Dawn at Emberwilde (8 page)

Colin chuckled. It would not end, he knew. Once Ellison got a notion in his head, it was not easily dislodged. “You sound just like my aunt. She has taken a sudden interest in my romantic pursuits.”

“And your aunt is a wise woman. She is right to urge you toward such things.”

“You do not even know your niece.”

“Bah. That is not needed. In fact, the less you know prior to marriage, the better. It would unite our family, much to my pleasure.”

“And Mrs. Ellison? She would hardly share your opinion.”

“No, she would not. But that would be on her, now, wouldn't it?”

Ellison leaned over to pour himself another glass of port, then extended the glass to Colin. When Colin refused, Ellison poured the liquid down his own throat, then balanced the empty glass in his hand. “You have the benefit of time on your hands. I do not. I grow older by the day. But you, take advantage of these years.”

Chapter Seven

T
he wind swirled outside Isabel's chamber window, slamming bits of rain against the wavy glass. The storm had intensified as the evening progressed. Now, icy blows shattered the night's usual silence, its whistles and howls inviting her mind to every manner of distraction. Despite her body's cry for rest, she was sensitive and jumpy after her talk with her aunt, and she doubted her ability to calm down enough for sleep to rescue her.

In her chamber's hearth, a dying fire hissed and popped as its flames licked the dry wood, perfuming the air with the scents of heat and earth. She'd never enjoyed her own fire in her own chamber. She should enjoy the luxury and let herself be wrapped in its obliging warmth, she thought, but instead, her tired eyes stared unblinking at the light. Isabel sat beside the fire, brushing out her hair.

Her awareness shifted to the statuesque goddesses carved into each side of the marble chimneypiece. The face of the goddess on the left was serene and angelic, her eyes downcast, in peaceful reverie, her gently curved smile frozen. But the goddess on the right, with her eyes fixed toward the heavens, appeared sorrowful, if not fearful. No doubt one more educated in Greek mythology would be able to ascertain the goddesses' identities. Isabel ran her finger over the smooth curves of the frightened statue, marveling at the detail in the hair. The face.

Burns, the lady's maid, cleared her throat. “If there is nothing else you need, miss, I will leave you to retire.”

Isabel had met Burns earlier that evening. Their exchanges were
awkward at first. Isabel had never relied on anyone for daily assistance, with the exception of one of her chamber mates, who helped with her stays. It would take time to get used to having another person waiting on her in such a manner. This evening Burns had been so quiet tending to Isabel's gown that Isabel had almost forgotten she was in the room.

Isabel stood. “Actually, there is one more thing. Do you think you could show me how this window opens?”

Burns's eyebrows drew together in question. “But it is raining, miss.”

“I know, but the air feels a bit heavy, do you not think? It will be nice for the morning, when it stops. My aunt said you could smell the lilacs from here. Do you know if they are in bloom? I tried to open it earlier, but it was stuck.”

Burns fixed her small eyes on Isabel. “You'll not be able to get that window open, miss. It's been nailed shut.”

“Nailed shut?” Isabel frowned, turning to assess the window. “But why would someone nail a window shut?”

Burns draped Isabel's black gown over her arm and smoothed the fabric. “It isn't my place to say.”

Isabel's curiosity was piqued. “Can we remove the nails?”

Burns averted her eyes, gathered Isabel's discarded stockings, and laid them over her arm as well. “I'm not so sure you would want to do that.”

“But why?”

As if admitting some sort of defeat, the lady's maid stepped toward the window and lowered her voice. “Mr. Ellison's mother had this window nailed shut well over thirty years ago, and it has not been open since.”

Isabel frowned. “But that doesn't make any sense.”

“After you have been here awhile, it will make sense,” Burns stated matter-of-factly.

“I . . . I don't understand.”

“I've said too much.” Burns inched backward. “Forgive me, Miss Creston.”

She turned to leave, and Isabel called after her. “Wait, please don't go. Why would Mrs. Ellison have these windows nailed shut?” If she was going to spend the night in this room, she needed an answer. Was there danger?

