Dawn at Emberwilde

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “You’re too old to believe in such fairy tales. Stop your complaining. And remember—there’s fifty pounds at stake.”

  The reminder perked McKinney’s waning energy. “And it’s all mine, mind you, if these are the kind of antics I have to put up with.”

  The men stepped into the forest and followed the path that had been worn into the soft earth. They made no effort to hide the fact that they were there. Someone did not want them around and had been willing to attack Colin to prove a point. But he did not frighten that easily. And something had spooked Miss Creston, he was sure of it. At least their actions today would incite a reaction—what kind of reaction remained to be seen.

  They arrived at the cavern. Colin handed Sampson’s reins to Henry and retrieved his lantern from the saddle. He opened the small door and entered the space. The scents of damp earth and wet wood surrounded him.

  He raised the lantern high. The size of the crates struck him as odd. They were too large to fit through the entrance. The crates could have been constructed inside the cavern, but that seemed unlikely.

  The soles of his boots sank into the soft mud. He noted how loose the dirt seemed, as if it had been disturbed recently. He pried the lid off one of the crates. Inside, glass bottles rested on tightly packed straw.

  He investigated the rest of the small cavern. Stones provided the walls, and thick vines formed a roof. A patch of dirt in the wall caught his eye, glaringly different from the rest of the surroundings.

  His imagination leaped to life as possible scenarios rushed him. Smugglers were a clever lot. From false-bottom boxes to hidden chambers, he was constantly amazed at the lengths to which these men—and women—would go to transport and hide contraband.

  With his gloved hand, he reached out and scratched at the wall. It crumbled before him, and bits of rock fell to his feet.

  “McKinney!” he called as the wall gave way. “McKinney! Get in here!”

  A shuffling behind him signaled McKinney’s arrival. “Hold on, mate. I don’t fit in here too well.” After a great bit of shuffling, McKinney muttered, “Well, I’ll be. What is it?”

  “It’s got to be another cavern or a tunnel of some sort.”

  Colin knocked the opening free of hanging vines, then stuck his lantern through. Old bricks formed an arched ceiling.

  “Where do you think it leads?”

  “Hard to tell. I’m about to find out, though. Stay here,” Colin said. “You and Henry watch this entrance.”

  “Where you going?” McKinney demanded.

  “To see where this leads.”

  “Not so sure that is a great idea,” his colleague warned. “Why don’t you wait and—”

  “I’m just taking a look. Wait here for me. Signal if anything odd happens.”

  He ignored McKinney’s grumbling protests and stepped through the opening. As he did, his boot sank in several inches of mud. He pitched forward, almost falling over. Once steady, Colin lifted his lantern and stretched his frame. The space was wide enough for several men, yet he could not stand up to his full height.

  Bits of vines, crumbling stones, and the stench of stagnant water verified that this was not a new tunnel. Far from it. Crudely cut stones had fallen from their positions in the wall and were treacherous in the darkness.

  He lifted his sleeve to his nose. An animal had no doubt met its fate in here. He paused, jerked his neck cloth free, then tied it around his mouth and nose to block the stench. He rounded the bend, and the faint light behind him disappeared. He forged ahead, following an intricate series of bends and turns until he was quite turned around.

  How odd to have spent so much time in this forest as a youth and not even know this tunnel existed. For, judging by what he saw, this passageway predated him by many years. Could this be the handiwork of the gypsies who were the basis of the local folklore?

  He lost sense of how long he’d been walking. His back was beginning to ache from his hunched position, and he reprimanded himself for not counting his steps to track how far he’d traveled.

  Just when he was about to give up and turn around, a faint, white light glimmered ahead. He headed toward the spot and stopped in surprise. The tunnel forked into two different directions. He squinted as he looked down the left branch. The ceiling had given away. Grass and trees filtered down into the empty space, clinging to the sides and blocking the path. The opening to the ground above was a small one, but if he tried, he could work his way through. By his lantern’s light, he studied the space for signs of activity, but a couple of inches of water stood on the crude floor. The foliage and surrounding dirt appeared undisturbed.

