by RITA GERLACH
After Mrs. Burke stepped away, Darcy went inside the room that had been lovingly prepared for her. Moonlight flowed through the window, spread over the quilt covering the bed, and touched upon the pillows piled against the bolster. She thought of Ethan. Her love for him rose like a crashing, angry sea, gripping her with such longing that she put her hands over her eyes to suppress tears. If only he could have loved her that passionately, given up Miss Roth and her fortune, defied all and stayed with her. No, his was a love that was as fleeting as windswept clouds. But Darcy’s was constant. She loved deeply, feverishly, and lived with a broken heart. Ethan would never have the chance to love with such passion, she thought.
She sat at a small writing desk beside the window. She must write home—tell them of her adventure—but not so much as to alarm her aunt. Dipping the quill into the ink, she scrolled the date, and then began to write. I cannot believe I am sitting in the house where my father grew up, with my grandmother just down the hall …
14
That same night, the sea swept over the shores of Cornwall as it had for centuries. A boat plunged its bow into the choppy waves, leaving behind a sailing ship anchored out in the deeper waters. It made its way into a quiet cove—Crackington Haven in the north of Cornwall. The sea swept over the pebbled beach and poured into rock pools carved out by the tides. Sandstone cliffs cast deep shadows over the waters as a man disembarked and made his way up a serpentine path to the heights above.
His coat would be strange to those living along the shore. Its dark blue color had faded over the years to gray, the silver buttons tarnished. Once there had been gold piping along the scarlet collar and lapels, but no more. It had dry-rotted and torn free long ago. His boots were old, the sheen worn off, and the hat upon his head had gone from black to muddy brown.
His eyes widened and he looked up at the cry of a nighthawk. He felt his face flush, and he looked down at his hands, ruddy under the luminous moon, lined and careworn. Although lean in body, he heaved and struggled up the steep incline. He lifted his legs as if they were leaden, pausing to catch his breath and to look about him. His mind could not absorb the splendor of the land, as if he were blind to it, lost in a colorless world.
Without love, he’d grown sick in body and soul, yet at forty-and-six years he had enough spirit within him to rally a force that drove him to do the thing he must do before his time came to meet his Creator. If he could accomplish the conviction of his conscience, he believed he could leave this world in peace. Without it, he feared a restless eternity.
When he reached the heights above the cove, he glanced down at the ship that had sailed from the mouth of the Chesapeake and out to sea toward England. Before that, he had traveled hard overland, passing through Indian country in the Ohio Territory, into the Alleghenies, through the wilderness of western Maryland, to the Potomac gorge, downriver to the great Bay.
Many hardships he endured on his journey—encounters with Indians, vagabonds, and thieves, hunger and cold in deep winter, and oppressive heat and fatigue in summer. Once a man had met him on the Allegheny trail and recognized his tattered regimental coat, saluted him, and offered a bit of rabbit from his campfire spit. It was the only kindness shown him since he had left his home along the river years before. Those years seemed a dream now, but the face of the one he had wronged never vanished. England, a land he had never thought to see again, would be the place he would find her.
Forgive those who have trespassed against you. As difficult as it seemed, he had to try, and he had to gain her forgiveness before it was too late.
He reached inside his pocket and looked at the two coins in his palm. They would get him by. From his breast pocket, he drew out an old letter, upon it written a name, an estate and its location. Inside, the ink had blurred and faded from the years he had kept it there, along with others he had saved. If he were to die during his journey, someone would find them, tell their author, and ensure him a proper burial.
He turned his eyes away from the sea and walked on—his gait one of a man who had abused drink and left his body wrecked. For days he traveled, trekking toward the heartland of Britain, a few good people driving wagons offering a lift on occasion, food, and often a barn to sleep in.
Once he reached Derbyshire, the wind blew harsh against his face and ruffled his hair, but not his spirit. He set his teeth hard and fixed his eyes forward. Then he went on, through a pass with hills that mounted into the sky like lock-armed sentries and made him feel as small as an ant under their steep shadows. He followed the road, to where he could not tell, for there were no signposts and his memory failed him.
