Eliza Bloome's world is shattered when her father dies and
she is told she must leave the vicarage in a fortnight.
She's lived in Hope Valley, Derbyshire all her life, has no
one else and no place to go. She does not want to marry the
only suitor who asked for her hand. She wants to marry only
for love. Hayward Morgan becomes her ticket to what she
thinks is that love of a lifetime. She's known him her whole
life, but has just recently become reacquainted with him.
He's looking for a wife to take back to America; someone who
is strong and will not mind the wilderness life. She
believes she loves him with all her heart and purposes to be
that woman he needs. He accepts her offer. She feels that
perhaps in time, he will love her too.
Eliza and Hayward are married quickly in Scotland and sail
across the sea to The Colonies. His spread at River Run in
Maryland is indeed in the wilderness. Eliza adjusts well and
does not complain, as many women would in these
circumstances. As their first child is born, Hayward feels
he must go off to war and fight for the liberty of The
Colonies. Weeks turn into months and months into years.
Eliza's heart is broken when word comes that Hayward was
captured, put on a prison ship and hanged for trying to
escape. In a depressed state, Eliza gives in to an
indiscretion and finds herself carrying another man's child,
a man who goes off to war and is killed.
When the war ends, word comes to Eliza that Hayward was not
hanged and is coming home. How will she explain Ilene, who
is not Hayward's daughter? Eliza and her housekeeper come up
with a plan, one that Hayward accepts at first, but then
becomes skeptical. When Ilene dies of a fever, Hayward
suspects something is not right from Eliza's reaction. She
tells him the truth when he confronts her and begs his
forgiveness. Hayward sends her back to England under the
pretense of helping his sick mother get better. A letter
given to her upon her arrival, tells her differently. Will
she ever see her only living child again? Will she ever find
someone who really loves her for who she is on the inside?
BEFORE THE SCARLET DAWN is an inspirational, historical
novel that tells about the hardships, dangers and injustices
of the early years of our country. It is a fast-paced,
riveting, emotional story that will capture your heart. It's
a story of love, friendship and bonds that time and distance
cannot break. Do not miss this one!
In 1775, Hayward Morgan, a young gentleman destined to
inherit his father’s estate in Derbyshire, England, captures
the heart of the local vicar’s daughter, Eliza Bloome. Her
dark beauty and spirited ways are not enough to win him, due
to her station in life.
Circumstances throw Eliza in Hayward’s path, and they flee
to America to escape the family conflicts. But as war looms,
it's a temporary reprieve. Hayward joins the revolutionary
forces and what follows is a struggle for survival, a test
of faith, and the quest to find lasting love in an
unforgiving wilderness.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The Hope Valley, Derbyshire, England
April 7, 1775
Eliza Bloome sat forward from the tattered high-backed chair
when someone pounded a fist on the front door down- stairs.
Her father's Bible lay open on her lap and slipped over her
knees to the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, and felt
the cold rippled over her fingers through a crack. Wind
howled across the downs and moaned through the weatherworn
win- dows. Shivering from the draft, she set another log on
the fire and listened to Fiona's shoes tap down the
staircase. Whenever the wind rose fierce like on this night,
it held the front door fast. Any moment now her father's
housekeeper would brace herself against it and the jamb
until her strength gave out. As Eliza expected, the door
slammed on its lock and hinges. The crash echoed up the
staircase, mingling with a man's voice.
The bedroom door quietly swung open.
"Who is it, Fiona?" Eliza glanced at her father, then back
at the stout woman standing in the doorway. "Papa is asleep.
He should not be disturbed."
"A messenger to see him, my girl. Chilled to the bone, I'd
say. Riding over the downs in the dead of night in the wind
and cold. It must be important if he went to all this
trouble. Should I let him in?"
The log caught fire and the room grew warmer. Eliza drew off
her wrap and folded it across the chair. "Yes, I will speak
to him."
Fiona placed her hand over the brass knob and set her back
against the door to allow entrance to a man dressed in the
simple drab brown attire of a servant. He drew off his
tricorn hat and gave Eliza a slight bow. A lock of brown
hair fell over his broad forehead.
