Before the Scarlet Dawn

27





The heat of the day sucked at the air in Hayward’s study. He loosened his neckcloth, strode to the open window, and leaned his hands on the sill. He’d been home for weeks now and not a single thunderstorm had brought relief to the thirsty fields and wilting forests. Israel Creek was running low. But the Potomac flowed deep from the rains that had fallen at the headwaters.

The days had been sweltering, the nights warm with a breath of a breeze. The moonlight that glazed Eliza’s skin as she lay beside him upon the white cotton sheets, the way her dark hair clung about her throat, the way she twisted the sheets around her as she slept beckoned him. Since he’d been home, their love seemed like new love, she told him. He felt they had begun where they had left off, he still unable to tell her he loved her.

In the distance, thunderheads rimmed in gold threatened. Along the horizon the sky looked dark as slate. His eyes shifted to Eliza as she walked across the field. A basket hung from her arm, and a wide straw hat shaded her face from the merciless sun. Darcy, barefooted, skipped ahead, and Sarah trailed behind with Ilene on her hip.

They must have been out in the woods picking blackberries. He watched Eliza place one finger into her mouth. The way she soothed the wound captured his eyes, and a surge of desire welled up within him. He did not turn away, but found himself basking in the feeling that grew stronger with each step she took, with each movement, and with the way the breeze lifted her dark hair and gathered her skirts into graceful folds. The sun bathed the brown fabric with a golden hue. He could see her limbs faintly through it, could see that her thighs were shapely and firm, her calves well formed, and her ankles slim.

Sarah set Ilene down when she squirmed. The child looked as tawny as the wing of a sparrow, and small and slight. Darcy’s hair was a deeper shade than Ilene’s, with long shimmering spirals that framed a sweet oval face. Her eyes were of the same shape and size. But the color of Ilene’s eyes was like Eliza’s. Ilene rubbed them with a balled fist and cried. Sarah paused to pick the child back up, but Eliza stayed her with her hand, then bent down and soothed the child with a touch.

Hayward dragged his hand over his face and drew away from the window. He’d speak to Eliza. She needed to show less affection for the child and not step in where Sarah should. Darcy should be her focus, never the daughter of a servant. And the more he thought of the color of Ilene’s eyes, the more disturbed he grew at the close resemblance to Eliza’s.





By four that evening, thunder shook the walls of the house and rattled the windowpanes. To ease her child, Eliza drew Darcy close while they sat side by side on the cushioned settee. She read to her, and her daughter’s head settled onto her shoulder as she drifted off to sleep. The patter of rain had a soothing effect, and she longed for Hayward to come into the room and sit beside her with his arm around her.

Fiona rolled a ball of yarn. “Miss Darcy never seems afraid of much. Not even the thunder can wake her.”

Eliza looked at Darcy and set the book aside. “I wonder, Fiona, if that is a good thing.”

“Hmm. A brave soul is what will get her through life. She inherited it from you.”

Eliza’s lips parted at those words. “Please do not say that again. Darcy cannot grow up to be anything like me. I am weak, Fiona. I am a sinner and a liar. I have kept secrets from my husband, and I will reap what I have sown one day.”

Fiona set the yarn on her lap. “You cannot curse yourself like that. What is done is done, and God is merciful to the repentant. As for me, I’ll go to my grave with what I know.”

The door to the sitting room swung open and spread a shadow across the floor. Sarah stepped inside and struggled to catch her breath. The pallor of her skin shone white as the chemise that peeked from beneath her bodice. Her eyes were wide and fearful. Muddy along the hem, her dress was soaked through and clung to her frame, and a puddle of water was forming around her feet.

Eliza looked up to see her shiver. “Sarah? What is it?”

Sarah’s hands shook as she pushed her fingers against her scalp. “Ilene . . .”

A chill rippled through Eliza. She set Darcy back and stood. “What do you mean? Where is Ilene?”

All atremble, Sarah clutched the tattered folds of her dress. “Ilene was with me in the cabin. I fell asleep with her beside me. When I woke, she was gone. The cabin door was open. Is she in the house?”

Eliza took Sarah by the arm. “She’s probably in Darcy’s room. Go and see. I will look down here.” Fiona went with Sarah, and Eliza could hear their steps moving upstairs. She searched the kitchen, the small bedroom adjacent to it, everywhere except Hayward’s study. He’d shut his door and asked not to be disturbed, as he was to write letters that night.

When Eliza met Sarah and Fiona at the foot of the stairs, Sarah threw her hands against her eyes and sobbed. “Where could she be, mistress?” She dropped her hands and looked at Eliza, shadowed by fear. “I never thought she could reach the latch and open the door on her own.”

