by RITA GERLACH
“I wonder if they miss me as much as I miss them.” She placed the letters on a silver dish at the edge of the desk. Mrs. Burke would take them to be posted later. At suppertime, she went downstairs, entered the kitchen, and inhaled the comforting scent of apples, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Mrs. Burke was preparing a tray for Madeline.
“She says she hasn’t the strength to come down the stairs.” Her brow wrinkled, and she shook her head.
Darcy picked up a napkin from the table. “Shall I go up and sit with her?”
“No need. Stay here by the fire. I need you to watch that pie for me. Can’t let the crust burn.” Taking a plate down from the rack, Mrs. Burke heaved a breath. “How was your outing?”
“Wonderful.” Darcy popped an apple slice Mrs. Burke had missed into her mouth.
“On a day like today? So dreary and you say wonderful? You are full of life, Miss Darcy. Most would not venture out on the moors in this weather. It must be the adventurous spirit you inherited from your father.”
And my mother.
Darcy’s stomach gurgled with hunger. She sat in the chair before the fire and pulled bits of bread from a loaf and dipped them into the butter dish. The butter had melted from the heat, and tasted sweet on her tongue. Mrs. Burke set a plate of roast beef and braised carrots in front of her.
“I won’t see you waste away. Now eat up.”
Darcy had more than the desire for food tonight. Her mind raced with thoughts of Ethan—Ethan and his sultry eyes, his loving kiss, his warm embrace.
Mrs. Burke smiled. “It does me good to see you eat so well. Not like Mr. Langbourne, who hasn’t a care, neither the courtesy to inform me when he will be home. His rule is that meals always be ready for him in case he does arrive.”
“But that could be days,” said Darcy.
“Days? Often weeks or months. And then I don’t know if Miss Charlotte will be returning with him or not.”
“He was just here, and he has left again?”
Mrs. Burke pressed her mouth hard and narrowed her eyes. Her stiff gestures told Darcy she did not care for Langbourne or approve of his behavior. Although she was in Madeline’s employ, Langbourne was lord over Havendale. She had to obey him, whether she liked it or not. He had the power to throw any servant out if he pleased, and she wondered how long he would tolerate her visit. Would he command her to leave?
“He came home while you were out. He looked angry. Stomped about, shoving past me as if I were not to be considered. He questioned me about the tramp I’ve seen, asked if he’d been around. I dare not say. I avoid him when he is that way, and so should you. He left the house again with those men that do only the Almighty God knows what kind of business.”
The vinegary housekeeper pushed through the kitchen door with the tray, while Darcy stared out the window and watched the clouds drift apart. A misty sky surrounded Havendale, pale blue, muted gray on the horizon. Would it bring snow, or would the wind shove the clouds off and leave the sky cold and barren?
Cupping her chin in hand, she wondered where Langbourne had gone. What kind of business drew him away? How could he stay so long apart from Charlotte? Not once had Darcy seen Charlotte smile. Perhaps he kept a mistress somewhere and Charlotte suspected it. Obviously, he did not love his wife, and Darcy felt sorry for Charlotte.
Her thoughts turned to Ethan. He had looked so troubled when he rode off. It must have been something of great importance that drew him away. And so she spoke a quiet prayer for him—and for those in his household. She felt the urge to go to her grandmother’s room and tell her where she had been and that Ethan had declared his feelings for her. But Mrs. Burke returned.
“Madeline’s tired tonight, more than usual.” Mrs. Burke set the tray down on the table. The small china plate that had slices of cheese on it was missing.
Darcy shoved her plate aside. “Did she ask for me?”
“She did, but only that she wondered where you had been all day.”
As Mrs. Burke spoke, a zephyr whipped up outside and rattled the windows in the kitchen. She paused, then said, “I did see that man again today—the tramp. I beckoned him from the window to come near. I’d given the poor soul food through the window, but he turned and walked away.”