"Is he able to speak with me, Miss Eliza?" He glanced at the
frail form asleep in the four-poster bed.
"My father is not well. It depends on who you are, why
you've come, and for how long you intend to stay."
"Name is John Travis. I've come with a letter from Mr.
Langbourne with strict instructions to put it into your
father's hand and wait for his reply."
"On a night like this? It is a wonder you were not blown off
your horse, Mr. Travis. I do not think well of Mr.
Langbourne for it. He must have paid you well."
"Aye, he did. The wind is harsh tonight, to be sure. But I
have a good horse, and Mr. Langbourne deemed my journey
urgent. He has heard how sickly your father is. Everyone in
the parish has."
Knowing her father was not long for this world, Eliza went
to his bedside and tucked in the coverlet. Tonight his
breath- ing was labored, and when she touched his hands,
they were cold as the chill wind.
Even in the bronze firelight, his face looked drawn and
pale. His hair seemed to have gone white within such a short
time, and his body smelled of sweat no matter how much she
bathed him. He opened a pair of watery gray eyes and looked
at her.
"Who is it, Eliza?"
"A man is here to speak to you, Papa. His name is John
Travis. Should I send him away?"
Pressing his brows together, Reverend Bloome paused. Eliza
waited patiently, knowing he needed a moment to think. Over
several weeks, he had grown forgetful and confused, and
relied more and more upon her to help him understand.
"I know no one by that name. Should I know him, Eliza?"
"I do believe you met him once or twice, but no, Papa. You
do not need to know him. But he says he has a letter for
you— from Mr. Langbourne."
"Langbourne I do recall. Raise me against the pillows,
Daughter." He pushed back on his elbows with her help.
"There, that is better. Bring him forward and leave us to
speak alone."
A shiver passed through her at the last two words. Why would
he not want her to stay? What did a letter from Langbourne,
a man she had barely spoken two words to, mean?
But she did not need to have a conversation with him to know
what he thought of her. Either in church, the marketplace,
or at a gathering, he always seemed to find her, bow in
greeting, and feast his eyes on her.
Once outside the door, she leaned her ear against it and
listened. Muffled voices were all she could make out.
Seconds later, Fiona, the woman who had nurtured her from
the day of her mother's passing, poked her head around the
corner. The cap she wore looked white as snow in the
candlelight. Fiona always kept her caps starched and clean,
and her hazel eyes, set deep within a face round as an
October moon, looked just as bright when she raised her
brows at Eliza.
"Go on with you, my girl. It is not polite to eavesdrop."
Fiona waved her off and moved in front of Eliza with the
tray of tea toppling to the left.
Eliza stepped back. "What is this all about, Fiona? Do you
know?"
"I won't know a thing until I go in with the Reverend's tea.
Now move away from the door. Do not let me catch you peering
inside to see what's going on. It would be rude, my dear."
"Then I shall listen outside the door. I have every right
to." "No, you do not, my girl. If your father wants you to
know his business, he will tell you. He doesn't need his
daughter being so bold as to lay her ear upon his door and
listen in on his private conversations."
Determined, Eliza pressed her back against the wall.
"Perhaps not, but I think I know why Mr. Travis has come.
Langbourne sent him with a letter to Papa to ask permission
to wed me. I wish I knew what Papa was telling him."
Fiona rolled her eyes, huffed, and shoved the door open.
Before she could close it with her hip, Eliza overheard,
"Mr. Langbourne said he knows how dire your situation is,
sir, and wishes an answer forthwith."
"And what are the conditions?"
"It's all contained in the letter I have brought. Ah, hot tea.
I am chilled, ma'am, to the marrow. Thank ye."
Eliza's breath slowly escaped her throat. She pressed her
mouth into a firm line, kept her back against the paneled
wall, and stared at the ceiling.
So Mr. Langbourne wishes an answer? No, Papa would never be
so callous as to give me to a man I do not know very well,
let alone love. He believes in the sacredness of marriage; a
holy, unbroken institution in the Lord's eyes, where man and
woman make a lifetime commitment to each other in their love
for each other. It's a serious matter and not to be trifled
with, or bartered for land, possessions, or money.
