Beside Two Rivers (15 page)

“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.”

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.