“I believe he is the same man I have seen.” She went on to tell Mrs. Burke about the day on the moors, and then the Brightons’ affair. “Mr. Langbourne made me promise not to say anything. But since you have already seen him, I had to tell you.”
“I’m glad you did, miss. Perhaps we can help him together.”
“At the Brightons’, I was close enough to him to see he is sick and starving.”
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Burke. “You must have been frightened.”
“He did not hurt me or anyone else. But he thought he knew me, or that I looked like someone he knew.”
With a start, Mrs. Burke’s brows shot up. “He did? That is indeed strange. From now on you should not go out alone.”
Darcy smiled a little. “I am not afraid. If I should see him again, I’ll urge him to accept some food from us. It would be the right thing to do.”
“But there are others who would fear for you, miss. You should not cause any to worry. So, if you should see him again, do not approach.”
How could she do such a thing? If the man were hungry, she should feed him. If he were cold, she should give him warmth. Would it be so dangerous to give a cup of cold water to one so thirsty?
As she pondered all this, the fire in the hearth flickered against the gusts that raced down the flue. Gray ash scattered out onto the flagstone floor. The wind whispered and moaned through crack and crevice as night fell. She walked down the hallway with a candle to light her way. Loneliness for Ethan and home weighed heavy upon her, as the cold darkness swallowed the remnants of the day.
The golden flame of her candle caught Darcy’s eyes. It reminded her that hope lived as long as it had an open heart to beat in. Past a large window, she approached her grandmother’s bedroom. Weak candlelight edged the threshold in a thread of amber. She smelled the age-old scent of rosewater, heard her speaking to Maxwell as if he were her child.
After a quiet tap, Darcy turned the brass handle and moved the door in. Madeline lay in bed with her Bible in hand, spectacles poised on the tip of her nose, and Maxwell curled up at her feet. The dog lifted its head and pricked its ears when he saw Darcy, then whimpered. Madeline looked over at Darcy and gave her a weak smile.
“May I come in, Grandmother? Mrs. Burke said you are tired. But I wanted to see you before I retire to my room.”
“I thought you had forgotten me, Darcy.”
“I could never do that,” Darcy said, shutting the door behind her.
“I have not seen you since you went to Bentmoor. Tell me about it. Was it a pleasant evening? Did you meet a lot of people?”
“I enjoyed the music immensely.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “But a gentleman stepped on my hem and tore it.” She could smile at it now.
Madeline huffed. “How dreadful. How unfortunate. You left, of course.”
“Shortly afterwards, yes.” Darcy decided not to mention the poor sojourner. It would alarm her grandmother, cause uneasiness, and Madeline would be against Darcy accepting any more invitations to Bentmoor. She worried whenever Darcy ventured out alone. To be kept inside four walls and a patch of ground could not be borne. Her adventuresome spirit would suffer and she’d go mad with boredom. Silence regarding the wanderer meant her freedom. So she held her tongue.
As far as Ethan, she would inform her grandmother that they were in love. What her reaction would be Darcy was uncertain.
“So that is all there is to tell?” Madeline closed her Bible and set it aside.
“I’m afraid the rest would bore you.”
“I see. Well, then. Tell me where you went today. When I asked Burke she said you were out exploring, not a soul knew where to.”
“I went to St. Anthony’s. You know, the little church on the moor where my gra
ndfather preached.”
A strange color washed over Madeline’s face. Her eyes blinked, and her spectacles fell off her nose onto her lap. “Oh? I suppose you saw the burned-down vicarage.”
“I did. I think it must have been a lovely home at one time. I imagine it was welcoming and many people came to visit, to be encouraged and prayed for.”
Madeline sighed. “My late husband should have had the ruins cleared away years ago and the house rebuilt. But he had no interest in doing so. Neither has Langbourne.”
“I know the story of the young vicar, his wife, and daughter,” Darcy said.
Surprise lit up Madeline’s gray eyes. “How? No one speaks of it.”
“Ethan Brennan of Fairview came riding along while I stood by the wall. He said the vicar had been his father, and that it was his mother and sister who perished. He also told me my mother grew up in that house.”
