Dawn at Emberwilde (18 page)

Bradford faced Colin as he approached. “Evening, Galloway. I'm surprised to see you here.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about you.” Colin emerged into the small clearing where Bradford stood with his companions.

“Really? Hmm. That's strange.” The crowd cheered. Bradford looked toward the boxing square, then turned back to Colin. “I would think you would remember my fondness for such attractions.”

Colin did remember. In their university days, Bradford had garnered quite the reputation for gambling and cavorting. Then his father died, and he no longer had access to funds.

Bradford looked toward McKinney, his words full of irony. “Now you, I'd expect to see here.”

McKinney rocked on his heels. “Never miss one if I can help it.”

Another punch landed in the makeshift arena, the sound of which reverberated above the cheering crowd.

The voices around them calmed, and Colin motioned to the other men. “Who are your friends?”

“This is Christopher Dent, and this is Marcus Stanway.”

The two men nodded at Colin.

“Gentlemen,” Bradford continued, directing his words to the pair. “This is Mr. Colin Galloway, Northrop solicitor and magistrate, and Mr. Robert McKinney, owner of the Pigeon's Rest Inn.”

Dent nodded in recognition to McKinney, but then the men turned back to the bout.

Colin folded his arms across his chest as he watched the fight, then said to Bradford, “How's the baby?”

Bradford did not take his eyes from the men fighting. “Fine, I presume.”

“You don't know how she is?”

“ 'Course not.” Bradford shrugged. “Babies are sent to a wet nurse in the country. I am sure she is well, though. I've not heard otherwise.”

The callous disconnect between Bradford and his work was surprising, for despite Bradford's flaws, he was particular about the foundling home. Which is why if there was any questionable activity in the forest, Bradford would certainly know about it.

“Anything ever come of those boys and the man they saw with the knife?”

Bradford huffed a laugh. “They were just boys being boys and telling tales.”

“That may be the case, but I've been apprised of some illegal activity going on in the forest, and I wanted to make you aware, for safety's sake.”

At this, Bradford turned. “What kind of activity?”

“Not sure exactly. We are going to get to the bottom of it, be sure of that, but I wanted to make you aware. We suspect there are strangers in the forest who could be engaged in foul play. Those boys of yours may not have been telling tales after all.”

Bradford guffawed. “Those boys are all mischief and trouble, no doubt about it.”

Colin cut his eyes toward Dent and Stanway. “With all of these newcomers to town, I urge you to err on the side of caution.”

Bradford chuckled as if amused. “Very well. I have been warned.”

The dull thud of a punch landing incited another cheer from the crowd.

Colin excused himself and spent at least an hour mingling and making discreet inquiries of the others gathered in the barn. But when he failed to gather useful information from anyone, he pulled McKinney aside. “I think I've seen everything I need to see here. I am going to return to Northrop. You coming?”

“No,” responded McKinney, not taking his eyes from the fight. “I think I will stay around here for a bit longer.”

“Very well. I'll stop by the Pigeon's Rest tomorrow.”

Colin clamped his hand on McKinney's shoulder before weaving his way out of the barn and into the night air. The rain still fell, but the intensity had slackened, and now it drizzled down in a hazy film. He pulled his hat lower to guard against the moisture, wishing he had brought Sampson. But the thick mud would have been treacherous for the animal, and no doubt he could return just as quickly on foot.

As he made his way to the main road, he considered Bradford's presence at the match. Colin was not sure he had made any progress or learned anything he did not know before, but he could not deny his curiosity in why Bradford was there. He'd never known Bradford to show interest in such activities in recent years, and the company he was keeping had been curious.

He was trudging down the muddy lane when a strange cracking noise made him pause. No doubt the sound was a squirrel or fox in the nearby woods, but he slowed his steps. He should follow his own advice. Times were changing, and the people around town were changing. He did have a blade in his boot for protection, but more than likely, he was overreacting to typical noises of the night.

