by RITA GERLACH
“I do not. I have never heard of either person.” It saddened her that there existed a breach between her father and grandfather. Was it over his decision to settle in America and take its side in the Revolution? Or was it over his choice of wife?
“Well, this family is widely spread, and growing thinner by the year,” said Mrs. Burke. “When her sons left for America, I thought my mistress would never get over it. Life has not been the same since.”
“Yes, I imagine it was hard to take,” Darcy said. “I never imagined Havendale would be such a large house.”
“Modestly large, but poor. And many of the rooms are not used.”
“Then I am another mouth to feed.” Darcy quickened her steps beside Mrs. Burke. “I will work for my keep.”
“Work?” Mrs. Burke chuckled. “No need to worry over that. It is not to be expected of you.”
When they entered her grandmother’s room, Darcy waited just inside the doorway. The scent of rosewater permeated the air. Curtains hung closed over the windows, blocking out the dull light that had gathered. A fire crackled in a marble fireplace, its radiance dancing across the polished floor and faded Turkish rug.
In a winged chair sat an elderly woman in a gown Darcy could tell had once been black, now faded to muddy brown. The firelight heightened the color of her pale skin from ivory to rose, and smoothed the lines time had bestowed. She wore the black veil and cap of a widow, and delicate curls as white as snow peeked out along the edges. Her hands lay sedate over the arms of the chair. A golden band with a small pearl glinted on her finger, and a terrier rested his head on the old woman’s arm.
She shifted in her chair, and her dog leapt off her lap to the floor and curled up on the hearthrug. “Burke, I am in desperate need of tea. Be sure it is plenty hot, for I am chilled to the bone today.”
“You had tea but an hour ago, ma’am.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, ma’am. I shall bring you some broth instead. That’ll warm you up for sure, and it is good nourishment.”
Waving her hand, Mrs. Burke made a gesture for Darcy to come further inside the room. The terrier yapped, and Mrs. Burke shook a reproving finger at the pup. Darcy held her hand out to him. He moved to her to be sedated by a gentle stroke over his pointy ears.
“Quiet, Maxwell,” her grandmother ordered. “Hmm. I rarely hear him bark. Maybe he looked out the window and saw that man again, poaching my birds no doubt. Where is Edward? You must tell him straightaway.”
With a gentle touch, Mrs. Burke gathered Madeline’s shawl over her sloping shoulders. “Do not fret, ma’am. Perhaps the man will bring us a plump bird for our supper.”
“I will let my husband decide … ”
“He has, as you know, been dead these last ten years, ma’am.”
Madeline shivered and her eyes opened wide, gray and watery. “Dead?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ten years you say?”
“Nearly eleven, ma’am.”
“Edward. My Edward,” Madeline sighed.
Darcy marked how lovingly his name slipped through her grandmother’s lips, as if it were the only name on earth, and he the only man she had ever loved. It caused her to whisper Ethan in her mind, to feel the tone and cadence of his name spring into her heart.
“Oh, how I loved him.” With a lift of her wrinkled hand, Madeline touched Mrs. Burke’s arm. “He has left me lonely, you know.” Her eyes shifted toward the door when Maxwell whined for another touch from Darcy. “Who is that young woman? Why is she standing on my carpet speechless?”
Darcy stepped forward, and her grandmother looked up at her confused. “Is that you, Eliza Bloome?” Her eyes squinted and she looked alarmed. “Where is Hayward? Where is my son? I demand to know.” Half rising from her chair, she dropped back down when her strength gave out.
Darcy approached. “I am Darcy, ma’am, your granddaughter. You wrote to me and asked that I come visit you.”
Madeline’s lips quivered. Surprise lit her face and she searched for Darcy’s hands. “My son Hayward’s child?”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“For a moment I thought you were Eliza.” She drew her spectacles on and looked up at Darcy. “But I see now you are not. There is no real resemblance. You have taken after Hayward, I see.”
“I hope that pleases you, Grandmother.”
