Potomac 02 - Beside Two Rivers

by RITA GERLACH

  A mist filled Darcy’s eyes, and when she blinked them back she saw an infant, wet and coated, squirming in the gentle arms of the cloaked woman. Her name was Sarah—the woman who bent down to her, her face like an angel’s. Darcy stepped down the hallway toward the staircase. Moonlight streamed through a side window and spread over the floor. Darcy called to Sarah and waited.

  “Little miss. You should be abed,” Sarah scolded. “Is it the wind? Has it frightened you?”

  “I’m not scared.”

  She gazed up at the bundle in Sarah’s arms. “Can I see?”

  Sarah moved the blanket aside. Damp soft curls clung to the baby’s head and a mew passed through the bow mouth. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? Skin the color of cream and cheeks rosy as dawn.”

  She remembered how bewildered the event had made her feel, how in her innocent way she had asked, “Is this Mama’s baby?”

  How she could have forgotten the sad look in Sarah’s face she did not know, nor the reply to her question. “This is my babe,” Sarah had told her. “Her name is Ilene. You understand?”

  The answer had confused Darcy. “Then where is Mama’s baby?”

  Red spirals tumbled over Sarah’s shoulders. “You ask your mother when you are older. But she’ll tell you, she has no babe except you.”

  In all these years, Darcy had not forgotten the little girl with the bubbly giggle and shining eyes. She had not understood why Ilene had left the world so young—why she had left her. She remembered Fiona and her motherly ways and Sarah’s kindness as well as the wistful gaze in her eyes. Her mother’s face she could not recall, only the flowing hair and a voice that soothed her when she was afraid.

  Fully awake, her heart ached with the visions. She clutched the front of her nightdress and yearned for Ethan—longed for home where her memories were born. Unable to sleep, she rose and dressed. Second best, the olive-green linen flowed past her waist. She slipped on her stockings and shoes. Then she brushed her hair back so it flowed down to her waist. He’ll come today—Ethan.

  She crossed the floor to her window and gazed out at the moon hanging behind drifting clouds. A few hours and the sun would rise. Then a frantic voice called to her out in the hallway and Mrs. Burke opened the door. “Dear me,” she huffed and puffed her cheeks in and out. “Come quick. ’Tis your grandmother.”

  When Darcy hurried into Madeline’s room, it lay in darkness save for a little light from the vermillion coals in the grate. Darcy groped her way to her, her bare feet not making a sound along the old rug. Maxwell sat by the hearth and looked up. Madeline opened her eyes and a soft cry poured from her lips.

  “Hayward. Oh, my son, Hayward.”

  Darcy leaned over. “Grandmother. I am here. What is it?”

  Madeline searched for Darcy’s hand. Once she found it she gripped it with what Darcy knew was all the strength she could muster. “I have seen him. I have seen Hayward.”

  Troubled, Darcy touched Madeline’s cheek. “A dream, Grandmother. Papa is far away in America.”

  “No. No. I saw him, I tell you. I saw him as real as I see you. He spoke to me, told me he was sorry for hurting me. He asked if I would forgive him.”

  A chill passed through Darcy and she glanced at Mrs. Burke as she stood near the bed wringing her hands in her robe. “Please bring a glass of port, Mrs. Burke.” And off the serving woman went.

  “Darcy, please. You must believe me,” Madeline said.

  “Tell me what happened. I am listening.”

  “I was asleep, and the wind woke me. I looked over and saw the curtains at the terrace doors flutter, and then he stepped into the room. I did not know him at first and was so frightened I could not call out. He then said to me ‘Mother, it is I, Hayward.’ When he drew closer, I saw his face. It was Hayward. How could I forget my child’s eyes?”

  “He told you his name?” Darcy’s hand trembled in her grandmother’s. From head to toe her body surged with both fear and elation. Could it be true? Could it really be him?

  “He called me Mother, Darcy. Is that not enough for me to know? And his voice—it was the same, yet older. And yes, he said he was Hayward. As I beheld him, he lifted me gently by my shoulders and spoke. I scarce heard what he was saying, for I was so alarmed. I went to throw my arms about him, but when he heard Burke’s footsteps, he staggered back, and as she entered he slipped out the doors into the dark. He is ill, Darcy. What shall we do?”

