FOLLOW THE DAWN
Rachelle Rea Cobb
FOLLOW THE DAWN BY RACHELLE REA COBB Illuminate YA Fiction is an imprint of LPCBooks a division of Iron Stream Media 100 Missionary Ridge, Birmingham, AL 35242 ISBN: 978-1-64526-253-4 Copyright © 2020 by Rachelle Rea Cobb Cover design by Megan McCullough Interior design by. AtriTex Technologies P Ltd Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: ShopLPC.com For more information on this book and the author, visit: www.rachellereacobb.com All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Follow the Dawn by Rachell Rea Cobb published by LPCBooks. Used by permission.” Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.
names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, purposes only. Brought to you by the creative team at LPCBooks: Eddie Jones, Tessa Hall, and Anne Mateer Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rea Cobb, Rachelle. Follow the Dawn / Rachelle Rea Cobb 1st ed. Printed in the United States of America
Praise for Follow The Dawn Follow the Dawn brings the Reformation to life in this heart-warming tale of redemption and second chances. A broken heroine and widower hero cultivate a sweet romance, echoing the love of their Heavenly Father as He redeems their pasts and restores their futures. Fans of Rachelle Rea Cobb’s Steadfast Love series will devour this endearing story. ~Kaitlin Covel Author of Atoning for Ashes Follow the Dawn rides the waves of a tumultuous period of history amidst the churning brokenness of two people held captive by past failures. A beautiful story of redemptive and affirming love. ~Anne Mateer Author of Wings of a Dream Rich and poignant, Follow the Dawn captures the bravery of true love and the beauty of second chances. A masterful tale with characters as deep as the seas they sail, this book is not to be missed. For any who need a reminder that the past does not chain the future, read this book. ~C. F. E. Black Author of Mind of Mine Through elegant prose and relatable characters, Cobb seamlessly weaves events from the 16th century into a timeless story of love, loss and second chances. ~Tara K. Ross Author of Fade to White Cohost of The Hope Prose Podcast Through a finesse of description and with a cast of sometimes flawed but loveable characters, Cobb brings us a story of love amidst heartbreak and tragedy. Placed in an unusual but refreshing time period and setting, Follow the Dawn explores the true meaning of family, friendship, loss, and restoration. It’s refreshing to see a romance that knows its stakes, but still leaves readers feeling satisfied from beginning to end. ~Hope Bolinger Author of Blaze and Den
For Devin, You’re the Tudder to my inner Anna, the Dirk to my Gwyn, my true love. I could never write a love story as beautiful as ours.
CHAPTER ONE
ANNA
Ainsworth Hall Northampton, England Late June 1569
B
rambles caught on my skirt as I ran. I had lingered too long. Overstayed in my sanctuary, that haven of the wood offering silence and solace. I had tarried as if time had stopped, but it had not. It never did. So I sprinted through the overgrowth and fallen branches, ignoring the way my lungs felt constricted and determined to arrive home before Father noticed my absence. Sunlight trickling through the foliage above me stroked my hair, warming my neck. Smoke from the kitchens wafted upward. Helena would never have lit the kitchen fire in the middle of a warm day unless Father, in one of his moods, had asked for me. Lord Emory commanded respect among the nobility of England. He didn’t like to be kept waiting. He ruled his household—and me—with a tight hand. Except when I escaped to the forest. I exited the woods and almost tumbled into the corner of the field closest to the manor house. Crossing the sorry excuse for a path carved by my frequent visits, I took the distance in long strides. Then a branch caught my hem and sent me tumbling. When I hit the ground, I groaned, 1
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more from what the fall would mean than from pain. Now not only had I kept him waiting, but I would look a mess when I finally arrived. He would know where I had been. The smoke stung my nose. He was waiting, for Helena would not begin cooking the evening’s meal for hours yet. We had worked out this signaling system years ago. I scrambled to my feet and took off again with a prayer on my lips for speed, but little hope in my heart. I pictured Father pacing the floor of his study, his hands behind his back. The field flattened into the stretch of open expanse and an imposing view of Ainsworth Hall. Turrets and towers, stone and stark walls greeted me as I wove around and dashed in through the kitchen door. “How—” my panting breaths broke up my question “— long?” My hand reached for the doorframe as I sought to steady myself and breathe. My breathing attacks had begun soon after my mother died—years ago now—and arose whenever I was