Before the Scarlet Dawn

Part 4





But with you there is forgiveness; therefore you are feared.

Psalm 130:4 niv





31





E liza put on her best gown, one of three she had packed for her journey. The rest of her clothes she had left at River Run, believing they would somehow assure her return. The garment, made of soft muslin, draped her body in loose folds. The bodice no longer hugged her waist, nor the three-quarter- length sleeves her arms. Its only flattering feature was its deep plum color, which enhanced her eyes.

During the voyage, to eat even the smallest morsel of food had proved tedious. In her tight quarters, she had stared at the pewter bowl before her, a ladleful of bland gruel growing cold within it. How could food mean anything to her? Hayward had sent her away, without Darcy, Fiona, or even Sarah. Now, she shoved the soupy gruel around with her spoon and groaned.

She stood and looked at her face reflected in the tin mirror that was nailed to a post in the wall. How pale her skin looked, and her cheeks, once rosy and round, were sunken and void of color. Loneliness settled deep into Eliza’s being, showing in the dark circles beneath her eyes. Seeking solace, she read from her Bible and prayed by candlelight as the ship rose and fell in the ocean swells. God would be her sustenance through her trial, and she clung to the hope that He would forgive her. Fiona told her that the Lord had done so, but she needed to be convinced. She wrote a verse from Psalms upon a strip of paper and kept it tucked inside her dress.

Be merciful to me, O God. Be merciful to me! For my soul trusts in You. And in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge, until these calamities have passed by.

When she came up on deck, the salty breeze struck her face. She looked up at the gray sky that peeked through the shrouds and sails. On the horizon, mist covered the land, drifting over the shore, and along the blackened cliffs that brooded above, casting long shadows on the rocks below. England. Would it be welcoming to her, like a mother she had left?

Oarsmen helped her down into the skiff. Their strong arms pulled the oars against a choppy sea and brought the boat into shore, where it skidded across the stones that covered the beach. The village bustled with people, and she stopped a merchant and asked him where she could catch the overland coach. On the road above, he told her.

She opened her bag. Yes, Hayward’s letter was safely tucked away. But would they accept his words—accept her? Would they badger her with questions?

She picked up her bag and proceeded on. The captain called to her, bid her wait, and she turned back to him as he leapt from the side of another skiff and strode up to her.

“Mr. Morgan asked me to give you this upon your arrival, ma’am.” He handed over a packet wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, her name inscribed on it in Hayward’s hand.

“Thank you, Captain.” She looked back at him. “A man told me I may catch the coach at the top of the hill. Do you know if that is so?”

“To my knowledge, yes. Good luck to you.” With a courteous smile, he touched the brim of his hat and stepped away through the menagerie of people.

“Instructions? A love letter?” whispered Eliza. She decided not to open it until she was inside the coach, where she could read his missive without disruption.

She gathered her dress above the heels of her shoes, well away from the muddy street. Gathering her resolve, she headed up a path to the brink of the hills. At the top, a windy road rutted by carriage wheels stretched northwards.

A short distance away stood a carriage inn that faced the bluffs and the sea. The stone exterior reminded Eliza of the dark shale cliffs that overlooked the Potomac gorge, and she grew lonesome for Hayward and Darcy, and grieved for Ilene.

She drew in a long and troubled breath and noted the mullioned windows and how it appeared that no one lived at the inn. Just then, the blare of a coachman’s horn startled her, and a stage pulled by four chestnut horses rounded a bend in the road at a furious gallop, heading toward the shabby and weatherworn inn.

Drawn in, the horses pawed the ground. Eliza caught up with coach and spoke to the driver. “I am in need of transport north, sir, to a place called Havendale in Derbyshire. Can you take me?” She hoped she did not look like a gypsy, for the wind blew strong and tossed her dark hair.

The driver, shrouded in a gray greatcoat, looked down from his perch. “I’m heading north to Manchester. I can take you as far as Congleton.”

“You have my thanks, sir.”

