ACCLAIM FOR SARAH E. LADD
“Beautifully written, intricately plotted, and populated by engaging and realistic characters, The Curiosity Keeper is Regency romantic suspense at its page-turning best. A skillful, sympathetic, and refreshingly natural author, Ladd is at the top of her game and should be an auto-buy for every reader.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK!
“An engaging Regency with a richly detailed setting and an unpredictable, suspenseful plot. Admirers of Sandra Orchard and Lis Wiehl who want to try a romance with a historical bent may enjoy this new series.”
—Library Journal ON The Curiosity Keeper
“Ladd’s story, with its menace and cast of seedy London characters, feels more like a work of Dickens than a Regency . . . A solid outing.”
—Publishers Weekly ON The Curiosity Keeper
“A delightful read, rich with period details. Ladd crafts a couple the reader roots for from the very beginning and a plot that keeps the reader guessing until the end.”
—SARAH M. EDEN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF For Elise, ON The Curiosity Keeper
“My kind of book! The premise grabbed my attention from the first lines and I eagerly returned to its pages. I think my readers will enjoy The Heiress of Winterwood.”
—JULIE KLASSEN, BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
“Ladd proves yet again she’s a superior novelist, creating unforgettable characters and sympathetically portraying their merits, flaws and all-too-human struggles with doubt, hope and faith.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 STARS, ON A Lady at Willowgrove Hall
“[E]ngaging scenes of the times keep the pages turning as this historical romance . . . swirls energetically through angst and disclosure.”
—Publishers Weekly ON The Headmistress of Rosemere
“This book has it all: shining prose, heart-wrenching emotion, vivid and engaging characters, a well-paced plot and a sigh-worthy happy ending that might cause some readers to reach for the tissue box. In only her second novel, Ladd has established herself as Regency writing royalty.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK! ON The Headmistress of Rosemere
“If you are a fan of Jane Austen and Jane Eyre, you will love Sarah E. Ladd’s debut.”
—USATODAY.COM ON The Heiress of Winterwood
“This debut novel hits all the right notes with a skillful and delicate touch, breathing fresh new life into standard romance tropes.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 STARS, ON The Heiress of Winterwood
“Ladd’s charming Regency debut is enhanced with rich detail and well-defined characters. It should be enjoyed by fans of Gilbert Morris.”
—Library Journal ON The Heiress of Winterwood
“This adventure is fashioned to encourage love, trust, and faith especially in the Lord and to pray continually, especially in times of strife.”
—CBA Retailers + Resources ON The Heiress of Winterwood
OTHER BOOKS BY SARAH E. LADD
THE TREASURES OF SURREY NOVELS
The Curiosity Keeper
Dawn at Emberwilde
A Stranger at Fellsworth (available spring 2017)
THE WHISPERS ON THE MOORS NOVELS
The Heiress of Winterwood
The Headmistress of Rosemere
A Lady at Willowgrove Hall
Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Ladd
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-7180-1184-0 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ladd, Sarah E., author.
Title: Dawn at Emberwilde / Sarah E. Ladd.
Description: Nashville : Thomas Nelson, [2016] | Series: A treasures of Surrey novel ; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2015044774 | ISBN 9780718011819 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships--Fiction. | Upper class families--Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3612.A3565 D39 2016 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015044774
16 17 18 19 20 RRD 5 4 3 2 1
This novel is dedicated to Martha—in loving memory
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
An Excerpt from the Curiosity Keeper
Chapter One
About the Author
Chapter One
FELLSWORTH SCHOOL
SURREY, ENGLAND, 1817
Mrs. Brathay’s shrill voice shattered the late-morning silence like a warbler’s call unsettling dawn’s still mist.
“Miss Creston! Are you in here?”
Isabel Creston froze just inside the door to the kitchen garden.
She’d been caught.
Again.
Determined to hide her early excursion from Mrs. Brathay’s observant eye, Isabel shoved her flower basket onto the cupboard’s top shelf, ignoring the pink primrose petals that showered to the planked floor. With a sharp tug she freed the bow at the small of her back to release the gardening smock from her waist, then she shrugged it from her shoulders.
“Yes, I am here!”
Isabel managed to loop her sullied apron over one of the iron hooks and whirl around just as Mrs. Brathay appeared in the corridor.
“There you are,” exclaimed Mrs. Brathay, her lips pinched. “I have been looking for you for at least this past hour.”
“I am sorry.” Isabel offered a s
heepish smile. “I was not aware.”
