Dawn at Emberwilde

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Several awkward moments ensued. The older woman studied her as if she were a statue on display.

  Isabel took the time to assess her aunt as well.

  There was no denying the relation. Ice-blue eyes so like her own studied her with unmasked approval, but the long, straw-blonde eyelashes served as the true likeness that bound them together.

  And then her aunt’s gaze landed on Lizzie. She appeared almost alarmed, and her hand flew to her bosom. “And who is this?”

  Isabel put her arm around Lizzie’s shoulders, noting the resistance as she tried to urge the child forward. “This is Lizzie, my sister.”

  “Your sister? No, no. You do not have a sister.” The authority in the older woman’s voice was jarring. She shook her head in emphatic disagreement, her eyes fixed on the child.

  “Lizzie is my father’s daughter,” Isabel hurried to clarify, fearing that her aunt’s reaction would echo her uncle’s parting comment. “He remarried several years back, and Lizzie’s mother died. It was then Lizzie joined me at Fellsworth, and now that our father is dead I am her guardian.”

  Isabel pulled Lizzie to her side. She feared her aunt’s response, for even though she had only just met her aunt, the older woman certainly had no qualms about sharing her opinions.

  Isabel felt the need to fill the empty silence. “I do hope it is all right that she accompanied me. The letter said I was welcome whatever the situation.”

  The tension in the air increased by the moment, but then her aunt relented. “So it did.”

  The young woman waiting in the hall stepped forward. She was a vision of femininity in pink printed muslin and a gauzy cream chemisette. She stooped in front of Lizzie and gathered the child’s hands in her own.

  “Oh, how delightful. It has been so long since we had a child in the house, hasn’t it, Mother?” She knelt down to be eye level with Lizzie. “Hello, Elizabeth. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Constance. You and I are cousins.”

  Lizzie’s tense shoulders slackened, and she gave an awkward curtsy. “How do you do?”

  “Oh, you are delightful!” Constance giggled. “Mother, isn’t she? I know for a fact that Cook has made fresh tarts just this morning. Would you care for one? I bet you are hungry after your journey.”

  Lizzie cast a shy glance up toward Isabel before nodding.

  With an elegant wave of her hand, Constance motioned toward the silent footman at the room’s entrance. Within seconds he bowed and disappeared through the door.

  She then straightened and looked to Isabel. “Such a pleasure to see you, Cousin.” The pretty girl with honey-gold hair and hazel eyes gave a practiced curtsy.

  Isabel returned the greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Constance’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, but we have met before, do you not remember?”

  Isabel searched her memory, but no recollection of her cousin glimmered. “I am sorry, I do not.”

  Her aunt raised a hand impatiently. “Well, never mind that now. It was very long ago. There will be plenty of time to get reacquainted after we have gotten you both settled. Sadly, you will have to wait until another time to meet your three other cousins. They are all married and live quite a distance away, I am afraid. And you shall never meet Freddie, your only male cousin, my dear, for he died in battle several years ago. Oh, I do wish your uncle was here to greet you, but estate business keeps him very busy this time of year, and I fear it may be quite late before he returns from his duties.”

  “Actually, we met him on the road as we approached,” Isabel offered. “He stopped the carriage to introduce himself.”

  “Well, that is fortunate. You will find that Mr. Ellison’s responsibilities keep him very engaged.”

  Isabel looked over her shoulder to the corridor as men carried in their meager belongings. “I am very grateful for the invitation. Lizzie and I are pleased to be here.”

  “I am only sorry the invitation came so late. I received word of your father’s death from one of my distant cousins, who lives in London, just a month ago. After your mother died, I offered to let you live here. After all, your father’s occupation consumed all of his time. How could a man without a wife care for a child and properly see to his occupation? He would hear nothing of it, though, and much to my dismay we soon lost all contact with him.”

  Her aunt’s light eyebrow arched as she assessed the front of Isabel’s gown. “But now, all that is in the past. I see you are still in mourning for him.”

  Isabel ran a hand down the rough fabric. It would be an easy mistake to assume by her attire that she was in mourning, for the black, unadorned linen would certainly suit such an occasion, but she only had two dresses, and they were both exactly the same. “No, ma’am, I am not. This gown is the teacher’s uniform. All the teachers at Fellsworth wear them.”

  “A teacher?” Aunt Margaret’s expression pinched in obvious disapproval, and she nodded toward the charcoal-gray pinafore that Lizzie wore. “And your sister’s gown?”

  “All the students her age wear a similar gown.”

