by RITA GERLACH
As she passed inside she heard the others in the sitting room conversing, and she paused outside the door.
“Everything has changed now that she is here, Langbourne,” she heard Charlotte say. “I doubt you will get a penny more for your troubles. And I shan’t get her jewels, if she has any of worth.”
For Charlotte to covet her grandmother’s jewelry and have no reservations about announcing her desire for it in front of Mr. and Mrs. Brighton repulsed Darcy.
“I already own the house, and it’s by my good graces that the old woman has stayed on at Havendale.”
“Why, Langbourne.” It was Mr. Brighton. “Only a heartless man would throw an old woman out or place her in accommodations below what she deserves. This is her home and her husband’s house. You do not mean …”
“I mean nothing, except to say Charlotte is my wife and she should have everything in this house, not a girl my aunt knows little of. Where is she anyway?”
“She left a moment ago … and so did Mr. Brennan.”
“Brennan is here?”
“Upon my request,” said Mr. Brighton with a nod. “By your expression, sir, you do not approve. He’s a fine authority on horses, and …”
“Do not bring him here again, not if you intend to keep your appointments at Havendale.” Langbourne sounded bitter. What did he have against Ethan?
Darcy turned her back to the wall and leaned her head against it. The warm welcome she felt vanished. It grew obvious the Langbournes did not want her here.
The shadows in the hallway deepened and cold air whirled around her ankles. Maxwell’s nails tapped over the hardwood floor, and he drew up to her, sniffing the tip of her shoes.
“We know nothing of your business, sir, and should not be drawn into it.” Mrs. Brighton spoke in a manner that shocked Charlotte. “But I must say, to look at Darcy is to look into the eyes of her mother, though they are of a different shade. She seems shy with us, but I have to believe she is truthful and as spirited as Eliza ever was.”
Charlotte laughed. “Oh, that would be a curse upon her.”
“Eliza Morgan was a beauty, Charlotte, unlike your sickly, skinny self,” said Langbourne. “She was everything a man would want in a woman, and although I hate him for it, I do not blame Hayward for wanting her the way he did.”
“The way you also did, Langbourne. Let us not forget …”
“Be quiet, Charlotte. Mr. Brighton, what would you do if you had a jealous wife?” A pause followed with no reply to Langbourne’s question. “I thought so.”
Darcy moved and her shadow fell over the threshold. The dog yapped and whined. They’d seen her, and she had no other choice but to face them. Drawing off her cloak and setting it aside, she wiped her eyes dry and smoothed down the folds of her dress. Gathering her senses, and trying her best to appear as if nothing had happened, she reentered the room. Mrs. Brighton looked over at her, curious. Langbourne, with his boot on the grate of the fireplace, stared at her.
“Ah, there she is, Langbourne.” Charlotte tugged his sleeve. “Is she not savage looking? I suppose most of the girls in America are.”
Darcy met his eyes, piercing and dark. “Savage is not the correct word, Charlotte. Miss Darcy appears civilized, yet …” and he pulled away and drew close, “full of tamed fire, I’d say.”
Charlotte huffed. “Oh, no, Langbourne. You cannot mean it.”
“Emphatically, Charlotte.” He kept his eyes fixed upon Darcy, and she looked away. The heat of the fire eased through her gown and warmed her body.
“Had you lost your way, having taken so long to come back?” he said in a lowered voice, drawing her aside.
How he underestimated her. She had a sense of direction born with her. “No, Mr. Langbourne. You have no reason to ever believe I could lose my way. I stepped out before you came inside.”
“Everyone loses their way at one time or another. I advise that you not wander too far from Havendale. You saw the kind of people who loiter on the land.”
“I do not know what kind of man he is that you caught.”
“His actions speak for him. Be wary, Miss Darcy. When I am not here, there is no man to look after the women in this house.”
“So I shall, sir.”
“And you will keep my business to yourself.”
“Of course.”