Finally, he stood on the heights where lush green moorland stretched out as far as the eye could see. An unchanged place, he soaked it in, recalled galloping his horse across it and rescuing a lone woman from a pair of ruffians. The sun settled and a gloom fell over the land.
He said aloud, “Darkness will never overcome light.” Tonight it was true enough, for a multitude of stars brightened in the heavens as moonlight lit his way.
His throat tightened, and he coughed with such force that his eyes watered. He held his handkerchief up to his mouth and wiped his lips clear of spittle. Blood stained the rag, dark gore that made him shiver with dread. Time would not hold back for him. What he had come to do had to be done quickly.
The north winds strengthened. With them came fog. The chill seeped through his coat and touched his skin beneath it. The cold made him shiver, and he longed to find sanctuary.
“A stranger am I in a strange land,” he murmured. “Aid me, Almighty Father. Find me shelter in this place.”
He moved on until a frail yellow light flickered in the distance. Making his way toward it, he turned up the collar of his coat and held it tight around his throat—against the harsh wind. Darkness deepened and he put out one hand before him as if blind, searching, reaching ahead, finding his way through bands of moonlight along the road.
The light grew larger and when he realized it was a small lantern set inside the window of a house, he hurried toward it. At the door, he knocked and it creaked open. An old man, candle in hand, nightcap upon his head, peered out. “Who is it? What is it you want?”
The weary traveler dragged off his hat. “I am in need of shelter, sir. May I sleep in your barn?”
The man held the candle higher. “We’ve but a small stable for our milking cow and horse. You are welcome to it.”
“God bless you, sir. A bed of hay shall be a warm comfort.” He turned to go.
“Are you hungry?” the man asked.
“I’ve no want for food. Only a place to lay my head.”
“It is no bother if you are. We’ve bread and cheese to give.”
A woman drew up behind the old gentleman and said to the traveler, “Wait here, sir,” and hurried away. She returned with a sack and handed it to the sojourner. “I shall fetch a jug of cider, for you, sir, and bring it out to you with a blanket.”
“I am grateful,” he said, and stepped away to the small stable where he ate his bread and cheese in silence and laid his head into a heap of hay to sleep.
When John Faye stepped inside his humble little barn with his wife Ella trailing behind him, he raised his lantern and saw the stranger in its light. Ella handed him the blanket she carried over her arm. “The man is exhausted and no doubt ill.”
“Come, together we must help him inside to a bed and a warm fire.”
“I shall not be a burden to you,” the traveler said.
“Come now, sir,” Faye replied. “No burden is one such as yourself in need. You should have said you were ill. We would never have sent you to spend the night in this drafty place.”
He put his arms beneath the traveler’s armpits and helped him stand. Through the door they went and he was laid down in a room beside their kitchen. “You are fevered, sir,” the woman said. “But just a touch. I’ll have you right in no time.”
“You need not be so kind to a stranger.”
> “Strangers may be angels unawares, sir,” she replied with a broad smile and kind eyes. “Kind we both shall be, for it is the Lord’s commandment. We shall take care of you until you are on your feet and able to go on.”
He slipped into sleep. Ella dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth. “I wonder his name,” she said to her husband.
“Time will tell.” He pulled off his spectacles and wiped his eyes.
“He wears a strange coat, John. I’ve never seen the likes, have you?”
“A military coat, but not British.”
She stared at him with her brows joined together. “You don’t suppose he’s French, do you?”
“Why would a Frenchman be wandering about the English countryside, my dear?”
She raised her brows. “What would any man wearing a coat like that be doing wandering about the English countryside, my dearest?”
“Exactly. I think I know that coat. American, I think. But he has a slight English accent to his speech.”
Ella’s eyes widened. “A revolutionary no doubt. Ah, but he is ill, John. He needs a doctor.” And she dipped the cloth into the basin of water and wrung it out.