A lump, deep and painful, welled in Eliza’s throat. A moan poured through her lips. The palms of her hands turned icy cold. Ilene! She is alone out in the storm!

“Hayward!” She hurried to his door and opened it. “Come quickly. Ilene is missing.”

“How can that be?” He stood and came around his desk.

“We’ve searched both the cabin and the house. She’s out in the storm . . .”

She hurried away with Sarah beside her. Heedless of the mud in the yard that soaked through her shoes and splashed her hem, she searched the misty stretch of land before her. She ran toward the cabin.

“Eliza, come back. You’ll catch your death!” Hayward caught up with her and grabbed her by the arm. Breathless, he swung her around. The rain soaked his face and dripped from the ends of his hair.

Taking quick gasps, she struggled to find her breath. She looked up at him, the rain on the tips of her lashes, her wet hair clinging to her throat and cheeks. “We must help Sarah find her.”

She whirled out of his grasp and hurried off, with him following. The barn looked gray in the rain, shadowed by an enormous elm. The branches bowed with the weight of the storm, the bark appearing as black as the crows that gathered along the limbs.

At the base of the tree, Ilene lay curled up and shivering. Eliza and Sarah ran to her and fell on their knees. Eliza brushed back the wet hair that covered Ilene’s eyes. Sarah gathered her in her arms, but Hayward moved her aside and lifted the child into his own.

“We must bring her to the house,” Eliza said.

His scowl darkened. “Her place is in the cabin, Eliza. I will take her in.” The sternness in his voice arrested her. “I swear, if this child dies . . .”

Widening her eyes, Eliza pressed her hand against his lips. “Do not speak it!” she cried. “Bring her to the house, please.”

She pulled him by his sleeve, and, with Hayward relenting, they hurried back.





Hayward stared into the child’s face. For a moment, he again saw a resemblance to Darcy, the same shape of eyes, jaw, and lips. Eliza spoke softly to Ilene, brushed back the child’s hair, and caressed her cheek.

Eliza’s hands were quick to remove the wet clothing that clung to the child’s skin. “Fiona, bring hot water. Sarah, fetch one of Darcy’s nightshifts.”

Hayward stopped Sarah and frowned at Eliza. “You’ll put one of our daughter’s nightshifts on the child of a servant?”

Eliza gently pulled the soaked and tattered dress over Ilene’s head. “The child’s clothes are soaked through, and she will catch her death of cold, if she has not already.”

“Oh, pray God it not be so.” Sarah’s face, marked with worry, paled and tears slipped down her cheeks.

Hayward stepped up to her. “How could you be so negligent?”

Sarah looked at Hayward, her eyes pleading. “I had shut the door, and . . .”

“I do not wish to hear your excuses. You should have been a better mother, like Eliza. She would never have let her child slip out without noticing, unlike you.”

Sarah shivered and looked at him, terrified. Eliza glanced over at them, stood, and faced Hayward. “You mustn’t blame Sarah. It was an accident. She is a good mother, and has a kind heart.”

Sarah lowered her eyes, and although Hayward could see the pain she was in and the guilt that overwhelmed her, his disdain did not lessen. “Go do as your mistress bids.” His expression was severe as he stepped over to the window and stared outside as Sarah hastened away.

“I should go see what damage the storm has done, Eliza. I will be back in an hour.” Without a glance at the worried countenance of his wife, he walked out. He pressed his hat down hard on his head. The path that ran through his land curved along the line of trees. Droplets of rain fell from the leaves and splashed against his hat and onto his shoulders. He lifted his eyes and scanned the horizon.

With his heart troubled, he snatched up a broken branch from off the ground and smacked the tall weeds with the frustration he felt. He walked on, digging his heels into the soaked earth. His heart convicted him. He should have expressed more concern for a life than his land. Perhaps he had. He thought about his wife and the compassion she showed for Ilene. He shook his head. No . . . not compassion. She showed intense fear . . . as if the child were . . .

His jaw stiffened, and he threw the branch into the trees, chastising himself for thinking so irrationally.

It seemed like he had gone miles by the time he returned. His boots were covered with mud, his face drawn into a frown that he felt to his core. With a sluggish hand, he drew off his hat and tossed it aside. Then he looked into the sitting room, where a puddle of rainwater had stained the wood floor. He whirled around on the heels of his boots and strode down the hall to the small room where he’d been told Addison Crawley had died and where Sarah had recovered. Now a babe lay sick and helpless.