  “I shall find him.”

  “How? Tell me. You cannot go out on the moors at night.”

  “Do not worry.”

  As if a seam in the clouds had split open, rain beat down on the house. Moments ago the moon had shone. Now a swiftmoving storm overtook it, and the room chilled with the wind flying through Madeline’s terrace doors. The curtains rose as if arms flung them to the ceiling. Darcy hurried to them, shut and latched the doors tight. But before she did, she peered out across the terrace and to the steps that led down to the lawn. Beyond it stood the stable. No one was in sight. But when she moved back, there on the floor were muddy footprints. Her heart swelled in her throat.

  “Perhaps he is close by,” said Madeline, growing more desperate. She twisted the edge of her sheet between her aged hands. “He may have found shelter in the stable and is afraid to come back to the house for fear we will not believe him. And he knows what Langbourne would do to him if he did. That is why he came through to my room, and not the front door.”

  Darcy moved back to the bedside. “But Langbourne is not here.”

  Mrs. Burke returned with the glass of port. As she guided the glass into Madeline’s hand, she spoke calmly to her. “There, there. All shall be well.”

  The port moistened Madeline’s lips. “I saw my son, Burke. You believe me, don’t you? Not William. No, it was Hayward.”

  “Of course I believe you. Rest now.” And she drew the blankets up closer to Madeline’s chin. Darcy drew her aside and gave her a questioning look.

  Mrs. Burke shook her head. “There was no one.”

  “But the doors were still open when I came in, and there are muddy footprints on the floor. Go look.”

  “The wind, Miss Darcy. The latch has never been too secure. And those prints could be made from the dust on the floor and the rain coming inside.”

  Darcy looked back at the doors. She knew Mrs. Burke to be wrong. “Poor Grandmamma.”

  “I hear you!” Madeline threw her hands to her face and broke into tears. “You both think I am mad. Or that I was dreaming.”

  “A dream perhaps,” Mrs. Burke said. “But not mad.”

  Darcy gathered the old woman in her arms to calm her. Madeline’s frail body trembled as if all the emotions of a lifetime had broken forth. She drew back from Darcy. “Go find him, Darcy. He cannot be far.”

  Maxwell leapt up from his spot and with a growl scampered out the door. Darcy looked after him as he raced down the hallway to the staircase. Something drew him, alerted him to a presence.

  She stepped out into the hallway and took up her candle. Worried that the man who could be her father had gone out into the storm, she hurried down the hallway to the staircase. Downstairs she hastened to don her cloak, slipped on her leather walking shoes, lit a tin lantern from the candlewick, and took from a hook on the wall a flintlock pistol in case she was wrong. With her heart pounding, she drew her hood over her hair, then lifted the bar over the door and pulled it open.

  If it is true he is my father, God help me find him. Rain and a hungry wind struck her as she walked out into the torrential night rain.

  24

  Ahead, Maxwell barked and darted forward. Darcy raised the lantern and watched the dog run to and fro. Frantic, he sniffed the ground, then pricked his sharp ears and growled without showing barred teeth. Darcy moved forward, her shoes sinking into the rainwater pooling in the grass. Rain pelted her face and dripped from her lashes.

  Maxwell circled, then sprinted toward the stable, stopped, and barked. Darcy froze when a
dark form moved near the door. He backed up, his knees buckled and his body shook violently. She held the lantern high to see his face, brown as the mud that splattered his worn boots. His hair lay matted against his head, dripping and soaked.

  Darcy stared. The man from Bentmoor.

  He raised his hand before his eyes against the glare of the lantern’s light.

  “I will not hurt you,” Darcy said over the din of rain. “Are you Hayward Morgan?”

  “I am. Please … I have come a long way.”

  It could not be helped, the tears, the pain of seeing him again, of trying to remember. Her breath hurried as she gazed into her father’s troubled eyes. She hurried to him, took hold of his arm and guided him toward the house. “You are ill. Come inside.” He stiffened and hesitated. “Come. You cannot stay out here.”

