Dawn at Emberwilde (6 page)

Isabel smiled. She found her cousin endearing. The girl's sweet tone and easy smile put her at ease.

“Tell me, Isabel, do you play any instruments?” Constance inquired.

Isabel pressed her lips together. She was not quite eager to share the nuances of her life at school. Even though these ladies were family, they were still strangers. “No, I do not.”

“Surely you sing, at least,” Constance probed.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, but no. Music was not encouraged at Fellsworth.”

Her aunt's mouth fell open. “Not encouraged? Why, that is unheard of!”

Isabel had anticipated her aunt's surprise, for Fellsworth was not a typical school for young ladies. The school did not even own a pianoforte, or any other instruments. Instead of French and dancing, which were taught at many girls' schools, she learned arithmetic and cooking. Instead of elegant embroidery and decorative needlework, she learned the more practical aspects of sewing. And while needlework was encouraged, it was likely very different from her cousin's exposure to the art. No doubt her aunt would be shocked to learn the specifics regarding Isabel's education. Emphasis had been placed on activities and skills that would benefit her as she entered the world, not on fine arts.

“Sit down, Isabel. Constance will play another song for us. It is so important to keep such skills in good practice, even though her match has already been made and she is betrothed. A lady must never become lax in her disciplines.” Aunt Margaret motioned Isabel to a padded chair next to the fire.

Her cousin began to play a melancholy tune that filled the vaulted room from the plastered ceiling above to the polished floor beneath. The notes were mesmerizing despite how they clashed with one another, the angst and emotion strong. It was unlike any sound
Isabel had ever heard, pure and soft, and yet exuding strength and control. It was a wordless poem, perfect in its rhyme and rhythm.

“ 'Tis a shame you do not play,” her aunt said as the music concluded. Then she stood and took a few steps toward the hearth, leaving a floral scent in her wake. “Of course, your mother was quite the musician. Her talent rivaled that of any in the county.”

Isabel jerked her head up. Time had dulled the pain associated with her lingering memories of her mother, but being in this space piqued her curiosity.

She was finally in the presence of those who could answer questions that had long simmered within her. There was so much she wanted to know about her mother, and yet she was torn. For what if she heard something she was not ready to hear? And yet, she desired to know everything. Absorb everything. She had entered a new life, and there could be no turning back.

“Your mother used to play that very song that Constance just finished. Oh, how I miss her.” A far-off expression flashed on the older woman's face before she nodded to the wall behind Isabel. “There, that is her portrait.”

Isabel stiffened, and she realized she was holding her breath. Time had erased so many memories. She had only vague recollections of blonde hair. A soft smile. A gentle touch. But all other specifics had been lost to time's firm grip. She turned, and her gaze landed on a small yet ornately framed portrait tucked in the room's distant corner.

“That is my mother?” Isabel asked, uncertain she could trust the words.

“Why, yes, child. Do you not recognize her? This portrait was painted when Anna was seventeen, I believe. It hung at Heddeston Park, our parents' home for many years, but after they died I had it moved here.”

Isabel stood and stepped toward the painting cautiously,
fighting to keep an unexpected rush of emotion at bay. How often had she tried to remember what her mother looked like? The gilded frame flashed in the firelight. The thick lacquer sparkled like a priceless treasure. The painting's details were too fine to be seen clearly from the distance across the room, but Isabel could identify fair hair. A narrow face.

Isabel attempted to swallow the emotion swelling in her throat, but it would not be dispelled. The portrait drew her to it, taunting her with the truth that once she soaked in the sight, it could not be forgotten.

As she moved closer, hazy recollections seeped through her memory's wide gaps. She wished she could force thought into sharper focus, but it was impossible, for her memories had been neglected to the point of wasting away.

She stopped several feet before the artwork. Clear, light blue eyes stared back at her from a narrow face. Pale skin, every bit as fair as her own, was highlighted by the painter's stroke, and a pert nose and high cheekbones almost made it seem as if Isabel were beholding her own reflection.