He drew up to the door and pushed it in. Sarah was kneeling beside the bed, her head cradled in her arms. Eliza sat beside her, her hand over Sarah’s shoulder. He watched how intently she gazed into Ilene’s face, how she lifted a weary hand and brushed her hair away from her cheek. His chest tightened, and he gripped the doorframe. A frown stiffened the muscles in his face as he looked at the child’s fevered brow, saw how it glistened, how soaked the curls of her hair were.

He spoke to Eliza and thought he heard her whisper a reply while her attention was steadfast upon the child. Feeling ignored, he dug his fingers into the doorjamb. Fiona wrung out a cloth and dabbed the child’s face with it. He glanced away and for the first time observed the humbleness of the room. His hand touched a crude table beside the door. A handful of wildflowers drooped in an old bottle half full with water.

Hayward moved his eyes to the cross on the wall above the bed. A simple grapevine twisted into two unequal spears hung above the suffering girl’s body. Ilene shivered from the force of the fever. Hayward drew closer to study his wife’s attentiveness. It is overly zealous. Why?

“Lord, do not take her,” he heard Eliza whisper.

He laid his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let Sarah and Fiona tend to the child. Come away.” She lifted her eyes, and when he caught the sorrow that flooded them, he drew his hand away.

“Sarah is afraid, my love. It is best I stay.” Her gaze shifted back to the bundle lying under the blankets.

“And what about Darcy?”

“Darcy is in her room. She knows nothing about this.”

“It’s just as well. I do not want her frightened. Go look in on her. Your place is with her.”

“I must not leave. Ilene is very sick.”

“You have done enough. Sarah will care for her child.” He turned to Fiona. “You should prepare supper. Or will that be neglected too?”

“No, sir.” Fiona pressed her lips together, lifted her head, and went out into the kitchen.

Eliza’s hands fell over Hayward’s arms. “My love, as mistress of River Run, it is my duty to be here.”

“Your duty is to obey your husband. My word is law.”

“You would begrudge me this?”

“Have you been by to look in on your own daughter?”

“Yes.” She looked at him. “Darcy is well.”

Unable to believe her, he rushed out the door and up the stairs. He found Darcy stretched out on the floor with a picture book. He slid his arms under her body and gathered her up. Troubled, he sat with her in the chair, her head muzzled into the crook of his shoulder, her curls caressing his rough cheek.

As Darcy clung to him, he pampered her with all the words a father could. Later, when night had fallen, he set her in her bed, gathered a blanket around her, placed her doll in her arms, and kissed her forehead.





Eliza looked at the beams in the ceiling, and shook off her slumber. She turned her head to see Fiona asleep in a chair and Sarah awake and staring down at Ilene with careworn eyes. She moved into the hall, went upstairs, and found Darcy sound asleep, her bow mouth slightly parted, her chest moving in an easy rhythm. Her heart swelled, and she reached over to touch her daughter’s hair.

“How careless I have been,” Eliza whispered. “I am sorry, my darling girl. You must forgive your mama.”

She reached for her day dress, slipped it over her head, and pulled tight the drawstrings along the bodice. Out in the hall, she met Hayward as he came up the stairs. These days were like the days when her heart would skip like a young doe’s whenever she would think of him. He picked up her hands. She loved how warm and strong they felt, how small hers were within his. Hayward would protect her and Darcy—and certainly Ilene. How could she believe otherwise?

“You should not be up.” His eyes held hers, as if he were seeking more from her. “You look tired.”

“I am.” She sighed and pushed back a lock of hair. “I just looked in on Darcy. She is sleeping peacefully.”

She turned to leave him, but he touched her elbow and prevented her from going any farther.

“You need to rest, and not worry about Ilene. She is, after all, Sarah’s child.”

The troubled look that glazed his eyes caused worry to rise in her. She had no choice but to obey him once he slipped his arm around her waist and guided her up the staircase. “Stay with Darcy,” he told her.

“You will call me if . . .”

“I will call you if there is a reason. But you have nothing to worry over.” He kissed her cheek and then left the room. She stared at the door as it closed behind him. How cold is his kiss.





Fiona met Hayward at the bottom of the stairs. The wrinkles beside her eyes deepened, her mouth parted, and she bit her lower lip.

“You wish to tell me something, Fiona?”

“Yes, sir. Sometimes women grow sick in body. But sometimes they grow sick in their hearts. It’s what ails Eliza.”

He stared at her a moment. “I have done nothing to cause my wife’s heart to be ill, Fiona. You know that.”

He went past her into the darkness of the hallway that led to his study. He glanced at the clock on the mantle and saw it was nearly nine. The gray sky outside had deepened to pitch. Five minutes later, he heard Sarah crying. Then the door swung open and Fiona stepped inside, her face contorted with sorrow, her eyes moist with tears.

Ilene was gone.