Dawn at Emberwilde (41 page)

Pain pricked Isabel. She had hoped that her cousin would find
a match made of love, like she had, but it appeared that Constance intended to proceed with her plans for marriage. Isabel forced a smile to her face, despite the twinges of sadness that tugged at her.

Constance's expression brightened. “I am so pleased for you. Please accept my congratulations on your marriage and your new home. I understand from Father that Mr. Galloway has ceased his employment and now dedicates himself full-time to the care of your estates.”

“Yes, now that the properties are joined, it only makes sense. There is much to do and much to oversee. I confess it makes my head spin. I had no idea what such a position entailed. Fortunately, Mr. Galloway seems to enjoy the challenge of restoring both estates to their former glory.”

“Father says that this union makes your combined lands the largest estate in the area. I am so thrilled for you, Isabel.”

Isabel reached out and squeezed her cousin's hand. “Thank you for coming, Constance. You cannot believe what a joy this is for me.”

The cousins embraced, and the moment was a bittersweet one for Isabel. She was happy to be reunited with her cousin, her first true friend outside of Fellsworth, but she also knew she was bidding her friend farewell.

Later that evening, after night had fallen and Lizzie was in bed, Isabel and Colin stood in the parlor, preparing to hang the portrait of her mother.

The painting above the fireplace had been removed, yielding the place of honor to the painting that meant more to Isabel than any other.

Their staff was still meager, and Stephenson was far too old to be climbing on ladders, so Colin did the task.

“Is this centered?” he called, looking over his shoulder at her.

Isabel could barely breathe, so full was her heart. Colin, so handsome, so loving. She almost forgot to respond.

“Isabel?” he prompted.

“Oh, yes,” she hastened. “Yes, that is perfect.”

He secured the painting and climbed down the ladder and joined her in the center of the room. He stood with her, shoulder to shoulder, as they assessed the portrait.

“She was beautiful, was she not?” Isabel breathed.

Colin wrapped his arm around her, drew her close, and kissed her forehead.

“I do wish I could have known her,” she said.

“I know. But at least you are here now, in her home, and there is part of her here.”

Isabel allowed Colin to enfold her in an embrace. The light from the fire cast a warm glow onto his face, and she closed her eyes, relishing his touch.

She had found it—home. She found it within these walls, but more so, she found it within Colin's arms. Past betrayals were now distant memories, and their future spread before them in vivid detail.

“I love you, Colin.” She tilted her chin up to meet his kiss.

“And I love you, Mrs. Galloway.” He smiled, and once again, she surrendered to his kiss.

Acknowledgments

W
riting a novel is never a solitary endeavor. So many people have encouraged me as I wrote this book, and I feel blessed by each one.

To my family—thank you for inspiring me to tell stories and for supporting me through the process. Your cheers, encouragement, and advice mean more to me than you will ever know.

To my first readers—thank you for brainstorming with me and helping me get the story just right!

To my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray—thank you for your guidance and friendship. I can't wait to see what the future has in store!

To my fabulous editor, Becky Monds—thank you for believing in my story and working alongside me to make it the best it can be.

To the rest of the team at HarperCollins Christian Publishing—I am constantly amazed by each one of you and by the work that you do!

And last but not least, to my writing friends—thanks to each and every one of you for sharing this journey. To my accountability partners Carrie, Julie, and Melanie—thank you for keeping me on track! And to Kim—thank you for all the support you give me. To the “Grove Girls”—I am inspired by your willingness to share your gifts and inspire others.

Discussion Questions

1. Isabel thought she knew what her next steps in life would be, but with one letter, her entire future changed. Have you ever had a life-changing moment? If so, how did that make you a different person?

2. Who is your favorite character in the novel? Why? Who is your least favorite character in the novel? Why?

3. If you could give Isabel one piece of advice at the beginning of the story, what would it be? If you could give her one piece of advice at the end of the novel, what would that be?

4. During this time in history, it was the goal of most women to marry—after all, marriage meant security. Do you think Isabel was wise for refusing Mr. Bradford when she did, especially considering that Lizzie was depending upon her?

5. Do you think that Colin ever really loved Miranda? Why or why not?

6. How would you describe Constance? Do you think she was a good friend and cousin to Isabel? How did their relationship change throughout the course of the story?

7. In what ways does Isabel change throughout the course of the novel?

8. It's your turn! What comes next for Isabel and Colin? What comes next for Lizzie? If you could write the rest of their story, what would it be like?