Shutting her eyes, Madeline turned away. “I cannot remember much of the past, especially the people in it. It is like a fog in my mind most days.”
Darcy paused a moment and gazed at her grandmother’s face. By her features, Darcy knew Madeline had been a beauty in her prime. She watched her raise her hand to her temple and with her fingertips move a lock of hoary hair back from her face. She pulled down the white mobcap that covered her crown. Dressed in a white nightgown, a wrap of white wool she wore around her shoulders. Even her bedcovers and sheets were white, her pillows and the curtains that hung from the canopy. It was as if she were wrapped in snow. Or was it a symbol of purity?
“Some things are better forgotten.” Madeline said. “Better left in the past where they belong. I think God made it that way so we would not be so sad when we age. For it seems he made us to remember happier times, don’t you think?”
Darcy nodded. “I believe so.”
“And when you get as old as I, you feel you have known all you are capable of knowing, depending on how keen a mind God gave you. Remembering to get through life is what matters.” A smile brightened Madeline’s face and she chuckled. “You must think I am on the edge of madness, Darcy.”
“Not at all. You are wise, Grandmother.”
“Hmm, perhaps, but not enough. There are things I should have done differently. But that is the way of things. We leap before we look.” She laid her hand across Darcy’s. “I pray you never do that, my girl. Always think carefully before making a decision.”
“I try to use both my head and heart.”
Madeline pressed her lips firm. “Ah, the heart. That seems to be an American notion. Here in England, we upper class strive to use our logic in situations of the heart. I hear that in America, class matters not and people marry whomever they please. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I do. But in America the rich are not apt to marry a person of lower distinction—unless they are madly in love and cannot help themselves.”
Madeline laughed. “My, my. What things must go on. But seriously, Darcy, you mustn’t go to the ruins again. It is too sad a place, and as for Ethan Brennan—I can see you love him by the mere mention of his name. He just may be the one for you.”
“Have you met him?” Darcy asked quietly.
“Not in person.”
“Then how do you know whether he is a good match for me?”
“I knew his parents. I met them at church when they arrived. She was a charming woman. Her death was tragic.”
Darcy cocked her head. “Ethan told me his father found good company later in life. She soothed his grief by being his companion and a governess to Ethan.”
“You think her noble, do you?”
“Indeed, I think she must be.”
“I shall say this much. I recall there was a great deal of insipid tongue wagging. I cannot remember why, or even her name. … I remember so little of the whole event. Yet, I have a feeling Ethan told you too much.”
“He told me he loves me.”
“Loves you? Oh, my.”
“We met last summer, in Virginia.” Darcy told Madeline the details about the gathering at Twin Oaks, how he almost ran over her with Sanchet, how he saved her from a near drowning, and that they both believed God had brought them together again. Madeline looked confused and fussed with the trim on her wrap. Her brows pinched and she worked her mouth to find the words to reply.
Darcy squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “Do not worry.”
Madeline’s eyes grew misty. “It is not that. I refuse to worry, for you are to leave for home soon and Mr. Brennan shall remain at Fairview. Unless …”
“He has not asked me.”
“But he might. And what will you do then?”
“I will accept.”
“Buy your wedding clothes, Darcy.” Madeline wiped her eyes. “I think I shall pass on soon.”
“Oh, please, do not say that. Do not cry.”
“I am tired, Darcy. I miss my husband. I prayed to see you before I leave this world because you were my Hayward’s only child. I am happy to have had that prayer answered. But Hayward—how I longed to have seen him again. But I doubt I ever shall.”
Though flattered, Darcy felt sad that Madeline had no interest in the other girls or in seeing Uncle Will. She could not understand the reasons. “I wish with all my heart you could meet your other granddaughters and see Uncle Will again. I think you would like Aunt Mari, his wife.”
“I was so young when I had William, and having not seen him these many years has practically erased his face in my mind.”