“There is no need to trouble Madeline over such a matter as a poacher. It would frighten and shock her, don’t you think?”
A moment’s pause, then Darcy nodded. “I would not wish my grandmother to be alarmed.” Near the window, she glanced out to see if Ethan had come down the path back to the house. Perhaps her reaction had been too harsh toward him.
“Good.” Langbourne gave her a smile from the corner of his mouth. “You look nothing like your father.”
“I am told I do.”
“You have your mother’s face. She was handsome, you know.”
“Everyone has told me she was beautiful. You must have known her.”
“I loved her.”
Astonished at his confession, uneasiness raced through her. How much did he love her mother? Had his feelings remained with him over the years, and would he be kind to Darcy because of Eliza?
A horse whinnied outside in the courtyard. Her head turned, and she glanced back out the window to see Ethan leading a tall horse. “He bought the stallion.” She hoped the horse would always remind him of the day they met, how he almost trampled her, but did not avoid crushing her heart.
“What do you mean?” said Langbourne. “Do you know this man?”
“Slightly,” she said.
“How?”
“I met him in Virginia, when he visited there with his fiancée, Miss Roth.”
“Well, he won’t be back, and he is not permitted in this house. You understand?”
“It is your house, as you have said, sir.” Questions were on the tip of her tongue. But she dare not ask them.
The others gathered closer to see what was going on, what had caught Darcy’s interest.
“Mr. Brennan is leaving,” said Mrs. Brighton.
“Without a word?” asked Charlotte. “How rude of him.”
“He has other business to attend to,” Mr. Brighton said. “He would not divulge the particulars.”
Darcy watched Ethan place his boot in the stirrup. The dappled light, made so by the raindrops, glazed the glass and quivered over her face. She glanced over at Langbourne, marking the look of hatred in his eyes at the sight of Ethan.
Langbourne’s mouth twisted. “We can do without him.”
Oh, but I cannot. Her body trembled with the desire to rush out the door and go to him. I’d be made a fool if I did. He’d ride off, and everyone would laugh at me. Oh, God, forgive me for my hard heart.
She fixed her eyes on his form, how he mounted Sanchet, how his thighs hugged the saddle, the way he drew the reins through his hands and held them. Rain dripped from his hat, soaking the tips of his hair. He looked over at her with an expression of regret. He pressed his mouth taut and turned his eyes away. This time she felt as if his horse had trampled over her, her eyes not leaving him until he, and his horse’s bronze mane and tail, disappeared over the hilltop.
16
Crossing the border into Fairview, Ethan tapped his heels against Sanchet, and brought the stallion across a stone bridge that arched over a swollen stream. The sound frightened the horse and it reared. The pressure of Ethan’s knees against his ribs brought him down, settled him, and Ethan walked him on after a gentle pat of his hand on the neck.
In the distance, shrouded in the gray curtain of rain, he could see the old manor, its windows brightened by a few candles in the casements. A flood of memories rose up in his mind of a happy childhood and a father who taught him both the ways of the world and the precepts of God.
He missed his father a great deal, without a day gone by that he did not think of him. If only he could have an hour to sit and talk to him, to listen to his wise adv
ice on matters he now faced. His father would know what to do.
The scent of moss and heath were heavy in the air as he rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Lacking the wealth to keep a stable-hand, he drew his horse into the stable and removed saddle and bridle on his own. A comforting bucket of oats caused the horse to relax as Ethan brushed down his coat and heaped a mound of fresh hay inside the stall. Then feeling hungry, he left and went through the kitchen entrance. The coals in the hearth were red and smoldering. The scent of fresh bread permeated the room, and a loaf cut in two sat on an oak board atop the table. He pulled a piece free and popped it into his mouth.
“Mr. Ethan, you must be chilled through, sir.” Fiona poked her head around the corner of the door and stepped inside. “I’ve a fire set in your room. Shall I fix you something hot to drink and some supper?”