“Very much so. Such a courageous girl you are to have come all the way across the ocean.” Madeline leaned forward as Darcy crouched down to her. “I imagine it was exciting.”
Darcy smiled. “At times. But it was mostly dull. I am glad to have my feet back on solid ground.”
Madeline pursed her lips. “Strange ground though.” With an effort, the old woman leaned her cheek up to Darcy. Darcy kissed it and then sat in the chair opposite. Her grandmother smelled of rice powder, rosewater, and age. Her cheek felt cold, even with the fire blazing in the hearth.
Darcy glanced down at her soiled hem. “I am sorry for my appearance. I wish I had arrived more neatly attired, but I had so far to travel.”
Madeline shook her head. “It is to be expected. You came by coach?”
“Part way. They set me down several miles from here where the road forks. The coach route turned north, you see, and so I had to be let out.”
A slow breath eased from Madeline’s lips. “You mean to say you walked the rest of the way unaccompanied?”
“I enjoy walking, and the countryside is lovely here.” She did not tell her that the sun was setting when she got out of the coach, nor that she had to sleep in that old ruin a full night—with a haunting wind and distressing sounds.
Her grandmother’s brows shot up. “But you do not know the country here. You were all alone. You could have gotten lost or kidnapped by gypsies.”
Darcy smiled. Her grandmother had no idea how free she ran beside the two rivers back home. “God kept me safe, I can assure you.”
“Hmm, I see he did. I shall be sure to thank him when I say my prayers tonight. Poor child, you need to refresh yourself.”
“Oh, I would welcome that, Grandmother. You are kind.” Darcy held her grandmother’s hands and stood to leave. As she passed out the door, she looked back at Madeline. She liked her a great deal and looked forward to her time at Havendale. Already her grandmother had dozed off, with Maxwell now curled at her feet.
Mrs. Burke led the way to a modest guestroom. The floor creaked under their footfalls. The walls were plastered, painted dull white. Simple furniture decorated the room—a bed, nightstand, and a green high-back armchair near a small marble fireplace.
Already she had begun to feel at ease, being so warmly welcomed and accepted. Yet, she could not help feeling out of place and homesick for the Potomac and the green fields of home. She felt like a wild thing here, for the people she had met along the way, including Mrs. Burke, were of a more reserved nature. She was more expressive and open about her thoughts and feelings.
She had no idea where she fit in, or how she would adapt. But she had comfort in knowing her stay would be less than a year, even a matter of a few months.
She pulled out clean garments from her bag, shook out the folds of a simple dress of a deep nutmeg hue, and held it in front of her. She stared into the full-length mirror, telling herself she would always be Darcy of the rivers and forests. Then she undressed, washed the dust of the road off her skin, and brushed out her long hair until it felt silky again. A black ribbon lay on the dressing table, and she banded the locks up on her head, allowing some to grace her shoulders.
Carried on the wind that buffeted the house, a sound came to Darcy—a horse whinnied. She approached the latticed window, and peering out at the crest of a hill, she spied a man on horseback riding east at an even gallop. She stared. Her heart beat in her breast, and she glanced away in an effort to calm it. The horseman caused her to think back to the day when she first chanced upon Ethan astride the stallion.
Ethan. She could not forget him, no mat
ter how hard she had worked to get him out of her mind.
An hour later, she went back down the hall to her grandmother’s bedchamber. Placing her palm against the door, she eased it open and stepped inside. She drew near her grandmother’s canopied bed and touched Madeline’s hand with the tips of her fingers. The old woman’s eyes opened and glanced over at Darcy.
“You are much improved,” said Madeline. “Sit beside me. I imagine you have many questions, but not tonight. Later, when I am feeling stronger. I am old.”
It disappointed her, for Darcy’s mind rushed with questions. But compassion—for an aged mind and body, and no doubt a heart that had ached many a year—took precedence over her desire for answers.
“I am expecting my nephew and his wife in a day or two.”