He walked for several more minutes, then similar sounds caused him to pause again. He turned and looked behind him, but saw nothing in the night's ample mist. But as he resumed his walk, someone grabbed him from the back. Before he knew what had happened, a thick arm wrapped around his neck.

Every muscle in Colin's body sprang to action. He jabbed his elbow back into his attacker's belly, affording himself just enough room to spin around. The arm around him slackened, but as it did, a fist slammed into the side of his face, causing white spots to dart across his vision. He stumbled back but did not lose balance.

The man before him had a large frame. He was dressed in dark garments and something was tied around his face. Colin wished he had grabbed his blade from his boot when he thought of it earlier, but it was too late now. The man lunged at him, and Colin thrust his fist forward, pummeling him in his side.

Colin's breath was now coming in gaspy huffs, and perspiration trickled down the sides of his face. He took another blow to his jaw and then his gut, but in a sudden burst of energy he slammed his own fist into the stranger's nose, sending him staggering backward. The man recovered quickly and sprang toward him, nearly knocking Colin's legs out from under him. Again he grabbed Colin and whirled him around, but this time he held a blade. He forced it up against Colin's throat.

Colin froze, realizing the seriousness of his situation. “What do you want?”

The man, who was now behind him, gave a grisly, unfamiliar
laugh. “You've been poking that nose of yours around where it doesn't belong, haven't you? You'd be wise to leave good enough alone, Galloway. Stay away from what doesn't belong to you, or next time, our meeting might not be so congenial.”

And with a mighty shove, Colin was pushed forward. The force caused him to stumble and fall. He righted himself and spun around, determined to learn his attacker's identity, but no one was there. The man, whoever he was, had disappeared into the woodland on the side of the road.

Colin snatched his blade from his boot, but the effort was pointless. He was alone. He gasped for breath, his expelled air pluming into white puffs in the night's stillness. He jumped to his feet, blade still in hand, and cast another glance around him.

He would not be caught off guard again.

Chapter Seventeen

A
s she sat in church, Isabel could feel eyes on her.

She felt like a pet on display.

The uncomfortable sensation that the people around her knew far more about her than she knew of them troubled her.

She straightened her shoulders and focused her eyes on the somber-faced clergyman.

One of her new gowns had arrived the previous day, just in time for the service and her first true introduction to Northrop. Pale green sprigged muslin adorned her frame. Netting covered the bodice, and tiny white flowers graced the hemline.

There was no denying the clothing's beauty, but even after a couple of days of new attire, Isabel still felt odd wearing something besides her black gown. Today she was in different petticoats. Different stays. She wore stockings made of elegant pink silk instead of rough gray cotton. Dainty—and wholly impractical—white satin slippers hugged her feet instead of the black boots she was accustomed to. Her hair was different too. Burns had spent the better part of an hour twisting, braiding, and pinning.

She lowered her gaze for a moment to Lizzie, who was seated beside her. Lizzie, too, was in a new gown of blue muslin, with tidy white stockings and matching blue slippers. Instead of a tight braid, her hair hung down her back nearly to her waist. She looked every bit the young lady.

Isabel tried to focus on the sermon, but curiosity surged through
her. So many new faces were around her. But some seemed to draw her curiosity more than others.

She cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. In the pews near the back sat the foundling home children. She had visited the home twice since her initial visit to read to the younger ones, and both she and Lizzie had become acquainted with several of the younger girls. There were probably twenty children present, varying in age from roughly five years to fifteen. They were sitting quietly and still, a testament to their discipline, and in the pew in front of them, Mr. Bradford. During the quiet, still moments he had occupied her mind over the past several days.

Isabel stole another glance as discreetly as she could. Mr. Bradford's light eyes were straight ahead, and the collar of his coat of black wool rose high on his neck. A sliver of sunlight cut through the stained-glass window, painting him in a bluish light. His hair was neatly trimmed and close to his head, and his face was clean-shaven save for the side whiskers that framed his cheekbones.