“No thank you, Fiona. I am fine as I am.” He proceeded to go, but she put her hand out to him.
“I see you helped yourself to the bread. If that’s all you are to eat, then that is a shame, for I’ve a stew simmering in that pot over there, and you know how it does me good to see you enjoy anything I’ve made.”
Her expecting eyes could not be refused. “Well, if it is your stew, then by all means stuff me to the gills.”
A broad smile swept across Fiona’s rosy face, and she bustled over to the pot and ladled a huge helping into a bowl. He told her one was enough, and he inquired after Eliza.
“She is tired, Mr. Ethan.” Fiona folded a napkin. “Do not stay long.”
“I’ve news to tell her. Perhaps it will lift her spirits.”
“I hope so. She has been very reflective the last few days.”
He thanked her for the meal, and once she was convinced he could not eat a morsel more and had cleared the bowl and spoon away, he headed upstairs. In his bedchamber, the fire crackled and hissed, drowning out the clock on the mantelpiece and the steady patter of rain. He undressed, and the fire warmed his body. He went to the window, a high mullioned structure made of leaded glass that went from floor to ceiling. It faced west, and through it he watched the clouds move above the treetops and cast long shadows over the moorland.
His heart lay heavy in his chest, broken and bruised, but still in love. The passion he felt for Darcy raged within, a storm of emotions spilling out and flooding his soul to its core. Slow and steady, he drew in a deep breath and released it. He reached for his Bible and opened to the Song of Solomon, where the letter, delivered to him by Miss Roth after her visit with Darcy, marked his place.
I cannot accept you, Ethan. [Her words were seared into his mind.] We are too different, and I would not marry an Englishman for anything in the world, even if you meant to stay. And by no means would I leave my family and home and follow you to England. I will forever be grateful you pulled me from the river, but I do not love you.
He went to the chair before the fire and sank into it. He prayed that God would remove the love he felt for Darcy if having her was a forlorn hope. Breathing out a final amen, he ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the letter in his hand.
Even if Darcy were to accept him, what would he have to offer her except an old manor with floors that creaked and windows that rattled, on a patch of land just large enough to sustain a garden and a horse?
The idea pained him like a twisting blade. He went down to what was now his study, where the remainder of his father’s books stood in neat rows on the bookshelves. As he had studied the accounts and realized the cost of maintaining the old place, he had had to sell some of the old first editions that had been in the family for years. As he remembered them, he grew more convinced that God had set in his heart the desire to start a new life in America—hopefully with Darcy.
“She’ll be going back to her home by the river. If I sell Fairview, I’ll have enough to settle there and take Eliza and Fiona with me. God will turn Darcy’s heart, I know it.”
He stood and rubbed his eyes. Then he went upstairs and stood in the doorway to Eliza’s room. She sat on a lounge, propped up against a snowy heap of pillows. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, fell in a single braid across her shoulder. A candle illuminated the room, and her face appeared flushed in the quivering light.
He drew up beside her. “Fiona says you are tired tonight. Can I get you anything? Would you like me to read to you?”
“Stay a little while.” She touched his hand with hers. “Where did you go today?”
“Havendale.”
She drew away from the pillow. “Why would you go there, Ethan?”
“Mr. Brighton asked me to accompany him. As you can imagine, my curiosity was piqued and I had to go. I was hesitant at first, but I felt drawn.”
“Did you meet Madeline? I imagine she has grown very old and is not apt to entertain guests anymore.”
“She was nowhere to be seen. But I saw Langbourne. Brighton had assured me he was at Meadlow and rarely visits Havendale. He was wrong.”
“Did he inquire after me? Did he treat you unkindly?”
“We did not speak.”
“I have no doubt his grudge against me and Hayward is as strong as it ever was. I shall not be free of him until I die.”
“Do not speak of it,” Ethan said. “I must tell you, there is someone else you know visiting Havendale.”