Burns stepped back and cast a glance over her shoulder, as if she expected someone to be watching her, then lowered her voice. “She had all the west-facing windows nailed shut, for she feared the ghosts.”

At the word, a tiny chill traveled down Isabel's spine. Lizzie's innocent question from the carriage leaped to the forefront of her mind.

“You know that forest out of your window?” asked Burns.

“The Emberwilde Forest?”

“Some call it that, but most folks around here and in town call it the Black Wood Forest.”

Isabel brushed her hair from her face. “It looks like such a beautiful forest. Why would they give it such a gloomy name?”

Burns narrowed her eyes. “Beautiful places can be deceptive. Perhaps you've not heard the legend.”

“I haven't.”

“Horrible, sad story.” Burns lowered the garments she was holding and looked out the window into the black night. “The better part of a century ago, gypsies took up residence in these woods. Your uncle's ancestors tried everything to be rid of them, but they were unsuccessful. Legend has it that the gypsies threatened to put a curse on the land. But then there was a massive fire, and several gypsies died.”

“How terrible!” exclaimed Isabel.

“Lost a good section of the forest. The fire scorched many a
tree in the rest of it, and they were black for decades. Some said it was the souls of the trees dying.

“Places have memories, Miss Creston. Do not doubt it. Ever since then, stories spread like wildfire. Odd things happen to folks who go into the forest. Some blame it on the ghosts of the gypsies, seeking their revenge.” She tilted her head, her eyes bleary in the firelight. “Still want the nails removed?”

Isabel couldn't resist the little chuckle that escaped her lips. “There are no such things as ghosts, Burns. Surely you know that.”

“I
don't
know that, Miss Creston. In fact, many would agree with me. Stay within Emberwilde's walls long enough and you might change your mind.”

Isabel swallowed and met Burns's gaze purposefully. “I do not believe in ghosts, or curses, or anything of the like.”

“Well then, you'd best take that request to have the nails removed up with your uncle. I doubt your aunt will allow it. She's a superstitious woman. I doubt that many around here would willingly be letting the ghosts in.”

With that, Burns curtsied, adjusted Isabel's gown in her arms, and quitted the room, leaving an eerie silence in her wake that seemed to quiet even the pounding rain.

Isabel looked out the window. She knew the lawn below met up with the forest's edge. She had seen it when first shown to her room. Now the landscape was black—pitch black—for clouds blocked the stars and shielded any light from the moon.

As she stared into the darkness, though, something caught her eye. It looked like a bit of light coming from the ground. The opaqueness made it impossible to judge the distance, and the falling rain made the light jump. She squinted, but soon gave up trying to get a better view. In all likelihood it was simply the light from her fireplace bending and reflecting on the window's warped glass.

She moved to her bed and fell backward onto it. A canopy
blocked her view of the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for sleep. How the muscles in her back and shoulders ached from the jostling in the carriage, and a slight pain resounded in her head.

A good night's sleep was the remedy for both.

But sleep eluded her.

Unable to find solace, she stood, shook out the folds of her nightclothes, did her best to ignore the wind's mournful howling, and crossed the room. Her valise, along with her other possessions, had been placed inside the wardrobe. She opened the heavy oak door and retrieved her valise to unpack her few items.

As she reached inside the bag, her hand brushed a piece of cloth. She paused and stared at the small bundle of rough linen for several seconds. It was secured with a length of twine and nestled neatly among her belongings. She lifted the bundle and returned to her bed. Holding her breath in anticipation, she released the twine. The fabric fell to the side, revealing a folded letter atop the unfinished piece of needlework.

Tears sprang to her eyes, for she recognized the handwriting and the needlework immediately.

It was from Mary, her dearest friend and confidante at Fellsworth.

She pushed a lock of hair from in front of her eyes before unfolding the letter.