“Obviously.” Mrs. Brathay ducked to avoid the entry’s low wooden beam as she nodded toward the bloom tucked in the neckline of Isabel’s gown. “And what in heaven’s name is that?”
Isabel drew a deep breath, attempting to buy herself time for an explanation. “It is a rose. From the south garden.”
“I know it is a rose, Miss Creston.” Impatience increased the volume and pitch of the older woman’s terse voice. “What I do not know is why you are wearing it in such a fashion. You know such adornments are not permitted.”
Isabel bit her lower lip at the scolding. She was well acquainted with Fellsworth School’s stringent regulations regarding uniforms, and she accepted the requirement that she wear a stark black gown day after day without complaint. But being forbidden to adorn it with at least a spring flower seemed excessive.
“I only wanted to see how it would look.”
“Well, you can take it off now.” The headmistress’s pointed gaze traveled up from the bloom and landed on Isabel’s hair. “And did you go out with your hair loose like that again? I thought we already had this discussion.”
Isabel plucked the rose from her gown’s neckline, tossed it onto the shelf above the hooks, and smoothed a flyaway hair into place, immediately regretting her decision to dress her hair so hastily. Hair was to be worn in a tight chignon at the base of her neck, not held up loosely with pins as she now wore it. Furthermore, her hair was to be covered anytime she was out of doors.
She had disregarded both mandates.
Mrs. Brathay clicked her tongue. “La, child. What I am to do with you I’m sure I don’t know. But now’s not the time to be fretting on such things. Mr. Langsby has asked to see you in his study.”
Dread, foreboding and heavy, sliced through Isabel. It was not every day that one was summoned to speak with the school’s superintendent, and rarely for a positive reason. “If it is about my hair, I—”
“Don’t be silly,” hissed Mrs. Brathay, her gray eyes alert. “Mr. Langsby is far too busy to be concerned with such things. It seems I must remind you that regulations, and the adherence to them, develops discipline. I fear you have been allowed far too many passes in that regard. If you hope to obtain a permanent teaching position here at Fellsworth, then it would behoove you to show respect for the rules.”
Isabel nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Brathay.”
“Now, tidy your hair and then go to Mr. Langsby’s study. There is a messenger for you there.”
Isabel jerked her head up. “A messenger?”
“Yes, a messenger.” Annoyance sharpened Mrs. Brathay’s tone. “Mr. Langsby is a very busy man, as is, I am certain, the gentleman who is with him. Your little morning escapade into the garden has kept them both waiting.”
In an unmasked display of displeasure, Mrs. Brathay gripped her skirt in one hand, turned, and quit the corridor.
Isabel held her breath at the reprimand, and once the older woman was clear of the threshold, she expelled her air. The meaning of Mrs. Brathay’s words settled on her.
A messenger.
Here.
For her.
In her experience, messengers rarely harbored pleasant news, and she doubted this one would be different.
She ran her hand down the front of her gown, pausing only momentarily to notice a slight tremble in her fingers. Without giving herself time to contemplate the reason behind it, she brushed away tiny bits of leaves and grass from her morning outing that still clung to the rough fabric.
Delaying whatever or whoever awaited her would not alter the situation.
The most likely reason for the summons was that she had been offered a position as a governess. It had been her objective for many years—and the endeavor of many young ladies who studied at Fellsworth—to secure such a position. But normally, news of that nature would come from Mrs. Brathay, the girls’ headmistress, not from the superintendent, whose duty it was to oversee both the boys’ and girls’ schools.
Determined to receive the news with calmness, she lifted her chin and swept her hair away from her face. After a steadying breath, she turned on her heel and made her way down the narrow corridor leading from the back entrance to the school’s main hall.
The school seemed unusually quiet for the late-morning hour. Had the building echoed with the normal sounds of hushed voices and hurried footsteps, however, she might not have noticed the distant sound of a horse’s whinny. She stopped and turned to discover the source. There, through the tall, leaded windows, was a carriage as black as coal, and in front of it stood four jet horses. The sunlight shone on their glossy manes and polished harnesses. One of the horses, a giant, majestic creature, tossed his head, and the high-pitched whinny echoed yet again. The carriage’s door boasted an unfamiliar yet vivid crest of red and gold. She stood transfixed by the elegant sight, for such a carriage rarely came to rest before Fellsworth School’s humble entrance. The image both incited new questions and returned her to the task at hand.