  Through mud and puddles, they reached the door. Mrs. Burke stopped short midway on the stairs, her face one of shock. “Lord, have mercy. She was right.”

  “Mrs. Burke …” Darcy feared her father would collapse in her arms.

  “Thank the Almighty, Miss Darcy. If he had wandered out on the moor in this weather, the Lord only knows what could have become of him, the poor soul.”

  Darcy looked at the face of a man ravaged by the years. “He needs a warm fire, a bed, and medicine. We must take him to one of the rooms upstairs.”

  Mrs. Burke’s feet tramped down the stairs as quick as they could carry her. She shut the door to the wind and rain, and helped Darcy bring Hayward up the staircase. So weak, the toe of his boots bumped against the edges of one step, then the next.

  “We must take him to the east wing, Miss Darcy, on the uppermost floor.” Mrs. Burke slipped her arm beneath Hayward’s. “It is closed off. No one goes there. The farthest room would be best, in case Mr. Langbourne should return. He will not know Mr. Hayward is there as long as we keep him quiet.”

  When they reached the upper floor, Madeline met them. She shivered in her nightclothes and cap. Her gray eyes glistened bright with tears as she beheld her prodigal son.

  Darcy looked at her. “I have him, Grandmother. Do not be afraid. Mrs. Burke and I will take good care of him.”

  With outstretched arms, Madeline stepped forward, and once she reached her son, she placed her hands around his face and lifted it. “Hayward, ’tis you.” She kissed his forehead, then his cheeks. “Oh, my son, my son.”

  The room they brought Hayward to had not been slept in, in many a year. Heavy curtains hung over the windows. Dust lay thick on the furnishings. Darcy helped her father to a chair and drew off his wet coat. A fire soon roared to a great red mound in the fireplace, and heat chased the deep chill from the room.

  Mrs. Burke shoveled a few hot coals into a bed warmer and placed it beneath the bedcovers. “Thank goodness we kept some of Mr. Hayward’s clothes. I will get them.”

  Madeline stood beside her son’s chair, and while they waited for Mrs. Burke to return, Darcy knelt down and drew off her father’s boots. His feet were cold and pale. She rubbed them between her hands. Then she took up his hands and chafed each until his skin blushed. These she remembered. They had changed little—still strong and manly—large enough to cover hers.

  Her eyes beheld Madeline’s and understood the need for silence, to listen to the quiet murmur of Hayward’s breathing and the crackle of the fire. Within minutes, Mrs. Burke returned with an armload of clothing. Among them, Darcy found a warm nightshirt and a pair of woolen socks.

  Madeline touched her son’s cheek. “His hair has grayed.” And she brushed it away from his forehead. After so long, after years of living with an aching heart, her mother’s love for Hayward remained steadfast. It touched Darcy, and a light smile crept over her lips.

  With Mrs. Burke’s help, Darcy removed her father’s tattered clothes. So filthy were they, that Mrs. Burke burned them. His skin had molted beneath his shirt, and a thick scar crossed his left shoulder. “He fought in the Revolution,” she told her grandmother and Mrs. Burke when their mouths fell open at the sight.

  “Oh, he was wounded.” Madeline’s fingers trembled as she touched her son. “I have seen such wounds before. It is a wonder he survived at all.”

  Darcy washed away the grime that had hardened into his wrinkles. His eyes opened and found hers. A light broadened within them.

  “I saw you before—at another place. Many people were there. You were dressed like an angel, Eliza.” His voice, weak and raspy, stunned her as if it were the first time she had ever heard him speak.

  “I am Darcy, your daughter.”

  “Darcy? Darcy, my little girl?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  He grabbed her hand, pressed her fingers to his lips, and kissed them. “I left you with William. I hoped you’d understand why.”

  Darcy leaned in. “You did what was best for me. For that, I should be thanking you. Uncle Will and Aunt Mari have taken good care of me, as if I were their own. And my cousins are my sisters.”

  He touched her cheek. “God has led me to you. I have thought of you day and night ever since I left River Run. My heart has ached being apart from you.”

  “Then why did you leave me? Why did you not stay? I needed you.”

  “My heart was crushed within me. I retreated, tried to lose myself in the wilderness. Forgive me if you can.”