A
N
E
XCERPT FROM
T
HE
C
URIOSITY
K
EEPER

Chapter One

I
VERNESS
C
URIOSITY
S
HOP
, L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND
, 1812

C
amille Iverness met the big man's gaze.

Bravely.

Boldly.

She would not be bullied or manipulated. Not in her own shop.

Camille recognized the expression in the man's eye. He did not want to speak with her, a mere woman. Not when the owner of the shop was James Iverness.

But James Iverness—her father—was not present.

She was.

She jutted her chin out in a show of confidence, refusing to even blink as he pinned her with a steely stare.

“As I already told you, Mr. Turner, I have no money to give you,” she repeated, louder this time. “Any dealings you made with my father you will need to take up with him. I've no knowledge of the transaction you described. You had best return at another time.”

“I've seen you here, day in, day out.” His voice rose in both volume and gruffness. “How do you expect me to believe you know nothing about it?” The wooden planks beneath his feet groaned as he shifted his considerable weight, making little attempt to mask his effort to look around her into the store's back room. “Is he in there? So help me, if he is and—”

“Sir, no one besides myself is present, with the exception of my father's dog.”

It was in moments like this that she wished she were taller, for
even as she stood on the platform behind the counter, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. “If you would like, I will wake the animal, but if you have seen me here often, as you claim, then no doubt you have also seen Tevy and know he does not take kindly to strangers. You decide. Shall I go fetch him?”

Mr. Turner's gaze snapped back to her. No doubt he knew of the dog. Everyone on Blinkett Street knew about James Iverness's dog.

His whiskered lip twitched.

A warm sense of satisfaction spread through her, for finally she had said something to sway the determined man.

Mr. Turner's face deepened to crimson, and he pointed a thick finger in Camille's direction, his voice matching the intensity of his eyes. “Tell your father I've a mind to speak with him. And tell him I want my money and won't take kindly to his antics. Next time I am here I will not be so willing to leave.”

He muttered beneath his breath and stomped from the store, slamming the door behind him with such force that the glass canisters on the near shelf trembled.

A shudder rushed through her as she watched him lumber away, and she did not let her posture relax until the back flap of his gray coat passed the window and was out of sight. How she despised such interactions. As of late, Papa seemed to be angering more patrons than he obliged, and he always managed to be conveniently absent when they came to confront him.

She needed to speak with Papa, and soon. Awkward conversations like the one with Mr. Turner needed to stop.

Camille tucked a long, wayward lock of hair behind her ear and drew a deep breath. Once again her father's dog had come to her rescue, and he was not even in the room.

“Come, Tevy,” she called. In a matter of moments the massive brown animal was through the door and at her side, tail wagging enthusiastically.

“Pay heed!” she laughed as he nudged her hand, forcing her to pet him. “That tail of yours is likely to knock every vase off that shelf if you're not careful, and then Papa will blame—”

The door to the shop pushed open, jingling the bell hung just above it. She drew a sharp breath, preparing to deal with yet another customer, but it was her father who appeared in the doorway.

He was a short man, not much taller than she herself, but that was where their physical similarities ended. His green eyes made up in intensity what he lacked in stature. His hair, which in her youth had been the color of sand, was now the color of stone, and years spent on a ship's deck had left his complexion ruddy. His threadbare frock coat, dingy neckcloth, and whiskered cheeks made him appear more like a vagabond than a shopkeeper, and despite his privileged upbringing, he often acted and spoke like an inhabitant of the docks where he did much of his trading.

“Good day, Papa.”

He ignored her welcome and bent to scratch Tevy's ears. After pulling out a bit of dried meat and handing it to the dog, he reached back into his coat. “This came for you.”

He stretched out his hand, rough and worn. Between his thick fingers he pinched a letter.

Camille stared at it for several moments, shocked. Clearly she could make out her name—in her mother's handwriting. The edge of the paper was torn. She could not recall the last letter she had received from Mama.

He thrust the letter toward her. “Don't just stand there gawking, girl. Take it.”

Camille fumbled with the missive to keep it from falling to the planked floor below, but for once, she found herself unable to find words. Unprepared—and unwilling—to deal with the onset of emotions incited by the letter, she blinked back moisture and shoved it into the front pocket of her work apron.

“Are you not going to read it?” Her father nodded toward her apron.

Of course he expected her to read it, for he himself devoured every one of his wife's scarce communications the moment they arrived. Though they both felt her absence keenly, they reacted to it very differently—and they never, ever discussed it. Over time, Camille had made the topic off-limits in her own mind, and a letter crafted by the very person who was the source of the pain was unwelcome.