“Pay your fare, and after the horses have been changed over, we will be on our way,” the driver said, jumping down.

Eliza handed him the fare, and once all was ready, she climbed inside the empty coach. If only the sun would break through the clouds, the place would not look so grim, she thought.

With a snap of the driver’s whip, the horses moved on. The coach creaked and groaned over the road, and as it swayed, Eliza, overcome by fatigue, drifted off, and woke hours later as daylight faded. How she had ever slept with all the rocking and dipping she could not explain.

She gazed out the window at the vast expanse of land. Field and moor, farmhouses miles apart met her eye—a desolate, lonely land that seemed alien to her. As she peered out the window, she wondered how long it would take her to reach Havendale. She would look worn through, and hoped they would understand the long journey she had endured.

She took from her bag the letter given to her by the captain and held it in her hand. Now seemed a good time to open it. Anxious, she slipped free the string and broke the seal.

“Congleton,” cried the driver. The coach slowed to a halt, and her door opened. “This is as far as we go.”

She climbed out, and he handed her down her bag. Then he snapped the reins and drove off. Eliza stood alone at the roadside, bag in one hand, the unopened letter in the other. She walked on a few paces, feeling a bit stunned that she had to make the rest of the way on her own, hoping some kindhearted person driving a wagon would offer her a ride. She knew that with the way she looked the gentry in their carriages would avoid her.

A lone tree stood behind her, and she leaned against it. She unfolded the letter, and when she saw the letterhead, her knees buckled. She sank to the ground. “It cannot be. He promised . . .”

Tears burned in her eyes. He told her she had no rights to her child, and she would not be able to find Darcy if she made an attempt. She was considered deceased to him. She was never to return. He explained that his mother had not been ill, but that it was true his father had passed away. The idea that Madeline had asked for her was a sham to lure her into doing as he wished. And if she were to return, he swore he’d see to it she would face charges of adultery and be imprisoned.

I am returning you where I found you. And there you shall stay.

She cried out, then wept. Panicked, she crumbled the letter in her hands and bent over in agony. “Oh, Hayward. What have you done?” she whispered through her sobs. “Why could you not forgive me?”

Long she stared at his words, her tears dropping onto the paper, smearing the ink. The desire to tear it into pieces and toss it away, to let the wind carry it off, filled her. She stood with an effort and braced her hand against the tree. A chill rushed through her body, and she could barely stand. Her fingertips held the paper. Weak now, she let it go, and the wind blew it across the road, where it caught in the stems of a thistle. For a moment, she stared at it.

Go! Go!

But then it dawned her that perhaps she should keep it. It was what Hayward wanted. He had lied to her, and now she was an unknown without a husband, a child, and a home. Yes, she had to keep it as a constant reminder of how cold his heart had become.

Breathless, she hurried across the road and snatched the paper free from the needles that held it. With her thoughts reeling, she folded it up and shoved it into the bottom of her bag. And before her eyes lay the letter addressed to Hayward’s mother. She lifted it and stared at the words Madeline Morgan, Havendale.

She could not go there now. What would she say to her? That her son had cast her off? How would she explain the reasons? The door would surely be slammed in her face.

A moan slipped from between her teeth. She had to see for herself what he had written. She broke the seal with fury racing through her, and spread the letter open. Her eyes widened at the page before her. A single word appeared. Adulteress. He had deliberately planned to humiliate her. It said more than a hundred words could.

Down the road she walked, then out into the fields, where she roamed until the sun slipped behind the hills and the low clouds gathered. Broken, Eliza staggered forward, her limbs heavy weights that dragged her toward the ground. Her mind sunk into an abyss of despair. Rain fell in a gentle mist. Her hair, wild and loose about her, dampened. Her cloak covered her, but her body shook from the cold the rain had brought.

Eyes half-opened, she whispered, “Darcy. God, help her. What will he tell her?”

The wind swept across her, blew her hair over her eyes, which blinded her to how far she had traveled. With all hope gone, she wept no tears. They had been spent.