Her words pricked Darcy. “That is something I shall pray returns.”
“I loved William, but your father—he was my favorite child, and I asked for you because you are a part of him. He left without saying good-bye. He knew we would not approve of him marrying Eliza. She was beneath him, you see. So he was gone. My husband sought him out, found him, but it was too late. They had taken their vows.”
Darcy embraced her. The old woman trembled in her arms, then pulled away. Such expressions of affection were not normal at Havendale.
Madeline patted down her coverlet. “Why did he not come with you?”
Her memory slipped again, but Darcy was patient. “My father journeyed west, Grandmother. No one has seen or heard from him since—not even Uncle Will.”
“And that has pained you, hasn’t it, Darcy?”
“Yes. I cannot understand why he abandoned me, and why he left River Run to decay. Uncle Will lives close by, but why he did not take it over I do not understand.”
“Perhaps Hayward asked him not to.”
“That may be. I want to believe what I’ve been told, that my father could not bear the loss of my mother, nor take care of me alone.”
Madeline straightened her back. “I am glad Hayward left you with William. No doubt he has been a father to you, Mari a mother, and your cousins sisters.”
“They are my family in every sense of the word.”
“You miss them?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Thank the Lord, Hayward did not take you with him. Think of the hardships you would have suffered.”
“I fear I would have become even more savage than what Charlotte said I was.”
A burst of understanding came to Darcy, and she pondered her grandmother’s words. All these years she had felt unwanted, unloved, and forgotten. But now she realized that her father loved her so much, he left her with the Breeses. She had a roof over her head, food to eat, and a family. Although the world beyond River Run fascinated her, Hayward had done the right thing in leaving her behind. But that he ran from his troubles by losing himself in the backwoods worried her.
She picked up her grandmother’s hands, cupping hers around the crooked fingers. They were cold. “I am sorry he hurt you by leaving the way he did. I’m sure he never meant to.”
“His love for the place you call River Run was stronger than his attachment to me,” Madeline said. “Do you care about that place?”
Drawn back to the land and river she loved
, Darcy felt a yearning so deep within her soul, a summons to return, that a long, deep breath slipped from her lips. Would Ethan go with her, back to the place where they first fell in love?
“I care as if it were my life,” she answered.
Madeline laid her hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Then you must go back to the place you love most, and remember me as you saw me—alive, and happy to have seen you, for I have seen my lost son in your eyes. Havendale is not for you. It is depressing, full of ill, and Langbourne is its master.”
23
Strong gusts of wind shook Darcy awake, rattling the windows, causing the walls of her room to shudder, and hurling across Havendale like the waves of a boiling sea. She sat up in bed. Goosebumps bristled over her skin, and she glanced about the room. It had been a dream, but so real.
She began to remember—how her palm pressed against window glass, how the frost outlined her fingers, the tree with its heavy branches casting long shadows over patches of stiff brown grass, a silent sentinel on a winter’s night. Her swing glided back and forth on thick ropes encrusted with ice. Darkness and moonlight. A woman’s figure crossing the yard. Her cloak fanning out in the wind, flying forward around her legs. Gusts blew back her hood. Flaming red hair, illuminated like tongues of fire by the flame that flickered in a lantern near a hitching post.
She remembered creeping to the door in a pair of scratchy woolen stockings. Voices were outside in the hallway. Footsteps clattered up the staircase. Shadows moved on the wall. Muddy footprints marred the polished floor. Two figures disappeared into a room at the end of a passage. A shaft of candlelight spread out across the Turkish runner. She walked toward it.
Inching around the door, she saw her mother, her ebony hair, rich as the night sky, cascading past lean shoulders. Long strands covered her face as she grimaced in pain. Brilliant white teeth clenched, her eyes shut tight, her hands tearing at the bed sheets. That night, fear rose in Darcy and she remembered how she inched back after covering her ears to block out her mother’s cries. And there was another woman who stood by, holding Eliza’s hand, with a white mobcap over her hair.