particularly stressed or frightened. Right now, I was both. How long since my father had summoned me? “Good heavens, child! You look like a wood nymph.” Helena came toward me shaking her head, one hand on her hip and the other arm holding a mixing bowl. No censure tinged her voice, only worry. “Breathe,” she said. I leaned forward to better obey, to catch my breath, and caught a glimpse of the torn hem of my drab brown dress, guilt already creeping in. In my wooded haven, I felt free. But back within these walls, I became a prisoner of my father’s displeasure. Helena put down the mixing bowl to pluck leaves from my hair. She let them flutter to her clean kitchen floor then bound my hair back up on my head. “He asked for you half an hour ago. You had best hurry.” 2
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I nodded my thanks and fled the kitchen, willing my heartbeat to slow and my dress to somehow lose the telltale wrinkles by the time I reached the study. Alas, when I stood in front of his door, one last effort to smooth my skirt caused the wrinkles to spring to life again. Breathe. I entered. He said naught, only frowned in displeasure and ceased pacing. His hands unclasped from behind his back. The stony expression on his face offered me no quarter. I swallowed, feeling the old familiar fear clutch my throat in its icy grip. My father had never laid a hand on my sister or me, but his standards towered high, his expectations enormous. When we fell short, his disappointment shattered me. His sigh blew through the room, and I was surprised that the tomes on the bookshelf did not shiver along with me. “Well?” “I-I am sorry for the delay in answering your s-summons, Father.” He expected more. I saw that in the slant of his black brows, his frown pulling deeper into his beard, emphasizing the annoyance in his eyes. That was all I was to him: an annoyance. And why not? I forever disappointed him, fell short of what a daughter should be: attractive and endearing. Instead, I was quiet. Shy. Fearful. And sometimes I could not breathe. He turned away from me to circle his desk and sit behind it. I stepped closer, aware of his expectations before he began motioning me forward. My lungs began to constrict. “Where were you, Anna?” He always started with that question. “The w-woods.” I always answered. I never lied. 3
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His eyes rolled to the ceiling. “You are too old to gallivant into the trees. You ought to be a woman by now. How many times have I told you it is time to grow up?” A hundred times, at least. Ever since I was six and my sister, Margried, took me to the woods with her. The first time Father commanded us to mature, Margried had explained to me that Father had failed to strictly forbid us. The lack of articulation of an explicit command lent her the bravery to keep running away to the woods—and to take me with her. If not for her, I might have stopped running away right then. In all other matters, I obeyed my father—well, except when he commanded me to learn how to ride. I had never been able to conquer my fear of horses. But what did that matter when I could run? The woods were my only refuge now. And most of the time, I escaped and returned without Father ever knowing I had been gone. Because of these rare times he needed an audience with me, Helena had worked out our call system. When she sent the smoke spiraling into the sky, I checked the sun. If it was evening, she had merely begun to cook the evening meal, and I walked home leisurely. But if the sun was high, if in midday smoke billowed into the sky, I came home immediately. Father rarely, if ever, knew the difference. But today I had traveled too far and could not return quickly enough. Thus— “You look like a peasant rather than the lady of this manor. Unacceptable.” My father spat the words and interrupted my thoughts. “I am s-sorry.” My lungs tightened. “Is that all you can say?” His raised voice forced my gaze to the floor. “An apology does not erase the offense.” “I-I have no excuse.” 4
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“You most certainly do not. Why do you continue to defy me?” I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, but stopped, strangled. His voice rose. “You run away and then come crawling back with a simpering apology, lacking even the resolve to defy me fully, as your sister did.” My gaze shot to his at the mention of my sister. He had not spoken of her for three years. After fleeing in the night, she had never returned or even written. Father was right; she was braver than I. My knees quaked at his anger. Usually, my repeated remorse appeased him. And I was remorseful; I hated to continually disobey him. But I missed Margried and longed for the only place where I felt connected to her. Oh, I knew of her. Gossiping gooses at balls spoke her name with disgust right after she fled from the marriage