“Not in the night can I go. I’d get lost for certain. We’ll have to do our best until morning.” John Faye picked up the coat from the foot of the bed and rummaged inside the pockets. “What is this?” He pulled out a packet of letters tied together with a coarse string. “The ink is smudged and I cannot make out the words.”
“Let me see.” Ella looked over the first one and then handed them back. “Put them back, John. There’s no telling why he needs them, and it’s none of our business.”
“Aye. They may be love letters. For why would a man keep so many in his pocket unless they meant a great deal to him?”
Ella’s plump fingers picked up the sojourner’s hand and patted it. “Let us pray for him, that his sickness passes and that whatever suffering he has endured the Lord ease his pain.”
When dawn rose and entered the windows of the small cottage, Ella woke to find her patient had grown worse. His fever raged on. She roused her husband from his slumber. “He is poorly, John. I am not sure I have the means to bring him out of this.”
Faye pulled on his brass-buckle shoes. “I will go for the doctor. It is far, but that is of no matter.”
“You are a good man, John. I shall fret for your ride, but pray the Lord watches over you and guards you from highwaymen.”
“I shall go carefully, my dear. Expect me back within the hour.”
The traveler heard the latch on the bedroom door shut. Tossing aside the covers, he climbed from the bed and drew himself up to the window. John Faye was outside with a saddled horse.
“Back to bed with you, sir,” Ella said, coming into the room with a tray. “John will ride to Castleton to fetch a doctor.”
Too weary to resist, he obeyed her. The hall clock chimed on the hour when John Faye returned—empty-handed from all the trouble he took. The doctor was away, and so they had to tend to the poor soul as best they could on their own. Ella never left his bedside, spooned strong broth into his mouth, wiped his head with a cool rag, and prayed over him.
By the next morning, the fever had broken, and he felt stronger. They’d been a lonely couple and said they hoped he would stay a little longer. He thanked them for their hospitality and wished them well, and in spite of the couple’s urging that he remain with them, the traveler strode out onto the road. Fog lay heavy over the land under a misty sky, and twisted around his boots as he walked off.
Ella watched him go from her doorstep with worry showing in her face, and within seconds the fog blew across the yard and concealed the man.
“And I will lead the blind by a way they know not,” he heard her say. “I will lead them in paths that they have not known. I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.”
He looked back, and as the fog parted for only a moment, he saw John Faye squeeze Ella’s hand and turn back inside the house.
15
The grind of carriage wheels rolled down the hillside and around the bend toward Havendale. Setting down her quill, Darcy leaned toward the window as the carriage rumbled closer. A pair of dapple-gray horses pranced toward the manor, their manes flowing in the breeze, their coats matching shades of moonlight. She slipped around the desk, drew her robe over her shoulders, and peeked back out the window. Down below, a hooded carriage slowed. A man stepped from it, dressed from shoulder to sole in black. He turned and held out his hand to a cloaked woman who hesitated, then set her foot onto the folded step and climbed out.
“Langbourne,” Darcy said aloud. “And Charlotte.”
He turned and walked ahead of his wife, charging up the steps to the front door. Darcy heard it close with a clamping of its lock. Then the coach rolled away. She waited to hear more—footsteps, voices, a knock on her door from Mrs. Burke to tell her she’d been summoned downstairs to meet the lord and master of Havendale. But none came, and she climbed under the covers of her bed and tried to fall asleep.
She wondered if Langbourne, being her father’s cousin, would look anything like her papa, if his appearance could spark some memory of him in her mind. Yet, trepidation at meeting Langbourne overwhelmed her curiosity, for her grandmother had no great opinion of him.
An hour after sunrise, she climbed from bed and set her bare feet onto the floorboards. They felt cool beneath her soles, like the autumn grass back home. She dressed, brushed her hair, and washed her face. Pink sunlight streamed through the windows like the iridescent wings of dragonflies. Motes sparkled within it, floating, twisting with each movement of air. She lifted her hand into the ray to feel its heat, then touched her palm to her heart and prayed that Langbourne and his wife would be kind and accepting of her. Perhaps they could be friends.