“I cannot think who.” Eliza settled back and smiled. Her violet eyes were as vivid in color as the first day Ethan met her as a boy. Yet lines had formed at the corners. “Please tell me; it shall make me happy for Madeline. Life can be very lonely for the old. It has been one regret of mine that I have never gone to see her. But I have my reasons for not doing so. Hayward no doubt painted a bleak picture of me in any correspondence he has had with her.”
“I am certain it will make you very happy,” Ethan said.
Upon his deathbed, Mr. Brennan asked for Ethan’s word that he would protect Eliza by honoring her wishes to remain as she was—secluded. He had pledged his word not to speak of her to Darcy in any way other than in the past tense. But now that Darcy was but a few miles from Fairview, he hoped Eliza’s mind might change and she would desire to see her daughter, even if by doing so, she risked rejection and having her heart broken all over again.
And so he paced, his hands clasped behind him, his heart heavy within. Finally he turned to Eliza, pausing by the window and praying she would rejoice over the news he was about to unfold.
“When I returned from America, I told you how beautiful Darcy was, how protected by her dutiful uncle, loved by her aunt and cousins. Do you remember?”
A wistful longing sprang into Eliza’s eyes for the children she had borne and lost. “How can I forget?”
“Well, I saw Darcy today.”
A bewildered look darkened Eliza’s face. “You mean you dreamed of her … saw her in that way, don’t you?”
“At first, I thought it was a dream. But I did see her. She is at Havendale with her grandmother.”
After a quick intake of breath, tears glazed Eliza’s eyes. She twisted the edge of her shawl between her hands. “Oh! Then—she has …” The words stuck in her throat.
“Come to meet Madeline—and you.”
Eliza looked up at him with a start. “But she mustn’t know about me, Ethan. It would break her heart. Oh, I pray Langbourne does not speak of me to her.”
“Is it not time for her to know the truth—that you are alive?”
“It would cause her more pain than you can imagine. For her to learn I have been alive all these years and never tried to see her would give her reason to hate me.” She looked up at him, her brows pinched together. “And despise her father for lying to her.”
“It is not your fault, Eliza. You must see that, surely.”
“It is entirely my fault. One action led to another.”
“Yes. But that is not to say a wrong cannot be righted.” Ethan went on to tell her about his conversation with Darcy in the gazebo. “I cannot help how I feel. I love her. How am
I to express my love for her when I must hold these secrets?”
Eliza stood, her fists clenched at her side as she strode about the room. “I have been selfish. If Darcy loves you, then you mustn’t let anything keep you apart—not even me. But please delay a little longer. Promise me.”
He could never deny her anything. She’d been a mother to him, and a friend to his father. “I promise, but only for a little while.”
“I only ask so that I have time to prepare.” Eliza closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. Ethan knew he needed to leave her to her thoughts, and so he kissed her forehead and left. Fiona waited out in the hallway.
“I knew one day God would bring Darcy to us.” She stepped ahead of Ethan, holding her handkerchief against her eyes. He realized there were three people in this house who loved Darcy and had been grieved by their separation. He knew he had to trust what Fiona said, and believe that God would bring them all together again, regardless of Eliza’s worries.
By late evening, the rain moved off to the east. Ethan sat in his room at his writing desk. He lifted the pen from the inkwell and held it above the paper. After his salutation, he poured his heart out within a single line to Darcy. He had to see her again. He tapped the tip of the quill against the glass lip, when all of a sudden carriage wheels were borne to his hearing. A moment later, Fiona knocked on the door.
“There is a gentleman to see you. I’ve placed him in the study.”
Ethan looked up from the letter. “Who is it?”
“I asked, but he did not give me his name, only said it was important he speak to you. Do not worry. He does not look like a creditor, though he does look clerkish.”
Ethan did not go down immediately, but pulled on his boots and drew on his black waistcoat. The visitor stood in front of the fire in the sitting room, warming his hands. He turned with a graceful movement.
