Dawn at Emberwilde (21 page)

“Something he mentioned about my mother that took me quite by surprise.”

“How strange,” her aunt said, straightening in her chair. “What would he have to say about Anna?”

“He said she died of a fever on this property.”

A strange frown tugged at her aunt's lips. “Yes? And?”

Growing frustrated, Isabel shook her head. “But that is incorrect. My mother died of fever, yes. But in London.”

Her aunt and cousin exchanged concerned glances before her aunt spoke again. “No, dear. Your mother died here, at Emberwilde. But surely you knew that.”

Isabel could feel the tears threatening, their heat fueling her frustration. Why were the women lying to her?

“No, I am quite certain.” Isabel could not control the gradual increase in the volume of her voice. “My father told me quite plainly that she died of a fever in London.”

Her aunt stood, her embroidery falling to the side. “Dear, your father is wrong. For she was my sister. I saw her take her last breath.”

“But I don't remember this at all. Surely I would.”

“You were only five years of age at the time. Of course you do not remember.”

Isabel scrambled to make sense of what she was hearing.

“I can imagine this must be a shock. Your mother was my dearest friend, despite the pain her decisions put our family through. I
know you understand the bond of sisterhood, for I see it when you interact with your own sweet sister. I would not tell you a falsehood, especially not on a matter so important. For whatever reason, your father did—or at the very least, you remember his account differently. I am so very sorry.”

Isabel drew a sharp breath. Her stays felt too tight. Fire rushed her cheeks, then quickly dissipated, leaving her head light and her lungs thin. “What happened?”

Aunt Margaret's expression was sympathetic. “She went for a ride in the morning, and by the afternoon she had fallen quite ill. Your mother loved to ride. She loved it more than anything. You will notice that in the painting she is wearing a riding habit.”

Isabel looked more closely at the painting, hungry for the details she missed on her previous assessments of it. But her aunt was right. She could see a riding crop grasped in her mother's right hand.

“When she married your father, they had no funds for a horse of her own. Your father was busy at his occupation, and she brought you here for a visit in an attempt to mend the family relationship. Our father was still quite upset with her after her indiscretion, but of course, Mr. Ellison and I could not refuse her request. That is why she was a guest at Emberwilde and not Heddeston Park.

“One winter morning she left Emberwilde before dawn for a ride. She took one of the horses out, alone. She was out of the habit of riding, and the day was wet and dark. I will never forget it, not as long as I draw breath on this earth. She went riding in Emberwilde Forest.”

“The Black Wood Forest,” breathed Isabel, drawing the connection.

Her aunt's lip twitched at the name. “Yes, some do refer to it as Black Wood Forest.”

“But why would my father lie?”

Her aunt crossed the room and sat next to Isabel on the settee.
She took Isabel's hand in hers. “Who knows why grieving people say what they do? For I believe your father did love her, at least I can give him that. Word was sent immediately. He arrived in the black of night, inconsolable. I've never seen a man, before or since, so wild with grief and anger. He blamed us for her death, of course.”

Isabel looked at her hands. That, at least, was not a surprise. For even though she did not know her father well, she did know of his extreme emotions.

“He refused to allow her to be buried in the family plot. Instead, he had her transported for burial in London and took you with her. My father, your grandfather, pleaded with him to allow you to stay and be raised either at Heddeston Park or here at Emberwilde. But I have never seen a man so enraged. So indignant. Eventually, we lost contact altogether.”

“Heddeston Park?” asked Isabel, not recognizing the name.

“Do you not recall? That was your grandfather's estate, the very place where your mother and I were raised. I should have fought harder, I suppose, to have you here.”

Isabel could hold the question in no longer. “How did you come to find me at Fellsworth?”

At this question, her aunt looked down at her hands. She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again.

Fearing that her questions were beginning to upset her aunt, Isabel remained silent. But did she not have a right to know about her own history and her own mother?