Too weary to go on, she laid her head down upon the cold, drenched earth. “I am now no one. I am without anyone. I am a tainted soul. Where will I go? Lord, let me die. Take me, please.”

Then through the sigh of wind and the whisper of rain, she heard a gentle voice speak into her heart. I will never leave you, or forsake you.

She drew her knees up close and stared up at the whirling sky over her, until she fell halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Faint though they were, she heard footsteps draw near. Hands slipped beneath her and lifted her into arms strong and warm. The lapel of a man’s coat rubbed against her cheek, and she pressed into it.

Had an angel come to take her to Heaven? She struggled to open her eyes. But the stupor conquered her. The one who held her in his arms hurried across the fields, the stones, the dips and rises without pausing.

Soon she heard a door knock against a wall and a masculine voice call for aid. She felt the heat of a fire and smelled burning cedar. She was lowered to a couch, and a blanket folded over her. It smelled of lavender.

Her lids fluttered open. Shapes moved about her, indistinct and colorless. Voices soothed her, and her fears weakened. The brim of a tin cup touched her lips, and she sipped the hot broth within it.

Hands clasped hers, strong hands larger than hers that rubbed them together. She lifted her eyes and saw his face. The eyes were bright blue, his hair black like hers but streaked with gray and curled on the ends. Crimson scars crossed his jaw and curved down the left side of his throat.

She was not afraid of him, for his eyes were kind. He was not handsome like Hayward, but his face looked strong and noble in the firelight—like Gabriel or Michael, and older than she.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“A little.” She watched a faint smile creep across his mouth.

“Drink more of this. It will give you strength.” Again he held the cup to her lips. She wrapped her hands over it. But they trembled so that he closed one hand over them to steady them.

“I found you out on the moor, unconscious. What is your name?”

“I am no one.” She could not meet his eyes. But when he touched her hand to gain her attention, then withdrew his hand, she looked back at him and saw compassion and understanding in his expression.

“Everyone has a name. But if you do not wish to tell me, perhaps you will later. At least you are safe, and inside out of this foul weather. Can I send word to a friend, or a relative, perhaps your husband?”

“There is no one.”

“No one at all?” He looked at her, surprised. “You mean you have no home to go to? By the look of your clothes you are not poor.”

“I had a home once,” she said. “But I cannot go back there.”

Rain tapped against the windows. Eliza glanced at the darkness outside, thankful this kind man had rescued her from a night that promised numbing cold and even death.





A stout woman of middle years entered the room. A white cap covered her hair, but small wisps poked out along her forehead. Her large gray eyes fell over Eliza’s face, and she shook her head and clicked her tongue.

“You must allow me to get her upstairs,” the man said. “Dry clothes and a warm bed is what she needs.”

Eliza looked over at the man and tried to get up. “No. No. Mrs. Hart will help you. Again, you have nothing to fear here.”

A pair of plump arms helped Eliza rise, and led her out of the room and up the staircase. The man followed. She could hear his boots fall over the steps behind her. But one glance back from Mrs. Hart said “You need not follow. I can take care of the young woman.”

“Care for her well, Mrs. Hart. And whatever she needs, I shall provide,” he said.

“Yes, sir. But let us hope she is not a gypsy that will rob us. You should be more cautious.”

“I cannot help it. She seems a lost soul who has been through much.”

When Eliza came around the top of the stairs to a long hallway, she glanced over the railing to see him standing downstairs. He looked up at her, concerned. Their eyes met. He hesitated a moment and then stepped away.





Sunlight poured through filmy curtains and alighted on Eliza’s face. The warmth, the sensation of light, woke her. Mrs. Hart sat in a spindle chair near the fire. Her hands were busy with a pair of knitting needles, and she paused in her work to look over at Eliza.

“Well, you are awake at last.”

“How long have I slept?”

“Two days. You were bone weary when you came to us. It’s a miracle Mr. Brennan found you, else you would have caught your death of cold and died out there. We had a biting rain, you see, and the wind had been howling all day. Not fit for man or beast. But Mr. Brennan takes his daily walk in all kinds of weather. I can’t say how surprised I was when he rushed through the front door with you in his arms, dripping wet and looking like a vagabond.”