  He backtracked to the main tunnel and took the other path. He walked for what he guessed to be several hundred feet until the tunnel finally came to an end with a series of steps that led up to a door in the tunnel’s ceiling.

  At the sight, his heart picked up its pace, not only at the excitement of a discovery, but also at the uncertainty of what was behind the door.

  He climbed the short, narrow stairs and assessed the latch. As he was doing so, he noticed the light from his lantern catching on something shiny at his feet. He bent and picked up the object and held it to the light. A pocket watch. It was crusted with mud, but when he clicked it open, it was keeping time, indicating it had been wound at some point in the not-too-distant past.

  He closed it, tucked the watch into his pocket to study at another time, and returned his attention to the door. It was fashioned so that it would open upward. For several moments he remained still, uncertain how to proceed. This door would open somewhere. But where? He had no pistol. He didn’t even have a knife on his person—he’d left it on his saddle.

  He had two choices. He could either open the door and see where it led, or head back for a weapon.

  He sat for several moments and listened. Sounds of muffled dripping water met his ear, but other than that, silence prevailed.

  He studied the door more closely and noticed a knothole in the wood. He poked his finger through it and felt heavy fabric.

  He pushed at it, and it moved.

  After considering his options, he decided to lift the door. He could feel something on top of the door shift. He moved it less than an inch.

  He waited. No noise. No response.

  He pushed it up just a bit farther and lifted his head. He blinked at the sudden onslaught of light. He could see a rough wood floor. It was dusty and dirty, but all was quiet. Slowly, he lifted the door the rest of the way.

  He was alone in what appeared to be a toolshed.

  He managed to climb through the door, careful to stay below the shed’s window. His boots were wet and muddy. He would not be able to move in the space without leaving marks. If this was indeed an entry point for the smuggling activity, someone would be back.

  He looked around and craned his neck so he could see out of the shed’s single window. And then he saw it.

  The back of the foundling home.

  It made sense. The foundling home was on Emberwilde property, just like the forest. But why would a tunnel emerge here, in a toolshed of all places?

  He returned to the steps and descended into the tunnel, letting the door drop slowly, hoping the cloth atop it would fall back into place.

  He was growing weary of the stench. The murky floor. The tight walls. Carefully, slowly, he made his way back, past the fork to the other tunnel, past the rocks. Relief rushed him when he beheld the opening to the cavern.

  “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” exclaimed McKinney as Colin stepped back through.

  Colin did not respond. He went straight to the door leading to the forest and burst through. He set the lantern aside and stretched his burning muscles.

  “Was about to go in after you, not sure where you had gotten to. But the smell was so foul I decided against it.”

  “Thanks a lot,” muttered Colin, untying his neck cloth from his face and inhaling a deep breath of the fresh forest air.

 
“What’d you find?” Henry asked, taking the lantern from Colin.

  Colin sat on a log and kicked his boot against the side to dislodge the mud clinging to it. “Goes back quite a way and then forks. One of them leads to the forest floor. The other leads to one of the garden sheds behind the foundling home.”

  “What?” both McKinney and Henry exclaimed.

  “It’s falling apart in there. Dangerous, actually. I’m sure they’re using it somehow. How else would they get the crates in here? And I found this.” Colin pulled the pocket watch from his pocket and clicked it open. By this light, he was able to examine the piece closer. It had a white face, and the chain had been broken. He extended it toward Henry.

  Colin’s cousin frowned as he took the piece, held it up, and popped it open. Then he held it to his ear. “Hmm. Nice timepiece. There doesn’t appear to be a marking or inscription, though.”

  Henry handed it back to Colin.

  “I’ll show it to Ellison. Perhaps he will know something.” Colin returned the watch to his pocket and rested his elbow on his knee, turning his face into the bit of breeze coming through the trees. “Been in this forest all my life, and I had no clue those tunnels were there.”