But it was the expression in the eyes and the set of the mouth that struck her. The countenance was pensive, almost sorrowful, and it called a heavy feeling to her heart.

“You look just like her.” Aunt Margaret drew close behind her, the tip of her walking cane tapping the polished floor.

Isabel did not avert her gaze.

The picture held her steadfast focus, as if by a supernatural command.

“See the eyes?” her aunt continued. “So unusual. Icy and pale in the center with the vibrant blue outer rim. Such a mark of the Hayworth name. A mark you possess, my dear.”

Isabel stiffened as her aunt rested a hand on her arm.

She was not used to being touched.

“Everything seems right now that you are here with us at Emberwilde. This is the life you were destined for, not wasting away at some school.” Aunt Margaret fairly hissed the words, as if to display her disgust. “You have Hayworth blood running through you. You belong here. This is your heritage.”

Isabel bristled at the suggestion that her life had, thus far, been misspent.

Her aunt continued. “Believe me when I say that it is a shame to turn one's back on such a rare gift. You have beauty. Breeding. Gifts, Isabel, do not deny them. Your mother possessed these gifts and yet did not respect them when she went against our father's wishes and married your father. And such a price she paid. It is my sincere desire that you will allow me to help you navigate the waters so you do not repeat your mother's mistakes.”

Isabel closed her eyes as if to muster strength. Too many thoughts swirled within her to be able to focus fully on only one. The words and information were coming at her with such haste she was not sure she could bear to hear more. Her uncle seemed ready to marry her off. Her aunt seemed determined to handpick her future husband. And she had been at Emberwilde but a few hours! She did not trust her aunt—not yet. Yes, she supposed the woman to be kind, but insufficient time had passed to ascertain the truth of her nature.

No, she was unprepared to learn more about her mother at this moment.

Isabel shifted in her mounting discomfort, but if her aunt took any notice of Isabel's uneasiness, she shielded it with fast words.

“I know what you must be thinking, Isabel. You must not consider me insensitive for speaking so of your father, but if you are to live here you might as well know the truth behind your circumstance, for you probably never learned it. 'Tis no secret that I was not fond of your father, nor he of me. That is evidenced by our
estrangement these years since your mother's death. I suppose there are kind things I can say of him, however. He was exceedingly handsome in his prime. Fair haired with a chiseled chin. He and your mother made a striking pair, to be sure. He was a man of strong convictions, and exceptionally well spoken for a man of his background. But these things are not enough to secure a proper future. Anna did not understand this. Hopefully, I can help right her wrong as far as you are concerned.”

Isabel did not understand her aunt's meaning. “As far as I am concerned?”

“You are beautiful, as was your mother. But instead of using her assets as a means to secure a future for herself and her children, she allowed herself to be swayed by selfish pursuits. I humble myself to think that perhaps I can help guide you as you continue down your life's path.”

Defenses bubbled within Isabel.

It was true—she had not understood her father. She could not remember her mother. But Aunt Margaret seemed intent upon pointing out their flaws.

“But they loved each other, did they not?” reasoned Isabel. “Surely that was enough?”

Her aunt laughed, a dry, condescending burst that only served to agitate Isabel further.

“My dear, love is a fickle fancy. How enticing it is to read stories and fables of romance that stands the test of time and situation, but it is not always so. I have the benefit of time on this earth. It is my hope that you will take the advice of those who have much more experience than you, unlike your mother, who turned her back on those who loved her.”

Isabel bit back a sharp retort and a defense of the parents she barely knew. She turned her attention to the painting.

“I love my daughters,” continued her aunt, stepping next to
Isabel so they stood shoulder to shoulder as they looked at the painting. “I desire nothing more than for each of them to be happy as they mature into adulthood. But in order to show my love, I had to make decisions for them. Now they are secure, each one in a certain future. This, my dear, is love. You love Elizabeth. I recognize it in your interactions with the child. But with love comes responsibility. You will do what is necessary to see her well taken care of, and now she is part of our family. It is time for you to accept assistance and guidance from those who care for you.”