our father had arranged for her to a well-respected Catholic noble. Later, when she returned to England, she again became a topic of interest as her name was linked to the bride of the Protestant Dirk Godfrey, a man wanted for murder, a man who married the daughter of his alleged victims. Margried had been mostly forgotten once Dirk’s name had been cleared and he and his wife had assumed a quiet existence at his estate. But I remembered the one time I heard Lady Huxley mention Margried had married Dirk’s bailiff and now lived at Godfrey Estate, too. A day’s ride away. So why did she never write, never come to see me? Her flight from home and England I understood completely, as the groom our father had arranged was far older than even he. But once she had returned to England, had married and legally 5
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escaped from our father’s interference—yet still she did not send for me? “Are you listening to me, Anna?” Father stood and leaned forward, bracing his hands on his desk and ducking his head to look straight into my eyes. His eyes, a deeper blue than mine, reminded me of Margried’s, but with a storm rushing through them that I had never seen in hers. I lowered my gaze. Or, more accurately, I lost my will to keep it trained on his furious face. “Look at me.” My calves clenched as I battled for stability. I fought to obey and lifted my gaze dutifully to his, but my father’s expression caused me to waver. I had learned long ago that to struggle before him only worsened his mood, so I sucked in small wisps of air and fought the familiar swirling panic. He suddenly straightened, stroking his beard with one hand as he studied the ceiling. Relief poured through me. My gaze returned to studying the tips of my boots visible beneath my hem. My throat unclenched. I gulped in a breath. My shoulders sank forward. Then they lifted nearly to my ears when my father’s palm slapped the desk. “When will you learn, Anna?” Something new entered my father’s eyes. “When will you understand?” I was more confused than I had ever been in his presence. My father had two moods: placating and angry. At balls and social gatherings of England’s nobility, he oozed charm, knew exactly what to say, and never faltered. But when angry, he gave vent to his disappointment in his daughter. Still, he usually settled sooner than this. I had no frame of reference for what I saw in his face now. He looked almost … uncertain. 6
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My father was never uncertain. That was my forte. “Father, I—” “Do not speak.” He waved a hand through the air before resting it on his desk once more; his head turned away from me as if he could not bear to look upon the image of the girl he had fathered. It was the easiest command he had ever given me. So why did it feel so wrong? Long moments passed—me silent as ever, him uncharacteristically upset. Almost … anguished. I had never seen him evince so much emotion without railing and shouting. “Anna … ” He left my name hanging in the air as if it were a noose around my neck. “I have decided.” In a flash, the uncertainty had passed away. In its place stood the familiar, formidable fortress that had wielded power over my life since the day I was born. “You’ve been acting like a child, but I cannot tolerate it any longer. You will grow up and be a woman.” The words echoed deep inside me until I realized that they really were echoes. I had heard them so many times. Grow up. Be a woman. Do not act like a child. “You have failed to draw the attention you should as my daughter. No suitor has even approached me about you.” I flinched as if he had laid his fist alongside my jaw. Margried had been the pretty one, not I. Her beauty attracted the attention of many a man; mine had attracted no attention at all. “So I will find a husband for you. I am leaving for London on the morrow to make all the arrangements.” All the air froze in my lungs. For the first time, I understood with empathy what my sister felt when she left. Always before I had thought I understood. 7
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She had not wanted to marry a man she had never met, one old enough to call her daughter. I had felt sympathy, imagining myself presented with the same situation. But now, instead of guessing how she felt, I knew. Yet I was different from Margried. I had neither her beauty nor her bravery. Unless. Unless I summoned a fragment of her courage and … ran away. Just as she had done. And there would be only one place to go. After all, I knew where she lived. “Anna?” The uncertainty resurrected on my father’s face. He would accept only one response. I felt myself nodding, acquiescing, even as I withered inside at my own deception. My father grinned. How strange that the first time I did not disappoint my father, I also deceived him.
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