Dear Isabel,

It is with mixed emotions I write you. How my heart is pained to bid you farewell. You are my dearest friend. How shall my days ever feel the same without you in them? Not knowing when we will meet again brings such sadness.

But at the same time, my heart rejoices for you and Lizzie! How many times have you and I daydreamed about how wonderful it would be to join our families? To not be bound by
the restraints imposed upon us by our situations and to escape the inevitable paths that stretch before us? I know you well enough to suspect your apprehensions to leave Fellsworth, but heed my words! This opportunity is a gift. Please consider it as such. Embrace your new world. Find your home and where you belong.

Who knows what the next days will bring, and who will cross your path. But it is my prayer for you that you embrace this opportunity. Be an example for Lizzie and for all those you may meet. We do not find ourselves in new situations by accident. Oh, no! Remember, with each dawn seek guidance, and with each night give gratitude. For there is a divine plan for each of our lives, and a journey, and you have started yours.

Please write to me, and I shall return your letters as often as I can. You will be in my prayers each day, as I know I will be present in yours. True friendship will span time and circumstances.

Till our paths cross again,
Mary

Isabel lowered the letter to her lap. Homesickness bit at her tender, tired heart, its harshness bringing tears to her eyes and a shaky breath to her lips. With an unsteady hand she lifted the fabric for closer inspection. Mary's even, straight stitches adorned the piece.
My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.

Isabel traced her finger over the smooth stitches. Each girl at Fellsworth created such samplers as part of their education and spent time every week working on the craft. But it was not the stitching that gave her reason to pause.

Every morning at Fellsworth, students, teachers, and staff would rise at dawn and spend time alone in contemplation before tending to their responsibilities. They would begin their days in
prayer and end their days in the same manner. Isabel had struggled with the practice at times. Her mind would wander. But Mary never wavered.

In her mind she could hear Mary saying the same words. Encouraging her.

She managed a small smile as she placed the tiny sampler on the side table and propped it up so she could see it.

She had not spent even one night away from Fellsworth in over a decade, and now she was in a room fit for a lady.

But she was not a lady, not compared to her aunt's elevated diction or her cousin's effortless elegance. She looked at her rough nightdress and ran her finger over the uneven hem. She doubted she would ever be.

A creaking sound behind her drew her attention, and she turned.

Footsteps sounded near the door that adjoined her room to Lizzie's.

A sudden jump in her pulse brought her to her feet, and she looked toward the door.

There it was again. The scrape—a mournful sound, like the cry of wood against wood—sounded again from the gilded chamber.

The door was beginning to move.

The hour was late. No one else should be awake.

She chided herself. The talk of ghosts and folklore made her jumpy, in a ridiculous sense.

“Who's there?” Isabel called, her voice thin.

Her imagination half expected a monster, or at the very least a mysterious stranger.

Instead, it was a small hand that gripped the edge of a door.

Relief rushed from Isabel in the form of a sigh.

Lizzie's voice was small compared to the roar of the angry wind. “Isabel?”

Isabel placed the letter on the bureau. “Lizzie! You gave me a fright. What is the matter?”

Lizzie rubbed her face as she spoke. “I can't sleep.”

Isabel reached her arm out to the child, bidding her to come closer. Lizzie closed the door and ran over to the chair, her bare feet padding the wooden floor.

She should send the child back to her own room. It was important to set a boundary, for they were in a large house now and probably would be for some time. Lizzie needed to be able to sleep alone.

But how could she fault the child when she herself struggled to find solace?

Isabel sat and pulled her sister onto her lap. The girl's small feet were cold against Isabel's legs.

Once Lizzie was settled and the popping of the fire and the roar of the wind the only sounds that remained, Isabel whispered, “And why can't you sleep?”

Lizzie wiggled. “The wind is scary.”

“Scary?” Isabel paused. The panes shivered in their leading, and then a blast of rain pelted the surface. “No, it isn't scary. 'Tis only noisy. The same wind blows during the day.”

Lizzie shivered against her. “It sounds like an animal. A mean animal.”