Isabel did not mean to be wary. Her aunt's words were kind, but Isabel heard the veiled warning in the somber tones. She cast a glance back at her cousin, who was now standing behind them. A pleasant, if not contemplative, expression colored her face. She remained silent. Isabel could not help but wonder why.

Her aunt's countenance brightened. “Speaking of guidance and responsibility, I have a fun outing planned for the morrow. Oh, I know you've just arrived, but tomorrow I should like to take you to visit the local foundling home.”

Isabel was not sure she had heard her aunt correctly. “A foundling home?”

“Why, yes. As one of the most affluent families in the area, it is our duty to see to the less fortunate, is it not?”

Isabel did not disagree. It only seemed a strange shift in topics. “Yes, Aunt.”

“Then it is settled. Constance and I spend a great deal of time and effort on the foundling home, and I think you will find it quite interesting. You, Constance, Elizabeth, and I will call there in the morning.” An expression akin to a grin crossed her aunt's face. “I think you will find Mr. Bradford, the superintendent, to be a very agreeable young man.”

Isabel straightened at the recognition of the name, her interest piqued. “Mr. Bradford?”

“Yes, Mr. Bradford. The very one who retrieved you and your sister from Fellsworth. Knowing I was eager to find you, he was most helpful in making the connection with your Mr. Langsby. As a show of our appreciation, it is only fitting that we should pay him a visit to show our gratitude.”

After the heavy conversation concerning her parents, this news was a welcome relief. In all of the day's taxing events, her introduction to Mr. Bradford did seem to be the one bright moment. The memory of his kind smile and easy manner warmed her.

Perhaps there was something to anticipate after all.

Chapter Six

C
olin followed Ellison in through Emberwilde's main door.

Normally, his business at the great house would take him to the tradesmen's entrance, which was closer to the steward's office and Mr. Ellison's private chambers, but the falling darkness and relentless rain made the long walk seem excessive.

Within moments of entering, Beasley, the butler, was at the door to take their things.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, sir.” The butler's gruff tone was barely audible above the storm raging outside.

“Don't give it a thought, Beasley,” responded Ellison in his customary good nature, turning to allow the butler space to help him out of his greatcoat. “No doubt you were expecting us to come round to the back.”

After seeing to his master, Beasley turned to Colin, ready to take his coat.

It always felt odd to Colin to have another grown man tend his coat, a task that he was capable of himself. Despite the fact that he owned an estate, he had not grown up with corresponding luxuries. His parents died when he was a young child, and his aunt and uncle had taught him to care for himself from a very early age. When he was a boy and would come to spend the days with Freddie, the Ellisons' deceased son, he would try to follow the rules of behavior, but to this day it felt contrived.

Ellison turned to Beasley. “Are the ladies awake?”

“They are in the music room.”

Colin listened with interest as he removed his hat from his head, careful to keep the rain clinging to him from splattering on the floor. He had only glimpsed the new arrivals when they had encountered the carriage arriving earlier that day. He had to admit, he was curious about Isabel Creston. Typically, Colin would not concern himself with a visiting niece, but his curiosity had been piqued when he glimpsed her through the carriage window. He'd noticed blonde hair. A black cloak. An elegant profile. The sight, fleeting as it was, had latched onto his mind and would not release it.

It was not every day an attractive young woman arrived in Northrop.

“If the ladies are still awake, there is no need for me to stay,” Colin said. “We can discuss this another time. You've family matters to tend to.”

“Nonsense, Galloway. We've business at hand that cannot wait, and you'll need to meet her sometime anyway. My wife has declared that she is to live here with us. Goodness knows how she thought that to be a good idea with Emberwilde in its present state, but you know my wife.”

Colin nodded. Yes, he did know Mrs. Ellison's tendencies. Whereas Mr. Ellison was practical and open about his financial situation, Mrs. Ellison was determined to continue to project an image of wealth.