Before the Scarlet Dawn

5





Weary of packing her father’s clothes in a wicker hamper, Eliza folded the last garment Matthias Bloome had owned and gently placed it on top of the others. She ran her hand over the stark white linen shirt, then closed the lid and secured it.

She pushed the basket against the wall next to the door. Every plate, spoon, and saucer. Every book, and every bit of furniture. Every candle and candlestick. All the linens. All the carpets. Everything, except Eliza’s clothes, Bible, brush and comb, and her mother’s locket, would be given to others.

The room chilled from the keen wind that blew outside. She drew a wrap over her shoulders, determined not to shed any more tears, but to finish her tasks without grief interrupting her. The tears came anyway, and Eliza wiped them aside. She stood, took herself to the window, and leaned against its broad frame. Heavy-hearted, she gazed out at the land beyond the door of the humble vicarage.

While the sun sunk low, she shut her eyes and listened to a long, whistling breath of wind. A nightjar cried out to its mate. A fortnight had passed since her confrontation with Hayward. Twice since then they had encountered each other, she on foot, and he on a horse she thought matched his arrogance. He tipped his hat to her, gave her a greeting, and then went on. Six agonizing days had passed, and this was her last night in this house. She pondered. Perhaps she had misread those strong inner promptings. Hayward may have forgotten all about her by now. He had said no to her, had he not?

Fiona rushed inside the room. A broad smile brightened her face. “I have been sent a letter,” she said excitedly. “It is for a position in London. A wealthy gentleman and his new bride are in need of a housekeeper.” She glanced down at the letter, cleared her throat, and adjusted her spectacles. “And they are in need of a chambermaid. This shall do us both well. What do you say?”

“I accept, if nothing else arises by tomorrow. And even so, Hayward may need more time. If I do not hear from him by then, I shall write and tell him where I have gone.”

Fiona sighed. “Oh, dear girl. You have not given up hope, but your expectations soar too high.”

“I suppose it was foolish of me to go rushing off to Havendale like I did,” Eliza replied. “Reckless and desperate. What made me think he would want me?”

“Do not be so harsh on yourself. First of all, was it not Mr. Hayward who told you to come to the house if you needed work? You should blame him.”

“He did. But he made no guarantee of anything. Perhaps Mrs. Morgan does not like me. . . . And I did not believe Hayward when he said his father hadn’t the means to hire anyone. He is the richest man in the county.”

Fiona straightened her back and put her hands over her broad hips. “Don’t you see? The gentry do not prefer girls like you to work in their houses. You are a threat to both wives and fiancées. Young men find you beautiful despite your station, and your presence would be a temptation to indiscretion. Believe me, I know what I’m saying.”

Fiona folded the letter and stuffed it in her pocket. She then stripped the sheets from the bed and tossed them on the floor. She opened another and shook it out.

“How do you know? Tell me.”

“Oh, it was years ago . . . when I was a young girl. I fell in love with my master’s son.” Fiona spread a fresh sheet over the bed and tucked in a corner. “He was handsome, and enamored with me. We began to meet in secret, but his father found out and sent him off into the army and me packing. I never saw my young man again.”

“How sad. And you never married. Was it because of your love for him?”

With a sigh, Fiona shook her head and tossed a pillow against the bolster. “I never found a man like him . . . ever. Oh, there were a few who asked me to wed them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it—to marry someone I did not love.”

“Then you understand me, Fiona.”

“Indeed I do, my girl.”

“You understand why I turned Langbourne down. It gives me ease that you do.”

“I never said anything about it, but I did not want to see you unhappy. I held my tongue from your father, but not from the Almighty. But I have been thinking. With your situation the way it is, to leave the house and all, I hate to see you working as a servant. You are too good for that kind of life. Maybe you should reconsider Mr. Langbourne.”

Eliza looked away and huffed. “You said that once before. You know I love Hayward. I cannot see myself with anyone but him.”

“Now, he is a different story, Eliza. Can you not see how prideful he is? He has a fierce streak about him. I doubt he could love anybody, save for himself. You had good intentions when you went to Havendale. But your emotions got the best of you. I cannot imagine what he thought when you said you would go to America with him. Do you not see how forward that was?”

Eliza stared at the clock on the mantelpiece, the one that had not been wound since her papa had passed away, her mind leaping forward to what she hoped the future would be. Yet she worried. No letter. No message of any kind.

“The sky is filling with clouds,” she said. “But I doubt it shall rain. At least not for another day or two.”

Fiona stamped her foot. “Eliza, my girl. Did you hear what I said?”

“I did, Fiona.” She turned to a box filled with books. “Well, I believe that is the last of it. I hate to part with Papa’s books, but I cannot take them with me. They will do the new vicar good. Papa would be pleased for him to have them.”

“Eliza, do not put all your hopes in Mr. Hayward. He would have sent word by now.”

Eliza opened one of the books and let the pages flutter, closed it, and put it back in its place. “You are right. I suppose I must learn that what I want is not what is marked out for me. And Hayward—he is so difficult to read. One moment his eyes were all storm and tempest. The next bewildered. I cannot say what he will do. I cannot explain it.”





That night, Eliza lay in her bed for the last time. Unable to sleep, and feeling anxious, she tucked her arms behind her head and gazed up at the ceiling, at the full, misty beams of moonlight that came through her window.

“Wherever thou shall lead me, I will go,” she whispered. “Whatever you have planned for me, I will accept. Only give me the desires of my heart, Lord, for I long for Hayward. I would make him a good wife. I want a home and children, and I know I could make him happy, that he would grow to love me. But if I have been wrong, and he is not for me, help me accept your will.”

The clock down the hall struck. Once, twice, on to six, then nine times, she counted out the bells, until they ceased at twelve. Midnight had come. A fox barked somewhere out on the downs, and for one night, the wind lay low.

She threw back the covers, brought her bare legs over the edge, and waited. There beside her door sat her bag. In it, she had packed her clothes and the few possessions she owned. She balled the sheet in her fist and moaned. She did not want to go to London. She did not want to be a lady’s maid, serve the idle rich, and endure the congestion of a city.

She stood and paced the floor in her bare feet. Was she being stubborn? Hadn’t she just prayed the Lord’s will be done in her life? Then why did she feel so downcast? With a will, she tried to gather her thoughts together, and listen to that still, small voice that spoke quietly into her soul.

Wistfully, she drew in a breath, long and steady, and then went to the writing table beneath her window. From a drawer she pulled out paper, and lifted the quill from the china inkwell. Settling into the chair, she dipped the quill back into the ink, then held it over the sheet of paper.

“I must choose either poverty and servitude, or a comfortable life.”

She hesitated a moment. Then she lowered the quill and wrote . . .



Dear Mr. Langbourne,



Having received your letter after our last meeting, I am now compelled to reply once more to your proposal . . .