She’d learned the custom was to wait until the stroke of nine for breakfast. Upon the final strike of the hall clock, Darcy entered the dining room. A woman, seated alone and dressed in green stiff silk with a gray shawl across her shoulders, glanced up at her. Mrs. Burke poured tea into Charlotte’s china cup, then stood back.
“Mrs. Langbourne, this is Miss Darcy.”
Charlotte arched her brows. “Is it? I thought you would be taller.”
Darcy smiled lightly, lowered her eyes, and curtsied as was expected of her. “I hope I have not disappointed you, Mrs. Langbourne.”
Charlotte bit into a slice of toast. “No, not really.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Langbourne will be staying at Havendale a few days,” Mrs. Burke said, looking over at Darcy.
“Most likely weeks.” Charlotte drawled.
“I am pleased to meet you, Charlotte. May I address you as Charlotte? My grandmother has told me …”
Charlotte interrupted her with a lazy lift of her hand. “Well now. Just listen to that foreign accent of Miss Darcy’s, Mrs. Burke. It grates upon a more refined manner of elocution.”
If Darcy could have rolled her eyes without being thought of as rude, she would have. The manner in which Charlotte spoke about her shocked. “Perhaps I should not say another word, if it offends your ears, Charlotte,” she said in a quiet tone.
Mrs. Burke stood straight with her hands over her apron, looking at Charlotte displeased. “Miss Darcy’s accent is pleasant. She’s from Maryland, ma’am.”
“I am aware of that,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve never in my whole life met an American, let alone heard one speak.” She forced a smile. “So you must forgive my surprise, Darcy. And yes, you may call me Charlotte. We are cousins after all—in a way.”
Darcy tried to smile; yet it proved difficult. As she looked at Charlotte, she was reminded of Miss Roth and her haughty ways. But she would not pass judgment. She had no right, and had no idea what kind of life had molded Charlotte into the kind of woman she was purporting herself to be. Perhaps in time, her cold attitude would change as they got to know each other.
“I will admit that an Englishwoman’s vo
ice, such as your own, is much smoother than mine,” Darcy said. “I tend to speak coarsely in comparison.”
Charlotte paused and looked Darcy up and down. “Indeed, that is true.” She glanced at the tea and waved it away with a look of disgust. “I prefer coffee.”
“I’ll have you know, Miss Charlotte, this tea cost forty shillings. It is as good as any coffee can be.”
“I do not care how expensive it was. It looks horrible.”
“Fine. I shall brew you some coffee. I hope you will not object to having a meat pie for supper.”
“Not at all. As long as you do not put onion in it, and we have a bread and butter pudding for dessert.”
“Whatever you wish, madam.” Mrs. Burke pursed her lips and stormed off with the tray. Back home, Uncle Will and Aunt Mari would have been overjoyed to have such fine tea and a hearty meat pie for supper. Obviously, Charlotte expected more extravagance.
“We had not expected you.” Charlotte’s expression was cool, absent of a smile. “Why did you not send us word you were coming?”
Darcy lowered herself to a chair and drank her morning tea. “I wrote to my grandmother. If I had known of you, then I would have written to you as well. Please accept my sincere apology.”
“Certainly I shall.” Charlotte leaned back and shut her eyes. “But I shall not get a word from her majesty upstairs, now that she has you for company. She shall have none of me, though I am so ill.”
Charlotte’s eyes were large and pale blue, lacking health and vibrancy, within a face so thin her cheekbones extended beyond the corners of her mouth. Her dress hung over her bosom in loose folds for she lacked a feminine form. To Darcy, Charlotte looked sickly, and she wondered if it were selfinflicted or the natural course of things. She hoped she could be of some help to Charlotte. Perhaps spending some time with her might lift her mood and bring her around to eating more than the crust on a piece of toast.