A strange flutter danced within her. She had not known him long, but in her interactions with him he had proved kind and gentle. Observant and careful. The argument she overheard between her aunt and uncle regarding her future was never far from her thoughts. As little as a month ago she would have thought of marriage as an unattainable dream. But maybe. Just maybe . . .

As she turned around slowly, her eye landed on another man—Mr. Galloway. As she looked a little more closely, she noticed bruising under his eye. Had he been hit? Judging by their past interactions, he was more reserved and solemn than Mr. Bradford, but the discoloration marring his face made her think otherwise. He had seemed so kind when she met him in the garden. Could her uncle honestly mean for her to marry a man who was prone to physical altercations?

He was a handsome man, to be sure. His features were much
darker than Mr. Bradford's, his expression more secretive. Her aunt's warning rang in her head:
Mr. Galloway is precisely the sort of man who is nothing as he seems.

Mr. Galloway, she noted, was seated at the edge of a pew, and next to him sat a black-haired boy who was probably around Lizzie's age. On the other side of the boy sat a woman with black hair, pale skin, and charcoal eyes. She wondered who they were. For he clearly had no wife, otherwise his name would not have come up as a suitable partner. But what explanation could there be?

At the conclusion of the service, most everyone followed the rector as he exited the nave, pausing to greet him and thank him for the sermon.

Aunt Margaret placed her hand on Isabel's back and nudged her toward the older man. “It pleases me to introduce you to my niece, Miss Isabel Creston. Isabel is my sister's child.”

At the mention of Isabel's mother, the rector's eyebrows rose. “Can there be any doubt of the relation? She is the very likeness of her mother, God rest her soul.”

Isabel did not know why it should surprise her that others knew of her mother. “You knew her?”

“I did, indeed. I've been the rector here for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I remember your mother around your age. And who is this?” The rector bent down to look at Lizzie.

Isabel opened her mouth to respond, but her aunt beat her to it. “This is Miss Elizabeth Creston, Miss Creston's younger sister.”

Lizzie pleased her aunt with a pretty little curtsy and a smile, just as she had been taught.

“Both these ladies will be staying at Emberwilde for the time being,” added Aunt Margaret.

“Well, then, I am glad to greet you. Any relation of the Hayworth family is most welcome here.”

Her aunt ushered them to a group of older ladies at the edge
of the church's small cemetery, and Isabel prepared for yet another round of introductions.

She was ready to return to Emberwilde. Her new slippers were uncomfortable, and the dress, though elegantly and fashionably cut, prevented her from moving freely. The sun was growing warm, and its light poked through the delicately woven straw of her bonnet.

She wrapped her gloved fingers around Lizzie's, but the child was growing impatient. The service had been much longer than the ones they attended in Fellsworth. Isabel tried to pay attention to the conversation, but the child's tugging distracted her.

“Look at the ducklings! Look, Isabel!”

Isabel shushed her.

But Lizzie had no interest in being silenced.

“May I go see the ducklings? Oh, please!” Lizzie pointed at a wooden fence separating the drive from a nearby pasture.

Isabel wanted the child to stay close to her, but how long could she keep her calm? She herself was itching to be free.

Perhaps a few moments doing something such as looking at ducklings would help calm the child.

Aunt Margaret would never approve of such a childish distraction.

Then again, her aunt would never approve of a scene either.

“Yes, you may,” Isabel consented, albeit against her better judgment. “Do not touch them, and mind the mud and the carriages. Your shoes are new. And do not run.”

Isabel had managed to pack a number of instructions into a quick whisper, and she watched as Lizzie crossed the small path, her steps controlled and dainty.

Isabel wished she could escape these conversations too, but with a sigh she turned back to the group of ladies she was preparing to meet. She smiled and nodded and was as pleasant as she could be, and for several moments, all seemed to be going quite well. She
turned to ask her aunt a question and noticed her aunt was no longer a part of the conversation.