“Mrs. Burke told me about Mr. Langbourne and his wife. I shall be glad to meet them.”
“I do not imagine Charlotte shall be much company to you, Darcy. It is not because she possesses a dignified self-restraint. Something is amiss with her mind, for she is a frail creature and says little about anything that matters. Langbourne tolerates her, I suppose, but does not love her.”
“How unfortunate.”
Madeline let out a cackle. “She doesn’t seem to mind, for she is well cared for. What is love to the upper class but a whim? We are fixed up in England, and that is that. When I first met your grandfather, I felt nothing, no spark of anything. My love for him grew over time. I needed him, you see.”
How sad to not have loved from the beginning, to burn and ache for love. And by now, had Ethan entered into a loveless marriage? How her heart grieved to think of it, that he could have had her love instead of shallow regard. God had planted it in her, Darcy knew, a love so deep and virtuous that it could have been born only from the One that was pure, everlasting love.
Her fingers bent, Madeline lifted a gold locket from her chest, opened it, and showed Darcy the miniature portrait within it.
“This is Edward, my second husband and your grandfather. I was a widow with a small boy, your uncle, and Edward took pity on me and brought me to Havendale. I had money, and that helped him decide to wed me. If I’d been penniless, there would have been no hope for my child and me. I hope William is well.”
Darcy hesitated to tell her grandmother the truth. “He sends you his well wishes. He would have come with me, but commitments prevented him. I’ve brought a letter. Should I go get it?”
“I shall read it later.” A sad gaze filled her grandmother’s eyes. “I do not wish to speak about him anymore today.”
“If I may ask, does my father resemble his father?”
“Yes, but he had my eyes. I hope someday they are enlightened to what he has done in hurting me. He left without so much as a goodbye, and the last letter I received from him was many years ago. Not a word since.”
“He left for the frontier, so Uncle Will told me. I hope someday he will return.”
Madeline paused to drink her broth. “Poor Charlotte. What on earth will she think of your high spirits and openmindedness, Darcy?”
It seemed as if her grandmother had not heard her remark about meeting her father again. Or had she wished to ignore it?
Maxwell jumped onto the bed and sat down with an anxious stare. Madeline handed him a nibble of cheese from the china plate sitting on the bed beside her. He took it between his teeth and swallowed it down.
“I must say, Darcy, I can see in you your father’s determination, and the passion of your mother. Hmm. Perhaps you will draw Charlotte out.”
“I shall attempt to engage her by being kind, Grandmother.”
“Kind? It may do no good if Langbourne hears your conversations. He keeps a firm hand on his wife’s shoulder.” Madeline sighed and lay her head back against the pillow propped up behind her.
Darcy paused to study the painting over the fireplace. It portrayed a pair of matched horses and the riders—a lady dressed in a blue velvet riding habit, whose youthful face was one of rich beauty, a gentleman, broad-shouldered and handsome.
“What kind of man is Langbourne?” she asked, the painting posing the question in her mind.
“He lacks all the best virtues one expects in a man—humility, kindness, and a sense of duty. Instead, he can be proud and demanding, and he drinks far too much. Likes rum, you see. Everyone must kowtow to his whims, and he to no one.”
“Perhaps disappointing circumstances in life have made him as you say.”
“Disappointments? Langbourne has had everything handed to him. You would think his wife would have soothed his overbearing ways, but I fear she has put more oil on the fire than water.”
Darcy’s interest was piqued. “May I ask how? Would it not be his responsibility and not hers?”
Her grandmother gathered her shawl closer. “Certainly, but a woman can bring out the best or the worst in a man. I imagine Hayward must not have been an easy man to live with.”
“I cannot say. But I’d like to think he was.”
“Your father had such a strong will. Nothing could change his mind on anything. He was determined to make a life in America, and Eliza chose him over his cousin.”
“You mean Mr. Langbourne, your nephew?”