  “That’s why I don’t come here.” McKinney shrugged, sitting on a nearby log. “There’s something wrong with the place. Secrets and tunnels, mischief and magic, I’m sure of it.”

  Henry ignored McKinney’s statement and extinguished the lantern. “I’ve never heard of the tunnels either, but then again, I didn’t spend as much time here as you did, Colin.”

  “That tunnel appears to have been here for ages.” Colin used his sleeve to wipe the perspiration from his brow. “Someone has to know about it.”

  “But who?” McKinney asked.

  Colin wondered the exact same thing. His first thought was Bradford, since the tunnel emptied onto the school’s property. But that seemed unlikely. Bradford wouldn’t step foot in a shed, let alone go about exploring tunnels. Besides, he and Colin had played in these woods together as boys. If one of them knew about the tunnel, it only stood to reason that the other would.

  Colin locked eyes with his cousin. Henry had a sharp mind, and his ability to read people was impeccable.

  Henry handed Sampson’s reins back over to Colin. “Ellison?”

  Colin took the reins in his hands and stood. It was true—who else besides the property owner would know of such a tunnel? Him, or maybe someone who worked for him, like Harding. But if they were somehow involved, why would Ellison have reached out to him in the first place?

  McKinney rubbed his hands together, a twinkle brightening his eye. “Told you there was something not right in this forest. It’s evil, and evil things happen here. So what are you going to do about this?”

  “Not sure yet. First things first, let’s break down these crates and take the contents to the jail for safekeeping. Let’s get everything out. Also, I need to share this news with Ellison.” Colin took a deep breath. “But things just got a lot more interesting.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Isabel’s final gown was delivered just in time for the dinner at the Atwell house—her first true social event in Northrop.

  She had never been a guest at such a dinner before. At Fellsworth, she had always taken dinner in the same manner, at the teachers’ dining table in a room full of girls. Even since her arrival at Emberwilde, she had dined only with the family.

  Tonight her nerves took flight within her, swarming her self-consciousness and fanning her apprehension.

  Burns adjusted the lacing at the back of her dress, gently pulling the satin ribbon until it was flat against Isabel’s ribs.

  Isabel tried not to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Even more so than she had in the dress she wore to church and in the days thus far, she looked different.

  With new stays her entire shape evolved. Curves were more pronounced. The change of hue against her skin made every feature appear different. The cut of her bodice made her neck appear longer.

  “Lovely, Isabel. Simply lovely.” Constance sat primly on the edge of the chaise lounge, her hands folded pristinely on her lap, her expression proud, as if she had just created a masterpiece. “That color is exquisite.”

  Isabel had never worn a lavender gown, not that she could remember.

  “You were right about it.”

  Constance laughed. “Never doubt me when it comes to color, Cousin.”

  Isabel sucked in a deep breath as she assessed herself. When Burns finished with the lace, Isabel lifted the intricate overlay, then let it fall back into place. The gown was cut lower on the bodice and wider on the shoulders than she was used to. She touched the bare skin with her hand, covering it. She pivoted so she could see the back of the dress.

  “You are worried about the cut, are you not?” Constance stood and crossed the room to stand behind Isabel. She looked over Isabel’s shoulder into the mirror. “I assure you, this gown is entirely appropriate for an event like the one we are attending. I would not let you make such a misstep. You look divine.”

  Isabel nodded in silent agreement. She had told herself that this gown was an extravagance, a frivolous waste. There were so many other things to spend time and money on. But now that she was in it, now that she felt the fine silk underclothes against her skin and beheld the transformation in front of her, she silenced the battle within her.

  She knew this was just a dinner, but to her, it was a brand-new experience—a welcome to a new world.

  She turned to Lizzie, who was seated on the chair. Her sister was slumped, her elbow resting on the arm and her chin propped in her palm.

  “And what do you think of your sister’s dress, Lizzie?” asked Constance.

  Isabel winced as she regarded her sister. Even in her new gown of pink striped muslin, she looked sad.