As if sensing the mounting tension, Constance leaned forward and covered her mother's hand with her own. “Don't you remember, Mother? Just recently there were the questions about Heddeston Park after Grandfather's death. The solicitor was trying to locate Mr. Creston, and—”

“No, no. That business was all settled long ago. After several years, I gave up hope of finding you. But as time passed, I continued
to seek you out, and our solicitor did attempt to contact Mr. Creston. Then, in a stroke of good fortune, my cousin wrote to me with the news he had just met a man who knew your father very well. I cannot remember his name, but he remembered you quite well. His knowledge eventually led us to you.”

Isabel's throat constricted. She wanted to challenge her aunt, to convince her that nothing of the sort happened and that the facts were as she had always believed. But then she sobered. To what end? What would she be fighting for? To preserve a memory that wasn't true? How much better to know the truth, regardless of how she came to know it?

Her aunt's expression held genuine sympathy. “Oh, my dear. This does explain a great deal. I am sorry to be the one to tell you.”

Isabel looked back to the painting. Sorrow pawed at her, as if she had lost her mother all over again.

Chapter Twenty-One

I
sabel could not resist.

Emberwilde Forest.

The Black Wood Forest.

Whatever its true name, it called to her.

She tried to rest in the heat of the late-afternoon sun, as Constance and Aunt Margaret did. Even Lizzie had fallen asleep in a restful nap. No doubt the effects of the past several days were beginning to catch up with her.

But Isabel could not rest. Not yet.

Were the trees black, as Burns had said?

Was the forest truly to blame for her mother's death?

She stood at the gate at the forest's edge, peering into the menacing shadows.

She bit her lower lip and looked over both shoulders before wrapping her fingers around the gate's iron handle and stepping from the light into the forest's dimness. Thick greens and coarse bark surrounded her, and coolness rushed her skin. She pulled her shawl closer and assessed her surroundings. A narrow footpath jutted to her right. The hairs on her neck prickled as a winged creature swept from one of the upper branches of a nearby birch, screeching. She bit her lower lip and cast a glance back at the gate before plunging deeper.

The path before her appeared in choppy bits. At times it was as wide as a road, rough and muddy, and at times it narrowed to be
barely wide enough for her to place one foot in front of the other without losing her balance.

Drawing her shawl even tighter around her, as if gathering armor against a foe, she continued. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs. Not wanting her bonnet to block her peripheral vision, she loosened the silk ties and let it hang down her back.

She had expected the forest to be frightening, but the longer she was there, the more the tension in her shoulders eased. The place held a mystical allure. A mist settled on the forest floor, and the aroma of damp earth and cool leaves encircled her. Eventually the path opened onto a still clearing and then diverged. She stood still for several moments, deciding which fork to take.

She chose the one on the left, which curved away from Emberwilde. She was hardly one to know much about tracking, but she did notice footprints in the soft mud and dirt. With a quick look around to make a memory of the surroundings and which way she would need to return, she lifted the hem of her gown to prevent it from dragging in the mud.

The farther she walked into the forest, the cooler her surroundings became. Shadows became murkier; sounds became sharper. She did not know what she was seeking. But this time alone was good for her soul.

A twig snapped. She stopped short. Mere seconds ago bravery had infused every thought, but at the sound, she recoiled. She'd heard the residents of Emberwilde speak of foxes and even deer in this forest. Surely that was the sound she heard.

She hurried from her spot and turned a bend. The sunlight grew fainter and fainter, and the forest grew quieter and quieter.

At the school, she had never been free to explore on her own. Students and teachers were confined within the school's gates. The idea of being completely alone excited her. It felt wild and rebellious in a world that was controlled and dignified. It brought to
mind the fairy stories that the girls at Fellsworth would read before bedtime, tales of hidden worlds and strange animals.

A new sound stopped her short.

Were those voices?

She cocked her head, straining to hear.

Yes, voices!

She stood still, attempting to identify the origin.

Then the clop of hoofbeats thudded on the damp ground.

A laugh. A horse's snort.