This was something Darcy had never been told. She wondered if her parents’ romance had been a tumultuous one, with two men competing for her.
“Yes, that is exactly who I mean. I see a thousand questions are now swimming in your head,” Madeline said. “But I shall not answer them today. Too many answers to too many questions can lead a person to places they wish not to go.”
Darcy felt sorry for her grandmother. Memories were painful for her. But she wished the conversation could go further. Yet her grandmother would venture only so far on certain subjects, and that left Darcy frustrated with curiosity. So many secrets seemed to permeate Havendale. Too many answers to too many questions can lead a person to places they wish not to go. She wondered at the meaning behind those words, and prayed she would understand—if not now, later.
Madeline sighed. “I am weary, Darcy, and need to sleep.” Her eyes closed and she slipped off. Darcy stood, drew her grandmother’s bedcover up to her chin, blew out the candle, and tiptoed from the room.
After she closed the door, her curiosity got the best of her and she began to explore the old house. She went from room to room, each much the same as the other, clean and void of life. She ascended an oak staircase sleek from years of footfalls tramping over the steps. It led to a third floor. Two chamber doors were there, and after she opened the first and entered the room, she realized it had been her father’s bedchamber. Books were stacked on a table near the window. Clothes hung in the sandalwood armoire, a layer of dust on the shoulders of coats and shirts. It was as he had left it. She ran her hands over the fabric, and then closed the doors.
She heard footsteps and turned. Mrs. Burke stood on the threshold with a candlestick in her hand. “I intended to give you a tour of the house, Miss Darcy. But I see you could not wait.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Burke. I could not help myself. I thought perhaps you had gone to bed.”
“No, I’m up late every night. There’s no need to be sorry.”
“This was my father’s room, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“It looks as though it has remained just as he left it.”
Mrs. Burke touched the stack of books and sighed. “These were his favorites. And over here are his clothes. Everything in this room belonged to him, and he left it all behind for love.”
“He must have loved my mother very much to forsake everything for her.”
“Do you know the story, Miss Darcy?” Mrs. Burke set the candle down.
“No. But I imagine Grandmother will tell me about it— when she is ready.”
Mrs. Burke strode over to the window and drew apart the curtains, allowing the moonlight to come inside. “She has stayed tight-lipped about her feelings ever since your father was disinherited.”
/> “What did my father do to deserve such rejection?”
“Mr. Morgan did not approve of Mr. Hayward’s choice for a wife. He said Miss Eliza was below his station, and she had no money to bring to the marriage. Along with this he heard through his connections that Mr. William was in support of the American rebellion.”
“I know that to be true. But he was my grandmother’s son by her first marriage. Why did his beliefs matter to Mr. Morgan?”
“He would not have his heir attached to a traitor. He believed Mr. Hayward would be influenced, end up supporting the Revolution, and thus bring the family even more shame.”
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Hayward defied his father. I remember your grandmother crying as she watched him leave the house with only the clothes on his back.”
Darcy sat down on the edge of the bed. “She said he swore she’d never hear from him again. He should not have treated her so badly. It wasn’t her fault.”
“Yes, well after Mr. Morgan passed away, she tried to find Mr. Hayward, but failed. She gave up all hope that he would ever write to her.”
“I am sorry she could not find him. He should have written, regardless of how they fell out.”
“Indeed. But Mr. William wrote to her as often as he could, although she did not hear from him through the duration of the war. So few letters ever made it to England or to America those years.”
“My parents must have had a passionate affection for each other in order for him to defy his father and leave England. It must have been strong, like a fortress against a storm.”
“Hmm, more like a hurricane, Miss Darcy.” With a smile, Mrs. Burke picked up her candle, and together they left the forsaken bedchamber.
“We all should be so fortunate as to have a man love us as much as he loved your mother,” said Mrs. Burke outside Darcy’s door.
Darcy leaned against the jamb before going in. “That he would give up his inheritance for love is a noble thing … Good night, Mrs. Burke, and thank you.”