  Darcy gave no reply. Her heart wanted to forgive and forget. But her mind could not let go—not yet. There were so many unanswered questions. Her soul called out to the One who could help her. Forgiving would be hard, and she needed strength to do it.

  Hayward looked at Madeline. “Mother, I am sorry for the pain I caused you. It was long ago. But no doubt you still remember.”

  “Shh. Lie still,” she said.

  “I loved Eliza. I had to leave her. She was a good wife, until …” He trailed off and looked back at Darcy. “You shall despise me for what I’ve done, Darcy.”

  “Enough talk, Papa. You must rest.”

  “Please, you must let me tell you.”

  She paused, saw the plea in his eyes, and could not forbid him. “All right, I am listening. But no matter what you say, I cannot hate you, Papa. It isn’t in me to despise anyone.”

  “You call your cousins your sisters. You had another, you know.”

  Surprised by this, she stood back. “I do not remember a sister. I only remember Ilene—a little.”

  “Ilene was your mother’s child. But not mine. Now do you see?”

  Shock rippled through Darcy. “Ilene? I remember I loved her, Papa. But you say she was not yours?”

  “I went away to war,” Hayward said. “I was captured and sentenced to a prison ship. My brother was told I had been hanged. Will wrote to your mother, and in her grief another man comforted her—led her astray. She thought I was dead.”

  “How awful. Poor mother.” Darcy fought the tight feeling in her throat.

  “She had a girl living at River Run. Sarah was her name. She tried to guard the child, tried to protect Eliza and you. But I found out the truth and hated her for it, her and Eliza.”

  Darcy lowered her head and tried to absorb what he told her. She could not speak, but when Madeline laid a gentle hand over her shoulder, she reached up and held the aged hand. They would pass through this storm together, and Darcy felt comforted to have the support of her grandmother.

  “I never told Will and Mari about this, Darcy. So do not wonder why they never spoke of it. I deceived them, as I have deceived everyone.”

  She looked at him, dread sinking into her. “What happened to my mother? Why did you not put a stone over her grave?”

  Hayward moaned and wiped his eyes. “Your mother did not die, as I led you and others to believe.”

  “But—later? She died later?”

  “No. I sent her away.”

  “Why would you do that? What could she have done to deserve such rejection?”

  “I could not bear her betrayal.”

  “Where did you send her?”<
br />
  “Back to England. That is why I am here. I want to find her.”

  “Why did she not reach out to me?”

  “Her shame prevented her, my child. And you were so young …”

  “Where is she?”

  “The last I knew, at a place called Fairview.”

  “Fairview?” The name fell from her lips bittersweet.

  Hayward struggled to rise. “Please—let me tell you everything. There is more.”

  “More?” Darcy clenched her hands. “How could you have lied to me?”

  Her grandmother stepped up to her. “Darcy, please, try to hear your father out. It is the only way to know what has happened.”

  “I was bitter, but did not want to hurt you,” Hayward said.

  “How could you have left me to grow up believing Mother was dead? I have lived with that image of her lying still on the bed and you telling me she would not go to heaven. Did she deserve such condemnation from you? Did I deserve to have that planted in my mind?”

  “As God is my witness, no. She was no harlot, no man’s mistress. She fell, and I should have forgiven her when she pleaded for forgiveness.” He hung his head. “I should have never said what I said to you. It was wrong—cruel.”

  Darcy stared at him, wishing she could cry. But the pain cut so deep she could not. “Did I deserve to be torn from my mother?”

  “I meant to hurt her, not you. I wanted to protect you.”

  “But I was injured by it. To have lived all this time without her …”

  “She wrote to you.”

  “When?”

  “You were little. I kept your letters along with the letters she wrote to me. When I arrived in Derbyshire, I had the misfortune of running into Langbourne. He threw me from Havendale, took the letters, and said he would kill me if I ever set foot here again.”

  “Then he must have hidden them somewhere in the house—downstairs in his study.”

  “Or burned them,” Mrs. Burke interjected. “I’ve seen him do that often enough. He has a mistress in Castleton, and whenever she sends him word to come to her, he burns her messages.”