Her voice sounded odd and foreign in the woodland setting as she called, “Who's there?”

“You shouldna be here.”

With a gasp, Isabel whirled around. A man, tall and thin, stood a few feet from her. His hat fell low over his eyes, and his black coat cloaked his frame. Even though she had heard a horse, she did not see one.

Her voice cracked. “I . . . I was only out for a walk.”

“It's no good for a woman to be out alone in these parts. Didn't your mama ever tell you that?”

Isabel took a step backward, and she jumped when something snapped underfoot.

She fixed her eyes on him, afraid that if she broke her stare he would lunge at her. Her gaze lowered slightly to his hands. He held no weapon, nothing at all, but it was then she noticed—his left hand was missing.

Voices reached her from somewhere behind the man, and he looked over his shoulder before fixing his eyes once again on Isabel. “You will not be mentioning this little meeting to anyone, will you, lass? I would hate to have to pay you or your sister a visit.”

Isabel's mouth fell open. This man knew who she was. And he knew about Lizzie. She snapped her mouth shut. She nodded in emphatic agreement.

The man glared at her for what seemed like minutes, a queer, frightening smile cracking his dirt-smeared face. He tipped his ragged cap to her and stepped back into the shadows. She stood completely still until the sound of his footsteps faded, but the pounding of the blood through her ears was deafening.

How many others were with him? Could they see her? Did they see her now?

She lifted her skirt enough to step freely. At first she backed away, but as her breath came to her in gasps, and as her imagination began to weave every sort of dangerous idea, she turned and ran. Her heightened sense of alarm disoriented her. Switches and branches tugged at her, and she screamed as she felt one snatch her face. With every step on the damp floor, with every labored breath and beat of her heart, her desperation to be free increased.

At length, a yellow glow of sunlight began to bleed through the leaves. She ran toward it. She ignored the pinching of her slippers and the dampness of the ground. She ignored the mud she felt splash up on her arms and skirt. She winced as yet another branch snapped her cheek. Her lungs began to burn. She did not look back.

She fixed her eyes on the bright spot ahead and ran.

Isabel's heart beat wilder. Faster.

Never had she encountered such a sinister-looking man. Her mind's eye recalled his uneven teeth. His sunken eyes. His missing hand. Never before had she felt so threatened. Her blood ran cold in her veins.

Her hair, which had been pulled from its pins by a low-hanging branch, blew in front of her eyes.

Blindly, she lifted her hand to move it away, and before she knew what had happened, she ran into something.

A strong hand grabbed her arm.

She screamed, and when no harm came to her, she shook her hair out of her face and opened her eyes.

There stood Mr. Galloway. His hand was still on her arm, gentle yet steadying. His face was very near her own.

Through the fabric of her gown, heat radiated from his bare hand. That sensation alone frightened her nearly as much as the man himself.

Mortified, she scrambled backward. “Mr. Galloway! You frightened me.”

“I frightened you?” he asked, a comforting lilt to his voice. He was leading his horse with his other hand, and he adjusted the reins in his hands. “More likely something else did, the way you were running. What on earth were you doing in there?”

She swallowed, trying to figure out a reasonable explanation. “I . . . I was exploring.”

“Most people don't go exploring in the Black Wood Forest,” he exclaimed, then his gaze lowered slightly to her cheek. “You're bleeding.”

“Am I?” She touched the spot with her finger. Now that she was aware of the wound, it burned and stung.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and extended it to her, nodding toward her injury.

She accepted it and pressed the clean square of linen to her cheek. It smelled of soap and sandalwood. Fresh and comforting. She grasped for something to say. “How clumsy of me.”

Isabel mustered her courage and met Mr. Galloway's gaze. His full eyebrows were drawn together in concern; his blue eyes fixed on her with a discomfiting intensity.

“I just walked too close to that branch, I am afraid. It caught my hair.” She gave a nervous laugh and tried to lighten the mood. “Or maybe it was the ghost of Black Wood Forest trying to keep me here.”