For a moment, she thought of her mother, how, through the
years her father kept his beloved's memory alive, telling
Eliza how he had loved Mary Lanham. Plenty of opportunities
presented themselves, but he never remarried. And if only
her brother were home. He would see to it that she married
the right man and take this burden off their father.
Instead, he lived far away, serving in the King's army,
committed to find- ing his own way in the world. In another
year, he would be able to resign his service and settle
down. But his choice, he said—America. How could
Stephen help her from so great a distance?
Unable to bear the suspense, she turned the doorknob and the
door opened slowly. Standing in front of her father, Travis
turned and passed his eyes over her, as if assessing her
from head to toe.
She took the cup from his hand and set it on the tray. "My
father is tired. You must leave now."
Her father lifted one side of his mouth into a gentle smile.
She hoped he saw her distress. "Thank you," he said. "Tell
Mr. Langbourne I am honored by his letter. But it is my
daughter who must give him an answer."
Her father's hands trembled while he clutched the letter
between his fingers and set it down beside him. The disease
that plagued his body caused the tremors, and they seemed to
grow worse as the days wore on.
Hat in hand, John Travis nodded and stepped from the room.
"Do not look so troubled, child. This is good news, I should
say," Matthias reached for Eliza's hand.
She drew up her chair beside her father and sat. "Let me
guess. They have decided to accept women at Oxford and have
offered that I come there to study."
She smiled, hoping to ease his melancholy. He frowned
instead. "It is nothing of the kind. Why do you jest about
such things?"
"To make you smile, Papa." She squeezed his hand. "But I
failed."
"Ah, it is good of you, but silly. Women will never be
admitted into Oxford or Cambridge. You must read and study
on your own at home, as you always have."
"Yes, Papa."
"But not too much, for all a girl needs to know is how to
run a house, and you will not find that in the pages of books."
She cocked her head. "Hmm. I do believe I might. But more
importantly, love should run a house, not just head
knowledge or skill. Now, tell me what Mr. Langbourne has
written."
Matthias sighed. "You have been offered a proposal of marriage."
She glanced at the letter and did not let on that she had
overheard some of the conversation. "Really? Again?"
"He tells me he will come into his inheritance soon. He says
his situation at present is three hundred pounds a year.
Later, he will have one thousand pounds yearly for the
remainder of his life. For he has been named heir of
Havendale, instead of his cousin Hayward Morgan."
"I suppose that is because Mr. Hayward left for the Colonies."
"Against his father's wishes."
"Hmm. He is a bitter man to cast off his true son."
"We are not to judge. Whatever his reasons, Langbourne will
own Havendale someday."
Eliza screwed up her nose. "I hear Havendale is unbearably
cold. I would not want to live there. And . . ."
He lifted his hand and patted hers. "Have you had any other
proposals that exceed this offer?"
"No, Papa. But do not expect me to live with a man I do not
care for. Surely he does not love me."
"He says he likes you."
"I cannot accept him."
With a wheezing breath, her father drew himself up. "You
will have to deal with him. You will be the one to say no,
not I. I wish I could say he is my choice of husband for
you, but I am unconvinced of anyone being good enough for my
Eliza. However, if you do not have a husband soon, and I
should leave this world, you shall be alone and no doubt
fall into poverty. That grieves me too much to think of."
Her father's expression grew thoughtful, and Eliza knew to
be patient. She stroked his arm in an effort to comfort him.
"I could go to Stephen."
Her father shook his head. "He is in the King's army. He
would not be permitted to take you. This—" and he held
the letter up for her to see, "might be for the best."
"I will pray, Papa, that the Lord will give me the answer I
need. After that, I will reply to Mr. Langbourne."
"Langbourne is not a bad-looking man, and he has the means
to take good care of you. I know you do not know him well,
for you have barely spoken two words to him in all your
life. But knowing one another comes in time, and love will
follow."
Eliza frowned. "But why would he choose me?"