  After a long pause, Lizzie sighed and lowered her hand. “It is pretty.”

  “Just pretty?” Constance interjected, acting shocked at the child’s lack of enthusiasm. “Child, this gown is stunning.”

  But Isabel knew her sister. The dejected countenance was not about the gown.

  She lifted her skirt, stepped over a hatbox, and knelt next to her sister. “What is wrong, dearest?”

  Lizzie cut her eyes to Constance before fixing her attention on Isabel. Her lip popped out in a pretty pout. “I want to go. Why can’t I go?”

  “You know why.” Isabel rubbed her sister’s arm. “Such dinners are for adults.”

  Lizzie’s frown confirmed her displeasure with this idea. She draped her arms over the side of the chair and let her head droop toward them.

  “Besides, I fear you would find it terribly boring,” Isabel said. “There will be no children, and you would have to sit still. You will have much more fun here, you will see. Burns has promised to keep you company all evening.” Her lady’s maid flashed a smile at the little girl. “You will like that, will you not?”

  Logically, Isabel knew her sister would be fine. In fact, she could make the argument that Lizzie’s constitution was stronger than her own. She was a fearless child almost to the point of recklessness. Still, a nagging guilt tugged at Isabel. “I promise you, I will come in and see you when I get home.”

  “But I will still be alone at some point.” Lizzie’s lip trembled. “What if a ghost comes and grabs me?”

  Isabel frowned. “What would make you think that there would be a ghost here?”

  “Burns told me so. She said there are ghosts in the Black Wood Forest.”

  “Excuse me, miss,” Burns said, making a convenient exit from the room without looking at Isabel.

  Isabel followed her sister’s gaze out the window. A shiver traveled her spine as she recounted her own experience in the Emberwilde Forest. Outside, the day was darker than it should be given the hour. A heavy rain pelted the earth, and tumultuous clouds pushed out the day’s light. Thunder grumbled low, and an intermittent flash of light brightened the room. There, frame
d by the window, was the Black Wood Forest, swaying and bending to the storm’s demands.

  Isabel turned back to her sister. “It is called the Emberwilde Forest, not the Black Wood Forest, and there are no ghosts.”

  She stood and kissed her sister’s forehead just as her aunt appeared in the doorway.

  “Burns tells me you are ready.” Eagerness heightened the woman’s voice, but her smile faded when she saw the child. “Merciful heavens, what is wrong, Elizabeth? You are not ill, are you?”

  Isabel tapped a warning on Lizzie’s leg and the child sat up straight, but her smile did not return. “No, ma’am.”

  “Well then, what is the matter?”

  Everything her aunt said seemed to take the form of a demand. She was a woman obviously used to a model of behavior that Lizzie had not yet perfected.

  Too many seconds passed before Lizzie responded, so Isabel quickly interjected, “She is quite well, Aunt.”

  “No, she is not,” her aunt declared. “I can see that she is displeased about something. I do hope you are not prone to sulkiness, Elizabeth. That is a terrible trait to find in a young lady, and I will not encourage that sort of behavior in my own home.”

  A little shocked at the bluntness of her aunt’s delivery, and eager to prevent a dramatic display, Isabel wrapped her arm around Lizzie. “It is nothing, Aunt. I promise you.”

  Her aunt turned her harsh gaze on Isabel. “You should not be so eager to defend her, Isabel. If she is to be a lady, the time to start such training is now.” She looked back to Lizzie. “Tell me, child, why are you in such a gloomy state?”

  Isabel braced herself for her sister’s response.

  Lizzie, always brave, always forthright, spoke. “I do not wish to be left alone tonight.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Aunt Margaret waved her hand in dismissive annoyance. “Oh, my dear, you are spoiled in such respects, I do believe. Do you not know that it is important for your sister to meet the people of Northrop? It is important for you to learn to be as content when you are alone as you are when surrounded by people. I would think that that school of yours would have impressed upon you as much.”