She went on knitting. Eliza tried to absorb all she had said. “Whose house is this?”

“Mr. Brennan’s, of course. Don’t you know Fairview?”

Eliza shook her head. “No.”

“It belonged to his cousin, George Brennan, whom I served for many years. He passed on, God rest his soul, and Mr. Brennan inherited the estate. And a good thing, too, having had no real home of his own.”

A moment, and she set the needles and wool on her lap. “He has suffered much in his life, and has had losses no one should. But I shall not tell you of them. If he wants you to know, then he’ll tell you all about it. I will say that Fairview has been a haven for him. It has been a house that draws the wayward, the lost, and the brokenhearted. Like you, miss. You were lost, and now you’re found.”

Mrs. Hart wiggled her head, as if to indicate she had seen many a stranger come and go. The door opened, and in stepped Mr. Brennan. “Leave us, Mrs. Hart, if you please.”

After Mrs. Hart had gathered her knitting basket and shut the door, Mr. Brennan took hold of the chair and drew it up to the bedside. Eliza pulled the covers up closer to her chin.

“I take it the rest you’ve had has improved you.” He cleared his throat. “If you wish to tell me your story, I will listen. I am not judge or jury. I only wish to help you, if you will let me.”

His kindness warmed her. The expression in his eyes was unlike Hayward’s. His were stern, aloof, and often stoic, whereas this man had a light within his eyes that came from his soul, an unearthly brightness that burned deep, not for her as a woman, but for her as a fellow human being. It seemed to Eliza that Brennan looked upon, or rather sought her heart— her true self.

“Someone has hurt you,” he said. “I can tell your pain is great. That is why you ran away. Am I right?”

“My pain is my own, sir. I will not burden you or anyone else with it.”

“Well, I’ll have Mrs. Hart bring you up a tray. You must be very hungry.” He stood to leave.

“Please, do not go. I take back what I said. Let me talk to you now. And when I am finished, if you wish me gone, I shall go immediately. But first call your wife, so I may speak to her first.”

Sorrow suddenly flinched over his face. “I have no wife— not now. It’s been many years ago. She died.”

“I am sorry. I should not have asked . . .”

“A fire took her, one night three years ago. We had a fierce storm. Lightning struck the roof and ignited it. I tried to save her and our little girl, but I failed. My son and I are what is left of our little family.”

“How terrible. I know how it feels to lose someone, but not in that way. Is that the reason for your . . . ?”

He nodded. “Scars? Ugly, are they not? They have been my cross to bear and a constant reminder of that awful night every time I look in the mirror or see my reflection in a window. As for Emily, I know she waits for me in Heaven. God has given me a great deal of comfort in that knowledge.”

Eliza regarded Mr. Brennan. Indeed, his life had been tragic. To lose the one you love and a child in such a way would have caused her to go out of her mind. She wondered how he had survived such excruciating pain. Barely was she able to carry the grief of losing Ilene, and then her separation from Darcy.

He sat still and looked down at his clasped hands. She noticed he still wore his wedding band.

“You speak of Heaven. I wish you had left me to die. My parents and my child are there.”

Brennan frowned and lifted her away from the pillows by her shoulders. “Do not ever wish for that, even when you miss them. Life is a gift, no matter what you have been through. And think of the others who would be hurt by your death. Wishing for it is a selfish thing.”

She gazed into his troubled eyes, saw the gentle nature of the man as well as the pain he lived with. Her eyes filled, and she gasped. “I am just so . . . alone.” She fell against his shoulder, and he allowed her to cry. When she realized a stranger held her, she pulled away and briskly wiped her face dry.

“You must tell me who you are. You understand, don’t you?” He stood and went to the door. “I will be downstairs in my study.”

After the latch on the door had clicked shut and his footfalls had faded away, she climbed from the bed and dressed. Yes. She would tell him. She had to tell someone.