"For your pretty face and that beaming smile of yours, which
would captivate any young man. You are healthy in body,
mind, and spirit. Your price, dear daughter, is far above
rubies."
She shook her head. "I doubt the health of my mind and
spirit matters to Mr. Langbourne, Papa."
"Just consider the offer, child. You might thank me one day
for my advice, as you stand over my grave."
Stunned, she could not hold back a whimper at his mention of
his grave.
The following afternoon, Eliza saddled the dappled mare kept
in the single stall in the stable behind the house. She
inhaled the rich scent of hay and lifted her face to greet
the sunlight that shot through a hole in the roof.
Before she could lead the horse out, she heard her name and
turned to see a horse and rider draw up outside the stable
door. Langbourne, dressed in taupe riding clothes and black
boots, dismounted. Since the last time she had seen him, he
had put on several pounds, and his sandy hair peeked out
from under his hat in wiry strands.
He leaned against the frame of the door and tapped his
riding crop against his thigh. "Your father has, more or
less, consented." His voice sported a tinge of arrogance.
"But what about you, Eliza? Have you accepted my offer?"
"No, and not a moment to dwell on it." "Why not?"
"Because I do not love you."
"Love? That should not matter, at least where you are
concerned. I do like you exceedingly, even though I've never
said it before now."
She laughed. "Like me? How can you feel anything for me when
we have never said more than hello or goodbye in chance
meetings either at church or in the village? And I can- not
marry a man I know nothing about."
"You shall get to know me, beginning today." He smiled with
a glint in his eyes.
She ignored him and cinched the saddle. "And I cannot resign
myself to a life of boredom, shut up in some London house,
with nothing to do all day but sit and sit."
He moved closer. "I will find plenty of diversions for both
of us."
Eliza pulled her horse forward. "I am not of your society."
"You will be. I am taking a risk, I know, by marrying a vic-
ar's daughter. People will say I could have reached higher.
But I do not care what the gossips may spread. It is a
challenge I relish."
Turning to face him, Eliza lifted her chin. "What do you mean?"
"I should like to change you, take you like a piece of clay
and mold you into a wife suitable to my status. With my
money, you shall have plenty of silks, and a string of
pearls that shall be envied."
"Change me? Mold me? Now I know a union between us would be
a disaster. And I do not like silk. It stains too easily.
And I cannot abide lavish balls or dinner parties. I am not
right for you."
His jaw stiffened. "But I desire you, Eliza. Doesn't that
count for something? Is that not what a woman wants? That,
and a rich husband?"
She huffed at him. "Surely it is an infatuation on your
part. What you see before you on the outside will fade in time."
Frustrated, he breathed out and took her roughly by the
arms. "What I see is the most beguiling woman in all the
world. You would end up an old spinster if not for your
body, which I can only imagine is luscious beneath this
dress. And that dark hair of yours—I've thought of it
flowing over your bare shoulders. And those violet eyes to
tempt me with. Can't you see I want you?"
"I can, and in a manner I do not welcome." She resisted his
embrace and pushed him back. His lustful words caused her to
wither. She squirmed out of his arms and stepped away.
He slapped the stable wall. "One day you will regret your
refusal, Eliza." He mounted his horse and rode off. When he
was finally gone, Eliza climbed onto her mare's back and
nudged its side with her heel. Her eyes pooled with angry
tears that slipped from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. If
only he loved her for what thrived deeper than skin, perhaps
then she would have considered his proposal. His handsome
bank account was not enough to tempt her, nor his promise of
a secure future.
Langbourne proved to be no different from the others who had
courted her affections. They wanted what they saw on the
outside—a body as desirable as an artist's model,
seductive lavender eyes, hair the color of black silk, and
skin as light and translucent as morning mist.
She reined in her mare and dashed the tears briskly from her
face. With a heart that yearned and sought God's plan for
her life, she stared at the downs that stretched far into
the distance, and drew the cool, damp air deep into her
lungs. Determined to make her own choice, she kicked the
mare's ribs with her heel and raced it across the windswept
heath.
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