  “Well, at least that is something we shall be able to remedy quickly. Those gowns will never do here. We shall have a suitable seamstress come right away. All that can wait until later, though. First, you must eat.” She glanced at Lizzie and waved her hand in front of herself, as if to shoo the matter away. “We always have plenty.”

  Isabel took Lizzie’s hand in her own once more and allowed her aunt to lead them into the drawing room. As her boots tapped on the stone floor, she only half listened to her aunt’s descriptions of the home and the opulent furnishings. There would be time for all of that later, for she could barely hear the words above the doubts and fears swirling about in her head. She never considered herself to be shy or overcome by timidity. In fact, her manner was often so outspoken that she was frequently reprimanded. But this home and these people—her relatives—were unlike any she had interacted with before. She drew a deep breath to calm her taut nerves. She was grateful to her aunt and uncle, but a small voice in her head whispered words of caution. She and Lizzie were definitely far from Fellsworth, and very far from home indeed.

  Night fell quickly over Emberwilde, bringing with it harsh winds and spring rain accompanied by startling lightning strikes and cracks of thunder.

  The raindrops pelted the stone walls and crashed against the leaded glass windows, resulting in a racket unlike any that Isabel could recall.

  It was a wonder that Lizzie had fallen asleep so quickly. Isabel had expected the evening hours to upset her sister. Her aunt declared they should not share a bedchamber. Lizzie had never slept alone in a room of her own, but the journey had been so tiring, the excitement so exhausting, that she fell asleep almost the moment her head rested against the pillow. She now slept in a bed as wide as three of Fellsworth’s narrow beds pushed together.

  Isabel was hesitant to leave Lizzie alone. She lingered in the doorway, watching the child as if she might wake at any moment. Lizzie would be frightened to wake up alone in such a room, but Aunt Margaret had expressly instructed Isabel to join her and Constance in the music room. Isabel longed for sleep, but she did not dare to refuse her aunt’s request.

  Isabel took up a candle, and upon quitting Lizzie’s chamber, she quickly became lost in the maze of small rooms and shadowed, crooked corridors. The halls seemed to lead to nowhere, and because the doors and walls alike were paneled, discerning where to go was difficult. Intricate tapestries and innumerable portraits lined the walls, each one looking very like the last. Even with her candle’s aid, darkness shrouded all.

  She was able to find her way only with the assistance of one of the housemaids.

  Once in the music room, the cool shadows gave way to a warm yellow light. As cold and unwelcoming as the rest of the house was, this room was every bit as inviting. The glow from the vibrant fire chased away the stormy evening’s pulsating chill, and the soft strains from the pianoforte covered the sounds of the howling gusts
and biting downpour.

  “There you are!” exclaimed Aunt Margaret when at length she took notice of Isabel standing in the doorway. A seemingly genuine smile graced her round face. She stood from her perch on the small settee next to the fire, which glimmered in the pearls about her neck and in the silver strands of her hair. “We were beginning to wonder where you had gotten to. I trust your sister is asleep.”

  “Yes, Aunt Margaret. She is, thank you.”

  Constance, the musician responsible for the instrument’s haunting strains, ceased playing and turned her head. She was seated at the gilded pianoforte, the case of which was intricately painted with cherubs and vines. Constance’s long white fingers splayed in easy elegance over the keys. Her light hair and the metallic threads woven into her dress shimmered in the candlelight.

  Constance lowered her hands to her lap. “You found us! I was about to search for you, fearing you’d become lost.”

  The gentleness of her cousin’s tone set Isabel at ease. “I did find my way, but I must confess I had to seek assistance.”

  Her aunt leaned forward, an earnest expression tightening her face. “This is a very old home, as I am sure you can tell. So much of it has been built and rebuilt throughout the decades that at times the layout does not make much sense. But you will adjust to it soon enough.”

  Constance turned to face her fully. “Tell me, Isabel, how do you like your chamber?”

  Isabel considered the question. Never had she had an entire room to herself. “It is lovely.”

  “I’ve always been fond of that room,” Aunt Margaret said. “The Lilac Room, it’s called. Apparently, years before my arrival lilacs used to grow beneath the window, and when the windows were open the scent would perfume the entire chamber. It has a lovely view of the Emberwilde Forest. I had planned to give you the Bluebonnet Room that overlooks the gardens, but learning of your desire to stay close to Elizabeth, I thought you would prefer the one that adjoins with hers.”

  “That is very thoughtful of you.” Isabel turned to her cousin, who was still seated at the keyboard. “You play beautifully.”

  A pretty smile colored her cousin’s face and her eyes flicked up from the keys. “You are too kind. But I ought to play much better than I do, considering how earnestly my governess tried to teach me the art.”

  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?”