from the drawing room.

She could barely make out her aunt's words above the chatter. “We are running out of time.”

“But this is quite a diversion from the plan. I'm not sure I—”

She winced as his words were muffled. What could they possibly be running out of time for?

The next snippet of the conversation came from her aunt. “I know what I know, and I am not afraid to push the matter further. Our arrangement is such that—”

Again, the words were covered.

Isabel leaned forward and ever so slightly around the corner, hoping to get another glimpse of their faces. Perhaps by doing so she could either read their words or gauge their demeanors. But as she did, Mr. Bradford looked back, and his eyes landed on her.

His face was flushed, his eyebrows drawn together. It was the most frustrated she had ever seen him. But then, as he realized it was her, his jaw slackened, and he raked his fingers through his hair.

Isabel stood her ground, despite the fact that everything in her screamed to leave the space at once.

Mr. Bradford murmured something to Aunt Margaret and then approached Isabel with determined steps.

Something was wrong, she could feel it in her very core, but she forced a sweet smile to her face, covering her suspicions with the prettiest smile she could muster. “My goodness, Mr. Bradford. Is everything all right? You and Aunt Margaret seem to be engaged in quite the conversation.”

Without a look back at Aunt Margaret, he flashed a smile at Isabel. “Oh, it is nothing that concerns you, Miss Creston.”

He drew closer to her and offered his arm. “You know how your aunt can be at times. I have vexed her, I'm afraid. But do not fret. Her grievance with me will not last.”

She placed her hand on his extended arm and allowed him to
lead her into the drawing room, pretending not to notice his altered demeanor.

Shortly before dinner, Isabel was introduced to Constance's Mr. Nichols. He arrived very late, to the irritation of both her cousin and aunt, but at least he arrived. He did not look at all like Isabel had expected. Constance spoke of him with such high praise, but he was a rather plain man who could be no taller than Constance herself. He was portly, with dark hair and eyes and a rather severe countenance. Two of his friends had unexpectedly accompanied him for the visit. To Constance's evident disappointment, Mr. Nichols seemed more interested in his companions than in her.

Once settled in the chair she was to occupy for dinner, Isabel sipped from a crystal glass. She was, not surprisingly, seated next to Mr. Bradford, but his mood seemed more somber than normal. She assessed the faces around the table.

The Atwells were seated across from her. The Wassons were in attendance, and the vicar and his wife. And of course, Colin and Henry Galloway were both present, to her aunt's chagrin. To Isabel's dismay, however, she was seated as far away from the Galloways as possible.

During dinner Mr. Bradford attempted to keep her engaged in conversation, but Isabel was distracted. She could not shake the heavy sensation that pressed upon her after seeing her aunt argue with Mr. Bradford, nor could she keep herself from watching her cousin. Constance was seated next to her intended. Isabel felt sad for her, for the beauty's cheeks were pale and she appeared a little frightened. Mr. Nichols talked with the friends who had accompanied him and paid little attention to his betrothed. Isabel thought of Constance's nonchalant words—her fiancé did not love her. Not yet.

She could not help but compare Mr. Nichols's actions to those
of Mr. Bradford. At this point, her family considered Mr. Bradford a good match for her, and there could be little doubt that he was attracted to her. And whereas Mr. Nichols ignored his fiancé, Mr. Bradford was most attentive. But the more she was in his presence, and the more she observed how he interacted with others, the more doubts began to surface. Something about him seemed disingenuous.

She leaned forward and looked down the table. There, toward the end, was Mr. Galloway. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat when she realized that she would much prefer to sit next to the magistrate.

After dinner, the women retreated to the drawing room, but Isabel escaped to the Blue Parlor, a lesser-used room that was off her uncle's study. She was certain she would not be disturbed there, and she needed a few moments of breathing room.

It was dark in this chamber. Quiet. No fire blazed in the grate, nor had the servants lit any of the candles. She made her way to the settee on the far wall and sat down. Since she was alone, there was no need to keep her spine poker straight and her chin tilted elegantly into the air. She leaned against the supple cushions and relaxed as much as her stays would allow. The only care she took was to not wrinkle her gown, but she indulged in several deep breaths.

She had intended to stay only for a few moments, but she soon lost sense of the time that had passed. The sound of a voice made her bolt upright. Ready to retreat if necessary, she stood and listened for the source of the sound.

She soon realized it came from the other side of the door that connected the Blue Parlor to her uncle's library. She recognized the voices of her uncle and Mr. Galloway. She suspended her breath and listened.

“All the contraband has been removed from the tunnels. Every last cask.”

“I am glad to hear it. It's good to finally be rid of it. I thank you for your assistance in this matter, Galloway.”

“I am not sure it is quite time to thank me yet, Ellison.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we were clearing the cavern, we came upon an abandoned wagon. Either we scared someone off, or it is being held there for future use.”

Her uncle's whisper was strained. “Surely they would not be so daft as to continue to track through my land, knowing they've been discovered.”

“It's not quite that simple. These smuggling rings can be powerful and complicated. In all honesty, they do not care about you or the possible ramifications of discovery. All they care about is selling their wares, and once their routes have been established, they do not give them up easily. McKinney has noted two men in particular who have been at the inn a great deal as of late. I myself encountered them several nights ago and have further reason to believe that they are involved. One of the men is quite recognizable. His left hand is missing. I am beginning to suspect that the foundling home is somehow involved as well.”

Isabel's heart thudded in her chest. He was talking about the man who had threatened her! And the foundling home. She should not be listening. There were too many secrets going on within this house. Too many things she did not need to know; nay, did not want to know.

Mr. Galloway continued. “Also, this timepiece was found in one of the tunnels. I have not had the opportunity to share it with you until now. Does it look familiar to you at all?”

Isabel wanted to hear no more. She turned to leave, but as she did, her eyes landed on a large, black shadow.

She gave a little cry.

For there stood Mr. Bradford.

“You gave me a fright!” Isabel exclaimed, jumping back. Her heart beat wildly.

“I did not mean to frighten you. I just wondered where you escaped to. For that is what you were doing, was it not? Escaping?”

Her heart raced within her chest. She was escaping, yes. But not in the sense he meant.

She swallowed and finally, reluctantly, lifted her eyes to meet his.

His expression held such warmth, such intensity, that she silently reminded herself she may not be able to trust what she saw. It was her heart that sounded the first warning. Beating rapidly and hard, it alerted her senses to danger.

Most women could hardly consider Mr. Bradford a danger. For not only was he handsome, he was
good.
He dedicated his life to others. He helped the needy.

But then, Mr. Galloway had mentioned the foundling home in relation to the man without a hand. Her aunt and Mr. Bradford had been arguing. Something was wrong, she could feel it.

He stood between her and the door, his broad shoulders filling the frame. She parted her lips to draw breath, for regular breath was insufficient.

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Bradford, I am sure my aunt is wondering where I am.”

She offered an awkward smile and attempted to brush past him to the safety of the corridor, but as she did, he blocked her path.