Tearing her gaze away from the sight, Isabel turned and hastened from the foyer down the hall leading to the superintendent’s study. At its end, the thick door stood slightly ajar. As Isabel drew closer to the slim crack, she angled her head just so to glimpse the back of a gentleman sitting in a padded chair. This man could not be Mr. Langsby, for his shoulders were far too broad and his hair too full and light. Even by what little of his clothing she could see, there could be no denying the fabric’s richness and the crispness in his coat’s high collar.
Growing more curious, she removed the few pins clinging to her locks, shook out her unruly hair, coiled it tightly per protocol, and secured it in place. She had little idea what message awaited her once she passed the threshold, but she would not meet it unprepared.
Once satisfied her hair would not come tumbling about her shoulders, Isabel lifted her hand and tapped on the door.
A voice, deep and solemn, sounded from within. “Enter.”
Before pushing the door open with her fingertips, Isabel drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm the possible scenarios swirling through her mind. She stepped into the spacious chamber, her footsteps barely audible on the thin, worn rug.
Bright white sunlight spilled through the freshly cleaned leaded windows and splashed on the contents of Mr. Langsby’s modest study. An expansive walnut desk stood anchored in the center of the oblong room, and atop its polished surface sat piles of papers and books so plentiful that Isabel wondered how Mr. Langsby even knew the task at hand.
But it was not the pile of letters or the height of the windows that captured her attention. For as she entered, the messenger stood and turned to face her.
Isabel had not formed a clear idea of what sort of man might bring her a message, but she was certain that even in her wildest imagination, he never would have been like the man before her. She had expected a footman or possibly a tradesman of some sort, but before her stood a gentleman. His status was evident in the cut of his clothes, the arrangement of his hair, and the glossy sheen of his boots. With light brown hair and a strong, square jaw, he was extraordinarily handsome. She summoned courage to look at his eyes. They were warm and deep but large and bright. And they were fixed firmly on her.
It felt as if minutes passed before Mr. Langsby spoke, though common sense whispered it had been but a few seconds. “Miss Creston, good, you are here at last.”
She turned to Mr. Langsby as if jolted by his words. He was seated behind the desk. As usual, a crisp black coat adorned his wiry frame, and his thinning gray hair was gathered into a sparse queue at the base of his neck. Compared to the other man in the room, he appeared almost frail.
Isabel found her voice. “My apologies, Mr. Langsby. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Well, you are here now. And not a moment too late, for there is a guest here for you.” Mr. Langsby stood and turned to face the tall man standing before her. “I’d like for you to meet Mr. Bradford. Mr. Bradford is the
superintendent of the foundling home in Northrop, just south of here.”
Mr. Bradford.
Isabel returned her attention to their guest, and he smiled and gave a crisp, formal bow.
She curtsied as elegantly as her nervous legs would allow.
Mr. Langsby continued. “Mr. Bradford is an old friend of mine. I have known him for a number of years now. Imagine my surprise when he arrived this morning with this missive concerning you.”
Mr. Bradford finally spoke, his voice deep and rich. “I am always pleased to visit at Fellsworth. And I am even more pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Creston.”
Mr. Bradford’s words suggested that he’d visited Fellsworth prior to this occasion, but she was certain she would remember seeing such a gentleman.
Mr. Langsby adjusted the spectacles on his long nose, lifted an opened letter from his desk, and turned his full attention to Isabel. “Is the name Mrs. Margaret Ellison familiar to you?”
Isabel frowned as she searched her memory. “No, sir, it is not.”
“Perhaps you think it an odd inquiry, but I assure you, my reason for asking is sound. The missive Mr. Bradford conveyed is from a Mrs. Margaret Ellison of Emberwilde Hall. I have not had the pleasure of correspondence from Mrs. Ellison prior to this interaction, but in this letter she inquires after you by name.”
“After me?” Isabel repeated, unable to conceal the surprise in her voice. She had resided at this school for years and had precious few acquaintances outside of Fellsworth’s halls.
“Yes.” Mr. Langsby nodded. “It appears that Mrs. Ellison is a relation of yours and wishes to open her home to you.”
Isabel stared at Mr. Langsby as if he had grown a second head. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken, sir. I have no other relations apart from my sister.”
As if sensing her confusion, Mr. Bradford stepped closer. “Perhaps I can explain. Mrs. Ellison has reason to believe that she is your aunt and has sent me to investigate the matter. Mrs. Ellison’s sister was Mrs. Anna Creston, formerly Miss Anna Hayworth of Northrop.”
At the mention of the treasured name, the room’s temperature seemed to rise with each tick of the mantel clock. How long had it been since that name had met Isabel’s ears?
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